Reeling in the Years
by Flagg1991
Summary: The life and times of Lincoln Loud and his family from 1957 to the new millennium. Cover by Raganoxer.
1. December 1957: Part 1

**A while back, someone asked me to do a story that followed Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's relationship from the moment they first laid eyes on each other to the moment they got old and died. Around the same time, someone asked for pretty much the same thing, only focusing on Lori and Bobby. I thought 'Eh, that sounds like a lot of boring work.' Then I started thinking: If I pushed the timeline back so that they're living in the fifties and sixties, etc, (time periods that have always interested me), it might be a lot of fun...so here we are. This story is medium AU – the younger sisters (Lilly, Lisa, Lola, Lana, and Lucy) are not present (though they all make cameos as other characters at one point or another) and Lynn is a boy, otherwise everyone's pretty much their canon selves. It might sound a little off the wall, but give it a chance, there's a lot of interesting stuff in here – maybe Lincoln gets drafted to fight in Vietnam...maybe Luna becomes a rock star in the sixties and develops a drug addiction...maybe Luan joins the radical antiwar movement...who knows? I don't want to sound like the boy who cried wolf because I called** _ **Thicker Than Blood**_ **my best story, but...I think this might be my best story.**

* * *

It was December 11, 1957: D-Day. Lincoln Loud had been building himself to this for almost a month, setting dates then chickening out the morning of. November 15, November 28, December 8. This time, however, he was going to do it: He was going to ask Ronnie Anne Santiago to the winter dance.

This was a task easier said than done: Ronnie Anne was the most beautiful girl Lincoln had ever seen and he was...well...he was what his brother Lynn called a 'weak sister.' He was short and scrawny with snowy white hair, cowlick, freckles, and chipped teeth. His arms were thin, his legs were thin, and he wasn't very...manly. Other boys liked football or baseball, Lincoln liked comic books and the kinds of movies that played at the Palace Theater during the afternoon...movies with monsters, giant bugs, spacemen, and aliens. Some of the kids at school called him a dork, others called him a geek, and a couple even called him a square.

What chance did a guy like him have with a girl like Ronnie Anne, a girl with long black hair, big brown eyes, and sensuous lips?

Not a good one, but he couldn't sit on his hands forever. Like his old man said, you have to take risks in life or you'll never get anywhere. Lynn said something similar: No risk, no reward. He got that one from his football coach, and Lincoln hated to admit it, but he was right.

That morning, he woke just as the first gray light of dawn was spreading across Franklin Avenue: He was so early that he was awake before even Lynn, who got up earlier than anyone else: As Lincoln crept into the hall, his brother lay in the next bed over, his mouth open and drool coursing down his chin. Gross. Lincoln didn't like sharing a room with his brother, but when you have five siblings, there isn't much space. His sisters all shared rooms: There was Lori and Leni in one room and Luna and Luan in the other.

Speaking of Luan, was she _really_ waiting by the bathroom door? Who was in there? And why were they up this early?

Great. And he thought he was going to get to take a shower this morning.

Head bowed, Lincoln walked up behind his sister, who, he noted, was dressed for the day in a simple plaid dress and knee-high socks. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and held in place by a white satin ribbon. So...she's _been_ up.

When she heard him, she turned and lifted a brow. "You're up early."

"So are you," he replied.

She grinned. "It's an historic day, Linc. A _happy,_ historic day."

Lincoln stared blankly. Luan rolled her eyes. "I'll give you a hint. It has to do with school and coloreds."

Oh, that's right! Lincoln was so caught up in Ronnie Anne that he completely forgot today was the day Royal County schools were being desegregated by order of President Eisenhower. Yeah, it was a good day; Lincoln's family was fairly liberal and unlike a lot of people in town, he didn't have anything against coloreds. In fact, his favorite singers were all colored. Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino. Cool cats.

When you got down to it, though, Lincoln didn't care: As long as he was going to school with Ronnie Anne Santiago, everyone else could be white, black, purple, or green. Speaking of Ronnie Anne...did it _really_ have to be today? He could wait...

No, no, no, he was procrastinating again. It _did_ have to be today.

Oh, but he was scared. At this moment, he had hope – he had a chance. After asking her...that might be all down the drain, and the world would be so, so much darker. He didn't like to admit it because it made him look weak, but he was kind of sensitive, and he didn't know if he could take the rejection.

No risk, no reward.

"...good day for equality," Luan said, and preened.

Lincoln nodded. "Yep." _Let's just hope it's a good day for love_.

Shortly the bathroom door opened, and Leni came out in a pink robe, her silky blonde hair hanging past her shoulders. Leni was even less of a morning person than he was. "What are _you_ doing up so early?" he asked.

"I had a nightmare," she said, "and I couldn't get back to sleep." She shivered at the memory.

"Let me guess," Lincoln said, "spid –"

Leni's face went white and she plugged her ears with her fingers. "I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you." She turned to walk into her room, but collided with the door. "Ouch." She took her fingers out of her ears and opened the door, slipping in and closing the door as quickly as she could lest someone mention the dreaded 'S' word again.

Shaking her head, Luan went into the bathroom and closed the door. Alone in the hall, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He tried to ignore the sick nerves roiling in his stomach and the way his heart throbbed, but that was like trying to ignore...being alive or something. He didn't know. He swallowed against a sandpaper throat and took a deep breath. _You're just asking a girl out. That's all._

Only no, that's _not_ all it was. This was Ronnie Anne Santiago...the only girl he had ever truly liked. If he messed this up, it was all over.

He was drumming his fingers on his arm when Luna came out. Like Luan, she was already dressed for the day, wearing pedal pushers and a loose fitting gray sweater, the pointed white collar of an under shirt folded over the neck. She wore her brown hair short, like a boy, which turned a lot of heads in town. She was smooth and easygoing, but she wasn't afraid to dust-up: She spent a week out of school at the beginning of the year because some guy called her a dyke and she punched him in the face. She saw him and her brow crinkled. "Wow, you're up early."

"It's a happy day," he said in a tone that was anything but happy.

"Yeah?" she asked, coming over and leaning against the wall next to him. "You gonna ask that Ronnie girl out?"

Of all his siblings, he was closest to Luna: She was the only one he mentioned liking Ronnie Anne to. "Yeah," he admitted, "there's a dance next week and I figured, you know, why not?"

She nodded. "Yeah, why not? You're a cool guy. You got all those good qualities. Kind, gentle, all that, she's a lucky girl."

Lincoln sighed. "I just hope she says yes."

Luna put her arm around his shoulders and squeezed him close. "Something tells me she will. Just be natural, you know, yourself."

"What if she doesn't like me as me?"

"Then find someone who does."

The door opened, and Luan came out. Luna grinned. "Morning, square!" She ducked around Lincoln, shoved Luan out of the way, and went into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind her.

Luan sighed. "That wasn't very fair," she said. " _You_ were first."

Lincoln shrugged. With five older siblings, he was used to getting short shrift: Not a day went by that someone didn't cut in line, take something of his, shove past him, use him, tread on him, or manipulate him. That's life. They did it to each other, and, you know, Lincoln wasn't above doing it himself. He wasn't the strongest or the biggest or the fastest, but he _did_ plan, and every now and then, his siblings ceased being his siblings and became pawns instead. Luan was the only one who never really did that, though. She had a strong sense of justice and that led her to live clean – though, hey, everyone's human.

When Luna came out of the bathroom, Lincoln went in, used the toilet, then stood in front of the tub, debating with himself whether or not he should take a shower. On one hand, the water was going to be cold...on the other, he _really_ didn't want to stink...not on today of all days.

Sighing, he stripped out of his pajamas and jumped into the tub, turning the hot water on full blast. To his surprise, there was just enough gas in the tank to give him lukewarm water: He hurriedly scrubbed the most important areas (butt, front, armpits), then cut the spray just as it started to turn icy. He toweled off and hopped out, goosebumps racing up and down his arms as the cold air caressed his body. He brushed his teeth, flossed, and gurgled with mouth wash. He cupped his hand to his mouth, exhaled, and sniffed. Ah, minty fresh.

He wrapped his towel around his waist and threw open the door, starting when he got a face full of Lynn, his brows heavy under his crisp crewcut. "I was _wondering_ where you were," Lynn said. "I _better_ have hot water."

Before Lincoln could stammer out a reply, Lynn shoved him out of the way, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. To be honest...Lynn kind of scared Lincoln a little. He could be a monster at times, and it was a rare day that he didn't drag him into a noogie, an Indian burn, or a wedgie at least _twice_.

In his room, Lincoln hung his towel up and pulled on a pair of underwear, followed by an orange polo shirt that he tucked into his jeans. Next came a white wool cardigan button-up sweater with deep pockets. In one was the black and chrome transistor radio Lori bought him for his last birthday: He listened to it on his way to school and on his way home, and sometimes in bed after Lynn fell asleep. He wanted one _so_ bad because the only radios in the house were the cabinet model in the living room and Luna's; Dad listened to his shows on one and Luna listened to music...constantly...on the other. The only problem with his was that it was kind of tinny. Oh, and it was kind of heavy and made a strange bulge in his pocket. He was grateful for it, though.

In the kitchen, Luna and Luan were eating breakfast while Dad flipped through the morning paper, half dressed in brown pants and a white undershirt. He worked on an assembly line at one of the many automobile factories scattered across the Detroit area. He was union and made decent money, and every month he got a check from the government for being wounded at Normandy: A Nazi bullet shattered his kneecap and took him out of the war not two months after he deployed.

When Lincoln entered, Dad looked up. "Morning," he said, then turned back to the paper. Mom stood at the stove in a flowing blue housecoat, her back to Lincoln.

"Morning," he said and sat, grabbing a glass bottle of milk and filling his cup halfway.

Leni came in wearing a sleeveless pink dress with white polka dots. Lincoln didn't notice it before, but heavy black bags hung under her eyes. That spider dream must have been a doozy. "Is there coffee?" she asked.

"Best in town," Dad said without looking up from the paper. Leni went over to the counter, took a mug from the cabinet, and filled it with coffee. She sat down and sipped it.

"You look like something the cat dragged in," Luna said, and forked a piece of egg into her mouth. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Leni said, "just, like, tired."

"She had a nightmare," Lori said, coming in. She was dressed in a blue dress, her blonde hair pushed back from her forehead and tucked under a white headband. "She _literally_ kept me up all night." She dropped into the chair next to Leni and took a sip of from Leni's mug. "It was about spiders."

Leni shuddered. "They were _everywhere_."

"Honey," Mom said, turning and setting a plate in front of Leni, "we've talked about this. Spiders are more afraid of you than you are of them."

"No they're _not_ ," Leni moaned, "why would spiders be afraid of a Leni?"

"Maybe because you're literally one hundred times bigger than they are," Lori offered as Mom sat a plate in front of her.

Leni gasped. "I am _not_ fat!"

Lori opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again. With Leni, sometimes you just had to cut your losses and move on: She wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was sweet and kind and caring, and as far as Lincoln was concerned, that's what mattered at the end of the day. Still...dealing with her could be kind of frustrating.

Speaking of sweet and kind and caring, the complete opposite came in from the living room wearing a red and white letterman jacket with an "R" over the left breast for Royal Woods. He went to the counter, grabbed a glass from the cabinet and came over to the table; he clamped his hand on Lincoln's shoulder and squeezed as he reached for the milk. "Thanks for the cold shower, you little runt," he whispered into Lincoln's ear. Lincoln winced under his brother's grip. Lynn grabbed the milk and sat, pouring a measure into his glass.

"Morning, honey," Mom said. She came over and sat a plate in front of Lynn and Lincoln.

"Morning, Mom," he said as he rubbed his hands crisply together. Lincoln favored him with a sidelong glance and hoped his shower was _really_ cold.

Mom poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. "Is there a game tonight?" she asked.

Lynn shook his head. "Nope. It's Wednesday, Mom. We play on Fridays."

Mom's brow crinkled. "It's only Wednesday?"

"Yep," Luan piped up.

"That's what the paper says," Dad confirmed.

Mom shook her head. "I'm losing my mind." She took a sip from her cup.

"You should get out more," Lori said. "See a movie."

Mom chuckled. "There's nothing I want to see at the movies, dear, and when you're a grown up, you have responsibilities...such as housework."

"Housework isn't what it used to be," Dad said into the paper, "you've got washers and dryers and vacuum cleaners. What used to take all day takes two hours tops."

Mom laughed again. "You think so."

"Watching the television set isn't housework," Dad said and folded the paper. He smirked at Mom, and she slapped his arm. The family TV set was new, bought over the summer with Dad's yearly bonus. It was square and boxy with woodgrain and a sideways oval screen; it picked up three whole channels of broadcast goodness. Lincoln's favorite show was _Have Gun Will Travel_ , though _Gunsmoke_ was a close second. Lori and Leni liked the game shows, and Lynn never missed the _All-American Football Game of the Week_ program on Sunday nights, though it was on pretty late at 9:30, and Mom really didn't like him staying up on a school night. Lincoln bet his mother really did watch TV all day; he would if he was home.

"You better get dressed if you don't want to be late," Mom said as Dad snaked his arm around her hips.

"My shirt?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Ironed and hanging up," she said.

"Alright." He stood up and pecked her on the lips: Luan and Lynn both grimaced. Gee, you'd think they were against kissing or something.

When breakfast was done, Mom kissed each one of them, oldest to youngest, then sent them out the door. It was cold and just beginning to snow when Lincoln stepped onto the porch. He shrugged into his jacket and was zipping it up when Lynn bumped into him. "Outta the way, dweeb."

"See ya, Linc," Luan said as she brushed past and went down the stairs. She and Lynn both went to Royal Woods Middle, which was two blocks away, past the park on Schoolhouse Road. The elementary school was across the street and slightly down. Lori and Leni went to the high school, which was _way_ on the other side of town. Missy Johnson, one of Lori's friends, drove them most days, and speaking of the devil, here she was now in her dark blue Chevy sedan with pointed tail fins. When Lincoln was little, he had a _huge_ crush on Missy...but his tastes grew more refined over the years, and now he was attracted to Ronnie Anne Santiago...who was _way_ better looking.

"Bye, Lincy!" Leni cried and planted a kiss on the top of his head. From the brightness of her eyes and the bounce in her step, Lincoln inferred that either the memory of the spider dream was long gone...or the coffee was taking effect.

Lori came next, closing the door behind her. "You waiting for the rapture, Linc? Go on." She shooed him away.

"Bye to you too," Lincoln said, and went down the stairs. As he followed the sidewalk, he took his radio out and turned it on, a news broadcast coming in weak and staticky. _"...today in Washington. National aeronautics experts are watching the Soviet satellite closely as..."_

Boring.

Lincoln turned the dial and found a station playing music and grinned. There we go. Nothing takes the old edge off like a little music...and come to think of it, the edge was getting kind of sharp. Every street he passed brought him closer to school...closer to the moment of truth...closer to his great joy...or his great sorrow.

Hey, no pressure. It's not like you got just one chance with this girl – the most beautiful girl in school – nope, and it's not like your entire happiness hinges on whether or not she says yes. Chill, relax, be cool.

Sigh, he didn't _feel_ cool. He felt tense, nervous. He was so nervous, in fact, that he didn't realize he was crossing a street until breaks screamed. He jumped and uttered a tiny cry. All he could see was windshield and chrome grill. Whew. Heh, that was a close one, Linc. You almost –

Bobby Santiago stuck his head out the driver side window, a cigarette jutting from his lips. "Hey, you mind gettin' outta my way?"

Lincoln gulped. Bobby was Ronnie Anne's older brother and, like, the coolest guy in town: He wore a leather jacket like James Dean and drove a 1948 Coupe with flames on the sides. He smiled nervously and lifted a hand. "S-Sorry." He hurried across, and looked over his shoulder as Bobby peeled off. One of his friends was sitting in the passenger seat, a guy with blue eyes and slicked black hair. He flipped Lincoln off.

If he was as cool as those guys, he wouldn't have to worry about Ronnie Anne not liking him: Girls _loved_ guys like them. Well...not _all_ girls, but he bet Ronnie Anne would. He could see himself now striding through the hall in a leather jacket and a pair of boots, the cuffs of his pants rolled up. Everyone stepped aside, looks of adoration on their faces. Ahead, Ronnie Anne turned her big, beautiful brown eyes up, and a blush spread across her face.

He was crossing another street, but thankfully no one was coming.

I _really_ gotta stop doing that.

Five minutes later, he crossed Schoolhouse Road and stopped, his brow furrowing. Two police cars sat in front of the school, their red lights lazily revolving in the falling snow. A small group of people stood behind yellow sawhorses lining the walkway to the front door. As Lincoln watched, two cops in black winter coats escorted two black kids past the crowd, a girl in a white dress and a boy in jeans. No one spoke, but Lincoln saw a few sneers of disgust.

Yeah...I'll just go in the side.

He crossed the athletic field and went in through a door to the cafeteria. He paused, turned his radio off, and looked around: About two dozen kids were eating breakfast and talking. He checked his watch, saw that the bell rang in five minutes, and made a _hmmm_ sound. Where was everyone? Usually at this time the lunch room was still packed. Not that it mattered, he guessed, just as long as...

When his eyes fell on Ronnie Anne Santiago, his heart bounced into his throat. She was sitting alone at a table by the wall and staring down at an open textbook as she absently ate an apple. She wore a purple dress and matching shoes, her shiny black hair pulled back in a ponytail with a purple elastic. The familiar, longing ache clenched Lincoln's stomach, and for a moment all she could do was stare. He traced the gentle curve of her jaw, her slender throat, lingered on her freckled face and soft brow. A hazy smile touched his face, and a dreamy sigh passed his lips. Oh, what he'd do to make her his girl.

 _Do it then,_ a voice said from the middle of his head. It sounded like his brother Lynn.

I-I-I can't do it right now...I just got here. I'm not ready.

 _You'll_ never _do it. You're a candy ass, Linc. A weak sister._

No, I –

 _You're a pansy, Lincoln. A delicate little pansy woman._

Hey, wait just a –

 _You won't do it, chicken. You're too much of a fragile flower._

Lincoln took a deep breath. He was starting to get angry, and the fact that the voice was only a manifestation of his own subconscious only made him madder. He looked at Ronnie Anne, so beautiful, and his anger faltered, allowing fear to spill over the side like water over the sloping deck of a sinking ocean liner. H-He couldn't...what if she said no?

 _No risk, no reward._

He imagined himself holding hands with Ronnie Anne, and the vision was so clear that he could _feel_ the happiness that simple act would bring him, and that's what decided him. Taking a deep breath, he steeled his resolve and crossed the cafeteria, his heart jackrabbitting so hard he was surprised no one else heard him. Each step brought him closer to her, closer to the moment he would ask her to the dance, closer to probably being rejected and laughed at.

Was it him, or was it hot in here? He was sweating bullets.

He reached the table and stopped, his hands at his sides. That probably looked stupid. He put them behind his back, then slipped them into his pockets. For a moment Ronnie Anne was completely oblivious to his presence, then she turned, her body leaning away from him. Her brow crinkled cutely. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice like sweet, heavenly music.

For a moment Lincoln completely forgot how to speak. _You're crashing and burning, Loud!_ Lynn cried from the middle of his head.

 _I know!_

 _Then stop!_

"...You alright?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Lincoln forced a nod. "Uh, I'm fine, I was just, you know, kind of...wondering if...you and me could, maybe...you know...go to the dance."

There.

It was out.

It had been done.

Ronnie Anne regarded him for a moment, an inscrutable expression on her face. It could have masked elation or disgust...or constipation. It was what the cowboys in _Have Gun Will Travel_ called a 'poker face'.

She pulled her lips back in a tight lipped smile. "Dances really aren't my bag. Sorry."

Lincoln's heart crashed into his stomach and erupted into flames. The pilot, poor guy, didn't have time to eject: He was trapped in the cockpit as fire swallowed him whole. "Uh, oh...o-okay."

He made no move to leave. What are those things called? Legs? How do you operate them again?

She raised her eyebrows. "That all?"

He gave a jerky nod.

"Alright," she said, nodding in return, then looked back at her book.

Lincoln didn't realize he was walking away until he found himself in the hall. A group of kids were clustered by the front door, craning to see into the office. A teacher came along and shooed them away. He felt numb, cold, like his heart had been left overnight in a snowbank. Rejected. Just like he knew he would be.

He drew a heavy sigh and started toward his classroom, his head bowed. By the time he sat and the bell rang, the shock had worn off and his chest ached with loss. He took a series of deep breaths, but the pressure weighing against his heart did not lessen. If anything, it grew. Kids were streaming in now. At any moment, Ronnie Anne would come through the door, and he would spend the next hour trying not to look at her, trying not to pine.

And that's exactly what he did.


	2. December 1957: Part 2

**STR2D3PO: There weren't many female jocks in the fifties – some, I suppose – and I kind of wanted Lynn to be the classic crew-cut-letterman-jacket wearing football player. I also figured it would be unique.**

 **ThatOneGuy: I actually do have an idea for a heartbreaking Christmas story, I just have to wrap this one up and actually write it.**

 **Lyrics to _Little Bitty Pretty One_ by Thurston Harris (1957)**

* * *

Time passed quickly, but it also passed slowly. It was hot, then it was cold. He wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep until he was dead, but he also wanted to take a long walk – heck, a long _run_. When the lunch bell rang, he dragged himself to the cafeteria, his eyes glued to his red low-tops, his body moving on instinct.

In the lunch room, he crossed to his usual table – where he sat each day, alone – and dropped onto the stool. He planted his elbows onto the table and rested his face in his upturned palms. He sighed and wished for the hundredth time that he didn't ask her out. Before he had hope, and potential – now he had only heartache.

 _Stupid._

He was the stupidest kid in all of Royal Woods...and maybe in all 48 states. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked up. A black boy with glasses sat across from him, his eyes guarded and wary. He was wearing a long sleeve button-down with pink and black pinstripes. Lincoln sighed. "I can leave if you want." What did it matter? Right now he could sit in a trash can or on the Queen of England's throne, and he'd be sad just the same.

The boy didn't reply for a moment, then he slowly shook his head. "I don't care."

Lincoln sighed again. Why was he so stupid? Why did he think a girl like Ronnie Anne would want a guy like him? He was a geek, a cube, a white-haired, chipped-toothed loser. Too bad Bobby didn't run him over. It would have kept him from being stupid _and_ would have hurt less.

"Rough day?" the black boy asked.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. _Very_ rough."

The black boy nodded. "I feel your pain. The janitor called me a nigger." He broke out laughing, waving his hand in front of his face as if to dispel a cloud of humor. Lincoln looked up at him and cocked his eyebrow. That wasn't exactly funny...

"You either laugh or you cry," he said when he sobered, "and I'm not in the mood to cry today."

" _I_ am," Lincoln said.

"You look it. What, uh, what's wrong, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm stupid," Lincoln replied. "I thought...I thought 'Hey, Linc, why not ask Ronnie Anne Santiago to the dance? You have a shot. Go 'head.' I did, and she said no." He raked his fingers through his hair and blinked back a rush of tears.

For a moment the boy was silent. "I assume, given her last name, she's that Hispanic girl in the purple dress over there."

Lincoln nodded miserably.

"Well...I don't know much about girls, but she keeps looking over here, and that either means she likes you or she doesn't."

Lincoln's heart clutched. "Great," he moaned, "she's probably thinking about what a dud I am."

The boy shrugged. "I honestly can't help you. At least you got up the nerve to ask a girl. I'd have probably spazzed out." He opened his milk carton and stared down into it, then looked up. "How'd you do it?"

Lincoln wound the memory back through his mind, and cringed. "Stupidly. Stutteringly."

"Oh, yeah, that's rough."

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. Not as rough as...I mean...you must have it."

The boy shrugged. "I was expecting worse. No one's roughed me up yet, and the only person to call me a nigger was that janitor." He grinned and shook his head. "Kind of strange being around so many white people, though."

Lincoln could imagine. He didn't have anything against Negros, but he imagined he'd be pretty uncomfortable being the only white face in a sea of black. "Are you scared?"

"A little," he said. He took a sip of his milk. "Guess if you're doing something that makes you afraid, you're living, at least."

Lincoln nodded. In a way, he felt even worse than he did before: It was a crying shame that someone had to be afraid going to school just because of their skin color. This guy...whatever his name was...seemed alright; Lincoln hadn't known many coloreds in his life, though there was a boy he played with when he was little who moved away. His name was...God, what was it? He couldn't remember, but he was the only friend Lincoln could remember ever having. "I'm Lincoln," he said now.

"Clyde," the boy replied, and they shook.

"You sit here a lot?" Clyde asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln nodded. "I don't really hang out with anyone else."

"How come?"

He shrugged. "I just...I guess I live in my own little world." He grinned. That was pretty accurate, actually. He read comics, listened to music, and did his own thing. He was friendly with some of the guys in class, but they weren't really _friends_.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Clyde said. "I kind of do too. What do you like?"

"Comic books," Lincoln said.

"Yeah?" Clyde asked, interested. "What kind?"

"Like _Superman_ and _Ace Savvy._ "

"Oh, I _love Ace Savvy,_ " Clyde said, "did you read the new one?"

"Where he literally knocked The Card Counter's head off?"

"That's the one! And it was falling off the side of that building and still screaming."

They both laughed. "That's _one_ way to get ahead," they said in unison.

"You're pretty cool," Clyde said. "You like rock and roll?"

"I sure do," Lincoln said. "Little Richard's my favorite."

"Yeah, he's cool," Clyde said. "I like Elvis." He glanced away. "Some guys at my school – my old school – said it wasn't cool for a black guy to like Elvis. What's wrong with Elvis?"

Lincoln shrugged. "He's alright. It's kind of weird...you know, _Jailhouse Rock."_

Clyde tilted his head. "What's weird?"

"Well...he's talking about, you, like Number 40 calling Number 43 the cutest jailbird he ever saw or something, and they're all dancing..."

Clyde blinked. "I still don't catch your drift."

Lincoln faltered. "Well...they're all guys, right? Jails don't put men and women together..."

Understanding dawned in Clyde's eyes, and he snickered. "I guess when you've been in the poke for a while, you get kind of funny."

"Do you have a TV?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah, we have a Zenith. Best on the market."

"Do you watch _American Bandstand?"_

Clyde shrugged. "Only every afternoon."

Yeah, Lincoln decided, this guy was cool. "What else do you watch?"

"I like _Dragnet_."

Lincoln tilted his head. "Which one is that?"

"It's a cop show. It's pretty boss."

Lincoln opened his mouth to ask what channel it was on, but the bell rang. Shoot. And he was kind of having fun. "Well," Clyde said, and downed his milk, "back to the ol' grind, as my dad says."

"Yeah," Lincoln said. He got up and started to turn, but stopped. "I, uh, I feel kind of better now."

Clyde nodded. "Me too."

"I'll see you around?"

"Sure!"

Lincoln grinned and nodded. "Alright. See ya."

As he walked away, Lincoln felt pretty good, actually. Oh, the pain of Ronnie Anne's rejection was still there, but making a friend was kind of like...he didn't know...aloe on a sunburn. It helped. Of course...that aloe would eventually wear off and the sunburn would sting like hell again. Sigh. Hey, sunburns heal, right? Maybe broken hearts do, too.

In the hall, he went to his locker, and paused: A folded piece of paper jutted out from one of the slats. Uh...what's this? He plucked it out and opened it. A message. Written in pencil. _Meet me by the flagpole at 3pm._

Lincoln stole a glance around, but didn't see anyone acting suspicious, just kids on their way to class. He turned back to the note and read it again. The flagpole? Usually if someone wanted to meet you by the flagpole after school, they wanted to punch your lights out. No one had any reason to punch his lights out, so...maybe it was something else? Maybe it was...

His hopes soared.

Tucking the note into his hip pocket, he opened the locker, grabbed his books, and hurried to class, getting there just as the bell rang. He took his usual seat at the front of the room and resisted the urge to look behind him at Ronnie Anne, who sat behind and across. Was _she_ the mystery note-leaver? He bet she was! Oh, this was great! _Still in the game, Loud,_ Lynn said from the middle of his head, _she wouldn't be slipping you notes if you weren't._

I know, Lynn! Cloud 9, baby, Cloud 9!

The rest of the day passed at a crawl, his excitement growing until he could barely sit still. When the final bell rang, he jumped up and went to his locker like a bullet, ripping it open and throwing his books in, not caring about the homework assignment Mrs. Johnson gave him. Outside, it had stopped snowing, and a light dusting covered the ground, a cold wind kicking swirls into the air. The flag rippled in the breeze with a crisp sound almost like a beacon. _Come here, Linc, wait for your girl._

Grinning ear-to-ear, he leaned against the pole and crossed his arms. Wait, did that look cool? Maybe he should put his hands in his pockets and stand up straight, but kind of at a slouch, you know, casual like.

Kids flooded the walkway and spread out into town as a school bus pulled away from the curb. Any minute now...

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Pretty soon, he was alone with the wind, and beginning to think that someone had played a cruel, cruel joke on him. He was just getting ready to leave when a voice spoke behind him. "Hey, Loud."

He whipped around, and the blood drained from his face. Billy Mason, the school tough, stood with his hands on his hips, his buddies Scut Farkus and Harry Bowers flanking him. Billy was a year older than Lincoln but a grade behind because he was dumb as a box of rocks. Like Bobby Santiago, he wore a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, the cuffs of his jeans flipped up, only it looked cool on Bobby...on Billy it looked scummy. His greasy black hair was in a D.A. and his thin lips were pulled back from his teeth in a hateful sneer.

Lincoln gulped and started to back away. These cats meant trouble. "H-Hey, guys," he smiled nervously, "I was, uh, just leaving."

"No you weren't," Billy said. He nodded, and Scut and Harry came forward. Lincoln would have run, but his legs were frozen: Scut grabbed one arm and Harry grabbed the other. Together they shoved him back against the flagpole.

Oh, man, this is bad, this is bad, this is bad...

Billy came over, his hands still on his hips, and stood in front of Lincoln, his bowed head shaking sadly back and forth. Lincoln's heart raced. He looked around for a teacher, a cop, Superman, but the wintery afternoon was deserted.

When Billy finally looked up at Lincoln, his muddled blue eyes were pooled with evil. "I see you made a new friend," he said.

Lincoln swallowed. Huh? A friend?

"The darkie," Scut said into Lincoln's ear, his rank breath hot on Lincoln's skin. Clyde?

Billy shook his head. "You see, Loud, we don't hang with those. We're better than that – even your candy ass...as strange as it may seem." He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He flicked a button, and a thin, sharp blade shot out. Terror burst in Lincoln's chest like a bomb. A switchblade. Crazily he thought of the ads at the back of the comic books he read. _Snaps open with startling speed._ He was startled, alright.

Grinning like a loon, Billy pressed the tip to Lincoln's chest. Lincoln squeezed his eyes closed and started saying his prayers. "H-Hey, man," Scut said, "you're not really gonna stab him, are you?"

The point pulled away, and Lincoln let out a deep breath.

"Nah," Billy said, "I'm not gonna stab him." Lincoln opened one eye; Billy closed the blade and slipped it back into his pocket. Then, like a shot, he punched Lincoln in the stomach: The air rushed from his lungs and hot pain enveloped him. He doubled over and then fell to his knees as Harry and Scut released his arms. Billy squatted down and grabbed his cowlick, lifting his head. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood today, Loud, or you'd be pushing your guts back in with your fingers right now."

Lincoln panted for air.

"Stay with your own kind from now on, huh?" Billy said. He lightly slapped Lincoln's face and stood. "C'mon, guys."

They departed, and for a long time Lincoln remained on his knees, cold, slushy snow soaking through the fabric of his pants. Even after the pain had passed and the tears had dried, he didn't want to get up...didn't want to face life. If God was merciful, the Cold War would pick this very minute to turn hot, and a Russian bomb would drop on his head and blot out the terrible, awful, rotten –

"Hey, you okay?"

Lincoln looked up, and froze. Ronnie Anne Santiago looked down at him, her books clutched to her chest and her brow soft with concern. His jaw dropped open and his Adam's apple bobbed. Uh...

 _Say something, Loud._

He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I got my ass kicked." His face turned beet red.

 _Smooth, Loud, real smooth._

"I kind of figured something like that happened," Ronnie Anne replied. "Not many guys kneel in the snow for fun."

"Yeah...it wasn't very fun." He sighed and got to his feet. Time to gather the shattered remains of his dignity and go home.

"Who did it?" she asked.

"Billy Mason," he said. He and Ronnie Anne were standing face-to-face. Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck.

Ronnie Anne nodded understandingly. "Yeah, that guy's a dirtbag. Stupid, too."

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "Well...I'll see you around." He turned and started leave.

"Hey, wait up!"

He stopped and Ronnie Anne came up beside him. "Since I'm the one who found you, I'm kind of responsible for you," she said. "At least until you get home."

Lincoln blinked. Get home?

She sensed his confusion. "I'm gonna walk you home," she said, "and make sure you don't pass out or anything."

Walk him home? That was great! And not so great. Great because he liked her...and not so great because he liked her and she didn't like _him,_ and being around her was like...he didn't know...a starving guy being around a sandwich he couldn't eat.

Okay, it wasn't right to compare her to food – she wasn't, she was a person – but you get the idea.

"That sounds cool," he said, and they began to cross the athletic field. He didn't know what else to say. Talk about the weather? About getting his ass kicked? "I missed _Bandstand,"_ he blurted.

"Yeah, so did I," she said. "No one good was on today, anyway."

"Why were you so late?" he asked. "I mean...it's gotta be past 3:30."

Ronnie Anne sighed. "I had detention."

Lincoln looked at her. "Detention? What'd you do?"

"I put salt in Mr. Wycowski's coffee."

Mr. Wycowski was the gym teacher. A lot of the kids called him Mr. Square because he was a real buzz kill. Lincoln couldn't help but laugh. "Why?"

"Because he's a doofus, that's why," Ronnie Anne said and giggled. "Man, you should have seen the look on his face when he took that first gulp. His eyes were bugging out of his head."

They both laughed.

"Why were you late? Or were you there on your knees the whole time?"

"I, uh...well, someone stuck a note in my locker and said meet them by the flagpole at 3."

"Let me guess, it was Billy."

Lincoln nodded. "And his friends."

"Classic ambush," she said.

"Yeah, pretty much."

They crossed Schoolhouse Road and started down the sidewalk. "What'd you do to piss him off? Even he doesn't beat people up for no reason."

Lincoln sighed. "I was talking to that Clyde kid and Billy didn't like it, I guess."

Ronnie Anne looked at him, one eye squinted. "Who?"

"The new kid. You know...the colored."

She nodded slowly. "Ah. Okay." She was silent for a moment. "How is he?"

"He's cool," Lincoln said, "seems like a real good guy."

"That's good," she said. "I feel kinda bad for him. And that girl. I know what it's like."

For a moment Lincoln didn't understand what she meant, then it dawned on him at the same time she said, "Being Mexican and all."

"You're cool too," he blurted, and blushed furiously. _Why do I keep saying stupid stuff?_

She laughed. "Thanks. Not everyone thinks so. Making friends hasn't been easy."

Ronnie Anne and her family moved to Royal Woods three years ago. From where, Lincoln didn't know. He vaguely remembered there being a stir because she was Mexican, but he didn't really pay attention because he didn't care. He lived in his own little world, remember, and whether or not someone was Mexican really didn't concern him. Who? That girl over there? Sure, great. It wasn't until fifth grade that he even noticed her – how her hair shimmered in the light of the sun, how her eyes sparkled, how her smile, as rare as it was, lit up the room.

The fact that some people didn't like her because she was Mexican bothered him greatly. "I'm sorry," he said heavily.

"Eh, don't be," she said, "I'm kind of a loner."

"Me too, I guess. It's nice to have a friend, though."

She shrugged one shoulder. "You still gonna hang with him?"

"Clyde?"

"Yeah. Billy kicked your ass, after all."

Lincoln thought long and hard on that. He did _not_ want another whomping, but he liked Clyde, and he wasn't too keen on letting some scumbag in a leather jacket tell him who he could and couldn't hang with. That's what a weak sister did, and no matter what Lynn said, he was _not_ a weak sister. "Yeah," he finally said, "screw Billy."

Ronnie Anne snickered. "That's the spirit. You're gonna be pulling double duty, 'cuz you're a pretty cool guy and I think I wanna hang with you too."

Lincoln's heart seized mid-beat. He turned and looked at her, but she was facing forward: Maybe it was the cold wind, but her face was red. "S-Sure," he managed, "that'd be real swell."

"Cool," she said.

They were at Colman Avenue when a car pulled up beside them. Lincoln glanced over: It was black with flames up the sides. The driver window rolled down and Bobby stuck his head out, his trademark cigarette between his lips. Music drifted from inside:

 _Come on and talk-a to me  
_

 _A-lovey dovey dovey one  
_

 _Come sit down on my knee._

"Hey, where you been?" he asked, "I was lookin' for you."

"I was walking," Ronnie Anne said.

"Yeah? Well, now you're ridin'. Come on, we gotta go."

Ronnie Anne shook her head and looked at Lincoln. "I'll see you around, huh?"

Lincoln nodded dumbly. "Y-Yeah, sure."

She smiled prettily and then hurried around the front of the car, climbing in. Bobby looked him up and down. "You watchin' where you're goin' now, kid?"

"Yes, sir," Lincoln blurted.

Bobby laughed and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "Yeah, good, 'cuz you almost fucked up my grill earlier." He rolled up the window and peeled off, smoke rising from the tires.

Ronnie Anne Santiago wanted to be his friend...

Wow...

Grinning, the gut-punch totally forgotten, Lincoln walked home, a light, airy tune on his lips.


	3. December 1957: Part 3

**Codywrasman: Great minds think alike.**

 **anonymous789: I make all sorts of references like that. Let's see if you can spot the coming** _ **Back to the Future**_ **nod. That's a few chapters away, though.**

 **Lyrics to** _ **Love Letters in the Sand**_ **by Pat Boone (1957)**

* * *

" _Kid's a real square," Bobby said. He tossed his cigarette out the window and rested his arm on the frame, steering with one hand. Cold air rushed in, and Ronnie Anne shivered. She started to reply, but realized the words 'fuck you' were forming on her lips, and stopped herself. If she said something like that, it would be painfully obvious that she liked Lincoln Loud, and she did_ not _feel like catching gas from her brother._

" _Eh. He's alright."_

" _He's a dork. Like Buddy Holly. You like 'em geeky, huh?"_

 _Buddy Holly was her favorite singer. There was something about him that she liked, some indefinable quality that eluded her every time she tried to name it. He was tall and gangly with glasses and curly black hair. He was a good singer, but, you know...yeah, he_ was _kind of cute._

" _I sure don't like 'em with a shit ton of Brylcreem in their hair."_

 _Bobby snorted. "Chicks dig the Brylcreem."_

" _Is that why you don't have a girlfriend?"_

 _Bobby shot her a dirty look. "Drop dead twice, kid."_

" _And look like you?"_

 _He jabbed his middle finger at her, and she jabbed hers at him. After that, they lapsed into silence, Ronnie Anne thinking back to that morning, when Lincoln asked her to the dance. She wasn't lying, dancing really_ wasn't _her thing, but Lincoln Loud kind of was...like...she thought he was cute and all...not like she'd had her eye on him since fourth grade and sometimes_ really _wished he'd ask her out because she was too chicken to ask_ him. _Nope. Not at all. And she sure as hell didn't seize up when he asked her out...didn't tell him the truth instead of saying_ Sure, I'm not much into dancing but I'd love to go with you.

 _Where was she again?_

Oh, yeah, she liked him. Not too _much, though. And don't you forget it. Man...she should have said yes. Wow, she was dumb._

 _But you know what?_

 _She felt pretty good right now, because the way he stammered cutely when he asked her out told her that he liked her too, and that was really cool._

 _Really, really cool._

* * *

Thursday morning, Ronnie Anne woke early and took a long, hot shower, the water feeling good against her chilled flesh. They didn't keep the heat on very high in the winter because Mom couldn't afford it; since Dad left and they had to move closer to Mom's family, she couldn't afford a lot of things. They had a phone, but no TV. There _was_ the radio, which was alright: She liked a lot of the programs on the radio better than the TV anyway. Her favorite was _The Adventures of Philip Marlowe_ , which was as hard-boiled as hard-boiled crime shows come. When she told Lincoln she missed _Bandstand,_ she was telling the truth: She missed it every single afternoon. That was probably the only TV show she'd want to watch, but whatever. She didn't mention not having a TV because it was kind of embarrassing and she did not want to embarrass herself in front of Lincoln Loud.

When she was done, she grabbed the towel, dried off, and went to her room, the cold air painful against her flushed skin. God, she _hated_ winter. At her closet, she pulled out a purple dress and laid it on the bed. She pulled on a pair of underwear, slipped the dress over her head, and then put on her socks and shoes. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, then went to the bathroom again to look at herself in the mirror. She wasn't overly girly, but she liked to look pretty. Today, she _really_ wanted to look pretty.

Finding that she was, indeed, pretty, she went into the kitchen, where Mom was making breakfast, the air scented with the smell of frying bacon. "Morning, Mom," she said brightly and sat at the table.

"Good morning," Mom said. "How did you sleep?"

"Good." She poured orange juice into a glass and took a sip.

"Did you have enough blankets?"

"Yep."

Mom nodded and didn't speak for a while. "Is your brother up?"

Ronnie Anne snickered. "Probably not." Bobby was a notorious anti-morning person. When he was younger, Mom would throw cold water on him to get him out of bed, then Ronnie Anne took over, because waking her brother up was fun.

"Can you go check, please?"

" _Love_ to," Ronnie Anne chirped and got up, an evil smile on her face.

At Bobby's door, she knocked just in case he was awake and not decent; when he didn't answer, she opened it a crack and stuck her head in. He was lying across the bed on his back, his mouth open and loud snores rising from his nose. He wore his jeans and nothing else. She grinned. Perfect.

She crept to the edge of the bed and went around until she was standing over his head. He snorted as she leaned in. "Oh. Bobby..." she said in a singsong voice. Then, copying her mother's pronunciation, "Row-Bear-Tow..."

His eyelids fluttered.

Poor Bobby. He was totally and utterly defenseless. What was that about Lincoln and Buddy Holly being geeks? She shoved her index finger into her mouth, got it nice and wet, and then jammed it into his ear. He jumped up with a cry and jerked away, his shoulders hunching. Ronnie Anne burst out laughing, holding her stomach because it honestly felt like it was going to burst.

"What the hell?" he asked, and turned; he sighed and his shoulders sagged. "I shoulda known: My alarm clock."

"If you bought one we wouldn't have to do this," she said as he slid out of bed and grabbed a green drab green T-shirt from a pile of dirty clothes by the nightstand. "Although I kind of enjoy it."

"Can't," he said. He was at the mirror over the dresser now, turning this way and that to examine his hair. "I got other expenses." He plucked a black comb off the dresser and ran it through his ducktail.

Ronnie Anne dropped onto the edge of his bed and kicked her legs. "Like?"

"Like cigarettes," he said, "'cuz all mine have a bad habit of walkin' away when I'm not lookin'."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. Hey, a girl needed something other than torturing her brother to start the day.

"I'm not payin' for darts for two people, you know."

"It's not me."

"Oh, yeah? What, we got a ghost in this place?" He dropped the comb onto the dresser and grabbed his jacket from the floor.

"Maybe."

"Yeah, well, that ghost better watch herself or she's gonna wind up gettin' exorcised, and Father Bobby don't use no cross, he uses a belt."

Ronnie Anne snickered. "C'mon," he said, "get outta here."

In the kitchen, he dropped in front of a plate and draped his arm over the back of the chair. "Good morning, Roberto," Mom said. She was sitting across from him, a mug of coffee in her hands.

"Mornin', Ma," he said, eyeing his breakfast and nodding appreciatively. "You really gotta sick that little girl on me every mornin'?" he asked, glancing at Ronnie Anne, who stuck her tongue out.

"If you would get up by yourself, I wouldn't have to," she said.

Bobby sat forward, grabbed his fork, and dug in. "She practically dug my brain outta my head. I thought I was bein' killed."

"What brain?" Ronnie Anne asked, and both she and her mother laughed.

"Alright, I see how it is," Bobby said, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a grin, "next time you want me to run somewhere, Ma, forget it. As for your daughter over there, why don't you ask her about my expenses?"

Mom shook her head. "You're _loco_."

"As a sh –" he stopped himself. _As a shithouse rat, Bobby?_ Ronnie Anne thought and giggled.

"Speaking of running somewhere," Mom said, "I need you to take Ronnie Anne to school today. It's snowing."

Bobby leaned forward to try and see out the window over the sink. When he realized he couldn't, he got up and went to it: Several inches of powder covered the ground, more falling from the sky. "I see the snow," he said, coming back to his chair, "but I don't see where it says 'taxi' on my car."

Mom cocked a dangerous brow, and Bobby put up his hands. "I'm just playin'. I'm not gonna let my beloved kid sister walk in the snow. What do you think I am?"

"A dork," Ronnie Anne said.

"Yeah, maybe I am," Bobby said, and started eating, "but I look good doin' it."

When breakfast was over, Mom kissed both of them on the cheek. "I'm goin' to the drive-in after school," Bobby said, "you want me to get you guys somethin' to eat? Burgers? Chicken?"

"No, I'll make dinner," Mom said.

"You sure? I figured you're tired from work and all that."

"I will make dinner. And it will not be grease-fried."

Bobby shrugged. "Alright. Love ya."

At the door, an idea stuck Ronnie Anne, and she raced back to her room. "Hey, we're goin'! Come on!"

"Wait a minute!"

At her dresser, she opened the top drawer and rifled through her socks and underwear until she found a stocking that bulged slightly. She pulled out a wad of bills, mainly ones with two fives and a ten: Every once in a while she babysat for a little dough, and she was _very_ thrifty with her cash...just like Mom.

She took one of the tens and slipped it into her pocket. The drive-in sounded like the _perfect_ after school treat...with Lincoln, of course.

She sighed happily as she thought of him. He had that same _something,_ she realized, that Buddy Holly had. Some...feature, trait, whatever...that drew her. It was like he was...she didn't know...vulnerable but kind of not? Who knows?

Bobby wasn't in the living room, so she figured he was outside. When she stepped out the door, a blast of cold air hit her, and she shivered. Bobby's Coupe pulled out of the driveway and stopped. Barren trees shook in the wind, the houses screened beyond huddled against the falling snow. Rushing, she crossed the yard, threw open the door, and climbed in, where it was warm. Bobby lit a Camel and turned the radio on:

 _With every wave that breaks  
_

 _Over love letters in the sand_

Bobby sneered in disgust. "What's this crap, Pat Boone or somethin'?"

"That's exactly who it is," Ronnie Anne said as Bobby changed the station.

"You like that guy?" He laughed. "You're somethin' else, you know that? One minute you're kickin' my ass, the next you're listenin' to Pat Boone and his Candy Ass Orchestra."

"I never said I _liked_ it," she said. She did, though. Kind of.

"How come you know who it was?" he asked, spinning the wheel and pulling out into the street. The smoke from his cigarette reached her, and the back of her throat pinched ever so slightly as saliva flooded her mouth.

She tossed her shoulder. "I pay attention. Maybe you should try it someday."

"That'll be my New Years' resolution," he said. For a while they drove in silence, Ronnie Anne trying to ignore the warm, fragrant smoke filling the car...then trying not to stare at his cigarette like a dog staring at a side of beef...then chewing her bottom lip.

Then squirming in her seat. "Hey, Bobby?"

"What?" he asked around his smoke.

"C-Can I have a drag?"

"You wanna race?" he asked, knowing damn well what she meant. "I don't really do that. You ain't gonna catch _me_ wreckin' this bad boy." He grinned and patted the dashboard.

"Please? I'm dying over here."

Bobby glanced at her, and she gave him the biggest puppy dog eyes she could. He sighed, shook his head, then took his cigarette between his thumb-and-fore finger and handed it to her. "Throw it out when you're done."

"Thanks!" She plucked it away and took a hit, the harsh smoke filling her lungs. "Ahhhh, that's the stuff."

"They taste much better when someone else buys 'em, huh?"

"Yeah."

"That's it. After that you're cut off."

"Okay," she said, unperturbed.

"I mean it. Those things are bad for you."

"Okay."

When she was done, she rolled down the window and tossed it out. A minute later, Bobby pulled to a stop in front of the school. "Alright, here we is," he said.

"Thanks," she said, and started to get out.

"Hey!"

She turned, and he leaned in, pointing at his cheek. Rolling her eyes, she pecked him and he ruffled her hair. "Have a good day."

* * *

All morning, Lincoln was acutely aware of Ronnie Anne's presence. Well...he always was, but today, it was different, and a couple times he went to sneak a look at her, only to find that she was already looking at _him_. Every time he caught her, she looked quickly away, and Lincoln was confused: Was she eyeballing him for good reasons...or bad? Did she think he was a pathetic dork? After all, he bombed when he asked her out yesterday...then she found him on the ground after getting beaten up. God, he _must_ look pathetic. Of course, she said she wanted to be friends, so maybe she was just looking at him because you look at friends? He really didn't know.

At lunch, he grabbed his tray and paused by the door. Clyde was sitting alone, as he had before. Across the cafeteria, Billy Mason and his goons were sitting in a group, Billy leaning against the table and facing out, his elbows propped behind him and his legs thrust out. Lincoln's stomach tightened at the memory of being socked. He did not want to do that again...but he liked Clyde and he wasn't going to have some loser like Billy boss him around...come what may.

Decided, he went over to the table and sat across from Clyde. "Hey, Lincoln," Clyde said happily, "how's it going?"

"Alright," he said truthfully. All things considered.

"That's good, that's good. Who's that guy in the leather jacket?"

Lincoln's heart clenched. "Why? Is he looking over here?"

Clyde's brows furrowed. "Uh, no, but he said something this morning about cleaning my boyfriend's clock, and you're the first one who came to mind – not because I like you, but because you're the only guy I've talked to."

Lincoln blushed. "That's Billy. He, uh, he beat me up yesterday."

Clyde's eyes widened. "What? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Clyde sighed troubledly. "So...he did it because of me?"

"He did it because he's an asshole," Lincoln said. "I'm not worried about him."

"You sure, man? I don't want someone messing with you on account of me."

Lincoln waved him off. "It's fine, really."

Clyde shook his head. "Well, I –"

He cut off when Ronnie Anne Santiago dropped into the seat next to Lincoln, startling him. "How's it going, square-for-brains?" she asked playfully.

"Uh...it's-it's good. You?"

"Alright. Who's your friend?"

Every time he was around Ronnie Anne, thinking – like breathing – was hard. Friend? Oh, yeah. "It's...this is Clyde."

"Hey, Clyde," she nodded. "I'm Ronnie Anne."

"Nice to meet you," he said, his eyes darting from her to Lincoln and back again. _Guess he got the girl after all._

She turned to Lincoln. "I was thinking...you know...maybe we could hang after school. Go to the drive-in and eat something." She looked at Lincoln's tray. "Something that _isn't_ slop."

Was...was she asking him out on a date? _Oh my God, she's asking me out on a date!_

No, no, you're friends, remember? Friends do stuff like hang out at the drive-in. That's all it is.

That took _some_ of the wind out of his sails, but not much. "Yeah, that'd be great," he said. "After school?"

"Yeah." A mischievous light came into her eyes. "Unless you wanna ditch and do it now."

Lincoln blinked. Ditch? As in...skip school? Uh...no, no, geez, his dad would whip his hide if he found out he ditched class to go to the drive-in. "W-We can wait."

She shrugged. "Alright. I don't mind. Whatever." She turned to Clyde. "How you liking it so far?"

"Eh, it's alright, I guess," Clyde said. "That janitor really doesn't like me. I was walking to class earlier and I guess I dropped my pencil or something, and he came out of nowhere. 'Hey, nigger, you dropped something.'"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Mr. Sandborn. He called me a spic once. Once."

"Why once?" Lincoln asked.

She grinned. "Because I shoved him down a flight of stairs."

Lincoln and Clyde both gaped. "It was a little flight. Come on, the guy's, what, seventy? I could whip him with one arm tied behind my back."

Clyde shook his head, then froze. "Uh-oh, speaking of whipping."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both turned as Billy Mason passed by, giving them a dirty look. Scut and Harry were with him. "Got a regular NAACP meeting over here," Billy said, and shook his head. "And always that one white traitor in the middle."

"Drop dead, loser," Ronnie Anne said.

"Yeah, we'll see who's dropping dead later," Billy said, and then he and his goons were gone. Lincoln didn't realize he was holding a breath until it exploded from his lungs.

"Screw those sons of bitches," Ronnie Anne said, watching them depart with slitted eyes. "I'd _love_ for him to try something. Fucking jerk."

For the rest of the day, Lincoln alternated between worrying about Billy and his friends and looking forward to his date – _stop calling it that, you and a friend are just hanging_ – with Ronnie Anne. He had a little bit of money on him, but not much. He could pay for her to have something at least. He didn't care. He'd sit there and drink motor oil as long as he could look at Ronnie Anne across the table while he did it. When the final bell rang, he gathered up his books (he flunked his homework yesterday, so he _had_ to do today's) and waited by the front door. She was one of the last kids out, and when he saw her, he couldn't help breaking out in a goofy grin.

"Hey," she smiled, "you ready? I'm starved."

"Yeah," he said, "let's go."

The snowing had stopped that morning, and the sidewalks in front of the school had been shoveled sometime during the day. It was a sure bet that the sidewalks were clear between Schoolhouse Road and Main Street, so at least they wouldn't get their feet wet.

"You ever notice how after lunch the day just _drags?_ " she asked.

Lincoln nodded. "Yes, I have. It's like a law of physics or something: The second half of the day will pass _much_ slower than the first."

Ronnie Anne snickered. "What's that, Lincoln's Law?"

"Sure," he said, "why not?"

"My law is school sucks and I can't wait to graduate."

"Class of '64," Lincoln said.

"Is that when it is?"

"You're eleven too, right?"

She nodded.

"You started kindergarten in 1950?"

She crinkled her brow and looked into the sky as she thought, the murky light of the hidden sun touching her face. "I think."

"Then you're graduating in 1964."

"Huh. Cool. I guess –"

A cold voice spoke behind them. "Hey, asshole."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both came to a sudden halt, Lincoln's heart sputtering in his chest. Next to him, Ronnie Anne's face darkened and she took a deep breath.

"Turn around, Loud. I got something for you."

Lincoln didn't move. He was petrified with fear. Instead, Ronnie Anne turned. "Why don't you leave us alone, shithead?"

"Stay outta this, spic. Loud...turn around."

Lincoln took a deep breath and turned, ready to take his lumps like a man. Billy stood on the sidewalk ten feet back, Harry and Scut on either side. Billy took a deep breath and stepped forward. "You know, Loud, I told you to stop hanging with that nigger, and not only did you _not_ listen, you're hanging around with this bitch now."

"Fuck you," Ronnie Anne growled.

Billy ignored her and took another step forward. Was Lincoln trembling? He felt like he was trembling. "Are you _trying_ to piss me off, Loud?" He took another step forward, and grabbed Lincoln by the front of his jacket, his teeth bared and spittle flying from his lips. _"Are you trying to piss me off?"  
_

"Let him go!" Ronnie Anne screamed, and shoved him.

He didn't let go.

"Let him go, you son of a bitch!" She threw her palm against the side of his head, and he reacted, bringing his right arm around and backhanding her across the face. She cried out and fell to the ground.

Royal Woods, like the rest of the country, lived under the constant threat of annihilation from Soviet nuclear bombs. Lincoln had wondered often what an A-Bomb going off would be like. He imagined a nice, sunny, peaceful day then, suddenly, BOOM.

Something similar happened to Lincoln that day.

His eyes widened as Ronnie Anne fell back, her hands flying to her wounded face. Deep inside him, a hitherto unknown bomb detonated, and suddenly he was filled with nuclear rage, the world going dim as a primal scream bubbled up from his throat and past his lips. Billy frowned...then Lincoln's fist crashed into his mouth. He yelled and stumbled back, his grip on Lincoln's shirt releasing. Behind him, Scut and Harry looked like they'd just seen a ghost.

Lincoln followed the punch with another, this one catching Billy in the ear. He went to throw another, but Billy, issuing his own scream, lunged at Lincoln, crashing into him and knocking him into a snowbank.

"Hey!" someone cried, and started running across the street. _"Hey!"_

Billy grabbed a fistful of Lincoln's jacket and brought his fist down, hitting Lincoln below the right eye. Stars burst across Lincoln's field of vision, but he was so high on adrenaline that he didn't feel any pain. Billy drew his fist back again, but something big and red crashed into him, knocking him off. Billy cried out, and Lincoln sat up just as Lynn straddled the bully and hit him with a mean right hook: His nose burst under Lynn's fist, and he screamed like a woman. Lynn hit him again, holding the front of his leather jacket in his other hand.

"Stop!" Billy wailed. "Please, stop!" His legs kicked, the heels of his boots clicking against the pavement. Scut and Harry both broke and ran in the other direction, going as fast as their legs would carry them.

Lynn hit him one final time, then pushed himself up, his shoulders shaking as he drew deep, ragged breaths. On the ground, Billy Mason – the school tough – wept and bled. "You _ever_ touch my brother again, you're a dead man," Lynn said, jabbing a finger at the pathetic puddle of greaser. "Now get the fuck outta here!"

Billy got hurriedly to his feet and stumbled after his friends, drops of blood and tears staining the snow.

When he was gone, Lynn turned, his eyes softening when they fell on Lincoln– just a little. "You alright, Linc?" he asked, holding his hand out.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, taking it and getting to his feet. Ronnie Anne was already standing, looking after Billy Mason with wide eyes and a ghost of a grin. "T-Thanks."

Lynn clapped him on the back. "Hey, what're brothers for? I saw that punch you threw." He beamed. "It was good. I bet you loosened a few of his teeth. Come on, I was just heading home..."

"Actually," Lincoln said, "me and Ronnie Anne were going to the drive-in...if she's still in the mood."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Hell yeah, I am."

"Oh," Lynn said, and Lincoln thought he detected a trace of disappointment in his brother's voice. "Okay. Cool." He wrapped his arm around Lincoln's neck and gave him a noogie. "Just don't stay out _too_ late, killer."

Lincoln pulled away. "I'll try not to."


	4. December 1957: Part 4

**Paul: 1) You're right, elementary schools didn't and parents wouldn't. However, bear in mind that this is a fan fiction of a cartoon – while I try to be as realistic as possible, certain things will happen that might not happen in real life. 2) I did a great amount of research on words and slang, and usually before I put something in I checked to see if it was actually in use during the time period. I eventually gave up because that's a hell of an arduous task. There will be some minor anachronisms, I'm sure, and there are certain sequences (coughbootcampcough) that someone in the know will probably be able to shoot full of holes. I tried my best here. 3) Well, Lincoln thinks she is, so...**

 **White eyed fox: Thank you. A lot of interesting stuff happens to the Louds over the years. With so many of them, I was able to place each of them in a different situation realistically: Vietnam, the Students for a Democratic Society protests, the L.A. music scene, etc. A lot of real life figures make appearances, including John McCain, Grace Slick, Abbie Hoffman, Paul McCartney, the Manson Family – I'm rambling now because** _ **I'm**_ **excited. Oh, and you'll be seeing other Loud House characters over the years too...like the younger sisters as different characters.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Great Balls of Fire**_ **by Jerry Lee Lewis (1957)**

Flip's Drive-In sat on the corner of Main Street and Pine Avenue, a circular building with wrap around windows, neon signs, and a big, upturned overhang that terminated in a sharp point. That blustery December afternoon, the parking lot was empty, and the inside wasn't too much better: A few older kids sat at booths along one wall, and a man and woman occupied one of the tables.

Lincoln slipped into a booth and touched his right eye. The area around it was tender and swollen. If he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, he'd probably see a black and lumpy mass. Sigh.

Ronnie Anne sat down across from him, her eyes big and a sly grin creeping across her face. "That was _cool_. You decked that asshole right in his mouth." She snickered. "I'm pretty sure you busted his lip."

Lincoln shrugged. "He made me mad. The way he hit you."

Both of them looked away from the other, both beginning to blush. "How does my eye look?" Lincoln asked after a moment.

"Not bad," she said. "It's a little pink. You can tell something happened."

"Great," Lincoln said. "My sisters are going to be all over me when I get home...and if they don't notice my eye, which they will, Lynn will probably tell them anyway."

"That was your brother?"

"Yeah."

Ronnie Anne giggled. "He hit that piece of shit like a freight train. Pretty cool how you guys double-teamed him like that."

"I didn't do much," he said. "I was losing, remember?"

"The way your face looked when you hit him, I'm sure you could have mustered something else."

A waitress in a pink uniform came over with a notepad. "Hi. What can I get you?"

"What do you want?" Ronnie Anne asked. "I'm buying."

Lincoln blinked. Buying? Her? That wasn't right. It was the man's responsibility to pay. "No, that's okay, I'll buy."

"No you won't," she said, then grinned. "It's the least I can do after the way you defended my honor."

"Really..."

"I'm paying, get over it. What do you want?"

Lincoln had four sisters, so he knew the look in Ronnie Anne's eyes well: Her mind was made up and nothing in the world would be able to change it. "Just fries, I guess. And a chocolate shake."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

She looked up at the waitress. "Order of fries, two chocolate shakes, and a hotdog."

The waitress jotted down their order and went over to the counter. Flip himself, a beefy man with hairy forearms and a bushy white mustache, leaned against the register, talking to a man in a suit. He wore a dirty white T-shirt.

"So how does it feel? Your eye?"

"Kind of tender," Lincoln said. "What about your face?" He looked for a mark, but didn't see one, thank God. The thought of that bastard Billy Mason putting his hands on her – marring her warm, bronze flesh – made his blood boil.

"Fine," she said, "he didn't hit me very hard."

Outside, a car pulled into the slot directly in front of their window. "There's Bobby," she said. The driver side door swung open and Bobby climbed out, a cigarette in his mouth. The passenger door opened, and his buddy Blades got out. He wore a jean jacket over a black T-shirt, a little curl of hair limp against his forehead. He stepped aside, and Daggy, Bobby's other loser friend, climbed out of the back. His hair was messy and blonde and he wore a blue zip up jacket. Bobby took a drag from his cigarette and flicked it away.

"Oh, great," Flip said loud enough that Lincoln and Ronnie Anne could hear him, "here come the 3 Stooges."

Bobby stepped over a snowbank and crossed to the door, opening it and came inside with one arm out. "Honey, I'm home!"

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "He's so embarrassing sometimes."

"I think he's cool," Lincoln said, then, "I mean, kind of."

"Well, if it isn't Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and Tweedledumbest," Flip said.

"Come on, Flip," Bobby said, strutting to the counter while Daggy and Blades grabbed a booth, "don't be like that. Aren't you happy to see me? Best employee you ever had?"

Flip craned to see around Bobby. "Yeah? Where is he?"

Bobby shook his head and leaned against the counter. "You're funny. How's the fry game?"

"Good. How's the being a pain in my ass game?"

Bobby spread his hands. "I haven't been here in a while, so I'm behind, but I'll catch up."

Ronnie Anne turned to watch her brother, her face red. Shut up, I'm on a date over here.

Wait.

Date?

"Yeah, you're catching up quick. What do you want?"

Bobby glanced up at the menu over the counter even though he knew it by heart. "Uh...gimme a burger, some fries, and a Coca-Cola."

Flip nodded. "What about your boyfriends?"

Bobby chuckled. "I don't know. They're on their own."

"Real gentleman," Flip remarked.

Bobby shrugged and glanced over, his brow arching when he saw Ronnie Anne. "Ah, I see my kid sister's here too." He looked at Flip. "With as much money as we spend in here, you oughta treat me a little better."

"You oughta go away. I'll get you when your food's done."

Bobby held up his hands and swaggered toward Ronnie Anne and Lincoln, much to Ronnie Anne's dismay. Go away, loser! I'm on a _date_.

Bobby nodded as he passed, flicking Ronnie Anne's ponytail. He stopped at the jukebox and scanned the selection of songs. "Same old stuff, Flip," he said over his shoulder, "when you gettin' the new?"

"Half past shut up and put your dime in."

The man Flip had been talking to shook his head and laughed. Lincoln couldn't help but watch Bobby: He was really something else.

Bobby sighed and dropped a dime in. He pressed a button and music began to play:

 _You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain.  
_

 _Too much love drives a man insane._

Bobby nodded. "Alright. This thing go any louder?" He looked it over. When he didn't find the volume dial he knew wasn't there, he slapped its glass face.

"I swear to God, Santiago, if you break my Payola, I'll break you," Flip warned.

Bobby turned. "Damn, Flip, chill, I'm not gonna break it. I'll treat it real gentle. Like a woman."

Flip snorted. "You've never had a woman in your life."

Bobby's friends snickered, and he flushed in embarrassment. "There's where you're wrong," he said, pointing at Flip.

"No, it's not."

Bobby's blush deepened as his friends lost it, Daggy pounding the table and Blades nodding in agreement. "Go make my hamburger," Bobby said and waved his hand, "I'm buyin' food, not your gas, old man."

Flip nodded. "Alright. I'll make it extra special for you." He snorted deeply.

"Better not spit in my food," Bobby grumbled as he passed. He laid his hand on Ronnie Anne's head and pushed it aside.

"Cut it out, creep!" she cried.

"Yeah, creep," Daggy said when Bobby sat. "Cut it out."

"Close your flaps, pencil neck."

Ronnie Anne sighed. "Is _your_ brother that embarrassing, or am I alone here?"

"Uh," Lincoln said, trying to think. "Kind of, I guess. I mean...he kind of gets really excited about sports. It can be a little embarrassing. My sister Leni can be, but she's sweet, so that makes up for it."

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne said and sighed. "Bobby's sweet too. He acts all tough but he can be a big softie sometimes. He, uh...he kinda had to grow up fast."

Lincoln tilted his head. "Why?"

Ronnie Anne suddenly wished she hadn't said anything. It was embarrassing. _God, I'm so damn stupid sometimes_. "Our dad left a couple years ago," she admitted, "and Bobby had to get a job to help our mom with the bills."

For a moment Lincoln didn't know what to say. He had literally never heard of a family without a dad before...he didn't even think it was possible. "I'm sorry," he replied, and rubbed the back of his neck. "That must be kind of bad."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "He was a drunk anyway."

Okay, Lincoln _had_ heard of drunks before.

"I'm sorry about that too," he blurted.

Ronnie Anne giggled. "Don't be."

The waitress came over with their shakes and food. Ronnie Anne rubbed her hands together. "Man, that hotdog looks nice." She looked up at Lincoln. "You want half?"

It _was_ a good looking hotdog. But it was hers. "No, thanks."

"You sure?"

He nodded.

A tick or a twitch of the eye must have betrayed him. "Here," she said, pulling it apart, "really, take it."

"No, it's yours."

"No," she said, holding up half, " _this_ is mine." He held up the other half. "This is yours." She sat it in the fry basket.

Who was he to turn down such a nice gesture? It would be impolite, really. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem," she said around a mouthful, "hero."

Lincoln blushed.

A few booths down, Flip sat a plate in front of Bobby. "Here's your damn food. Eat and get out."

Lincoln swallowed his first bite (that dog was even better than it looked). "Wow, Flip really doesn't like him."

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Nah, Flip loves him. That's just how they play."

Lincoln looked again, and this time he noticed a twinkle in Flip's eye. He clapped Bobby on the back as Bobby dug a crumpled bill out of his pocket. "Your money's no good here," Flip said, "probably stole it off some old lady, you hood."

Bobby shrugged. "Granny got her pension check in the mail, and I got to it first. What can I say? That walker really slows her down."

"That car," Ronnie Anne said, nodding out the window, "Flip gave it to him."

Lincoln's brows lifted. "Gave? It's practically brand new."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "I know."

Wow. A brand new car. Flip _must_ like him.

"Hey," Ronnie Anne said, and Lincoln looked away from the window. She looked nervous.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering," she said, "you know, if you wanted to go to the dance."

"T-The dance?"

"That's what I said."

"I thought dancing wasn't your thing."

"It's not, but I didn't say we'd be dancing. We can just hang."

Lincoln _really_ wanted to dance with her...slow and close...but he'd take what he could get. "Sure, that sounds cool."

"Yeah, it does."

For a while, they ate in silence, enjoying each other's company and the prospect of hanging out in the future. They were just finishing up when Bobby came over and crossed his arms. Ronnie Anne didn't look at him. He leaned in, and she continued ignoring him. "Come on, snake," he finally said, nodding to the door, "let's rattle."

"I speak English and Spanish," Ronnie Anne said, "not loser."

" _Es hora de ir a casa."_

" _No quiero ahora mismo."_

Lincoln looked from brother to sister, entirely lost.

" _Si no te gusta, ¡peor para ti_ _. Vamos. Se puede ver la cuadrado mañana."_

Ronnie Anne shot him a dirty look.

"Come on," Bobby said seriously, "let's go."

"Fine," she said tightly, then turned to Lincoln, her expression softening. "I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He glanced at Bobby, who raised a brow, then to Ronnie Anne. _But I don't_ want _you to go._ "Okay. See you at school."

She grinned and got up, slapping a five dollar bill on the table.

"What's this?" Bobby asked. "You payin'?"

"Yes," she said.

Bobby grabbed the bill and shoved it into her hand. "I'll have Flip comp it."

While Bobby went over to talk to Flip, Ronnie Anne waited by the door, trying really hard not to look at Lincoln but failing. Lincoln grinned every time she stole a glance at him. She didn't think he saw her, but he did. And he was happy.

When Bobby was done, he went back over to his table, where Blades and Daggy still sat. "Alright," he said, "I don't got room for everyone in my car, so one of you assholes is walkin' home."

Blades and Daggy both looked up at him. "Eeny," he said, pointing at Daggy, "meeny," at Blades, "miney," at Daggy...then "Daggy. Come on, Blades, let's roll."

Daggy spread his arms. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Bobby said. _"Más tarde, gilipollas."_

* * *

When Lincoln came through the door, Luan, Luna, Leni, and Dad (surprising...he usually got home much later) were sitting on the couch and watching _American Bandstand_ , Dad not looking impressed. Dick Clark stood among a group of dancing teens, a big smile on his face. " _Hey, all you chickie babies, cool cats, greasers, and motor heads; you are hip to a whole new sound, so put on your best threads, lose the squares, and get ready to head to fat city for the biggest_ _bash_ _of the weekend. Let's get cranked and have a blast!"_

"What the hell did he just say?" Dad asked, and Luna laughed. Leni cocked her head in confusion.

Luan sighed. "Come on, Dad, get with it, he said...actually, I don't know what he said either."

Maybe if he was reaaaally quiet, he could...

Leni turned her eye and smiled brightly. "Hi, Lincy!"

Darn.

Her eyes clouded. "What's wrong with your face?"

Sighing, Lincoln closed the door and came into the living room just as Elvis started swiveling his hips. Luan, Luna, and Dad glanced at him, each one registering the bruise on his face. "You okay, Linc?" Luan asked worriedly.

"It's nothing," Lincoln said, "I fell down."

"Like...on a fist?" Leni asked.

Oh, no, was it that obvious? "No, ice."

"You sure?" Luna asked.

Lincoln dropped onto the arm of the couch and faced the TV. "Yeah, it's fine."

"You should probably put some ice on it," Luan said.

Leni huffed. "Luan, ice is what caused this mess. He should, like, use heat. It's ice's arch nemesis."

"Elvis is really shaking," Lincoln said, hoping to change the subject. "Pretty obscene, huh, Dad?"

Dad nodded. "Yes, it is. I don't think my teenage daughters should be watching this."

"Come on, Dad!" Luan said. "It's not bad!"

"Yeah," Luna put in, "you should see the stuff on the news. It's way worse than someone dancing."

Dad crossed his arms and sighed. "I can't argue there," he said. He glanced at Lincoln. "How was your day?"

"Good," Lincoln said and found himself grinning.

"You're a little later than usual. Lynn said something about you going to Flip's. With a girl."

Luan, Luna, and Leni whipped their heads around as one, and panic filled Lincoln's stomach. Oh, great, Dad, now you did it. "A girl?" Luan asked. "Why didn't you tell us you had a girlfriend?" Luna asked with half-lidded eyes. "Lincy, like, reeled one in."

Holding up his hand, Lincoln said, "Calm down, we're just friends."

"Uh-huh," Luna nodded, "that's how it starts."

"Then you end with six kids and a mortgage," Dad said. He put his hands on his knees and got to his feet with a groan. "And a bad back." He shuffled to the kitchen and poked his head in to see if dinner was ready.

"What's her name?" Luan asked.

"Ronnie Anne," Lincoln said. "But honestly, we're just friends."

Only...were they really? Thinking back to their date (and that's the only word he could think of to describe it), to the way she looked at him, to the tone and timbre of her voice, to the light in her eyes...to the way she asked him to the dance...he got the feeling that maybe they weren't. Wishful thinking?

Luna shook her head. "Come on, man, if she was just your friend you wouldn't be blushing like that."

Was he blushing? He touched his face, and his sisters all laughed.

"What's funny?" Lori asked as she came down the stairs. Lincoln turned, and she paused at the bottom step. "What's wrong with your eye?" Her voice was edged with sisterly concern...and maybe just a sprinkling of disgust. Gee, did it look that bad?

Before he could reply, Leni said, "He fell down."

Lori's brow furrowed. "On what, a fist?"

"That's what I said!" Leni gasped.

Lori came over, grabbed Lincoln's chin, and tilted his head back. "Are you alright?" she asked. "Does it hurt?"

"It's fine, it's just a little bruise," Lincoln said and pulled away from her grasp. "I'm okay, guys...really."

"He has a girlfriend," Luna said over her shoulder.

Lori's eyes widened. "A girlfriend?"

Jesus. Lincoln drew a deep breath. "She's just a friend." I think?

Lori came around the couch and shoved in next to Leni, nearly knocking Lincoln off the arm. She crossed her legs and put her hands on her knee. "What's her name?" She leaned in and smiled. "Is she pretty?"

"Her name is Ronnie Anne and...uh, I guess she's pretty. I mean, I haven't noticed."

All of his sisters laughed at him. "You're full of shit, man," Luna said and shook her head.

"No, really," Lincoln lied.

"Uh-huh," Lori said, "sure you haven't." On TV, Bandstand was ending. "Turn the channel, Luan," Lori said over her shoulder, "it's time for Lawrence Welk."

"Oh, yuck," Luan said, crinkling her nose. Nevertheless, she got up, went to the TV, knelt, and turned the knob.

Lori looked back at Lincoln. "You have a dance coming up, right? Are you going to ask her?"

Lincoln opened his mouth: The pride of an eleven-year-old boy drove him to boast that actually, she kind of asked him, but his common sense beat it back. "I don't know," he said noncommittally. "I guess it's a possibility."

On TV, _The Lawrence Welk Show_ was beginning and Lori turned away from Lincoln. "Cool," she said absently, "now hush." A man in cutaway tails sat behind a piano, playing a light melody. His hair was curly and he smiled as he nodded his head. Luna and Luan groaned, but Lori watched, rapt. Whew. Lincoln never thought he'd be this happy to see Liberace.

"What's better than roses on your piano?" Liberace asked the camera in a whispy, effeminate voice. "Tulips on your organ."

Lori's jaw dropped and her face flushed. Luna and Luan both gaped. Leni tilted her head. "I don't get it."

Luna started to laugh. "This is _way_ worse than _Bandstand!_ Hey, Dad! Liberace just told a dirty joke on _The Lawrence Welk Show_ , Lori shouldn't be watching it!"

"That's nice," Dad called from the kitchen, obviously not listening.

Shaking his head, Lincoln stood and went up the stairs. In his room, he pulled his jacket off and hung it up. Next, he took off his sweater and his shoes until he was wearing just his polo shirt and his jeans. He took his radio out, found a station playing music, and sat it on his nightstand. He looked around in confusion. Hm. Where's...?

Something crashed into him from behind, and he went down hard with a cry. His arm was wrenched up behind his back, and a powerful forearm snaked around his neck. "Hey, bro!" Lynn cried happily. "I was wondering when you'd be home from your date!"

"Get off!" Lincoln cried, thrashing in his brother's grip.

"Make me," Lynn said. "I know you got it in you, Loud. I saw you almost drop a guy today."

Lynn wrenched Lincoln's arm farther upward, and hot pain snaked up Lincoln's shoulder. "Oooow, get off, goddamn it!"

"Someone's got a potty mouth!" Lynn said. "He must be getting mad!"

Lincoln's face was red and his legs kicked impotently. Lynn's weight pinned him to the floor, and he couldn't get out from under him no matter how much he wiggled.

"Come on, bro," Lynn said, his breath hot against Lincoln's ear, "make me leave you alone...weak sister."

Lincoln did the only thing he could: He threw his head back. It connected with Lynn's nose, and the older boy cried out, his grip on Lincoln's neck momentarily loosening. Lincoln mustered all the strength he had and rolled; Lynn toppled over and fell to the floor like a mighty oak.

Panting, Lincoln got to his feet and spun on his brother, who sat in a heap on the floor, his hand pressed to his nose. When he pulled it away, there was blood on his palm, and more trickled from one nostril. Lincoln's heart clutched. Uh-oh.

Lynn looked up at him, his eyes shining with dark malevolence, and Lincoln gulped. "You little _bastard,_ " Lynn growled. He started to get up, and Lincoln fell back a step, his heart racing.

"Y-You told me to get you off!"

Lynn's face was set and his shoulders hunched as he stalked forward, his fists balled and his teeth bared. Lincoln backed into the doorframe. Well, world, it was nice knowing you; Lincoln Loud, over and out.

Lynn threw a punch, and Lincoln squeezed his eyes closed.

The impact didn't come.

Lincoln creaked one eye open. The fist that had so recently been hurtling at his face like a world-ending asteroid was now a palm extended forward. Lynn was smirking. "Not bad, bro. You gotta work on your follow up, though. If this was a real fight I woulda creamed ya."

I...I get to live?

"Come on," Lynn said, "take my hand!"

Against his better judgement, Lincoln did, but instead of tossing him over his shoulder or clotheslining him, Lynn pumped his brother's hand. Uh, what's happening? "That was a good hit, though. I didn't know you had such a mean right hook. I, uh –" here Lynn glanced away, "I kinda wanna teach you to fight. You know, build on what you got."

"I'm not much into fighting," Lincoln said honestly, "I just lost my cool."

Lynn snickered. "No, you _gained_ your cool. Come on, it'll be fun."

Lincoln mulled it over for a minute. He _should_ learn how to fight. From what he had gathered in his eleven years, the world was full of people like Billy Mason, from the moment you slipped out of the womb to the moment you crawled into the grave, and though everyone seemed impressed by what he did, he was getting his ass kicked when Lynn saved him. That didn't bother him _so_ much, but the thought that maybe...just maybe...Billy might have moved onto Ronnie Anne when he was done with him _did_.

"Alright," Lincoln said, "yeah, let's do it."

Lynn grinned. "Alright, we'll..."

He trailed off when Lori appeared in the doorway. "Dinner's..." she stopped, her voice taking on that famous sisterly concern Lincoln was so accustomed to, "what happened to your nose?"

"I fell," Lynn said and smiled nervously.

Lori shook her head. "The boys in this family are so clumsy," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Never better," Lynn said, and socked Lincoln in the arm. "Let's go, I'm starved."


	5. December 1957: Part 5

**Guest: The phrase "D-Day" is often used to denote the day on which something will happen. The Wikipedia entry states:** _ **In the military,**_ _ **D-Day**_ _ **is the day on which a combat attack or operation is to be initiated.**_ **In the popular lexicon, it can be applied to anything.**

 **anonymous789: Well, here's the dance chapter. Let's see what these two get into, shall we?**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **The Stroll**_ **by The Diamonds (1957)**

Ronnie Anne woke up excited – excited to see Lincoln. It was Monday morning, and she hadn't seen him since Thursday afternoon; school was canceled on Friday because someone threatened to blow it up over the black kids being let in.

Okay, it was Bobby and his friends, but they only did it to get a free day off. She was kind of happy because school was a drag, but she was kind of sad because she wanted to hang with Lincoln.

After showering and dressing, she went into the kitchen, and was mildly disappointed to see Bobby already sitting at the table, the sleeves of his white T-shirt rolled up and a square bulge betraying his Camels. Yum. She could _really_ go for one of those right now. When she came in, he looked up at her and grinned devilishly. "That's right, baby doll, I'm up and you don't get to jam your finger into my brain." He pouted. "Poor baby."

Ronnie Anne slapped him in the back of the head. "Hey!" he cried, "watch the hair." He stroked either side with his hands. It shone in the overhead light, not a strand out of place.

"Your hair looks gross," Ronnie Anne said as she sat before a plate. "Where's Mom?"

Bobby shrugged. "I gave her the morning off."

" _You_ cooked?"

"Yeah. I cooked. What's the matter, don't think I can?"

Ronnie Anne looked down at her plate. The bacon was burnt to a crisp and the eggs were running...like _really_ runny. The toast looked normal, though...but she didn't see any butter. "You did a good job," she said. It was nice that he did that for Mom, so the fact that he didn't do it well was beside the point.

"Thanks," he said, then, picking up the serious tone, "I kinda fucked it up."

"It's fine," she said, picking up a piece of bacon with her fingers and biting into it. It was hard and brittle, but she'd had worse.

Bobby cut off a piece of egg with his fork and shoveled it into his mouth. "You want a ride to school?"

The weekend had been sunny, and most of the snow on the ground had melted.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "I'll walk. I'd _really_ like a Camel, though."

Bobby shook his head. "Nope."

"Oh, come on."

"Sorry," he said, "I told you the other day, you're cut off."

Ronnie Anne sighed.

When she was done, she washed hers and Bobby's dishes even though it would probably make her late (he did cook breakfast, after all), then left. Outside, the sun was bright and the air was tolerably cold. She reached the end of the driveway just as Bobby backed into the street. His window was rolled down and the radio played. A cigarette hung from his mouth. "Have a good day," he said.

"Yeah," she replied curtly and started to walk away.

"Hey!"

She turned. He sighed, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and held it out. "There, take it and drop dead twice."

She smiled and took it. "Thanks! You're the best!"

"Yeah," he replied, "brother of the year."

Before she could reply, he rolled up his window and peeled off. Ronnie Anne followed, lifting the Camel to her lips and taking a drag. Nothing like that first rush of smoke!

By the time she got to school, the morning bell was ringing and she had to hurry through the door. In class, she found Lincoln, grinned at him (she felt like a doofus but she couldn't help herself), and went to her seat, where she spent the rest of the period dividing her attention between him and the teacher. Once he looked up, and she tried to whip her head away quick, but could only do it slowly. The bruise on his face was faded, but she could still make it out, and it made her heart flutter because one, he got hurt and that made her sad, but he stood up for her, and that made her happy. Lincoln wasn't a tough guy...and she dug that...but when he had to be, he could be...

What did he say? _He made me mad. The way he hit you._

She smiled dreamily at that.

At lunch, she sat with him and Clyde. She spotted Billy Mason across the cafeteria, his nose pink and lumpy and his eyes ringed raccoon black. His bottom lip was also split down the middle. Damn, Lynn and Linc did a number on him. Hahahaha. He looked like he was making every effort not to look in their direction: Instead, he glowered straight ahead. Serves you right, prick.

When the final bell rang, she waited by the door until Lincoln came out, facing ahead. She reached out and lightly slapped his arm. He turned, and a smile spread across his face. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she grinned, "you wanna walk together?"

"Do I!" He blushed. "I mean...sure."

"Cool."

They descended the stairs and started along the sidewalk, neither speaking for a minute. "The dance is this Friday, huh?" Ronnie Anne asked to break the silence.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "hope you're ready to, uh, not dance."

She chuckled. "I'm ready." She glanced at him. An idea occurred to her over the weekend...a way to make the dance a blast without even setting foot on the floor. "I have something in mind," she said, "it's gonna be fun."

"What?"

"I can't tell you," she said, "it's a surprise."

"Oh," Lincoln said, and nodded. "I like surprises."

Ronnie Anne grinned. "You're _really_ gonna like this one."

Lincoln laughed. "I have sisters and I know that look well. You're up to no good."

"Me?" Ronnie Anne asked innocently. "Never."

"Yeah," he said, "you."

She shook her head, her ponytail swishing. "Nope. You're mistaken."

"We'll see."

They lapsed into silence again. At Dearborn Street, Lincoln pulled his radio out of his pocket and turned it on. Ronnie Anne saw it, and her eyes widened. "Whoa, what is that?"

"Radio," he said, "wanna hear some music?"

"That's so neat," she marveled, "let me see it." Before he could give it to her, she plucked it out of his hands and turned it over like a strange and exciting artifact. "Wow, that's really cool." She spun the dial, and it landed on a station playing news: _"_ _Canadian diplomat Lester B. Pearson_ _today was honored with..."_

She changed it, and settled for a Bill Haley song. Wow, this thing was pretty nifty. She kind of knew little radios like this existed, but she had never seen one up close. You could take it anywhere instead of being tied down to the living room or the car. "That's cool," she breathed again, and went to hand it back to him, but he held his hand up.

"You can hold it."

She shrugged. "Okay. Thanks."

"Where's your house?" she asked after a minute.

"Up here," he said, nodding down a side street. A green sign read FRANKLIN AVENUE. "I was going to walk you home, though."

"Nah," she said, "it's really far out of your way." That was true, but she was also kind of embarrassed. Her house wasn't very big and it was in a sort of rundown neighborhood.

"You sure?" he asked.

In answer she started down Franklin.

When they reached his house, she looked up at it was wide eyes. "Wow, it's big."

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "but eight people live there, so there's not much open space."

He turned to her, and their eyes met. Ronnie Anne's heart started to pound. "I-I'll see you tomorrow," she stammered.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. I'll be there. It's school. I kinda have to be."

Ronnie Anne giggled. "That's true." For a moment they simply faced each other in sweet awkwardness. "Here," she said, holding the radio out.

He shook his head. "Keep it."

Ronnie Anne's brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"Keep it," he said, "like...I'm giving it to you."

"No, I –"

"Early Christmas present," he said.

She looked down at the radio in her hand so he wouldn't see her big, stupid smile. "Thanks," she said.

"Merry Christmas," he said, "see you around."

She smiled all the way home.

* * *

Friday, December 20, 1957. Lincoln Loud sat on the edge of his bed after dinner and worried over what he was wearing: A brown pair of slacks, a plaid long sleeve shirt (tucked in, of course), brown loafers, and a white cardigan button-up. You were supposed to get all dressed up for formal functions like this, but Ronnie Anne told him to dress "normal." He asked her at least a dozen times over the past week what she planned to wear, and the answer was always vague. "A dress," or, if he was getting on her nerves, "a bright pink ape suit." Was this some kind of girl-boy headgame where she said she wasn't going to dress up but she really was and he was supposed to read between the lines or something? He'd look like a jerk if he showed up in a cardigan and she was all dolled up. Alternately, he'd look like a dweeb if he turned up in a suit and she was wearing regular clothes.

Sigh. This was hard.

Not as hard as trying to hide the fact that he was going to the dance with Ronnie Anne from his sisters had been. He made it the whole week thinking he gave them the slip, but then it happened: They were at dinner when Mom asked, "Do you and your girlfriend need a ride to this dance?" Everyone's heads whipped in his direction except for Dad's. He was too busy eating his food.

Great. He had to ask her for permission to go, didn't he? And was he wrong in thinking she wouldn't blurt it out in front of _everyone?_ Okay, maybe he was, but still.

"Oh, Lincoln's going out with his best girl, huh?" Luan asked, tilting her head playfully.

Lori nodded. "Nice going, Linc."

"I can, like, help you pick out the _perfect_ outfit," Leni said, waving her hand, "it's be _really_ cute, Lincy. With a little bowtie and everything." She fisted her hands in excitement.

Luna gagged. "A bowtie? No one wears those things anymore. He needs one of those sparkly jackets Liberace wears. I dunno why, but the chicks love that guy."

"He's cute," Lori said, and pinched Lincoln's cheek. "Just like our dear baby brother."

"Knock it off!" Lincoln cried and pulled away.

Lynn shook his head. "The runt has a girl before I do."

"Don't worry, son," Dad said without looking up, "sooner or later you'll find a girl to make you miserable for the rest of your life."

Mom shot him a dirty look, and he grinned at her. "While looking beautiful doing it." She nodded slowly to indicate he could live...for now.

For two days, his sisters pestered him with unwanted advice, suggestions, and comments, some of it really embarrassing, like Lori telling him to pack a tin of mints so his breath would be 'minty fresh' in case Ronnie Anne wanted to kiss him. Even though he insisted he was going to wear his normal clothes, Leni designed him a suit coat that actually looked pretty nice: It was light and breathable black with a pink triangle of fabric poking up from the breast pocket. He pretty much had to wear it so Leni's feelings wouldn't be hurt.

Then there was Lynn. During their daily training session in the backyard (Lincoln had discovered there was satisfaction to be found in punching things – like a jerky older brother's back, chest, and arms), Lynn asked him incessant questions. "How'd you do it?" and "You think you can train me to pick up chicks?"

No matter how many times he said 'we're just friends' they didn't listen, so he stopped and started rolling with it instead. "I dunno, Lynn," he said, "I was just myself, and I guess she liked it."

"Yeah? How...just yourself? Like...talking about comic books and other dorky stuff like that?"

Lincoln chose that moment to try out the new move Lynn had shown him: He jammed his left foot behind Lynn's left heel and shoved, sending him to the ground. "I just...I don't know...I did my normal thing."

"Hmmm," Lynn said, and mulled that over; Lincoln could see the cogs and gears turning in his mind.

Presently Lynn was lying on his bed with a copy of _Sports Illustrated_. The cover was red and featured a photo of boy holding a tennis racket. _Russia and Physical Fitness_ read the white legend. He flipped a page and snickered. "I could run those commies down easy," he said. "Look at 'em, all scrawny and starving and stuff. Pfft." He glanced over. "You 'bout to leave, Linc?"

"Yeah," Lincoln sighed. He was starting to feel nervous.

"Have fun," he said and turned back to his magazine.

Lincoln got up on shaky legs. "I'll try."

He grabbed the coat Leni made him from the chair in front of his desk and slipped it on. He paused at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath, already knowing all of his sisters, and probably his mother too, would be waiting like vultures for a dehydrated animal to drop. Sure enough, when he got to the bottom, Lori, Leni, Luna, Luan, and Mom were all milling around. Leni saw him first, her eyes lighting up. "You're wearing my jacket!"

As one they rushed him, all smiles and pinching fingers and girlish giggles: To be honest, he'd almost rather have a group of Billy Masons rush him than this. "You are literally the most handsome guy ever," Lori squealed, "except for Frank Sinatra."

"Oh, _deer,_ " Luan said, "you look like a million _bucks._ " She laughed. "Get it?"

Luna shot her an annoyed look. "Deer puns have no relevance right now."

Luan bowed her head. "I'm trying, okay?"

"You look very nice, honey," Mom said, holding him at arms' length, tears beginning to well in her eyes. "My little boy's growing up."

Lincoln shook his head. "I'm just going to hang out with a friend. That's all. Really. Please, don't make a big deal out of it."

They were all preening so hard over him that they almost didn't let him leave. When he was finally alone in the cold December night, he took a deep breath. They could be a pain in the neck sometimes, but he wouldn't trade them for the world.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he went down the stairs and started toward the schoolhouse. Christmas lights up and down the street reflected off a light crust of snow that had fallen on Tuesday and hardened. His breath puffed out in front of him, and he walked quickly to warm himself.

Aside from training with Lynn and preparing himself for the dance, it had been a busy week. On Wednesday, they all shoved into Dad's Packard and went into town, where they spent half the afternoon at Woolworth's, then the other half at a lot stuffed with trees, Dad going up and down the rows looking for the perfect one. He was worse than a woman in the ladies' department: They were there so long that everyone started getting restless. Lynn picked a pinecone up off the ground and threw it ahead, running to catch it, while Luan hid behind trees and jumped out at Lincoln and the others. "Nice to _tree_ you," she'd say, then slap her knobby knee. At home, Dad and Lynn moved the TV and set up the tree up in its place, then, after Dad strung the lights through it, everyone took turns hanging ordainments. On Thursday, they went _back_ to Woolworth's and Mom and Dad insisted Lincoln get his picture taken on Santa's lap, even though Lincoln didn't believe in Santa anymore (what am I, ten?). Of course, the line was _loooong_ , and he got stuck behind some kid in weird goggles who screamed when one of Santa's elves sat him on the big guy's lap, and some dork in glasses who kept muttering to himself: "I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle..."

"Ho, ho, ho," Santa screamed into Lincoln's face, spraying spittle into his eyes. "What do you want for Christmas, little boy?"

"To be out of your lap," Lincoln deadpanned.

Santa's brow furrowed. "Well, up yours too, kid."

Come to think of it, there _was_ nothing he wanted for Christmas. He had literally everything he could ask for. Except maybe a new bike, since his old one, a hand-me-down from Lynn, was on its last legs, but that was a worry for another day.

He turned onto Elm Street. Cars and big houses lined the sidewalk. A group of carolers stood on someone's doorstep, singing in perfect unison:

 _We wish you a Merry Christmas_

 _We wish you a Merry Christmas_

 _We wish you a Merry Christmas  
_

 _And a Happy New Year.…_

Speaking of Christmas music, Elvis was on _Bandstand_ the other day singing a Christmas song. _Blue Christmas,_ Lincoln thought it was called. You know, Elvis was okay, but he wasn't _that_ good, and Lincoln was getting sick of seeing him all the time. He kind of hoped he'd go away (little did he know, Elvis was drafted into the U.S. Army that very day...which provided a two year respite from _Bandstand_ appearances if nothing else).

By the time he reached Schoolhouse Road, his face was numb and his teeth were chattering. The doors to the gym stood open, and the sounds of music and chatter drifted out. Lincoln leaned against a street sign and waited for Ronnie Anne, who walked up less than five minutes later: Lincoln was relieved to see that she was indeed in normal clothes – a purple dress under a wool jacket, a green and black plaid scarf around her neck.

"Hey, lame-o," she said as she walked up.

"Lame-o?"

"Yeah," she grinned playfully, "friends gotta have nicknames for each other, don't they? I'm still trying to decide between lame-o and square-for-brains. Which do _you_ like better?"

Lincoln bobbed his head from side-to-side. "I can't say I like either."

"Alright," she said, her grin widening, "I guess I'll just use both. Come on."

They went up the walkway together, walking close but not touching, even though Lincoln kind of had the urge to take her hand. At the door, Principal Strickland stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and bald as a cueball, dressed in slacks and a brown plaid sports coat accented by a blue tie. Strickland was a hardass. End of story.

"Loud," he greeted curtly, "Santiago."

"Hi, Principal Strickland," Lincoln said.

Inside, a band stood on the stage and played, each other of its members in a white suit. The singer leaned into the microphone and began to sing:

" _Come, let's stroll  
_

 _Stroll across the floor  
_

 _Come, let's stro-oh-oh-oll  
_

 _Stroll across the floor  
_

 _Now turn around, baby  
_

 _Let's stroll once more..."_

Red and green streamers hung from the ceiling, and other wintery decorations were plastered to the walls. A series of tables against the far wall boasted snacks, food, and a big glass punch bowl filled with red liquid. Mrs. Johnson stood behind it in a blue and white dress, talking to Ms. Avery, the kindergarten teacher.

Ronnie Anne watched them, her eyes narrowed to calculating slits. "That's our target, lame-o."

"Mrs. Johnson?" Lincoln asked, worry creeping into his voice.

"No, not Mrs. Johnson," Ronnie Anne said and playfully slapped his arm. "The snack table."

They were moving across the dancefloor now, dodging kids doing the Stroll. "Outta the way," Ronnie Anne said, shoving past a kid with a crewcut. When they reached the wall, she leaned against it and watched Mrs. Johnson and Ms. Avery laughing and moving their hands. In turn, Lincoln watched her. She was up to _something_ devious...he just didn't know what.

She sighed and shook her head. "I might need you to make a distraction."

Huh? "What are we are even doing?"

"You'll see," she grinned.

"Ronnie –"

"Go pretend to fall down and get hurt," she said, "make it convincing."

Lincoln blinked. He did _not_ like where this was going. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shoved him out onto the dancefloor. "Make it convincing." She pushed away from the wall and moseyed over to the end of the table, looking innocently around and shuffling her feet. Lincoln took a deep breath. Ahead of him, a line of boys faced a line of girls, a pair of each coupling and strolling down the middle hand-in-hand, moving their feet this way and that. Kind of a dumb dance. He glanced over his shoulder at Ronnie Anne. She was standing by the end of the table and looking up into the rafters as if the steamers were the most interesting thing she had ever seen. In the dim lighting, she was beautiful. Of course, she was beautiful in _any_ light.

She looked at him, and gestured with her hands. _Come on, come on, lame-for-brains or whatever it is she called you_. Lincoln drew a deep breath. This was going to be so embarrassing.

Nevertheless, he tangled his feet and let himself fall, sucking in air as he went and issuing as loud a cry as he could. _"MY LEG! OH, GOD, MY LEG!"_

The music cut out and everybody looked at him. He was on his side, his hands clasped around his knee, facing the table. Mrs. Johnson and Ms. Avery came rushing over, worry on their faces. Ronnie Anne slipped under the table cloth and disappeared.

" _IT HURTS! OH, THE PAIN IS MIND-BOGGLING! I AM SHOCKED THAT IT IS POSSIBLE TO HURT THIS BAD!"_

Mrs. Johnson and Ms. Avery knelt by him, the latter putting her hand on his forehead and trying to calm him. Principal Strickland came striding over, his arms pumping. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "It sounds like someone is being butchered."

" _WOE IS ME! MY STROLLING DAYS ARE OVER!"_

Through one slitted eye, he saw Ronnie Anne pop up behind the punch bowl and pull a metal flask out of her jacket pocket. She glanced up, unscrewed the cap, and dumped the contents in. She used the ladle to stir it all up. Uh...what are you doing? She disappeared, then a minute later crawled out from under the table and walked casually away.

Figuring that was his cue, Lincoln got to his feet. "Just a cramp," he said and laughed nervously. "I'm okay now."

Before Strickland or any of the others could question him, he hurried off, his cheeks on fire. All of the other kids were watching him; the band was watching him; the whole world was watching him. Slowly, the music struck back up and the dance resumed as if nothing had happened.

Ronnie Anne stood against the wall with her arms crossed and a little smile on her face. "That was pretty convincing," she leered as he walked up, "I almost lost it under there."

"What did you do?" he demanded.

Her grin widened. "I spiked the punch."

Lincoln's jaw dropped. "With alcohol?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, with holy water. Of course with alcohol."

Lincoln couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Where did you get alcohol?"

She shrugged. "I swiped it from Bobby." She patted the flask in her pocket. "I don't drink it. It's gross. Everyone else is going to, though."

Shaking his head, Lincoln leaned against the wall next to her and crossed his arms. "How are we supposed to have fun with the punch being spiked?" He glanced at her and raised his brows.

"Oh, you'll see," she grinned.

And see he did. Within an hour, Principal Strickland was laughing his bald head off and attempting a sloppy two-step with Mrs. Johnson, who swayed back and forth. Mrs. Avery toppled over, taking out a slow dancing boy and girl, and then laughed like a loon from the floor. Mr. Wycowski took one sip and his eyes widened. For a moment Lincoln thought they were busted, but the gym teacher downed his glass and filled it again. "Now this is _my_ kind of punch," he snickered as he walked away. Mr. Sandborn, the janitor who liked calling people racist names, staggered across the dance floor yelling and slurring about a 'wild party.' Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both doubled over laughing when Principal Strickland fell backwards onto the table, breaking it and sending a tidal wave of punch across the floor. "Oops!" he cried and laughed. By this point, the kids on the dancefloor were getting a little sloppier in their movements, and a few staggered outside, where they presumably puked. Mr. Wycowski tried to help Principal Strickland up, but slipped in the punch and went down with a loud, "Goddamn it!" Lincoln laughed so hard tears rolled down his eyes; he and Ronnie Anne threw their arms around each other to keep from falling, and when they realized they were embracing, both blushed...but neither let go.

"Damn," the singer said, his voice picking up on the microphone, "that's some wicked punch."

"Come on, square-for-brains," Ronnie Anne said into Lincoln's ear, "let's go. I had my fun."

"Yeah, me too."

Neither made a move to let go, and they didn't for a long, long time.


	6. July 1958: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **At the Hop**_ **by Danny & the Juniors (1958)**

* * *

It was July 12, 1958, and Lincoln was turning twelve...the big 1-2, the age after eleven and before thirteen. For months he'd been looking forward to today, thinking that some way, somehow, twelve would be different, magical, the beginning of adulthood: A Jewish guy he kind of knew at school said that in the Jewish faith, twelve-year-olds are considered men. Cooool.

Yeah...twelve felt exactly like eleven, and as for being a man...no hair magically sprouted on his face or chest, and his voice didn't deepen at the stroke of midnight. It was still high and reedy, and his skin remained smooth. Sigh.

This year _was_ kind of different in a way: It was the first time he had a party attended by people other than his family. Clyde was there, and so was Ronnie Anne. They both brought him gifts, too, Ronnie Anne the record _Little Richard_ and Clyde a hoola-hoop. "I know it looks kinda dumb, but it's really fun once you get into it." Before Lincoln could try it out, Lynn snaked it, and spent the majority of the party swiveling his hips and trying to keep it from falling.

Since it was summer and a nice day, they had the party in the backyard. Dad grilled hamburgers and hotdogs while Mom and the girls sat at the picnic table and made the sides: Coleslaw, potato salad, and macaroni salad. "So, square-for-brains," Ronnie Anne said, "how does it feel?"

They were standing side-by-side in the backyard while Lynn and Clyde took turns with the hoola-hoop: Clyde was the better of the two by a lot.

Lincoln shrugged. "Alright, I guess." His hands were in the pockets of his slacks and his head was bent. Looking at her was hard, because she was wearing a white dress with thin straps, and something about the way the fringed hem brushed across her bare, sunkissed legs made him feel funny.

"Enjoy being older than me while you can," she said, and playfully elbowed his arm. Her birthday was September 28. Lincoln had been wracking his mind for something to get her for months now, and each day that passed without a resolution added to the anxiety in his chest. Yeah, he had over two months, but he didn't want to wait until the last minute. Call him impatient, but he wanted the perfect gift _now_.

"I will," he said, then grinned as he added, "little girl."

She slapped his arm, and he laughed. She hit like a freight train. "I might be younger but I can still whip you."

Lincoln hissed over clenched teeth. "I don't know. Lynn's lessons are really starting to pay off."

There were times during their training sessions in the backyard that Lincoln got the upper hand on his older brother. They didn't happen _all_ the time, but they happened more frequently than they did when they first started back in December. Just yesterday Lincoln was able to slip out from under him, get on his back, and wrench his arm up until he cried uncle. Literally.

Ronnie Anne crossed her arms and cocked a brow. "I'd clean your clock, lame-o, and you know it."

At the table, Luan nudged Luna in the ribs and nodding toward their brother and his not-girlfriend. Luna, his hands covered in potato salad, glanced at her younger sister. "What?"

"Look."

"What am I looking at? They're talking and smiling."

"Exactly. Any day now, Lune, we're gonna have a sister-in-law."

Luna shook her head and rolled her eyes. Luan beamed. "Kind of cool he's with a Hispanic girl." She glanced at Clyde. _And kind of cool he has a colored friend_. It was...what was that word? Progressive? Yeah, it was progressive of him. It also didn't hurt that Clyde was kind of cute.

"I hope Lincy likes our gift," Leni said as she cut a watermelon into triangular slices.

"I'm sure he'll love it," Mom said, mixing a bowl of coleslaw with a wooden spoon. Lincoln's gift wasn't cheap: They all pitched in to get it. Rita felt guilty that he had only one, but it was a big one, so she couldn't feel _too_ bad.

At the grill, Lynn Sr. cussed as grease splattered the front of his shirt. As Luna had pointed out earlier, he looked extra square today in a pair of plaid shorts and black socks pulled half way to his knees.

"Language," Rita sighed.

"I fought Hitler," Lynn said, "I can say what I please."

"You took one step onto Omaha Beach and got shot," Rita pointed out, "Hitler did more to fight Hitler than you."

Lori's jaw dropped. Wow. That was _mean_.

"One of these days, Rita..." Lynn said, flipping a patty.

Rita chuckled. "Okay, Ralph Kramden."

"He never did it, though," Lynn said, " _I_ will."

For the record: He wouldn't.

Lincoln tried to hoola, but couldn't quite get the hang of it. Ronnie Anne, on the other hand, took to it like a natural, and made him look even worse by comparison. "Alright," Lynn said, nodding appreciatively. He looked at Lincoln. "Guess that means Linc's the only one who can't keep up."

"Ooo, I wanna try!" Leni jumped up from the table and hurried over. Ronnie Anne tossed the hoola-hoop onto the ground and Leni stepped into it. "Now what?"

"Shake your hips," Lynn said.

Leni squinted one eye in confusion, then shrugged and shook her hips back and forth. Lynn slapped himself in the face while Ronnie Anne turned away to hide her smile. "No," Lynn said, "pick it up and shake your hips."

Understanding lit Leni's face. "Oh, okay!" She knelt, the fabric of her polka dot dress flapping in the breeze, and stood, holding the hoola-hoop on either side. She then proceeded to shake her hips...while still clutching it. "I still don't see why this is supposed to be fun."

Lynn threw up his arms and walked away. Lincoln started to tell Leni what she was doing wrong, but Ronnie Anne cut him off. "Here, let me show you." She took hold of the hoola-hoop. "Now swivel your hips." Leni did, slowly.

"Lincoln, honey?" Mom called.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Can you go get the hamburger buns, please? Your father forgot them in the kitchen."

In the kitchen, Lincoln looked high and low for the buns, but didn't see them. They weren't on the table, they weren't on the counter, they weren't in the breadbox, they weren't anywhere. Hm. He put his hands on his hips and looked around as though he might catch a glimpse of them trying to make a break for it – hey, stranger things have happened, right? Admitting defeat, he went back outside.

"We found them," Luan said, holding them up. They were flat as pancakes. "Leni strikes again." A devilish smile slashed across her face. "Her buns crushed these buns. Get it?"

Oh well. Speaking of Leni, she was hoola-hooping like a pro now, a big smile on her face. "I'm doing it!" she cried. Ronnie Anne stood aside with her arms crossed, watching and nodding in satisfaction.

When the burgers were ready, they all sat at the table and ate in-between idle chatter. After that, Lori and Luan brought out the cake and sat it on the table. It was chocolate with HAPPY BIRTHDAY LINCOLN in blue frosting. Ronnie Anne rubbed her hands together and Clyde licked his lips. "Before we have cake," Dad said, "how about your present, huh?" He started toward the shed. "There's only the one, but it's a doozy and it's from everyone." He opened the door while Lincoln watched intently, his eyes widening when Dad rolled out a red and white Schwinn cruiser with whitewall tires.

"You like it?" Luan asked, squeezing Lincoln's shoulder, but Lincoln couldn't reply; he was incapable of speech and rational thought...all he could do was gape at the beautiful bicycle, a smile forming at the corners of his lips. His last bike died a hard death on the road to the park back in March, and from then until now, he had to hoof it everywhere he went. He first saw the Schwinn in an ad at the back of an _Ace Savvy_ comic, and...well...it was love at first sight.

Clyde nodded. "Now _that's_ a bike."

"Whoa, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, "she's a beaut."

Lincoln got up and went to his new bike, his heart beginning to pound. "You alright, son?" Dad asked.

In reply, Lincoln dropped to his knees. "This is just the bike I wanted," he said, his voice breaking. He threw his arms around the frame and hugged it. Mom snapped a picture, and Ronnie Anne shook her head. _Guess I lost my boyfriend to a bike...I mean Lincoln, not my boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend. Nope._

Well, actually...

During cake and ice cream, Lincoln fidgeted. He wanted to ride his bike and he wanted to ride it _now_ , to hell with chocolate. Ronnie Anne left before he was done, saying she had to go help her mom with something. Little did he know she wanted to be alone to think...about whether or not she was ready to make him her boyfriend or not.

"Can I go now?" Lincoln asked excited when he finished his cake. "I'm all done, see?"

Mom sighed. "Yes, you can go."

Lincoln jumped up. "Alright!" He threw his arms around her shoulders and hugged her. "Thanks, Mom." He looked at his sisters and his brother, "And thank you guys, too."

"Just be back in an hour or so," Mom said.

"Right!"

He darted over to the cruiser, got on, and started pedaling toward the front. "Wait for me!" Clyde called and raced after him. Lincoln stopped and let Clyde catch up. "Wanna go to Flip's and play some records on the jukebox?"

"Sure," Lincoln said. That sounded neat-o.

In the front yard, Clyde grabbed his bike and jumped on. "Race ya!" he called over his shoulder and started pedaling.

Lincoln grinned, leaned over the handlebars, and gave chase.

* * *

Roberto "Bobby" Santiago lifted a filterless Camel to his mouth and took a deep drag, squinting his eyes into the afternoon sun in a move calculated to achieve maximum cool: He was going for James Dean, but he'd take Joe Camel too.

He was sitting on the front of his pride and joy, a 1948 Coupe painted glossy black with flames racing up the sides, one motorcycle boot propped on a bumper so silver it was practically a mirror. The cuffs of his jeans were rolled slightly up, and he wore a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt. It was far too hot for the jacket, but he didn't think twice before putting it on that morning: It was cool, and he liked looking cool.

Alvin "Daggy" Goldberg stood in front of him, his scrawny arms crossed over his scrawnier chest. He was tall and lanky with dirty blonde hair and a narrow face. He wore black jeans and a green T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Like Bobby, he wore black motorcycle boots. Next to him was Billy "Blades" Richmond. Short and thin with black hair and clear blue eyes, he wore a black T-shirt tucked into his blue jeans. On Daggy's other side was his little cousin, Timmy, but everyone called him Poppa Wheelie because he liked popping wheelies on his bike or some shit. Bobby had never seen him do it, and doubted he could: Kid was so fat it took all day to turn around.

They were outside of Flip's. Being a nice summer afternoon, the place was packed with teens eating burgers, drinking milkshakes, and playing Elvis on the jukebox. Cars as big as boats occupied every spot, and carhops rolled around on skates bearing trays of food. They were all girls, all young, and all good looking. Daggy leered like a dog as one glided by: She wore a blue skirt that stopped just above her knees and a white top with a little white hat. He licked his lips and nodded. "Hey, honey," he said to himself.

Bobby took another drag and shook his head. "Why don't you talk to her then?" he asked, an edge in his voice. He was the leader of this outfit and he wasn't afraid to show it.

"I'm gettin' there," Daggy said.

"You ain't gettin' _nowhere_ , Dag," Blades said.

"I don't see _you_ talkin' to 'em either," Daggy said.

Blades shrugged. "That's not why I'm here. I got a girl."

Bobby snickered. "What girl's that?" he asked around his cigarette, "Rosie Palm and her five sisters?"

Daggy laughed, and Blades shot him a dirty look. "She lives in Elk Park, alright? I see her on the weekends."

Bobby took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew a plume of blue smoke. "Yeah? That's what they all say. You got a picture of her?"

"Yeah," Daggy said, and back-handed Blades' chest, "whip it out. Let's see her. I bet she's a real dog."

"She doesn't like her picture taken. She's real religious."

"You're so full of shit your eyes are brown," Bobby said.

"I'm tellin' you," Blades said, "she's a real looker, too. Got tit's bigger'n your _head_."

"Bullshit," Bobby said, "bigger'n my head."

"Where's _your_ girl then?" Poppa asked, speaking for the first time in nearly ten minutes. Usually he kept his mouth closed, but sometimes he opened it, and bad things happened. "You're not too fast yourself."

"I'm workin' on her," Bobby said. He finished his cigarette and flipped it away: It landed on the pavement in a shower of embers. Truth was, he'd been trying to get Lori Loud to give him the time of day since eighth grade, but she wasn't biting. Why the hell not, he didn't know. It kind of hurt his feelings. He wouldn't say to his asshole friends, but he really liked her. She was pretty and the sound of her voice was nice, kinda like music.

Presently, he fingered his slicked-back hair and glanced around. He had a bottle of Jack Danial's in the car. If he used a paper cup, he could...

"Aww, look at that," Daggy said, "he's takin' his pet nigger for a walk."

Bobby winced. "Man, how many times I gotta tell you I don't like that word? It's..." He froze when he saw who Daggy was talking about: Lincoln Loud pulled into the parking lot on a red and white bike while some Negro kid came up next to him on a green one. They both hopped off and started walking toward the front door, pausing as a red convertible passed by.

"Hey, kid!" Daggy called, and Bobby grabbed him by the back of his shirt, already knowing he was going to say something stupid.

Daggy pulled away and turned. "What?"

"That's Lori Loud's little brother. You know, Lori from math class?"

Daggy shrugged. "So?"

Bobby shook his head. "So I've been tryin' to get her on a date, and pickin' on her little brother's not gonna help."

When Ronnie Anne started hanging out with him last winter, Bobby didn't know who he was: He didn't ask, she didn't tell. It wasn't his business, and while he teased her about him being a square, he seemed like a good enough kid ( _he's nothing like me, so that's a load off!_ ). He eventually gathered that his name was Lincoln. One day in April, he was driving down Main Street with Ronnie Anne in the passenger seat when he spotted Lincoln, Lori, some girl with braces, and another girl with short hair in jeans and a tight sweater (little greaser mama) walking down the street. Ronnie Anne saw him and grinned. "There's Linc."

"Yeah?" Bobby asked, "and who's his harem?"

"His sisters, jackass."

Bobby started. "Lori's his sister?"

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne said, "you know her?"

"Kinda," he replied, playing it cool.

 _Wonder if little man can help me out,_ he thought now.

An idea struck him, and a grin spread across his face. "You assholes keep your flaps closed," he said, looking around at his cronies with as intense a stare as he could muster. Blades held up his hands, Poppa Wheelie nodded solemnly, and Daggy spread his hands. Satisfied that they wouldn't make him look bad, he cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey! Hey, kid! You! Ronnie's boyfriend!"

Lincoln and his friend turned.

Bobby smiled warmly. "C'mere!" He gestured.

They looked at each other, then walked their bikes over, looking like a couple of Catholics on their way to meet God.

"Hey," Bobby said when they stopped, "how's it goin'? That bike is boss, little man."

"T-Thanks," Lincoln said nervously.

"Yeah, it's really nice. Looks new."

"It is," Lincoln said. "I just got it for my birthday."

Bobby blinked. "It's your birthday? Today?"

Lincoln nodded.

"Holy shit, happy birthday." He looked around. "I don't have a present for you, but..." thinking fast, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels, and took one out. "Here, have a smoke." He held it out and Lincoln's eyes widened.

"Uhhh...I don't know..."

Bobby grinned. "Come on." He waggled his brows. "You ain't no square, are you?"

Lincoln and his friend looked at each other. "All the cool kids do it," the friend said.

Bobby nodded. "That's right. What's your name?"

"Clyde."

Bobby looked at Lincoln. "He's right, Lincoln. We all do it." He looked at Blades and Daggy, and they both nodded. "Sure," Blades said.

Lincoln looked conflicted for a moment, then took the cigarette. Bobby handed one to Clyde, then took out a silver Zippo, which he flicked, holding it to the tip of each boy's cigarette. Lincoln inhaled, and coughed. Clyde did likewise. Bobby snickered and snapped the lighter closed. "It gets easier the more you do it."

Lincoln took another hit and didn't cough. He didn't want to look lame in front of Bobby. "Thanks," he said. He felt lightheaded and his lungs hurt.

Bobby nodded. "No problem, man. Say, you guys wanna hang for a little while? Maybe cruise a little?"

Lincoln and Clyde looked at each other like they'd just won the lottery. "Sure!" they cried in unison.

Bobby nodded. Phase one complete. "Good, good." He looked at Daggy. "Hey, Dag, grab these cool cats a couple soda pops, huh?"

Daggy sniffed. Bobby fixed him with a hard look. "I said grab a couple soda pops."

"Alright, alright, damn," Daggy said, throwing his hands up. "Two sodie pops comin' up." He injected the word _sodie_ with a touch of sarcasm, and Bobby shook his head. While he went off, Bobby shook out a cigarette out and lit it.

"I think I'm gonna get goin'," Blades said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Bobby nodded. "Tell your girlfriend I said hi," he said around his cigarette.

"Yeah, sure."

Alone with Lincoln, Clyde, and Poppa, who was eyeballing a blonde carhop and drooling down his shirt like a spaz, Bobby took a drag and let it out. Lincoln and Clyde were both taking hesitant puffs of their own smokes, looking as though they weren't sure whether they liked it or not. Oh, but they did. They always did. "What're you boys into?" Bobby asked. "You're, what, twelve? You dig chicks? Fishin'? What?"

"I like riding my bike," Lincoln said, then, realizing how lame that sounded, he added, "fast. Downhill."

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, you like goin' fast? So do I." He patted the hood. "This baby agitates that gravel _real_ nice. It's like you're flyin'."

Lincoln had never seen Bobby go fast, but he had seen him cruising around town with his friends, blaring Jerry Lee Lewis or Elvis Presley and every time he did, he stopped and stared, because his car was beautiful. It was the kind of car he hoped to have when he was old enough to drive.

"It's a _really_ nice car," Clyde marveled.

"Yeah," Lincoln added. "C-Can I touch it?"

Bobby gestured with his cigarette. "Knock yourselves out. Just don't scratch my paintjob."

Lincoln laid his hand on the smooth, slick hood, and his entire body thrilled. He imagined that this is what a girl's bare leg must feel like.

"Here's those sodas," Daggy said, walking up with two bottles of RC. Lincoln took one and Clyde the other.

"Let me get that for you," Bobby said, pulling out a bottle opener and popping the caps off. He nodded. "Enjoy."

"Thanks," Lincoln said, and took a grateful swallow. He had no idea why Bobby wanted to hang with him and Clyde, but he wasn't complaining! Bobby took another drag, held it for a moment, then exhaled it through his nose.

Daggy crossed his arms and looked around. "Where's Blades?"

"He peeled off to see that girl of his," Bobby said. "Rosie."

Daggy laughed. "I think Timmy's seein' the same girl."

"Screw you," Poppa said, "I've made it with a girl, have you?"

Bobby and Daggy both laughed...so did Lincoln and Clyde, because it _was_ kind of funny. Poppa's face got red. "You never made it with a girl," Bobby said. "You probably ain't even made it with yourself yet, you little shit."

"He can't find his willie under all that fat," Daggy said.

"Yes I can!" Poppa cried.

"Without a forklift?" Bobby asked.

Poppa spun around and stormed off. "Where you goin'?" Daggy called after him. Poppa brushed past a man in a suit and held up his middle finger.

"That forklift joke was funny, Bobby," Clyde said.

"It wasn't a joke," Bobby said. He finished his cigarette and flicked it away. "You boys hungry? You want some burgers, fries, hotdogs?"

Lincoln dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. He felt woozy and kind of sick to his stomach: The burgers, cake, and ice cream he had at the party were threatening to come back up. "No, we ate," Lincoln said.

"Well..." Clyde said, "some fries would be nice."

Bobby nodded and turned to Daggy. "Hey, Daggy..."

Daggy rolled his eyes. "Man, I am _not_ going back in there."

Bobby snorted. "Make like a tree and leave, then. Get lost. Your house is that way." He gestured toward the street.

Daggy sighed. "Fine." While he went inside, Bobby jumped off the hood and went around to the driver side. "You boys like music?" He reached in the open window, started the car, and turned the radio up, music emanating from the speakers:

 _Well, you can swing it you can groove it  
_

 _You can really start to move it at the hop_

 _Where the jockey is the smoothest  
_

 _And the music is the coolest at the hop._

Bobby spread his arms. "Yeah? You like this stuff?"

Lincoln nodded. He _did_ like that song. "Yeah, it's cool," Clyde said.

"Good, good," Bobby said. He pulled the jacket off and stuffed it through the window. It was so cool it hurt, but it was also so fucking hot it hurt. The air was like sandpaper on his face, but on his sweaty arms it felt cold. Someone oughta come up with a summer jacket. Lighter or something, with air holes. He went around the front of the car and leaned against the bumper. "What else you boys like?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Comic books."

"Yeah?" Bobby asked. "Comic books are boss, man. Real boss." That was a lie. Comic books were lame. "I like the one with the super guy. You know, with the cape."

"Superman?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah, that guy. He's cool."

For a while none of them spoke. Where the hell was Daggy with that food? He was getting sick of making small talk with a couple twelve-year-olds. When he finally came out with an order of fries on a tray, Bobby breathed a sigh of relief.

They sat at a table next to the building while Clyde ate, Lincoln eventually joining in; Bobby smoked and Daggy looked bored. He bummed a smoke off Bobby at one point and got up to walk around. Bobby was hoping he'd take off, but he kept hanging around like a stray cat when you feed it. As Lincoln and Clyde finished up, Bobby threw his smoke away and got up. "Hey, Dag, why don't you beat feet? I'm gonna drive these guys home."

Daggy nodded. "Yeah, alright."

"I'll see you later, huh?"

"Sure."

As Daggy left, Bobby sat. "You boys want a ride home?"

Lincoln's eyes got big as saucers. "Ride? In your car?"

Bobby nodded. "Yep."

"Sure!" Then his eyes clouded. "What about our bikes?"

Bobby shrugged. "Eh, just stick 'em in the back." He wasn't hot on the idea of shoving two bicycles into the back of his car, but he was even colder on the idea of not getting Lori Loud to be his girl.

When it was time to go, he pushed both front seats forward and carefully put the bikes in, cursing and muttering under his breath as he scratched the leather. Goddamn it. No pain, no gain. Clyde and Lincoln both shoved into the front seat while Bobby slipped behind the wheel. "Where you live, Clyde, my man?"

"On Ridgecrest," Clyde said.

"Alright," Bobby nodded, pulling out of the slot and navigating into the street. A pick-up truck passed by, and Bobby followed. "You want another smoke?" he asked.

Clyde shook his head. "No, thanks."

"Linc?"

Lincoln hesitated, then shook his head. Something told Bobby he kind of did.

Five minutes later, Bobby pulled to the curb in front of Clyde's house, a little one story ranch. He had them both get out, then carefully removed Clyde's bike, sitting it in front of him, and patting the seat. "There you go, buddy. Safe and sound." He unconsciously glanced at the scratch on his seat.

"Thanks, Bobby," Clyde said, then to Lincoln: "I'll see you later, alright?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "I'll come over tomorrow."

"Cool."

In the car, Bobby pulled out behind a Chevy and took a cigarette from his pack, plopping it into his mouth and lighting it. Lincoln glanced at him, and sucked his bottom lip. "Want one?" Bobby asked.

Lincoln opened his mouth, then nodded instead. Ever since he finished the first one, his mouth felt kind of funny, and the thought of a cigarette made it water. Bobby handed him one then the light. Lincoln lit it and drew the smoke into his lungs. Wow...it tasted really good.

"So," Bobby said as Lincoln sucked his Camel, "you're goin' steady with my sister, huh?"

That made Lincoln's heart clutch. From what he knew, older brothers could be just as intimidating as fathers. "Uh...no, we're just friends."

"Hey, man, it's cool," Bobby said. "You seem like a –" he glanced at Lincoln's orange and white striped shirt and his brown pants – "cool guy." He waited a click. "Speaking of goin' steady, your sister Lori isn't goin' with anyone, is she?"

Lincoln's brow crinkled. Why would Bobby want to know about Lori? "No," he said.

Bobby nodded, his hopes soaring. "You know, I've been wantin' to take her on a date for a while. You know, somethin' classy, like the movies and dinner. I don't think she likes me though."

Lincoln tilted his head. "Well, she likes her guys a little..." he trailed off. He _really_ didn't want to offend Bobby.

"A little less what?" Bobby asked, glancing at him. "A little less Mexican? She racist against Mexicans?"

"No, no," Lincoln said, putting his hands up, "just...if you want a shot with her, you're going to have to lose the jacket...and the boots...and the jeans."

Bobby blinked. "What?"

"She likes her guys preppy and clean cut."

Bobby laughed out loud. Lincoln just looked at him, and he stopped. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, pretty serious."

For a minute Bobby didn't know what to say. His jacket? His _jeans?_ "What am I supposed to wear?" he asked.

Lincoln shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know. A nice cardigan and a pair of slacks."

Slacks? A fucking _cardigan?_ Jesus Christ. "So I'm supposed to walk around like I'm Pat Boone or somethin'?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "It's either that or walk around like you don't have a girlfriend."

Bobby turned and started to say something about him being a smartass, but stopped himself. Alright. If Lori Loud wanted some peppy square, he'd be a preppy square. He glanced over at Lincoln. "Say, uh, we're friends, right?"

"I guess," Lincoln said, his heart leaping. Friends with Bobby? Wow!

"And, uh, friends help each other out, right?"

"Yeah."

Bobby nodded. "Alright. You help me with Lori, and I'll help you out with those things." He nodded to Lincoln's cigarettes. "I mean...you like 'em, don't you?"

Lincoln nodded. He did. He liked them _a lot_.

"Good. We'll scratch each other's backs."

"What do you have in mind?" Lincoln asked.

"I got a plan," Bobby said, his mind working. "Does Ronnie have your number?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, I'll call you when I have it all ready. Okay?"

Lincoln nodded. At the end of his street, he threw his cigarette out so no one who knew him would see it. When they pulled in front of his house, Mom was taking paper bags of groceries out of the Packard. She turned at the sound of the motor, her brow raising slightly. "Hi, Mom!" Lincoln said, opening the door.

"Hi, ma'am," Bobby smiled and waved. "I was just dropping my pal Lincoln off." Lincoln pushed the passenger seat forward and grabbed his bike. Speaking lowly so his mom wouldn't hear, Bobby said, "Be careful with the seat, will you?"

"Sure," Lincoln said. He got his bike out and slammed the door, his mother walking over.

"Oh, Lincoln," she said, "you smell like a cigarette. Have you been _smoking_?"

Lincoln paled. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Bobby cut him off, "No, no, no, that was me." He grinned and held up his cigarette. "I was smoking." He tapped the side of his head. "Guess I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry."

Lincoln's mother nodded slowly. "A-Alright." She spoke cautiously, like Bobby was a rattlesnake who was going to bite her or something.

"Thanks for the ride!" Lincoln said over his shoulder.

Bobby lifted a hand and pulled off. Soon, he would have Lori Loud as his best gal.

He smiled.


	7. July 1958 Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **To Know Him Is To Love Him**_ **by The Teddy Bears (1958)**

* * *

Three days later, Bobby dressed in his new threads: A brown pair of loafers, a brown pair of slacks, a plaid button-up shirt, and a white cardigan sweater with a red number 1 stitched over the left breast. Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sighed and shook his head: He looked like the mayor of Squaresville.

His mother and Ronnie Anne were in the kitchen, Mom making eggs and bacon and Ronnie Anne at the table, paging through an issue of _Teen_ magazine with Elvis on the cover in an army uniform. When he entered, she looked up, and her jaw dropped. Then she hid her mouth behind her hand and snickered. "Can it," he said and dropped into an empty chair.

"You look like someone's grandfather!"

She laughed until tears streamed down her face. Bobby simply stewed, feeling like the epitome of stupid. His mother turned, and started. "Oh, Roberto, you look so handsome!"

He nodded. "Thanks, Ma."

"It's so much better than that leather jacket. You looked like a hoodlum."

"Now he looks like a loser!"

Bobby looked around for something to throw at his sister, but the only things within reach were plates and glasses, and that might be a little much. Instead he crossed his arms and looked away. "Why are you dressed like that?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"It was time for a change," he said.

"And a nice change it is," Mom said, slipping an egg onto his plate, then bacon. She pinched his cheek, and he could do nothing but let it happen. He ate as quickly as he could, the feeling of Ronnie Anne's mocking gaze on him making him uncomfortable. He was just finishing up when a knock came at the door. Great. His asshole friends were here.

Sighing, already knowing he was going to get it now, he got up. "Call your buddy Lincoln over," he said. "I need to talk to him."

Ronnie Anne cocked her brow. "Lincoln?"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

She shook her head and squinted her eyes. "What do you want with Lincoln?"

"Are you writing a book? He's my friend now and I want him to come over. Is that okay?"

"Whatever."

At the door, Bobby steeled himself and turned the knob. Daggy, Blades, and Poppa were clustered on the front porch. When they saw him, their eyes went wide.

"I already heard it from my sister," he said, coming out and shutting the door behind him. "I don't need it from you assholes too."

Daggy put up his hand as if in a solemn oath. "Hey...I like your sweater." He started laughing, and so did everyone else. Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Hey, guys," Poppa said. "What's Bobby's favorite shape? Square!"

Everyone laughed even harder. Flashing, Bobby grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close: Poppa's face fell and fear filled his eyes. "I'll kick your fat ass the same in a cardigan as I would a leather jacket...now cut the gas or you're done."

Poppa nodded, and Bobby shoved him away. "Really, though," Blades asked, "what's with the get-up?"

Bobby sighed. "Lori Loud likes her guys square as a cracker, so here I am."

Blades laughed. "Wow, for a girl?"

"You laugh now," Bobby said, "but wait 'til I got my arm around her. You're all gonna eat your words and wish you were me."

Without a word, Bobby went down the stairs and around the side of the house. His was the last on the street, and a wide field separated it from the next street over. A detached garage sat just back from the structure. Lighting a cigarette, he took out a set of keys, and unlocked the big double doors as Blades, Daggy, and Poppa came up behind him. "I'm havin' her little brother come over," Bobby said around his cigarette as he stripped the chain and padlock off and tossed them aside. "I might need your help."

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Blades asked.

"I wouldn't be dressed like a goddamn clown if I wasn't." He pulled the doors open and went in. The Coupe faced out, the windows rolled up. He opened the door, sat behind the wheel, and started the ignition, turning the radio on: _"...yours truly, Alan Freed, get'cha dancing shoes on and welcome to the rock and roll dance party!"_ Bobby twisted in his seat, reached into the back, and pulled a bottle of Jack Danial's out from underneath. He unscrewed the cap and took a deep swig. Blades stood by the open door and slipped his hands into his back pockets, Daggy crossed his arms, and Poppa leaned across the hood. "Hey!" Bobby yelled, "off the paint!"

Poppa took a step back and raised his hands.

"You guys just watch," Bobby said and took another drink. Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers came on with _Why Do Fools Fall in Love_? "Just watch." He took another drink and handed the bottle to Blades, who drank. Bobby wasn't into being mushy-gushy, but he really liked Lori. He liked everything about her: Her eyes, her smile, her personality. He made it sound like he was looking to score with her, but he wasn't, not really. He just wanted to hold her hand and _be_ with her.

Blades grimaced and handed the bottle to Daggy. "So what're you gonna do? What's this plan?"

"You'll see," Bobby said and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. He drummed his fingers against the wheel to _Little Girl of Mine_ by The Cleftones. Fitting, he thought, because he'd give anything to have Lori be his little girl.

Daggy handed the bottle to Poppa, who took one nip and then handed it back. Daggy brought it over and handed it to Bobby. He took a deep pull, then gave it back to Blades.

Fifteen minutes later, Bobby was starting to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. Lincoln pedaled into the driveway and stopped, looking around. Bobby beeped the horn, and Lincoln turned, waving. Bobby lifted a hand in return. Lincoln hopped off his bike and walked it over, leaning it against the side of the garage and walking in.

"There's my little buddy," Bobby said, slurring a little, "c'mere."

Lincoln came over and Bobby put his hand on his shoulder. "You want a smoke, Linc the pink?"

"Yeah, sure," Lincoln said. He tried to speak as casually as possible, but a nervous tic revealed just how _badly_ he wanted a cigarette. He hadn't had one in three days, and he was feeling it. It had been a torturous seventy-two hours, and he regretted starting in the first place.

Bobby grinned. "Alright, alright. Hey, remember what I said the other day about friends helping friends out?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah."

Bobby leaned over, opened the dash, and took out a pack of cigarettes. Holding it up (and noting the way Lincoln licked his lips), he said, "You help me, and I'll help you with this. A whole pack of Camels...unopened and unfiltered for your pleasure."

"What do I have to do?" Lincoln asked quickly.

"Follow me," Bobby said, getting out of the car.

Behind the garage, Bobby picked up a chunk of concrete just big enough to fill his hand. Daggy, Blades, and Poppa stood around, looking nervous. Lincoln gulped. "You're gonna have a bike accident, dig? And I'm going to bring you home to Lori and look like a hero."

Lincoln's lips worked but no sound came out; his heart was starting to race. "W-What?" he finally managed.

"It's just gonna be your knee," Bobby said, "and it's just gonna be a scratch."

Lincoln looked around. Bobby's friends looked just as horrified as he felt. "Come on," Bobby said, "please? I'm beggin' you here."

Lincoln took a deep breath. He wanted to be cool and help Bobby...he also wanted that pack of Camels. "F-Fine," he said.

Bobby smiled. "Alright, sit."

Already wondering if he'd made the right decision, Lincoln sat on the ground and splayed his legs in front of him. Bobby knelt and held the concrete just over his right knee. "I'm gonna have to rip your pants, little man," Bobby said, "sorry."

Lincoln closed his eyes and thought of those beautiful, delicious cigarettes. It's all worth it in the end, all worth it in the end, all worth it in the end...

Nothing happened.

He opened one eye. Bobby knelt beside him, the concrete chunk hovering above his knee. Bobby's arms shook. He dropped it on the ground and sat heavily on his butt. "Man, I can't do this," he said and covered his face with his hands. He drew a heavy sigh. "I just...I really like your sister and I want her to like me too. That's all." When he took his hands away, Lincoln was surprised (and a little saddened) to see tears standing in his eyes. He wiped them away and looked at his friends, who, for the first time since Lincoln had known them (which admittedly wasn't long) looked serious. "If you guys wanna laugh, fuckin' laugh."

"Nah, man," Blades said, shaking his head, "I get it."

"I been there too," Daggy admitted.

Bobby looked at Lincoln. "Nevermind, man, just...go hang with Ronnie or somethin'. She really likes you." He bowed his head and shooed him away with one hand.

Really? Lincoln started to grin and push himself up, but the misery in Bobby's eyes stopped him. He knew all too well what it was like to pine for a girl...just eight months ago he was in Bobby's place exactly. It was _not_ fun.

Lori said he could be nice to a fault. When Lincoln heard himself speaking, he finally understood what she meant: "Do it."

Bobby looked up at him. "What?"

Lincoln sighed. _I can't believe I'm doing this_. "I know how you feel, okay? I was there with Ronnie Anne. I-It was lame." Admitting to Bobby that he liked his sister was hard, but he pressed on. "And you have the right idea. If Lori sees you helping me out, she'll like that...so do it."

"Nah, I can't..."

"Go on," Lincoln said and stuck his leg out. "I want you to."

Bobby looked to his friends as if for moral support. Blades's arms were crossed over his chest and Daggy's hands were in his pockets. Poppa's were limp at his sides. Blades shrugged. "Kid's sayin' do it."

"Yeah, I mean...do it," Daggy said.

Poppa paled when Bobby looked at him. Lincoln got the impression that he didn't expect his opinion to be asked. "Uh...yeah, whack him."

Bobby looked back at Lincoln and sighed. "You sure?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah."

"Alright," Bobby said. He got back onto his knees, picked up the concrete, and held it over Lincoln's knee. Lincoln squeezed his eyes closed. _When this is done you're going to have a whole pack of Camels...a whole pack...a whole pack...a wh-_

The concrete came down hard, then Bobby rubbed it up and down like steel wool. Lincoln's pants and skin ripped, and he clenched his teeth against a cry of pain.

Just as quickly as it had started, it was over. "Blades, that look good?"

"Yeah, man, it's fine," Blades said uncomfortably.

Bobby tossed the concrete aside. "You alright?" he asked worriedly.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I'm okay. Can I have my cigarettes now, please? And some matches?"

For a moment, Bobby just looked at him...then broke out laughing, his head bowing and his shoulders shaking. Blades grinned and covered his mouth with one hand. "Kid really wants his smokes."

"After that," Bobby said, "he earned 'em." He took the Camels out of his pocket, then a book of matches. He sat both on Lincoln's good leg, then squeezed his shoulder. "Thanks," he said seriously. "I appreciate it."

Lincoln nodded. "Friends help each other out, right?"

Bobby smiled. "Yes...they do." He patted Lincoln's shoulder and got up. "Give me a couple minutes then I'll take you home." He glanced at the others. "You guys...get lost or somethin'."

They followed Bobby around the corner, and Lincoln was alone.

He sighed.

His knee hurt and his pants were ripped...but he had a _whole pack of Camels!_ Smiling to himself, he ripped the cellophane off and then stripped the foil away, the smell of tobacco wafting into his nose and making his mouth water. Oh, boy, this was gonna be good.

He pulled one out, put it into his mouth, and struck a match, touching the flame to the tip and sucking. Smooth, warm smoke filled his lungs, and he sighed contentedly. He drew his wounded leg up and leaned against the garage. He was so lost in his cigarette that he didn't notice Ronnie Anne coming around the corner. She saw him and gaped. He looked up.

"Okay," she said, crossing her arms, "two things...no, three things...one...what happened to your leg?"

Lincoln shrugged. "I fell down."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Two...I didn't know you smoked."

He held the cigarette between his fingers and studied it for a minute. "Yeah, I guess I just started."

She nodded. "Three...can I have some?"

He arched his brow. "Some...cigarette?"

She nodded, a sly grin crossing her face. "Sure," Lincoln said. She sat, and he handed her the smoke. She took a deep drag and held it for a moment before blowing it out like a pro. "I didn't know you smoked either."

She shrugged. "I've been swiping Bobby's for years," she said. "This is the same brand. Did he give these to you?"

"No," Lincoln lied.

She took another puff and handed it back to him. On the phone, she told him that Bobby wanted to see him...but that wasn't entirely the truth. She wanted to see him too: Ever since his birthday party, when she thought of him as her boyfriend, she'd been thinking. She really, really liked him...but she didn't know if she was ready to take the next step. Then, last night, she was lying on her bed and listening to her transistor radio – the one he gave her – when a song she'd never heard before came on, and the lyrics made her think of him:

 _To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him  
_

 _Just to see him smile, makes my life worthwhile  
_

 _To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him  
_

 _And I do._

 _I do,_ she thought with a dreamy smile, and in that moment, she knew.

Now, she took a deep breath. Her heart was beginning to race and she could feel her cheeks starting to flush. "You know...I was thinking..."

He took a drag, held it, then blew it out. "About what?"

"About us," she said.

His heart thudded and he took another puff, this one longer, just to have something to do. He handed the cigarette to her, and she held it between her fingers. "I really like you, Lincoln," she said, "and..." she chickened out and took a drag instead. She blew it out and steeled her resolve. "I wanna be your girlfriend."

Lincoln whipped his head around, his heart stopping. Did...did she really just say what he thought she said? She was looking straight ahead, almost as if she was embarrassed to meet his gaze. Then she turned, and their eyes locked.

For a moment, neither spoke, neither blinked, and neither breathed, but something happened...something passed between them, a thought, maybe, or a feeling, and then they leaned into one another, the tips of their noses brushing and their lips meeting, their tongues touching gently...then more urgently as the kiss deepened. Holding the cigarette between her fore-and-middle fingers, she rested her palm on his shoulder as he pushed softly into her, his hand flying to her face. Their tongues moved over and under one another, lapping hungrily, exploring and tasting.

She pulled back and smiled at him. His eyes were shining and the corners of his lips were turned up in a grin. He stroked her cheek and her heart raced. She brought the cigarette to her lips and took a drag. She then flipped it and, pinching it between her thumb and index finger, held it out for Lincoln to take a puff.

"That was nice," she said, and put the cigarette into her mouth. "I...I really like you, Lincoln."

"I like you too."

She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his. He squeezed and they smiled at each other.

"Hey, what's this?" Bobby asked, startling both of them. They turned, and he plucked the cigarette from between her lips. "You shouldn't be smoking," he said. He started to throw it away, but instead took two quick drags. "Come on, Linc, we're goin'."

" _No quiero que se vaya,"_ Ronnie Anne said, her eyes big and dreamy. She squeezed Lincoln's hand, and he squeezed back. He didn't know what she said, but it was beautiful.

" _Verás a tu novio más tarde. Le gustas y no va a ninguna parte,"_ Bobby replied.

" _Sólo le di mi corazón."_ She stroked Lincoln's face, and he grinned.

" _Y tú tienes su corazón. Ahora voy a capturar el corazón de Lori si usted le permite venir."_

Ronnie Anne's brow furrowed and she turned to her brother. "Come on," Bobby said, "let go of his hand. I need him."

Shaking her head, she turned back to Lincoln. "Alright, square-for-brains," she said, "you gotta go."

Lincoln sighed. He didn't _want_ to go. He wanted to stay here and hold Ronnie Anne's hand forever...wanted to lose himself in her eyes and never come out. Instead, he got to his feet, his knee aching. Putting on a brave face for Ronnie Anne, he followed Bobby around the garage and started for the Coupe, but the older boy stopped him. "Nah, we're takin' my Mom's station wagon." He threw the cigarette away. "I can't pull up to Lori in that thing."

Well...Bobby was taking his advice at least.

Lincoln climbed into the passenger seat while Bobby slid behind the wheel and started it. Throwing his hand around the passenger head rest, he glanced through the back window and pulled into the street. After they were underway, he said: "You and Ronnie are goin' steady now." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, and smiled. "We are."

"You know what she said back there?" Bobby asked.

Lincoln shook his head. "I have no clue."

"She said she just gave you her heart."

Wow. She actually said _that?_

"I wasn't bullshittin' when I said she really likes you. She does. You be good to her, alright?" He glanced at Lincoln.

"I will," Lincoln vowed.

"And I'll be good to yours," he winked. "She's gonna be there, right?"

Lincoln nodded. "Probably. Either talking on the phone or watching TV. She loves looking at that screen. She'd carry it around with her if she could."

A block from Lincoln's house, Bobby pulled to the curb and cut the engine. "Alright, little man," he said, throwing the door open, "it's on foot from here – for me, at least."

Lincoln scrunched his brow quizzically and got out of the car. Bobby came around and stood in front of him. "Okay...get in my arms."

"W-What?"

Instead of replying, Bobby scooped Lincoln up and held him the way a groom would hold his bride as he carried her across the threshold. Lincoln tensed, not really liking being picked up by another man. "I'm not crazy about it either," Bobby said as he started down the sidewalk, "just bear with me."

As they approached his house, Lincoln saw that Mom's station wagon wasn't in the driveway. He hoped Lori was here, or this was all for nothing. Well...not _nothing_ , he thought as he patted the pack of Camels in his pocket.

At the door, Bobby rolled his neck and took a deep breath. "Act like you're really hurt," he said. "Tears, callin' for mommy, you know, the works."

Lincoln sighed and whipped up a batch of tears, thinking about how sad it would be if this didn't work and Bobby took his cigarettes back: In a moment tears were streaming down his face and he gave out a wounded, broken, "Mommy."

"There you go," Bobby said, and kicked the door. "Keep it up."

Nothing happened, and Bobby kicked the door again. After a moment, the knob turned and it opened, revealing – exactly as planned – Lori dressed in a pale blue dress with a wide white headband pushed back from her forehead. Lincoln felt Bobby tense. When her eyes fell on Lincoln, they went wide. "Lincoln? What happened?" Her voice was full of concern, and for the first time Lincoln felt kind of guilty.

"I found him like this," Bobby said, "I, uh, I was on my way to Bible study and he was lyin' on the side of the road. Said someone hit him with their car and took off."

" _Oh my God!"_

She stepped aside and Bobby carried Lincoln in. "I-I'm okay," Lincoln hitched. It was all worth it in the end.

Luan was sitting on the couch with her arms crossed. She turned, and her face darkened with worry. "What happened?" she asked, sitting forward.

"Don't worry, kid," Bobby said, "he's fine." Luan got up and Bobby laid Lincoln on the couch. Lori rushed over and knelt, rolling up his pantleg and wincing at the ugly scratch on his knee. "I saw him there and my heart broke into a million pieces and all that jive. I picked him up and brought him here."

While Lori and Luan rushed off to get first aid supplies, Bobby sat on the couch and looked at Lincoln. "When I'm gone, talk me up, huh? Say what a great guy I am and how I saved you."

"Sure thing," Lincoln said.

When Bobby heard Lori coming back, he slipped off the couch and on his knees, laying a hand on Lincoln's forehead. "You're gonna be just fine, buddy," he said loud enough for Lori to hear, "I'm prayin' for you."

He moved aside to allow Lori to work on her brother's knee, a hazy look coming into his eyes as he watched. She was so kind and tender and all that gas. Sigh. He was in love. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his cardigan and drew a deep breath. An angel, that's what she was, an angel.

When she was done, she got to her feet and looked at Bobby. "Who did this to him?"

"Uh...someone in a black car. Or maybe it was green. Or blue."

"I don't really know," Lincoln said, then: "All I saw was chrome and metal and pain." He grinned behind his hand.

"Thank you for bringing him home," Lori said, "I really appreciate it."

Bobby waved his hand. "No problem. I have a kid sister myself, so, I dunno, I guess my paternal instincts kicked in. Who could hurt a kid like that, huh? It's horrible."

"Bobby's a hero," Lincoln said, "and good looking." Bobby saw Lincoln's smirk and wanted to slap it off his freckled face. Instead, he smiled nervously. "I was just doin' what anyone would, right?"

"Thank you," Lori said and smiled, "It was very nice of you."

She walked him to the door. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow, alright, buddy?"

Lincoln held up his thumb.

On the porch, Bobby put his hands on his hips while Lori stood in the doorway, one of her hands resting on the frame. "He's a good guy," he said, because he had to say something lest the moment end. "Nice kid."

"He's great," Lori said, then something occurred to her. "Where's his bike? Did it get ruined?"

"No, no," Bobby said and waved his hand, "I had a friend of mine take it to my house. It, uh, it suffered a little damage but I'm gonna fix it up good as new. You won't even be able to tell the difference."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Lori said, and was it just Bobby or did she sound kind of impressed at how great he was?

"I want to," Bobby replied, "I mean, he told me it was new and he got it for his birthday and it's special, so it's the least I can do."

She smiled beatifically. "You're very sweet, thank you."

Bobby blushed and ducked his head. "Just doin' what's right."

"Thank you again," she said and started to close the door, but stopped and regarded him with inscrutable eyes, making his chest pound. "What happened to your...uh...jacket?"

"Pfft, that old thing? I gave it to charity. It's not really me anymore."

"You look much better without it," she said, and when he was alone on the porch, Bobby pumped his fist. Fuck yeah!


	8. July 1958 Part 3

The next afternoon at 3:30 sharp Lincoln, Luan, and Luna gathered on the couch to watch _American Bandstand_ : Dick Clark introduced Buddy Holly and the Crickets and teens in skirts and sweaters started dancing. "I don't like him," Luan said, "he's boring." Lincoln didn't much like him either: He was waiting impatiently for Little Richard.

"He's not bad," Luna said, then: "He's not great, either."

Lincoln was starting to think about taking a walk with his buddy Joe Camel when a knock came at the door. Though he, Luna, and Luan weren't crazy about Buddy Holly, none of them was keen on missing even a second of the show, and none of them moved to get up. The knock came again.

"I guess _I'll_ get it," Lori said as she came down the stairs.

"Thanks, sis," Luna said over her shoulder.

Sighing, Lori opened the door and started when she saw Bobby Santiago. He was holding a bouquet of pink and blue flowers. "Hey, how's it goin'?" he asked. "I just, uh, dropped by to see how my pal Lincoln's doing. I got one of those d – comic books he likes." He was going to say _dumb_ , but stopped himself at the last minute. "And I got _these_ for you." He shoved the flowers at her, and she took them with a blush.

"Wow...thank you. How did you know Asters were my favorite?"

Bobby shrugged. "Lucky guess." That wasn't true. He had Ronnie Anne call Lincoln that morning and pump him for information. Pink and blue were her favorite colors, Frank Sinatra was her favorite singer (yuck), and her favorite show was _The Lawrence Welk Show_ (double yuck). She was a square...but she was prettiest square _he'd_ ever seen.

"They're beautiful," she said.

"They're not the only thing that's beautiful," he said.

Her blush deepened and she let out a musical giggle. He couldn't believe it, it was working! After all this time, all that effort...it was as easy and putting on a sweater and buying some flowers. "I'm going to go put these in some water," she said. When she was gone, Bobby went over to the couch. "Scoot over, ponytail," he said to Luan, and sat next to Lincoln, slipping his arm around him and drawing him close.

"Uhhh...hi, Bobby," he said.

"How you doin', little man?" Bobby asked and gave him a playful nuggie. "What're we watchin', _Bandstand?"_

On screen, Little Richard sat before a piano, a slight black man in a white suit and sporting a conk hairstyle. Luan, Lincoln, and Luna all sat forward as he began to play. Bobby crossed his arms and looked around. Where was she?

When he heard her coming in from the kitchen, he cleared his throat. "I'm not a big fan of this, sorry. I prefer Lawrence Welk. He's a little more mature."

Luna, Luan, and Lincoln all shushed him.

"Oh, I love that show!" Lori said.

"Yeah?" Bobby asked over his shoulder. "So do I. It's classier than this stuff here."

"Will you two go somewhere else?" Lincoln asked...one, because he wanted to hear Little Richard and two, so Bobby could be alone with Lori. That pack of Camels wouldn't last forever, and Bobby would owe him one.

"How about we go outside and talk a little?" Bobby asked.

"Sure, that sounds swell."

Bobby stood up, pulled a rolled comic book from his back pocket, and dropped it into Lincoln's lap. "Here you go, kid."

Lincoln ignored him and watched as Little Richard stood, kicked his bench aside, and pounded on the keys like a man possessed. Now _this_ was the stuff. Keep your Buddy Holly and your Elvis, those guys were lame.

"He is _dreamy,"_ Luan said.

"He's a madman," Luna grinned. She liked guitar better, and at the beginning of the summer she set out to make her own, since it wasn't very likely her parents would buy her one: Hey, Bo Diddly did it, and so did she, reading an interview he did in _Teen_ and following his instructions to the letter, using a cigar box for the body just like he did. It was funny looking – all square and raggy – but it played. She picked up a how-to book at the library and had been teaching herself, spending hours at a time in her room and plucking the strings. She could play a little Elvis, some Jerry Lee, and even Chuck Berry. Pretty soon, she'd be a rock singer just like them – the first woman to lay it down.

Little Richard finished, and Dick Clark came over, clapping him on the back. "That was Little Richard with _Keep a Knockin'_. You know, Richard, a lot of folks dig your sound. How's that make you feel?"

"Makes me feel good," he said, and laughed.

Outside, Bobby and Lori sat side-by-side on the porch swing. Bobby had slipped out of the cardigan and balled it in his lap. It was hot as hell out and he didn't want to sweat too much. Their conversation was stiff at first, but they both loosened up, and when Bobby rested his arm on the swing right behind her, she made no sign that she didn't like it. "I mean, some of it's alright," she said, "but most of it literally gives me a headache."

"Yeah, I liked it, but it's something you grow out of real quick," he replied. "Rock and roll's a fad. Give it two years, and it'll be over."

"If that."

"Six months?"

"Hopefully," she laughed.

They lapsed into silence, and Bobby figured it was time to make his move. "You know, I was wonderin'...would you like to see a movie or somethin'?"

For a moment she didn't reply, then she slowly nodded and glanced at him. "Yeah, that'd be nice," she said.

Bobby sighed contentedly and enjoyed the moment. The future lie ahead, and if he played his cards right, he'd have Lori Loud as his best gal.

All thanks to Lincoln.

 _I'm gonna get that kid a whole_ carton _of Camels_ , Bobby thought. _Hell,_ two _cartons_.

* * *

After _Bandstand_ , Lincoln hopped on his bike and started toward Ronnie Anne's house. It was hot and the light of the sun bathed him like acid: By the time he was halfway, he was sweating and thirsty. He paused at Dove Street, and lifted his right arm: To his horror, the fabric of his shirt was soaked through, and when he sniffed, the stench of sour sweat was noticeable. Oh, no.

You don't go to see a girl you like – wait, no, we're past that stage...you don't go to see your _girlfriend_ – smelling like a ranch hand...just like you don't fart in front of her even if, say, you _reaaaally_ had to. The thing is: How are you supposed to get from your house to hers on a hot summer day without perspiring? On a bike, that is? That's right, you aren't. It's not possible. Well...unless you pedal _real_ slow, but he wanted to be at her house _before_ Christmas.

An idea occurred to him, and it seemed like a winner, so he went with it, turning up Dove and biking to Main Street, which was alive with activity: People out enjoying the day, old men sitting in front of the barber shop and reminiscing about that time they sat behind George Washington in the third grade (probably), an attendant at the Texaco on the corner filling a Packard with fuel, people parked at Flip's and eating. The sidewalk was so busy that he had to jump off his bike and walk it the rest of the way to the drugstore, where he leaned it against a streetlamp and went in. People were sitting at the counter and drinking soda while others browsed the aisles. He went straight to the body care section and looked around for some cologne. There were three different brands, and he read the labels of each to see which was stronger before picking Old Spice based mainly on the scent: It smelled better than the others.

On his way to the register, he grabbed a bottle of Coca-Cola from an ice chest. Mr. Davis, the pharmacist, nodded at him. He was a tall man with black horn rimmed glasses, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a tiny mustache. Lincoln sat his purchases on the counter, and Mr. Davis picked up the cologne. "You got a hot date, son?"

Lincoln flushed. "Kind of."

"Hm." Mr. Davis rang the soda and the cologne up. "You want one of these?" he asked and slapped a small rectangular package onto the counter. There was a strange circular outline in the middle.

Lincoln's brow furrowed and he looked up at the druggist. "What is it?"

Mr. Davis shook his head and tried – but failed – to suppress a tiny grin. "Nothing, son, I was kidding. You're too young for _that_. At least I hope to God you are. They say kids are starting earlier today. 1.50."

Lincoln was confused. He paid Mr. Davis and took his things as the old pharmacist scooped the package off the counter and put it away. _That guy's a weirdo,_ he thought. Outside, he opened the soda with a bottle opener and took a long, grateful swallow. He considered putting some of the cologne on now, but decided against it. When he was within sight of Ronnie Anne's house, he stopped and splashed his chest, neck, and underarms. The smell was overpowering, and he bowed his head. _I used too much_. He imagined Ronnie Anne opening the door and staggering back as a fist of smell crashed into her jaw. _Damn, square-for-lame, you trying to kill me?_

What could he do though, take his shirt off?

That thought made him blush.

She'd just have to deal.

He hopped off his bike and walked it to her porch, where he leaned it and went up the stairs. At the door, he paused and sniffed himself. It wasn't _so_ bad anymore. He knocked, stepped back, and waited. Footsteps approached, the knob turned, and Ronnie Anne appeared. When she saw him, she broke out in a sunny smile. "Hey, lame-o!"

"Hey," he said. She took a step forward and threw her arms around him. He smiled and hugged her back.

"You smell good," she said as she pulled away. "What _is_ that?"

"Old Spice," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I got kind of sweaty on the way over."

She nodded. "I like it. You should wear it more often."

"Yeah?" He made a mental note to pick up some more.

"It's really nice," she said. She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. "So...what brings you over?"

He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. "I just wanna spend time with my girlfriend."

She giggled. "Okay. What do you wanna do?"

"I don't know," he replied, "watch TV?"

Ronnie Anne's smile faltered. "Actually, uh...we don't have a TV." She looked away, embarrassed.

"Oh," Lincoln said nonchalantly, "well...I really don't care, just...as long as I'm with you."

Ronnie Anne's smile did the _opposite_ of faltering. "Okay. Come on." She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind him. The living room was sparsely furnished but inviting. A standing cabinet radio faced the threadbare couch. Pictures of Bobby and Ronnie Anne hung on the walls. Lincoln noticed hairline cracks and water stains here and there.

Ronnie Anne knelt in front of the radio and turned it on. An announcer read the news. _"..U.S. troops have landed in the capital city of Lebanon today after a plea from President Camille Chamoun amid rising tensions..."_ She turned the dial and found a station playing music. Lincoln caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wringing a blue dish towel in her hands. She wore a pink maid's uniform, her black hair pulled back in a loose bun. Ronnie Anne looked up. "Hey, Mom."

She looked from her daughter to Lincoln and back again. Lincoln suddenly felt very awkward. "Hi," she said, then started speaking in Spanish, which told Lincoln she was probably talking about him: _"¿por qué hay un chico aquí?"_

" _Vino a verme. No sabía que vendría._ _Sólo vamos a escuchar música."_

Ronnie Anne's mother looked at him, and he flashed a nervous smile.

" _¿por favor, mamá?"_ Ronnie Anne asked. _"No haremos nada malo."_ She pouted cutely, her kitten eyes big as saucers.

Her mother sighed. _"Bien, pero Mantén tus manos en tu regazo."_ She looked at Lincoln. "It's nice to meet you...?"

"Lincoln," Lincoln said.

She nodded. "Lincoln. You can stay, but you two behave."

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "We will, Mom."

"Okay." With that, Ronnie Anne's mother went back into the kitchen, and Lincoln breathed a sigh of relief. Whew. That was uncomfortable. Ronnie Anne got to her feet and crossed to the couch, dropping down with a sigh. She grinned and patted the cushion next to her.

"C'mon, lame-o."

Lincoln nervously glanced at the kitchen door, then went over and sat, Ronnie Anne turning to face him and bringing her knee up onto the couch. "I hope I didn't cause any problems between you and your mom."

"No, it's fine," she said, "she was just kind of surprised to see a boy in the living room." She blushed. "I kind of told her about you, but I didn't really get into it. Bobby knows more than she does." She laughed. "Do your sisters and brother know that we're, like, official now?"

Lincoln shook his head. "No, I haven't told them; they'd make a big deal out of it and before I knew it, Leni would be giving me a makeover, Lori would be gabbing my ear off with dating advice, and Luan would be pumping me full of jokes to tell you."

Ronnie Anne giggled. "Your family sounds like they care about you...but also like they're nuts."

"Pretty much," Lincoln said with a nod. He drummed his hands on his legs. He really wanted to hold Ronnie Anne's hand, but the thought of her mother walking in and seeing that made his blood run cold. Ronnie Anne started to reach out to touch his shoulder, but thought better of it and drew her hand back. She sighed and hung her head, her hand flopping against the cushion. Lincoln stole a glance at the kitchen, then laid his hand on top of hers, his fingertips brushing her knuckles: That one touch was enough to make Lincoln's heart start to race and his stomach feel tingly. Ronnie Anne looked up at him, and it was clear to see that she was feeling the same way. A little grin crossed her lips and she threaded her fingers through his. He squeezed, and for a long time they stared into each other's eyes, their hearts beating the same rhythm and their spirits stirring with the first, faint desire to entwine. Someday, they would, but not this day: For now, they were content to simply hold hands and gaze at one another.

* * *

Lincoln was walking his bike down Ronnie Anne's street on his way home when Ronnie Anne's mother's station wagon appeared and slowed, the sunlight catching the front bumper and shooting a death ray into Lincoln's eyes. He squinted and held a shielding hand up as Bobby pulled up next to him. "Man, you gotta help me," the older boy said, his voice beseeching.

"What's wrong?" Lincoln asked.

"I got a date with Lori tomorrow."

"That's great!"

Bobby slouched over the wheel in an expression of misery. "Yeah...but I never been on a date before, man...I don't know what to do."

"Uh...well first..."

"Hop in," Bobby said, "I'll run you home and you can tell me on the way."

After storing his bike in the back compartment, Lincoln slipped into the passenger seat and pulled the seatbelt across his lap. Bobby pulled into someone's driveway and turned around. "Alright. What do I do?"

"Flowers, chocolates, dinner, and a movie."

Bobby tossed him a nervous glance. "Yeah? You think that'll work? I mean...that's a good date?"

Lincoln shrugged. "I've never been on a date either, but it _sounds_ good. Girls like flowers and chocolates, and what else are you supposed to do on a date besides dinner and a movie?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, you're right."

"A walk," Lincoln said. "That might be nice. A stroll through town. Instead of going to the drive-in go to the Palace and you can walk."

"Alright. T-That sounds good." He glanced at Lincoln. "I'm really nervous, man. I don't know if you can tell."

Lincoln grinned. "I can tell."

"Yeah? Shit. I hope I'm not nervous like this tomorrow. I do _not_ want to mess this up." He wiped his hand across his mouth. "I really like her."

When they reached Lincoln's house, Bobby parked at the curb. "Alright, here you are."

"Thanks," Lincoln said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. Bobby's voice stopped him.

"Uh, Lincoln?"

Lincoln turned. "Yeah?"

Bobby nodded. "Thank you," he said seriously. "I mean it, man. You're pretty cool."

Lincoln smiled. "Hey, friends help friends, right?"

Bobby nodded. "And right now you're my _best_ friend; Blades can go fuck himself."


	9. July 1958 Part 4

The next day, Bobby arrived at the Loud house at five in the afternoon: He walked all the way from his house, and he was sweating, so before knocking on the door he took a moment to cool off in the shade of an oak tree. Whew. Good thing he left that stupid sweater at home...if he wore it he'd probably be dead by now. It looked nice, but the short-sleeved plaid shirt he wore now looked good too, right? He wasn't hip to square fashions, so he honestly didn't know. His mom liked it.

When he was good, he got up, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door. In one hand he held a bouquet of flowers, and in the other a box of chocolates: From a last minute call to Lincoln, he learned that Lori liked the kind with caramel in the center.

The door opened, and Lori appeared. Bobby suddenly felt very nervous, but forced a grinned. "Hey," he said, "I got you stuff." He thrust the flowers out, and her eyes brightened.

"Bobby, they're _beautiful_ ," she said, taking them.

He held the chocolates out next. "And this. They have stuff in 'em." He winced. "I mean...caramel. They have caramel. Inside of them." Jesus, man, you're floundering.

She took the chocolates and cocked her head, a sly smile touching her lips. Bobby's heart raced faster. "You're spoiling me."

Bobby shrugged. "You know...sweet stuff for a sweet thing."

Her cheeks turned red, and panic filled Bobby's chest cavity. Aw, man, did I say something wrong? Is it too early for something like that? Way to go, Santiago, you blew it like a hurricane. Anything else you'd like to add, smart guy?

"Let me put these away then we can go," she said.

She ducked back inside and closed the door, and Bobby was alone, the back of his neck burning. It wasn't his fault. He didn't have experience at this kind of thing: He told the guys he'd laid dozens of women, but the only thing he ever laid was a tube sock, and the only date he'd ever been on was the time he stepped on a date on the sidewalk – you know, the fruit...called a date. Oh, he talked a big game...but when it came to reality, he was a loser. Hell, Daggy probably had more dates than him.

Man...that's depressing.

The door opened and Lori came out. "I have flowers on either side of my bed now," she said.

"Brightens up the room," Bobby said.

"It does," she agreed. "My side of the room is kind of plain. My sister Leni's is pink."

"Pink?"

"Yep. She painted her half bright pink." From the tone of her voice, Bobby inferred that she didn't like pink.

"Gross," he said.

Lori laughed. "Yeah. _Very_ gross. Pink's pretty, but that's just too much." She lifted her shoulders. "So...where are we going?"

"I thought we'd talk a nice walk through town, then have dinner at –" Bobby tried to remember the name but couldn't – "that Italian place by the bowling alley."

"Pasamero's? I _love_ that place. Italian food is my favorite."

They were going down the stairs now. "Oh?" he asked. He knew that...from a _second_ last minute call to Lincoln. By that point, little man was sounding frustrated, and listed every like and dislike Lori had. If nothing else, Bobby thought, he was well-armed. "Mine too. Their alfredo is _amazing_."

Bobby had never tasted their alfredo in his life. In fact, come to think of it, he didn't know what the hell alfredo even _was_. Didn't he have an uncle named Alfredo in Mexico?

"I like their veal."

Their what?

"Yeah, that's good too. You can't really go wrong with Italian food."

They were at the end of Franklin Avenue now. Bobby pressed a button on a pole, and a moment later a walk sign lit up on the other end of the street. They hurried across, Bobby glancing around to make sure no assholes in hot rods were going to plow into them. "If it's not too late, maybe we can see a movie at the Palace after dinner. If you want, I mean."

"Sure," Lori said, "that sounds nice."

For a while they walked in silence, enjoying the afternoon warmth. "So," she said, glancing at him, "what do you do for fun?"

Bobby shrugged. "I drive. I hang out. I don't have too much free time because I work nights, and I like to sleep a little in the afternoons before I go in."

"I didn't know you had a job," Lori said, a note of appreciation creeping into her voice. "Nights. That has to be rough."

Bobby scrunched up his lips. "Not really. A little, I guess."

"Where do you work?"

"My friend's dad owns a company that manufactures furniture and I work in the warehouse." The 'friend' was Blades. Bobby had been working for Blades Sr. (that's not what he was really called...in fact, if you called him that he'd probably belt you in the mouth) for just under a year.

Lori nodded. "Not bad. You used to work at Flip's, right?"

"Yeah," Bobby said and rubbed the back of his neck, "when I was fourteen my dad ran out on us and I to get a job to help my mom. Flip's the only guy who'd hire me."

Lori turned to him, her eyes softening. "Oh, I'm sorry. About your dad, I mean."

"It's fine," Bobby said. "It's just...you know, my mom couldn't do it alone, so I decided to find something." The decision to work was entirely his, and in fact his mother didn't like the thought of him working to help her. She said she could do it on her own, but she couldn't, and they both knew it. "I figured it was the right thing to do. She had me and Ronnie Anne to worry about and not much money."

"That's very admirable of you," Lori smiled. "I like that in a man."

Bobby turned away as he blushed, and when he did, who should he see standing on the corner but Blades, Daggy, and Poppa Wheelie. They were clustered together, Daggy holding a pocket radio in his hands and messing with the dial. Blades and Poppa were both bent over, a cigarette jutting from Blades's mouth. Aw, great. Maybe they wouldn't..

Daggy looked up, and he and Bobby locked eyes. A grin spread across his face and he nodded toward Bobby. Blades and Poppa looked up, Blades taking his cigarette out of his mouth and lifting his brows as if to say _What? You actually got her on a date?_ Bobby couldn't suppress the grin that came to his lips. He nodded. _Told you you'd wanna be me, asshole._

When Blades cupped his hands to his mouth, Bobby paled and shook his head. "Hey, Bobby!" he yelled. "Bobby Santiago!"

Bobby whipped his head away and Lori looked over. "Who's that?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"No one," Bobby said, and moved to her other side, putting her between them and him, "just my former friends."

"Hey, Bobby! You still coming to that party tonight? The one with all the beer and rock and roll?" He, Daggy, and Poppa laughed.

Bobby's blood boiled. "They obviously haven't grown up the way _I_ have." As if to punctuate this, Daggy spun, hugged himself, and ran his fingers along his back to simulate making out. Lori saw, and looked away, her cheeks turning a shade of red that Bobby couldn't help but find beautiful. "Real mature, guys!" he called. He leaned, and, behind Lori's back, flipped them off. "Fuck you," he mouthed as he waved his finger.

A block later, they reached the town square, a grassy area overlooked by the county courthouse and a rush of shops. An old man sat on a bench in front of a bronze statue and tossed pieces of bread to a gang of ducks, and a woman in a dress pushed a baby carriage along a narrow ribbon of concrete. Pasamero's was at the corner of Main and Union, a block up from the bowling alley. Metal table and chair sets flanked the door, which was shaded by a green awning. Bobby popped ahead of Lori and held the door open. She smiled and thanked him.

Inside it was dimly lit, the middle of the room dotted with cloth covered tables and either wall lined with red vinyl booths. Lori went to one of the booths, and Bobby slid in across from her. A waiter came over, laid menus in front of them, and took their drink order. When he was gone, Bobby opened his menu and scanned it. He couldn't pronounce half the shit they sold. Lori looked at hers, her eyes darting back and forth. "Ummm, I don't know what to get. It all looks so good." She looked up. "How about a pizza?"

"Sure," he said, "sounds great."

What the hell's a pizza?

The waiter returned and Bobby ordered a cheese pizza – whatever the hell that was. He nodded and went away. "So," Lori said, and sipped soda through a straw, "your sister and my brother, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, I guess," Bobby said. "Ronnie Anne really likes him. Like _really_ likes him." He chuckled. "It's kind of cute. I've never seen her this way over a boy."

"She seems great," Lori said.

"She is," Bobby said, his chest welling with love. "She's a really cool kid. She means a lot to me."

Lori smiled and rested her head in her palm. "I can tell. I can see it in your eyes."

Bobby's first instinct was to turn away, because he didn't show his emotions easy (speaking them was different, though not by much), but he forced himself not to. If he was going to show them to anybody, it was going to be Lori Loud. "Yeah, we're really close. Sometimes it's kind of like I'm a father figure or something. You know? Even when our dad was around he wasn't much of a dad, so...I dunno." He crossed his arms on the table.

"That's really sweet," Lori said. "I'm pretty close with my family too. Sometimes I feel like I've been sort of a second mother to my younger siblings." Her eyes darkened. "I don't always do the best job."

"Neither do I," Bobby admitted and sighed. "It's hard. When you have a kid of your own, you know what you are – you're a parent. When you've got younger siblings, you're kind of _like_ a parent, but you don't know it, and one day it hits you."

Lori nodded. "That's pretty deep."

Bobby couldn't help smiling. "I don't know about _that_. I just...sometimes I worry I'm not doing right by my sister, I feel like I should do more...I just don't know _what_."

Lori surprised him by reaching across the table and resting her hand on his: Her touch was warm and light. Bobby's flesh tingled and his heart stopped dead in its tracks. Their eyes locked and she smiled beatifically. "You sound like a _great_ brother."

Bobby didn't know what to say, so he said, "Thanks." Thankfully, the pizza arrived before he had to say something else. It was a strange disc-shaped piece of bread covered with melted cheese and ringed with a ridge of crust. The waiter used a metal roller to cut it like a pie, then used a flat instrument to transfer a slice to Lori's plate, then to Bobby's.

"Enjoy," he said, and left.

Bobby looked down at it. It _smelled_ good. Lori rubbed her hands together. "I _love_ pizza. It is literally one of my favorite foods."

He poked it with his finger, and red shit oozed out. Ugh! Lori looked like she was enjoying it, so he shrugged, picked it up and held it the way she did, and took a bite.

Whoa! It was fucking _boss_ , all garlicy and cheesy and stuff. He ate a whole slice and was reaching for another one before Lori had even finished her first one. "Wow," she said, "you like pizza more than _I_ do."

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for Italian food."

After dinner, they walked across the street to the Palace Theater: It was starting to get dark, and the light bulbs ringing the marquee blinked. There was a line at the box office, and while they waited, Bobby studied the movie posters lining the wall, hoping to see something with Brando. Not that Lori would like Brando anyway. Oh well. If it came down to Brando or Lori, Lori won easy. "What do you wanna see?" he asked.

Lori hummed and scanned the posters. "Oh, how about _South Pacific?"_ She lidded her eyes. "It's a romance."

Bobby gaped, and she laughed. "Yeah, sure, okay, whatever you want," he stammered. Inside, they stopped at the concession stand, got a tub of popcorn and two sodas, and went into the screening room, sitting in the back row. Lori laid her hand on the armrest, and Bobby, after a moment of consideration, put his hand on her hand. She looked at him and smiled.

Oh yeah. He felt great.

Then the singing and dancing started. A romance is one thing...but a musical? Come on! After a while, he got into it, and by the end, his arm was around Lori's shoulder and she rested her head against his chest.

"I had a really good time tonight," she said as they stood in front of her door later. Her hands were in his, and they stared into each other's eyes. The night was silent save for the summer symphony of crickets.

"So did I," Bobby said. "We should do this again sometime."

"Yes," Lori said, "soon."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She opened the door and went in, then turned and stopped him as he started down the stairs. "Hey."

"Yeah?" he asked.

She looked him up and down and smiled. "That leather jacket _was_ kind of cute. I wouldn't mind if you got another one."

With that, she closed the door.

I get to keep my jacket _and_ my girl?

 _YES!_

Smiling, Bobby walked home whistling _There is Nothing Like a Dame_ from _South Pacific_.


	10. October 1960

A shower of red and yellow autumnal leaves fell along the sidewalk as Luan strode purposely along, her back straight and her ponytail swinging side-to-side. She held a stack of flyers to her chest and wore a determined look. She was dressed in a white blouse, a plaid shirt, and socks pulled halfway to her knees. She was going for 'cute,' because when a cute kid knocks on your door, you tend to listen to what they have to say. True, at seventeen she wasn't really a 'kid,' but she was hoping to pass for fifteen or even fourteen.

She turned and followed a wide walkway to the bottom of someone's porch stairs. The house was a green Victorian with narrow windows and white trim. She looked up at it and nodded to herself.

At the door, she knocked and stepped back, rocking on her heels in a calculated attempt to increase the cuteness factor. Awww, a bouncy, energetic girl; what do you have to say, dear?

The door opened, and a man in a red sweater vest appeared. His hair was the color of steel and he was puffing on a pipe. Luan put on her biggest smile. "Hi, my name's Luan, and I was wondering if you've decided who you're going to vote for this November." She slipped one of the flyers out and handed it to him. On the front was a black and white picture of a young, handsome man in a dark suit. Below was a list of his positions on the issues. "Senator John F. Kennedy is the best choice this election season," Luan said. "He stands for civil rights, a strong military, economic prosperity, and a stronger America. He has..."

"I'm sorry," the man said, smoke puffing from his mouth, "but I'm voting for Nixon. It's encouraging to see such civic mindedness in our youth, though. I'm sure Senator Kennedy would be proud."

Sigh. Another for Nixon. If her day was any indication, that guy was going to win in a landslide. She beamed, however. "Thank you, sir. Have a good day."

She turned and went down the stairs, an errant leaf falling onto the concrete before her: She stepped down on it just a _little_ harder than she had to. Stupid Nixon. Why would anyone vote for him? Didn't they see the same debate she saw last month, the one where Nixon was nervous and sweaty and looked like a drunk? Meanwhile, Kennedy was young and handsome and oh so eloquent. He was dreamy...and smart...and had good ideas. How could you _not_ vote for him?

Taking a right, she started down the sidewalk but stopped when she saw Clyde McBride approaching her, a stack of papers in his hands. Luan liked Clyde, and always had. He was cute. He was much too young for her, though, which is why she never tried for him. She smiled and called out. "Hey, Clyde!"

He looked up, his glasses sliding down his nose, and returned her smile. "Hey, Luan!" He walked up and stopped.

"What'cha up to?" Luan asked.

Clyde grinned. "Canvassing."

"Me too! We should team up, I sure could use some help spreading the good word about JFK. I've been striking out left and right. Get it? Left and right?"

Clyde blinked. "Uh...actually...I'm for Nixon."

Luan's jaw hit her chest. " _You?_ For _Nixon_?"

"Yup," Clyde said proudly. He took one of the flyers off his stack and handed it to her. It was much like her own, only instead of a young, handsome JFK, the picture on it was of old, gross Richard Nixon.

Luan couldn't believe it. "Clyde, you know JFK has a better track record on civil rights, don't you? He actually _supports_ coloreds."

Clyde's brow furrowed. "Well, you might not know this, because it probably wasn't as big a deal for you as it was for me, but President Eisenhower's the one who desegregated schools, not John Kennedy."

Luan gasped, offended. "It _was_ a big deal for me! I was _very_ happy that day!" She started to say something else, but stopped herself and took a deep breath. "I disagree with your position, but I understand and respect it." There. That was the adult way to handle it, and being seventeen, she was an adult. Clyde was just a child...a poor misguided child who would one day grow up and see the errors of his ways.

"Likewise," he said.

An idea struck Luan then, and she grinned. "Hey...wanna team up and see who can get the most converts? There _has_ to be some undecided voters left."

Clyde tossed a shoulder. "Sure, sounds fun."

They walked side-by-side down the street. "So, how are you?" Luan asked. "I haven't seen you much lately."

"I got a job," he said.

"Really? Where?"

"I work for a guy my father knows cleaning his horse stables. It's dirty work, but he pays pretty well."

Luan hummed appreciatively. "That's pretty cool."

They came to a pink house and climbed the stairs. A wind-chime tinkled in the chilly October breeze. Through the front window, Luan could see a lit lamp and a TV playing _Divorce Court._ She knocked on the door, and a woman got up from an armchair: She was wearing a pink house coat and had long, silvery hair. She opened the door and looked from Clyde to Luan. "Yes?"

"Hi, ma'am, my name is Luan, and I'm here on behalf of Senator Kennedy..."

Clyde cut her off. "And I'm Clyde. I'm here for Vice President Nixon."

"Senator Kennedy is –"

"Very inexperienced," Clyde said. "Vice President Nixon is a seasoned politician who knows how to lead and get things done."

Luan shot Clyde a dirty look, but he ignored her. She turned back to the woman and smiled prettily: "We in the Kennedy camp have a saying: Who's seasoned through and through but not so dog-gone seasoned that he won't try something new? Senator John F. Kennedy."

Clyde snorted. "Senator Kennedy's political career consists of a cameo appearance in the Senate and a few hours in the House of Representatives. Meanwhile, Vice President Nixon is –"

"An ugly, sweaty toad," Luan spat. She was starting to get angry.

Clyde whipped his head around, his eyes narrowing to slits. "At least Vice President Nixon doesn't have an annoying Boston accent."

"Senator Kennedy is a _war hero,_ " Luan said, her teeth clenching. "What did Nixon do in the war? Besides fighting a pencil across a desk?"

The woman looked back and forth between the two, concern on her face.

"Senator Kennedy will take us to the moon," Luan said, turning to her.

"Vice President Nixon will take us to Pluto," Clyde said, doing likewise.

"He'll also start a war with the Russians."

"Have you ever seen Senator Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev in the same room?" Clyde asked. "No. Hmmm. Maybe because they're the _same person_."

"That's a _lie_!" Luan yelled.

"A vote for Kennedy is a vote for the Soviet Union."

Luan's eyes blazed with fury and her entire body trembled. "Nixon is a homosexual."

 _"He is not!"_

Luan looked up at the woman. Her face was white and her eyes were wide. "Senator Kennedy will pay all your bills. Everything."

"Vice President Nixon will buy and personally deliver your groceries," Clyde said. "And give you money, too."

"Senator Kennedy is Jesus Christ reincarnated."

"Vice President Nixon is the original Jesus Christ."

"Uhhh..." the woman said, drawing back, "I don't think...I want to vote this year."

"Wait!" Luan cried. "Vote for Kennedy and I'll clean your gutters."

Clyde elbowed her aside. "Vote for Nixon and I'll shovel your sidewalk all winter."

Luan hip-checked Clyde. "Vote for Kennedy and I'll paint your house."

Clyde knocked the stack of flyers from Luan's hands, and they scattered across the porch. "Vice President Nixon would have seen that coming."

Luan wheeled around and knocked Clyde's flyers out of _his_ hands. "Senator Kennedy would have seen _that_ coming!"

The woman shut the door and closed the curtains.

"He can't see _anything_ coming over that big nose of his," Clyde said, his hands flying to his hips.

Luan laughed harshly. "You're one to talk. Nixon's chin is so big it has its own zip code."

"Kennedy's father was a Nazi lover!"

"Nixon is a Nazi period!"

They were still arguing when a black and white police cruiser stopped at the curb...and they were still arguing as they were put into the back.

* * *

Lincoln Loud loved a good study date with his best girl, Ronnie Anne. He did not, however, love the third wheel...his brother, Lynn. Oh, he loved Lynn...he just didn't love Lynn being in the room when he and Ronnie Anne were stretched out side-by-side on the bed, their books open in front of them. It was awkward.

It also prevented him and Ronnie Anne from kissing...or even holding hands. Lynn would sit there on his bed, his back against the wall and his legs splayed out in front of him, and divide his attention between _Sports Illustrated_ and them, sometimes jerking his head suddenly and violently up as if to catch them off-guard in the middle of doing something wrong. Lynn didn't much like it either. Sometimes when Lincoln or Ronnie Anne laughed, he would laugh too – mockingly, his lips scrunched and his head bobbing back and forth. "Hehehehehe, oh, Lincoln, you're so _funny._ " Ronnie Anne would invariably flip him the finger, and he'd flip one back. Sometimes when they sparred in the backyard, Lincoln would give it his all just to pay Lynn back: Just the other day he knocked his brother's head off the ground on purpose because he _really_ got on his nerves the night before.

Even though none of them liked the arrangement, it was the only way Lincoln's parents would let Ronnie Anne come over and study with him, so what was he to do? On the evening of October 24th, he and Ronnie Anne were lying on their stomachs and looking down at their history books. Neither one was particularly poor at history, but they wanted to spend time together, ya dig? Lynn was sitting on his bed and lazily paging through his magazine when he suddenly let out a groan. Lincoln turned just as his brother jumped up, his hand flying to his stomach. He turned his head as Lynn rushed down the hall and threw the bathroom door open, then slammed it behind him.

"What's with him?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"Guess he has to poop."

She glanced at him, and before she could stop him, he stole a quick kiss, his tongue skipping across hers. She blushed. "That was naughty, square-for-brains. We're not supposed to be doing _that_."

Lincoln shrugged. "Eh."

"Eh?"

Lincoln nodded. "Eh."

She giggled and turned back to her book. "You're a dork."

Lincoln glanced at the small of her back, his heart beginning to race as the thought of laying his hand on it came to him. Would she let him? It wasn't a bad thing, right? It's not like he was putting his hand up her dress. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the mattress, started to move in that direction, then chickened out. He tried again, but went full wimp again. Sigh.

Taking a deep breath, she rolled onto her side and looked at him. "It's starting to get late."

Outside, darkness pressed against the window. Soon Bobby would be by to pick her up. Lincoln sighed. "Yeah."

She touched his arm and grinned devilishly. "Wanna make out real quick?"

Lincoln's heart seized. He glanced over his shoulder at the open door. He started to point it out, but Ronnie Anne cut him off. "We're fine. No one's going to see."

"I don't..."

She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a hungry kiss, her tongue parting his lips and wrapping around his. Lincoln kissed her back, his hand creeping to her cheek, and she released his shirt, her palm flattening against his chest. Their tongues wrestled for dominance, and with every lick, Lincoln's passion rose, filling his body like boiling tar. His penis began to stir, and he felt a momentary rush of horror: What if she saw it and thought he was a pervert?

The sweet taste of her mouth and the way her tongue softly caressed his pushed that away. The kiss broke, and she grinned at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again...and undid the top button of her dress.

"W-What are you doing?"

She undid the second, then the third, never breaking eye contact: The corners of her mouth were turned sinfully up, and a shiver sparked downward through Lincoln's spine. She laid her hand on his and lifted it. For a minute his mind was haywire...he didn't understand what was happening...then she guided it, slipping it into her dress and pressing it against her breast. Bare flesh touched bare flesh, and Lincoln gasped as her rigid nipple brushed his palm. His fingers instinctively hooked, and her soft, warm mound filled his hand. A hazy look flickered across her eyes, and she moaned deep in her throat. Lincoln swallowed hard...his heart and his penis beat in time...his mind raced.

They stared into each other's eyes as he held her in his hand, her heart gently pounding against his palm. He tried to speak, but couldn't, so he kissed her instead, deeply and passionately, his hand beginning to rub and her heart beginning to beat faster. The kiss became more hungry, more urgent, and when she slipped her hand between his legs and squeezed his bulging erection, he panted into her mouth. Her fingertips dragged slowly along his length, and he shuddered, his breathing quick and shallow. They were no longer kissing: Their lips faintly touched, their hot breaths mingling.

After a minute, she pulled her hand away, and with it went her warmth. She looked up at him and he looked down at her. "Can I have my breast back?" she asked, and giggled. He pulled his hand out and she hurriedly buttoned her dress as Lincoln gaped. Did he really just touch her...breast? And did she really just touch his prick?

She touched his chin and pushed his jaw closed. "So," she said, "how'd you like second base?"

"A-A lot," he said shakily.

She giggled. "So did I." She leaned in, and when she spoke, her voice was low, as if she were imparting a great secret. "No one's ever touched me there before."

Lincoln nodded dumbly. "No one's ever...touched me...there before either."

"First time for everything," she said, and pecked his lips.

A few minutes later, Leni called up the stairs. "Ronnie, uh, like, Bobby's here."

"Alright!" she called back. She grabbed her history book and looked at Lincoln. "You wanna walk me downstairs?"

"I-I-I don't think I can."

Her brow furrowed, then she glanced down at his pants: His erection made a sizable tent in his khakis. She brushed her teeth across her bottom lip. "I did that, huh?" she asked, a hint of wonder in her voice. She looked up, and he nodded.

"Good," she said. "You made me, uh..." she blushed. "You made kind of like that too, but, like, in a girl way."

Lincoln tilted his head. Okay, he didn't know _much_ about the female body, but he knew that girls didn't have anything to get hard. Ronnie Anne's blush deepened and she looked away. "When a girl gets...excited...she gets kind of...wet. And I'm kind of wet right now."

"So...you liked it?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I just told you that." She grinned and kissed his lips. "I'll see you at school."

For a long time Lincoln lay on his bed, his heart racing and his penis hard at the memory of her touch. When he was finally soft, he went downstairs to get a drink of water. He was just coming into the living room from the kitchen when Mom opened the door. Huh. Guess someone knocked.

"Good evening, ma'am," a policeman said. "Does this girl belong to you?"

Lincoln got closer, and saw Luan standing between two cops, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

"Luan?" Mom gasped. "Yes! W-What did she do?"

The cop who had spoken sighed. "Let's see...littering, disturbing the peace...she also used a lot of bad words to describe Richard Nixon."

"Richard Nixon?" Mom asked, speaking the word as though she'd never heard it before.

"Yeah, she and a colored boy were arguing over who would make a better president. Your daughter was for Kennedy, the boy was for Nixon. It got pretty heated."

Something told Lincoln that the colored boy was Clyde. Clyde was _really_ passionate about Nixon...just as passionate as Luan was about Kennedy.

"The boy actually brought up some good points," the other cop said. "I _was_ going to go for Kennedy, but...I don't know now."

"I was thinking of Nixon, but the girl made a hell of a case for Kennedy." He shook his head. "Anyway, we let the boy go with a warning, so we're gonna do the same for your daughter."

"Thank you," Mom said.

The first cop tipped his hat, and as they left, Lincoln could hear them beginning to bicker. "Luan Marie Loud," Mom said firmly, "get to your room right this instant. You are grounded for the next two weeks."

Luan's face fell. "But, Mom..."

"And if you think you're watching the last Nixon-Kennedy debate, you are sorely mistaken, young lady."

" _Mom, no!"_

Mom stepped aside and pointed up the stairs.

 _"Please let me watch it! I'm begging you!"_

"No. Get to your room. _Now_."

Luan broke out crying and ran up the stairs, slamming her door behind her.

If it was any consolation, several streets over, Clyde McBride cried himself to sleep after being given a similar punishment: Missing that debate would haunt him for the rest of his life.


	11. May 1961: Part 1

**White eyed fox: Don't you worry none, there are plenty more songs coming.**

 **STR2D3PO: Bobby not knowing what a pizza is was inspired by my grandfather. One night back in the fifties he was playing cards with some guys or something and someone brought a pizza in. He'd never seen one before and had no idea what it was, but wound up loving it.**

* * *

 _ **The best things in life are free  
**_

 _ **But you can keep them for the birds and bees  
**_

 _ **I need money**_

 **\- Barrett Strong** _ **(Money, 1960)**_

Lincoln Loud spun the wheel and navigated the Ford around an orange cone, then spun it in the other direction, narrowing avoiding another. He grimaced and stole a sidelong glance at the driving instructor in the passenger seat, a big fat man in a plaid blazer, his beady eyes framed by large, black-rimmed glasses: He made no sign that Lincoln had done anything wrong, and the boy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

At the end of the course, he parallel parked between two cones and cut the engine. "How did I do?" he asked eagerly.

"Good," the instructor said, making checks on a clipboard with a pen. "You passed the written test, you passed the driving portion – son, you are now the proud owner of a learner's permit."

Lincoln beamed. He wasn't even fifteen and already he could drive. Poor Leni hadn't taken the test in over a year because she'd pretty much given up hope of passing. It made him feel kind of bad to have his permit when she still didn't, but that was blown away by the sheer joy of being legally allowed to operate a motor vehicle.

The instructor threw his door open and got out. Lincoln followed. It was a clear, mild spring day, and a light breeze redolent of flowers and honeysuckle blew from the west. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Ahhh...the smell of victory. Inside the DMV, he waited impatiently at the desk for his permit, his fingers drumming on the countertop. Grand visions of him pulling up to Ronnie Anne's house in a hot set of wheels (he was wearing sunglasses) floated through his head, and he smiled. Lincoln Loud: Cool Guy and Expert Driver.

He frowned.

Lincoln Loud: Cool Guy, Expert Driver...and No-Car Haver.

The vision in his mind turned to one of him proudly admiring his new permit while walking to the bus stop. True, he could probably use Dad's Packard, but he didn't _want_ to use the Packard. He wanted his own car, a cooler car.

The only problem was this: He didn't have money for a car. His pockets were empty (except for a pack of gum, a lighter, and a pack of Camels). And borrowing from his parents? Forget it! They didn't have money either. Dough, like privacy, was rare in the Loud house: He couldn't count the number of times he and his siblings had beat the stuffing out of each other over pocket change. Dad did his best, and they never went without what they needed, but a lot of the times, they didn't get what they wanted.

What good is a permit without a car? A _cool_ car?

The instructor returned with his permit, and he paid the fee (okay, he had _that_...but it was in his wallet, not his pockets, so technically he was telling the truth about having empty pockets). Outside, he slipped his permit into his wallet and walked the three blocks to the bus stop. He needed money. He passed the town bank, and briefly considered robbing it, but decided against it: He'd make a terrible criminal and an even worse inmate. He could start playing the lottery...but that would take forever. By the time he finally won, he'd need a pilot's license to drive.

He dropped onto the bench with a sigh. He could get a job.

He brightened...then darkened again. He was two months shy of fifteen. The only job he could get would pay minimum wage, which was 1.25 an hour (he only knew that because he heard on the radio that they voted to raise it last Wednesday). That wasn't a bad sum (man, all the stuff he could _do_ with 1.25 an hour!), but it would take him _forever_ to save up for a car, even a used one.

What other options did he have, though? Hope one dropped out of the sky and landed in front of him? 'Hi, Lincoln, I'm a brand new 1961 Chevrolet, please get in and drive me.' Like _that_ was going to happen. It might take a while, but at least he'd be working toward his goal instead of sitting on a bench and feeling sorry for himself. Sigh. He hoped cars in the year 2000 were nice, because that's when he'd be able to afford one.

The bus pulled up and the doors opened. Lincoln dropped his fare into the box and moved to the back, taking a seat across from a fat woman in a pink muumuu. If he got a job at 1.25 an hour and worked, say, four hours a day after school, that would be five dollars in a day. If he worked every day, that would be thirty-five dollars in a week. He bowed his head at how daunting it was, but like they say, good things come to those who wait.

Alright. His mind was made up. He would get an after school job. When he got home, he snagged the newspaper from the kitchen table and took it upstairs. On his way to his room, Luna called his name, and he jerked. Darn it. "Yeah?" he asked, popping his head into her room. She sat in the middle of her bed in a pair of jeans and a blue and white striped shirt. The guitar she made three summers ago was in her lap, and her fingers strummed the strings.

"Hey, listen to this and tell me if it's good." She played a few notes, and, yeah, it actually _did_ sound good. She was teaching herself to play, and while the going was slow, she was getting better.

"That sounds great," he said.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "Yeah, you're improving."

She smiled wide. "Thanks. There's a bar on Route 29 that's looking for a guitarist on Saturday nights, and I was thinking of stopping in and seeing if I'm good enough."

"Go for it," he said, "I think you're great." That wasn't a lie, he _did_ think she was great. Not the best, but great nonetheless. If she kept practicing, she would be a rock star one day.

She nodded. "Yeah, I think I _will_. Thanks, Linc!"

He saluted.

In his room, he dropped onto the bed and laid the paper out in front of him. Let's see, where's that classified section? Oh, here we go. He leaned in and squinted at the tight columns. WANT, FOR SALE, PERSONAL, JOBS. He scanned what was available, and sighed. Nothing _he_ could do. 'Exp. Required,' 'must have car.' I don't _have_ a car...that's why I'm looking for a crummy job in the first place!

He put the paper back together and returned it to the table. Well, _that_ was a bust. He turned to leave, and Luan was there, startling him. "Hey, Linc!"

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," he said, clutching his chest.

"Sorry," she said and brushed past him. "How'd the test go?"

Test? What test? Oh! "Great, I passed."

"Good job!" she said as she bent into the fridge. "I bet you're excited."

"Yeah," he said, "I'm kind of bummed though. I don't have a car."

She bumped the door closed with her hip, a plate of leftovers from the night before in her hands. "Neither do I. Yet."

"I know...and you seem okay with it. I'm not. I want a set of _wheels_."

She grabbed a fork from the drawer and sat at the table. "Get a job."

"That's what I'm trying to do," he said. "I just checked the classified ads, but there's nothing. Maybe I should –"

An idea struck him, and he grinned. It wasn't a surefire thing, but it was worth a shot. In the living room, he sat on the sofa, picked up the phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart. After a few rings, a woman answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Santiago," he said, "Bobby wouldn't happen to be there, would he?"

"Yes," Mrs. Santiago said, "he actually just came in. I will put him on."

She sat the phone down, and Lincoln heard her calling for Bobby. He drummed his fingers on his knee. Come on, come on. A moment later, the phone was picked up and Bobby's voice came on the line. "Hello?"

"Bobby," Lincoln said happily, "it's Lincoln."

"Oh, hey, Linc," Bobby said, "how's it going?"

"Good, good," Lincoln said, "hey...you remember what you told me about friends helping friends?"

"Yeah."

"Well...I need some help. I just passed my driver test and I'm looking for a job. I was wondering if you could talk to Flip and see if he'll hire me."

Bobby worked for Flip for a long time and Flip loved him. If Bobby went to him and talked Lincoln up, Flip was _sure_ to hire him.

"Uh, yeah, I guess I can talk to him tomorrow. I don't know if he needs anyone, though. How are you going to do that with school?"

Luan poked her head in from the kitchen like the nosey nelly she was, and Lincoln ignored her. "I was hoping I could work in the afternoons and on the weekends."

"Okay, well, I'll talk to him for you. I can't promise anythin' but I'll certainly try.

Lincoln smiled. 'Thanks, Bobby!"

"No problemo, little man."

"Is Ronnie Anne there?"

"Yeah, she's here. You wanna talk to her?"

"Of course."

A few moments later, Ronnie Anne's voice came on. "Hey, lame-o," she said, and Lincoln could hear her smile, "how's it going?"

"Alright," Lincoln said. "You got anything going on today?"

Ronnie Anne sighed. "Actually, yes. My aunt and uncle are visiting from Mexico and I'm kind of stuck."

"Oh," Lincoln said, frowning. He was kind of hoping to see her.

"I'm sorry," she sighed.

"No, it's fine," he said, "family's important. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll walk over."

"Okay," he grinned.

* * *

Lori Loud woke early on Thursday, May 11, to the sensation (and sound) of her stomach rumbling. Oh great, so it starts. She sighed and brushed her hair back from her forehead, then glanced at the next bed over when Leni muttered in her sleep. Lori listened carefully, but didn't hear anything about spiders, which was good, because when Leni had spider dreams, she was literally a wreck the next day. Lori didn't get it: Why was she so afraid of spiders? They were just bugs. Ugly, sure, but centipedes were ugly too, and Leni had no problem with those.

Whatever. Lori got up went into the hall. Everyone else was still asleep (except for Dad, he would already be at work), so she used the bathroom and crept down the stairs as silently as possible. In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and rummaged around. Hm, what sounds good? Eggs? Maybe. Bacon? Most definitely! There wasn't very much, and if she made some for herself, she'd have to make some for everyone, so...eh, if she broke the strips in two there would be enough.

She took a package of bacon and a few eggs out then grabbed a cast iron skillet from the cabinet. She sat it on the range, turned it on, and threw a few pieces of bacon in: They instantly began to sizzle. _Now_ we're cooking with gas! What _else_ did she want? Toast? Pancakes? A steak? She was _hungry_.

Her stomach rumbled and she patted it: She didn't like the way it jiggled slightly. Her mother said she was gaining weight, and even though Lori adamantly denied it, she _was_. She couldn't help it, though, she was hungry a lot lately. What was she supposed to do, starve herself? Yeah, let me get right on that. While I'm at it, why don't I shove a fork into an electrical outlet?

The bacon was popping now. She took a big whiff – and instantly regretted it: Her stomach lurched and twisted violently. She clamped a hand to her mouth and tried to fight back a rush of bile, but the bile won out, and she barely made it to the sink, where she puked, her hands gripping the edge and her knees shaking. The stream cut out, and she pushed herself back, only to lean forward again when another wave of nausea crashed over her. She puked again, her chest burning and her stomach rolling: The hot smell wafted back to her, and she threw up a third time, splattering the sink.

For a long time she leaned heavily against the countertop and took deep, evenly spaced breaths. Her heart slammed wildly and her guts roiled sickly. When she thought she was okay, she turned on the faucet and cupped her hand under the flow. She splashed water in her face, then onto the steaming pile of vomit. Her stomach clenched again, and she closed her eyes lest the sight send her off puking again. When the sink was clean, she cut the faucet and pushed away, stumbling to the stove on shaky legs. Oh, jeez, what was _that_ about?

She didn't know, but she did know one thing: The bacon was burned and she didn't care. Food was literally the _last_ thing she wanted right now. Using a pot holder, she picked the skillet up, carried it to the trashcan, and dumped the horrible, horrible bacon in. Strange. She _loved_ bacon. Why did the smell of it make her hurl?

In her room, she dropped onto her bed and curled up. Her stomach was still iffy, and, suddenly, she felt drained. The clock on the nightstand said it was 6:21. In less than ten minutes everyone else would start to get up and the day would commence. Ugh. She didn't _feel_ like commencing her day. She felt like cancelling it.

At 6:30, the alarm went off and Leni slapped it with a moan. Someone opened and closed the bathroom door. Luan cracked one of her dumb jokes, and Luna groaned. Lori felt a _little_ better, but still not 100 percent. Maybe if she laid in bed until Bobby came to pick her up, she'd be okay.

She wasn't.

As she went down the walk to where Bobby was parked at the curb, her stomach clenched and growled. Today is going to be lovely, she thought, simply _lovely_. She opened the passenger door and Bobby grinned. "Hey, babe."

"Hey," she said and got in. They kissed.

"How's my best gal today?" he asked as he pulled away and started down the street.

"Sick," Lori pouted.

He glanced at her, concern in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"My tummy feels icky."

"Aw, I'm sorry." He stroked her face with the back of his hand, and she smiled as she leaned into it. Since graduation, Bobby had started working for Blades' father full time, and she started taking financial accounting classes at the college. They rarely got to see one another, and sometimes Lori really missed him.

She sighed and pulled away. "It's okay. I feel a little better now. It was _really_ bad this morning."

"I hear there's a bug goin' around," Bobby said. "Blades said he was so messed up he shit himself." Bobby laughed, and Lori couldn't help but snicker. Blades was seeing some girl from Milton now (an actual girl and not his hand, Lori thought with a blush – Bobby, you've corrupted me!) and every once in a while they double dated. Her name was Clara, and she was a cute redhead with green eyes; they seemed to get along well, and Blades even told Bobby he was thinking of marrying her. Poor guy pooped in his pants, huh? God, she hoped that didn't happen to _her_. She would literally die of embarrassment.

"He wasn't with his girl was he?" Lori asked.

Bobby shrugged. "I dunno. He didn't say. He's seein' her tonight so probably not. If he shit himself in front of her she'd probably dump his ass."

Lori cocked her head. "I don't think she'd do that. She's a nice girl."

"Maybe. I dunno. If you pooped yourself and I caught wind of it, this thing would be over in a heartbeat." He looked at her and winked. She slapped his arm. "Come on, you wouldn't break up with _me_?"

"No! I'm caring and understanding unlike _some_ people I know."

"Who's that?" Bobby asked.

"I'll give you a hint: He wears a leather jacket and drives a car with flames on the sides."

Bobby nodded. "Sounds like a cool guy."

"Despite his flaws, he is. I like him very much."

"Well, that presents a problem, because I happen to like you too. Tell me where this guy lives, we're gonna have to have a talk."

Lori shook her head and rolled her eyes. By now they were pulling onto Wyman Street. Royal Woods Community College was ahead on the left, a wide brick building with tall, arched windows and Grecian columns. Kids in dresses and sweaters milled in the wide commons, standing by the fountain and under trees budding with the colors of spring. Bobby stopped in the middle of the street. "You should ditch," he said, "and hang out with me." There was a twinkle in his eye, and Lori laughed. So far, they had 'hung out' only once, and it wasn't something they planned. They were in at the drive-in seeing _The Absent-Minded Professor_ and it was a real snoozefest. Bobby touched her, she touched him, and then they moved into the back seat. In a way she regretted it, but in a way she didn't. She _wanted_ to wait until they were married (she had already decided she would say yes if he asked), but she felt closer to him now than ever before, and her love had only increased. She didn't plan on doing it again, though; she wasn't that kind girl.

She leaned forward and pecked him on the lips. "If you want to hang out like _that_ , you're going to have to marry me."

Bobby shrugged one shoulder. "Alright. Why not?"

Lori tilted her head forward. "Is that a proposal?"

"Sure," he grinned. "I gotta get a ring, though." He looked around, then patted his pockets and pulled something out: A silver Zippo with his initials engraved on it. "Here, until then, take this." He held it out.

"A lighter?" she asked playfully.

"Just until I get the ring," he said.

Shaking her head, Lori took it and slipped it into her pocket. "Alright," she said, then kissed him again. "I guess it'll do. For now."

She got out of the car and crossed in front of it, waving at Bobby as she did. He watched her until she was gone, then sat back and raked a hand through his hair, his face paling. Oh, man, marriage? You know, he planned on marrying her – every time he tried to picture himself in ten or fifteen years, Lori was always there – but...wow. That's a _big_ step. They'd have to get a house...and the wedding itself (those things aren't cheap)...it was intimidating.

Very, very intimidating.

Feeling shaky and nervous, Bobby chewed his thumb nail and drove to Flip's.


	12. May 1961: Part 2

**Come on, guys, we don't know that Lori's pregnant. Maybe she has a rare disease, and Bobby's going to marry her on her deathbed and be depressed and sad for the rest of the story.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Runaround Sue**_ **by Dion (1961)**

When Lincoln came out the front door that Thursday morning, Ronnie Anne was sitting on the top step and watching a man trying to change his back tire. He was kneeling next to it and weaving a tapestry of obscenities so thick that Lincoln was a little surprised she wasn't choking on it. Her elbows were on her knees and her face rested in her palms. She wore a purple dress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and held in place with a purple ribbon. Lincoln didn't think she knew he was there until she spoke. "He's been trying to change that damn tire for fifteen minutes." She giggled and jumped up. As they always did when he saw her for the first time after a while, his eyes darted to her chest. Once upon a time it was flat. Now it wasn't. He felt himself stirring and glanced away, ostensibly at the man trying to change his tire.

"Looks like he's having trouble."

"I'll say," Ronnie Anne said. She took his hand in hers. "You ready?"

Lincoln looked into her warm, brown eyes and grinned. "Always."

As they walked, she threaded her fingers through his. "How'd your test go?"

"I passed it," he said.

She looked at him. "Really? That's great. How's Leni taking it? You were kind of worried."

"Yeah, it was for nothing." When Mom asked him about it last night at dinner, he winced but told her. Everyone was really supportive, even Leni, who didn't seem fazed in the least. She probably gave up on the idea of ever driving herself, and that made Lincoln feel bad.

Ronnie Anne squeezed his hand. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks," he said with a blush.

"Now you can pick me up and we can cruise."

"Well," Lincoln said, "the next step is getting a car."

"You need money for that," she pointed out.

"I know. I asked Bobby to talk to Flip for me. Hopefully I can work there."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "That'd be pretty cool. Flip's a good guy. It's gonna take a while to save up enough money for a car working at Flip's, though."

Lincoln sighed and slumped his shoulders. "I know. I figure if I save every penny I can have a set of wheels by the year 1985."

Ronnie Anne's eyes widened. "Whoa. You know, the price of cars will probably go up, so it'll be kind of like a mirage, you know? You keep going toward it but it keeps going away."

Sigh. "Yeah."

She let go of his hand and rubbed his back, then rested her head on his arm. "I'm kidding. It won't take that long."

"Long enough," Lincoln said, "I wanna drive _now_."

"Good things –"

" – come to those who wait. I know. I told myself the same thing yesterday."

When they got to school, Ronnie Anne stepped into his arms and they kissed, her body pressing close to his. He started to get an erection, but called up an image of naked fat men dancing in the snow, their little things cold and shrunken and their nipples rock hard, and it went away. "See you in class," she said, looking up at him. He smiled and caressed her cheek.

"Not if I see you first."

All that day, Lincoln fidgeted with restless energy. Was Bobby talking to Flip? Did he forget? Would he do it later? He probably forgot: He was so goo-goo over Lori that his brain didn't have room for anything else. Lincoln sighed. There was a payphone in the cafeteria; maybe he should call Bobby later and remind him. No, he didn't want to be annoying. He also didn't want Bobby to forget.

At lunch, he sat across from Clyde. His glasses were taped in the middle. "Another incident?" Lincoln asked as he opened his milk.

"Yep," Clyde said, "I looked down too quickly and they fell off."

Lincoln winced. "Ouch."

"Tell me about it. Now I look like some kind of nerd or something."

Lincoln opened his mouth, but Clyde held up his hand. "Don't even."

They both laughed.

Last year, Clyde got a job cleaning horse stables and Lincoln didn't get to see him too much, which kind of upset him: Clyde was his best friend and once upon a time they were inseparable. Now, they saw each other at school and _sometimes_ on the weekends. He didn't really come over to Lincoln's house that much anymore because he and Luan had bad blood: He didn't know the whole story, but it had to do with politics and them being arrested last year (okay, they weren't _really_ arrested, just stuffed and given a warning). The first time Clyde came over after that, Luan saw him and her eyes slitted dangerously. _"I have a few choice words for you, mister,"_ she said and put her hands on her hips. _"Well, I just happen to have some for_ you _,"_ Clyde replied. Sigh. People really take politics too seriously.

Clyde took a drink of milk. "How'd the test go?"

"Good," Lincoln said, "I passed."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. I just need a car now. And a job to _get_ a car."

Ronnie Anne dropped next to Lincoln, startling him. "Are you still stressing out?" she asked. "You're such a worry wart."

"I just really hope I can get this job."

Clyde tilted his head. "What job is that?"

"Flip's," Lincoln said.

"Ah. Okay. That'd be nice. Does he give employee discounts?"

Lincoln shrugged. "I dunno. I'm not really interested in food, I'm interested in money."

"Well, if it falls through I can talk to my boss. We can always use another pair of hands...not a lot of people wanna clean horse stables."

Lincoln smiled nervously. He was one of those people. "I don't think I'd like that."

Clyde shrugged. "Whatever. That just means I get overtime." He smiled smugly and took a drink of milk.

"Yay, you get to play in poop longer," Ronnie Anne said sarcastically.

Clyde reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it: Lincoln's eyes widened at the fat stack of bills therein. "Thirty-eight dollars," Clyde said, "and that's just what I carry on me. The rest is at home."

Ronnie Anne whistled. "That _is_ nice...but still, it's poop, McBride."

"So?"

She shook her head and looked at Lincoln. "Where'd you find this weirdo?"

"He wasn't paying attention to what he was doing and sat down across from me one day," Clyde said. "He was all bummed out because he asked you to that dance and you turned him down."

Lincoln's face flushed. "Well..."

Ronnie Anne put her arm around his shoulder and pecked his cheek. "Aw...you were bummed?"

"Yeah," Lincoln admitted. "I was really sad."

She giggled and pressed her lips to his face: They were warm and soft and a tingle went down Lincoln's spine. "For the record," she said, her breath hot against his skin, "I liked you anyway. I was just nervous."

"Really?" Lincoln asked, turning. He didn't know that.

She nodded. "Yep."

"Nervous over me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't start that self-deprecating shit, square-for-brains. You're amazing."

Lincoln's blush deepened. "Thank you."

Clyde shook his head and polished off his milk. Sometimes he felt like he had to compete with Ronnie Anne for Lincoln's attention...and how can you compete with a _girl?_ He loved Linc like a brother, but he was _not_ going to kiss him and hold his hand, so...Ronnie Anne had _that_ over him.

At the end of the day, Lincoln waited by the front door for Ronnie Anne. She had just come out when he spotted Bobby's car at the intersection: He came through the light and parked at the curb. Lincoln's heart leapt. Without a word, he hurried over, leaving Ronnie Anne in the dust. Bobby rolled down the driver side window. "So?" Lincoln asked.

"I talked to Flip, and he said he could use you."

Happiness surged through Lincoln like a tidal wave. He threw his head back and fisted his hands. New car, here I come!

Bobby chuckled. "He wants you to come in and see how you do."

"Today?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah."

"Sure!"

Bobby nodded. "Alright. Hop in and I'll drive you over."

"Shotgun!" Ronnie Anne cried next to him, making him jump. One day she was going to give him a heart attack.

He climbed in behind the passenger seat and Ronnie Anne got in front. Bobby lit a cigarette and turned up the radio. "Lincoln?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"Way ahead of you," he said, handing her a cigarette.

She turned and smiled prettily. "Thank you."

He lit his own cigarette and nodded. "Anything for you."

She giggled.

"Yuck," Bobby said, "you guys are gonna make me gag with that stuff."

Ronnie Anne turned to him. "Oh, like you and Lori don't do it?"

They did. Lori and Bobby were always talking cute on the phone. At first Lincoln thought it was just Lori, but one day he was over at Ronnie Anne's house, and he heard Bobby doing it too.

Bobby leaned forward and turned the radio up. Saxophone and drums filled the car. "I can't hear you."

 _Yeah I should have known it from the very start  
_

 _This girl will leave me with a broken heart._

"I said..."

Bobby turned the radio higher. "Huh?"

 _Now listen people what I'm telling you  
_

 _A'keep away from a'runaround Sue._

There was a speaker by Lincoln's head: His eardrums vibrated painfully and he winced.

' _I SAID YOU DO IT TOO!"_

Bobby tapped his fingers on the wheel. _"YEAH, THIS_ IS _A GOOD SONG! I AGREE!"_

Ronnie Anne turned the radio down. "Hey," Bobby said, "I like that song! Runaway Sue. Really hip."

"It's giving me a headache," she said and crossed her arms.

"I think you broke my ears," Lincoln added.

"Next time you assholes can ride on the roof, how about that?"

A few minutes later, they pulled into the Flip's parking lot and slid into a space in front of one of the windows. A man in a suit and a woman in a pink dress were eating hamburgers. Suddenly, Lincoln was very nervous. He hoped he did well...he _really_ needed a job.

"Alright," Bobby said and climbed out, "let's go."

Ronnie Anne got out and pulled the seat forward. As Lincoln got out, she pecked his lips, and he responded by slipping his tongue into her mouth. She smiled against him and swirled her tongue around his. An electric thrill raced up and down his body, and he had to beat back an erection. _Fat men...snow...naked..._

"Aw, Jesus, c'mon," Bobby said and put his hands on his hips. "I don't wanna see that."

Still kissing Lincoln, Ronnie Anne held her middle finger up.

"Yeah, back at'cha."

Inside, Flip was leaning against the counter and looking over a sheaf of papers, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He wore his usual attire: Dirty white T-shirt, waist apron, and brown slacks. When they came in, he looked up, and rolled his eyes. "As if seeing you once today wasn't enough."

Bobby spread his hands. "I can't stay away."

"I've noticed."

Flip looked at Lincoln, and he gulped. "You want a job?"

Lincoln nodded. "Y-Yes, sir."

Bobby laid his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "This is –"

"I know who the hell he is," Flip said with a wave of the hand, "kid's in here making goo goo eyes at your sister every day. Might as _well_ put him to work."

That wasn't true! It was more like every _other_ day.

"Yeah, he's got a bad habit of doin' that."

Flip blew a raspberry. "You're one to talk. You do the same thing to _his_ sister."

Ronnie Anne snickered. "Told you."

Bobby pursed his lips. "You gonna put him to work or not? I don't have all day to play tiddly-winks with you, pops."

"Yeah, I'm putting him to work. You and her can get lost."

Ronnie Anne cocked an eyebrow. "You wanna fight, Flip?"

"You don't fight fair, so no," he said. Then, to Lincoln: "You ready, kid?"

Yes, he was.

And no, he wasn't.

He nodded. "Yeah. Ready."

Ronnie Anne kissed him on the cheek. "You'll do great."

Flip's face crinkled. "I don't wanna see that."

"You shoulda seen what they were doing outside," Bobby said, "in front of God and everyone. It was obscene."

Flip held up his hand. "I don't want to hear about it. Come on, Lincoln."

Bobby squeezed Lincoln's shoulder. "I'm picking Lori up, so I'll have her tell your folks where you are."

"I'll only keep him a few hours," Flip said. "See what he's made of."

Bobby and Ronnie Anne left, Ronnie Anne giving him an encouraging smile, and he was alone in the workforce with Flip.

Lincoln came around the counter when Flip gestured to him, then followed him through a door. Beyond, a small, cramped kitchen opened before him. There was a flat grill, a couple freezers and a fridge along one wall, and a sink flanked by shelves on the other. Pots and pans hung from racks over the center of the room: Two metal prep tables separated one half from the other. "You ever wash dishes, kid?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I wash dishes all the time at home."

"Good," Flip said. "This is the same principle." He went over to the sink and swept his hand over it in a _wah-lah_ gesture. "You got your sink – there's a sponge floating around, steel wool should be in there. The waitresses will bring the plates and the silverware and the cups back and put 'em here." He patted a flat surface flanking the left side of the sink. "You wash 'em then sit 'em over there to dry a little." He nodded to another flat surface. "When they're done, you bring 'em out front. There's a standing shelf, I don't know if you saw it when you came in. You stack the plates, stack the cups, there's a tray for the silverware. It's simple. The cook will give you whatever he dirties, but that's not too much. You know the menu by heart, we have five fucking things. It gets busy, though. You seen that. Think you can handle it?"

Lincoln nodded. It _sounded_ simple enough.

"Good," Flip said. "Santiago stuck his stupid greaser neck out for you, kid. No pressure." Flip winked and Lincoln gulped. "Now where the hell is my cook? I'm not paying this guy to fuck around."

As if on cue, a door opened and a tall, thin black man in white pants, a white shirt, and a white cap came in from outside. "I was just wondering where your black ass got to."

The man waved his hand. "Smoking, Flip. That okay with you?" At a guess, he was in his mid-to-late forties, maybe older: His brown eyes were faded and his face was beginning to crack like old leather.

"You know, if you chewed tobacco you wouldn't have to go outside."

"I also wouldn't have my jaw."

Flip clapped Lincoln's back, and the boy nearly fell. "Lincoln, this is Ernie. He's the one been making all those fries you and your girlfriend been eating over the past two years. Ernie, this is Lincoln. He's my new dish jockey."

"Nice to meet you, Lincoln," Ernie said warmly. "Why you wanna work for this old sonofabitch?"

Lincoln opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.

"Because I told him if he did good I'd fire your ass and give him your job."

Ernie pursed his lips and raised his brows. "We got a saying in Detroit. 'Don't you threaten me with a good time.'"

Flip nodded. "We'll see how good a time you're having when you're begging pocket change on the corner."

Ernie shook his head. "One thing you gotta know, Lincoln." He hooked a thumb at Flip. "This man has _no_ respect. I fought in World War II and look how he does me."

"I fought in the one before that," Flip said, "so I can do you however I want."

Ernie waved his hand. "Flip, you didn't even leave the states, shut up. _I_ was at Iwo Jima."

"Hiding in a goddamn crater, I bet."

"I gotta show you my gunshot again? And my bay-o-net wound?"

Lincoln's eyes darted from one man to the other.

"You gotta get your ass on that grill, that's what you gotta do." Flip looked down at Lincoln. "You good, kid?"

"Y-Yeah, I should be."

Flip nodded. "You got an undershirt on?"

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Yeah. Why?"

"Take off that plaid nightmare unless you want it ruined."

With that, Flip left, and Lincoln tilted his head in confusion. First of all, his shirt looked nice. Second...why would it get ruined? He unbuttoned it and pulled it off: Underneath he was wearing a white tank top. He looked around for somewhere to put his shirt, then spotted a chair by the door. He went over, hung it over the back, and came back to the sink. Ernie was standing at the grill and reading an order. "How old are you, Lincoln?" he asked without turning.

Lincoln dipped his hands into the water. There was a stack of plates waiting. "Fourteen," he said. "I'll be fifteen in July." He picked up the first plate, found his sponge, and hurriedly washed it. Let's see how quick I can be...

"Fifteen? Shew. I can't even remember what that's like." He turned. "Let me ask you something. How old do you think I am?"

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder and took another look at Ernie's face. Yeah, he had to be forty-eight or even fifty. He didn't want to say anything and offend him in case he was just a really old looking thirty. Best to lowball it. "Thirty-five?"

"Nope," Ernie said and sat a hamburger patty on the grill. "Forty-two."

 _Forty-two?_ Gee, he was _way_ off.

"Most people think I'm older," he said. "Can't blame 'em. You know why I look so old?"

Lincoln shook his head.

"I been putting up with Flip's bullshit for two years." He rasped laughter. "Surprised my hair ain't gray yet."

Lincoln washed another plate and sat it on the first. "He's a character," he said.

"Yeah, he's a good guy. I've known him fifteen years."

"Was he really in World War I?" Lincoln asked.

"Yep. I think he enlisted when he was fifteen or something. Lied about his age." Ernie shook his head and laughed. "He was in the middle of the ocean being shipped to the front when the war ended, so they turned him back around. The funny part is, he gets seasick, and he had to be out there longer."

Lincoln blew through the rest of the plates, working as quickly as he could, and then dug around at the bottom of the sink for the silverware. There wasn't much, but what there was he cleaned and sat on the top plate. "What was Iwo Jima like?" he asked, genuinely curious. He saw a John Wayne movie about Iwo Jima once. It looked pretty scary.

"Hell on earth," Ernie said without a trace of humor, which took Lincoln aback. "The Japs'd pop outta holes in the ground and kill you before you even knew something was wrong." He shook his head. "It was a _long_ march up that mountain."

Tense, awkward silence followed, and Lincoln tried not to think _too_ hard about what it must have been like. If it was bad in a John Wayne movie, the real thing must have been ten times worse.

Lincoln was at Flip's for three hours before Flip came back into the kitchen. "Alright, Loud, get outta here."

He was in the middle of washing a plate. Did this mean he was being fired? "H-How'd I do?"

"Good, you did good. You're fast and I like that."

Relief flooded through Lincoln. "So I can come back tomorrow?"

" _I'm_ not washing these damn dishes, and I doubt Ernie is either."

Ernie, standing at the grill and reading another ticket, shook his head. "I don't do dishes, you know that, Flip."

Flip spread his hands. "I guess that means you're coming back."

As he walked home, Lincoln smoked a cigarette and shuffled his feet. He had a job, he had a permit, he was going to get a car at some point...life was _great_.


	13. May 1961: Part 3

**Come on, guys, I'm not gonna rip your hearts out...yet. As for you, white eyed fox, the question isn't who** _ **isn't**_ **making it to 2000, it's who** _ **is.**_

* * *

Life is awful.

Luna Loud slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans and bowed her head as she walked up the gravel shoulder of Route 29, her homemade guitar slung across her back. It was getting late, and dark clouds were forming in the west. It would probably start pouring before she got home, but that was so in keeping with her day that she gave it no special thought. She drew a heavy sigh and kicked a rock, sending it skitting into the road.

She had been studying music at Royal Woods Community College for eight months now, and on the weekends, she played dorm parties for friends. They all told her she was good and tipped her when they could: A couple pennies here, a dime there, a quarter or two once the drinking _really_ started – she allowed herself to believe them, she allowed herself to think she was good.

But she wasn't.

Mr. Jefferson, the owner of the 29 Roadhouse, told her so.

When she first saw the ad in the paper asking for a guitarist, she figured she had it in the bag. Sure, she wasn't the _best_ , but come on, it's a bar, not Carnegie Hall. Mr. Jefferson apparently thought different: She sat on a stool in his dank, smelly little rat hole and played her three best songs: _Lucille_ by Little Richard, _Maybelline_ by Chuck Berry, and _Rock Around the Clock_ by Bill Haley. Mr. Jefferson, a big fat man with a crewcut and a white button-up stretched tight over his gut, sat with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. At first, as she played, she let the music flow through her the way she always did, entering an almost trancelike state. Then, after glancing up and catching a glance of his sour face, she started getting really nervous, and fumbled through _Rock Around the Clock_. Before she was done, he waved his hand and shook his head.

"Sorry, honey, you're not what we're looking for."

Those eight words crashed into Luna like a slab of concrete. "I-I can play something else," she offered.

But he just shook his head. "It's not the songs, sweetie, it's you. You're just not that good. Sorry."

He got up and went behind the counter in a clear _this meeting is over_ gesture. Dazed and beginning to cry, Luna stumbled out and tried not to give in to the tears, but they came whether she wanted them to or not.

She was a fraud...a little girl plucking a shitty homemade guitar and building castles in the sky. She should throw the damn thing in the trash and get real: What chance did _she_ have of being a rock star?

A peal of thunder rolled across the sky, and lightning cracked. Rain drops began to pelt her, slow and few at first, than fast and many. They mingled with her tears as she began to cry anew. She just wanted to play music; music was her life, and she loved it dearly. Before she heard _Rock Around the Clock_ that first time, before the driving drums and crashing guitars swept her away, she didn't know who she was or what she wanted to be. Then...then she heard this new sound, and she knew...she knew and it felt so good to know who she was and what she was: She was Luna Loud, Rock Star in Training. What a joke. More like Luna Loud: Loser in Training.

A car flew by and a curtain of cold rain water splashed over her: She gasped and came to a halt. Goddamn it! She flashed and kicked the gravel. Fuck this shit, man! I hope you fucking wreck!

When the car stopped and backed up, her heart squeezed. Uh...can you read thoughts? It pulled alongside her, and the passenger window came down: A guy with curly blonde hair was leaning over the seat. "Hey, man, I'm real –" he blinked as he presumably realized Luna was a girl. A lot of people mistook her for a boy or a lesbian because of her short hair and shapeless frame. "- I'm real sorry, I didn't mean to, uh, splash you like that. You want a ride?"

"No," Luna said flatly.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied. She started to walk away, but a loud crash of thunder shook the world, making her jump. "On second thought..."

The guy sat up behind the wheel as she slipped in and laid her guitar across her lap. She slammed the door and he started driving, throwing a couple glances at her. "What's that?" he asked, nodding toward the guitar. "It looks like a Bo Diddly guitar."

"It is," Luna said.

"Yeah?" he grinned. "That's cool. I like Bo Diddly. Cool guy. How much did it cost?"

Luna did _not_ feel like making small talk. "I made it," she said.

"No shit?" he asked. "How does it play?"

"Fine," Luna said, " _I'm_ the one who can't play."

The guy's brow furrowed and he looked at her. "Do you play?"

"Not very good."

The wipers clunked across the windshield, making a lonely tempo. Rain sluiced down the passenger window, and through it Luna could see nothing.

"Play something," he said.

"I suck," she said.

"Nah, I bet you're fine. C'mon. Play something."

Luna sighed. She held the guitar as best she could in the cramped space and played a couple cords. "There," she said.

The guy laughed. "That wasn't bad," he said, "I guess. You didn't play very much."

"I'm not really in the mood," Luna said and sighed.

"You alright? You look down. Downer than just from walking in the rain."

"I'm fine," Luna said, beginning to get annoyed, "I just thought I was good and apparently I'm not and I don't know anymore."

The guy nodded and turned back to the road. "Well, I'm sorry. Where are we going?"

"1216 Franklin Avenue."

The guy turned to her, his eyes narrowed. "I know that address. Is it...uh...big house on the corner?"

Luna blinked. Okay, that was creepy. "Y-Yeah."

The guy smiled. "Oh, you know Lori."

"Yeah, she's my sister."

"Alright," he nodded, "my buddy Bobby's dating her. I'm Alvin, by the way, but my friends call me Daggy."

"Luna. What kind of name is Daggy?"

Daggy chuckled and wiped his hand across his mouth. He glanced at her, and at the expression on her face, he laughed harder. "Promise not to laugh?"

"Yeah, I'm probably not gonna laugh."

"When I first met Bobby, I did something he didn't like – I can't remember what the hell it was. He said, 'You're a real fag, you know that?' I got offended, and I'm like, 'No, I'm not.' Then he says, 'Yes you are. Faggy.' He turned it into Daggy because the teacher heard him call me Faggy once and busted his ass."

Luna snickered.

"Hey, you promised you weren't gonna laugh at me."

"Sorry," she said, "I wasn't expecting that."

"Yeah, no one ever does. My Ma thinks they call me it after that comic strip. You know, the one with Dagwood or something? If I told her the truth she'd probably have a heart attack."

They crossed the truss bridge into Royal Woods. Up ahead, a police car sat in the middle of the street, its red emergency beacon flashing lazily in the rain. "Uh-oh," Daggy said, and turned onto State Street.

"You afraid of the cops?" Luna asked.

"It's probably my stepdad, and he likes to bust my balls."

"You're stepdad's a cop?"

"He's the sheriff."

Luna snorted. "That's gotta be rough."

"Nah, he's alright, he just likes to pick on me. If he sees me with a girl, he's gonna think we're together and drag up every embarrassing story he can think of. 'Hey, ya remember that time you shit yourself in the third grade?'"

Luna was shocked into laughter.

"Yeah, Gus, I remember."

Luna waved her hand; tears rolled down her cheeks. "You shit yourself in the third grade?"

Daggy shrugged. "I told the teacher I had to go, but she wouldn't let me. She thought I just wanted to cut."

"Were you a bad kid in school?"

"Not really."

Luna cocked her head. "Really?"

"I was a total piece of shit."

A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of Luna's house. "So, uh, hey," Daggy said as she reached for the handle.

"Yeah?"

"About what you said, you know, being down and all because you can't play or whatever: If playing guitar's what you like to do, do it. I like to draw pictures but I'm terrible. I still do it though. Practice makes perfect and all that."

Luna nodded. "Alright, yeah. Thanks for the ride."

He nodded. "Take it easy. Hey, tell your sister to tell Bobby Daggy wants to fucking hang out with him some time. I never see his ass anymore."

Luna laughed. "Sure."

When she got inside, she found Mom and Leni sitting on the sofa, one of those awful soap operas they liked so much on the TV. They both looked up, Mom's brows lifting and Leni's face brightening. "Hi, Luna!"

"Luna, why are you wet?" Mom asked. "Did you get caught in the rain?"

"Yeah, but I'm fine."

Mom nodded. "How did your...interview go?"

"Not so fine."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, sweetie. Just keep at it."

"Lincy got a job," Leni said happily. "He's, like, saving up for a car or something."

"Nice," Luna said, "I'm glad _someone_ had a good day."

In her room, she peeled off her wet clothes and changed into something dry, then sat on her bed with her guitar. Her mind flashed back to Mr. Jefferson, and instead of depression, she felt something else: Anger. _You're not what we're looking for, honey, uh_. Fucking asshole. She'd show him. She'd practice and practice and practice until she was so good he'd fall on his knees and beg her to play his smelly little bar...and she would say no.

She grinned and started to play.

* * *

"Can I tell you something, lame-o?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"Sure," Lincoln replied.

They were on their way to school. It was a bright, warm spring day, birds chirruped, and a fragrant breeze slipped through the budding trees; they held hands and walked as slowly as they could to prolong their time together before parting.

Ronnie Anne looked at him, and the light of the sun caressed her face. "This is probably going to sound kind of stupid, but...I miss you."

Lincoln had been working at Flip's for almost two weeks: He went straight there from school, washed dishes until seven in the evening, then went home. Though they still walked together in the mornings, and ate together at lunch, they no longer had time for study dates...or _any_ kind of dates. Before, they would stop at Flip's and share an order of French fries or a milkshake: A quick, simple thing...but it meant so much because she was with him.

He nodded sadly. "Yeah. I miss you too."

"I don't want to sound needy or anything," she said, "but...I like being with you."

He grinned and lifted her hand to his lips. "I like being with you too. We're both in luck: I'm off today so maybe we can do something."

"Oh, we're _definitely_ doing something," she said, "even if it's just watching paint dry." They stopped at an intersection to let a Cadillac pass. Watching paint dry didn't sound like a fun activity to do with the girl he liked...he was sure he could think of something better. But what?

Hm. "How about we have dinner at that Italian place by the bowling alley?"

Ronnie Anne bobbed her head back and forth. "Eh, I'm not really a fan of Italian food. I mean, if you want we can." She looked at him and smiled. "I'm willing to watch paint dry as long as I can do it with you, I can handle eating something I'm not over the moon about."

"Yeah, but you deserve the best," he said and squeezed her hand.

"I already have it," she replied and squeezed back.

He let go and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him and he rested the side of his head against the top of hers: She was _just_ shorter than he was...and the way she fit in his arms was perfect.

Just like everything else about her.

He opened his mouth to tell her that he loved her, but stopped himself. By unspoken consent, they had had agreed to take their relationship slow, and he didn't know if now was too soon or not. It was true – he loved her, and he thought she loved him back – but why rush headlong into it? They had the rest of their lives ahead of them, a long, unbroken expanse of sunny days, soft kisses, and gentle touches...and he intended to enjoy the journey.

By now, they were crossing the street. Royal Woods High stood before them, a long, narrow brick building with windows along the front. In the middle was a bump-out with ROYAL COUNTY HIGH above the door. At the foot of the walkway, they stopped and turned to each other, the dreaded moment of parting come at last. She put her palms flat on his chest and leaned against him, her head tilted up. "See you at lunch?"

"No," Lincoln said, "I'm going to hide from you in the bathroom."

"You _better_ not. I will hunt you down."

"The chase is half the fun, though," he said.

"If you want to be tackled, go ahead and run."

He put his hand on her cheek and bent forward, this lips touching and their tongues dancing across one another. She fisted his shirt and he threaded his hand through her hair, his nails grazing her scalp. The world seemed to move, and his passion rose, the kiss deepening. He felt himself beginning to stir, but he didn't care anymore. All that mattered was her, and one time she touched him through his pants, so he doubted she'd mind _too_ much.

She pulled away from him and looked into his eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up in a grin and her chest rising and falling with her ragged exhalations. Kids streamed by on either side of them, but neither was aware, and neither would have cared, for they had eyes only for each other. "I'll see you later, Lincoln," she said.

"Not if I see you first." He kissed the tip of her nose, and then watched her go, a bounce in her step: Her ponytail swished back and forth and the hem of her dress fluttered against her legs.

 _I love her,_ he thought dreamily and sighed, beginning to make his way inside, _I love her with everything I have_.

In the hall, as she wove in and out of the crowds, Ronnie Anne had a similar thought. _I'm in love with him._ It was the kind of thought that comes to you from nowhere, the kind of thought that you don't expect, but welcome nevertheless. She _did_ love Lincoln, and had for a long time. How long, she couldn't say – for all she knew she had been since the day they shared their first kiss. And it wasn't puppy love, either. It was real and deep and pure, like a mountain stream. She loved his smile, his laugh, his touch, his caring nature, his – his everything. She wasn't blind, he had faults (he was a little too anxious for his own good) but she loved those too, and she had her own; everyone does. The day you find a prince charming without flaws is the day pigs sprout wings and fly around while whistling _The Andy Griffith Show_ theme song. Lincoln made her happy and she loved him.

And one day, she decided then, she was going to marry him.

* * *

Lori Loud sat nervously on the examine table, her hands resting on her knees. She wore a long blue skirt that almost reached her ankles and a white blouse: Before she left the house, her father said she looked like Alice from _Alice in Wonderland_ , and for some reason that made her cry. She took a deep breath and stared at her lap. Was it cancer? Her grandmother on her mother's side died of stomach cancer, and though Lori was too young when it happened to remember, Mom said she was sick and in pain for weeks before she finally passed. Lori was twenty-one, she had had her fair share of stomach aches, and she imagined having stomach cancer would be like the worst stomach ache she had ever had times a hundred.

There wasn't much pain, though. Mainly she was nauseous...very, very nauseous. Sometimes she would wake up that way, and sometimes it would hit her in the middle of the afternoon like a sniper's bullet. There were days when she couldn't get enough to eat, and days where she puked at the faintest smell of food. Her mother commented on her new feeding habits. _You're constantly grazing, Lori...are you trying to eat us out of house and home?_ The last time she said something like that, Lori broke down crying. _No, I'm just hungry!_ Lori wasn't an overly emotional girl, and her new habit of swinging back and forth between moods bothered her. Was the cancer in her brain, too?

Her stomach turned, and she hugged herself, bending forward as if by doing so she could rearrange her insides or something and make it stop. That's all she wanted...to not be sick.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away with the heel of one hand. _And to stop crying!_

Hopefully the doctor found out what was wrong, and hopefully it wasn't stomach cancer. Bobby said there was a bug going around, and for a while she told herself that that's what it was, but after two weeks? Bugs don't last that long. Unless, maybe, they cause an infection or something.

Can you die from a stomach infection?

She rocked back and forth. She didn't want to think about dying or having an infection or anything else...she just wanted to be okay: She wanted to go to school, graduate, and marry Bobby. Is that really so much to ask? Was she such a bad person for wanting a normal life that the universe had to strike her down with stomach cancer? It wasn't fair! Everyone _else_ was okay: She didn't see Lincoln or Luan or Luna dying.

 _You're not dying, calm down,_ she told herself.

But she didn't want to calm down.

She blew a puff of air that stirred her bangs. She glanced left and right. The examine room was small and sparsely furnished. Posters of skeletons and the human nervous system hung on the walls. An eye chart was pinned up above a sink: She squinted and read every line perfectly. _At least I don't need glasses._

Something about that struck her as darkly funny, and she laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. She went to school with this girl named Lisa who wore cat-eye glasses, and they were _ugly_. She was a nice girl, though. Very smart. Lori got paired with her in chemistry class once, and Lisa said "Just sit there and look busy while I complete the task at hand. Your attempts at rending assistance will only hinder me, and I would appreciate it if you refrained from interfering." Okay, sure: It was the easiest A Lori ever got.

Presently the door opened and Doctor Hartfield came in. A tall, scrawny man with glasses, a mustache, and curly brown hair beginning to gray, he had been the Loud family's physician for as long as Lori could remember. He wore a white lab coat over a blue shirt, a yellow bowtie, and brown pants. A cigarette jutted from between his thin lips. "Lori," he said around the filter, "I'm glad you could make it back."

This was her second appointment. Her first was on Monday; he ran a battery of tests for everything from plague to VD (shudder). Lori didn't like taking two days off from school to come in (she didn't even like taking one), but her health was more important. She told him as much, and he nodded. He crossed to the sink, tipped his cigarette, and came back over, plopping it into his mouth and taking a drag. Bluish smoke filled the air.

"Well," he said, "I have news."

That's it? 'News'? Not good news or bad news, just news? Oh, it must be _terrible_. Lori's heart started to pound and she twisted her hands anxiously in her lap. "B-Bad news?"

He shrugged. "That depends."

Lori didn't understand, and stared at him blankly.

"You're pregnant," he said.

For a moment the words didn't register – then when they did, her blood ran cold. "P-Pregnant?"

He nodded. "Yessiree, as pregnant as they come." He took another puff and then held the cigarette between his fore and middle fingers. "Almost three months."

Lori's head spun. She lifted her hand to her forehead and tried to prevent panic from overwhelming her. Pregnant? How could she be pregnant? _They used a condom!_

"I know this probably comes as a shock," Dr. Hartfield said, "but you are indeed pregnant." He rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms, the cigarette sticking up from his fingers. "You aren't married, are you?"

Lori shook her head. "N-No, we're going to, though, I think."

"Well," he said, "I suggest getting on that as soon as you can."

She looked up at him. "W-We used a condom, though. I don't...I don't understand."

"Condoms are not one hundred percent effective," he said, "sometimes... _things_ get through...and accidents happen, especially if it's expired."

Lori's brow furrowed. "They expire?"

Dr. Hartfield nodded. "They do. You are not the first girl this has happened to, Lori, and it happens a bit more than people let on, but marrying this boy is the right thing to do. For yourself and for your child."

Lori's hand covered her mouth. This couldn't be happening. What would her parents say? Unwed and _pregnant?_ Her cheeks burned with shame and she could have curled into a ball and died.

"Please don't tell Mom and Dad," she said suddenly. "Please don't."

Dr. Hartfield held up his hands. "You're a grown woman, Lori, and when you're an adult a little thing called doctor-patient confidentiality kicks in. I have no place to tell them, and won't. I do, however, encourage _you_ to. You're not really showing yet, but soon you will, and you won't be able to hide it."

Lori nodded dumbly.

Dr. Hartfield forced a weak smile and clapped her on the arm. "Best of luck."

On the walk outside, Lori was battered by an array of emotions: Shame, guilt, terror, and, as strange as it may seem, happiness. It was muted, but it was there, nestled deep down in the coils of fear, a tiny, glowing ember that would, she vaguely suspected, eventually ignite into a roaring inferno. A baby...wow.

What would Bobby say?

Her stomach quivered with dread as she imagined him getting angry or abandoning her. This was shot through with guilt: Bobby was a good man...he wouldn't do that to her.

Would he?

If he did...what would she do? Society did not look kindly on unmarried mothers...and if she was alone, how would she make a life for her and her baby? How would she support them?

Outside, the day was clear and warm, but inside Lori was cold. Bobby was parked near the street: While she was inside, he went grocery shopping for his mother. Lori walked up to the car on shaky knees, and slid into the passenger seat. Bobby lounged behind the wheel, the radio on and a cigarette in his mouth, which he now took out and tossed away. She didn't mind that he smoked as long as he didn't do it around her. "How'd it go?" he asked.

Lori nodded. She tried to speak, but her vocal cords were frozen. "F-Fine," she finally managed. She started to tell him, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Not yet, not while the shock was still fresh and she needed to lie down. "It's just a bug."

"You're pale," he said worriedly. "You okay?"

She nodded and forced a smile. "Just sick is all. I kind of need to lie down."

"Okay, sure," he said.

When she came through the front door, Leni was sitting on the couch and knitting and humming, her head bobbing from side-to-side. On TV, a rerun of _Make Room for Daddy_ played unwatched.

Lori started up the stairs, but sudden weariness overcame her, and she went to the couch instead, sitting against the arm and resting her head in her palm. If she and Bobby got married, maybe no one would have to know the baby was conceived out of wedlock. And if they suspected, she could always deny it.

"Hi, Lori," Leni said, "when did _you_ get here?"

"Just now," Lori said.

"Oh," Leni replied, then went back to knitting, but stopped and turned after a moment. "Are you okay?"

Lori nodded. "Yeah, I-I'm fine. Just sick."

Leni's brow furrowed, and she sat her knitting aside: She scooted closer until her leg pressed against her sister's. "You sure?" she asked, concern deep in her voice. Lori looked into her big, kind, loving eyes...and lost it. She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed. Frowning, Leni put her arm around her sister's shoulders and held her close, shushing her and whispering words of comfort. Leni could be a real ditz sometimes, but she was always there when Lori needed her, and that made Lori cry harder.

When the tears tapered off to sniffles, Leni asked, "Do you need to talk about something?"

Lori nodded. "C-Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course, silly," Leni said and stroked her big sister's hair, "I'll, like, probably forget it anyway."

Lori looked up at her. "I'm pregnant."

Leni's eyes brightened and her mouth opened. "You're gonna be a _mommy?_ " she asked lowly. "That's g – wait." Her eyes clouded with confusion. "You're not married. How can you be a mommy?"

Lori blinked. "What?" Leni could be kind of...absent-minded, but Lori knew for a fact that she had a working understanding of sex: Their mother gave them all a talk when they were younger.

The younger girl tilted her head, and for a moment she seemed to be trying – and failing – to process what she had just been told, and Lori began to worry. Then it was gone and she was smiling. "That's great."

Lori sighed. "Yeah, but I can't tell Mom and Dad. Me and Bobby aren't married."

"Then marry him. You love him, right?"

Lori nodded. "I do. We have to be quick, though. I don't want anyone to know."

"Then, like, go to the school – I mean courthouse – and get married. They do that there. You can have a big fancy wedding or something later."

"What if Bobby doesn't want to marry me?"

"I'm sure he does. Just tell him."

Leni made it all sound so simple. Lori sighed. If only it was...

* * *

 **Okay,** _ **now**_ **we know that Lori's pregnant.**


	14. May 1961: Part 4

**Everyone was their canon age when the story started. Lincoln is currently fourteen, Lori is twenty-one, Leni is twenty, etc.**

 **anonymous789: Remember, this is the early sixties, smoking was a national pastime. If I remember correctly, the Surgeon General released a report on the dangers of smoking in 1964. Before that, smoking was suspected to be bad for you but it wasn't until then that people really started listening.**

* * *

Lynn Loud loved football. He loved all sports, sure, but football was his favorite, and had been since his dad took him to a college ball game when he was six: It was September 1950, and the University of Michigan won over the University of Virginia in overtime. Michigan's starting quarterback was Joe Nazareth, number 28, who would go onto play for the Philadelphia Eagles from 1953 to 1959, and he scored five touchdowns in a row, running so fast that none of the guys on the other team could come close to getting him. To Lynn, Joe Nazareth was the biggest, strongest, coolest guy to ever live, and as he left the stadium that day, buzzing with excitement and prattling about how much he liked football, he decided that he wanted to be just like him.

Since that day, he made every effort to make good on that decision. He ran fast, hit hard, and threw as far as he could. When he didn't feel like running, he ran twice; when he didn't feel like throwing, he threw and then threw again; when he got depressed because he wasn't the greatest – or even great – he went out and practiced, because a guy like Joe Nazareth wouldn't give up like a pansy, and neither would Lynn Loud. No pain, no gain.

He played on every football team that would have him, from elementary school to high school: He had been captain of the Royal High Raptors since his sophomore year and in every game he played, he gave it everything he had. His picture had been in the paper a dozen times since freshman year, and high school football players across the state trembled at the mention of his name. When he wasn't playing football, he was thinking about football. It was his life and his love. Without it, his existence was meaningless.

As high school drew to an end, however, Lynn began to come to the slow realization that he couldn't play football forever. If he went pro, sure, and that was his plan, but when he sat down and thought about it too hard, the chance of him actually landing a spot on one of the National Football League's fourteen teams seemed small. America's a big place, and it's filled with high schools where guys just like him lived, breathed, and slept football, and all of them had the same thought on their mind: I'm going to go pro.

Jocks have a reputation for being stupid, but Lynn wasn't stupid. The thought that he would never go pro hadn't occurred to him not because he was dumb, but because he had tunnel vision. At the end of that tunnel was a QB position...and that's all he could see. Seventeen now and a few weeks from graduating – from entering the adult world – Lynn was terrified because the end of that tunnel had been steadily expanding since the school year started, and now that QB spot was a tiny blip. When it really hit him that he might wind up like some of the guys who came to watch their sons play on Friday night – fat, bald, and still bragging about that game winning touchdown they scored in 1941, panic clenched his heart and cold horror filled his stomach.

He didn't want to be like that.

Starting in October, he began applying to colleges and hoping for a football scholarship. He wouldn't get by on _just_ football, though. He would get a major in something that he actually planned to use. What, he didn't know, because football was all he had known for so long, but _something_.

During the autumn of 1960 season, scouts from colleges across the country came to see him play, and some of them really wanted him to play for them. In December, he decided that he wanted to go to the University of Arizona: He liked westerns, and had always wanted to visit the desert. Their football program was top-notch, and they were pretty swell on academics, too.

He started the application process in January, and spent the second half of winter and the first half of spring waiting to hear back. He got a few letters in the mail from other colleges: Rejection after rejection. By the middle of May, he was starting to worry. He was a good student and he was a great ball player, surely he'd get a spot somewhere, if not at Arizona. Right?

On May 18, he left school at 3pm and walked home, his hands shoved into the pockets of his letterman jacket. He saw Lincoln and Ronnie Anne walking toward Flip's, and for a second he considered tagging along because at home there was nothing to do but sit and stress: Since Lincoln started working, they rarely had time to play football or train the way they used to (not that they had a boatload of time before, since Lincoln was always with Ronnie Anne), and, truth be told, Lynn really missed playing with his little brother.

Things were changing...childhood was ending...and that scared him. It kind of felt like the world was coming to an end, and in a way, it was.

When he got home, he checked the mailbox. Junk, junk, bill...at the bottom of the stack was an envelope from the University of Arizona, and his breath caught when he saw it. For as moment he was too chicken to open it.

 _Alright, Loud, moment of truth._

He took a deep breath, ripped it open, and read it.

When he came through the door, he was smiling. "I got in," he said. His mother was sitting on the couch between Lori and Leni. She looked up.

"The University of Arizona," he said, "full scholarship."

"Oh, honey, that's wonderful," Mom said.

"Way to go," Lori said.

"Good job!" Leni grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

"I'm really excited," he said.

And he was; he now had four years before he had to worry about entering the real world, four years to put off thinking about what he would do with his life. And who knows, if he worked really hard and distinguished himself on the football field, maybe he would go pro. It has to happen to somebody, so why not to him?

* * *

Lincoln met Ronnie Anne at the sidewalk: He was leaning against a street sign and smoking a cigarette when she walked up; as she approached, he had to wonder if she was _really_ getting more beautiful every day, or if he was just falling more deeply in love with her every day.

She grinned, yanked the cigarette out of his mouth, and took a drag. "So, what are we doing?" she asked.

"I know a house down the street that just got painted," he said, "wanna check it out?"

She squinted her eyes and bobbed her head from side to side in thought. "I'm kinda hungry. Can we eat something first?"

Lincoln shrugged. "I guess. What are you in the mood for?"

"How about Flip's?"

Lincoln's shoulders sagged, and she laughed. "What?"

"I was hoping to stay away from that place today."

"Oh, come on. You're not going in the kitchen, you're going in the dining room." She handed him the cigarette and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. They started to walk into town; Lincoln finished and threw the Camel away.

He was partially joking about wanting to stay away from Flip's today; he liked hanging out there, but lately when he went there off the clock, it felt more like he was hanging out at work than working where he hung out. Not that it mattered, he guessed; when he was with Ronnie Anne she was the only thing he looked at anyway. Flip's, like anywhere else, would just be background noise.

They go there ten minutes after setting out. Being a Thursday afternoon, it was fairly empty, save for a few old men sitting at the counter and a group of teenagers at a booth. When they walked through the door, Flip was at the register counting on his fingers, his lips silently moving and his brow crinkled. He looked up, and rolled his eyes. "You two are worse than clap; I can't get rid of you."

"Coming here wasn't my idea," Lincoln said, "I was enjoying not seeing you."

"Yeah, I was enjoying you not seeing me either. All we need is her brother and it's a regular party."

"Oh, shut up and feed us," Ronnie Anne said, sitting on one of the stools. Lincoln sat next to her: They held hands under the counter.

Flip leaned against the edge. "Let me guess: An order of French fries and one chocolate milkshake."

"Yeah, we'll take that," Ronnie Anne said.

"Surprise, surprise," Flip said, grabbing an order pad, slipping a pencil from behind his ear, and jotting down their request. "You two are worse than my grandmother. Now _that_ woman was a creature of habit. Every day she did exactly the same thing she did the day before at exactly the same time and in exactly the same way. Surprised she didn't wind up in a nuthouse." He ripped the ticket from the pad, turned, and stuck it in the window. Ernie's face appeared, and he smiled.

"Hey, Linc!"

"Hey, Ernie!"

Ernie picked up the ticket and looked at it, his eyes squinting. "Flip, I either need glasses or you need to stop writing so sloppy. What the hell does this say?"

"You know damn well what it says," Flip grumbled, "it's Loud and Santiago. French fries."

Ernie shook his head. "I thought you was writin' Russian. I was about to call Joe McCarthy on you."

"What do you wanna do after this?" Ronnie Anne asked, squeezing Lincoln's hand.

Lincoln didn't reply for a moment. He had an idea what he wanted to do, but he needed the sun to set first, and sunset wouldn't be for a little while yet. "We can walk to the park," he said, "hang out for a little while. Or see a movie."

Ronnie Anne smiled. "A movie sounds good. What's playing?"

"I don't know," he said, then, when Flip came up, "you have a newspaper?"

"That'll be a quarter," Flip said.

"Damn, Flip, that's highway robbery," Ronnie Anne said. "You can buy two papers with that."

Flip snorted. "That's to rent it. If you wanna buy it, it's a buck. But for you kids, it's a buck-fifty." He went down the counter, then came back with a newspaper. He sat it in front of Lincoln and pointed in his face. "Don't smudge the ink. I'm not done with it."

Lincoln waved him off and opened it. He found the showings, and Ronnie Anne leaned in close, the warm, clean smell of her hair filling his nostrils. He pecked her forehead then looked back down at the paper. "I don't see anything good," she said after a minute.

Neither did he. "What about this?" he asked, tapping a picture. "It sounds like something you'd like."

" _The Young Savages_ ," she muttered, then read the synopsis: Street gangs, murder, police detectives. "Sure," she said, "it does sound pretty cool."

Flip came over with their milkshake and sat it between them, jabbing a straw into either side. "There, now you can gaze longingly into each other's eyes while you share a milkshake like a couple in a Rockwell picture."

Ronnie Anne slipped her straw into her mouth and looked at Flip. Lincoln did the same. The old man snickered. "Now what if one of you has mono?"

"Then the other already has it," Ronnie Anne said around her straw. Flip opened his mouth to reply, but Ernie cut him off. "Fries!" Flip grabbed the basket and sat it in front of Lincoln.

Taking his advice, they gazed longingly into each other's eyes as they shared a milkshake like a couple in a Rockwell painting, pausing only to eat fries. When they were done, Lincoln took a five dollar bill out of his pocket and slapped it on the counter. Flip looked at it and frowned. He took the pencil from behind his ear and used it to slide the money back. "I don't want your mono, Loud. Get lost."

Hand-in-hand, they walked to the Palace across town. Shadows were beginning to grow long and the streets were busy with people coming home from work, some driving and others walking, lunch pails in their hands. At the Palace, Lincoln bought two tickets to _The Young Savages_ and then, at the concession stand, a bag of popcorn and two sodas. They sat in one of the middle rows, and Lincoln slipped his arm around Ronnie Anne's shoulders.

The movie was alright, at least what he saw of it: Halfway through, they started to kiss, and everything else kind of stop mattering. He traced the curve of her jaw with his fingers, and she ran her finger though his hair; he caressed her slender throat; she slipped her hands under his shirt and laid her palms on his warm, quivering stomach. They teetered on the brink of passion, and though neither wanted to, they pried themselves away from the other before lest they tumble over. They panted, their hearts raced, and fever spread across their flesh. Shaking with desire, they held each other even as the movie ended and the theater emptied, held each other until the tide receded and the embers cooled.

"Come on," Ronnie Anne said, her voice not entirely steady. The theater was beginning to fill for the next showing, and an usher was coming down the aisle with a flashlight. When he went to stand, Lincoln's knees buckled, and Ronnie Anne kept him from falling with a giggle. "Gee, lame-o, forget how to walk?"

"I'm fine," he said and flashed a nervous grin, "see?"

She squeezed his hand. "Yeah, I see." She dragged him up the aisle and into the lobby, which was empty. Outside, night had fallen, and the lamps along the sidewalks cast pools of illumination on the pavement.

They started toward his house; when Ronnie Anne went to cross the street, Lincoln pulled her back. "There's one more thing I want to do," he said, "it won't take long."

She cocked her head. "Oh?"

He blushed. "It's nothing like that."

"We'll see," she said.

A few blocks later, he tugged her hand. "This way."

"Royal Woods Middle?" she asked. "Haven't been here in a while."

"We're taking a trip down memory lane," he said as they crossed to the athletic field. Bleachers flanked either side, and the big floodlights that lit Friday football games were dark: The only light was the silvery glow of the moon, which washed the world in a thin, white radiance. In the middle of the field, Lincoln let go of Ronnie Anne's hand, shrugged out of his jacket, and laid it on the grass. "Sit," he said, and hunched down. Ronnie Anne followed, stretching out next to him. He pulled a pack of Camels from his breast pocket, stuck one into his mouth, and lit it. He took a puff and handed it to her.

"So you have me alone...in the dark..." she said, and took a drag, the cherry brightening, "how is this nothing like _that_?"

He took a cigarette back and puffed. "Shut up, lay down, and see."

She lifted a brow, but did as he said. He laid down too. Together, they gazed up into the star-splashed heavens, his hand creeping into hers and her fingers slipping through his. The majesty of the night sky, chips of ice scattered across black velvet, was undeniable, and Ronnie Anne smiled. "It's beautiful," she said.

"You know what it reminds me of?" he asked. He took a drag and handed it to her.

"What?" she asked and took it.

He turned his head. "Your eyes."

She giggled, a blush touching her cheeks. "You're a sap, Lincoln," she said, and handed the cigarette back, "but I like it."

He took one final puff, then threw the cigarette into the night. He scooted closer and propped himself up on one elbow. She looked up at him with adoration, and his heart crashed when he realized what he was going to do.

"Ronnie Anne?"

"Yeah?" she asked, her voice low.

Laying his hand on her face, he bent close; her eyes widened and she swallowed hard. "I love you."

Her breath hitched and she blushed furiously. "I love you too, Lincoln."

He leaned the rest of the way, and her lips met his; their tongues made slow, sensuous love as he stroked the side of her face and she slid her hand down his chest. The kiss deepened, and both were powerless to pull themselves back from the edge this time...not that they wanted to. His hands tangled in her hair and her fingers softly grazed the back of his neck; their hearts pounded in time and the tides of passion returned, sweeping them against the other. His hand trailed down her chest and across the mound of her breast; heat enveloped her, and she moaned into his mouth. She let go of him and began to unbutton the front of her dress, her hands shaking and her body quivering. He pulled back and took a deep breath, his eyes sparkling like diamonds in the light of the moon.

Her fingers worked, undoing one button after another; his breathing grew ragged and his heart raced with anticipation. She bit her bottom lip as she reached the last one, then she opened her dress like angel wings, moonbeams drenching her naked body. His breath caught and he plundered her with his eyes, from the curve of her hips to the gentle swell of her breasts to the juncture of her sex.

"Do you like it?" she asked uncertainly.

He nodded. "You're beautiful." He leaned in and they kissed again, more needily this time, his hand cupping her breast, then skipping over her stomach, scraping her feverish flesh as it went lower. Her fingers worried at his belt, and he paused to undo it for her, a tiny grin touching her lips. He pulled his underwear down just enough to free himself, and her grin turned into a wide smile. She reached out and took him in her hand, her thumb brushing his tip. An electric thrill went through him and he thrust an arm into the ground to keep from falling.

As she began to rub him, he slipped his hand between her legs: She was hot and damp against his palm, her burning flesh the softest silk he had ever touched. He shifted, and they lay together, him on his side, their hands exploring each other's bodies, their fingers questing over hot skin, their heartbeats quickening and their sighs rising as tender touches became urgent strokes. As the end approached, he leaned his forehead against hers and she bit her bottom lip. She clamped her thighs around his hand when it hit her; she rode out her orgasm with a long, protracted purr. Lincoln gasped and bucked his hips as he swelled in her hand: When his boiling climax let loose and splattered against her outer thigh, she let out a low _hmmmm_ of pleasure, and slowed her caress, unwilling – and unable – to let him go.

He let out a shuddery breath and kissed her neck, her shoulder, and the side of her face. She smiled, and he took her in his arms; he was warm and strong and comfortable. She hoped he never let go.

"I love you," he said, and kissed the back of her head.

"I love you too," she replied, and rolled over, her bare breasts smooshing against his chest. He laid his hand on her hip and they kissed. "We better get going."

He pecked the tip of her nose. "I don't want to."

"Neither do I," she said. "And maybe one day we won't have to."

He grinned. "I'd like that."

She got to her feet and buttoned her dress, taking great pains to make sure she got each one into the correct slot. Lincoln tucked himself into his underwear and zipped his pants up, buttoning them and buckling his belt. He picked his jacket up and draped it over Ronnie Anne's shoulders. "It's not cold," she giggled, but made no move to take it off: Wearing his jacket was like a hug.

They held hands and walked into the night...and deeper into love.


	15. May 1961: Part 5

**Fun fact: So far this story has killed three people. I mentioned Fats Domino a few times earlier on, and while writing and listening to one of his songs a while back, I looked him up online – he died earlier that day. Charles Manson makes two very brief appearances later on – he died. David Cassidy, from The Partridge Family (whose song** _ **I Think I Love You**_ **is used later on) died around the same time. Seriously, it makes me wonder who's next.**

* * *

Luna was sitting on her bed, her guitar across her lap. She had just gotten home from school and she was in a good mood, believe it or not: A friend of a friend wanted her to play his house party this weekend, and in return he was actually going to pay her. "I told him you're the best guitar player I know," her friend said. Her name was Lucy, and she was a beatnik like Maynard Krebs from _The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis_ : She wore black turtleneck sweaters and wrote poetry that Luna didn't understand, but seemed popular with the other beatniks. "You should come to the coffee shop one Saturday," Lucy told her, "it's open mic night."

Luna didn't know much about beats, but she didn't think they'd like her kind of music. They liked jazz and stuff, and jazz was cool and all, but it wasn't what Luna played; she played rock and roll, pure and simple. She was surprised when Lucy's friend wanted her to play, but Lucy said he liked that kind of music, and that was enough for Luna. She didn't expect much money, but it was really cool to have a paying gig.

She picked the guitar up and strummed, producing a melodic sound. One of the strings felt a little loose, though; she'd have to tighten it before the party, which wasn't the easiest thing in the world. Well, it wasn't hard, it was just a pain in the ass. On a real guitar you can turn the tuning machines in a jiff, but with this one you had to use a pair of pillars. She strummed the strings again, and started to play a tune of her own devising. It was loose and hesitant, but it sounded nice, and she went with it, searching her mind for words to go with it. _Fuck you, Mr. Jefferson, fuck you, I'm gonna show you, you fat fuck_. She laughed out loud and stopped for a minute. _You're a prick, go to hell, Mr. Jefferson_. Yeah, imagine _that_ being on _American Bandstand_. Everyone would _shit_. Kennedy would shit, the pope would shit, Elvis and Chuck Berry would shit. The whole country would be buried in shit...hell, maybe the world.

Shaking her head and grinning, she continued, letting the music wind through her. She hit a sour note, and the loose string came even looser. Alright, fine, I'll fix you now, you fucking square. She sighed and got up. In the garage, she sat the guitar flat on Dad's workbench and rummaged in a standing tool cabinet for pliers, sifting through nails, screws, looking under hammers and jumbles of other instruments she couldn't name. Where the hell were they? She stood back and put her hands on her hips, trying to remember where they were the last time she used them. She thought they were on the bench, out in the open. If so, they sure as shit weren't there now.

Five minutes later, she found them _under_ the tool cabinet. Ha, there you are! She reached under, grabbed them, and was just getting to her feet when the connecting door to the kitchen opened and Lori poked her head in. "There you are," she said, "I was looking everywhere."

"Gotta fix my guitar," she said, "what's up?"

"You have a visitor."

Luna's brow furrowed. A visitor, huh? She didn't usually get visitors. "Who is it?"

Lori started to speak, then stopped. "A guy," she said after a moment.

A guy? Alright, Luna was confused now. She didn't hang with too many people, and though she knew a few guys, none of them knew where she lived, and none would have a reason to turn up at her door unannounced. Curious now, she followed Lori into the kitchen, then crossed the living room to the door. Maybe it was Mr. Jefferson; he came to his senses and realized what a huge mistake he made turning her away. _I'm so sorry, Miss Loud, I'm a fool...please play in my house band!_

Instead of Mr. Jefferson, she found a tall guy with curly blonde hair; he was wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt and jeans, his hands in his pockets. She recognized him...he was...then it clicked: He gave her that ride. "Daggy, right?" she asked, knowing that it was, indeed, right even as she spoke, because it was originally Faggy. That made her grin every time she thought about it. What a fucking name.

"Yeah," he said, "look, I got something for you."

Luna's eyes narrowed. He leaned over and grabbed something that had been leaning against the house. "This was old man's," he said, holding it up: It was a guitar. "I was at my Mom's house getting some stuff outta the basement the other day and I came across it and thought of you. _I_ can't fucking play it."

He held it out. Luna looked at it, then guardedly up at him. He flipped it over and showed her the front: It was reddish brown with ornamental inlays. Luna's eyes widened slightly. It was nice. "Why?" she asked.

Daggy blinked. "What do you mean why?"

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"Because I'm literally going to throw it in the trash," he said. "I don't have room for it, my mom doesn't have room for it, I don't know anyone who plays guitar – except you, so here I am." He shoved it at her, and she took it, turning it over and examining it. She strummed the strings, and was surprised by how different the resultant sound was to the sound hers made. It was higher, reedier; better.

She smiled. "Wow, that's really cool. Puts mine to shame."

"I think it was really expensive, but I dunno. My old man got it in Spain or Italy or something during the war. He left it behind when he took off and I tried to learn, but, man, it's just not gonna happen."

"Thank you," she said, genuinely touched.

"Figured someone could get some use out of it. Enjoy." He turned and started down the stairs.

Luna looked down at the guitar in her hands, then up at him. She surprised herself when she spoke. "Hey."

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"You wanna hang for a minute?" She nodded to the porch swing. "Jam?"

Daggy grinned. "I'm telling you, I'm bad."

"Come on," Luna said and found herself grinning back, "I wanna see _how_ bad."

Shrugging, Daggy turned around and came back up the steps.

* * *

Lori Loud picked up the handset, took a deep breath, and dialed a number. On the fifth ring, a woman answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Santiago," Lori said, putting on the biggest smile she could muster, "is Bobby there?"

"Yes. Give me a minute."

Four days ago, Lori found out that she was pregnant. She had not told Bobby yet: She wanted to that evening, but the possibility, as remote as it might be, that he would react badly stopped her. She loved him, and she could see herself being very happy marrying him, but did he want to marry her? He hadn't asked yet even though she'd dropped more than a few subtle hints. If he really wanted to marry her, wouldn't he have asked by now? They had been together almost three years now...why didn't he ask her?

When his voice came on the line, she blinked back tears of fear. "Hey, babe, what's up?"

"Hey," she said, "I-I was wondering if we could do something tonight. Like go to the drive-in or something."

"Yeah, sure," Bobby said, "I was actually about to drive over your way anyway. You wanna grab something to eat first?"

"Yeah, that sounds nice."

When she hung up the phone, she took a deep breath. Tonight, she decided, she would tell him, come hell or high water. If he wanted to marry her, then no one had to know they conceived out of wedlock. If he didn't, well, she would have to face her parents and come to terms with being a single mother. She went upstairs to get her shoes, and found Leni standing in front of their bedroom door, looking confused. "Leni?" she asked, and Leni turned. "You alright?"

For a moment the younger girl made no sign that she had heard, then she shook her head. "I'm fine," she chirped, "I was just, like, trying to remember what I was going in there for. I forgot." She pouted, and something about it struck Lori as contrived.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Lori worried.

"Yup."

In the room, Lori dropped onto her bed and pulled her socks and shoes on. Leni crossed to her vanity and sat before the mirror. She picked up her brush, turned it over in her hands, then ran it through her long blonde hair. "I'm going to tell Bobby," Lori said.

"Tell him what?" Leni asked without turning.

"About –" Lori looked around to confirm that they were definitely alone, and lowered her voice – "me being pregnant."

Leni tilted her head quizzically, then smiled at her reflection. "Oh, right. I, like, wouldn't be nervous if I were you. He loves you lots."

"I know," Lori sighed, "I'm just worried that maybe this might...change him. It's a pretty big deal."

Leni shrugged. "It probably will," she said. "For the better. I don't know much about guys, but it's, like, babies and stuff make mommies –" she stopped, flicked her eyes up to the ceiling, and scrunched her lips. After a moment of thought, she said, "It will bring out his paternal instincts the way out it will bring your _maternal_ instincts." She grinned at herself and nodded.

"I hope," Lori fretted.

"You worry too much," Leni said, ranking the brush through her hair and tilting her head left then right. "You're as bad as Lincy."

"Lincoln doesn't have to worry about this yet," Lori said, standing. "He and Ronnie Anne are too young for...that kind of thing."

Leni shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know. He's almost fourteen – I mean fifteen – and he and Ronnie _really_ like each other."

"Let's hope not," Lori said. She crossed to Leni and threw her arms around her shoulder, kissing the side of her face. "I love you."

Leni beamed at their reflection. "I love you too, Lori."

"You give really good advice."

"Thank you. I try really hard to help."

Lori hugged her tighter and kissed her again. "You succeed." For a moment they simply held each other, Lori's arms around Leni's neck and Leni's hand resting on her sister's. When she pulled away, Lori squeezed the girl's shoulder. "Wish me luck?"

"Luck," Leni said.

She waited for Bobby in the living room, dividing her attention between the front window and the TV set, where President Kennedy was addressing a joint session of Congress: He stood at a lectern, Vice President Johnson and the Speaker of the House sitting behind him. _"...This nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon and returning him safely to the earth."_ Was it her imagination, or did Johnson roll his eyes?

Glancing out the window, she saw Bobby pull up. She stood, smoothed her skirt, and went outside. Luna and Daggy were sitting on the porch swing, Luna playing a guitar and Daggy leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees. Lori was surprised when he asked for Luna. She assumed he was looking for Bobby. Luna _did_ mention something about him giving her a ride and telling her he wanted to hang with Bobby or something.

She went down the walkway and slipped into the passenger seat. "What's this?" Bobby asked, glancing in the review mirror at Daggy's car. "You seeing Daggy behind my back?"

"He's here for Luna."

Bobby leaned forward and kissed her. "Luna, huh? Not surprising, I guess. You and your sisters are like, what, 95 percent of the women in this town?"

"There aren't _that_ many of us," Lori said.

"Seems like it sometimes. You wanna swing by Flip's? Grab some burgers or something?"

Lori nodded. "Yeah, okay." Truth be told, she probably wouldn't eat a burger (for some reason, baby didn't like the smell of meat), but she'd eat some fries.

Ummm...fries smothered in peanut butter sounded _really_ good.

* * *

Ronnie Anne looked up from her homework and craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lincoln through the little window into the kitchen. She didn't...not that she really thought she would. Sigh. It had been nearly a week since they...watched the stars together (heh, that's not _all_ they did, but don't tell anyone), and even though she saw him in the mornings and at school, it just wasn't enough. If anything, after their little tryst, it was worse than it was two weeks ago. She didn't want to be needy, but, damn it, she was needy. She needed her Lincy-winky. Pout.

Most days, she came in after school, grabbed a booth by the jukebox, and did her homework or munched on fries while waiting for Lincoln to come out with the plates or cups. Invariably, he would stack them then look over: She would smile, and then he would smile. Sometimes they even waved to each other.

Today, she was on her period and feeling extra clingy: All she wanted was for Lincoln to hold her in his arms and stroke her hair. That would be so _amazing_. She glanced down at her algebra and then crossed her arms. She hated being on the rag because it made her so emotional, and right now she felt like she was going to start crying because she didn't get to see her Lincoln enough and she felt bloated and achy and he wasn't there to make her feel better...and...and...

She was so lost in her own self-pity that she didn't realize Bobby and Lori had come in until Flip sighed loudly. "Two Louds, two Santiagos. How could this day _possibly_ get any better?"

"I hear Daggy's putting the moves on her sister," Bobby said, "so maybe they'll come down. Quadruple date."

"That's only a triple date, dumbass," Flip said.

"Hey," Bobby said, leaning in, "that includes you and your hand – if you wanna join."

"Me and my hand are fine, thank you."

Ronnie Anne sighed again and closed her textbook. A basket of fries and a fizzy glass of Coke sat before her. She didn't order a milkshake because that was something she only did with Lincoln.

She wiped tears from her eyes. _Go home and go to bed or something,_ she told herself. True, sleeping always made her feel better when her aunt Flo was in town, but she didn't want to leave: She hadn't seen Lincoln enough.

And speak of the Devil, there he was, coming out of the kitchen door with a stack of plates in his hands. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt with a white apron around his waist. He looked kind of like Flip, only far, _far_ more attractive. He noticed Lori and Bobby, and nodded. "Hey, Linc," Lori said.

"Hey, guys."

He sat the plates on the shelf and turned, his eyes locking with Ronnie Anne's. Her heart soared and a big, goofy grin spread across her face. He blew her a kiss, and she caught it. Flip came up behind him just as she responded with a kiss of her own and scowled. "Stop bothering my dishwasher, Santiago."

Ronnie Anne flipped him the bird. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. Shoving a fry into her mouth, she went back to her homework, but startled when something hit her shoulder. She glanced at it, and saw a spit ball: She looked up just in time to see Flip duck into the kitchen.

"You're gross, Flip!" she cried and flicked it off.

"Hey!" Bobby yelled, causing people to look up from their plates, "will ya shut up? Some of us are trying to have a decent meal here!"

If she could reach him from here, she would have shot a spitball at _him_. Instead, she shoved another fry into her mouth and washed it down with Coke. They tasted off too. Cardboard mush flavor. The Coke didn't have the same sweetness it normally did. She bet if Lincoln came out and sat with her, they'd taste _much_ better.

She missed him so much.

Ugh. She didn't _like_ being clingy, damn it. Lincoln was her sunshine, though, and she couldn't help it. If he wasn't so amazing, she wouldn't _be_ clingy. It was his fault, really. He needed to do something bad, like slap her around a little...though he'd probably look so cute doing it she'd get even _more_ clingy.

 _I'm a weirdo_ , she thought as she jammed another fry in and followed it with a splash of Coke. An idea struck her, and she grabbed her notebook and opened it to a fresh piece of paper. Taking up her pencil, she poised the tip over it and thought for a minute. She started to draw, and lost herself in the strokes and shades of artistic...attempt. She wasn't very good, but what she lacked in talent she made up for in passion. She was vaguely aware of Bobby calling out that he was leaving and something about a ride (did she wave or did she flip him off?), and kind of realized it was getting late, but she didn't care. When she was done, she sat her pencil aside and admired what she had:

LINCOLN

RONNIE ANNE FOREVER.

The words were big and outlined heavily; little hearts floated around them like embers from a fire. Below was a drawing her Lincoln's smiling face next to her smiling face: Their eyes were closed, upside down U's of happiness. She kissed her hand and touched his face.

 _God, I'm such a sap._

She couldn't _wait_ to show it to Lincoln. He _should_ be going on break soon. He could come over, they could finish the fries, kiss, and then, sigh, she would have to go. She waited...

...and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Seriously, where _is_ this guy? She craned her neck and tried to see through the window, but couldn't. Screw it. She grabbed the paper and got up, crossing the dining room and slipping behind the counter. The window was _juuuust_ high enough that she had to stand on her tippy-toes to see in. Ernie the cook was dumping fires into a basket and Lincoln – heart bounce, there he is! – stood at the prep table, chopping onions. She grinned and started to whistle, but jumped instead when Flip spoke behind her. "Come on, Santiago, you can't be behind the counter. You don't work here."

Lincoln looked up, and when he saw her, he smiled, and she smiled back.

"Outta here," Flip said.

Ronnie Anne sighed. You know, if she...

A thought struck her, and it was so simple yet brilliant that she could not believe it hadn't occurred to her earlier.

Flip went over to the register to talk to an old man with his pants hitched up over his nipples, and Ronnie Anne waited impatiently, her hands behind her back and her body rocking back and forth on her heels. She was pleased with herself...now only if nipple pants would hurry the hell up and go away, she could ask Flip and see what he thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, the old man left, and Flip turned, jerking when he saw her sly, smiling face. "I thought I told you to beat it."

"Well...I have a question."

"Oh, _this_ should be good," Flip replied and crossed his arms. "What?"

"I was thinking," she said, trying to ease into it, "that maybe...do you need a waitress?"

Flip's eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus God."

" _Please?"_ she begged, balling her hands and holding them up in supplication. "I really wanna work here."

Flip snorted. "Yeah, so you can goof around with your boyfriend."

Heh. Well, kind of. "No," she said, "I wanna make money...and provide good customer service."

Shaking his head, Flip took a deep breath. Things didn't look good, so she brought out the big guns: A pout/kitten eyes one-two that left everyone she used it on so punch drunk they could barely stand. She could see his resolve crumbling, and _knew_ she was close to getting her way. "Knock it off," he said and glanced away. "Come on, kid, you're killing me."

She stuck her bottom lip out.

"Goddamn it," Flip sighed. "Alright. If it was literally anyone else, I'd say no, but your brother _was_ a good worker, so...fine. I'll put you on...tomorrow."

Ronnie Anne smiled. "Thanks, Flip."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

As she walked back to her booth, she fisted her hands in excitement. This was _great_. Working with Lincoln, she'd see him more often _and_ get paid to do it. Her mom didn't want her staying out too late just hanging around, but she wouldn't be hanging around, she'd be working; all of her problems were solved.

When Lincoln finally went on break, he walked over and sat down with a weary groan. "My feet are killing me," he said.

She smiled widely, and his brow clinched. "What?"

"Two things," she said.

"Okay."

"One: I got a job. Here. We're going to be working together."

A grin spread across his face. "Hey, that's cool."

"And two." She lidded her eyes and slid the drawing across the table. "I made you something."

He picked the paper up and looked at it, his smile getting even bigger. "It's cute," he said.

Something occurred to her. "Give it back. I forgot something."

He handed it back, and she scrawled a message in the bottom right corner. She returned it, and he read:

I LOVE YOU, LINCOLN: FROM RONNIE ANNE 5/25/61.


	16. May 1961: Part 6

**Guest: Artists often include the date on their work. There was really no significant reason, just 'hey, this is the day I did it.'**

 **DreadedCandiru2: Lisa got the short end of the stick in the cameo department. Lucy actually becomes a character for a little while, and so does Lilly, while I'm planning on bringing Lana and Lola in at a later date. All Lisa got was a stinking mention in a flashback. Poor girl.**

 **Guest: She just wanted to add 'I love you' because she loves him. As for what she isn...she's certainly not a girly-girl, but I don't see her being overly tomboyish either. I think she exists in-between the two.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Be-Bop-A-Lula**_ **by Gene Vincent (kind of. 1956)**

"Come on," Luna said, handing Daggy the guitar, "don't be a chicken."

He took it and sat it on his lap, giving her a sidelong glance. She giggled. "Let me hear."

"I know _one_ song," he said.

They were sitting on the porch swing still, the afternoon light growing weak around them. Luna had somehow lost track of time, but whatever, she was having fun. "What song?" she asked.

Daggy took a deep breath and leaned over, his fingers lightly strumming the strings.

"Are you going to sing too?" she asked.

"Yeah, why not?" he said. "I'm better at singing than I am at playing guitar." He fiddled with the tuning machines and picked the strings, his head cocked as if listening for the perfect pitch.

"Stop stalling!"

"I'm trying to get it right!"

Luna crossed her arms. "You're stalling, man. You're chicken."

Daggy sighed, his face flushing cutely. "Alright, alright, fine." He took another deep breath and started to play, his fingers moving unsurely along the frets. She recognized the tune, though.

"Wellll...be-bop-a-Lula she's my baby

Be-bop-a-Lula I don't mean maybe."

Luna laughed. His playing was bad, but his voice was kind of nice. He gave her a dirty look, but he couldn't hold it and grinned instead. "Come on, don't make fun of me."

"No," Luna said, waving her hand, "you're fine. I like your voice. Keep going."

He nodded and strummed.

"Be-bop-a-Lula she's my baby." He favored her with a sly, sidelong look. "Be-bop-a-Luna I don't mean maybe."

Luna lost it. "Stop! Stop! You're making me blush, man."

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I was _wondering_ if you were trying to put the moves on me."

He shrugged. "Maybe. Is it working?"

Luna paused a second before she nodded. "Yeah, it kind of is."

He grinned. "Cool." Another melodic strum:

"Be-bop-a-Luna she's my baby doll

My baby doll, my baby doll."

She shook her head and snickered to herself. Her cheeks were hot and her heart was starting to beat faster. He was a pretty sweet guy. "You're not bad." What exactly she was referring to she didn't know.

He handed her the guitar. "I don't really like my voice, but other people say it's okay."

"It's not bad," she said. "Kinda pretty."

"Pretty? That's not something you call a man's voice."

She giggled. "Alright. It's...I dunno...handsome?"

"I guess that's better," he said. He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt. "Hey, you, uh, you ever smoke reefer?" He took out a strange looking cigarette and held it up.

Luna knew roundabout what reefer was: Lucy and the other beatniks talked about it, and she _thought_ she saw people smoking it at a party once. Everything she knew about it came from a film they showed in school – a scary, scary film. "No," she said, "that's bad stuff, man."

"No, it's not," Daggy said.

Luna cocked her brow dangerously.

"Honest," Daggy said, "it's not even as bad as getting drunk. You've been drunk, right?"

"A couple times."

"Reefer's different. Drinking makes you get all...energetic. Reefer mellows you out. And it's not addictive or anything."

"I heard bad stuff about it," she said.

"It's bullshit. You heard bad stuff about rock and roll, right? My rabbi said it was gonna turn everyone gay. I listen to it and I'm hitting on a girl right now, aren't I?"

Luna laughed despite herself.

"Come on, just try it, huh? A little bit."

"Alright," she relented. He had a point.

He put the cigarette into his mouth and patted his pants pockets. "Uh, we should probably do this in my car. Your folks might know what it is."

He got up and went down the stairs. Luna laid the guitar down on the swing and followed. "If this is some ploy to get me to go cruising with you..." she said as they crossed the front yard... _it might work._

Daggy held up his hands and glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, I'm not playing games. I swear. We can smoke then you can go inside and chill out if you want. I just, uh...I just dig hanging with you."

She blushed. "Yeah, I kinda dig hanging with you too."

In the car, Daggy rolled his window down and Luna rolled hers down. He turned the key and the radio came on. The President was talking about the moon. Daggy took a lighter from his pocket, sparked it, and held it to the tip of the cigarette. "I smoke this stuff when I have trouble sleeping," he said as weird smelling smoke filled the air. He inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out with a cough. "Better than whiskey. You don't get hung over or anything."

He passed it to Luna. She took it, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger the way he had. "You sure this stuff is okay, man?"

"It's fine, I swear to God."

She lifted it to her lips and inhaled: The smoke rolled harshly into her lungs, and she coughed. "Jesus, this stuff is rank."

Daggy laughed. "Yeah, it's kinda of rough when you're not used to it. Take another hit and hold it."

Luna took another puff, and fought to keep the smoke in her bursting lungs. When she could take no more, she blew it out and coughed again. She handed it back to him, and he took another puff. She could feel something starting to happen: A feeling like warm wool settled over her brain and her body began to tingle. Her vision grew fuzzy at the edges, and soon it was like she was seeing the world for the first time.

"How you like it?" he asked and handed her the cigarette.

She nodded. "Not bad." She took another puff and held it, longer this time. She passed it back, and he pinched it out with his thumb and forefinger.

For a minute, neither of them spoke, and Luna's ears rang at just how _quiet_ it was. "You wanna cruise?" he asked.

"Sure," she said.

"Cool," he said.

Soon, they were driving aimlessly through town, and everything looked so much...brighter but somehow softer. The wind caressed her face, and she closed her eyes. The music on the radio filled her, and she started to bob her head, visions of fun, dancing, and happiness flickering through her mind. _That's_ what she wanted to do: Make people happy and want to dance. Music is a unifying force, you know? It brings people together. When you're seeing Elvis or Chuck Berry, no one's black, no one's white, everyone just _is_ , and that's really nice. The world needs more of that and less of, like, the KKK and shit.

She felt warm and cozy and almost like she was flying. "I like this," she said.

"Told you," Daggy said.

For a long time she rode the tide of her high...then she opened her eyes and looked over at him, studying his angular face, his tight curls, his knobby Adam's apple. She felt a twinge in her loins, and was shocked to find herself really thinking about doing him. "Hey," she said.

"Huh?" he asked, glancing over.

"I'm kind of hungry." Something – she couldn't say what – struck her as funny, and she started to laugh.

Daggy grinned. "Yeah, it'll do that to you. You wanna grab something at Flip's?"

"Yeah," she said, "ice cream sounds good."

"Yeah, it does," Daggy agreed.

When they parked and she got out, Luna almost fell down. Walking was hard, and she felt like one wrong move would send her crashing into something like a bull in a China shop. Inside, Flip was behind the counter, and when he saw them, he rolled his eyes. "Santiago said you'd be in. I was hoping he was wrong."

"Hello to you too, Flip," Daggy said and held his hand up. Luna went to the first booth she saw and sat. Daggy slid in across from her. A waitress came over, and while Luna stared out the window, he ordered ice cream and two Coca-Colas. "You said you play parties," Daggy said, "they ever pay you?"

Luna nodded. "I got one coming up this weekend. I don't know what they're paying me, though. I don't really care, I'm just trying to make people happy, you know?" She turned to him, and he nodded.

"That's good. So much bad shit out there, you know, do something nice."

"Exactly, yeah," she said. Man, this guy got it. "That's what music's supposed to do. You wanna get depressed, read the news."

They both laughed until tears rolled down their faces. "Hey, goofballs!" Flip called out, "turn it down."

"I don't know why I'm laughing," Luna said, "that's not funny."

"It's the reefer," Daggy said lowly, "it makes you laugh at stupid shit."

"I bet it'll make my sister's jokes better."

"Probably. She joke around a lot?"

Luna shrugged. "She tries. She's not very good, though. She makes all kinds of silly puns. Like, uh..." she looked around for something to make a pun about. She couldn't think of one to save her life, and that made her laugh. "Like, uh, hey, _ice_ to see you."

Daggy bowed his head and laughed, and that made Luna laugh even harder.

The waitress returned with their sodas, and Luna took a sip: It felt cold and good in her cottony mouth. A minute later, Flip came over and sat a dish of vanilla ice cream in front of them. He looked from Luna to Daggy and back again, his brows lowered. "You two are on something, aren't you?"

Luna's heart clutched, and she shook her head just a little too quickly – she almost fell over. "Nah, man," Daggy said, "we're just, you know, enjoying either other's company."

"Bullshit. I know what a marijuana freak looks like."

Daggy paled, and Flip leaned in...then swatted his arm. "Take it easy. I've smoked a few joysticks in my time."

"You?" Daggy asked incredulously.

Flip nodded. "You think you kids invented that shit? I was smoking those things when Woodrow Wilson was president. It was legal then."

Daggy looked at Luna then at Flip. "You wanna smoke some now?"

"No," Flip said. "That shit puts me to sleep anymore." He stood up straight. "It doesn't make me giggly like a little girl, though." Before either Daggy or Luna could reply, he walked away.

"Guess he used to smoke reefer," Daggy said. He shrugged, picked up his spoon, and dug in.

Luna did likewise: When the first spoonful hit her mouth, coldness spread through her, and it was so intense that she felt like he mouth was flash freezing. She swallowed hard and shuddered. "Man, that's shit's cold."

"What do you expect? It's ice cream, not hot cream."

Luna laughed. Daggy laughed too. "Man, this shit's killing me," she said.

When they were done, Daggy dropped a five dollar bill on the table and got up, holding the door for Luna with his foot while lighting a cigarette. The sun was going down and the high was starting to wear off. Luna sat in the passenger seat and Daggy climbed behind the wheel. "My stomach's cold," he said.

"Mine too."

He took a drag and leaned his head back against the seat; Luna did likewise, and for a long time they just sat there as the light drained from the evening sky. Peopled passed, cars came and went, the streetlamps along Main winked on. Luna watched moths dancing in the glow of the neon FLIP'S sign and laughed to herself when she thought it was kind of like their own little _American Bandstand_ up there.

Daggy started the car and backed into the parking lot, glancing through the back window. He waited at the street for a line of cars, then hung a left. "You ready to go home?" he asked.

Luna had to think about that for a minute. "You got your own place, right?"

"Yeah," he said, "above the bowling alley."

She nodded. "Let's go over there and hang."

"Alright," Daggy said.

And they did.

Twice.

* * *

The drive-in on Route 9 sat on five acres of former pastureland bordered to the south by the highway and to the north by a stand of trees. On either flank, a chain-link fence separated it from the adjoining farms. A cinderblock building sat near the main gate: In it was a kitchen and a pair of bathrooms, and around it were a dozen picnic tables cast in the shade of beach umbrellas. That warm, spring night, the picture showing was _Titanic_ starring Clifton Webb and Barbara Stanwyck. From the copyright date on the title screen, it was released in 1953, but Lori had never heard of it...not that she made a habit of paying attention to movies where awful things happen. Those are sad.

Bobby ran to get some popcorn and sodas from the concession stand, and while he was gone, Lori took a series of deep breaths and tried to brace herself for the coming revelation. When he got back, she would take his hand, look him in the eyes, and tell him. No more procrastinating.

Only when he got back, she wasn't ready, so she didn't tell him; she allowed him to slip his arm around her shoulder and rested her head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart soothing her frayed nerves and his smell filling her nostrils. It was at this very drive-in that their baby was conceived. That's terrible, when you think about it: She imagined telling her son or daughter _Yeah, you were made in the back of a '48 Coupe at the drive-in on a Friday night_ and shuddered. She didn't like to think of her parents...together, but if she were pressed, she would like to imagine that she was conceived normally: In a bed, in the missionary position, after marriage, not in a car or during some strange sex play. She shuddered again.

"You cold?" Bobby asked, stroking her hair.

"No," she said.

"You sure?" he asked. "You keep shaking."

"I'm fine."

For a long time, they watched the movie in silence. It was about an estranged married couple on the _Titanic_ (which Lori _kind of_ knew was a ship that sank in real life) who had a teenage daughter and a son a couple years younger than Lincoln. The woman was leaving the man and taking the kids. Somewhere along the line, it came out that the boy wasn't his, and he started acting distant to him, which hurt the boy's feelings. As the ship sank, however, they were reconciled, with the man telling someone, "He's my son," and Lori lost it, her hormones knocking her into an outright bawl. She buried her face in Bobby's stomach and wept into his shirt. "Hey," he said lowly, "hey, it's...it's alright." He rubbed her back and ran his fingers through her hair.

She pushed away and wiped her eyes. "Bobby..."

"Yeah?"

She tried to look him in the eyes, but it was hard to see through the tears. "I'm pregnant."

For a second, he didn't seem to understand...then it sank in and his face simultaneously dropped and went white. "What?"

Lori nodded, more tears flooding her eyes. "I'm pregnant."

Bobby looked left and right as if expecting a camera crew to come out and yell _Got'cha!_ He ranked his hand through his hair and sat back. "Oh, shit."

She wiped her eyes again. "That day you took me to the doctor, they told me. I-I didn't tell you sooner because I was a-afraid." She sniffed as he rubbed his temples with the heels of his palms.

"We used protection," he said.

"It didn't work."

He threw his head back and drew a deep sigh. Lori was suddenly afraid that she was wrong...that he _would_ abandon her. "We'll get married," he said. "I was going to ask you anyway. I was just looking at rings the other day."

"We have to be quick," she said, "I-I don't want anyone to know it happened before."

Bobby nodded. "We'll apply for a marriage license tomorrow. When we get it, we can go to the justice of the peace." He took her hand and kissed it. "A baby, huh?"

She nodded.

"Wow," he said. "That's crazy...but in a good way."

"You think so?" she asked hopefully.

"I do," he said.

* * *

May 31, 1961, Lori and Bobby stood in the Royal County Courthouse's main hearing room, their hands clasped, as a judge in a black robe performed a short ceremony. Lori wore a simple blue dress while Bobby wore a Sunday suit that was tight around the arms and shoulders. The only other person present was Bobby's friend Blades, and only then because they needed a witness. Lori felt a rush of guilt at not having her family come, but Bobby promised that one day they would have a real wedding, and that was good enough for her.

"A wedding is such a wonderful occasion filled with hopes, dreams and excitement," the JP said, reading from a small leather-bound book. "We are here today to celebrate the love that Bobby and Lori have for each other, and to recognize and witness their decision to journey forward in their lives as marriage partners."

Blades stood with his hands clasped in front of him and his feet spread apart. He wore a black T-shirt tucked into his jeans. He looked uncomfortable.

"May your love create a safe haven for you both on the journey that lies ahead of you. Lead with your hearts and take the time to do the simple things that will nurture your love."

Lori glanced at Bobby and smiled. She would do whatever it took to nurture their love, because she loved him dearly.

"Deeply listen to each other—to your dreams, and to your frustrations. Be helpmates. Be ever active in finding new ways to give your love anew to each other every day."

Bobby squeezed her hand. Her stomach quivered with nerves. She was happy and scared and a million other things. Happy, mainly.

"Let your love be an inspiration to others to reach for what is good within us all. May your love be so abundant that you have plenty to share with the rest of us as well. It is your love that has brought us together here today. May it grow deeper and sweeter with each passing year."

The JP looked at Bobby. "Do you, Bobby take, Lori to be your partner for life? Do you promise to walk by her side forever, and to love, help, and encourage her in all she does? Do you promise to take time to talk with her, to listen to her, and to care for her? Will you share her laughter, and her tears, as her partner, lover, and best friend? Do you take her as your lawfully wedded wife for now and forevermore?"

"I do," Bobby said.

Lori squeezed his hand.

The JP looked at her. "Do you, Lori take, Bobby to be your partner for life? Do you promise to walk by his side forever, and to love, help, and encourage him in all he does? Do you promise to take time to talk with him, to listen to him, and to care for him? Will you share his laughter, and her tears, as his partner, lover and best friend? Do you take him as your lawfully wedded husband for now and forevermore?"

Lori blinked back tears. "I do."

"And now, seal your promises with these rings, the symbol of your life shared together."

For a moment, nothing happened. Bobby glared at Blades, who started and came forward with the rings. Bobby took the rings and slammed his palm into Blades' shoulder. "Dumbass," he hissed. Lori giggled and the JP rolled his eyes. Bobby handed his ring to Lori and kept hers. "Alright"

"Bobby, please repeat after me:

Lori, this ring I give as token and pledge,

As a sign of my love and devotion.

With this ring, I thee wed."

Bobby repeated it and slipped the ring onto her finger.

"Lori, please repeat after me:

Bobby, this ring I give as token and pledge,

As a sign of my love and devotion.

With this ring, I thee wed."

Lori repeated, and slipped the ring onto Bobby's finger.

"Lori and Bobby, by the power invested in me, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss."

Lori and Bobby kissed for the first time as husband and wife.

* * *

" _Married?"_

Rita Loud's hand fluttered to her chest. Next to her, Lynn Sr. lifted his brows. Bobby and Lori stood side-by-side in front of the television set, her in a blue dress and him in a suit, both of them looking sheepish.

"Yeah," Lynn Jr. said, "married?" He was standing behind the couch, his hands resting on the back. Luna stood next to him, looking largely unperturbed. Leni and Luan were on the couch, Leni beaming and Luan looking confused. Lincoln sat on the arm next to Mom, his arms crossed and a questioning expression on his face.

"I-I'm happy for you," Rita said, "it's just so sudden."

"We're going to have a big wedding when we can afford it," Lori said, and looked at Bobby with a smile, "we just wanted to hurry up and do it. We've been talking about it for a long time and we were really excited."

"Congratulations," Lynn Sr. said.

Lincoln nodded his agreement while everyone else offered their own words of felicitation. He kind of expected this to happen, and he had certainly thought through the ramifications: He and Ronnie Anne were kind of sort of related now...not that that bothered him. It didn't bother her either. They talked about it, and Ronnie Anne said _I don't care what they do, you're mine and I'm not giving you up_.

Still, would this make it more difficult for _them_ to get married one day? He hoped not.

An hour later, Ronnie Anne had a similar thought as Lori and Bobby stood in the Santiago living room. Next to her, her mother's mouth hung open. "You got married?"

Bobby nodded. "Yep. This afternoon."

" _¿por qué no me lo dijiste?_ _¿por qué lo guardaste en secreto?"_

Bobby sighed. _"No queríamos hacer una producción de ella. Vamos a tener una gran boda cuando tengamos el dinero."_

She held up her hand. "Alright. I wish I would have known, but congratulations. I'm happy for both of you."

"Thanks," Bobby said. He turned to Ronnie Anne. "This means you and Lincoln..."

"Were together before you and her, and will be together _after_ you and her." She crossed her arms. "You're older, so you're going to die first."

"Drop dead twice," Bobby said.

"And look like you?"

Bobby started to flip her off, but his mother was looking at him, so he just shook his fist.


	17. December 18, 1961: Part 1

**Oh, come on, Abby, it's just a little grass. Your old pal Flagg used to smoke it all the time and look at him: He's a successful fan fiction writer now. He makes lots of money and has lots of groupies.**

 **I want to take a minute to spotlight a fic I read here yesterday that I think is good and has potential. It's called** _ **Joke's on You**_ **by SizzlR. Of course I like it, it reminds me of an idea** _ **I**_ **had ;)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Surfin'**_ **by The Beach Boys (1961)**

 **6:30am**

In the hazy twilight world between sleep and awake, Lori Loud held her baby in her arms and gazed upon its face with a beaming smile. For some inexplicable reason, she couldn't make out its features, but its eyes were big and brown just like Bobby's, and Lori couldn't look away from them even if she wanted to.

A long, low _creeeeeak_ made her wince, and the vision dissipated like morning fog. _No, don't go..._ the warm cocoon of happiness that her mind had spun in the night fell away, and her eyes fluttered open: White winter sunshine filtered through the window, falling across her face and stinging her tired orbs. She muttered something that may have been a borderline curse and rolled over, reaching out for Bobby but touching only cold, empty bed. Confusion shot across her mind, then, as the sleep drained from her, she remembered: It was Friday, and on Thursday nights Bobby slept at his house.

When they first married, Mom and Dad offered to let them live in the Loud house until they saved up enough money to get a place of their own, but Bobby didn't want to leave his family entirely. He felt bad about moving out and leaving his mother to pay all the bills alone, so he helped out where he could. Lori could understand that, but at the same time, they had to worry about their own lives and their baby. It wasn't _so_ bad, though. He talked to his boss and his boss bumped him up to a supervisor position: He worked from 9 to 5 now and made two dollars more an hour. It was a union job, and he had paid vacation and health insurance. Technically, they had money for an apartment now, but her mother and all her sisters wanted her to stay home until she had the baby. Something told her that it would turn into staying until she was "healed" or something so that they could have easy access to him or her. Doting aunts and grandma and all.

Part of her wanted to stay, but another part wanted her own space. She was hormonal and she and Bobby had had it out a few times. _Are you going to live with your mother forever? Are you going to pay everything there and nothing here?_ She knew that wasn't fair – he made good money and he paid for most of her expenses – but sometimes she worried.

Sighing now, she rolled onto her other side: A rush of nausea went through her as the baby slid from one side of her stomach to the other and then kicked as if to say _Keep it down out there!_ Though she felt like puking, she smiled and placed her hand on her stomach: She could feel his or her foot through her flesh. It was strange but exhilarating. She pinched his-or-her heel, and he-or-she pulled quickly away, which made her laugh. "Soon," she said, rubbing her belly, "you're going to get to meet your mommy and daddy. And your grandparents. And all your aunts and uncles." The baby kicked as if in excitement. "Yeah," she cooed, "that _is_ pretty neat, huh?"

She glanced over at Leni's bed and saw that she wasn't there. The creak of the door must have been what woke her. She tried to sit up, but rolled like a turtle on its back, which was funny and sad at the same time. When she finally got it, she sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to catch her breath, her legs spread apart and her stomach filling the world. God, she was big as a house.

Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet, putting her hand in the small of her back, which ached like heck. In the hall, Lincoln was standing by the bathroom door in his underwear, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. It was a teacher conference day so the schools were closed, but he volunteered to pick Lynn up from the airport, which meant he didn't get to sleep in. Why he offered was beyond her.

He opened his eyes when she came out; they were red and hazy. "Hey," he muttered.

"Hey," she said, "do you mind if I cut in front of you? I _reaaaally_ have to pee."

Nod. "Yeah. Sure."

One thing about being pregnant and having a full bladder: Baby kicks the wrong way...and you fill your underwear with urine. It had happened twice in the last two months, once when she and Bobby were in public. It was _literally_ the most embarrassed she had ever been; walking back to the car with a big, dark wet patch on the crotch of her dress, she wept openly, and Bobby put his arm around her shoulder. "Hey, it happens," he said, but she cried harder because pregnancy hormones.

Presently, she leaned against the wall next to Lincoln, and the baby kicked hard, its foot jamming into her stomach. "Oof," she said, and put her hand to her belly: Baby's foot was right there, she pushed it, and it went away, only to reappear elsewhere...closer to Lincoln. "I think the baby wants to say good morning to Uncle Lincoln."

Lincoln turned and blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Where is she?"

"We don't know _what_ it is, Linc," Lori said, "and you don't see the foot poking through my dress?" Lincoln was sure that the baby would be a girl. If it was, her name would be either Maria after Bobby's grandmother or Patricia after Lori's. If it was a boy, it would be Roberto Jr.

Lincoln leaned in and scanned her stomach, finding the protrusion and poking it with his finger, his tired face breaking out in a grin. "Hey, Maria, how's it going?"

"Don't call it that," Lori said more sharply than she meant, and Lincoln recoiled. "Sorry – but I don't want you messing with its head in case it's a boy."

"Sor- _rry_ ," Lincoln said.

The door opened, and Lori was mildly surprised to see Luna instead of Leni. "Hey, Lori," she said with half-lidded eyes. "How's Bobby Jr. doing?"

Lori rolled her eyes. "Don't call it Bobby Jr..."

"Oh, sorry," Luna said, and came over. She put her hands on Lori's stomach; the older girl jumped and giggled. "I forgot, you're all formal and stuff. How's _Roberto Junior?"_ She rubbed Lori's stomach like a genie lamp.

"Stop! That tickles!"

"It's your aunt Luna, little man," Luna cooed, "you coming out of there soon so we can rock?"

"Two weeks," Lori said, pushing past Luna, "you have to wait two weeks."

She was originally due on December 17 – yesterday – but they bumped her up to December 31. They apparently had no idea when he was coming.

He?

Darn it. Now Luna had _her_ calling the baby a boy.

In the bathroom, she pulled her underwear down to her knees, hiked her dress up, and sat, gasping as the cold toilet seat touched her butt. The baby felt her tense, and _whished_ across her stomach. "Calm _down_ , little one," she said, "you're going to knock mommy over."

Even though her bladder was bursting, she couldn't go at first, and had to wait, and wait, and wait. Finally, it came out, and she sighed with relief. She wiped, flushed, and washed her hands. In the hall, Lincoln was jumping from one foot to the other. "Sorry," she said sheepishly, "it took longer than I expected."

"That's fine," he said quickly, "just let me through."

She stepped aside, and he streaked into the bathroom like a comet, slamming the door behind him. In her room, she sat on the edge of her bed and patted her stomach. She was hungry...which meant going down the stairs. She could go down fine (though she was terrified of falling and hurting the baby), but coming back up was a grueling death march on par with Bataan: She had to stop and hold fast to the railing to catch her breath at least twice – three times on a bad day.

Baby Santiago needed his or her breakfast, though, so mommy had to suck it up. She started to stand, but the door opened and Leni came in with a tray. "Morning!" she chirped. "I made you breakfast."

"Good, I'm starving," Lori said as Leni sat the tray on the bed. Eggs, toast, pancakes, and a glass of orange juice. Lori licked her lips and looked up at her sister. "Thank you."

Leni kissed the tip of her nose. "You're welcome." She dropped to her knees and laid her palms flat on Lori's stomach. "Morning, baby! It's auntie Leni. I brought you food." The baby showed it appreciation with a big kick that made Lori's whole stomach bounce. Leni giggled. "He or she's happy!"

"And _very_ active," Lori said and picked up a piece of toast. Over the past few days, the baby had done nothing but move, dance, kick, shake, and swish around like a goldfish in a bowl.

Leni patted Lori's stomach then got up and dropped onto her own bed. "He or she is getting ready to come out." She beamed and balled her hands to her chest. "This is so exciting! Uh...I hope I'm finished with his or her coming home outfit." Her shining eyes suddenly clouded with worry. "I better get started. I'm _almost_ done."

Leni had spent the past nine months making baby clothes. There were shorts, pants, shirts, little sweaters, two dresses, socks, a jacket, knit caps, gloves, and a scarf. Most of them were in neutral colors. The dresses, however, were pink.

As Lori ate, Leni went over to her vanity and sat. She opened a drawer, pulled out her needles and yarn, and then the nearly-finished onesie. She didn't want Lori to see it until she was done, but Lori caught a flash of green and red.

Her hormones kicked it, and tears welled in her eyes. She loved her family so much – and when she moved out, she was going to miss them.

* * *

 **8:00am**

Lincoln climbed behind the wheel of the Packard, pulled the door closed, and started the engine: It coughed, wheezed, and backfired. Lincoln winced and shook his head. One of these days, this old lemon was going to break down, and knowing his luck, it would probably be today...in Detroit...on the highway. He almost regretted offering to pick Lynn up, but it was worth it in the end, because Ronnie Anne was coming with him, and he liked driving with Ronnie Anne. They had only done it a few times because Dad wasn't too keen on lending the Packard out, but those few times were nice: Just him, her, the radio, and open road ahead. He couldn't _wait_ until he had his own car.

Glancing behind him, he backed into the street and started toward Ronnie Anne's. When his house was out of sight, he lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, cold air rushing in and stinging his face. It was overcast and slushy patches of snow covered the ground: Along the sides of the road it was black and gritty. The weathermen were calling for more tonight; there was even talk of a white Christmas. He turned the radio on, and settled for a station playing a morning newscast.

Ten minutes after setting out, he pulled up in front of Ronnie Anne's house and beeped the horn. The door opened and she came out in a purple skirt and a yellow pullover sweater under a heavy jacket two times too big. She hurried across the lawn, her boots splashing in the muck, and slipped into the car. "Hey," he said.

"Hey, square-for-brains," she grinned, and they kissed. While she buckled up, Lincoln pulled into her driveway and then backed out, the rear tires spinning in the mud: For a horrible second he thought they were going to get stuck. "You got a cigarette?" she asked.

Lincoln reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pack, which he tossed into her lap. She pulled one out, lit it, and rolled down the window. "You wanna know how much you mean to me, lame-o?"

Lincoln glanced at her. "Sure."

"I got out of bed at six this morning just to hang out with you."

He chuckled. "You didn't have to get up _that_ early."

She shrugged. "I had Bobby wake me up before he left for work."

"He went in that early?"

"It's called overtime."

He nodded. "Cool."

Outside town, snow covered farmland fell away from the highway. Weathered wooden power poles marched along the gravel shoulder, and, in the distance, red barns, white houses, and tall grain silos rose against the gray sky. Ronnie Anne laid her hand on Lincoln's leg and watched the world flash by in silence. He took her hand in his and threaded his fingers through hers, driving one handed. "You work today?" she asked.

"Yep," he said. "You know Flip. Fat old slave driver. You?"

"No," she sighed, "I'm off until Saturday."

"Off?" Lincoln asked playfully, "what does _that_ mean?"

He had been working at Flip's for seven months, and aside from Sundays, he was _never_ off. Well, he had his birthday off, but that's only because Ronnie Anne went behind his back and begged Flip to give them both off. It occurred to Lincoln to ask, but he didn't like doing that. He wanted to be a reliable employee that Flip could count on; he was all too aware that dishwashers are a dime a dozen, even if they know how to prep. That was partly the reason he had Ernie teach him to run the grill.

He was happy to spend his birthday with the girl he loved, though, and it was a birthday to remember. They didn't go _all_ the way, but she touched him the way she did that night back in May, and when she was done, he touched her: There was something about kissing her neck as she shook with climax that Lincoln found irresistible; a part of him wanted to do it every day, but another part wanted to do it only occasionally so that it would be special. Since July, they had only touched each other once.

"It's when you don't have to deal with Flip or dirty, nasty dishes."

Lincoln snickered. "Sounds nice." He shook another cigarette out and lit it. Ronnie Anne held out her hand, and he gave her the pack. "I'm so overloaded on Flip I hear his voice in my sleep."

"I had a dream he married my mom," Ronnie Anne said, and giggled.

"Seriously?"

She nodded. "Yeah. It was more like a nightmare."

"I'll say."

"All he did was sit in an armchair and drink beer."

Lincoln furrowed his brow. "Does he even drink?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "He did in my nightmare."

Lincoln squeezed her hand. "Well, that's _all_ it was. I doubt your mom would want Flip. She can do a _lot_ better."

Ahead, the road crossed a wide, icy river. A milk truck was parked along the shoulder, the milkman nowhere in sight.

Sighing, Ronnie Anne brought the Camel to her lips and inhaled. "If she'd date. I've been trying to get her to go out with someone for a year now. She doesn't want to."

That struck Lincoln as strange. He imagined that if _his_ mother was single, he wouldn't want her dating anybody. He wouldn't stop her (maybe), but he sure as hell wouldn't encourage her. What if the guy turned out to be bad news? He said as much, and Ronnie Anne spread her hands. "She's gotta be lonely. I mean, it's been seven years since my dad left."

He couldn't argue there. "I guess."

"Bobby's leaving when Lori has the baby, and one day I'm going to move out, and...you know...she's going to be lonely. I don't want her to be lonely."

The seriousness in her tone made Lincoln frown. He squeezed her hand. "Maybe she wants to be alone."

"Seems that way," she sighed. "I dunno. I just feel kind of bad for her."

After that, neither of them talked for a while. A newsbreak came on the radio, followed by a song about surfing, which he knew about through Lynn, who always wanted to try it:

 _I got up this mornin' turned on my radio_

 _I was checkin' on the surfin' scene_

 _To see if I would go_

 _And when the DJ tells me that the surfin' is fine_

 _That's when I know my baby and I will have a good time_.

He glanced at the barren, snowy pasture bordering the highway: The juxtaposition between what he was hearing and what he was seeing made his head spin. Surfing, huh? Where? Lake Michigan? Sorry, boys, it's closed for the winter.

Next to him, Ronnie Anne snorted. "Wanna go surfing, Linc?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, taking a drag and blowing it out, "I'm just dying to get hypothermia."

She giggled. "It's gotta be warm somewhere."

He glanced at the gas gauge. "I didn't bring enough money to get us to wherever that is."

"I bet it's warm in Arizona."

"Lynn likes it," he said. Lynn called twice a week like clockwork: Mondays and Fridays. Everyone took turns talking to him, and by the time it was all said and done, he'd been on the phone two hours –three if he was feeling homesick, which, Mom said, he did from time to time. He probably wouldn't want anyone to know, but Lincoln couldn't blame him: Arizona was a _long_ way from home. ""It gets really hot in the summer, though."

"That's how it goes," Ronnie Anne said. "It's either really hot in the summer or really cold in the winter. There is no in-between."

Twenty minutes later, they reached the outskirts of Detroit. Lincoln had never driven in the city before, and all the cars on the road made him nervous. He took out a folded piece of paper with directions on it and handed it to Ronnie Anne. "You get to navigate," he said.

"Oh, lucky me."

Once they left the turnpike, a right and a left brought them to the airport, which was laid out along the Detroit River like a medieval fortress. Across the icy expanse, Lincoln could see Canada: Houses and barren trees lined the shore. He saw a seafoam green Chevy (he couldn't tell if it was a '57 or a '58) and what might have been someone shoveling snow.

Lincoln pulled to a stop outside the main terminal and cut the engine. People streamed in and out through a big set of double doors. He checked his watch, saw that it was half past nine, and nodded. Lynn's plane should have landed ten minutes ago, which meant he should be along any minute.

"You ever think about travelling?" Ronnie Anne asked as she watched the crowds come and go.

"Sometimes," he said. Call him crazy, but he kind of wanted to visit the Soviet Union, just to see what it was like: It was a shadowed land of mystery behind an iron curtain, and from the way everyone talked, everything over there was so vastly different from the way they were in the states that it might as well be Mars or something.

He said as much, and Ronnie Anne shook her head. "You're crazy, lame-o. They'd put you in jail and never let you out."

"Why?" he asked. "I wouldn't do anything wrong."

"Not being a commie freak is wrong to them."

Lincoln started to reply that she was right (I guess), but stopped when Lynn came through the doors. He was wearing a pair of khaki pants and a blue and gold letterman jacket with the University of Arizona crest over the heart and held a single bag. He glanced around, and Lincoln beeped the horn. Lynn saw, grinned, and came over. When he stuck his head in the passenger window, his smile faltered – but just for a second. "Well, well, well, it's my baby brother and his little girlfriend. I expected Dad."

"You got us," Lincoln said. Ronnie Anne leaned forward and brought the seat with her. Lynn slipped in and fell onto the back seat, crushing her against the dashboard.

"Watch it, asshole," she said.

"Zip it, Lincoln's girlfriend."

She glanced over her shoulder. "I have a name."

"So do I, and it's not 'asshole.'"

She rolled her eyes and turned away. Lincoln threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb, spinning the wheel to avoid a hunk of black snow. "Did Lori pop while I was in the air?" Lynn asked.

"Nope," Lincoln said, "she looks like she's going to any day, though. She's bigger than she was at Thanksgiving."

Lynn snickered. "Really? I think you're full of it."

"Alright," Lincoln said, "just wait. You'll see."

"She _is_ pretty big," Ronnie Anne grinned. "She was so skinny before, now" – she puffed her cheeks and held her arms out in front of her stomach.

Lincoln laughed. "God, if she saw you doing that she'd kill all of us – you for doing it and me and Lynn for seeing it."

"I didn't see anything," Lynn said. "I'm just trying to get home. You two kids can play your little games , just leave me out of it."

Lincoln glanced in the rearview mirror. "Lynn...shut up."


	18. December 18, 1961: Part 2

**Guest: Hey, don't blame the weed.**

* * *

 **10:00am**

Luan Loud was a woman adrift.

Okay, maybe that wasn't the best analogy, but some days it felt like it. In high school, she labored under the impression that she would become a nurse or a teacher. She liked the idea of both equally, and as graduation approached, she realized that she couldn't decide. One the one hand, helping sick people sounded great, on the other...so did teaching little children. She leaned more heavily toward teacher because as a teacher, she could help mold and shape the minds of tomorrow, instilling them with positive values, like tolerance and compassion, two traits that the human race _really_ seemed to struggle with. Her own teachers were cold and authoritarian: They weren't there to help or nurture you, they were there to drill things into your head. Fractions, grammar, the Revolution – all were important, but without a solid humanist foundation, what did they _really_ matter? She'd rather someone who was dumb and kind (like Leni) than someone who knew everything but was evil (like the Nazis...apparently a lot of them had very high I.Q.s).

When she graduated in June, she decided to take a break from academics for a while and do a little soul searching. By the end of the summer, she was sure that she would rather be a teacher than a nurse, but she didn't even know if she wanted to be a teacher anymore. In May, she watched on TV as Civil Rights activists bussed into the South on what were called "Freedom Rides" and were mobbed by segregationists, some beaten, others thrown in jail on trumped up charges of 'disturbing the peace' even though all they did was have the nerve to step off a Greyhound. She thought she might like to do something in Civil Rights, but she didn't know what. She knew there were Civil Rights lawyers, but she didn't think she would like being a lawyer.

She didn't know _what_ she wanted to do, but she felt like time was running out: It was almost the end of December, and enrollment for Royal Woods Community College's spring semester was starting soon.

When she woke up on the morning of the 18th, these thoughts swirled through her head. Downstairs, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and her copy of _Look_ on the table before her. She glanced up and smiled. "Morning, dear."

"Good morning, Mom," she said. She went over to the coffee pot, grabbed a mug from the cabinet, and poured some in. She sat across from her mother and took a sip. "I was thinking," she said.

"Well, that's dangerous," Mom quipped.

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to enroll this spring."

Mom looked up. "That's wonderful, dear. For teaching?"

Luan hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I don't know if that's _really_ want I want to do, but I have to do something, right?" She chuckled nervously.

"That's true," Mom said absently as she flipped a page, "but if it's something you absolutely don't want to do, you shouldn't waste your time." She looked up, and Luan blinked at the gravity in her eyes. "You can't always do exactly what you want in life: Sometimes you have to settle. Never settle for something that you can't get _some_ enjoyment out of. Do you think you could find happiness teaching?"

Mom had never spoken so seriously to her, and for a moment it threw Luan for a loop. "I think so," she said. "I can...I can see myself being happy." She hesitated because even though she thought she _could_ be happy, she didn't _want_ to settle. She wanted to make the most of her life.

"Take some time to think it over," Mom said and took a sip of her coffee. "You're still young, the world is full of possibilities. Once you start down a path, you have to follow it. Just keep that in mind."

Upstairs, she dropped onto her bed and thought over what her mother had said. _Once you start down a path, you have to follow it_. If she started down the path to teaching, would she _really_ have to stay on it? What if she found her calling late? Couldn't she _switch_ paths? The enormity of the decision ahead of her, and the prospect that she would be locked in once she chose, rested on her chest like a ton of rocks, and she found it hard to breathe. She looked at Luna's bed; it was empty, and the bedclothes were tangled. She was out with her boyfriend, and here Luan was, needing her: Luna always gave the best advice, and had since they were children.

What would Luna say if she were here right now? Probably something like _follow your heart._ The problem was, Luan didn't _know_ where her heart was. She ran through the list of things she was sufficiently interested in: Teaching, nursing, politics, Civil Rights...that was pretty much it.

Sigh. Not a very crowded field, which left her with few options right out of the gate. If she were to put them in list form from the one that most interested her to the least, it would be: Civil Rights, teaching, politics, and nursing. At least that was the order at the moment, politics and nursing could switch spots at any moment and switch back again later on.

Her mind whirled, and she needed a distraction. She hadn't said good morning to the baby yet, so she got up and did that now, pausing in Leni and Lori's doorway. Leni sat at her vanity, her hands a blur of movement as she knitted, and Lori lay on her side in her bed, a book in her hands. It never failed to amaze Luan how _big_ Lori's stomach had gotten. She had gained a little weight everywhere else, but her stomach was _huge_ compared to the rest of her. It was like she had a beach ball under her shirt.

"Hey," Luan said.

Lori glanced up. "Hey, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing," Luan grinned, "I just wanted to say good morning to my niece."

Lori rolled her eyes. Like Linc, she thought it was going to be a girl. Call it a feeling. Or auntie's intuition. Luan crossed the room and knelt next to the bed. Lori pressed a finger to her stomach. "Its little foot is _right here_."

Luan poked, and she felt the baby's heel as clearly as if it was lying on the bed in front of her. "That's so weird," Luan said through a smile.

"Imagine how it feels for me," Lori said. "Sometimes when it moves I feel like I'm going to fall over."

The baby's heel disappeared, then reappeared elsewhere, pushing through Lori's dress like an alien. Lori moaned and Luan smiled. She was really excited to meet her little niece and play with her and all that fun stuff, but she didn't think she wanted a baby of her own. She might adopt, but after watching Lori for the past nine months, uh-uh, no way.

Not me.

* * *

 **11:00am**

Rita Loud sat on the couch in front of the TV, a knit blanket Leni made her for her birthday thrown over her lap. She wore a long-sleeved pink house coat with a stripe down the middle. Another knit blanket, this one a Christmas gift, was thrown over her shoulders. Still, she was cold.

Though she had lived her entire life in Michigan, Rita had somehow never gotten used to winter: From November to April, she was a block of ice, and only left the house when absolutely necessary: She had groceries delivered, forwent her monthly trip to the hairdressers, and developed a nasty cold whenever one of the kid's teachers wanted to meet...unless it was important, of course. She was there for all of their events, though, such as Lynn's games. Why football season had to be in fall and winter was beyond her, but it was and it was what Lynn liked to do, so she came and supported him, even if she froze the entire time and had no idea what was happening on the field. She loved her children, after all.

On TV, a placard featuring a camera labeled NBC appeared below the words NBC TELEVISION PRESENTS. The screen changed to four people sitting behind a counter, three men and a woman. _"Today,"_ the announcer said, _"these four people need to compete for the prizes of a lifetime on..."_

Orchestra music struck up, and two large price tags bearing the words THE PRICE IS RIGHT between them cut in.

Ah, it was eleven then. Where was Lincoln? He and Lynn should have been here by now. She was excited to see Lynn. She saw him at Thanksgiving, yes, but that simply wasn't enough. He was her son, and seeing him only once in a while was difficult, though she would never say because children grow and move on. That's what happens in life. When she told Luan earlier that one has to do things in life that they might not want to, the first thing that came to her own mind was _like letting your children go._ First Lynn, now Lori...it was upsetting.

She was already planning on asking Lori to stay until the baby was a little older; understandably, Lori wanted to make home with Bobby, and Rita was fully prepared to be turned down. It was a sad prospect, but one made more bearable by the fact that at least she would get a grandchild out of the deal.

A smile touched her lips. She looked forward to meeting him or her very much. She was hurt, however, that Lori was being dishonest: She was not stupid, and as soon as her daughter and son-in-law broke the news that they were expecting, she knew that it had happened before they were married...which explained why did they it so quickly. She was proud of them both for doing the right thing, but she was disappointed...with herself or with Lori she couldn't say. She had always tried to be a progressive parent, and she would have thought that her children would feel comfortable enough coming to her with something like that, but perhaps she had failed in that regard. She understood Lori's hesitancy...she also understood that things happen when you're young and in love. She and Lynn did things before they were married...they never went quite _that_ far, but farther than they probably should have.

She wondered, not for the first time, if Luna or Lincoln were...active. Lincoln had been with Ronnie Anne since he was eleven, and they were just the cutest thing, very obviously in love, or as in love as you can be when you're fifteen. She wouldn't be surprised if were, though she hoped not. Luna was a grown woman, so that was somewhat different: She and Alvin seemed to like each other very much, and there were times, Rita knew, that she didn't come home at night. Rita had no place to interfere in her life, but she had given her a talking to after she told her about Alvin.

 _Waiting for marriage,_ she told her, _is the moral thing to do, but it is also practical. When a man marries you, it means that he loves you and is serious about being with you...otherwise, he might not be serious, and if you get pregnant, he might not stay._

Luna simply rolled her eyes. _I'm nineteen, Mom, I think I get that._

Rita sighed. That's what they all said. When you're nineteen, you know everything and no one – _no one_ – can tell you anything. She knew well, because she was the same way when she was young.

On TV, Bob Cullen chatted with one of the contestants and laughed at something he said. Where was Lincoln? She was starting to worry. He was a cautious driver – as he was a cautious boy – but accident happen.

She drew the blanket tight around her chest and clutched it. Damn this cold. She was trying to talk Lynn into moving to Florida when he retired. He wasn't too keen on the idea, but she had eighteen more years to work on him. Eighteen long, cold, wintery years.

 _The Price is Right_ was just ending when the front door opened and Lynn came in. Rita's heart jumped for joy and a big smile spread across her face.

"Hey, Mom!"

"Hi, honey." She threw the blankets off and got up as he sat his bag down. He came over and hugged her tightly. She hugged him back. Poor thing got very homesick sometimes; he was too proud to admit it, but he cried: Sometimes she could hear the tears in his voice and it made her miserable. "I missed you," she said and ran her fingers through his hair. Over his shoulder, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne came in.

"I missed you too, Mom," he said. "Where's everyone else?"

"Luna's out and the others are upstairs, I think."

"Lincoln said Lori's even bigger than she was at Thanksgiving," Lynn said, a mischievous light in his eyes, "I wanna see."

"Go say hi," Rita said and touched his face; it always shocked her when she looked at him and saw a man and not the little boy he once was. "They missed you too."

Lynn went upstairs and Rita shivered. "Lincoln, close the door, please."

"Sorry, Mom," he said, and shut the door behind him. He nodded toward the sofa, and he and Ronnie Anne came over as Rita sat and pulled the blankets back on. _Concentration_ was in full swing; it was one of the few game shows Rita didn't care for. If she wasn't so cold she would vacuum or something.

"How was the drive?" she asked.

"Fine," Lincoln said. His elbow was propped on the arm of the couch and his other arm was draped across the back. Ronnie Anne sat with her hands on her knees and looked uncomfortable. The girl's coyness around her perplexed Rita, but she couldn't help finding it cute.

"You drove the speed limit?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, Mom, I did 300 miles per hour and broke the sound barrier."

"Don't be smart," Rita said sharply.

"Sorry," he said. "Yes, I drove the speed limit."

"Just making sure," she said. She almost commented on the stench of cigarettes, but she and Lynn had given up on that front. There were worse things he could be doing. "Did you have a nice time, Ronnie Anne?"

"Yes, ma'am."

From upstairs, Leni cried out. "Oh, hi, Lynn!"

A few seconds later, Rita heard Lori: "I am _not_ bigger!"


	19. December 18, 1961: Part 3

**Guest: Yes, Daggy's real name is Alvin.**

 **STR2D3PO: I'm not always cold, but I detest the cold. I loathe it. You could kill my entire family, rape me, burn my house down, and salt the earth so nothing grows on my farm ever again (I don't actually have a farm), and I'll probably still hate you less than I hate the cold.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **We're Gonna Have to Slap the Dirty Little Jap**_ **by Lucky Millinder (1942)**

 **12:00pm**

Leni's heart was happy. Lynn was home and she was almost done with the baby's coming home outfit. It took her a _long_ time to do because she didn't know what to make. It would have been easier if she knew whether it was a boy or a girl.

After a couple weeks of thinking _really_ hard (and giving herself a bad headache that lasted two days) it came to her: Red and green! It was perfect because little Bobby Jr. or Maria or Patricia was going to be a Christmas baby. Presently, she sat her needles aside and looked down at it with an appreciative nod: On the chest was a cute little Santa face with rosy cheeks and closed eyes and underneath it said: HAPPY CHRISTMAS, MERRY NEW YEARS'. She read it and frowned. Something wasn't right. She touched her chin and pouted as she tried to puzzle out what it was. She knew it was spelled right because she made _extra_ sure by writing it down on a slip of paper, having copied it exactly from a card. Hm. It must not be _that_ important. It's not like she forgot to add a head hole like she did with the last one. That surprised her because she _never_ forgot stuff like that. Lately, though, she was forgetting a lot of stuff and feeling extra ditzy: Just last night she was using the bathroom, and when she got up, she couldn't remember how to work the knob. Her mind just totally blanked for a minute.

She was mixing up her words more, too. The other day she was confiding in Lori about how it made her heart sad that she didn't have a license, and she said, "I'll _never_ learn to drive a radio." It was a second before she realized her mistake, and she hoped Lori didn't notice.

That wasn't normal. Even for her.

Her frown deepened.

Something was wrong.

She stared down at the onesie, her eyes clouding over...then she smiled. That Santa was _really_ cute. Little Bobby Jr. or Maria or Patricia would look _adorable_ in it. Should she add a hood? It was really cold outside. She glanced over her shoulder at Lori, who had fallen asleep on her side. Adding a hood (that looked like a Santa hat, of course) wouldn't take more than a day.

Okay. She got more thread from her drawer and started, her nimble fingers moving with confident grace. She started to hum a tune she knew but couldn't place. She furrowed her brow and hummed very slowly, trying to figure out the words. Oh, _Baby, It's Cold Outside_. Yes it is. _Very_ cold. Leni didn't like the cold. She wanted it warm. Lynn was in Arizona right now where it was _always_ warm. Lucky.

Wait, no, he was home for Christmas. Well...he was _usually_ out there. Leni was jealous. She was also jealous because Lincoln could drive and she couldn't. She wanted to take him fun places but now he was the one who took her to fun places, like the craft store. She liked the craft store. There was _lots_ of fun stuff at the craft store. When she was there, she was like a kid in a craft shop. No, candy shop. Craft shop, that was funny. Good one, Leni.

Lori moaned behind her.

"You okay?" Leni asked and turned.

"This baby won't stop moving," Lori sighed.

"He or she is happy," Leni grinned, "he or she gets to meet his or her aunt Leni soon...and aunt Leni has _groceries_."

Lori's brow furrowed.

"Goodies, I mean," Leni said and smiled nervously. "I was thinking of groceries just now."

That was a lie. She wasn't. She turned away, embarrassed. "I have _lots_ of goodies for little baby Bobby Jr. or Maria or Patricia. I'm almost done with the outfit, I just need to add a little hood that looks like a Santa hat."

Lori took a deep breath as the baby slid across her stomach. _Calm down, please. Mommy's tired._ That was another thing she hated about being pregnant: Constantly being tired. Big, bloated, hungry, achy, tired – how did Mom do this six times? That woman must be _crazy_.

Speaking of being constantly hungry, it was lunchtime, wasn't it?

At the mere thought of lunch, the baby did a flip, and she felt like she was losing her stomach. "Leni?"

"Yeah?" Leni asked without looking up from her knitting.

"Could you get me – and the baby – something to eat please?"

"Sure!" She sat her needles down and got up. Her back was sore and her butt hurt. How long had she been sitting here, anyway? "What do you guys want?"

Lori pouted. "Food."

Leni put her hands up. "What _kind_ of food, silly?"

Lori said the first thing that popped into her mind. "A hamburger and French fries from Flip's." That sounded _really_ good, actually. She could already taste the charred beef and crispy potatoes. Ahhhhh.

Leni went to the door and stuck her head out. "Lincy?"

"Yeah?" Lincoln called from downstairs.

"Your sister and her baby need a favor..."

Twenty minutes later, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne walked into Flip's. Flip was sitting on a stool behind the counter reading the paper, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. He looked up, and rolled his eyes. "You're both early – by three hours. Can't you tell time?"

"Trust me," Lincoln said and leaned against the counter, "we don't want to be here."

"Then why the hell are you bothering me?"

"One burger, one order of fries to go."

Flip snorted. "You don't get enough to eat when you're here?" He looked at Ronnie Anne. "I see you eating people's leftover fries off their plates."

Ronnie Anne blushed. "That happened _one_ time."

"It's for Lori," Lincoln said, "the baby's hungry."

Flip laid the paper down and got up. "This makes three generations of Louds I've fed. Your mom and dad used to come in here. I ever tell you that? You and Miss Fry Thief '61 remind me of them."

Ronnie Anne's hand crept into Lincoln's. "I guess that means we have a long marriage ahead of us," she said.

"And six kids."

Her eyes widened. "No, no, no, not six. After seeing what your sister's going through, I don't even know if I want _one_."

Lincoln shrugged. "We can always get a dog."

"That's basically the same thing," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but they have a shorter shelf life."

"But you get attached," she replied.

A few minutes later, Flip came out with a cardboard container. "Alright, Loud, one burger and fries fresh out of the fryer. Your sister really should be eating better; the crap from this place will turn that kid into a mutant or something."

At home, Lincoln handed the container to Lori, who licked her lips. "Thanks, Linc."

"You're welcome," he said. "Flip says his food is crap and you shouldn't be eating it. Just so you know."

"Flip should mind his own business," Lori said.

* * *

 **1:30pm**

On his days off, Lynn Loud Sr. liked to tinker in the garage. It was his space, after all, an oasis of solitude in the midst of chaos. One day he might build a birdhouse, and the next he might make half-hearted repairs to something that had been broken for ten years and would probably remain broken for another ten. It didn't matter _what_ he did, really, as long as he had some alone time to do it in.

Today, he sat at the work bench, an old Philco tabletop radio turned to a big band and swing program at his left elbow; before him sat a wooden rocking crib, done except for sanding and staining. It took nearly six months of evenings, weekends, and the odd weekday, but it was almost finished and looked pretty nice to boot. He sat back and crossed his arms in an admiring posture. The baby would enjoy this thing. He wondered if he should hold off until they knew what it was: Its name would look real fine engraved along the side in loops and swirls.

He probably would. The sanding and staining wouldn't take very long – a single weekend, if that – and the engraving wouldn't either. His grandson or granddaughter would be rocking back and forth in no time.

It struck him – not for the first time – that he was going to be a grandfather, and he shook his head in amazement. He was forty-five years old. Was that a normal age to become a grandparent? It seemed that it must be, assuming you and your children both started early. He was twenty-four when Lori was born, which seemed on the older side to him, as his own mother was twenty when she had him. His grandparents – on both sides, actually – were older, though: His maternal grandfather served in the Michigan Brigade under General George Custer during the Civil War, fighting his way from Gettysburg to Appomattox Courthouse, where he personally watched General Lee surrender to General Grant. His paternal grandfather also fought in the war – on the other side, under Nathan Bedford Forrest. When he thought 'grandfather' or 'grandmother' he pictured a wizened face topped with snowy white hair – not a man in his forties who had barely begun to go gray, or a woman in her forties who was just as beautiful now as she was when she was sixteen.

Time is a fleeting thing, he thought. Before you know it, twenty years have gone by and you can't for the life of you figure out how. Coincidentally, a song was playing on the radio that Lynn remembered from the spring of 1942, when war fever spread like wildfire across the country:

 _We'll murder Hirohito, massacre that slob Benito  
_

 _Hang 'em with that Schicklgruber when we're through it  
_

 _We'll search the highest mountain for the tallest tree  
_

 _To build us a hanging post for the evil three  
_

 _We'll call in all our neighbors, let 'em know they're free_

 _We're gonna have to slap the dirty little Jap._

That was almost twenty years ago. He and Rita had been married for three years and were living across town in an apartment block that no longer existed and Luna was a baby. In 1943, when Rita was pregnant with Luan, he was drafted by the army. It was difficult being away from home, but Hitler and the Japanese were a menace that, if left unchecked, would eventually come for his family: His was a righteous fight, and the righteous course of action is seldom the easiest. At first he was stationed in Detroit, and saw Rita nearly every day, but in 1944 they shipped him to England (she was pregnant with Lynn by that point). On June 6th, he stepped off of a landing craft on Omaha Beach and took a bullet to the knee. Some soldier, huh?

Speaking of knee, it ached dully. He rubbed it. It must be going to rain. Or snow.

As it turned out, it was neither.

* * *

 **1:55pm**

Lynn Loud Jr. came into the living room from the kitchen just as Leni came down the stairs backwards, her hands out. "I'm fine," Lori said, coming down after. "Really, you don't need to do that."

"I don't want you to fall down and go boom," Leni said, "that would _not_ be a good thing."

Lincoln was right: Lori _was_ even bigger than she was at Thanksgiving. It looked like she was going to pop – literally pop – like a tick. Pressing a hand to her lower back, she waddled over to the couch and slowly lowered herself down next to Lincoln, who was sitting next to Ronnie Anne. What, does this girl live here now? Get lost, I wanna play ball with my little brother, sheesh.

Leni shoved in next to Lori and started flapping her hand and talking about goodies and babies clothes and whatever else. Lynn went over to the couch, leaned against the back, and hovered his face over Lori's shoulder, waiting for her to sense his presence. When she did, she started and turned. "What are you doing, you little twerp?" she asked.

He pinched her cheek. "Checking up on my little nephew."

" _We don't know what gender it is!"_

"It's a girl," Luan said, coming down the stairs.

Lincoln pointed at her over his shoulder. "Yep."

"I think it's gonna be a boy," Ronnie Anne said.

"Team Boy!" Lynn said and thrusted his hand out for Ronnie Anne to slap. She looked at it, then at him, and back to the TV. "Fine, bitch."

Lincoln started to open his mouth, but Lynn cried out as Luan wrenched his ear. "That's not nice, Lynn," she said, leaning in. "And it's gonna be a girl."

Lynn pulled away from his sister. "I'm telling you, it's gonna be a boy."

"No it's not, shut up," Lincoln said. "It's gonna be a girl."

Lynn grabbed Lincoln's cowlick and pulled. Apparently Lincy forgot who was boss.

Lincoln cried out. To Lynn's surprise, he grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing him to let go. "You little bastard," Lynn growled.

" _Knock it off!"_

Everyone turned. Lynn Sr. stood in the archway to the kitchen. He was in his usual at-home attire: Brown pants and white undershirt. The straps of his suspenders hung down his legs.

"Lynn, don't think you're too old to have your mouth washed out," he said.

"Sorry, sir," Lynn said and bowed his head in a show of shame.

Dad came into the living room and dropped into his chair. "What are we arguing about this time?" he asked.

"About whether my baby's going to be a boy or a girl," Lori huffed. "I just wanted to watch TV and these savages find a reason to fight." She started to get up. She would just go back to –

 _Pop._

 _Splash._

Warm fluid gushed down her legs, and for a moment she thought she had peed herself...then it hit her, and her heart blasted. "Uhhh...I think my water just broke."


	20. December 18, 1961: Part 4

**2:00pm**

Everyone was talking excitedly over each other. Lynn Sr. leaned forward, waving his hand and trying to calm them, but his voice was drowned out in the din. Rita came down the stairs, a worried expression on her face.

 _"Enough!"_ Lynn yelled, and silence crashed down over the room. He looked at his wife. "Lori's water broke."

Rita's eyes widened and she her hand fluttered to her chest. "Oh, oh, oh...let me get my coat."

"I'll get Lori's bag," Leni said and got up. "Sit down." She helped Lori sit, then rushed off, taking the stairs two at a time. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both watched Lori with stricken expressions, neither knowing what to do. Lynn leaned over the couch and rubbed his sister's shoulder, rare concern in his eyes. "You alright?" he asked softly, and Lori nodded.

"Everyone stay calm," Lynn Sr. said and got up. When Rita's water broke with Lori, the two of them panicked and rushed around like chickens with their heads cut off. By the time it happened with Lincoln, they calmly went to the hospital – after finishing dinner. "There's no need to get worked up," he said in a low, even voice. "I'm going to put my shoes and coat on, and we're going to drive to the hospital. Ronnie, can you call your brother, please?"

She nodded and reached for the phone.

"Tell him to stop here for you and Lincoln," he added, "we can't all fit in the car. As it is, Lynn might have to ride in the trunk."

While Ronnie Anne dialed Bobby's work number, Lynn Sr. went upstairs and into his room, where Rita was hurriedly putting her shoes on. Her hands trembled and her face was twisted in worry. "Calm down, honey," he said and grabbed his shoes. He sat next to her and pulled them on.

"I _am_ calm," she said and got up.

"You don't look like it."

"Our first grandchild is on the way, what do you expect?"

"He or she won't drop out onto the floor in the next five minutes, Rita. We've been through this six times. You know as well as I do that it could be hours before she even goes into active labor."

Rita ignored him, grabbed her coat from the rack by the door, and shrugged it on. Lynn tied his laces, got up, and pulled his own jacket on. In the living room, Leni was sitting on the arm of the sofa, her hand squeezing Lori's. Rita squatted in front of her daughter; the girl was pale with fear. "How do you feel, sweetie?"

Lori nodded. "Okay, no pain or anything."

"Alright," Rita nodded and stood. "Luan, honey, go get in the car. You too, Lynn."

Lynn and Luan both nodded and rushed off, fighting and shoving to be the first one out the door. Lynn Sr. came downstairs. "Do you have my car keys, Lincoln?"

Lincoln patted his pockets, and for a horrible moment he didn't feel them, then he did; he slipped them out and tossed them; Dad caught them. "Alright, come on."

Following Mom and Dad, Lincoln and Leni helped Lori out the door. They had just stepped of the last tread when Lori hissed out in pain and clenched her siblings' hands: Leni yelped and Lincoln winced. "Ooooh, my back," Lori moaned, bowing her head. In a moment, the pain had passed, and they reached the car. Mom and Leni got into the back, while Lincoln helped Lori into the passenger seat; he was so afraid he was going to hurt her somehow that he felt cold. She sat on the edge of the seat facing out and tried to swing her legs in, but couldn't, so he knelt and pushed them in for her.

Dad leaned over the wheel. "Is Bobby coming?"

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne said. "He should be here in, like, fifteen minutes. I called my mom too. She said she'll meet you there."

"Alright," Dad said, "we're off."

Lincoln shut the door and Dad backed the car into the street. When it was gone, Ronnie Anne grabbed his hand. "Well, lame-o, looks like we're gonna meet the little guy soon."

"Little _lady_ ," Lincoln corrected.

Ronnie Anne narrowed her eyes. "Little _guy_."

Lincoln turned and arched his brow. "It's going to be a girl," he said. "Uncle's intuition."

"I say it's going to be a girl. Aunt's..."

Lincoln kissed her, and she kissed him back. "That's _one_ way to shut me up, I guess," she said when it broke. "It's still gonna be a girl, though."

* * *

 **2:05pm**

Bobby Santiago glanced at the clipboard in his hands and then up to the yawning maw of the truck backed into the loading dock. Boxes were stacked along either flank...but certainly not as many as there were supposed to be. "Let me see that invoice," he told the driver, a man with silvery hair and a dark mustache. He handed Bobby a yellow carbon copy, and Bobby scanned it. "It's not all here," he said.

"This is what you ordered," the driver said.

"No, Mr. Farris ordered twice this," he said, gesturing into the cargo bay with the clipboard. "I don't even have to go in there to know that this is half the order. It's not the first time it's happened." He was starting to get frustrated; though this was in no way his fault, he couldn't help but think it reflected badly on him, and he _really_ needed things to go right. He had a wife and a kid on the way and he could _not_ afford to look like a fuck up. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. This was stressful enough without stupid assholes like these jackoffs: Second time this month. Couldn't they fucking read over there?

The driver shrugged. "Look, mac, I just drive the truck. That's the invoice I got, if there was a snafu, it was in the office, not on the floor."

Bobby nodded grudgingly. "Alright, fine." He stepped into the back of the truck and did a quick inventory, checking the labels on the boxes against what was on the sheet before him. As he suspected, this was only half the order: Instead of four rolls of brown fabric, there were two; instead of ten crates of metal rail pieces, there were five. He told himself that he was completely blameless here and that there was no way Mr. Farris could blame him even if he wanted to, but his stomach still rolled with nerves. Every day brought him closer to being a father, and that scared the shit out of him. He didn't know _how_ to be a father; his own father was a rotten no-good, and how the hell can you be a father – a real, good father – when you have no idea what the hell a real, good father is?

He _wanted_ to be a good father, but he didn't know if he could be. Where do you start? What do you _do?_ He had no clue. He told himself that it wouldn't be much different from having Ronnie Anne around...hell, he practically raised her...but he failed her in so many ways it made him feel ashamed, literally and thoroughly ashamed. He wasn't a father to her. He was barely an older brother. He was a failure.

And how would this time be any different? Once a piece of shit, _always_ a piece of shit...and Roberto Santiago was a piece of shit.

He shuddered as he checked off the last boxes on the inventory sheet. He told himself he would try his best, but would his best be good enough?

When he was done, he went into the office off the main floor, sat at a cluttered desk, and picked up the telephone. He dialed the supplier and waited, but no one answered. Goddamn idiots. Sighing, he slammed the phone down and got back up. The driver and a couple of Bobby's guys were unloading the truck, and he watched to make sure they put everything where it was supposed to go. The phone rang, and he went back into the office. He sat, picked up the phone, and prepared himself to ream out the shipping clerk. "Northern Woods Outlet," he said tightly.

"Bobby?"

It was Ronnie Anne.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, his brow furrowing. "What's up?"

"Lori's water just broke."

Bobby's grip on the phone tightened.

"They're going to the hospital right now. You have to stop by Lincoln's house and pick us up. They don't have enough room in the car."

Bobby's heart was racing now, and his palms were beginning to sweat. He drew a shaky breath and closed his eyes. Oh, God, it was happening...and he was _not_ ready. "Uh, y-yeah, o-okay. I'll be there in a f-few minutes."

He hung up the phone and swallowed hard. His throat was dry and his stomach was a thresher of anxiety. He got up on shaky knees, and for a moment he was so dazed that he didn't know what to do. On the floor, he found Rick, his direct supervisor, and told him about Lori. "Alright, go," Rick said. "Call me when you know whether or not you'll be in tomorrow."

Outside, the clouds had broken and the day was sunny but cold. He slipped behind the wheel of the Coup and turned the key with trembling fingers.

Happening. It was happening. In a few short hours, if that, his life would change forever and he would be responsible – totally and completely responsible – for another human life. You could say that he had long been responsible for someone else, from Ronnie Anne to Lori, but this was different...this was...this was big.

Wrapped in worried silence and chewing his thumbnail, he drove over to Lincoln's house. He and Ronnie Anne were waiting on the porch, and when they saw him, they hurried over, Lincoln climbing in back and Ronnie Anne jumping in the passenger seat. Bobby waited until she had her door closed, then punched the gas. "How is she?" he asked.

"I think, uh, the contractions were starting," Ronnie Anne said. "She crushed Lincoln and Leni's hands."

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "something was happening."

Bobby started biting his nail again. He felt strange: Feverish on the outside and quivery on the inside, like Jell-O. He realized he was shaking, and made a conscious effort to stop. Lori and his baby needed him to man up; he was no good to them shaking in his boots like a weak sister. He reached into the breast pocket of his blue workshirt and pulled out a pack of Camels. He took one, put it between his lips, and lit it, the warm, smooth smoke rolling into his lungs and calming him – but only slightly. This was his baby – his baby with Lori, whom he loved – and being a good father, like love itself, would come naturally.

Mistakes would come naturally too.

He shoved that thought away. Everyone makes mistakes. He made mistakes with Ronnie Anne and that bothered him, but he would learn from those.

That's what growing up is all about, right?

* * *

 **3:00pm**

The pain came in waves...a tight band of pressure starting in her stomach and wrapping around her back. When it hit, she squeezed her eyes closed and clenched her teeth; her body shook slightly and she crushed her mother's hand in her own. After thirty or fifty seconds, the pain would release, and she would suck in a great gulp of air. The room bustled with activity as nurses and doctors came and went. They said everything was fine...labor was progressing normally and there was no reason now to suspect that there would be any complications. "Smooth sailing ahead," the doctor said happily. Smooth? From what they told her, the pain was only going to get _worse_. How is _that_ 'smooth'?

When the last contraction passed, she fought to catch her breath. "Relax, honey," Mom said. She was sitting next to the bed in a straight back chair. Everyone else was in the waiting room, having been chased out by a nurse, which told Rita that they expected the baby to come sooner rather than later.

"It _hurts_ ," Lori moaned.

Mom squeezed her and brushed her knuckles with her thumb. "I know, dear. Remember, I did this six times."

Lori wiped sweat from her brow. "Why?"

"You'll see."

Lori doubted that. Her mother must just be a glutton for pain. Not Lori. She would _never_ have another child. Never. She flopped back against the pillow and swallowed against a tacky throat. A nurse was supposed to be bringing her a cup of water. Where was she? "Is Bobby here?" she asked suddenly.

"I think so," Mom said.

"Can he come in?"

"No, honey."

"But he's the father!"

"They don't want too many people in the way, Lori," Mom explained patiently. "Remember, they didn't even want me in here but I made a fuss and –"

Lori cut her off with a hissing cry as her body clenched. Her hand crunched Rita's. The contractions were getting closer together. A ghost of a smile touched Rita's lips; soon her grandchild would be here. "Is that one worse?" she asked.

Lori nodded quickly, her eyes shut tight.

A nurse took up position between Lori's legs, where were propped in an M, and checked. "Seven centimeters."

She was dilating quickly. With Luan, it took Rita nearly five hours to go from four to six, and another six to get from there to ten: It was _not_ an easy delivery. Lori didn't know it, but she was extremely fortunate that things were going as well as they were. The only birth Rita could remember being as easy as this was Lincoln.

The contraction released, and Lori went limp against the bed with a groan. "I want it to _stop_ ," she said. She lifted her hand to her forehead, which shone with sweat under the harsh lights. Her bangs were matted and the neck of her white hospital johnnie was damp with perspiration.

"Soon," Rita said, and squeezed. "Soon it'll be all over and you'll have the most precious thing in the world in your arms. And you know what? It'll all be worth it."

"I h –" Lori's body seized, and her hand clamped down much harder than it had before. She cried out through clenched teeth and shook her head violently. A nurse checked between her legs.

"Nine centimeters. I'll get the doctor."

Rita smiled at her daughter. "It's happening, honey. You're having your baby."

Lori, panting, just nodded...then jolted as another contraction hit: This time a scream burst from her throat, and she made no attempt to hold it back.

* * *

 **3:15pm**

Lynn Loud Sr. sat in the waiting room, his elbows on his knees and his hands in a prayer-like gesture, his thumbs hooked under his chin and his nose between his fingers. Next to him, Leni was hurriedly finishing the coming home outfit, her hands flying and her tongue plastered determinedly to her upper lip. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne sat side-by-side across from Luan, whose arms and legs were crossed: The boy and girl held hands and talked lowly. Lynn Jr. paced back and forth, his hands on his hips. He was restless: They had been in the waiting room for close to an hour and boredom was starting to set in.

Bobby, the man of the hour, sat next to his mother, smoking one cigarette after another and chewing his nails. Aside from Lincoln and Ronnie Anne, no one spoke, and the silence was starting to grate on Lynn's nerves. Anyone passing by could easily mistake them as the family of a dying man instead of a woman giving birth. "Where's Luna?" he asked. "Can we reach her? She should really be here."

"She's with her boyfriend," Luan said.

"I understand that. Where? Is there a number?"

Bobby stabbed his latest Camel out in a glass ashtray on the table and got up. "I can call him," he said, "see if he's in."

Before anyone could speak, he hurried out of the waiting room and down the hall, to a payphone by the nurses' station. He needed to be away for a minute, up, walking, moving, something, anything but sitting there and worrying. A few minutes ago, he heard someone screaming in the distance, and it sounded like it might have been Lori: That made him even more jittery than he was before, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking down into a nervous wreck. He was sweating and cold and anxious and excited and a thousand other things, and who was he calling?

Daggy, that's right.

He picked up the handset, deposited his dime, and dialed.

* * *

When she wasn't in school, Luna was with Daggy – except for Sundays and days he worked late. She kept Sundays for family time, and he couldn't very well tell his boss to take a hike when he needed him to work overtime. That didn't happen too often, so they spend most afternoons together. On Fridays and Saturdays, they went to the movies or into Detroit just because. On weekdays, they cruised, had lunch at Flip's or something, smoked reefer, played guitar, and had sex. Here and there she'd bring him to one of her gigs – in September she started playing at a bar in town every other Friday night, and everybody seemed to enjoy her stuff, so that was cool. Today, December 18, he picked up her around eight and for a while they drove aimlessly around, listening to the radio and passing a joint back and forth. If it was warmer they would have gone to the lake or to the park, but it wasn't, so they wound up at Flip's.

"Well, if it isn't reefer madness," he said.

That made Luna and Daggy laugh their asses off because _Reefer Madness_ was one of the movies they saw at the drive-in's after midnight showings, when they played cult and exploitation movies. It was one of the only movies that they actually watched all the way through (without, you know, getting handsy) because it was so fucking campy and over-the-top they couldn't look away: It showed people smoking reefer and killing each other, raping each other, hallucinating, and going just batshit crazy. It was a riot. The only other movie they saw that even came close was _Plan 9 from Outer Space_.

"You two are baked," Flip said, and chuckled. "What do you want? Ice cream?"

Daggy looked at her. His eyes were glassy. "What do you want?"

"I dunno, man, isn't it breakfast time?"

Daggy looked up at Flip. "What time is it?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Ten-thirty," Daggy told her.

She shrugged. "I dunno. I want a chocolate shake. Oh, yeah, and a burger. I'll take a burger." She nodded slowly at looked up at Flip, then laughed when he shook his head.

"Give me a burger too," Daggy said, "and put fries _on_ it."

Luna snickered.

"On it?" Flip asked.

Daggy nodded. "Yeah, man, _on_ it. Like a condiment."

"Why don't you order fries and then do it yourself?"

"Because I don't feel like paying for French fries."

He and Luna laughed and laughed and laughed. "Alright, fine," Flip said. Unbeknownst to Daggy, the fries he put on his burger came from a plate one of the waitresses brought back. Not that he would have cared.

"How's your sister doing?"

Luna nodded. "She's good, she's good. She's _big_. Man, I didn't think she'd get that big. She's always been really scrawny, you know?"

"Yeah, she _is_ really skinny," Daggy said. "Or was. I haven't seen her big." The last time he saw Lori was when Luna's parents invited him over for dinner a couple months back, and she had a stomach, which, you know, is to be expected, but it wasn't like 'oh, my God, you're big.' He kind of wanted to see it for himself.

"Her feet are all swollen too," Luna said. Daggy winced, and she laughed. "And she's been really gassy lately. The whole house reeks."

Daggy coughed and waved his hand. "Stop, I can fucking _smell_ it now."

Flip came back with their food, setting a plate in front of each of them. "Where's my shake?" Luna asked.

"Right in front of you."

Luna turned her head, and there it was, little whip cream topping and maraschino cherry and everything. "Oh, _there_ it is." She didn't remember anyone setting it down. She must have been, like, preoccupied or something. She picked it up and went to take a sip, but the straw jabbed her in the chin.

Flip shook his head. "I hope you two never have kids."

"Whoa," Daggy said, putting his hands up, "slow down, man. You're putting the horse before the cart."

Flip blinked. "First, it's putting the cart before the _horse_ , and second, that's not what that saying means. Use protection. Please."

"Too late," Luna snorted.

"Hey," Daggy said, "I pull –"

"Eat your food and get the hell out of my place," Flip said, holding up his hand. Muttering under his breath, he went away, and they fell in, ripping, rending, and slopping like they were starving.

When they were done, they paid and left. They made their way to Daggy's, where they parked in front of the TV and sparked another joint. There was nothing good playing, so they settled for _Love of Life_ on CBS, one of those awful soap operas Leni, Lori, and Mom liked so much. "Why does that guy walk like he has a stick up his ass?" Daggy asked, taking a drag and handing her the joint.

Luna took it and inhaled. "I don't know," she said, then blew out a thin plume of smoke. "I think he's a veteran or something."

Daggy nodded. "My old man fought in Korea. He said those drill sergeants fuck you up the ass from the moment you get there to the moment you leave. I didn't think he meant it literally."

When the joint was down to a nub, he put it out in an ashtray and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling warm and happy, and together they fell into a fitful sleep. At some point they woke and started kissing, their hands creeping over each others' bodies. They moved to the bedroom, ripping their clothes off as they went, and stretched out on the bed, their rapidly heating flesh pressed together and their tongues lashing the other with fervent urgency. Luna shifted onto him and reared up, sighing and throwing her head back as his fingers danced over her bare breasts. She bent and laid her hands flat on his chest as she moved her hips against him; hot iron scraped damp silk, and they both gasped.

Luna looked into his eyes and grinned. In the past seven months, she had discovered she liked sex...a lot. Not just because it felt good (which it totally did) but because when it was just her and him, she was the only thing in his world. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed: His eyes, his body, his everything was focused on her and her alone, and that was a beautiful feeling. She lifted her hips, found his member, and slowly, teasingly sank down onto it, his sick heat combing with hers and making them both lightheaded.

She bowed her head and rock her hips against his, then back, then forward again.

The phone rang.

His hands crept to her butt and squeezed.

 _Brrrrrng_.

She increased her speed, and the bed started to creak.

 _Brnnnng-brnnng-brnnng._

She stopped, her mouth dry and her heart slamming. "G-Get that fucking phone," she panted.

Licking his lips and never taking his eyes from hers (which _really_ turned her on), he reached for the phone, fumbled with the handset, and lifted it to his ear. "What?"

His brows furrowed. "Yeah. Why?"

The sensation of him filling her was too much to take, and she started to grind against him.

"Oh, shit," he said, his eyes widening, "yeah, we'll be right there." He hung the phone up. "Come on, we gotta go."

"What? Why? I'm almost there."

"Your sister's having her baby. Everyone's at the hospital."

"Shit," Luna said. She jumped off and started gathering her clothes while Daggy pulled on his jeans. She found her jeans, her sweater, and her shoes, and hurriedly dressed, not bothering to look for her socks and underwear: It wouldn't be the first time she left those here.

"Looks like you're gonna be aunt Luna today," Daggy said in the car.

"Yeah, man, I'm pretty excited," she said. She liked kids...and the best part of being an aunt, as far as she could tell, was this: At the end of the day, after playing and hanging out...she could hand little Bobby Jr. back to mommy.

Best of both worlds.

"You gonna teach 'em guitar?"

"Yeah," she said. "He can be my bassist."

"What about me?" he asked.

Luna snickered. "You got a job already; you're my groupie."

Daggy shrugged. "Alright. I can live with that."

* * *

 **3:40pm**

" _Gahhhhhhh, shit!"_

Rita stood by the head of the bed, her right hand being crunched to dust by Lori's iron grip, and the other dabbing the girl's sweaty forehead with a wet cloth. A doctor and a team of nurses were bent between Lori's legs. The girl panted and clenched the rail with her free hand; her knuckles were white and bloodless. "Alright, Lori," the doctor said, "give me a _big_ push."

Lori took a series of deep breaths and pushed, her eyes and teeth clenching, a long, low moan escaping past her lips. Rita stroked her daughter's hair. "It's almost over, honey," she said.

" _That bastard!"_ Lori screamed, her body hitching. _"He's never touching me again!"_

Rita remembered saying that same thing when she was giving birth to Lori...and to Leni...and to Luna...

"It's crowning," the doctor said, "keep pushing."

Lori took another deep breath and pushed, her entire body tensing. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving glistening trails against her pallid skin. The burning, stinging pain was unlike anything she had ever felt in her life: It was as though she were being ripped in half. She could imagine her bones cracking and her flesh tearing. Another contraction hit her, and hot, red agony filled her brain. She pushed with it.

When it released, she sucked a big gulp of air: Her heart knocked and she felt like she was going to pass out. Her mother ran her fingers through her sweaty hair, and she looked up at her: Mom smiled and squeezed her hand. Lori was grateful to have her here.

Another contraction hit, and she pushed really hard...a strange sensation filled her, and suddenly the pain was over and she flopped against the pillow, totally drained. Thin, warbling cries filled the room. "It's a boy," the doctor said.

Emotion filled Lori, and she started to cry. One of the nurses wrapped him in a blue blanket and shoved him into Lori's arms: She cried harder when she laid eyes on his pink face: His eyes were closed but his lips worked as he fussed.

"Oh, he's beautiful," Mom marveled.

And he was...the most beautiful thing Lori had ever seen. She held him to her chest and stroked his head. "Shh-hh," she whispered through her tears, "mommy's here."

* * *

 **3:55pm**

Bobby stabbed his last cigarette out and crossed his legs. Until a few minutes ago, screams drifted up and down the hall...then, suddenly, they stopped. Did that mean something was wrong? Was she okay? Was their baby okay? His mother laid her and on his leg, and he jumped. "Relax," she said, "you look like you're going to have a heart attack."

"Yeah, relax," Daggy said. He was slouched on Bobby's other side, his arms crossed and his right foot resting against his left knee. Luna was sitting between Luan and Leni, and the girls prattled to one another: Leni had finished the coming home outfit, and it sat on the table. Bobby studied it now. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, MARRY NEW YEAR. It _was_ kind of cute. "You're being a total spaz."

Bobby shot him a dirty look. "One day, it's gonna be your turn, and I'm gonna say the same thing."

Daggy opened his mouth to reply, but didn't. He was going to say something about how he didn't make mistakes, but that sounded a whole lot worse than he intended it to.

Lincoln was leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs. He held Ronnie Anne's hand, and both of them looked nervous.

When Rita appeared, everyone looked up. "Who wants to meet Lori's baby?"

Five minutes later, they crowded around a hospital bed with metal railings along the sides. Lori held a blue bundle to her chest and rocked slightly, her eyes glued to it and her lips moving as she cooed to it. She looked up, and seemed surprised that everyone was there. She looked for Bobby, and smiled. "There's daddy," she said lowly.

He came forward on numb legs. "Here," she said, "do you want to hold your son?"

Bobby nodded, a lump in his throat. She handed him the baby, and he took him with the care and caution one would use with something glass and endlessly valuable. When he looked down at the child, his eyes flooded with hot tears, and he didn't try to fight them back.

Ronnie Anne punched Lincoln's arm. "I _told_ you it was going to be a boy," she said.

"Up top," Lynn said, raising his hand. Ronnie Anne slapped it.

"I guess we were wrong, Linc," Luan said, and squeezed his shoulder.

Lynn Sr. slipped his arm around Rita's shoulder, and together they watched Lori and Bobby fawning over their baby. "Do you remember when that was us?" Lynn asked.

Rita nodded, a tear in her eye. "Yes. It doesn't seem like it was that long ago. Now our babies are starting to have babies."

He rubbed her arm and drew her close. It _didn't_ seem like it was all that long ago Rita was in Lori's spot, cradling Lori to her chest while Lynn stood where Bobby stood, nervous as hell but so happy he wept. Twenty-one years as the crow flies. Once, he thought that was a long time, and when you're young maybe it is, but in the grand scheme of things, it's not. It's a twinkling of an eye.

Over the next half hour, everyone took turns holding the baby, Ronnie Anne's mother going first, than Lynn, then the kids (Rita had her turn, so she was skipped). Luna offered him to Daggy, but Daggy put his hands up, his face going white. "No, no, I'm afraid I'll drop him or something."

When they left an hour later, Lori was asleep with the baby on her chest, and Bobby was stretched out next to them, his eyes filled with shimmery adoration. He wasn't worried about being a fuck up anymore, because looking into his baby's face, he knew that he could _never_ let this little man down...never, never, never.

In the waiting room, Lincoln held Ronnie Anne's hand and squeezed it. Her mother waited by the elevator. "Pretty cool, huh?" asked. "Our nephew?"

"Yeah," she said with a smile, "it _is_ pretty cool."

As he watched Lori and Bobby with Bobby Jr., he couldn't help wonder what it would be like to have a baby with Ronnie Anne. Scary, because it was a baby and all, but beautiful, but it would be theirs, their love and devotion to one another made flesh. He smiled widely now. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and kissed her forehead.

"Not if I see you first," she grinned, and pecked him on the cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said.

For some reason, parting, watching the elevator doors close on her, was much harder than usual. That night, as he lay in bed, he imagined them with a baby, and that was what he carried into sleep with him.

His and Ronnie Anne's love child.


	21. October 1962: Part 1

**anonymous789: No, no, no, see, I don't make mistakes; she misspoke ;)**

 **White eyed fox: Eh, he took a summer course in 1959 and jumped ahead. That's also when Lincoln's parents found out he smokes.**

 **Guest: I've been thinking of a genderbent story. At some point, and at some point I'll do the sequel to** _ **Be Mine Forever**_ **since everyone keeps asking for it.**

 **Guest: You'll see Clyde in this story arch.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **The Twist**_ **by Chubby Checker (1960)**

On the afternoon of October 22, 1962, Lincoln Loud stood by a stop sign outside Royal Woods High, his hands shoved into the pockets of his blue cardigan and a cigarette jutting from his mouth. It was a damp, drizzly day, and the trees along the street were a bloodless mix of red and yellow. His smoke was starting to get wet, and he cupped it with one hand.

When he saw Ronnie Anne coming down the front stairs, he waved, and she waved back. She wore white pants and a light gray sweater; her hair was back in a ponytail, as it usually was, held in place with a purple ribbon. She held her books in one hand while rummaging in her pocket with the other. She took out a cigarette and paused to light it. "Come on," she said, "we're gonna be late."

Lincoln lifted a brow. "Since when do _you_ care about being late?" he asked as he fell in beside her and they started walking toward Flip's. Ronnie Anne was notorious for being late, and since they walked together most days, so was he.

"Since Flip threatened to start docking my pay," she said, and took a puff, the cherry of her Camel brightening.

Lincoln finished his own cigarette and flung it into the street, where it landed in a puddle and started floating around like a nicotine infused boat. "Do you think he would actually do that?"

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "I don't know, but I'm not too hot to find out."

"You're just hot," Lincoln grinned and patted her butt.

She cocked her brow. "You're awfully fresh lately."

Lincoln shrugged. What could he say? He was a normal, healthy sixteen-year-old boy with a beautiful girlfriend. It was kind of hard _not_ to be fresh under those circumstances, and it was kind of hard not to think dirty thoughts. Okay, it was _really_ hard not to think dirty thoughts. On the one hand, it made him feel a little guilty because he loved her, and thinking about...being with her...struck him as being beneath his emotions. His love for Ronnie Anne was deep, pure, and spiritual. On the other hand...she really turned him on, and isn't the girl you're in love with _supposed_ to do that?

She leaned into him, knocking him off balance. "I kinda like it," she grinned.

He snaked his arm around her waist and drew her into a kiss; he prodded his tongue against her lips, and she opened them, meeting his tongue with her own and massaging it tenderly. "I _really_ like that, though," she said, and pecked his lips.

"So do I," Lincoln replied. "Sometimes I really hate coming up for air."

"You'd hate turning blue and passing out even more," she shot back. She tossed her cigarette and held her books to her chest. They were walking quicker now as the rain picked up, her ponytail swinging back and forth like a whip.

"Maybe...or maybe I'd like it."

She giggled. "You're a dork."

They were on Main Street now. Cars moved back and forth, their tires kicking up curtains of rain water. A city bus came to a stop in front of a bench where a man in a white suit was waiting with a box of chocolates in his lap, and a police car put on its lights and picked up speed as it raced to a call. They crossed, hurrying as the bus took off, and then turned left. Flip's was ahead, the neon sign softly glowing in the afternoon murk. Lincoln put his arm around Ronnie Anne's waist again and kissed her cheek. She smiled and made a satisfied _ummm_ noise. Her smell filled his nostrils, and his fingers were mere inches from the crease between her thigh and groin. He felt himself starting to stir, but called up an image of naked fat men dancing in the snow, their nipples hard and their tiny members shriveled with cold, and any danger of him getting an erection vanished. It was a method he had used many times over the years – sometimes when Ronnie Anne was touching him and he felt himself getting close to his end. Deep down he was afraid that he would do it one day and find that those fat dudes weren't _that_ bad looking.

They crossed the rain-slicked parking lot and went in through the front door. Flip was counting the money in the register, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. He wore those things more often than he didn't now: He had just turned fifty-nine and his eyesight was getting bad. He looked up and smiled when they came in. "My two best employees!"

Uh-oh.

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne exchanged a knowing glance. "What do you want, Flip?" she asked.

Flip shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just happy to see you two is all."

Ronnie Anne put her hands on her hips and fixed him with the type of gaze Lincoln had only seen when he lied to his mother.

"Well," Flip said, "I _was_ hoping you two would deep clean this garbage heap today. It's cold and raining, we're going to be slower than frozen molasses."

Ronnie Anne threw her head back. She did _not_ like deep cleaning. On the bright side, Flip usually paid her extra, since scrubbing grout and wiping under the tables cut into her ability to make tips. "Okay," she said, drawing it out.

"Whatever," Lincoln said. _He_ didn't mind deep cleaning. See, when Flip had them deep clean, Ronnie Anne was in charge of the front and he was in charge of the kitchen...the kitchen that he kept almost spotless anyway. The only problem was Ernie's side. Lincoln loved the guy, but he was a slob with a capital 'S'.

In the kitchen, Ernie was cleaning the grill, a puke green tabletop radio on the counter and playing Ray Charles. Lincoln and Ernie chipped in and bought it over the summer so they could have something to listen to while they worked. Ronnie Anne grabbed her uniform from a cubby by the back door, and kissed Lincoln on the cheek. "If you get time, you better come help me."

Lincoln kissed her back. "I might."

When she was gone, he shrugged out of his cardigan and hung it up, following it with his shirt: It was red and green plaid with a butterfly collar. Brand new, too; he bought it just the other day.

In his undershirt, he went over to the sink and felt around, finding a few plates inside. He hurriedly washed them and carried them out to the dining room. Ronnie Anne came out of the bathroom. Her uniform dress was pale pink and button-up. A name tag was perched over her heart. Lincoln couldn't help but notice how tight it was getting around her breasts, butt, and hips. She caught him looking at her and winked. He winked back.

Flip wasn't entirely wrong. It _was_ a slow day, though the dinner rush was bigger than Lincoln himself expected. He was just finishing up the last of the dishes and nodding to Booker T and the M.G.'s when Ronnie Anne poked her head through the door. "You have a visitor, lame-o."

Visitor?

He went out to see who it was, and found Clyde leaning against the counter. Lincoln grinned. "Hey, man."

Clyde grinned back. "Hey, buddy, how's it going?"

"Alright," Lincoln said, putting his hands on the edge of the counter. "You?"

"Okay," Clyde nodded. "I just wanted to see how you're doing. You know...after the other day."

On Saturday afternoon, he and Clyde were riding bikes near the quarry outside town when Lincoln hit a rock and flipped over the handlebars, landing hard on his back. His bike was totaled, which stung. He'd had that Schwinn since he was twelve. "I'm alright," he said now. "My tailbone's still kind of sore."

"Yeah, you really went down."

"It happens. You want something to –?"

Flip appeared next to Lincoln's elbow and crossed his arms. "You trying to steal my job, Loud?"

"If I was trying to steal your job, I'd say a bunch of mean things to Clyde, give him his food, and tell him to leave."

"You're right," Flip said, "what was I thinking? You don't have the stones to take my job. Get back in the kitchen. McBride – what the hell do _you_ want?"

Lincoln shook his head and went back into the kitchen.

* * *

Luan sat impatiently on the couch, her legs crossed and her chin in her hands. Next to her, Leni was knitting a sweater for Bobby Jr. and next to _her_ Mom was huddled under an afghan. Dad was sitting in his armchair with a rare can of beer between his legs. Lincoln was at work, Luna was with Daggy, Lynn was in Arizona, and Lori and Bobby had moved into an apartment at the beginning of March.

"I wonder what it's going to be about," Mom said.

Dad took a drink of his beer. "Who the hell knows? Probably about the Russians in Cuba."

It was 6:57pm, and at 7:00, President Kennedy was giving a speech to the nation. It must be something important, Luan thought; the president doesn't just pop up on television for no reason. Dad was probably right: Since the Bay of Pigs Invasion, the Russians had been helping Cuba shore up its defenses. Luan couldn't say she blamed them: The U.S. had no right to invade Cuba, and if she was in the Russians' place, she'd do the same.

Whatever it was about, she was happy to see JFK because she liked him, even if he signed off on the Bay of Pigs thing _and_ mishandled the Freedom Rides last year – he actually condemned them. Can you believe that? She was _very_ disappointed in him.

But, hey, everyone makes mistakes. She was beginning to think that she had made a mistake in her career path: She had been taking classes in early education at Royal Woods Community College since spring, and while she didn't know what she wanted to do, it wasn't teaching. She _supposed_ she could settle for teaching, but she didn't feel fulfilled.

She was meant for something else.

It bothered her that she didn't know what she wanted. She was almost twenty-years-old, which is mighty old to still be aimless and adrift. Luna knew what she wanted to do, and had for years. She, on the other hand, had no idea. Maybe she would _never_ know. Maybe she would drop out of school and live at home for the rest of her life and turn into a lonely old spinster with no job, no love, and a bunch of cats.

She shivered.

On TV, an announcer appeared. "We now go live to a special address from the President."

The scene cut to one of Kennedy – there he is! Handsome as always – sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. He wore a tense, somber expression. He spoke slowly, and as he did so, he repeatedly glanced down at a sheaf of papers before him:

 _"Good evening, my fellow citizens. This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere."_

Dad leaned forward and Luan's brow furrowed.

" _Upon receiving the first preliminary hard information of this nature last Tuesday morning at 9 A.M., I directed that our surveillance be stepped up. And having now confirmed and completed our evaluation of the evidence and our decision on a course of action, this Government feels obliged to report this new crisis to you in fullest detail."_

Luan's heart burst. Crisis? She didn't know much about Cuba or missiles, but if the president was calling something a crisis, it _had_ to be bad.

" _The characteristics of these new missile sites indicate two distinct types of installations. Several of them include medium range ballistic missiles, capable of carrying a nuclear warhead for a distance of more than 1,000 nautical miles. Each of these missiles, in short, is capable of striking Washington, D. C., the Panama Canal, Cape Canaveral, Mexico City, or any other city in the southeastern part of the United States, in Central America, or in the Caribbean area."_

At Flip's, Lincoln stuck his head out the kitchen door. Flip was counting the till and Ronnie Anne was on her knees wiping the baseboard. "Hey, come listen to this," he said.

"What is it, Loud?" Flip asked over his shoulder.

"Kennedy – he's on the radio."

Ronnie Anne looked up, one brow arching. "Why?"

"Just come listen."

They gathered around the radio. Ernie stood with his arms crossed and his head tilted forward in contemplation.

Kennedy's voice issued forth through static.

" _Additional sites not yet completed appear to be designed for intermediate range ballistic missiles - capable of traveling more than twice as far - and thus capable of striking most of the major cities in the Western Hemisphere, ranging as far north as Hudson Bay, Canada, and as far south as Lima, Peru. In addition, jet bombers, capable of carrying nuclear weapons, are now being uncrated and assembled in Cuba, while the necessary air bases are being prepared."_

"Sounds like those sons of bitches are getting ready for an invasion," Ernie said, and Lincoln's heart clutched. Invasion? He glanced at Ronnie Anne, whose face was drawn with worry.

" _This urgent transformation of Cuba into an important strategic base - by the presence of these large, long-range, and clearly offensive weapons of sudden mass destruction - constitutes an explicit threat to the peace and security of all the Americas, in flagrant and deliberate defiance of the Rio Pact of 1947, the traditions of this nation and hemisphere, the joint resolution of the 87th Congress, the Charter of the United Nations, and my own public warnings to the Soviets on September 4 and 13. This action also contradicts the repeated assurances of Soviet spokesmen, both publicly and privately delivered, that the arms buildup in Cuba would retain its original defensive character, and that the Soviet Union had no need or desire to station strategic missiles on the territory of any other nation."_

Kennedy stammered here and there, and Lincoln imagined he could hear anxiety in the president's voice. Flip crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

" _The size of this undertaking makes clear that it has been planned for some months. Yet, only last month, after I had made clear the distinction between any introduction of ground-to-ground missiles and the existence of defensive antiaircraft missiles, the Soviet Government publicly stated on September 11 that, and I quote, "the armaments and military equipment sent to Cuba are designed exclusively for defensive purposes," that there is, and I quote the Soviet Government, "there is no need for the Soviet Government to shift its weapons for a retaliatory blow to any other country, for instance Cuba," and that, and I quote their government, "the Soviet Union has so powerful rockets to carry these nuclear warheads that there is no need to search for sites for them beyond the boundaries of the Soviet Union." That statement was false."_

Across town, Lori held Bobby Jr. to her chest and watched as Kennedy set aside a sheet of paper; fear was beginning to stir in her heart. Next to her, Bobby sat forward. He looked worried too.

" _Neither the United States of America nor the world community of nations can tolerate deliberate deception and offensive threats on the part of any nation, large or small. We no longer live in a world where only the actual firing of weapons represents a sufficient challenge to a nation's security to constitute maximum peril. Nuclear weapons are so destructive and ballistic missiles are so swift, that any substantially increased possibility of their use or any sudden change in their deployment may well be regarded as a definite threat to peace."_

"Are we going to war?" Lori asked suddenly, clutching her son tighter. Bobby shushed her.

" _In that sense, missiles in Cuba add to an already clear and present danger - although it should be noted the nations of Latin America have never previously been subjected to a potential nuclear threat. But this secret, swift, extraordinary buildup of Communist missiles - in an area well known to have a special and historical relationship to the United States and the nations of the Western Hemisphere, in violation of Soviet assurances, and in defiance of American and hemispheric policy - this sudden, clandestine decision to station strategic weapons for the first time outside of Soviet soil - is a deliberately provocative and unjustified change in the status quo which cannot be accepted by this country, if our courage and our commitments are ever to be trusted again by either friend or foe."_

Bobby Jr. began to fuss, but Lori couldn't have moved to make him a bottle if she wanted to.

" _Our policy has been one of patience and restraint, as befits a peaceful and powerful nation which leads a worldwide alliance. We have been determined not to be diverted from our central concerns by mere irritants and fanatics. But now further action is required, and it is under way; and these actions may only be the beginning. We will not prematurely or unnecessarily risk the costs of worldwide nuclear war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth; but neither will we shrink from that risk at any time it must be faced."_

Ronnie Anne's hand fluttered to her face, and Lincoln's stomach turned. They glanced at each other, and he moved to put his arm around her waist.

In Arizona, Lynn Loud walked into the dorm's dayroom and found the other guys. When he came out of his room, the place was deserted, with doors standing open, the hall standing empty. _What, is there a fire drill?_ When he walked into the common area, he blinked: A dozen people crowded around the TV, where the president was talking. "What's going on?" he asked, casually tossing his football into the air and catching it.

"Something about war with the Russians," someone said.

Lynn sputtered. _"What?"_

"Shut up, Loud."

Lynn leaned against the back of the couch and watched, terror nesting in his stomach.

" _Acting, therefore, in the defense of our own security and of the entire Western Hemisphere, and under the authority entrusted to me by the Constitution as endorsed by the Resolution of the Congress, I have directed that the following initial steps be taken immediately:_

 _First. To halt this offensive buildup a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back. This quarantine will be extended, if needed, to other types of cargo and carriers. We are not at this time, however, denying the necessities of life as the Soviets attempted to do in their Berlin blockade of 1948._

 _Second: I have directed the continued and increased close surveillance of Cuba and its military buildup. The foreign ministers of the OAS, in their communiqué' of October 6, rejected secrecy on such matters in this hemisphere. Should these offensive military preparations continue, thus increasing the threat to the hemisphere, further action will be justified. I have directed the Armed Forces to prepare for any eventualities; and I trust that in the interest of both the Cuban people and the Soviet technicians at the sites, the hazards to all concerned of continuing this threat will be recognized."_

Luan, Lynn, and Rita were all leaning so far forward that they were in danger of tipping. Leni continued with her knitting, humming _The Lion Sleeps Tonight_ and bobbing her head from side-to-side, completely unware that the apocalypse was moments away from engulfing her.

" _Third: It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union._

 _Fourth: As a necessary military precaution, I have reinforced our base at Guantanamo, evacuated today the dependents of our personnel there, and ordered additional military units to be on a standby alert basis."_

Luan made a frightened noise in the back of her throat.

" _Fifth: We are calling tonight for an immediate meeting of the Organ[ization] of Consultation under the Organization of American States, to consider this threat to hemispheric security and to invoke articles 6 and 8 of the Rio Treaty in support of all necessary action. The United Nations Charter allows for regional security arrangements, and the nations of this hemisphere decided long ago against the military presence of outside powers. Our other allies around the world have also been alerted._

 _Sixth: Under the Charter of the United Nations, we are asking tonight that an emergency meeting of the Security Council be convoked without delay to take action against this latest Soviet threat to world peace. Our resolution will call for the prompt dismantling and withdrawal of all offensive weapons in Cuba, under the supervision of U.N. observers, before the quarantine can be lifted."_

Ronnie Anne trembled, and Lincoln held her tighter. His stomach was a pit of roiling nerves and his heart throbbed. This sounded _bad_ , and he was no stranger to the threat of war with the Soviets: They had been a menace his entire life.

" _Seventh and finally: I call upon Chairman Khrushchev to halt and eliminate this clandestine, reckless, and provocative threat to world peace and to stable relations between our two nations. I call upon him further to abandon this course of world domination, and to join in an historic effort to end the perilous arms race and to transform the history of man. He has an opportunity now to move the world back from the abyss of destruction by returning to his government's own words that it had no need to station missiles outside its own territory, and withdrawing these weapons from Cuba by refraining from any action which will widen or deepen the present crisis, and then by participating in a search for peaceful and permanent solutions."_

Lori held Bobby Jr. closer. He thrashed against her, but she couldn't let him go – wouldn't let him go.

" _My fellow citizens, let no one doubt that this is a difficult and dangerous effort on which we have set out. No one can foresee precisely what course it will take or what costs or casualties will be incurred. Many months of sacrifice and self-discipline lie ahead - months in which both our patience and our will will be tested, months in which many threats and denunciations will keep us aware of our dangers. But the greatest danger of all would be to do nothing._

 _The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as all paths are; but it is the one most consistent with our character and courage as a nation and our commitments around the world. The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender or submission."_

 _Path of blood,_ Luan thought, and shuddered as images of bomb-blasted cities and fiery skies danced sickeningly through her head. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare.

" _Our goal is not the victory of might, but the vindication of right; not peace at the expense of freedom, but both peace and freedom, here in this hemisphere, and, we hope, around the world. God willing, that goal will be achieved."_

 _How?_ Lincoln thought as he unconsciously held Ronnie Anne tighter. How _will it be achieved?_

" _Thank you and good night."_

For a moment dark, oppressive silence, so deep it made Lincoln's ears ring, held sway over the kitchen. When Flip spoke, Lincoln jumped. "Alright, back to work."

There was no force in his voice.

* * *

 _"We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming."_

 _To Tell the Truth_ filled the screen, the laughter of the audience at something Bud Collyer said making the atmosphere somehow darker. "They're not taking those missiles out," Dad said, sitting back in his chair. "Not after the Bay of Pigs. If you ask me, it sounds like they're going to invade."

Luan's stomach turned. "Would they really do that?"

"You heard him, they're out to take over the world. Cuba's ninety miles from Florida. Normandy is farther from England, and look at D-Day. They're gonna use those missiles to clear the way then send in ground troops. That's what _I'd_ do."

Rita shivered. "If they did that we'd launch _our_ missiles. They have to know that."

Dad blew a raspberry. "They don't care. They want to rule the world; doesn't matter to them if it's a radioactive heap or not."

"Would we get hit?" Luan asked. She could feel panic welling within her; the back of her neck was beginning to tingle as though at any minute a Soviet missile would crash through the roof and land on her.

"Probably not," Dad said. "There's nothing important around us, just National Guard facilities. They won't worry about those – not at first. Miami, Washington, and New York are where they're going to strike."

Suddenly, Leni looked at her mother. "Does this look okay, Mom?" she asked, holding the sweater up: On the front was a crocheted version on Leni's face. Underneath was: I LOVE AUNTIE LENI in white.

"That's fine, dear," she said, and looked at her husband. "If there's a war, we'll have fallout, won't we? God knows they put atomic bombs on everything these days. You can't just shoot a plane down or blow something up – you have to nuke it. There will be so much of that stuff in the air it'll kill everything."

Cold terror filled Luan's chest.

Dad held up his hand. "We'll be fine. Fallout is easy enough to deal with." He pushed himself up. "Where's that civil defense handbook?"

"I don't know. It should be on the bookshelf."

He crossed to the bookshelf and started to scan the spines. Mom put her hand on Luan's leg. "Don't worry, honey, we'll be fine. I-I'm sure President Kennedy will get us through this without starting a war."

She didn't sound very convincing. She was right about everything having an atomic bomb on it: Every artillery shell fired, every bomb dropped, every damned _bullet_ would be nuclear.

"Here it is," Dad said and took a slim hardback from the bookshelf. Luan caught a flash of the cover as he sat, and it sent a tingle down her spine: _Survival Under Atomic Attack._ It featured a drawing of a mushroom cloud rising above a city skyline, fire and bits of debris at its base.

He opened it and flipped through the pages. "Listen to this: 'In most atom raids, blast and heat are by far the greatest dangers that people must face. Radioactivity alone would account for only a small percentage of all human deaths and injuries, except in underground or underwater explosions.' The fallout wouldn't bother us too much. We can always insulate the basement. I know there's a section in here somewhere." He flipped around.

"Bobby Jr. is going to look _so_ adorable in this," Leni said, looking at the sweater in her lap.

"Ah, here. 'Heavy, dense materials (like thick walls, earth, concrete, bricks, water and books) between you and fallout is best. Stay indoors or below ground. (Taking shelter in a basement or a facility below ground reduces exposure by 90%. Less than 4 inches of soil or earth can reduce the penetration of dangerous gamma rays by half). Some very basic ways to build an expedient last-minute shelter in your home, apartment or workplace to help protect you from dangerous radiation include…" Dad stopped speaking and read silently.

"Include what?" Luan asked worriedly.

He made a _hmmm_ sound. "Looks like we can have a functional bomb shelter in five minutes," he said. He closed the book, and Luan shot her hand out. He gave it to her and got up. "I'll make one now."

Luan opened the book and leafed through it until she found the section he had been reading. Above a diagram:

 _Set up a large, sturdy workbench or table in location you've chosen. If no table, make one by putting doors on top of boxes, appliances or furniture._

 _Put as much shielding (e.g. furniture, file cabinets, appliances, boxes or pillowcases filled with dirt or sand, boxes of food, water or books, concrete blocks, bricks, etc.) all around sides and on top of table, but don't put too much weight on tabletop or it could collapse. Add reinforcing supports, if needed._

 _Leave a crawl space so everyone can get inside and block opening with shielding materials._

 _Leave 2 small air spaces for ventilation (about 4-6″ each) – one low at one end and one high at other end. (This allows for better airflow since warm air rises.)_

 _Have water, radiation detection devices, KI, battery operated radio, food and sanitation supplies in case you have to shelter in place for days or weeks._

When she looked up, Dad was taking all the books off the shelf. "I'll help," Luan said. She sat the book aside and got up.

"Fill some pillowcases with dirt," Dad directed. "Three or four for right now. When you're done, bring them into the basement. After that...uh...get Lynn's mattress and bring that too. Oh, and the couch cushions."

Luan nodded determinedly and went upstairs.

"I-I better go to the store," Rita said and got up. "W-What do we need?"

"Canned food, water, batteries, toilet paper." Lynn stopped and thought for a moment. "First aid supplies."

Leni looked around, her brow furrowing. "Why's everyone acting so weird?"

"Don't worry, dear. Get your coat, we're going shopping."

Ten minutes later, Leni was strapped into the passenger seat of the Packard. It was dark and rainy and cold, but she liked going shopping with her mother, so she didn't mind. Mom sat behind the wheel, wearing a long, heavy green coat. In the green glow of the dash panel, her face was creepy. "Is everything really okay?" Leni asked. She sensed her mother's tension, and it was starting to make her nervous.

Mom nodded. "Everything's fine."

Leni's brow pinched. If Mom said everything was okay, it _must_ be. She leaned forward, turned on the radio, and spun the dial until she found a station playing music:

 _My daddy is sleepin'_

 _And mama ain't around_

 _Yeah, daddy just sleepin'_

 _And mama ain't around_

 _We're gonna twisty twisty twisty_

 _Till we tear the house down._

Rita half expected the music to be replaced by an emergency tone as the Russians responded to Kennedy's words with actions. It didn't, however, and by the time they reached the supermarket, she was beginning to believe that they had at least the night before World War III broke out.

Inside, she grabbed a cart and hurried through the store, Leni hurrying to keep pace beside her. There were more people here than was usual at this hour. Turning into the canned food aisle, she almost bumped into someone. She started to apologize.

"Rita? Oh, hi!" Shirley Breckenridge said. Rita knew Shirley from the hairdresser's.

"Hi," Rita said.

Shirley was a tall, thin woman who wore her red hair in a raised bouffant. She was clad in a matching plaid jacket and skirt. Her husband, Frank, owned the hardware store. Her eyes were hazel and clear, but presently darkened. "Did you see Kennedy on TV?"

Rita nodded. "That's why we're here. Isn't it awful?"

"It's terrifying," Shirley said gravely. "Frank's putting together some kind of makeshift bomb shelter in the basement as we speak."

"Lynn's doing the same. He doesn't think we'll be hit directly."

"Neither does Frank, but I'm not so sure. If the Russians launch all their bombs, some are bound to go astray. Plus, we're so close to Detroit."

Rita nodded. That same thought had occurred to her.

When she and Shirley parted, Leni looked confused. "Why are the Russians launching bombs?"

"They're not," Rita said, and added to herself _yet_.


	22. October 1962: Part 2

**GennaiArakida-XIV: I got the instructions on how to build a bomb shelter from a website and it is apparently current information that takes the tonnage, etc of modern weapons into consideration. I figured if it's good enough for 2017, it would be good enough for 1962.**

 **So Good: Don't tempt me, I totally would – and it would gut you ;)**

* * *

"Do you think there's really going to be a war?"

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne were walking along Ronnie Anne's street through the crisp autumn evening, their fingers entwined and their steps slow; the smaller their tread, the longer their time together.

"No," Lincoln lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. He didn't know one way or the other, but from the way Kennedy was talking on the radio, this was serious business. He gave Ronnie Anne's hand a reassuring squeeze, and when she looked up at him, her eyes pooled with worry and her bottom lip clenched between her teeth, he forced a weak smile. She returned it, but it did not touch her eyes.

For a while neither spoke. "The Russians are like us," he finally said, "they don't want to get blown up either. If we don't back off, they will."

She didn't look like she believed that, but she didn't argue. "I guess. I don't know much about them, just that they're nuts. And evil."

When they reached her front porch, they kissed deeply, passionately, and held each other for a long time, Lincoln's fingers threading through her hair and hers woven together across his back. He felt the sudden urge to tell her how much she meant to him. "I love you, Ronnie Anne," he said, "you're my everything."

She hugged him tighter. "I love you too, Lincoln." Her voice cracked. "More than you'll ever know."

He kissed her cheek, and the side of her neck. The thought occurred to him that he might lose her –if not now, then at some point – and at that, tears welled in his eyes. "You mean everything to me."

They kissed again, slower this time. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears of her own. He caressed her cheek and pecked her forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She nodded. "Okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

On the walk home, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed, he tried but failed to beat back the dark thoughts swirling in the back of his mind. Life is a fragile thing...all it takes is one strong gust of wind, and the candle is snuffed; he could lose her at any moment – to a car accident, or to a tornado, or to cancer, or, yes, even to war. His heart ached at the prospect, and he had the urge to turn around and go back...to put his arms around her and never let go, no matter what.

Twenty minutes later, he walked through his front door, and his eyes, so recently filled with tears, blinked in confusion: The living room was empty, the TV was on, and the couch was cushionless. He closed the door behind him and slipped out of his jacket. "Hello?" he called and hung it up. Where was everybody?

He went into the living room and looked around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary – except for the couch cushions. Near the phone, he found a book and picked it up. _Survival Under Atomic Attack._ When Leni spoke, he jumped: "Hi, Lincy!"

She was coming through the living room from the stairs, a box in her hands.

"What's going on? Where is everyone?"

"We're getting ready," Leni said serenely, "the Russians are launching all their bombs at us. It was just on TV."

" _Good god!"_

He had to get Ronnie Anne...he had to...he had to...

"No they're not," Luan said, coming down the steps. She was holding another box. "We're getting ready just in case they do." She was wearing a white helmet with the Civil Defense logo on it: A white triangle inside a blue circle.

Lincoln sighed with relief. His heart crashed and he thought he was going to pass out. For a moment there, he thought he and everyone he loved was about to die in a fiery holocaust. Luan shoved the box into his arms. "Take this downstairs," she ordered. "There isn't a moment to lose. We could be bombed at any minute."

Lincoln gulped and did as he was told. In the basement, he was taken aback to find an advanced version of your classic blanket fort: Two long workbenches stood side-by-side, books, folded stacks of clothes, and a mattress on top. The couch cushions, a filing cabinet on its side, a dresser, bulging pillowcases, and plywood acted as walls. Jugs of water and dozens of cans of food were fanned out around the fortress. Dad popped up behind it and nodded to himself. He looked up, saw Lincoln, and waved. "Hey, son."

"What's all this?" Lincoln asked.

Dad put his hands on his hips. "This is how we're going to survive if things heat up. It's a homemade fallout shelter – not the best, but it'll do. There's enough room in here for us, Lori, Bobby, the baby, Ronnie Anne, and her mother...with room to spare. It won't be the most comfortable arrangement, but it'll get us through."

"D-Do you really think we'll need this?" Lincoln asked nervously as he sat the box down.

"I don't know," Dad said, "I doubt the Russians will budge. You heard, right?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "it was on the radio."

Dad nodded. "I doubt they'll take their missiles out. Then again, maybe they will. I don't know. It's here if we need it, though."

Leni came down the stairs and sat her box next to Lincoln's. Luan followed with a folded tarp in her arms. "The book says we should cover up the doors and windows."

"Good thinking, honey."

"Are we sleeping in the shelter tonight?"

"No, I don't think that'll be necessary."

Luan nodded slowly. "Can _I_ sleep in there tonight?"

"Ooooh, me too!" Leni said, bouncing excitedly. "It'll be like a sleepover!"

Dad spread his hands. "If you want. Son?"

Lincoln thought for a minute. "No," he finally said. He would take his chances upstairs. In his room, he stretched out on his bed and laced his fingers over his chest. For the first time since Lynn left for college, Lincoln wished he was still here. He could really use someone to talk to...someone who was unshakable and confident, someone who wouldn't be afraid. He put on a brave face for Ronnie Anne, but truth be told, he was terrified.

Not so much by the specter of nuclear war, but more by the idea that he might lose Ronnie Anne...and that they might die without her knowing how deeply, how completely, how achingly he loved her.

That scared him _greatly_.

* * *

Luna had seen some strange stuff in her day...but this took the cake.

It early was on the morning of October 23, and she had a problem: She was out of clean underwear. When she went to get a pair and realized, she sifted through her dirty clothes hamper, and found that overall she had, like, three pairs. Great. It was her own fault, really; she kept leaving them at Daggy's place...and in his car...and she thought she left a pair or two at the lake this summer...she was pretty sure a pair dropped out of the car when they were at Flip's the other day – she saw a white garment sitting in their spot as they backed up...you couldn't walk a block in this town without tripping over a pair of her panties.

Since she needed to do laundry anyway (her jeans were getting kind of rank), she grabbed her basket and carried it into the basement. The washer and dryer are to the left of the staircase. She was whistling and not paying attention, so she didn't see the...whatever the hell it was until she had loaded the washer and turned to leave. When her eyes fell on it, she stopped and furrowed her brows. A mattress, the couch cushions (she wondered where those went), books, and laundry sat on top of two long tables. Pieces of furniture and pillowcases filled with God knows what were pushed up against them, leaving just a narrow slot. What the shit? She started forward, but a head popped out, and she jumped back with a scream.

"Hi, Luna!" Leni cried.

Luna's hand flew to her chest. "Leni? What are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Me and Luan were sleeping, duh," the older girl said and crawled out of the fort. Luan followed, wearing a funny hat with a symbol on it.

Luna's brows rose. "What is that?"

"What?" Leni asked, tilting her head.

"That...whatever it is," Luna asked, and gestured at the fort.

Leni turned, studied it for a moment, then brightened. "Oh, that's our bomb shelter! Dad made it last night because the Cubans are going to blow us up."

"Did you hear the news?" Luan asked.

Luna shook her head. She was with Daggy until way late: They smoked a couple joints and watched some midnight movies on Channel 6: _Freaks_ and _The Curse of Frankenstein_ among them – real off-the-wall stuff. Luan filled her in, and when she was done, Luna frowned. "Man, that thing can't stop a bomb."

"It's not intended to stop a bomb," Luan explained, "it's supposed to stop fallout."

Luna slipped her hands into her back pockets. "Alright, I'm not too hip to how radiation works, but I'm pretty sure a mattress and some old books aren't going to stop it."

"Yes, they will," Luan said and crossed her arms. "It's in the Civil Defense handbook."

Luna waved her hand. "That's all government propaganda, man. Like _Reefer Madness_. You're gonna crawl in that thing and come out with three heads and tentacles for arms." The younger girl started to protest, but Luna got out of there. When she was alone in the kitchen, she leaned against the fridge and crossed her arms. She didn't want Leni and Luan to see, but she was kind of worried. Was it really _that_ bad? She glanced out the window over the sink as if she could spot approaching missiles: The morning sky was clear, blue, and empty.

Man, that was scary.

Not that the threat of being wiped off the face of the earth was new: For as long as she could remember, people were afraid of the Russians dropping bombs. They had bombs in Cuba...so what? They had had bombs on planes and ships that could do the same thing for, like, twenty years. Why was everyone making such a big deal about it _now?_

She didn't know, but it was troubling, and she felt kind of cold inside, so she made a pot of coffee: By the time it was done, Luan and Leni had come up from the basement and Lincoln had come down from upstairs. The three of them sat at the table while Luna filled two more mugs with coffee – Lincoln was a werido, he didn't drink the stuff.

Luna sat one of the mugs in front of Leni and the other in front of Luan. Luan's helmet was making Luna nervous: It was like a constant reminder of WWIII or something. "Will you take that hat off?" Luna asked. "You look like a dweeb. Where'd you get it, anyway?" She sat across from her brother, who rubbed his grainy eyes.

"Dad found it in the basement," Luan said. "He was in the Civil Defense. Remember?"

Luna took a sip of her coffee and thought. "No, no, I don't. The Civil Defense is stupid."

" _Humph_ ," Luan said, "I guess there're more important things than surviving a nuclear bomb – like nuking your brain with grass."

Luna choked on her coffee, and Luan grinned savagely. "Don't even deny it, Luna. I know you smoke that stuff."

"So? At least _I'm_ not wearing a goofy hat and sleeping in a couch fort in the basement."

"It's called being prepared."

"It's called being paranoid."

Luan's eyes flashed. "I am _not_ being paranoid. Maybe you don't care about getting irradiated in the middle of the night, but _I_ do, and I wish the rest of you would take this a little more seriously." She looked at Lincoln. "You need to start sleeping in the shelter. If the Russians attack, you're toast."

"I'm not sleeping in there," Lincoln said tiredly.

"You _need_ to, Linc. You could _die_."

Luna flashed. "Stop it! You're a goddamn scaremongerer! Go back to your little pillow fort and stop scaring everyone." _Stop scaring_ me.

The younger girl pushed away from the table and got up. "Fine," she said tightly, "come on, Leni. We need to pile dirt along the outside of the basement. The handbook says it'll absorb the radiation."

"Okay," Leni said and got up. She finished her coffee. "Bye, Luna, bye, Lincy!" She followed Luan into the garage and pulled the door shut behind her. Alone with her brother, Luna sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.

Lincoln glanced up. She saw worry in his eyes. "It'll be fine," Luna said, "nothing's going to happen."

She _almost_ believed that.

* * *

When he stepped onto the porch, Lincoln was grateful – and relieved – to find Ronnie Anne sitting on the porch swing, her books in her lap: For some strange reason, he expected her to not be there this morning – he expected her to not be anywhere. Her face lit up when she saw him, and he imagined his face did the same. "Hey, lame-o," she said, and patted the spot next to her, "have a seat."

"Usually when someone says that it means they want to have a serious discussion," he said and flashed a nervous smile. Nevertheless, he sat.

She took his hand and slipped her fingers through his. "Every conversation I have with you is serious...even if it's not."

Makes sense. He considered every conversation they had serious too. She _was_ the girl he loved, after all, and even idle chatter is vitally important – probably more important than weighty declarations and professions. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles one-by-one, lingering on the clean taste of her flesh. When he looked up at her, she was smiling hazily. "You're a real charmer, you know that?"

"All I did was kiss your hand, jeez," he grinned.

She pulled his hand to her lips and did the same: His skin tingled at the soft, wet brush of her lips. He felt something happening downstairs, and visited his friends, The Naked Fat Man Quartet. _I'm getting really sick of seeing you guys,_ he thought. When she was done, he leaned in and they kissed, their hands running over each other's faces. "I love you," she said seriously, "very much."

"I love you too," he said.

"Really, Lincoln," she said and grazed her fingers through his hair, "you're the light of my life."

Lincoln smiled. "You _are_ my life."

After a while, they pried their eyes away from each other and got up, neither particularly wanting to break the moment. As they walked, they held hands. "How's your mom?" he asked. "Is she spazzing out the way my family is?"

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "No, she's not worried. She thinks it's all overblown or something."

"My family's going nuts," Lincoln said. "Dad built a bomb shelter in the basement out of tables, couch cushions, and old books."

Ronnie Anne giggled. "What kind of bombs are you guys expecting?"

"It's more for fallout," Lincoln said. "He has this Civil Defense handbook that says to put as much stuff between you and the fallout as possible. Luan's really going overboard, running around in a helmet like a drill sergeant or something."

Ronnie Anne smiled wanly, then turned to him. "Hey, Lincoln?"

"Yeah?"

"C-Can we talk about something else, please?"

"Okay," Lincoln said and searched his brain. This thing in Cuba was like an eight-hundred pound gorilla in a _very_ small room; there wasn't space for much else. "You ready for that science test?" he asked.

She nodded. "Pretty much. I just need to brush up on that last chapter."

"I don't think I even read that last chapter," Lincoln said after a moment of thought. He hated science just as much as he hated math.

"You're gonna flunk," Ronnie Anne snorted.

"No, I'm not. I never make lower than a C."

"How?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Naturally smart, I guess."

She laughed harshly. "Bullshit. You cheat."

"No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do. You're a cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater." She turned and touched his lip. "Look, you got pumpkin right here."

Lincoln sucked her finger into his mouth. She yanked it out. "Gross!" she laughed and blotted it against the hem of her skirt.

He spat onto the ground. "You're telling me."

She slapped his arm. "I'm not gross. I'm pretty and I taste good."

Lincoln raised one brow, and she blushed. "You're a pervert."

"I didn't say anything," he said, "you just have a dirty mind."

"No, I don't. Well...maybe _sometimes._ "

He looked at her. "Is that so?"

She was blushing. "Yes. Sometimes I do. You got a problem with that?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Not at all," he said. "I kind of like it."

She giggled. "Uh-huh."

They were at school now. A chilly wind slipped through the trees, rattling braches and knocking dead leaves to the ground. He slipped his arms around her waist and she put her arms around his neck. For a moment they stared into each other's eyes, Lincoln's heartbeat speeding up. He'd said it before, and he'd say it again: She got more and more beautiful every day...and he loved her more and more every day. He vaguely wondered if he would ever find the end of that love, or if it was bottomless. If pressed, he would say it was the latter.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," she replied. "Have a good day."

Inside, he went to his locker, grabbed his math book, and went to class, getting there just before the bell rang. Kids were nervously talking about Kennedy's speech; a guy behind him said something about there probably being a draft if war broke out. Lincoln's mood darkened, and he tried to tune it out. The teacher came in and everyone quieted. "Alright, class," she said, standing by the edge of her desk, "before we begin, we have a special...event." She wrung her hands and nervously scanned the faces before her.

Five minutes later, the lights were off and a screen covered the blackboard; a reel-to-reel projector cast flickering images of a cartoon turtle in a helmet so much like Luan's that Lincoln grinned despite himself: The turtle walked along a forest path. A monkey leaned out of a tree with a firecracker on a string and tapped him on the shoulder. The turtle turned, gulped, and withdrew into his shell just before the firecracker went off, destroying the tree _and_ the monkey (kamikaze attack, Lincoln guessed). The scene was accompanied by a catchy little number:

 _Duck...and cove-rrr!_

A narrator spoke: _"Be sure to remember what Bert the Turtle just did, friends, because every one of us must remember to do the same thing."_

Something niggled at the back of Lincoln's mind; he was sure he'd seen this before. Probably when he was in elementary school.

A block of text appeared onscreen:

 _This is an official Civil Defense film produced in co-operation with the federal civil defense administration and in consultation with the safety commission of the National Education Association._

The narrator urged Bert to come out of his shell and meet all the nice people, but Bert refused. Lincoln crossed his arms, completely uninterested – until a cartoon house was blown to smithereens by a nuclear bomb. The narrator explained that the flash from an atomic bomb can "burn you worse than a sunburn." In the next scene, children jumped up and slipped under their desks. In another, an air raid siren sounded, and kids rushed into their school for protection. In yet another, two kids were walking along a street when a bright flash filled the world: They threw themselves against the side of a building and crouched with their hands over their heads. Lincoln was sitting forward, so engrossed that when the flash came, he jumped.

When the movie ended, he was cold and his stomach ached. "I know it's been a while since you've done this, but in light of recent events, we are now going to practice ducking and covering," the teacher said. "I trust you remember how, and I trust that the presentation you just watched has refreshed your memory." She looked around. "Let's...let's duck and cover."

The last time Lincoln could specifically remember hiding under his desk was fourth grade. The motions had been drilled into him, however, and now they came back: While the others did likewise, he slipped out of his seat, crawled under, and bent forward, his back hunched: He laced his fingers across the back of his neck and tried to make himself as small as possible.

The teacher pronounced the drill a success and then class began as normal, but Lincoln found it impossible to focus: The school responding with a duck and cover drill told him that they were just as frightened as he was, and while he was not young enough to believe that adults are never afraid and never have reason to be, their fear made _his_ fear even worse. He passed the rest of the morning in anxious disquiet, several times yanking his thumb from between his teeth and spitting out shards of fingernail he couldn't remember chewing. He wondered what was happening right now, what the Soviets were doing, what the Cubans were doing, what the U.S. was doing. Were they launching their bombs even now? Was the world moments from ending?

At lunch, he got a tray and sat across from Clyde. The smell of the food turned his stomach, and he didn't think he would want to eat for a very long time.

"So...Cuba," Clyde said casually.

"Yeah. Cuba."

"I'm surprised Kennedy has it in him to draw a hard line like that," Clyde said. "The Russians will back down." He took a sip of milk.

Lincoln sighed. "I wish I was as sure as you."

Clyde took a bite of his roll. "Look at it this way," he said about a mouthful, "the Russians are bullies. Bullies pick on people who are weaker than they are. We're not weaker than them, we're stronger. And what happens when a bully comes up against someone stronger than them? They turn tail and run home to their mothers."

"I don't know," Lincoln said. "Their pride's kind of on the line, and when someone's pride is on the line, they'll fight even if they know they'll lose."

"True," Clyde said, "but they'll only get a couple punches in before we knock 'em flat."

"Isn't that enough?"

Clyde opened his mouth to reply, his finger pointed up, but then it went flaccid and he closed his mouth. "Yeah," he said, "I guess."

A couple punches from the Soviet Union could do a _lot_ of damage: Entire cities blasted from the face of the earth, millions killed, millions injured...then fallout, famine, lawlessness...he shivered.

Ronnie Anne sat next to him and he forced a weak smile. "Hey."

Her smile was even weaker. "Hey."

For a long time no one spoke; a dark cloud hung over the table, pressing down on them like wet wool. When Ronnie Anne broke the silence, her voice was unsteady. "Did you have to duck and cover too?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. And we watched a movie."

"The turtle?"

"Yeah. Bert."

Clyde nodded. "Yeah, we watched that too."

Ronnie Anne took Lincoln's hand under the table, and he looked at her: Her eyes shimmered with worry, and Lincoln's heart twinged. He let go of her hand and took her in his arms. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and wrapped her arms around him, her hands fisting his sweater. Her breathing was heavy, and was it his imagination, or did he detect a slight tremor in her body?

"Like I told Lincoln," Clyde said, "the Russians are bullies and bullies pick on the weak. We're not weak, we're the United States. They'll back down."

Ronnie Anne didn't reply; she hugged Lincoln tighter.


	23. October 1962: Part 3

**Big Smoke:** **Take your two** **number 9's, your number** **9** **large, your number** **6** **with extra dip, your number** **7** **,** **your two** **number 45's, one with cheese, and your large soda, and get lost. ;)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Sherry**_ **by Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons (kind of – 1962)**

 **Telegram from the Embassy in the Soviet Union to the Department of State, 5pm October 23, 1962:**

 _Moscow, October 23, 1962,_

 _Mr. President._

 _I have just received your letter, and have also acquainted myself with the text of your speech of October 22 regarding Cuba._

 _I must say frankly that measures indicated in your statement constitute a serious threat to peace and to the security of nations. The United States has openly taken the path of grossly violating the United Nations Charter, path of violating international norms of freedom of navigation on the high seas, the path of aggressive actions both against Cuba and against the Soviet Union._

 _The statement by the Government of the United States of America can only be regarded as undisguised interference in the internal of the Republic of Cuba, the Soviet Union, and other states. The United Nations Charter and international norms give no right to any state to institute in international waters the inspection of vessels bound for the shores of the Republic of Cuba._

 _And naturally, neither can we recognize the right of the United States to establish control over armaments which are necessary for the Republic of Cuba to strengthen of its defense capability._

 _We affirm that the armaments which are in Cuba, regardless of the classification to which they may belong, are intended solely for defensive purposes, in order to secure the Republic of Cuba against the attack of an aggressor._

 _I hope that the United States Government will display wisdom and renounce the actions pursued by you, which may lead to catastrophic consequences for world peace._

 _The viewpoint of the Soviet Government with regard to your statement of October 22 is set forth in statement of the Soviet Government, which is being transmitted to you through your Ambassador at Moscow._

 _N. Khrushchev._

* * *

 **Telegram from the Department of State to the Embassy in the Soviet Union, 6:51pm, October 23, 1962:**

 _Dear Mr. Chairman:_

 _I have received your letter of October twenty-third. I think you will recognize that the steps which started the current chain of events was the action of your Government in secretly furnishing offensive weapons to Cuba. We will be discussing this matter in the Security Council. In the meantime, I am concerned that we both show prudence and do nothing to allow events to make the situation more difficult to control than it already is._

 _I hope that you will issue immediately the necessary instructions to your ships to observe the terms of the quarantine, the basis of which was established by the vote of the Organization of American States this afternoon, and which will go into effect at 1400 hours Greenwich time October twenty-four._

 _Sincerely, JFK_

* * *

The Caribbean was alive with activity. Twelve U.S. Navy destroyers from the Second Fleet's Task Force 136 sailed toward the island of Cuba, supplemented by an anti-submarine warfare group headed by the aircraft carrier _USS Essex_. In Puerto Rico and on the island of Bermuda, aerial anti-submarine squadrons were on high alert. By evening, American ships ringed Cuba, and in response, Soviet submarines moved into the area. The blockade would not officially go into effect until 10:00am the next morning, but the pieces were on the board, and a confrontation was beginning to simmer: Soviet ships carrying military supplies halted in their tracks, while those not continued.

The initial quarantine line was an arc 500 miles from Cape Maysi, Cuba, that range being chosen to be out of reach of the Soviet IL-28 bombers based in Cuba.

In New York City, an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council was convened to diffuse the situation. Outside, picketers representing the organization Women Strike for Peace carried signs and placards: PEACE OR PERISH; DEAD MEN CAN'T NEGOTIATE; PRESIDENT KENNEDY BE CAREFUL.

In Cuba, President Fidel Castro appeared on television. Among much fiery rhetoric, he said: _"I can assure you that the United States is determined to continue on the path it has chosen until the offensive weapons now in Cuba are withdrawn or are neutralized effectively." In other words, he is saying: I can assure you that the United States is determined to continue on the path it has chosen-that is, that the United States is resolutely determined to commit suicide."_

In the town of Royal Woods, Michigan, 1,500 miles from ground zero, light rain began to fall just before dusk. Lori Loud was alone in the apartment she and Bobby rented on Elk Street, three miles from Ridgeway Park; he was working late, and Bobby Jr. was asleep in his crib. She spent the majority of the day at her parents' house, sitting in the kitchen with her mother and talking. Bobby Jr. liked grandma and grandpa's house because it was so _big_. He could crawl and crawl and crawl and still have room left over. Mom told her about Dad's makeshift bomb shelter in the basement. "There's enough space for everyone," she said. "If you want, you, Bobby, and the baby can stay here – until this blows over." At that moment, mother and daughter shared the same thought: _If this blows over_. Lori was tempted to take her up on the offer, but ultimately turned it down: She was a grown woman, and she did not want to run home to her mother because something scary was happening. That's not what adults do.

Presently, she was sitting in front of the TV, where Walter Cronkite was going over the day's events the _CBS Evening News_. She hugged herself against the chill in her soul and tried not to think about what was happening in the Caribbean, but when the world stands poised on the brink of total nuclear war, it's kind of hard to think of anything _but_. She wanted to change the channel and find something else to watch, something to take her mind off the apocalypse gathering in the Atlantic, but she _had_ to know what was coming.

When Cronkite signed off with, "And that's the way it is," she got up on shaky knees and went in to the single bedroom. Bobby Jr.'s crib was wedged into the narrow space between the bed and the wall. She peered over the edge, and her heart melted: He was lying flat on his back with his hands fisted above his head. His sparse black hair was fine and his cheeks were chubby. He took a deep breath and suckled in his sleep.

She climbed onto the bed, reached in, and picked him up: His little body went stiff and he fussed. "Shhh," Lori said, "it's okay. It's just mommy." Sitting Indian style, she leaned against the headboard and held her son close. "It's okay," she vowed, "mommy won't let anything bad happen to you."

Across town, Luan put her hands on her hips and scanned the back of the house: Freshly turned dirt was piled along the base, eight inches deep. The handbook said six, but Luan wanted to be sure. Leni was on her knees, the hem of her red polka dotted dress touching the ground. Her face and hands were streaked with dirt, like Luan's. "Are we, like, done yet?" she asked.

Luan walked over and squatted, her eyes sweeping across the rising mound. It was tight and unbroken across the foundation. "Yes," she said. Thank God. Though she didn't show it, she was exhausted: Her arms and legs quivered, and her muscles were sore.

"Good," Leni said and got to her feet, "I _so_ need a shower."

In the kitchen, Luan slipped out of her shoes, picked them up, and crossed into the living room: No need to track mud through the house...the time she would spend cleaning it up could be better used elsewhere. In her room, she stripped to her underwear and slipped on a nightgown. Leni was already in the bathroom, so she would have to wait on her own shower. Stretching out on her bed, she laced her hands behind her head and ran through a mental checklist she whipped up last night as she tried and failed to sleep. As far as she could tell, the house was as ready as they could get it, and there wasn't much else to do.

There had to be _something_ , though; she couldn't sit still while her family was in danger. She thought back to the dream she had the night before, the one where she watched as everyone she loved was engulfed in nuclear hellfire, and a cold shiver went through her body. Something...she had to do _something_ , no matter how small.

Maybe she could cover the windows with plywood. Or maybe she could reinforce their existing shelter with cinderblocks...build a little wall around it.

Something...she had to do something...because if she stopped, she started to think about it, and when she thought about it, she got so scared she could barely move. Oh, she might look strong, but she wasn't: She was a frightened little girl and if she wasn't active, wasn't _doing,_ she would wind up shaking and crying. She didn't want to lose her mother and father...she didn't want to lose Lincoln, or Luna, or Lori or Bobby Jr. or anyone else. She wanted her family to be safe...she wanted them to live in a good world.

 _Stupid nuclear bombs,_ she thought now, her chest clinching in anger. _Why do we even need them?_ Instead of sending a man to the moon, JFK needed to send all the nuclear missiles to the moon...put them out of reach the way a parent would do with a misbehaving child's toy.

 _I hate nuclear bombs,_ she thought sullenly, _I hope they all turn to dust._

She closed her eyes and imagined a world without the constant threat of destruction, and it was with that happy thought that she fell asleep.

* * *

Thursday, October 25. Lincoln stumbled bleary-eyed out of bed and into the hall, where Luna and Luan waited in line for the bathroom. With Lori and Lynn out of the way, the daily queues were more manageable, but when you have to pee, you have to pee. He fell in behind Luan and tried to ignore his bursting bladder. He blinked, and that's when he noticed that Luan was wearing that goofy helmet again: With just it and her nightgown, she looked like...he didn't know, it was humorous, though.

His turn finally came, and as he peed, he patted himself on the back for once again making it without having an accident. Back in his room, he dressed for the day in a pair of khaki chinos and a red, green, and white plaid shirt with a butterfly collar. In the kitchen, Luan, Luna, Leni, and Mom were gathered around the table, each one drinking from a mug of coffee. Plates of food were forgotten before them. "Good morning, honey," Mom said when he came in.

"Morning," he replied and sat. As they made small talk, he hurriedly ate and scanned the paper for any major developments on the crisis, but didn't see anything, and breathed a sigh of relief. Done, he kissed Mom goodbye, grabbed his coat, and went outside. Like usual, Ronnie Anne was sitting on the porch swing, rocking idly back and forth. There was something about this daily routine that deeply satisfied Lincoln: She was always here, same time, same place, no matter what. He could count on her.

"Hey, square-for-brains," she said.

He never know what insulting name to expect that day, though, but that was okay; you have to mix it up a _little_.

"Good morning," he said, crossing and sitting next to her. He draped his arm along the back and she leaned her head against his chest, her hand fluttering to his stomach. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. She was warm and soft. "How'd you sleep?" he asked.

The night before, they were on the phone until nearly midnight; she didn't say outright, but he knew she was scared and didn't want to let him go, because alone in the dark, thoughts and nightmares would plague her. He knew because he felt the same way.

She made a muffled "Eh" sound and patted his stomach.

"Me too," he confessed. He vaguely remembered a dream, but it was just beyond his grasp, and knowing already what it had to do with, he didn't reach too hard. "Hey, we're still here, though. Every day it doesn't happen, the chances it _will_ happen decrease." He didn't know if that was true or not, but he didn't want her to worry; he didn't like it when she worried.

She shrugged. "I guess."

"Don't worry. It's all going to be okay."

She looked up at him, her eyes big and troubled. "Do you really think that?"

He nodded. "I do." He stroked her hair. "Everything's going to work out in the end, and twenty years from now, we'll look back on this and laugh."

"I don't think I'll _ever_ laugh at this," she said. "It's...it's really scary."

Lincoln nodded. "I know, but..." he didn't know what to say, so he just trailed off and held her close; it was all he could do.

At school, they had another duck and cover drill before first period. It was the third one this week, and at this rate, Lincoln and the tiles under his desk would be on a first name basis by Halloween. During lunch, Clyde went over the morning's developments (he had taken to carrying a transistor radio to keep updated – how he was listening to it without getting in trouble, Lincoln didn't know): At 7:15am a Soviet oil tanker called the _Bucharest_ slipped the blockade 'And we just let it go.' Later, the U.S. ambassador to the U.N. Adlai Stevenson (who, if Lincoln remembered correctly, ran for president once) held a presentation during a Security Council meeting where he displayed blown up pictures of missile sites in Cuba and got into a shouting match with the Soviet ambassador. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne listened rapt – both of them wanted to tell him to shut up, but they also to hear what was happening.

When the final bell rang, Lincoln met Ronnie Anne in the hall, and together they walked to Flip's. She was just as ashen as she was at lunch, and Lincoln wracked his brain for something to cheer her up. Was it even possible? It's not like she had a bad day – she was living in the shadow of death.

"Did you hear about that talent show next month?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No."

There was no talent show next month, but he had an idea, and if it could make her smile even for a second, he would consider it a success. "Yeah, it's after Thanksgiving. I was thinking of doing a song."

She raised her brow. "You singing?"

"What's wrong with my singing?" he asked in mock indignation.

"No offense, but when you sing it sounds like a cat's being murdered."

He sniffed. "Fine. And it was going to be about you."

"A song about me? Uh-oh."

He cleared his throat and she rolled her eyes.

" _Rooooonnnniiiieeee, Ronnie baby!"_

"Oh. Jesus," she muttered. She was grinning, though and that encouraged him. He took a deep breath and stretched his vocal cords. In his best falsetto, he continued:

" _Come out to my twist party_

 _Where the bright lights shine_

 _We'll dance the night away_

 _I'm gonna make you miii-iii-iiine."_

Fire filled his throat, and he launched into a coughing fit "God, that hurts," he sputtered. Ronnie Anne doubled over laughing, the sound making Lincoln smile. "I don't know how he does it. Well...I have an _idea_."

"What's that?" she hitched as she stood straight.

"You know, it's The Four Seasons, right? Well...there's a fifth season: His job is to stand next to Frankie Valli, and when Frankie wants to hit those high notes..." Lincoln grabbed his crotch and squeezed.

"Oh. God," Ronnie Anne said and laughed again. "You're a strange guy, Lincoln. You know that?"

"Yeah, I've come to terms with it."

"Good," she said, and took his hand. "Because I like it."

Flip was sitting behind the register when they got there ten minutes later, a mug of coffee in front of him. "Mr. and Mrs. Loud," he said sourly, "or is it Santiago? Loud strikes me as the type of boy to take his wife's last name."

Lincoln lifted his middle finger. "If you want, Loud, okay, but I'm the man."

"Can you even get it up, pops?"

Flip was shocked into laughter. "Get back in that kitchen. Can I get it up? Ask Ernie."

Ernie popped up in the window. "Nope."

"You set yourself up for that one, Flip," Ronnie Anne said.

"Eh. You can't win 'em all."


	24. October 1962: Part 4

_If this doesn't start a war, nothing will_ Ronnie Anne thought. It was past midnight and she was lying awake in bed, the transistor radio Lincoln gave her when they were kids sitting upright on the nightstand and bearing bad news from Cuba: At 8pm that evening, a U2 spy plane was shot down by an antiaircraft gun, and the Cuban authorities were reporting the pilot was killed. People were already calling for a counterattack, and the president was in an emergency meeting about it.

She drew a deep sigh and rolled toward the window, through which the light of the moon fell, bathing the room in an eerie white glow. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged herself; tears rolled down her cheeks and her stomach gnashed with nerves. She told Lincoln earlier, as he walked her home from Flip's, that she was kind of scared. That was a lie. She was terrified: One push of one button thousands of miles away, and the world as she knew it was over, gone, kaput.

And that included Lincoln.

It wasn't until Monday that it occurred to her she might lose him, to war or sickness or something else. She kind of knew how fragile life is, but she never thought about it. Now it was all she _could_ think about: Every time she looked at his cute, freckled face, she imagined him dying, and panic gripped her. Did he even know how much she loved him? Did he have the faintest idea how deep and strong her feelings were, how true and endless? She didn't think so, because he was a boy and she was a girl...they were bound by words, and no word or arrangement of words could every truly express what she felt. It was a love that could only be shown over the course of a lifetime, and even though she knew the world was a hard, dangerous place, up until the beginning of the week, she took it for granted that she would have a lifetime to show him that love.

Now she wasn't so sure.

There was a war brewing in the tropics and even if it was averted, life was fraught with danger; nothing was guaranteed. She could lose him, and that was bad, but the thought of him slipping away without knowing how much she loved him made her want to cry. He was so sweet and kind and goofy and amazing...just amazing...and she was so glad she had him, because if she didn't...her life would be a much darker and unhappier place.

These and other thoughts kept her awake into the small hours of the morning. She finally lapsed into a thin and fitful sleep before dawn, and when her alarm went off two hours later, she came fully awake in an instant, her mind clear and made up.

After she showered and dressed, she went into the kitchen, where her mother was cooking breakfast. Mom didn't think the world was coming to an end – maybe she was right, but, then again, maybe she was wrong.

She forced herself to eat even though she didn't really want to, then she had a cup of coffee.

When it was time to leave, she pulled on her coat and left her books sitting on the desk: She wouldn't need them today.

A half an hour, she reached Lincoln's house, and sat on the swing. She was sick with anxiety and her heart was pounding. As she walked, she turned her plan – as vague and open-ended as it was – over in her head, and she began to get nervous, so nervous that she even thought of backing out. The specter of death, however, pushed her on. It would happen sometime, she told herself, in the natural course of things, so why not now? Why not now while they still had the chance?

Ten minutes after she arrived, the front door opened and Lincoln came out in a pair of jeans and a tan cardigan. Her heart sped up the way it did every time she saw him, only this time, it didn't pound it _blasted_. He saw her, smiled, and came over. "Hey," he said and sat.

"H-Hey," she said. Her mouth was dry and her face was hot. "How'd you sleep?"

"Alright, I guess," he said. "You?"

"Like shit," she admitted.

"I'm sorry," he said and took her hand.

She looked at his warm, smiling face, and if she wasn't in love with him already, she would be now. She flashed back to the day (a whole lifetime ago, it felt) that he asked her out. _The greatest day of my life,_ she thought now and smiled. She thought about it often, and no matter how low she felt or how total the darkness surrounding her, it made her happy.

She squeezed his hand and got up. "Come on, Linc."

They started toward school. "Did you study for that math test today?" she asked.

"Yeah, I did, actually," he said, holding his math book up. "I think I'm going to ace it."

She winced exaggeratedly and hissed over clenched teeth. He looked at her and furrowed his brows. "What?"

"Well...no, you're not."

"Yes I am," he said defiantly.

She shook her head. "No, you're not...because we aren't going to school today." She yanked his hand and dragged him across the street. Kenbrooke Avenue would bring them to Union Street, which ran much of the length back to her house.

"Uh...what?" he asked.

Houses and tall, expansive trees lined the sidewalk: Leaves rained over them. "We're playing hooky." She stole a sidelong glance at him; his brow pinched cutely with worry. "Come on, Lincoln, this isn't the first time we've ditched."

"No," he allowed, "but every time we do, I'm a nervous wreck. I have enough family in this town that the chances of being seen are pretty total."

"Don't worry about that," she said, "no one's going to see you."

At Union Street, they took a left...away from town. The only thing down that way was the park...and Ronnie Anne's house. "Where are we going?" he asked. He was starting to get confused.

"You'll see," she chirped.

He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. It didn't really matter where they went...as long as he was with Ronnie Anne, he was happy. "I'm kind of bummed," he said, "I studied _really_ hard for that test. I was up late, even."

Ronnie Anne squeezed his hand. "Yeah, I feel kind of bad, but I'll make it up to you. Promise."

"You're going to purposely flunk the eleventh grade so we can be together in summer school?" he asked. They were crossing a set of railroad tracks now. A vacant lot overgrown with tall grass opened up on their right. Beyond, past a decaying chain-link fence, a cluster of abandoned buildings stood stark against the blue October sky. The old railyard was deserted and left to rot back in the thirties, Lincoln had been told, during the Great Depression. One of these days they would get around to tearing it down, but not today.

"If that's what it takes," she said.

They went down Myrtle Street, and came out two blocks up from Ronnie Anne's house. In that instant he knew that's where they were going, and was puzzled. They never usually went to her house when they ditched. He pointed this out, and she shrugged. "I just want to spend time with you," she said heavily, "while we're still alive and not a little pile of dust. Is that okay?"

"It's fine with me," he said. He tried to think of something to address her second point – about being reduced to little piles of dust – but couldn't. It was certainly a possibility, especially with what happened last night: A U.S. plane was shot down over the mountains of Cuba. It was on the front page of the _Royal Woods Republican_ , and when Lincoln saw it, his heart dropped. He knew enough about old Uncle Sam to know that Uncle Sam doesn't turn a blind eye to his ships being sunk or his planes being shot down.

When they reached Ronnie Anne's house five minutes later, she slipped a key out of her dress pocket and opened the door. Inside, it was dark and empty, her mother having left for work. She snapped on the light and kicked out of her shoes. "Take a seat, lame-o," she said, crossing to the kitchen on socked feet, "you want something to drink? We got cherry Tang, grape Tang, and regular Tang."

"That's a lot of Tang," he said and sat on the couch, "I guess regular."

While she made the Tang, he laid his hands on his knees and looked around the living room. He had been to Ronnie Anne's house a million times in the past, but never when her mother wasn't home. It felt...strange, and vaguely wrong. "Turn on the radio," she called from the kitchen. He got up, crossed to the radio, and turned it on. He found a station playing music and sat just as Ronnie Anne came in with two glasses in her hands. She handed on to him and sat, drawing her legs up under her.

"Thanks," he said and took a sip. Ronnie Anne's mother had some kind of strange affinity for buying Tang – maybe because it was cheap – and Lincoln had had more than his fair share of the stuff; he was too polite to say so, but it was awful. He imagined cardboard juice would have more flavor. After the walk, he was thirsty, though, and he drank it all, sitting the glass on the coffee table when he was done. Ronnie Anne did likewise and curled up next to him, her head and palm resting on his chest. He sat back and slipped his arm around her.

For a long time, they sat in silence, listening to distant sounds and relishing each other's company. They didn't get to cuddle like this very often, and when they did, Lincoln cherished every second. "I love you, Lincoln," she said at one point, and he kissed the top of her head, the warm, clean smell of her hair filling his nostrils. "I love you too," he said.

She looked up at him, a serious expression on her face. "I mean it, Lincoln. I love you with all my heart." She lifted her hand to his face. "You mean everything to me. I love you more every day and I couldn't imagine my life without you."

He smiled and stroked her hair. "I feel the same way about you," he said. "I-I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

She smiled beatifically and scooted up. Lincoln leaned in, and their lips brushed lightly together, her sweet breath filling Lincoln's mouth and her tongue gingerly tasting his lips. He threaded his fingers through her hair and kissed her deeply, exploring the familiar and comforting crevices of her mouth. She ran her hand over his chest and slipped it under his shirt: His flesh tingled at her touch, and he began to stir. His heart was crashing and his mind was hazy.

Panting, she drew back from him and gazed into his eyes. "Lincoln?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"I..." she faltered, and her eyes darted away. "I-I want to make love to you."

Lincoln's heart stopped mid-beat. A deep blush spread across her cheeks and she bit her bottom lip uncertainly. "And I want you to make love to me."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his vocal cords were frozen, and all he could do was nod dumbly.

She smiled. "Come on."

She got up and took his hand; he allowed her to lead him to her bedroom, his knees weak and his mind reeling. In her room, she shut the door and turned to him: He stood dumbly by the edge of her bed. It was a small consolation that she looked just as nervous as he felt. She came to the bed and sat down. Lincoln sat next to her. She laid her hand on his leg and turned to him. "Lincoln...I don't...I'm not good with words and stuff, but..." she trailed off and touched his face. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said.

They kissed again, softer and more tenderly than before, each losing themselves in the other. At some point they tumbled back onto the bed, their passion slowly rising until they were consumed. Lincoln crawled onto her and kissed her deeper, his bulge rubbing against her leg and sending electric tendrils into his already addled brain. He wasn't aware that she had slipped her hands between them and was unbuttoning her dress until his hand slid down her throat and across bare, quivering flesh. He cupped her in his hand and rolled her erect nipple between his thumb and forefinger; she gasped into his mouth, and her fingers began to work at his jeans.

When he came free, he grazed her inner thigh, and a thrill crackled through his body. He lifted up on one arm and pulled his pants and underwear down until he was able to kick out of them. She looked up at him, her eyes shining and her chest heaving. He gazed back down at her, his fingertips gently massaging her cheek. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he replied.

He leaned in and kissed her. His member scraped against the crease of her folds, and he shivered. She opened her legs wide for him, and his tip pressed against her: The heat rising from between her thighs made him dizzy. She reached down, took him in her hand, and guided him to her opening, their kiss never breaking. When he felt her moisture, he instinctively slid his hips forward, her silky lips slipping over his head. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared into her dark eyes as he pushed slowly forward, his body parting hers. She winced, in pleasure or pain he couldn't tell, and his breath caught in his throat as he penetrated her.

With a thrust, he filled her, and they cried out together; her wet, satiny walls constricting against him. It hurt, but it felt good at the same time.

Ronnie Anne's eyes were narrow and her lips parted, her breathing heavy. He slipped his hand into her hair and drew back, then pushed forward again: Her body jerked and she moaned. She wrapped her legs around his waist and they established a steady rhythm, their hips pushing desperately against one another. She ran her fingers through his hair and muttered his name, the words hitching as he thrusted into her, his crowned head raking her insides. It brushed a throbbing bundle of nerves, and pleasure exploded across her like a bomb: Her hips arched up and he hit her limit with a moan. She could feel him deep in her, and the closeness, the _oneness_ , the sensation of being filled, of being one heartbeat with the boy she loved, one breath, pushed her close to the edge. She touched his face and their eyes locked.

"I love you," she said.

"I love _you_ ," he replied.

She laid her arm across the bed; he took her hand and wove their fingers together. He kissed her then, and she started to tumble, her orgasm forming quickly and bursting in her stomach. She cried out and tightened her legs around him: He expanded inside her, and suddenly hot liquid shot deep into her womb, the burning sensation knocking her into nirvana. Lincoln moaned as if in pain, and thrusted deep, his seed launching deeper, overflowing, pooling in her well of life and radiating pleasant warmth through her being. Tremors quaked across her stomach, and for a moment, she was lost to her climax.

When she came to, Lincoln was lying limply on top of her, his lips pressed to her earlobe and his fingertips grazing her scalp. He was going soft, and with a shift of his hips, he fell out of her, his wet heat draining out. She closed her thighs to keep it in.

"I love you," she breathed. "I love you so fucking much, Lincoln."

"I love you even more," Lincoln panted, and he meant it.

She shifted and put her hand on his face. Staring into his eyes, she swallowed hard. "I'm so scared of losing you. This Cuba thing made me realize how easy –" her voice hitched, and hot tears flooded her eyes "– it is to lose you. I-I can't. I want to be with you forever."

Lincoln blinked back his own tears. "I want to be with you forever too. I-I've been feeling the same way...worrying about losing you...I couldn't live without you, Ronnie Anne. You're my world."

She smiled through her tears. "You're all I want out of life, Lincoln. I don't care about anything else. We can be poor and live in a cave...just as long you're with me, I'll be happy."

He kissed her, and slowly their bodies responded: Their lovemaking was slower, deeper, and when it was over and his heat filled her, they held each other close, their tacky flesh sticking together and their hearts pounding against the other's. They stared into each other's eyes, peppered each other's faces with soft kisses, and dazed in the warmth of perfect and total love. Each vowed to the other that they would never let them go, and that they would love the other – and only the other – until the end of time.

They both kept that promise.


	25. October 1962: Part 5

**Surprise Saturday morning update. I didn't realize how short this chapter was when I broke them up, so I figured I'd sneak it in as extra. I'm looking forward to the next story arc: November 1963.**

* * *

Saturday, October 27, 1962, United States naval destroyers in the Caribbean detected the Soviet submarine B-59 in the waters off Cuba. The destroyer _USS Coates_ began dropping signaling depths charges at 2:55pm in an attempt to get the sub to surface. Beneath the clear blue surface, Captain Savitsky, political officer Maslennikov, and second-in-command Arkhipov met in the sub's chartroom: The three men were tense, their faces grave and their eyes dark. When the destroyers were picked up on sonar, B-59 dove deep to escape, so deep that it was cut off from radio communications: No one onboard knew what was happening, and Captain Savitsky was certain war had broken out. They were, he noted, in international waters, after all, and the Americans had no reason to bombard them unless Russia and the United States were at war.

Unbeknownst to the Americans, B-59 was carrying several nuclear armed torpedoes. The commanders of Soviet subs equipped with atomic weapons are required to get permission from the vessel's political officer before firing them. Maslennikov granted Savitsky authorization at 3:01pm.

B-59 was a special case, however. Arkhipov was its second mate, but he was the commander of the flotilla it belonged to, and his permission was also required.

He refused.

" _Мы должны!"_ Savitsky cried, pounding the table with his fist.

Arkhipov shook his head. _"Мы не знаем, есть ли война, и мы не начнем ее, если она не существует. Поверхность и ждать заказов из Москвы."_

Savitsky glared. Maslennikov looked frightened. Moscow would be angry, and a man in his position knew to never, ever anger Moscow.

" _Поверхность, тогда,"_ Savitsky said tightly.

B-59 surfaced, and war was averted.

That night, Attorney General Robert Kennedy met secretly with Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin. After tense negations, they reached an understanding: The Soviet Union would dismantle and remove its rockets and launch sites from Cuba (under United Nations supervision) in exchange for an American pledge not to invade Cuba. In an additional secret understanding, the United States agreed to eventually remove its nuclear missiles from Turkey.

By daybreak, the Cuban Missile Crisis was, for all intents and purposes, over. On November 2nd, Kennedy addressed the nation:

" _My fellow citizens:_

 _I want to take this opportunity to report on the conclusions which this Government has reached on the basis of yesterday's aerial photographs which will be made available tomorrow, as well as other indications, namely, that the Soviet missile bases in Cuba are being dismantled, their missiles and related equipment are being crated, and the fixed installations at these sites are being destroyed."_

Lori Loud held Bobby Jr. and breathed a sigh of relief. He squirmed against her and fussed. "Shhh," she said, tears flowing from her eyes, "it's okay...it's all over." The nightmares that haunted her over the past week would continue, and years later, she would still have them once in a while.

" _The United States intends to follow closely the completion of this work through a variety of means, including aerial surveillance, until such time as an equally satisfactory international means of verification is effected."_

Luan felt a big, stupid grin spreading across her face. She glanced at her father, who leaned forward in his chair, the corners of his lips turned up in a faint smile. "Thank _God,"_ Mom sighed.

Leni knitted. "No more bombs?" she asked without looking up.

"No more bombs," Luan said.

"That's good. I was getting sick of sleeping in the fort."

Luan felt light and happy. She leaned back against the couch and took the Civil Defense helmet off. Holding it in her hands, she thought, _I'm glad to be rid of you_. She tossed it over the back of the couch. In that moment, she knew at least _one_ thing she wanted to do: She wanted to work to get rid of all the stupid nuclear bombs.

" _While the quarantine remains in effect, we are hopeful that adequate procedures can be developed for international inspection of Cuba-bound cargoes. The International Committee of the Red Cross, in our view, would be an appropriate agent in this matter. The continuation of these measures in air and sea, until the threat to peace posed by these offensive weapons is gone, is in keeping with our pledge to secure their withdrawal or elimination from this hemisphere. It is in keeping with the resolution of the OAS, and it is in keeping with the exchange of letters with Chairman Khrushchev of October 27th and 28th."_

Ernie chuckled. He, Flip, Lincoln, and Ronnie Anne were clustered around the radio in the kitchen. "I knew nothing was gonna happen," he said. That was a lie. He had been scared shitless since last Monday.

Ronnie Anne smiled widely, and Lincoln hugged her from behind, his hands lacing over her stomach. Though neither had said so, both felt a mixture of hope and horror at the prospect of her being pregnant. Hope because they wanted a baby – _their_ baby – and horror because right now was not the time. In the days following their lovemaking, they had reached that conclusion separately and jointly. "We need to be ready," she said, "good jobs, stable home, the works." Lincoln agreed, and they sealed their deal with a kiss.

They were lucky this time: She started her period on Halloween. "From now on, we use protection," she told him.

"Okay," he said with a smile. No need to rush things. It would happen sooner or later...they had a lifetime together, after all.

" _Progress is now being made towards the restoration of peace in the Caribbean, and it is our firm hope and purpose that this progress shall go forward. We will continue to keep the American people informed on this vital matter. Thank you.''_

Luna took the joint from Daggy and inhaled. They were parked at the lake with the radio on. "Guess that means we don't have to die," Daggy said, and snickered.

Luna laughed richly...not because she was high, but because it felt good to not be in constant terror anymore. "I'm not gonna lie, man, I was scared."

"Yeah," Daggy said, sobering, "so was I."

She leaned over the center console and kissed him, then, with a smile, she put the butt of the joint between his lips. "You're kinda cute when you're scared," she teased.

Daggy took a hit, and blew smoke over the top of her head. "Yeah, I bet I was really fucking cute this week."

She giggled and stroked his cheek. "You're cute every week."

"So are you."

She winked. With both eyes. Because she was high now.

They both laughed until they cried.


	26. November 1963: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **It's My Party**_ **by Lesley Gore (1963);** _ **Heat Wave**_ **by Martha and the Vandellas (1963);** _ **Walk Right In**_ **by The Rooftop Singers (1962)**

* * *

Lincoln didn't know if he liked teacher work days or not. On the one hand, he didn't have to go to school, on the other, he wound up going into work early: Since Ernie died last winter, Flip divided the cooking duties between Lincoln and a guy named Jeff who worked from open until three. On days that Lincoln came in early, Flip would send the daytime dishwasher (Bill...or was it Bob?) home and let Lincoln take over. Lincoln liked the extra money he made doing dishes during the day (and the higher pay that came with running the grill – 2.50 an hour!), but sometimes that place killed him. Not the work (though cooking _was_ tougher than dishes), the monotony. Same thing every day. Just like school. He'd been looking for another job since summer, but everywhere he went (that was willing to hire a high school kid) paid much less than Flip...then when you factor in bonuses (twenty-five bucks for birthdays, fifty for Christmases) and his good relationship with Flip, going anywhere else really wasn't worth it.

He couldn't flip burgers forever, though; eventually he needed something else. And that 'eventually' was coming up quick: In a few short months he would be out of school and _real_ life would begin. He talked to Bobby once about working at the warehouse, and while Bobby was sure he could get him in, the starting pay was less than what he was making now. Sure, there was room to grow, and after a while he could be making decent money with benefits (it was a union gig, which was good), but he wasn't going to quit Flip's for that. When he was done with school, he might try to do both: The warehouse during the day and Flip's in the evening. With the income from both, he would be able to afford a place for him and Ronnie Anne, and they could get married.

That thought always made him grin.

Presently, he pulled his coat over his plaid shirt and went downstairs. Mom and Leni were sitting on the couch, Leni knitting something for Bobby Jr. (that kid was drowning in auntie Leni's creations) and Mom watching _Missing Links_ on NBC: A panel of celebrity guests tried to finish someone's sentence, and a TV actor Lincoln vaguely recognized said something funny, prompting host Ed McMahon to double over in laughter. That told him it was 11:30. If he didn't duck out soon, the soap operas would start, and those were worse than the game shows.

"I'm going to work," he said over his shoulder.

"Have a good day, dear," Mom said.

"Bye, Lincy," Leni said without looking up from her latest design. She was notoriously secretive when it came to them, but yesterday she left it on the couch when she went to the bathroom and Lincoln stole a peek: It was a Thanksgiving themed onesie with a cartoon Leni and a cartoon Bobby Jr. holding hands. Leni loved her Bobby Jr...and her Bobby Jr. loved her: He could say only a handful of words, and "Weni!" was among them.

"Love you guys," he said.

Sometimes he felt almost guilty leaving Mom and Leni alone during the day. Luna moved into Daggy's place over the summer, and with Luan at college during the day, the house was empty. Last month he had a bad stomach bug and stayed home from school for a day, and the desolation was nerve-wracking. Once upon a time, the Loud house was filled with life, but now, as the kids grew and left, it was populated only by phantoms: Faces smiling eerily from photos on the wall, memories of pranks, teases, and laughter past. One day, it would just be Mom and Dad alone in that big, deserted house.

Well...if Leni ever left home, that is. It didn't look like she was. She still couldn't drive and she still didn't have a job. At least they'd have her around.

Outside, the day was cold and blustery, the sky covered with thick gray clouds that threatened rain. He buttoned his coat and walked around to the garage, lifting the door and casting murky light into the shadowy depths. An unconscious smile touched his face when his eyes fell on the chrome rear bumper of the car – his car: A boxy seafoam green 1963 Chevrolet Impala SS hardtop – AKA the most beautiful thing he had ever seen (besides Ronnie Anne Santiago, of course). This little girl cost him a lot of money – and a little pride, too.

He told Flip once that he was saving up to buy a car. One day in July, just before Lincoln's birthday, Flip came into the kitchen and started making small talk while Lincoln was frying burgers. "What kind of car you getting, Loud?" he asked.

"I don't know," Lincoln said. "I'm thinking an Impala. I like those."

"Yeah, those are nice. How much you have?"

Lincoln sighed. "About half. Give or take."

Flip made a thoughtful _hmmm_. "Tell you what, I'll pay the other half if you want."

Huh? Lincoln turned, his brow furrowing. Did Flip just offer to pay half the price of an Impala? "As a thank you for being such a good employee," Flip added.

"That's...that's really nice of you, I appreciate it, but I can't ask you to do that."

After a couple weeks of thought, however, he could, and did, though not outright. On August 3rd, Flip took him to the Chevrolet dealership on Route 29 and cosigned on a brand new Impala. "That thing has a pretty big back seat," Flip pointed out.

Lincoln grinned. "That's part of the reason I wanted this car. The bench seat up front, too."

His plan was to slowly pay Flip back, but Flip outright refused, which kind of hurt Lincoln's pride. But having a brand new car kind of made up for it. As for the back seat...he and Ronnie Anne had put it to good use on more than one occasion.

Damn, speaking of Ronnie Anne, he should have called her. She might not be ready to go in. He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. If not, he'd wait. He slipped in behind the wheel, turned the key, and nodded as the engine smoothly caught. The radio came on, and music filled the car.

 _It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to_

 _Cry if I want to, cry if I want to_

 _You would cry too if it happened to you_

Lincoln drummed his fingers on the wheel as he backed up. Pausing, he got out, closed the garage door, and jumped back in. He lit a cigarette, and then pulled into the street, turning left toward Ronnie Anne's.

 _Judy and Johnny just walked through the door_

 _Like a queen with her king_

 _Oh, what a birthday surprise_

 _Judy's wearing his ring._

Lincoln winced. "Sucks to be you," he said around his smoke, and laughed. It wasn't funny – man, he could imagine how he'd feel in that girl's shoes – but hey, you either laugh or you cry, and as a wise black man once said, I'm not in the mood to cry today.

At Ronnie Anne's house, he pulled into the driveway and parked behind her mother's car. It was Friday, Mrs. Santiago's day off. At least it had been for the past couple months. She worked funny hours, and every once in a while her schedule got a shakeup. Too bad, Lincoln thought as he killed the engine and climbed out: He and Ronnie Anne could have spent some time together before work.

Tossing away his cigarette, he went up the walk, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he knocked again. After a minute, he heard approaching footsteps. The knob rattled and the door opened, revealing Mrs. Santiago in a pink dress, her face guarded. She saw it was him and smiled warmly. "Hi, Lincoln," she said.

"Hey, Mrs. Santiago, is Ronnie Anne here? I was heading into work and I wanted to see if she wanted to come in early."

"She's at Lori's," Mrs. Santiago said. Ah, that made sense. Leni wasn't the only auntie who loved Bobby Jr; his other auntie worked and went to school, though, which made finding time to see him difficult.

"Alright," Lincoln said, "I guess I'll head over there. Thanks."

He started to turn, but she stopped him. "Lincoln?"

One thing about Mrs. Santiago, she looked almost exactly like her daughter (save for the silvery streaks beginning to appear in her dark hair), and Lincoln recognized the look on her face: She had something on her mind. "Have you given any thought to your future with my daughter?"

She crossed her arms over her bosom and stared at him expectantly, one brow lifted. If he wasn't careful, he would chafe under her gaze. "Yeah," he said, "I have."

"And?"

He had the sudden urge to look away and rub the back of his neck. Instead, he stood fast. "We've decided to take things slow, unless she suddenly...changes her mind, we plan on getting married someday."

For a moment she simply looked at him, her expression unchanging, and he expected her to voice her displeasure at the idea of him marrying her daughter. Instead, she smiled brightly. "Good. I'd like that."

Lincoln smiled back. "Thank you."

In the car, he turned the key and backed into the street. Rolling down the block, he held the wheel between his knees and fished his Camels from his pocket, took one out, and lit it, the Chevy's front end weaving back and forth. A commercial for the hardware store ended and a song came on. It wasn't one he liked all that much, but he turned it up nonetheless because Ronnie Anne had decided (without his input) that it was 'their' song:

 _Whenever I'm with him_

 _Something inside_

 _Starts to burning_

 _And I'm filled with desire_

 _Could it be a devil in me_

 _Or is this the way love's supposed to be?_

If he could have chosen, it would be _The Stroll_ because every time he heard it, he thought of that damn dance where he fell on the floor and thrashed around like a fool so she could spike the punch and get everyone drunk. He chuckled at the memory and took a long drag. This song was good enough, though, because it was pretty accurate.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up in front of Lori's building: It was tan and boxy with a covered second-story breezeway accessible by a staircase on either end. Hers and Bobby's apartment was on the first floor at the very end, where the concrete stopped. He parked, killed the engine, and hopped out. At the door, he knocked and put his hands in his jacket pockets as a cold gust of wind washed over him. After a minute, he heard the security chain being slid back, and the door opened. Lori smiled when she saw him. "Hey, Linc!" She was wearing a blue and white floral top with solid blue pants. The shirt reminded Lincoln of a sheet.

"Hey," he said, "is Ronnie Anne here?"

"Yep," she said and stepped aside. "Come on in."

He went in and she shut the door behind him. Ronnie Anne was sitting in the middle of the floor, her legs propped up in an M: She held Bobby Jr. from behind and gobbled his neck; he screamed laughter, his dark eyes shining with merriment. When she saw Lincoln, she let her nephew go. "There's uncle lame-o," she said. Bobby saw him and toddled over, his arms out. _"Amo!"_

"Hey, buddy," Lincoln said. He squatted, scooped the boy up, and tossed him over his shoulder. Bobby Jr. laughed and pounded his hands against Lincoln's back, his little legs kicking.

Ronnie Anne got up with an _oof._ She wore black pants, a purple sweater, and purple socks: When the shoes came off, she meant business. As soon as they left little guy would probably pass out from playing so hard. "What brings you by, square?" she asked.

"What, a guy can't visit his sister and nephew?" he asked, and blew a raspberry on Bobby Jr.'s bare side. The boy shrieked laughter.

"That's why you asked for Ronnie Anne specifically," Lori said and dropped onto the couch. On TV, Ed McMahon was bidding the audience of _Missing Links_ farewell.

Ronnie Anne snorted. "This guy follows me around like a lost puppy dog."

"Bobby does the same," Lori said. "It's a guy thing, I guess."

" _Down!"_ Bobby Jr. cried.

"You hear what they're saying about us?" Lincoln asked as he set his nephew down. "Guy thing." He shook his head.

Bobby Jr. didn't care: He turned, toddled toward Ronnie Anne, and threw his arms around her leg. She ruffled his hair.

"I'm going into work," Lincoln said, "do you wanna come with?"

She slumped her shoulders and bowed her head. "You go in for Aunt Ronnie?"

Bobby Jr. grinned and shook his head.

"I'm about to give Bobby his lunch and put him down for a nap," Lori said, "so if you want to go, right now is pretty perfect."

"I don't want to, that's the thing. Don't I wait enough tables as it is?" She came over to Lincoln, and he put his arms around her: She melted into him, and he kissed her forehead. "I guess," she said and looked up at him. "At least I get to see your sexy face every time I put an order in the window." Lincoln chuckled, and pecked her lips.

After saying their goodbyes to Lori and Bobby Jr., they left, Ronnie Anne wearing a coat she swiped from Lincoln last winter. Well, he let her borrow it...under the impression that he would eventually get it back. It hung from her frame like flab, and the cuffs constantly slipped over her hands, but she insisted on keeping it. "It's like you're hugging me every time I put it on," she said with a pout and kitten eyes the last time he asked for it back. Of course she got her way...she always did when she hit him with the pout/eyes one-two. He really needed to work on not giving in like that.

He slipped behind the wheel and she climbed into the passenger seat. "I love that kid, Lincoln, but he tires me the hell _out_." She reached into her pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. "I was there for two hours and I feel like I'm gonna pass out."

"Wait until we have one," he said, and grinned. "You don't get to walk away."

She drew a heavy breath. "I know. We're both gonna have to pick up a mean coffee habit."

Lincoln turned the key and threw the car into reverse; soft music filtered through the speakers:

 _Everybody's talkin' 'bout a new way of walkin'_

 _Do you want to lose your mind?_

 _Walk right in, sit right down_

 _Daddy, let your mind roll on._

"I heard our song on the way in," Lincoln said and lit a Camel.

"That's not our song anymore," she replied and rolled the window down a crack to tip her ash.

"Oh?" he asked and glanced at her. "What is?"

" _Be My Baby._ "

Lincoln tilted his head. He thought he knew that song, but he wasn't sure. The only time he ever listened to the radio anymore was when he was in the car on the way to school, Flip's, or home...or when he and Ronnie Anne were cursing. "How does it go?"

"I'm not singing that song," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"I don't wanna," she said sullenly and glanced out the window. It was beginning to drizzle.

"Because you're shy?"

"Uh, no."

"Because you'll blush?"

"Maybe."

He chuckled. "Alright. But next time can _I_ pick our song?"

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "I'll think about it."

* * *

Leni Loud winced and jabbed herself with the needle...which made her wince _even harder_. Now she had owies in her head _and_ her finger. That made her sad. She put her finger in her mouth so she wouldn't bleed on baby Bobby's new Thanksgiving outfit and tried to stand, but the sudden pain in her head worsened, so she stayed where she was, the yucky taste of blood filling her mouth. The pain intensified, and she squeezed her eyes shut against a rush of tears. It felt like a mean cat was raking its claws across her brain. It hurt _really_ bad.

Then, just as suddenly as it came, it went away, and she felt fine except for her finger. Setting aside baby Bobby's outfit, she got up and went into the kitchen, where Mom was making lunch. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Leni with her finger in her mouth, and frowned. "Are you okay, honey?"

Leni started to talk, but her finger was in the way, so she took it out. "Yeah, I just stabbed myself is all." She turned the sink on and held her finger under the water. The wound was shallow but it stung, and when it scabbed over, it would make knitting uncomfortable. Today was _not_ a good day.

Mom came over, took Leni's hand, and held it up to inspect the cut. "Oh, that's not bad. You have to be more careful."

"I was but I had a bad headache and it made me hurt myself," she pouted.

Mom stroked Leni's hair and kissed the side of her head. "How does it feel now?"

"Better," Leni said and went back into the living room. Alone in the kitchen, Rita looked after her daughter, a worried expression on her face. This was not the first time Leni had had a sudden, thunderclap headache, and she was beginning to worry that something might be wrong. If it were the headaches alone, she wouldn't be overly concerned, but it _wasn't_ just the headaches...there were other things. She occasionally forgot things – things that you shouldn't forget – and every now and then she mixed up her words. Just the other day she was talking about a dress she saw in a magazine and suddenly she was speaking complete gibberish. It was over so quickly, that Rita almost doubted she'd actually done it.

Sighing, she went back to the cutting board, assembled a sandwich for herself and one for Leni, and carried two plates into the living room. The girl was back at her knitting, humming and bobbing her head from side-to-side without a care in the world. Rita sat and handed Leni her plate. "Thanks, Mom," she said. She sat it aside and went back to work on Bobby Jr.'s Thanksgiving outfit.

"Honey?" Rita asked.

"Yeah?" Leni replied without looking up.

Rita took a deep breath. "What did your headache feel like?"

Leni's brow pinched. "Ouchies."

"Ouchies _how?"_

She stopped what she was doing and thought for a second. "It felt like there was a cat in my head and it was using my brain as a scratching post. It was _not_ fun."

Rita swallowed hard and sat back against the sofa. She would have to make an appointment with Dr. Hartfield: Something _had_ to be wrong. Leni was...well...Leni, but lately she was extra Leni, and that bothered Rita greatly. She and Lynn had already come to the conclusion that their daughter was handicapped, though none of her childhood doctors had found anything seriously wrong. When they enrolled her in school, she was scored as having an 'abnormally low I.Q." Beyond that, she was healthy and happy. The chances of her being able to live on her own were small, though Rita didn't mind her staying: Three of her children were already gone, Luan would be leaving at some point, and she suspected Lincoln and Ronnie Anne would be moving in together soon. Without Leni, she would be sad and alone.

Stomach suddenly sour, Rita sat her sandwich aside and went into the kitchen, where she picked up the wall-mounted phone and dialed Dr. Hartfield's number. She explained her concerns to the receptionist, and an appointment was set for December first. Rita did not want to wait that long, but there was nothing she could do, so she would have to spend the next week beside herself with worry.

Back in the living room, she was just starting to sit down when the door opened and Luan came in. Rita glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was close to 12:30. On Fridays, she had only two classes, and was usually home around two or three: She had become involved with several clubs on campus, including the Young Democrats and an organization that lobbied for the banning of nuclear weapons, which kept her there after class. "Hi, honey," Rita said.

"Hey, Mom," she replied and hung her coat up. She crossed to the couch and sat.

"You're early."

"Yeah," Luan replied, "my stuff got canceled, so here I am."

"We're glad to have you home, dear," Rita said. "Would you like a ham and cheese sandwich?"

"No, thanks, I ate at school."

Rita certainly didn't want it; she had lost her appetite.

* * *

In a Texas suburb, a slight, brown-haired man in a brown jacket over a white T-shirt kisses his wife and his young daughters goodbye and walks to a car waiting at the curb, a long paper bag tucked under one arm. Before climbing inside, he turns to the house and waves: His wife, standing in the doorway, waves back.

"Heyya, Lee," the driver says when the man gets in. "What'cha got there?"

"Curtain rods," Lee says, then adds, "for the apartment."

Lee lives in Irving, but works in Dallas. It's a short distance of twelve miles, but he doesn't drive, so during the week he stays at a rooming house and on the weekends he stays in Irving. His coworker, Dave, gives him rides, and was mildly surprised when Lee asked for a mid-week lift yesterday.

As they drive, Lee gazes out the window; it's a beautiful autumn day and though he is wracked with nerves, he can't help but admire it. Dave lights a cigarette and turns the radio on: A Frank Sinatra song ends, and a newsbreak comes on: _"The Dallas-Fort Worth Broadcasters bring you a special description of the arrival of President John F. Kennedy."_

Lee's ears perk.

Dave takes a drag of his cigarette and tips it against the edge of the open window. "They have the streets _all_ blocked off," he says, and laughs harshly. "It's like a madhouse."

"I bet," Lee says, "with the president in town."

President Kennedy is visiting Dallas today. Lee has spent the last week studying the route the president's motorcade will take through the city. It happens to pass by the Texas School Book Depository, where he works. Serendipitous, he thinks with a weasely grin.

"It's more of a goddamn headache than it's worth," Dave says, "I didn't even vote for the bum. I was Nixon."

" _...began his Texas tour yesterday when they departed Washington. From there they have visited Houston, San Antonio, and then onto Fort Worth..."_

Near the building, sawhorses are lined along the street, and crowds of people are beginning to gather for a chance to glimpse Kennedy as he passes. Policemen stand guard here and there. Dave turns into an alley and cuts across to another street, then hangs a sharp right. Lee clutches the bag protectively as it begins to slide. Dave glances over, and notices something.

"Say, what happened to your wedding ring?"

"Fell down the sink," Lee lies; he took it off that morning and left it on his dresser. "I'm pretty hot about that." He smiles.

"Shit, I would be too. Already bought it one damn time, now you gotta get a new one." Dave spins the wheel and turns into another alley, this one running along the side of the Depository. Trashcans, cardboard boxes, and bags of garbage line the way. He stops and Lee opens the door; Dave works a later shift, and will be in around three.

Lee gets out and leans back in. "Thanks a lot. I appreciate it."

"Hell, no problem," Dave replies, "enjoy the show, huh? You get a front row seat."

Lee laughs. "I'll try. You take care." He slams the door and walks around the front of the car to a door. He opens it and slips inside, then starts up the rear stairwell. He meets no one on his way to the sixth floor, which is good. Things are going more smoothly than he imagined.

The sixth floor is an open storage area for boxes of textbooks. Part of it is being renovated, and the entire room is in disarray, boxes and building materials stacked here and there. Yesterday, before catching a ride with Dave to Irving, Lee snuck up here and arranged some boxes and a stack of plywood around a window, so that anyone walking through or glancing in would not be able to see him. Presently, he slips into his hidey-hole and kneels, setting the bag aside. He lifts the sash, and a cool breeze tickles his face.

Outside, the parade route is filling up fast. Men, women, and children press against the saw horses. People dot a grassy knoll. There is a certain crackle of excitement in the air, and Lee takes a deep breath, imagining he can smell it.

From his vantage point, he has an unobstructed view of the street: The president's motorcade will pass directly below him.

Satisfied, he grabs the bag and takes something out.

It's not curtain rods.

It's a rifle.

* * *

Luna Loud leaned back against the counter, bowed her head, and drew a heavy sigh. "What's wrong?" Lucy asked.

Lucy, who Luna knew through school, was a pale-faced girl with black bangs that covered her eyes. She was a beatnik and wrote poetry. She was pretty cool...especially since she got Luna the coffee shop gig.

No, not like a music gig...a waitressing gig, which is a whole lot less fun, but pays more. Lucy, who practically lived in places like this (along with all the other Royal Woods beatniks – like, six people) started waitressing last year and was pretty tight with the owner, an older guy who dug hanging around with college kids (yeah, strange...Luna got a creepy vibe from him), so when Luna mentioned she was looking for work, Lucy offered to get her one here. Luna appreciated it, she really did, but...ugh. Waitressing _sucked_.

"I spilled coffee on some dude's lap," Luna said sadly.

Lucy, who was setting mugs of java onto a circular serving tray, winced. "Ouch," she said flatly.

"Yeah," Luna said with a nod. She had been working here for three weeks, and in that time she'd spilled eight cups of coffee...and that's not counting the cups that didn't spill but _dropped_. Last week, on what the boss had dubbed "The Saturday Night Massacre," Luna was carrying a serving tray much like Lucy's across the room when she tripped: A dozen mugs smashed against the floor, flooding the place with coffee and bits of broken ceramic. Of course, the chatter _stopped_ as everyone turned to look. Her face burned hot, and she could have cried. Actually, she did cry, but that came later. "I'm such a fuck-up." She covered her face with her hands.

Lucy sat the last mug on the tray and picked it up with a grunt. "You'll get the hang of it," she said.

Ha. Luna doubted that. She was a failure at everything she tried – except music. That was the one thing she excelled at...it was the one – the only – thing she could do. Over the past couple months, she'd played in a few places like this around the area on open mic nights, and people really liked her stuff. At least they seemed like they did. Maybe they didn't. Maybe she was awful at music, too; maybe she was doomed to be a complete and utter loser for the rest of her life. She should just give up, marry Daggy, and be a housewife like Mom.

She shivered. She liked Daggy and all, and their life together was alright, but deep down, she had the feeling that there was something more...something better. She had already decided on some level that she wouldn't be with him forever. This wasn't the end, you know? She was just passing through on her way to bigger things.

Or so she thought. _I can't even carry a goddamn tray. Look at Lucy. She makes it look easy._ She threw her head back and wished for the briefest of moments that a lightning bolt would crash through the ceiling and strike her dead. Dead, she wouldn't have to grapple with constant self-doubt; dead, she wouldn't have to work a job she hated and mess up every step of the way.

The only thing that kept her from making like a morbid library and booking into the void was the upcoming gig she had at Razzle's, a roadhouse on Route 15: The owner was letting her play on Saturday night. It wasn't much, but performing and, yeah, being the center of attention (it sounded bad when you put it like that) kept her going. She was a performer, and every performer likes attention. They have to. If they don't, what kind of performer are they? The kind that sticks a shotgun in their mouth because they can't handle fame?

That wasn't Luna. She liked playing, she liked making people happy, and she liked it when people liked _her_.

If that was wrong...well, she was wrong, okay?

A couple of teenagers came in, and Luna forced herself to go take their order, promising herself that she wouldn't spill coffee on either one of them. She successfully served them, and felt a rush of accomplishment. Behind the counter, she scanned the dining room and made sure none of her other customers needed anything. They didn't. Great. When Lucy came back from refilling someone's espresso, Luna asked, "Can you watch my tables for a few minutes?"

"Sure," Lucy said.

"Thanks," Luna smiled.

She went through the kitchen, ducking around a dishwasher, and out the back door, where an overturned bucket stood against a concrete half-wall. She sat, reached into her apron, and pulled out a joint. She put it between her lips, cupped it, and lit it, the smoke rolling harshly into her lungs; she choked off a cough and blew it out. Maybe she'd drop by Mom's after work. It had been a while since she saw her and the others. A couple weeks? No, it hasn't been that long, has it? Her brow pinched as she tried to remember. It was a day she and Daggy were out cruising, so it had to be a Saturday or a Sunday when they were both off.

Or was it before she started working at the coffee shop?

She took another hit. She honestly couldn't remember, and that bothered her: When you haven't seen your family in so long you can't remember, there's a problem. Yeah, she was definitely going to stop by.

When she felt good, warm, and fuzzy, she licked her thumb and forefinger, pinched the joint out, and dropped it back into her apron as she stood. Inside, she went back through the kitchen and into the dining room, her steps unsure. She felt like she was crossing the pitching deck of a storm-tossed ship; she put her arms out to steady herself, swayed, and giggled. She felt like an airplane.

Behind the counter, Lucy was bent over a notepad jotting something down. Luna made plane noises with her mouth and circled the girl. "Watch out, Lucy, I'm coming in for a landing!"

Lucy glanced over her shoulder as Luna dripped her wings and spun around; the beatnik ducked as one of Luna's arms swung toward her. It just clipped the top of her head.

"Luna," she said.

Luna made a hissing noise to simulate a radio. "This is Flight 105 to tower, go ahead tower."

Lucy stared blankly. "This is why you keep dropping stuff. I like to smoke too, but you really shouldn't do it at work."

"Tower, I did not copy." Luna was unware that everyone was looking at her.

Lucy sighed. Luna giggled, and spun around again: Her right arm connected with one of the coffee machines: It tipped over, and hot joe rushed across the countertop and onto the floor in a cascading waterfall. Luna came to a crashing halt, and the machine rolled off, landing on the floor with a loud metallic clang...and the crunch of breaking glass.

Deafening silence filled the room, and Luna realized that she had fucked up yet again.


	27. November 1963: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Jump in the Line**_ **by Harry Belafonte (1961)**

* * *

Lincoln slapped a hamburger on the grill; it began to sizzle, and the smell of cooking meat caressed his nostrils like the fingers of a ghostly lover, making his stomach rumble. It was sometime after 12:30, and he was due for lunch.

"Hey."

He turned to the window. Ronnie Anne leaned in, her hands gripping the ledge. A few strands of hair had come free from her ponytail and lay across her forehead, lending her a harried look. "They changed their mind, no cheese on that burger."

"Alright," he said. "I just put it on the grill, so we're good."

She smiled wanly. "Love you."

"Love you too," he said, and puckered his lips.

She kissed her hand and held it out, palm open. Lincoln leaned in and kissed it. "You're so sappy sometimes," she grinned, and disappeared before he could reply. He _was_ going to say something about the pot calling the kettle black, but eh, whatever: He was certain that deep down, she knew who the real sap was.

Smiling to himself, he threw a handful of fries into the fryer and dipped it into the oil, which began to bubble. "Flip was telling me he caught you two in the pantry the other day," Bob the dishwasher said. "Something about he had to throw all the food out because it was sticky or something."

Lincoln chuckled. A short, weasel-faced man with beady eyes and short black hair, Bob (it was definitely Bob, not Bill) liked teasing Lincoln. Lincoln kind of liked teasing him too. Sometimes, when Ernie was alive, they would tease each other all day. Man, he really missed Ernie. The heart's a funny thing: It might work for ninety years in one person, then give out after forty-three or forty-four in another. One day he was fine, laughing and joking like normal, the next he was lying in a casket on the altar of a Baptist church. Lincoln and Flip were the only white people there, Ronnie Anne was the only Hispanic: Lincoln had no idea there were so many black people in Royal Woods – there must have been two or three dozen packed into the pews, the men in suits and the women in bright dresses and hats. He got the impression that Ernie was particularly popular.

On the radio, Harry Belefonte sang against a backdrop of tropical sounds:

 _My girl's name is Senora_

 _I tell you friends, I adore her_

 _And when she dances, oh brother!_

 _She's a hurricane in all kinds of weather_.

Lincoln flipped the burger and checked the fries. Almost done. He grabbed a pack of buns from a shelf, opened them, and took one out. He went to get a slice of cheese, but remembered that they didn't want cheese.

 _You can talk about Cha Cha_

 _Tango, Waltz, or the Rumba..._

The music suddenly cut out. Oh, great, it wasn't working again. Piece of junk. Lincoln started toward it, but a voice issued forth: _"We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin from ABC radio."_

Oh. Just breaking news. Lincoln squirted butter from a squeeze bottle onto the grill and laid the buns on top.

There was a pause, then the announcer continued: _"Here is a special news bulletin from Dallas, Texas."_

Another pause.

Well, spit it out then, Lincoln thought as he flipped the burger again. Was it rare or medium rare? He turned to check the ticket.

" _Three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade today in downtown Dallas, Texas."_

Lincoln's brow lifted. Oh?

" _This is ABC radio...we repeat, in Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade today, the President now making a two day speaking tour of Texas. We are going to stand by for more details on the incident in Dallas. Stay tuned to your ABC station for further details. Now we return you to your regular programming."_

"Jesus," Bob said, "someone shot him?"

"Sounds like they shot _at_ him," Lincoln said. If the President had been hit, they would have said so: The leader of the free world taking a bullet isn't the kind of thing you save for a second or third broadcast.

"You're probably right. You can't really get close enough to do much damage, especially if he's driving."

"He wouldn't be driving, dumbass," Lincoln said, "he has chauffeurs."

Bob snorted. "You know what I meant."

Lincoln picked the buns off the grill, put them onto a plate, then slapped the burger onto the bottom bun. He threw a tomato and some lettuce on, and there you go. He sat the plate in the window. "Order up!"

Ronnie Anne's face appeared, and he started. "You don't have to yell, lame-o. I'm right here."

"Just making sure," Lincoln said, "Bob says he caught you and Flip making out in the pantry the other day. I figured you might be giving a repeat performance."

Ronnie Anne's brows lowered dangerously in Bob's direction. He yanked his hands out of the sink and held them up. "I did _not_ say that."

She looked at Lincoln. "One of you is lying. If I have to kick both your asses, I will."

"It's him!" Bob cried. "He's a goddamn fibber."

Lincoln shook his head and put on his gravest expression. Hooking a thumb at Bob, he said, "He described it in graphic detail. Said your hands were all over each other."

"No, I didn't!"

Ronnie Anne plucked a fry off the plate and threw it: It struck Lincoln's face. "You're an asshole, Loud," she said, "but I still love you."

"Love you too."

"You trying to get me killed, asshole?" Bob asked.

Lincoln waved him off. "Eh, she's a pussycat."

"Like hell. That girl scares me."

"Apparently she's not the _only_ pussycat." He stuck his head out the window and didn't see any new customers. "I'm going out for a cigarette. Come get me if you have to. Try not to have to."

"Seig heil," Bob muttered sarcastically as Lincoln left the kitchen.

* * *

Luan looked up from her textbook: _As the World Turns_ was on, and Leni and Mom both watched intently as an old man and a woman had a Serious Conversation on a couch. Ew. She didn't mind game shows, but soap operas were terrible. She remembered hearing in the news a year or two ago that some government official or something called television a 'vast wasteland.' She always kind of suspected he came to that conclusion after spending the day with his wife and seeing the kind of crap she watched while he was at work.

She glanced back at her textbook and took a deep breath: Her brain was so full of information that if she tried to cram anymore in it would start spilling out of her ears. She snapped it closed and set it aside just as the screen cut to a placard reading CBS NEWS BULLETIN.

Leni gasped. "My stories!"

Mom pursed her lips and sat back against the couch, an annoyed huff passing her lips. _Thank_ God _,_ Luan thought. She was actually about to watch that stuff.

The placard remained as an announcer began to speak: _"This is CBS news. Three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade in downtown Dallas."_

Luan's heart jumped into her throat. _What?_

Mom leaned forward, a worried expression on her face.

"Where are my stories?" Leni asked meekly, and Mom shushed her.

" _The first reports say President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting."_

A ripple of horror went through Luan's stomach. JFK was hurt? He had flaws, but she liked him...and someone shot him?

"Oh, my God," Mom muttered.

" _More details...President Kennedy shot this afternoon as his motorcade made its way through downtown Dallas. Mrs. Kennedy jumped up and grabbed Mr. Kennedy. She cried 'Oh, no!' The motorcade sped on."_

This couldn't be happening. Not JFK. She hoped he was alright. He _had_ to be alright.

" _The United Press says that the wounds Kennedy has...could, perhaps, be fatal."_

The air left Luan in a rush.

Fatal?

" _Stay tuned to CBS News for more details."_ The screen cut to a commercial for instant coffee, and tears began to fill Luan's eyes.

* * *

Lincoln threw his cigarette away, went in, and followed the hall to the dining room. When he stepped into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Flip, Ronnie Anne, Bob, and a waitress whose name he couldn't remember (she was new and probably wouldn't last a week, so why bother?) standing around the radio, their faces serious. Flip's hands were on his hips and his head was tilted forward; Bob's arms were crossed; Ronnie Anne's left arm was tucked under her breasts, her right elbow resting on it and her fingers touching her cheek. "What's wrong?" he asked as he slipped his arms around her waist.

" _...seriously wounded. Reports now flooding into the newsroom here. Uh...it seems that Governor Connally of Texas, who was riding with the president, was also wounded in the shooting."_

"Someone shot Kennedy," Ronnie Anne said. She turned her head back and looked at him, her brow furrowed troubledly.

Lincoln swallowed hard. "They actually hit him? They said someone shot _at_ him."

"He's hit alright," Flip said. "They say it's pretty bad."

" _If you're just joining us, President Kennedy has been shot today in Dallas, Texas. His condition is unknown at this time, but it appears that he was seriously hurt. Governor Connally was also struck...both are at Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas with wounds that...a recent report...say may, in fact, be life-threatening."_

Ronnie Anne shuddered and Lincoln drew her close. The waitress lifted a hand to her mouth and Bob shook his head. "I hope he's okay," Ronnie Anne said. She pulled away from Lincoln and patted him on the butt. "Back to work, lame-o."

Her voice was shaky.

* * *

Lori Loud lifted herself up on one arm and peered into the crib. Bobby Jr. was _finally_ asleep, his arms thrown up and his legs spread. She smiled down at him. This crib was starting to get awful small. Pretty soon he would be too big and they would have to either buy him a cot or let him sleep in their bed.

What they _really_ needed, though, was more space.

Bobby was reluctant to buy a house, even though they had most of the money already and could probably get a loan from the bank. Why, she didn't know, but it _really_ irritated her. They had gotten into several arguments over it and every time they did, he said the same thing: _We have enough space for now. He's not even two yet. He doesn't need a room with vaulted ceilings and a master bath, for Christ's sake._ Sometimes he _really_ got on Lori's nerves. He was lucky she loved him.

Shifting her weight as quietly as she could, she slid off the bed and tiptoed to the door, which she closed _very_ slowly, wincing when it caught with a tiny click. She waited for a moment to make sure Bobby Jr. didn't wake, then went into the kitchen, where she poured coffee into a mug. Sometimes she felt like she was going to collapsed from exhaustion: Bobby Jr. was still in the habit of waking up two or three times a night, and of course it fell to her to take care of him while Bobby slept away. Some nighttime help would be nice. Was that too much to ask?

Leaning against the counter, she sipped the brew slowly, not because it was hot but because she relished her alone time, and in her private moments, she wasn't in a hurry to be...well...in a hurry. She caught snippets from the TV in the living room. _As the World Turns_ should be on, but it sounded like Walter Cronkite.

" _...as we understand it...attempted assassins, we hear now that there was a man_ and _a woman..."_

Lori frowned. Assassins?

For some reason that world always reminded her of Shakespeare, whom she read in school and quite enjoyed: Shifty-eyed Renaissance thugs in funny leotards slinking through shadowy castle corridors with a stiletto in their grubby hands.

" _...was the luncheon that President Kennedy was to attend...cut down by bullets."_

Lori blinked. Taking her coffee, she went into the living room and stood by the couch. On TV, Walter Cronkite was sitting behind a desk, two telephones by his left hand. He wore a long-sleeved white button-up and a narrow black tie. _"...They have moved Governor Connally, who was also cut down by those bullets, to the operating room at Parkland Hospital_. _As you can imagine, there are many stories coming in regards to the condition of the president...one is that he is dead."_

Lori's knees gave out and she sank to the couch, coffee sloshing over the rim of the mug and splattering her leg. She did not notice this, however.

The screen cut to a packed dining hall where people milled nervously around, Cronkite's voice intoning over the scene. _"This is unconfirmed...another is that Governor Connally, who is in surgery, has died."_

What the hell was going on? Someone shot President Kennedy? A vise of cold fear gripped her heart and her stomach rolled sickly. That's terrible! Who would _do_ such a thing? And _why?_

* * *

Lincoln crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Bob was bent over the prep table, and Flip was standing with his hands still on his hips. The waitress whose name Lincoln couldn't remember looked very nervous. _"...we don't know at this time, but the news coming across the wire here says that Governor Connally may have succumbed to his wounds. As you can imagine, it's very hectic here, so bear with us...oh, we now go live to Dallas."_

A man's voice came on the air and described the events amidst a cacophony of sounds: Wailing sirens chiefly among them. _"...it's very loud here, I'm sorry, but witnesses say that President Kennedy's motorcade came under fire at roughly 12pm this afternoon, and that Mrs. Kennedy seemed to try and...and escape the limo. We know that President Kennedy has been struck, but as to his condition and to the condition of Governor Connally, we can't say at this moment."_

When Ronnie Anne spoke, Lincoln started. "Order in." She slapped a ticket on the window ledge and peered in. Lincoln grabbed it, scanned it, and went over to the freezer. He took a burger out and slapped it on the grill. President Kennedy would have to wait: He had a job to do.

"Come on, Loud," Flip groused. He slipped behind Lincoln, picked the radio up, and carried it through the door, followed closely by Bob and the no-name waitress. He opened his mouth to call out that it was his radio and to bring it back, but he let them go: The news was just repeating itself at this point.

As he worked, the events unfolding in Dallas weighed heavy on his mind. From what he could gather, someone (first it was a man, then it was a man and a woman, now they were saying it was just a man again) opened fire on Kennedy from a building along the route his motorcade was following. Kennedy and the Governor of Texas were both hit, and both were in the hospital with serious injuries. The news stations were falling all over themselves to report the latest details, and getting things wrong left and right. Was it one shooter or two? Is Kennedy dead or is it Connally?

When the burger was done, he plated it, added a handful of fries, and sat it in the window. He went over to the grill, scraped a dollop of burned beef off, and then took his spatula over the sink for its hourly bath. "Where's my dishwasher?" he called as he dipped it in the water and searched for the steel wool. He found it and gave each side a vigorous scrub. He turned and started back to the grill, but stopped when he saw the plate still sitting in the window. " _And_ my waitress?"

He expected Ronnie Anne to pop up with an apology or a jocular comment _I'm not your waitress, I'm your girlfriend_ , but she didn't, and after a few moments he went out into the dining room. The radio sat on the counter; on one side Flip, Bob, Ronnie Anne, and I-really-gotta-ask-this-girl-her-name were gathered around, on the other, about a dozen people clustered together and listened, their expressions grave. Lincoln glanced around: All the tables were empty.

" _...claims at this time. We have – oh, we have word in now from Dallas. This latest development has just come across the teletype and pertains to the situation there."_ The anchor stalled as, presumably, he reached for the type. _"This is, it would seem, an official announcement. President Kennedy, shot in Dallas this afternoon by persons' unknown, has...has succumbed to his wounds."_

Lincoln's heart sank. Dead? A nervous titter ran through the crowd and everyone started talking at once. Flip waved wildly for them to be quiet.

" _The President was pronounced dead shortly before 1pm today at Parkland Memorial Hospital. Texas Governor John Connally, who-who was also hit, is currently being operated on and his condition remains unknown at this time."_

Lincoln felt weak. He was not a political man – he didn't know Kennedy from a hole in the ground – but he was the President, the leader of the nation and of the free world.

Now he was gone...killed by an assassin's bullet.

Ronnie Anne trembled, and Lincoln put his arms around her. Neither one knew it, but they each kept the other from falling.

* * *

On the TV, Walter Cronkite slipped on a pair of thick black glasses and picked up a sheet of paper. He ran his thumb nervously over his upper lip. _"From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official, President Kennedy died at 1pm Central Standard Time."_

Luan began to cry.

Four miles away, Lori covered her mouth with a trembling hand. _"...Two'o'clock eastern standard time."_ He glanced at what Lori took to be a clock on the wall. _"Some thirty-eight minutes ago."_ For a moment he looked down, anguish evident on his face. When he spoke next, his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. _"Vice President Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we don't know to where he proceeded. Presumably he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States."_ He blinked rapidly as if against tears, his throat bobbing...and his emotion pushed Lori over the edge: She buried her face in her hands and wept.

* * *

Lincoln spun the wheel and navigated onto Congress Avenue, a cigarette jutting from between his lips. His stomach was a bubbling cauldron of acid and his heart beat just a bit faster than it should have. Next to him, Ronnie Anne sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap; she looked dazed. On the radio, a newscaster reported on Johnson's swearing in ceremony, which took place in Air Force One on the tarmac of Dallas Love Field. The plane took off from Dallas shortly after with JFK's casket in the cargo hold. A soundbite was played of the remarks he gave upon arriving in Washington: _"This is a sad time for all people. We have suffered a loss that cannot be weighed. For me, it is a deep personal tragedy. I know that the world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear. I will do my best. That is all I can do. I ask for your help-and God's."_

At a stop light, he glanced at Ronnie Anne, who stared out the window now. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded and turned to him. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just...kind of a shock." Her eyes darted away. "It really wasn't a big deal that he was a Catholic, but, you know, it kind of was."

John Kennedy was the first Catholic president. Ronnie Anne and her family were Catholics as well, though non-practicing; Lincoln could see where it would be a big deal even if it wasn't. He reached across and laid his hand on her leg. She put her hand on top of his and laced their fingers. "It weird to think how fast it happened, you know? One minute he's there, the next he's dead. It's scary how fast you can die."

"Yeah, it is," Lincoln said. They went through kind of the same thing last year with that Cuba business, only it was a concept, a possibility. This time around, it was real: Boom, dead. You can be walking along the sidewalk, thinking about what you're going to make for dinner or dreading going into work tomorrow, and lights out. Just like that. It's _very_ scary, and Lincoln felt a cold gust of wind sweep through his soul.

At Wilson Street, he hung a left – they had no destination in mind...they were just cruising, the preferred pastime of American teens everywhere, only this time around they weren't doing it for fun, they were doing it to cope.

"It really makes you think...about death and stuff," Ronnie Anne said. "Like...did he _know_ the moment he died? If he was unconscious..." she shuddered and put her head to her mouth, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

"Hey," Lincoln said softly, and rubbed her back. Using one hand, he turned the wheel and parked along the curb in front of a house with clapboard siding. He slid across the seat and put his arm around her. She buried her head in his chest and wept, her tears soaking through his shirt. Whenever Ronnie Anne cried, _he_ cried, and as he hugged her close and stroked her hair, he squeezed his eyes closed, stopping the trickle before it could fall: The sound of her misery twisted in his heart like a knife, and he would do anything – anything – to make it stop.

All he could do now was try and comfort her. Eventually, she was spent, and the storm was over. She pulled away, and in the spill of an arch sodium streetlight, her face was drawn and haggard. She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"It's alright," he said and caressed her wet cheek with the back of his hand, "it's been an emotional day."

She sniffed and shook her head. "It's just..." she sighed and looked away. Facing the windshield, she said, "I'm...I'm afraid to die."

Lincoln blinked. Wasn't everyone?

"I read...like a science book once," she said, "and it talked about how the brain reacts when you die. When it happens, your brain releases a bunch of...endorphins, you know? And it's like being on a mind altering drug or something, and, you know, it made me think...what if you hallucinate or go crazy when this stuff rushes your system? Can you imagine? You're dying and your brain's going through that trauma...then it starts making you hallucinate." She looked him in the eyes. "What if that's heaven and hell? Thirty seconds of torment or paradise as your body's shutting down?"

Lincoln knew very little about the human brain – it was a mystery to him – but if she had her facts straight (and knowing her, she did), then yes...that was terrifying. In the best of times, your mind can do funny things. In the worst of times – stewing in goofy juice and shutting down, probably even as it processes what has happened and what _is_ happening...God only knows.

The only thing that kept him from shivering was Ronnie Anne. She needed him to be strong. "Don't think of it," he whispered. "Think...think of being alive." He touched her face, and she surprised him by shooting forward and kissing him hungrily, her hands flying to his face and her tongue darting into his mouth. He fell back against the door and her body flattened against his. He missed a beat, then kissed her back, his fingers slipping into her hair.

They were drunk on each other when they moved to the back seat, Ronnie Anne sitting in Lincoln's lap and kissing him with desperate passion and Lincoln holding her hips; their tongues lapped and swirled around one another, their hands wandered, Lincoln's slipping into her dress and under her bra. Her breast was warm and soft under his touch...her heartbeat strong and steady. She ran her hands down his chest and then under his shirt, her palm lingering over his own heart. Strands of hair fell across her face, and she brushed her teeth across her bottom lip, her eyes narrowed to slits. Lincoln kissed her deeply, wanting, needing her close, as close as possible, and closer still. He wanted to lose himself forever in her, and for her to lose herself forever in him.

Though it didn't last forever, that's exactly what they did, neither quite realizing they were making love until their bodies joined, Lincoln's aching member spearing deep into her fevered core, her body parting then closing around him in a sensual embrace. They moaned in unison; Lincoln's fingertips instinctively dug into the soft flesh of her hips and her hands cupped his cheeks, her head bowing and her lips planting against the plane of his forehead. She lifted, then sank again in a long, smooth stroke, the sensation of her wet fire licking his shaft ripping a cry from Lincoln's throat.

Together they rocked, her down and him up, their hearts racing, their bodies racing faster. When Lincoln felt his climax approaching, he ground his teeth together and let go of her hips. Sensing his end was near, she scurried out of his lap and bent, taking him in her mouth. His heat and the sweet, heavy taste of their mingled love filled her mouth and made her moan. She flicked her tongue along his underside, and that was it: He swelled and burst, his boiling cum splattering against the back of her throat. She bobbed her head slowly, working her lips along his flesh and milking every last drop, which she then swallowed: It slid slickly down her throat and landed in her stomach like a bomb, spreading heat through her body. It tasted like life...

Lincoln's head was thrown back against the seat, his chest rising and falling frantically. His face was flushed and his eyes were hazed: She smiled at how cute he was and crawled back into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and she pressed her cheek to his: Their breaths puffed hotly against each other's ears, and their hearts pounded against one another.

He swallowed and took a shivery breath. "Do you feel alive?"

She nodded and giggled. "Yeah, I do."

"So do I." He lifted his head and held her cheek...then he tilted his head and kissed her deeply.

"I love you," he said.

"I love _you_ ," she replied.

* * *

Luan watched numbly as, on TV, a yellow lift was raised to one of Air Force One's doors and President Kennedy's coffin was carried out. A tight formation of soldiers (one from each branch, it looked like) turned an aboutface toward the plane as the anchor spoke. _"It is our understanding here that the body will be flown by helicopter from here."_

The body. Not President Kennedy...not JFK...not even Johnny's remains...just 'the body.' Like he was nothing but a stack of cordwood.

She wrapped her arms around her chest. She was cold. So, so cold.

Next to her, Mom shook her head sadly. "Poor Jackie...and their children...it's awful." Dad made a noise of agreement from his chair. Leni sat sullenly between Mom and Luna, her arms crossed and her lips arranged in a pout. She was upset that all of her shows had been preempted. Daggy leaned against the back of the couch, his arms crossed at the wrists.

"Did they catch the guy who did it?" he asked.

"Yep," Dad said, "killed a cop."

Daggy's eyes widened. "He killed a _cop_ too?"

"Shot him with a revolver."

"Holy shit. I mean...wow."

"I hope they fry his ass," Luan said savagely. She shuddered and hugged herself tighter.

Dad chuckled. "Oh, they will. They'll probably show it on TV, too."

On the screen, a hearse backed up to the lift, which had been lowered, and a group of men slid the coffin into the back. Jackie Kennedy and Robert Kennedy climbed down from the lift, Jackie getting into the hearse. She looked dazed and for all the world like a shell-shocked refugee, which made Luan's heart pang in sympathy. The hearse pulled away into the night, and the camera cut to a group of people milling on the tarmac.

" _We have heard that Lyndon Johnson is going to make a speech here tonight on arrival. The microphones are set up and he appears to be walking toward them now."_ There were so many people that Luan couldn't pick him out, then he came forward and the camera panned back as he walked up to an array of microphones several feet back from a seething mass of reporters. His wife stood next to him, and Luan leaned forward, her eyes squinting. She knew what Johnson looked like, but tonight might as well have been the first time. He was a tall, dour looking man with large earlobes and thin, graying hair receding from his broad forehead. He looked old and severe, like someone's alcoholic uncle – the kind who uses his belt for hitting more than for keeping his pants up.

Luan had never liked him much.

He spoke slowly, sleepily, with a twangy Texas drawl. _"This is a sad time for all people. We have suffered a loss that cannot be weighed. For me, it is a deep personal tragedy. I know that the world shares the sorrow_ (pronounced 'sorr-ah') _that Mrs. Kennedy and her family bear. I will do my best. That is all I can do...I ask for your help—and God's."_

When he was done, he and his wife abruptly walked away from the podium, followed at a jog by a team of men in suits.

"Is he the president now?" Leni asked, her tone challenging.

"Yes, dear," Mom said.

"I don't like him. He took my shows away."

Luan felt a rush of anger. How could she be so insensitive? All she cared about were her stupid soap operas. The president was dead! She bit her bottom lip and didn't speak because deep down she knew Leni didn't mean it.

A sharp knock came at the door, and Luan jerked. She made no move to get it. "Can you get the door, Alvin, dear?" Mom asked, unable to rip her eyes from the TV.

"Sure," Daggy said and pushed away from the couch. As he answered it, Luan rubbed her bare arms and took a deep breath. She was suddenly very tired and wanted to go to bed – where she could be alone and grieve.

"Uh...Luan?" Daggy called. "It's for you."

Luan's brow furrowed and she turned her head. Daggy was in the way so she couldn't see who it was. "Who is it?"

"Clyde."

At the same time he spoke, Clyde craned his neck to see around him. What the hell did _Clyde_ want? "Send him in," she said.

Daggy stepped aside and Clyde entered. He wore a green jacket and blue jeans. He glanced away as he walked over and knelt next to Luan. "Come to gloat?" she asked tightly, noticing, as the words left her mouth, the somber expression on his face.

"No," he said, and met her eyes. "I, uh...I know you were a big Kennedy supporter, so I wanted to come by and...and offer my condolences."

Luan didn't know what to say.

"He wasn't my guy, but he was a good president," Clyde went on, "and you being really passionate about him, I wanted to make sure you were...you know...okay." His eyes were big and sincere, and Luan was so touched she could feel tears beginning to threaten.

She nodded. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I-I'm fine."

He smiled wanly. "If you wanna talk about it sometime, I'll be happy to listen. Talking always helps me when I'm down."

She nodded again. "Thanks, Clyde." A single teardrop slid down her cheek and she wiped it away.

Clyde got to his feet.

"Hiya, Clyde," Dad said.

"Hey, Mr. Loud. Mrs. Loud. Luna. Leni."

"Hey, man," Luna said with a nod.

"My shows..." Leni said in a traumatized moan.

"Hi, dear," Mom said, "can you believe it?" She shook her head. "It's just terrible. I keep thinking about their children. So young..."

"It really is," he said, "I don't know why anyone would want to do that." His voice cracked. "They must be crazy."

"Or evil," Dad said.

"That too," Clyde allowed. "I better get going. Tell Linc I said hi."

Outside, he started down the stairs, but Luan's voice stopped him. "Hey, Clyde?"

He turned. When he spoke, his breath puffed out before him. "Yeah?"

Luan looked nervous for a moment. "Do you mind...talking right now?"

Clyde shook his head. "Not at all."

She smiled. "Thanks. We can sit on the swing."


	28. November 1963: Part 3

For a long time after, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne stayed in the back seat, their arms wrapped around each other. The musk of their love hung heavy in the car, and the windows were fogged with condensation. Lincoln's pants were unzipped and he penis laid limp against his leg; one of Ronnie Anne's breasts poked out from her dress, the buttons having come somehow undone during their tryst. Neither noticed the other's state, however; they noticed only the warmth, the closeness, the safety and love in each other's arms.

"We have to go," she said, her voice thick with drowsiness, "my mom's probably wondering where I am."

Lincoln drew a deep breath, her sweet smell filling his nostrils. "I don't want to," he said, and hugged her tighter.

"Me either," she said and pulled away, "but that's part of growing up – doing things you don't want to." She tucked her breast back in and buttoned up the front of her dress. Lincoln realized his thing was still hanging out, so he put it back and pulled his pants up, zipping them and buckling his belt. He couldn't argue with her logic.

She climbed into the passenger seat and he climbed behind the wheel. He turned the key and the engine caught; he put it in drive and pulled away from the curb. Ronnie Anne lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, letting in a burst of cold air. Lincoln lit his own. "You remember how you keep saying something's 'our song' without asking me?"

She tapped her ash out the window. "Yeah."

"Every time I try to think of one, I go back to _The Stroll_. You remember how it was playing at the dance when you spiked the punch?"

A mischievous grin spread across her face. "Heh. Yes."

"You know...that was kind of our first date."

"No it wasn't," she said quickly.

Lincoln glanced at her. "I mean...we weren't together yet, but it kind of was...almost."

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Nope. Remember when we went to Flip's that day you kicked Billy Mason's ass?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

She looked at him and smirked. " _That_ was our first date."

"Really?" he chuckled. "I had no idea you saw it like that."

"Remember how Bobby came in and started doing his stupid James Dean routine?"

Lincoln nodded as he took a drag. "Yeah."

"I said to myself 'Bobby, shut up, I'm on a date over here!'"" She laughed and shook her head.

"Really, I didn't know you liked me. I mean, you told me you did before all that, but I just...I don't know, I didn't think it was our first date."

"That's why you should let _me_ doing the thinking, Loud."

He snickered. "Alright. I'll let you do the thinking. You let _me_ do the talking, though. You can be a little...uh..."

She cocked her brow. "A little what?"

"Blunt? Undiplomatic? Sharp? Assholish?"

"I am _not_ assholish," she cried. "That's not even a word, square."

"Anything's a word when you're not slavishly bound to convention."

She giggled. "Spoken like a true lame-o. Or as Bobby Jr. says 'Amo.'"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I'm really glad that's what you have my nephew calling me."

"It's cute and you know it."

He shrugged. "Yeah, it _is_ kinda cute."

By now they were pulling into Ronnie Anne's driveway. She leaned over, took his face in her hands, and kissed him slowly. He kissed her back, one arm snaking around her waist. She tilted her head left and right, her tongue softly caressing his. When she pulled away, she was smiling. "I love you, amo."

"I love you too, asshole."

She pursed her lips and slapped his arm. "Ow!" he cried. "Sorry!"

"You're lucky you're the light of my life, or I'd break your face." She smiled prettily. "See you tomorrow!"

She got out and hurried around the front of the car. He beeped the horn, and she jumped. She spun, grinned, and flipped him off.

He waited until she was inside before backing out.

God, he loved that woman.

* * *

Bobby Santiago pulled into the parking spot in front of his building and killed the engine, cutting the radio news mid-speak. What a day. First, one of his guys fell off a ladder and broke his leg; later he (Bobby, not broken leg guy) hurt his back lifting a box; later still, someone blew the president away. Sheesh. Hey, at least someone had a worse day than him, right?

Sighing, he yanked the keys out of the ignition, threw the door open, and climbed out; he winced as pain spread across his lower back. This wasn't the first time he hurt it at work, and it probably wouldn't be the last time either, but for some reason today he felt extra crappy about it, and all he wanted to do was sit down.

He let himself in the front door. Lori was sitting on the couch in front of the TV; being past eight 'o'clock, Bobby Jr. was already asleep, and Bobby felt a twinge of loss. He hated days he had to work late because he got shit for time with his son. November 22nd was a crap day all around.

"Hey," Lori said, glancing away from the screen.

"Hey," he replied and closed the door behind him. He slipped out of his coat and hung it up. He crossed the living room, bent, and kissed her on the lips. "What'cah watching?"

" _I Love Lucy."_

Bobby glanced at the screen. Lucy and another woman stood at a conveyer belt. "That old show?" he asked as he went into the kitchen.

"It's either that or the news," she said.

"Yeah," he replied as he leaned into the fridge. He grabbed a beer, shut the door, and came back into the living room, dropping next to Lori, "the news stinks today, huh?"

"It's awful," Lori said as Bobby cracked his beer, "I feel so bad for his family." Though she didn't know it, her mother was expressing a similar sentiment across town. "His wife was right there."

Bobby slipped his arm around her and drew her to him as he took a drink. The radio said Mrs. Kennedy was sitting next to her husband when he was shot; Bobby didn't know much about bullets and guns, but he knew enough to figure that the first lady (former first lady) was probably covered in blood and brains. God, imagine you're sitting next to your husband or your wife, the person you love and have children with, and BAM, their head explodes all over you. The thought turned his stomach. "I cried."

He didn't know what to say. Is there ever anything to say when someone dies? "I'm sure a lot of people cried today," he finally said. "I'd probably cry too if I put too much thought into it."

She leaned heavily into him, and he kissed her forehead, his heart swelling with love. He and Lori had already had their differences, but it was moments like this, when she wasn't being bossy or badgering him about buying a house, that he remembered just how much he loved her. He knew they needed more space...but they also needed a second car (he needed the car to run errands at work, and he didn't like leaving her and Bobby Jr. without wheels), and while they could probably juggle a mortgage and two car payments (the Coupe was gone, traded for a 1958 Dodge four-door), that's about _all_ they could juggle. The fact that he wasn't making more money – wasn't able to pay for everything the way a man should – made him feel like a real fucking loser.

"I keep trying not to put myself in her shoes," Lori said, "but then I do and it upsets me all over again." Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away.

"Shhh," Bobby said and rubbed her arm. "Don't. I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Bobby Jr. and neither are you. Just watch TV, huh?"

She sniffed wetly and rested her head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat filling the chambers of her head and comforting her. She loved him dearly, and when she thought of what Jackie Kennedy had gone through today – was still even now going through – she shuddered. If it was Bobby, she didn't know _what_ she would do. She imagined she would fall apart and stay apart for a long, long time: Her husband gone, the father of her children gone...it was all too much to bear.

She took Bobby's advice and watched TV, clearing her mind. The thoughts would come back, and as she slept, nightmares too, but for right now, at least, she was in his arms and everything was okay.

* * *

"I feel like I shouldn't be this upset," Luan said. She was sitting on the porch swing next to Clyde, her knees together and her hands balled in her lap. Her head was bowed and her eyes, through dry, were puffy. She tugged on the hem of her skirt and chewed her bottom lip. "It's not like I knew him or anything."

Clyde leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. "Well...you kind of did. Being the president and all, he was always on TV, always talking...you didn't know him personally, but you still knew him, and, when it comes to ideas, he had a big impact on you, right?"

Luan nodded, her mind flashing back to the first time she heard Kennedy speak. She agreed with what he had to say, of course, but there was some indefinable quality that drew her to him, something that she just _liked_ ; sometimes you like someone on sight, and sometimes you hate someone on sight. Why, she couldn't say. Only that from the moment she saw him and heard him speak, she was enamored of him. When he talked, he seemed to be talking to her, to her hopes and her dreams for a better future, a future where everyone could be happy and prosperous and live in peace. Finding out he was killed...it was like finding out her own aspirations had been killed.

"And we have a way of...I don't know...binding ourselves to people we agree with." He stopped and collected his thoughts for a moment. "It used to be when someone insulted Richard Nixon, I would get really mad. Like, when we got into that argument...I was _steamed_. I took all that stuff you said about him to heart. You know why?"

"Why?" she asked.

"Because when someone insulted him, it was kind of like they were insulting _me._ You know, he was _my_ guy, I liked what he said, I liked him...and when someone said something bad about him, I took it personal. It was never just 'I don't like Nixon, he's a loser' it was 'I don't like Nixon, he's a loser, and so are you.' I bet you're the same, right?"

She nodded and swallowed. "Yeah," she admitted, "I am. I put all my hopes into him and him dying was like them dying too."

"I bet," he said. "Nixon losing the election – being rejected – was like _me_ being rejected. It really upset me. I did a lot of soul searching after that, and I kind of realized how dangerous it is to take politics to heart like that. If we keep it up, one day – fifty years from now – we won't be one country, we'll be two parties locked in a constant political, social, and moral standoff. It'll be like the Civil War and the Cold War combined: Brother against brother, son against father, no one speaking to each other, people cutting family members out of their lives because they're on the 'other side'." He shook his head slowly. "That's not the kind of world I want to live in."

Luan considered his words for a minute and nodded. "Yeah, it sounds bad."

"All politicians are kind of scummy when you get down to it. Kennedy was probably no exception, but he did a good job, and, you know, I kind of liked him once I got used to him." He chuckled.

"I'm sorry I said all that stuff about Nixon," she said.

"Don't be," he said, "it's not important."

A cold wind gusted, and Luan shivered. Her face and legs were cold and heatless. Clyde tensed.

"I didn't mean to insult you is all," she replied, "I like you, you're cool."

Clyde laughed. "Thanks, you're pretty cool too – for a Democrat." He grinned and nudged her in the ribs. "How, uh...how do you feel about Johnson?"

Luan grimaced. "I don't like him. He strikes me as kind of...I don't know..." she grasped for a word.

"Old guard?" he supplied.

"Yeah," she nodded, "exactly that."

"He's the kind of Democrat who doesn't like blacks. Guaranteed. Oh, he might sign bills or whatever, but I know his type. He'd sooner hang me from a tree than eat at the same table as me."

"You're probably right."

"Of course I am," Clyde said archly. "At the end of the day, though, what does it matter? He'll do his time, then someone else will come along, then someone else, then someone else and life goes on." Another gust raked them, and they both shivered. "Do you feel better?" he asked.

"Kind of," she said, then smiled at him. "Thank you."

"No problem," he said. "I guess I'll take off now. I'm turning into a popsicle."

"Alright," she said, but realized it wasn't. She didn't want him to go. "Thanks again." She leaned in to hug him, and he leaned into her: Instead, their lips brushed and for a moment neither knew what to do. Then, he opened his mouth and she opened hers, and they kissed, their tongues tentatively and awkwardly investigating each other, touching, exploring, testing the waters: When each found the other agreeable, the kiss deepened, their heads tilting and their tongues flopping and lashing vehemently. When it broke, both were panting, both were blushing; blood crashed pleasantly in Luan's temples and she felt warm and tingly all over.

"Goodnight," she said.

"Goodnight," he said with a smile and got up. He was on the stairs when she spoke, "Hey."

"Yeah?" he asked, turning.

"Maybe we can do something soon. Like a date."

He grinned and nodded. "I'd like that."

Their first date came two days later, November 24, and it suited them fine: They sat close together on the Loud family couch and watched live on NBC as Kennedy's assassin, a slight man with blonde hair named Lee Harvey Oswald, was escorted through the parking garage under the Dallas Police Headquarters toward an armored car that would take him to the county lock-up; his hands were cuffed in front, and a detective in a cowboy hat was on either side of him. Leni knitted and Luan's mother sat on the opposite end, her arms crossed. Luan and Clyde's hands were clasped.

A sea of reporters crowded around the alleged killed and his captors, standing back just enough to allow them passage. Then, suddenly, a man in a dark suit and hat sprang from the pack, jammed a gun into Oswald's stomach, and pulled the trigger: A shot rang out, and a dozen cops wrestled him to the ground.

Luan and Clyde both gaped.

"Oh, my God!" Rita cried and sat forward.

" _He's been shot! He's been shot! Lee Oswald has been shot!"_

A cop screamed, "Get out! Get out!" and waved the reporters back.

" _Complete panic has broken out here in the basement of Dallas Police Headquarters. Detectives have their guns drawn..."_

"They shot the bad guy?" Leni asked, startling everyone. She did not look up from her knitting.

"Y-Yes, dear, t-they s-shot him," Rita stammered, in shock.

"Good," Leni spat, "he took my shows away."

Less than two hours later, Lee Harvey Oswald died...and Leni got her shows back.


	29. March 1964: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy**_ **by Manfred Mann (1964)**

* * *

Leni fisted her hands in her lap and twiddled her thumbs, the throbbing ache behind her eyes making her heart frown. She drew a sad breath and tried to think of something other than the pain, which was hard because while it wasn't, like, the end of the world, it was _really_ annoying and it had been going on for, like, a week non-stop. She was also having trouble staying focused: Sometimes she'd start knitting something, then she'd just...wander away and forget completely about it until she came back and couldn't remember what she was working on. It _looked_ like it was going to be a hat, but she just got started and couldn't tell!

She tilted her head down and tried _really_ hard to concentrate. What was that song she liked, the one she heard on the radio whenever she and Mom were going to the store?

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_. She giggled despite the pain. That song was silly. How did the rest of it go?

 _Now we're together nearly every single day, singin'_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

 _A-we're so happy and that's how we're gonna stay, singin'_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

Yay, she remembered! She felt really proud of herself. She turned to her mother, who sat in the chair next to her, her arms and legs crossed and her face sad. Mom was sad a lot because Leni kept forgetting stuff and having headaches. That made Leni sad all over again. Why did her head have to be so stupid?

She sighed and looked around the waiting room. The carpet was thick and green and lamps on end tables cast soft, warm light. At a reception desk, a woman with a beehive (Leni _hated_ beehives...they were _so_ unfashionable) was pecking at a typewriter. They had been here a _really_ long time, and it was a _really_ long drive from Royal Woods. The doctor was 'special' and was going to find out why she kept being ditzy or something. Leni wasn't really clear; stuff like that was boring. She'd much rather be at home knitting or sewing or something.

"Mom?"

Mom looked at her. "Yes, dear?"

Leni pouted. "Can you make the doctor hurry up? I wanna leave."

Mom smiled weakly and brushed a strand of hair from Leni's face. "Soon. You have to be patient."

Leni threw her head back and sighed. "I don't _wanna_ be patient." She crossed her arms and deepened her pout, her brow pinched and her eyes narrowed. If it wasn't for her dumb head not working right or something she wouldn't be in this mess. She was sick of doctors: Every one they saw said the same thing. 'We don't know.' Dr. Hartfield didn't know, the other doctor didn't know, no one knew. She was just dumb and forgetful and stuff.

Only deep down, she knew something wasn't right, and had known for a long time. And the headaches were really bad. For the past week it was the dull, irritating ache...but sometimes it felt like her skull was going to split open. Those never lasted long, at least: Sometimes a few seconds, sometimes an hour. Those only happened on days she was _extra_ Leni now: Like in January when she was pulling a sweater over her head and she got lost in it and freaked out thinking it was eating her. Looking back she giggled – albeit nervously – because wow, what was _that_ about, Leni? But at the time, she was terrified, her little heart slamming and her lungs sucking gulps of air; when she finally slipped out of her prison, she curled up on the floor and cried. An hour later, her head started really hurting and then she was fine.

 _Throb._

Ow.

 _There she was just a-walkin' down the street, singin'_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

Hehehehe. What's a diddly do dum, anyway? She imagined a cute little bug on a green leaf. _This is, like, the species dum diddy wah in its natural habit. It eats smaller bugs like the do wah do._

 _Throb-throb._

Ow! _This is so annoying!_

She took a deep breath and shifted. Her butt was starting to get sore sitting here. She wished she brought her knitting stuff, but she didn't think she'd need it: Being at the doctor's, she thought she'd be busy doing doctor stuff and not sitting in the waiting room forever and ever.

Her tummy rumbled. Great. Now I'm hungry.

 _Snappin' her fingers and shufflin' her feet, singin'_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

If he's going to keep me here, the least he can do is feed me! Her tummy growled again, and Mom looked at her. "Moooooom," Leni said, "I'm hunnnnngggggrrrry."

The receptionist glanced up.

"Leni, dear, please, don't act like a child."

"But I'm hungry."

"We'll get something on the way home. There's one of those McDonald's down the street, we can eat there."

The air left Leni's lungs in a rush. M-McDonald's? That's where that clown was! She saw him on TV that one time. It was a commercial and he was awful: He had a cup for a nose and he wore a tray as a hat. _"Introducing the world's newest, silliest, and hamburger eatingest clown Ronald McDonald!"_ Then he popped up and Leni screamed. "I don't wanna eat there, Mom," she said now, her eyes wide with fear.

"Why?" Mom asked. "Don't you like hamburgers?"

"I _do_ but Ronald McDonald is scary and he might be there today."

Mom's brow furrowed. "Who?"

"The clown. He was on the commercial."

Mom flicked her eyes to the ceiling, then spoke really slowly. "Leni, dear...Ronald lives at a different McDonald's...a thousand miles from here."

Leni brightened. "Oh, okay!"

She was happy now because she was going to eat a hamburger and the yucky clown wouldn't get her. She bobbed her head from side-to-side and hummed.

 _Now we're together nearly every single day, singin'_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

 _A-we're so happy and that's how we're gonna stay, singin'_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

 _I'm gonna have a hamburger and eatin_

 _Yum yummy yum yum yummy yum_

 _Fries and a soda pop too_

 _Yum yummy yum yum yuumy yum_

"Mom?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"Can I have fries and a pop with my burger?"

"Of course you can."

"Thank you!"

She tapped her fingers against her legs in a steady beat, stopping when a woman poked her head out from the hall. "Leni Loud?"

"That's me!" she said and jumped up. Finally! The quicker she saw the doctor the quicker she could go eat her hamburger.

And the quicker she could get rid of this headache.

 _Throb. Still here, Leni_.

Ow. I know.

* * *

Lincoln leaned against the front end of the Impala and lit a cigarette. It was a sunny, though cold, afternoon, and Ronnie Anne was running late – detention. Great. They had to be at work in five – no, a glance at his watch revealed, _four_ – minutes and she was stuck being punished like a naughty little girl (hey, Principal Wilson, leave that up to _me,_ wink-wink). He was actually kind of...proud of her, though. Was that the right word? He didn't see it, but from what Clyde told him, some dude was hitting on her in math class and she told him to get lost. When he slapped her butt, she turned around and punched him in the nose so hard he fell out of his chair and started crying.

"It was actually kind of sad," Clyde said now. He, too, was leaning against the Impala. "There's nothing worse than the sound of a grown man crying."

Lincoln snickered. "He had it coming."

"Oh, no, I agree, he did." Clyde shuffled his feet. "It's just...I don't know, pathetic, I guess. I've been punched in the nose before...I know it hurts...but crying? Sheesh."

Lincoln was parked in the side lot; a strip of grass and a concrete walkway separated it from the building. The only other car around was Mr. Midgar's, the history teacher. He was Eastern European or something, Lincoln didn't know, but a lot of kids called him Midgar the Russian and Midgar the Red (or Midgar the Commie Motherfucker...but only if you were an asshole and only behind his back). A group of girls walked by, having left the gym, and Lincoln lifted a brow when they all glanced at him and giggled. They either thought he was cute (sorry, ladies, I'm taken) or they thought he was a doofus (oh well, Ronnie Anne doesn't – well, she does but she doesn't care, so _there_ ).

"Some guys can't take the heat," Lincoln said, and took a drag. "Though to be fair, she hits like a freight train."

"I wouldn't know," Clyde said, "I've known her...what...seven, eight years? And in that time she hasn't hit me once. I'd like to keep it that way."

Lincoln nodded and puffed. "Yeah, you really want to. You going over to the house?"

"Yeah," Clyde said.

Clyde and Luan had been dating for four months – their proclaimed first date was watching Jack Ruby blow Lee Harvey Oswald away on live TV, which struck Lincoln as odd and morbid – and Lincoln had caught them with their tongues in each other's throats more times than he liked to remember: One time he walked in the front door and they were _really_ necking, his hand on her leg and pushing her skirt up. If he didn't interrupt (God knows he wished he hadn't – yuck) who knows what would have happened?

Not that Lincoln cared. They were both happy and that was great. His sister and his best friend...awesome. If only he didn't have to _see_ it. She _was_ his sister, after all, and her...sexuality (gross!) was the last thing he wanted to see, think of, or even know existed. Kind of like with your grandma. You _know_ she and grandpa were...together, but try and picture your grandmother flat on her back with her legs spread and her eyes pooled with lust as your grandpa thrusts...

 _I'm a pervert!_

Well, it _had_ been a while since he and Ronnie Anne did anything, and with all that pressure building up...

He took a deep drag and then flicked the cigarette away. "You want me to drop you off? We're going to be late anyway."

"Sure," Clyde said.

Lincoln crossed his arms and threw his head back. Anytime now, Ronnie Anne. "Graduation's coming up, huh?" Lincoln asked to make conversation. He'd been thinking of graduation a lot lately...it was like a doorway...one that opened onto adulthood. Once you were out of high school, brother, you were a man. Pretty scary. Even scarier was the fact that he still didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. Sure, he could probably have Bobby get him in at the warehouse and work his way up the ladder, but that's not what he _wanted_ in his heart of hearts...what he wanted was he-didn't-know. He wanted to be with Ronnie Anne...but beyond that, nothing really lit a fire under him. Should he be concerned? Was it abnormal to be two months from graduation and still not know for certain what career you wanted?

Clyde shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, wild, huh? Time flies when you're having fun."

Lincoln bobbed his head to one side in a non-committal gesture. "Yeah. It's been pretty fun, I guess." Wow, almost finished with school. He couldn't get over it.

"You could have been a little more social, though," Clyde said.

Lincoln lifted his brow and looked at his best friend. "Hey, I've been plenty social," Clyde said forestallingly. It was the truth. He hung out with other people. He wasn't particularly close to any of them, but yes, you could call him 'social.' Lincoln was not...never had been, probably never would be. That was okay, though, neither was Ronnie Anne: They hung out together and that was enough for them. What more could you ask for than a friend and a lover rolled into one?

When last year's yearbook came out, he was surprised to find a picture of him and Ronnie Anne toward the back: They were sitting at a table in the lunchroom, their backs to the camera. Lincoln was half-turned, facing Ronnie Anne. It was framed in a heart and there were quotes from their classmates beneath:

 _They only hang out with each other – it's kind of cute._

 _I've been in the same class with him for three years and I don't know anything about him – only that he's married to some girl or something._

 _You mean they aren't joined at the hip? Who'da thunk it?_

Lincoln knew instantly that it was Clyde's doing: He was on the yearbook committee, after all. "I thought it'd be cute," he said when Lincoln and Ronnie Anne cornered him. Ronnie Anne thought it was too...but that didn't mean she was happy that "there's a big heart around me like I'm a sap!" She never hit Clyde, he was right about that, but she came close that day.

Presently, Lincoln shrugged. "Eh. I'm not that social." He glanced over his shoulder: Still no Ronnie Anne. Jeez, Flip was going to...well, flip. Lincoln asked him once why people called him Flip, and he said when he was a kid he used to do backflips and all his friends just started calling him Flip. Lincoln didn't know if that was the truth or not. Did they even _have_ backflips in 1910?

"Well, neither am I, but...I don't know, maybe if I had a girl – or, you know, had a girl before – I'd be the same."

"Could be." He glanced over his shoulder just as the door opened and Ronnie Anne walked briskly out. She wore a pair of jeans and a purple button-up sweater over a white blouse. She looked annoyed.

And cute.

"Speaking of girl, there's mine," Lincoln said.

"McBride give you my message?" she asked as she came up.

"Yeah," Lincoln said and they kissed. "He said you and some guy got caught in the janitor closet making out."

Clyde fell back and threw his hands up. "I did _not_ say that. I swear on Richard Nixon's life."

"I know you didn't," she said, and swatted Lincoln in the stomach with the back of her hand. "Lame-o here likes the thought of me being with other guys." She put her arms around his neck and grinned. "Too bad I'm only into _one_ guy."

"Who?" Lincoln asked.

"Guess."

"Rock Hudson?"

She tilted her head and regarded him with a look that asked _really?_ "Do I look like Ginger Grant to you?"

Lincoln smirked. "No, you're much cuter." He kissed the tip of her nose.

While Clyde climbed in behind the driver seat, Ronnie Anne got into the passenger side. Once Clyde was situated, Lincoln slipped behind the wheel and started the engine, the radio coming on. _"...Johnson is set to ask Congress for approval to send up to two hundred more American advisors to assist the South Vietnamese army in their fight against the north..."_

Ronnie Anne changed it as Lincoln backed up, throwing his arm around her seat and looking through the rear window. The Beatles were on CKLW with _Love Me Do_. Ronnie Anne grimaced and switched to another station: They were there too with _I Want to Hold Your Hand._ "Ugh," she said, "these bums are everywhere."

"I like The Beatles," Clyde said.

"I know," Ronnie Anne said, "Lincoln told me all about how you and Luan threw your panties at the TV when they were on Ed Sullivan last month." For some reason Lincoln didn't know, Ronnie Anne hated The Beatles. They were alright, but nothing to go crazy over; Beatlemania they called it, girls screaming and swooning and acting hysterical. Sure, there was the same thing going on around Elvis and Billy Haley, but they were playing a brand new type of music. The Beatles weren't.

"We didn't throw our panties!" Clyde said.

"So you kept yours on?" Ronnie Anne asked into the rearview mirror.

"Yes!"

She snickered, and she and Lincoln glanced at each other. Clyde apparently missed her pointed use of the word _panties_ instead of _underwear._ "You're too easy sometimes, McBride."

When Lincoln pulled to the curb in front of his house, he hopped out and waited for Clyde. He noted that the Packard was not in the driveway; Mom and Leni must still be in Detroit. "Have fun," he said with a grin.

Clyde's brow furrowed. "Uh...okay."

Lincoln patted him on the back, got into the car, and pulled away from the curb. Ronnie Anne lit a cigarette and exhaled a sharp plume of smoke. "Can you believe that bastard didn't get detention too?"

"The guy who grabbed your butt?"

"Yeah," she said indignantly, "they just let him go like nothing." She shook her head and took a puff. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

"I guess they figured you punished him enough," he said. In all seriousness, the guy shouldn't have gotten detention, he should have been suspended. He was a mellow guy, but thinking of someone touching Ronnie Anne like that made him mad, and if he dwelled on it, he'd be libel to lose his cool.

She shook her head again. "I should have punched him in the throat and broke his trachea or something. I got him good, though; his nose was like a faucet. Only instead of water it was blood." She shivered. "It was actually really disturbing." She took a drag. She was tough, but she was soft too. "I didn't mean to hit him in the nose, I just reacted."

"He had it coming," Lincoln said.

"Yeah, he did."

For a while they drove in silence. "Is today Leni's doctor's appointment?" she asked.

"Yeah. It was at noon."

"For some reason I thought it was tomorrow."

For the past couple months, Leni had been having terrible headaches. Mom told him, Luna, and Luan that she was worried because "something isn't right" and the more he watched her, really watched her, the more he agreed with her. Leni had always been...different...but some of the things recently (like the day she totally blanked on how to use a can opener, and the day she was telling him about an outfit she was making for Bobby Jr. and started talking gibberish) were cause for concern. The more he dwelled on it, the tighter his stomach knotted.

"So, he grabbed your butt..."

* * *

Luan Loud was happier than she had been in a long time: Not only was she spending time with Clyde, but she had finally found her calling: Social work. It was his idea. She told him about how she wasn't really _passionate_ about teaching, and after he asked her a number of questions, he suggested she "become a social worker."

Luan had heard of social workers before, but she didn't know what they did, so she grabbed one of Dad's encyclopedias and looked it up. The entry defined "social work" thus:

 _Social work is an academic discipline and profession that concerns itself with individuals, families, groups and communities in an effort to enhance social functioning and overall well-being. Social functioning refers to the way in which people perform their social roles, and the structural institutions that are provided to sustain them. Social work applies social sciences, such as sociology, psychology, political science, public health, community development, law, and economics, to engage with client systems, conduct assessments, and develop interventions to solve social and personal problems; and create social change. Social work practice is often divided into micro-work, which involves working directly with individuals or small groups; and macro-work, which involves working with communities, and within social policy, to create change on a larger scale._

Deep in her heart, Luan wanted to make a difference in the world, and while youcould _kind of_ do that with teaching, you could _really_ do it with social work. She went to the library and checked out a boatload of books on the subject, and read each one rapt, a spark igniting in her chest and turning into a full-fledged fire. She was torn, however: Did she want to do micro-work or macro-work? The idea of working with disadvantaged inner city kids was _really_ appealing, but so was the idea of working to help craft policy. With one you could make a difference directly, with the other you could make a difference _in_ directly.

Now, sitting on the couch and holding Clyde's hand, she said, "I can't decide. I want to actually work with people, but I can do a lot more good in the social policy framework. Both are good, and both have drawbacks. I could see myself being happy with either, but being unhappy that I'm missing certain aspects of the other." She took a deep breath and licked her teeth: Though she hadn't had braces in years, not feeling metal under the tip of her tongue struck her as weird sometimes.

Clyde scrunched his lips. "I don't know," he said at length. "Like you said, you'd feel pretty much the same either way. You're a very passionate person, and I could see you doing well in both. But being as passionate as you are, I think you might be better suited to macro-work. You could become a lobbyist or work with advocacy organizations, maybe even start your own."

Start her own organization? That thought was heady...hazy...amazing. "What would I focus on, though?" she asked, getting excited. "I really care about Civil Rights...but helping the poor would be cool, too...or the mentally ill...or...I don't even know." Possibilities whirled through her head and she felt like a girl standing at a buffet heaped with good food for as far as the eye could see.

"If you started your own, why not do all?"

She blinked. "All? Do you think that's really possible?"

"Why not? If you're successful and you grow, you could have different departments doing different things."

She beamed. "I _like_ that." She leaned over and kissed Clyde's cheek. "You're great, do you know that?"

He chuckled and squeezed her hand. "If you say it's so, it must be."

"It is," she said, her parted lips brushing his skin. "You're the reason I found my calling."

Clyde blushed. "I wouldn't say that. You would have found it anyway."

"Don't be modest," she giggled, "you're the reason I know what I want to do with my life now and I really appreciate it. Honestly." She kissed the corner of his mouth and then his lips. He kissed her back, the tip of his tongue raking across hers, and she laid her hand on his chest, smiling against him when she felt the crazy beat of his heart; it pounded just as wildly as her own. She wondered if his body was responding in _other_ ways...just like hers.

Only one way to find out.

She reached between his legs and cupped his bulge in her hand. Guess that answers _that_ question! He responded by kissing her deeper, more ardently, and she kissed him back just as hard, rolling him between her fingers. Boiling passion filled her loins and her body began to quiver. She pulled back, panting, and locked her eyes with his. Where did they go from here? Part of her wanted to do more, but another part of her was intimidated, afraid, even. She had never done anything like this – it was uncharted territory, and uncharted territory is fraught with danger and mystery. She would be a liar if she said she hadn't thought of sex before...sometimes...alone at night, until her body was flushed and the spot between her legs burned with lonely desire. She would also be a liar if she said the prospect of being touched and seen wasn't scary.

Her body was warm and her stomach was panging. She rubbed her palm against him, her fingers slipping around his outline. He heaved a shivering breath and his eyes fluttered closed. He was so cute.

"D-Do you want to go upstairs?" she asked shakily. Her mouth was dry. "To my room?"

He opened his eyes and fixed her with a serious, contemplative gaze. He nodded jerkily. "Yes."

She smiled and took him by the hand. "Come on," she said, and dragged him upstairs.


	30. March 1964: Part 2

Leni quaked in dread when she saw the big, scary metal tube. It sat in the middle of the room like a portal to hell, and she froze, her heart stopping dead in its tracks. Next to her, Mom rubbed the spot between her shoulder blades. "Honey, it's okay, it's just going to take a picture of your head."

A man in a lab coat stood next to it, and for some reason Leni thought of a zookeeper...only instead of feeding his charge with zebra or something, he was going to feed it with Leni-meat.

Her heart started to pump furiously, and terror expanded in her stomach. "Leni...it won't hurt you, I promise," Mom said.

Leni took a deep breath and looked at her mother with wide, harried eyes. Mom smiled warmly, and just a bit of Leni's fear melted. If Mom said it was okay and wasn't scared, then _maybe_ it was okay. She trusted Mom, because Mom loved her and wouldn't let something hurt her. Right? She jerked her gaze to the behemoth, her teeth chattering. The center was hollow save for a table to lay on. She grabbed a handful of her hospital gown and twisted it nervously; she could feel something stirring in the back of her mind, and she tilted her head forward in an attempt to focus on it, her brow pinching. Her thoughts scattered and she couldn't, which frustrated her.

"The quicker you do this the quicker you can have your hamburger," Mom said.

That decided her. She took a deep breath and allowed Mom to lead her to the machine. She _really_ wanted her hamburger: By all rights she should be eating it right now, but the doctor said she had to go to the hospital for tests. Leni didn't like that. She wanted her hamburger and her French fries and her soda pop.

The man in the lab coat told her what to do as he slid the table out from the machine. Leni sat on the edge and scooted her butt, swinging her legs on and making sure to keep them firmly closed so as to protect her modesty: Pssst, she wasn't wearing underwear. It wasn't her choice, though, the doctor told her not to and Mom said she had to listen to what the doctor said. Sigh.

She laid back and rested her arms at her sides. The man in the lab coat said she was doing a good job and pushed the table into the tube. Anxiety rose in Leni's chest and she squeezed her eyes closed; even so, she was aware that she was inside, surrounded, the walls closing in on her. Her lungs shriveled up and she had the strong urge to cover her eyes with her hands, but the man in the lab coat said she had to keep her arms at her sides 'at all times' just like she was on a roller coaster, and she might have a dumb, achy head but even she knew that if you didn't keep your arms inside the roller coaster, they might get cut off, and you wouldn't have them anymore, so she did not move her arms one bit. Instead, she focused on her hamburger. Ummm. She was so hungry she could probably eat _two_ hamburgers.

 _There it is sitting on a plate_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

 _With French fries and a soda pop too_

 _Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do_

She licked her lips. She could almost –

When the machine kicked on with a loud _whirr_ , she jumped and uttered a sharp cry of alarm, her eyes flying open and her heart blasting. "It's okay, honey," Mom said from outside.

 _That's easy for_ you _to say!_

But Leni trusted her mother, so she closed her eyes again and swallowed hard. It's okay, Leni, it's just taking a picture of your head, stop acting like a little girl, you're a grown woman.

It was scary, though!

No, it's n –

A flash of pain ripped across the front of her brain, and she winced deeply: It felt like someone was slashing her soft, pulpy gray matter with a hot knife. She could see it in her mind's eye, the blade glowing orange with heat as it dug in and jerked left, then right, tearing her tender head-meat. She choked off a sob and closed her eyes tighter; hot tears streamed down her cheeks and a hissing exhalation puffed through her teeth.

Then, suddenly, it was gone, and blessed relief flooded through her head. The throbbing ache wasn't gone entirely, but it was less. Her chest rose and fell as the machine cut off and the man in the lab coat pulled the table out.

"All done," he said.

Leni sat up and pressed her fingers to her temples. Mom rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," Leni said, "it was okay."

She felt different, not quite as...Leni. She glanced at the machine, and that's all it was: A machine. She didn't understand it, and it _did_ unnerve her a little, but it didn't fill her with outright terror the way it did when she walked in. "What did you do?" Leni asked the man in the lab coat.

"Just took some pictures," he said.

"That's all?"

"Yep."

Hm. She twisted around and looked at her mother. "Can I have my hamburger now?"

Twenty minutes later, they were in the car and driving toward McDonald's, Leni drumming her fingers on her knees and grinning. Yay, she was going to get her hamburger, her head didn't hurt as bad, and she felt, like, not as dumb anymore – she was _so_ happy.

McDonald's was on the corner of a four-way intersection, a small building with big golden upside-down 'U's on either side. Mom parked on the side in front of a big window that allowed patrons to peer into the kitchen and watch every step of the hamburger process. Leni jumped excitedly out and went to it, looking through the way a child would look into the front window of a toy store. Men in crisp white uniforms prepared hamburgers and cheeseburgers and French fries and Leni's stomach growled at the smell. Mom went to the walk up window and ordered: For a dollar each got a hamburger, fries, and a Coke. They sat at one of the picnic tables; Leni rubbed her hands together and scanned the tray before her.

"Thanks, Mom!" she remembered to say before she started eating.

"You're welcome, dear," Mom said. Leni did not see the worry in her mother's eyes.

* * *

In her mind, she knew it was a small thing, but in her heart, she was over the moon. She had been smiling for two days straight, and every chance she got, she held the record in her hands and studied every detail – especially her name on the back.

It was a charity deal for sick kids or something that Daggy heard about from someone he worked with: You paid twenty dollars to have them record your song and then they put it on an album. When you got right down to it, it was the musical equivalent of self-publishing a book, but Luna didn't care. She paid twenty whole dollars, went to this organization's mobile studio, and did a song she wrote. Now she had ten albums (with four in reserve for Leni, Luan, Mom, and Lincoln and one for herself) and she loved them like they were her children. She gave one to a record store on Freeman Street and left one at the main office of KBBL, a low-wattage radio station that played local records two or three times a day. She listened for her song when she could, but even she couldn't sit by the radio 24/7.

On the morning of March 15, she kissed Daggy, climbed out of the car, and went into the coffee shop, already wearing her uniform. It was empty save for a few of the regulars: She saw one guy in a corner who was a fairly big tipper, and felt a rush of regret that she wasn't earlier...or he wasn't later.

Lucy was behind the counter paging through a magazine when Luna walked up and slapped a record down. The girl looked up, her eyes invisible behind her bangs. "Here you go, Luce, just like I promised."

She pushed away her magazine and slid the album over. She picked it up, flipped it around, and scanned the track listing on the back: There were only eight songs...apparently there weren't too many musicians in the area...at least not many serious enough to spend twenty measly bucks on their dream (okay, twenty bucks isn't _so_ measly, but when you have a dream, twenty bucks isn't bad). Hers was called _Feeling Alright_ and it sounded kind of weird and tinny because the recording equipment wasn't the best, but she loved it nonetheless.

"Cool, huh?" Luna beamed.

"Really cool," Lucy nodded. "What's it about?"

A sly grin crept across Luna's face. "Smoking reefer."

"Really?" Lucy asked. "That's cool."

Luna leaned against the counter; she was proud and felt like the coolest thing ever...it was nice. "I had to kinda, you know, be subtle about it, but it's totally about getting jazzed."

A smile touched the corners of Lucy's lips. "You're crazy, Lune."

Luna shrugged. "Luna the _loon_. Get it?"

She spent the rest of the day feeling immensely good about herself and her craft. _Feeling Alright_ might not be the best song from a songwriting standpoint...or even a playing standpoint...but it was better than the crap she did when she was a teenager. She took a couple puffs from a joint around lunchtime, but not enough to mess her up: After breaking the coffee machine and almost getting fired, she swore off smoking at work completely, but recently she started sneaking a little here and there. Again, not enough to make her act like an airplane, just enough to brighten the edges of her consciousness, you know?

Smoking also helped her think, and she had some things she needed to think about, like what she was going to do with her music: She was pleased with the charity album and all, but if she was serious (which she was), sitting around Royal Woods wasn't going to get here anywhere. All the musicians were in New York or California; that's where the record companies were, the recording studios, all that stuff.

And that's where _she_ needed to be.

Part of her was ready to pack it up and go, but another was scared shitless: Scared of leaving the only home she'd even known, scared of taking such a big step and falling on her face, scared of not seeing her family (she didn't see them all that often now, but in New York or California she _really_ wouldn't see them), scared of...well...scared of growing up. She was an adult, yeah, but nothing says 'I'm an adult and on my own' like moving to a city where you have nothing and no one and you are completely on your own.

It was exciting though: The rush of the big city, the lights, the things, the sights...man, it was heady, nothing like dull Royal Woods. It was home, but you can't stay in your boring hometown forever. You gotta live a little.

After her joint, she went back to work and didn't drop a single cup or make a single crash landing. She was proud of herself; she was getting better at this waitressing thing, which was great. If she was going to move to the city, she needed money, which meant fucking up and losing her job was something couldn't afford to do. It might even be wise to get a second one: She worked the coffee shop from eight to three, so she had all afternoon and evening free. She liked hanging out with Daggy and smoking, but this was her dream she was talking about here, she had to put her nose to the grindstone and get serious.

At the end of the day, she sat on the curb and waited for Daggy. There was too much foot traffic along the sidewalk for her to smoke a joint, so after a while, she ducked into an alley running between the coffee shop and a dry cleaners and lit up. She felt warm and good and goofy when she came out and sat. It was alright. Everything was going to be alright; she was going to make it big one day and have money and fans and do what she loved and never have to work a day in her life.

It sounded like paradise; the scale tipped, and right now she was so excited about the prospect of leaving that she didn't notice Daggy pull up. He honked the horn, and she jumped. Oh, when did _you_ get here, man?

She got up, climbed in, and kissed him on the lips. "Hey," she grinned.

"Hey," he replied, "you look loose. Got any left?"

She reached into her apron and felt around, her fingers brushing the nub of her lunch joint. "Just this," she said and handed it to him, "it's not much, but you can have it. I'm good."

He plopped it between his lips and lit it. "Have a good day?" he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"Yeah," Luna said and nodded, "I did."

And better days lie ahead.

* * *

Lori sat a cardboard box onto the kitchen table with a strained grunt and stepped back, her hands going to her hips. Boxes of every shape, size, and description sat on the floor, the counters – one was even sitting in the sink, wooden spoons and other miscellaneous kitchen utensils poking through the flaps. _This place is a mess,_ she thought, and smiled brightly, _but in a good way._

Bobby Jr. was sitting on the living room floor, a line of toy cars surrounding him in a squiggly semi-circle. He would play with one, then move onto another, then another still before going back to the first: He puffed his lips and blew wet raspberries to simulate engine sounds, which Lori thought was literally the cutest thing ever. She watched him for a moment, her heart swelling with fierce love, then she sighed and looked at the yellow curtains framing the window over the sink: Happy sunflowers stared back at her. _You're next_ she thought. She tilted to see around the edge of the table, her lips scrunching to one side _just as soon as I move some of these boxes._

But first, a break. She went into the living room and knelt behind Bobby Jr, who was so caught up in his play that he didn't realize she was there. She grinned playfully and tapped him on the left shoulder. His head swung around, but nothing was there. "It's...mommy!" she cried and wrapped her arms around him, dragging him off his butt and into an embrace. He giggled and thrashed, his legs kicking and his back arching. "I got you!"

"Mama...no!" he laughed.

"What was that?" Lori asked. "'Go'?"

She dug her fingers into his soft stomach, and he jerked violently, screaming laughter now. She spun him around and laid him across her lap, his face pointing up. She lifted his shirt and blew a raspberry on his bare flesh. He threw his head from side-to-side and tried to squirm away, but she pinned him down. "Not so fast, buster," she said, and tickled him again. He cried out, half in delight, half in irritation.

"Alright already," she said, and let up. He crawled out of her lap and paused on his hands and knees, his breathing heavy. "Tired you out, huh?" Lori asked. He got to his feet, tottered over to his cars, and bent down to scoop one up. He turned and flung it at Lori, a wide smile crossing his face. She shrieked and threw her hands up: It struck her just above the right breast, and did not hurt. "No," she said firmly and pointed her finger at him. "We do _not_ throw toys."

He giggled.

"That is _bad_."

He dropped to his butt and started zooming a car. She went to get up, but paused when a knock came at the door. She glanced up at the clock on the wall: Almost five. It was probably Dad.

She stood and went to the front door, absently smoothing out the creases in her black pants. She undid the security chain and opened it: Dad smiled. "Hey," she said.

"Hey, honey," he replied. He wore a green jacket over a blue and white plaid shirt and tan slacks. He must have stopped home and changed out of his work clothes. Behind him, the U-Haul truck was parked in the space Bobby usually used: Its back was boxy; the cab was painted orange and white. "Got the truck," he said.

Lori saw her parents far more often than Luna, but it still wasn't every day, and it seemed as though every time she did, they had aged just a _little_ bit more: A strand of white in Mom's hair, an extra line on Dad's face. Today his hair looked just a little thinner than it should, just a little, and also a little lighter.

She stepped aside so he could come in. Bobby Jr. looked up, saw him, and grinned, struggling to his feet and nearly falling down. "Ampa!"

"Hey, buddy," Dad said. He dropped to one knee and threw his arms around Bobby Jr. "How you doing? Ready for the big move?"

Bobby Jr. shook his head. He didn't know it, but in a few short days he and his mommy and daddy would be moving into a new house – an actual house... _finally_. It wasn't easy to sway Bobby, but he eventually came around: His primary worry was money. Well...she could get a day job and help out. She was sure Mom and Leni wouldn't mind watching Bobby Jr. He was too proud to even consider the idea of 'making' his wife work. "Bobby," she told him, "I don't plan on sitting around the house forever. I love my mother but I'm not her. I'm eventually going to get a job." Once he saw how resolved she was, he gave in and let her have her way.

"You will be once you see your new home," Dad said and ruffled Bobby Jr.'s black hair. He got to his feet. "You ready to start loading this thing?"

The plan was to slowly pack all of their possessions (which weren't all that many when you got right down to it) over the next couple of days, then drive the truck over to the house, unpack in an afternoon (Lincoln and Luan were both onboard with helping, so it would go quick). "We can wait for Bobby," Lori said. "He should be here soon."

Dad waved his hand. "Eh, I'll get us started. Just show me what you want me to take first.

"Alright." She led him into the kitchen and laid her hand on the box she had just sat on the table. "This can go." She glanced down at the boxes on the floor. "Those, too." She looked at the boxes on the counter: They were full of plates, bowls, glasses, and cookware. "Those can stay for now."

"Alright," Dad said. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He grabbed the box from the table and let out a breathless _oof_.

"You okay?" Lori worried.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You look like you're struggling," she teased, "I carried that in here all by myself."

"It's called getting old, honey," he said breathlessly as he went into the living room. Lori went ahead and opened the door for him.

In the kitchen, she grabbed a box and carried it to the door, pausing as Bobby Jr. toddled across her path: She would put him in his crib, but he had already mastered the fine art of climbing out, which was lovely. Nothing like waking up in the morning to a two-year-old getting into things. She went back, picked up another box, and stacked it on the first just as Bobby pulled up next to the U-Haul. Dad rounded the truck, came to the door, and grabbed the second box. "This is just as heavy as the last," he said, turning slowly. Bobby jumped out of the car, flicked his cigarette away, and hurried over.

"Hey, pops, let me grab that."

"Be my guest," Dad said and handed it to him. His arm muscles rippled, and a dirty image popped into Lori's mind: His arm against her stomach, his fingers plucking her like a harp. _You're so dirty,_ she thought and grinned to herself as she went back into the kitchen, a blush spreading across her face. She couldn't help it, though; she was ovulating...and Bobby putting a second baby into her sounded _really_ good right about now.

* * *

Lincoln flipped the burger and it sizzled hotly; he reached over, grabbed the next ticket, and wiped the sweat from his brow as he read it: Hotdog with horseradish and mayonnaise.

Ugh.

Is this a joke?

He craned his head to look through the window, but didn't see Ronnie Anne. She did that sometimes, only she made it obvious: A burger with extra boogers and earwax, hold the bun, and at the bottom she'd draw a little heart. He looked at the ticket and grimaced: This was probably going to be someone's actual dinner. What did they have for lunch...a peanut butter and sauerkraut sandwich?

Shaking his head, he threw a dog onto the grill and wiped his brow again. It was busy for a weekday. Usually weekdays were fairly slow, but every once in a while, out of the blue, you got slammed.

When the burger was done, he slapped it onto a bun, sat it on the plate, and threw the toppings on. Next came the fries. Finally, he took a squeeze bottle of ketchup and made a smiley face on top of the lettuce: Happy burgers make for happy bellies.

He told Ronnie Anne that once and she called him a dork. Oh well. She didn't understand the finer points of kitchen science, so he gave her a pass.

Setting the burger in the window, he rang the bell, then rolled the hotdog over. Ronnie Anne came over, slapped another ticket down, and picked the plate up. "Order in, lame-o," she said.

"I know orders are coming in," he said, "they've been coming in for an hour. You don't have to say 'order in' like a big doofus."

She took a French fry off the plate and threw it at him: It hit the crook of his neck and fell down his shirt. "She shoots, she scores," she said with a defiant smirk.

Lincoln waved her on then pulled the dog off the grill. What did this weirdo want on it again? He checked the ticket. Ah, right. He went over to the fridge, took out the horseradish and the mayonnaise, and carried them over to the prep table. Ronnie Anne dropped another two tickets. "Orders in, lame-o."

Gah! He was starting to feel overwhelmed. "Bob, can you put mayo and horseradish on this hotdog?" he asked. Bob, his hands elbow deep in the sink, glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowing. "What?"

"Mayo and horseradish."

Lincoln grabbed the tickets and stuck them in the clamp above the grill. "Someone actually ordered that?" Bob asked incredulously.

"Yep," Lincoln said as he scanned the tickets. Three burgers, three orders of fries. He went to the freezer, grabbed a stack of hamburger patties, and rushed back over to the grill, slapping them down. He snatched a bag of fries from the fridge, dumped a bunch into the strainer, and then dropped it into the oil.

Bob sat the plate in the window, and Ronnie Anne's face popped up; she was smiling slyly. " _Special_ order in, square-for-brains."

 _Where are all these people coming from?_ Doesn't anyone eat at home anymore? He grabbed the ticket and read it. _Two burgers w/ fries on them and one side of tell my bro to get his ass out here and say hi to his big sis._

There were only two people who ordered hamburgers with fries _on_ them: Luna and Daggy. He poked his head out the window, but didn't see them. Ronnie Anne was putting money in the register, her back to him. "Tell Luna I'm kind of busy right now."

"I did," she said without turning, "she said she'd wait."

She didn't have to wait long: The rush slacked, and after another ticket, they stopped coming. Lincoln pushed the food out as quick as he could; when he was done, he leaned against the prep table and wiped his brow, his face flushed and his heart pounding. One thing about working back here: It was good exercise. He took his hat off, dropped it onto the prep table, and went out into the dining room; the air was always cooler out here than in the kitchen, and it never failed to shock his system.

Luna and Daggy were sitting by the jukebox finishing their burgers. Luna looked up and smiled as he came over. "Hey, Linc," she said happily, "how's it going?" Her eyes were red and glassy like she was tired. Lincoln knew why: She tried to get him to smoke that stuff once, but he was goofy enough as it was.

"Hey, man," Daggy nodded.

"Busy," Lincoln said tiredly. His back was tight and his feet ached. "Very busy. What's up with you?"

"Not much," Luna said. She picked a fry off her plate and put it into her mouth. "We were passing by and I said 'Let's visit Linc. It's been a while.'" She grinned widely, her teeth coated with food. "Daggy just wanted to eat." When she spoke, she sprayed bits of food.

"By the looks of it I doubt you mind."

"Nah, I ate at work," she said.

"Now you're eating again," Lincoln said.

"This is a snack," she said. "Remember that record thing I told you about? I got one in the car for you. I'm gonna give Mom, Leni, and Luan theirs when I come over next."

"Cool," Lincoln said. She was really excited about being on this record and he was happy for her. It was a first step if nothing else. A lot of musicians don't even get _that_ far, and he was really proud. "Don't forget it," he said, and pointed a faux stern finger at her.

"I won't," she said. She sat the remains of her burger on her plate. "In fact, I'll go get it right now." She scooted out of the booth and nearly fell; Lincoln's arms shot out and he caught her, his heart rocketing into his throat. She and Daggy both laughed.

While she ran out to the car, Lincoln crossed his arms and thought – not for the first time – about saying something regarding Luna's...reefer habit: Half the time she was so loopy she could barely function. The last time she was at the house, she was swaying back and forth and pretending to be Frankenstein's Monster: She went after Leni, who screamed and ran...then wound up tripping over her own feet and going down when she gave chase. "Frankenstein's Monster is alright," she said as she got back up, even though Frankenstein's Monster had a nasty bruise on her chin.

Before he could bring himself to open his mouth, however, Luna returned and shoved a record into his hand. "Here ya go, bro!"

He looked at the cover. _Music_ was written across the front in white cursive. They could have picked a less general name, couldn't they? He turned it over and scanned the back. Luna's song was number six: _Feeling Alright – Luna Loud._ He couldn't help a grin. "This is really cool," he said earnestly.

"Isn't it, though?" she asked around the rest of her burger.

"I'm really proud of you," he said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

"Thanks," she said, "I'm proud of myself."

Later, in the kitchen, as Lincoln was cleaning the grill, Flip came in. By that point everyone else had left except for Ronnie Anne, who sat at the counter, her coat across her lap. Lincoln glanced over his shoulder as Flip leaned against the wall and crossed his hairy arms. He looked like he had something on his mind.

"So," he said after a moment, "when do you graduate?"

"May," Lincoln said, scrubbing.

"Ah. That's nice. I can give you more hours if you want."

Lincoln had been expecting this. "Yeah," he said, "I'd like that." Being out of school meant he could work during the day. He'd have to cut the other cook's hours, which made Lincoln feel just the tiniest twinge of guilt: Hey, he needed money too, and he couldn't worry about everyone else.

"Good," Flip said, "you're a good worker."

Lincoln smiled to himself. Coming from Flip, that was practically a kiss on the lips. In the car, Lincoln told Ronnie Anne.

"He offered me more hours too," she said, "I told him I'd think about it."

She had been talking to Luan a lot lately about teaching – what classes she took, how they were, things like that. _I think I might want to teach,_ she told him, _it might be fun being on the other side of the desk._ Lincoln had no idea why someone would want to graduate school...and then go right back even if they _were_ on the other side of the desk. If that's what she wanted, though. He figured he'd wind up taking classes at Royal Woods Community at some point – for what he didn't know. He knew he didn't want to work in a kitchen for the rest of his life, but he had it pretty good where he was at, so he wasn't in _too_ much of a rush.

At Ronnie Anne's house, she sidled up next to him and they kissed. "I love you," he said, and pecked her lips.

She giggled. "I love you too, lame-o."

As he drove home that night, he thought of the future – and of Ronnie Anne Santiago. But for him, weren't they one in the same?

* * *

"The doctor isn't sure," Rita said, "but he thinks there's something seriously wrong." Her voice broke on the last word, and she had to fight back a rush of tears. Lynn put his arm around her shoulders and slid closer, trying for all the world to pretend that he was strong and steely and _not_ so worried about Leni that his stomach quivered.

They were sitting up in bed, the lamp on the nightstand casting a muted glow over the covers; dark shadows nested in the corners. When he got back from helping Lori and Bobby pack, Leni and Rita were already home, and the first thing he did was ask her how it went. She said she would tell him later (which meant in bed – away from prying ears), but he could tell from the set of her eyes and from the tremor in her voice that whatever she had to say was not pleasant, and he had spent the evening so anxious that he couldn't eat and could barely sit still.

Rita leaned into him. "He said it could be any number of things. They took a scan of her head and hopefully they'll be able to find out what it is." One thing Dr. Caswell, the neurologist, mentioned was strokes; he said that Leni might be having very small, very minor strokes. He doubted that's what was happening, but the possibility made Rita's stomach turn. She's twenty-three, she shouldn't be having strokes...she should be falling in love and starting her life! The injustice of it all cut her so deeply, so sharply, that she felt as though she had been stabbed. This shouldn't be happening...Leni shouldn't be sick...

"I'm sure it'll be okay," Lynn said, "they'll find out what's wrong and they'll treat it. It's 1964; modern medicine can do almost anything." He didn't sound convincing even to his own ears.

Rita wiped her leaking eyes with the heel of her palm. She didn't know much about medicine or 1964, but she did know this: The human brain is still largely a mystery. They don't know much about it or how things go wrong with it. If they did, there wouldn't be crazy people. The chances of them being able to cure Leni if something _was_ seriously wrong were minimal...their best hope was to pray as hard as they could that nothing _was_ seriously wrong.

She took a deep breath now and let it out slowly through her nose. "I'm scared," she said honestly.

Lynn rubbed her arm and frowned. "Don't be," he said, "everything's going to be alright." The truth, though, was that he was scared too: It was a slick, greasy weight in the pit of his stomach. Like Rita, he knew how complex the human brain was, and 1964 or not, that complexity made understanding it– and treating it – difficult. He cast his mind back over the years, to all the times that he and Rita had passed Leni off as 'just ditzy' or 'a little dopey.' They should have realized something was wrong...they should have _known_. Maybe whatever was wrong with her could have been caught early and stopped...and if so and it was too late, it would be their fault...all their fault.

"It's going to be alright," he said. Whether he was trying to comfort Rita or himself, he didn't know.


	31. April 1965: Part 1

_Death comes on swift wings._

Lincoln couldn't remember where he heard that, but sitting in the pew and listening to the priest read the funeral rites, his hands limp in his lap, it came back to him. It's true. He had known that since the specter of death passed close in 1962, but he knew it in the way a man knows something he has read about but never truly experienced. His paternal grandparents were dead before his was born, and his mother's father, Albert, who fought in Cuba in 1898, died when he was two – far too young to understand or even to remember. This was the first time, then, that he had ever lost someone – anyone – and it was the first time that he could say he talked to someone...looked them in the eye...mere hours before they were gone.

A year and a half ago, the nation lost its president in the span of an hour. One minute he was hale and healthy, the next he was lying on a hospital gurney dead. Lincoln remembered being in awe of how quickly it happened. Though he was not stupid, and though he knew vaguely that you can die at any moment, he'd never pondered it. To him, death was a long, drawn out process that happened to an old person in bed. It never just _happened_.

And it never happened to someone so _close_.

He drew a heavy sigh and glanced around at the gallery of faces, all pointed gravely toward the coffin. Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back and looked down at his hands. It was suddenly too hot, the collar of his shirt too tight. He slipped his finger between it and his neck and pulled. The cloying stench of flowers and the sound of soft weeping permeated the stagnant air, and each breath came harder than the last. He shifted and prayed that it would be over soon – why did these things have to take so long? Days like these are the worst of people's lives, why draw it out? For closure? When you get shot they get the bullet out as quickly as they can, they don't tease and take their time. Funerals should be the same. It was really hot. He wanted to take his jacket off.

"...was dedicated to her much loved family..." the priest spoke, his voice low but somehow amplified. It must be the acoustics, Lincoln thought as he scanned the eaves and rafters – anything to keep from looking at the casket and the bright, cheery, mocking flowers heaped around it. The sun pressed against the stained glass windows lining the nave, making them sparkle: Red, yellow and blue, Christ and the saints, heaven, sheep, the Virgin Mary at the foot of the cross, her head tilted back and her hands folded in prayer. She didn't look too upset that Jesus was suffering and dying right in front of her. You'd expect a mother to show a little more emotion, you'd expect her to be on her knees and clawing at the earth or to be limp and held up by John and Matthew and Mark or something – not to be standing there like a statue.

"No one knows why God allows these tragedies to happen, but we can rest assured that He has a plan, and that He will gather His children to Him at the hour of their death."

Lincoln wiped a tear from his eye.

" _It's called Rentschler's Disease," Mom said. It was late April, 1964, and the family – sans Leni and Lynn – was gathered in the living room. Lincoln was between Luna and Luan, Lori sat on the arm, Bobby Jr. squirming in her lap. Bobby and Daggy stood behind the couch, Bobby's hands resting on the back and Daggy's arms crossed. Mom and Dad were sitting on the coffee table, Dad's arm around Mom's shoulders and his gaze downcast, somber. "It's a degenerative brain disorder," she continued, pronouncing each syllable of degenerative slowly, like a child who has just learned a new word. "It-it's eating her brain." Mom lost it and started to sob into her hands._

 _Lincoln's stomach twisted, and next to him, Luna went white._

 _Mom couldn't go on, so Dad, doing his best to comfort her, did: "It causes –" he searched for the word, "-neurological transmitters and receivers to misfire. Over time, it will erode her – her gray matter. The doctors give it ten years before she...before her mind is gone."_

 _A pall fell over the house and stayed for a long, long time: Lincoln could feel it the moment he walked through the door, a dark oppression in the air. Mom and Dad both seemed to age ten years that spring, lines appearing at the corners of their lips and eyes, the gray already in their hair spreading. Luan threw herself into looking for a college that provided the classes she needed to take to become a social worker and spent her free time with Clyde; he didn't see much of her but he knew she cried sometimes...he could hear it through the walls at night._

 _He checked out medical books from the library and read everything he could find on Rentschler's, unable to understand most of the industry jargon. It was very rare and not well understood: It was similar to cancer and was, in a way, slowly eating away at her brain. It started small, affecting_ _neurotransmitters_ _and causing the brain to misread information, especially when something happens suddenly: Once the power went out and Leni thought she had gone blind...because her brain wasn't able to correctly process the rapid environmental change. As it progressed, it would become worse, resulting in serious brain damage, loss of control over motor functions, and eventual dementia. In ten short years, Leni, kind, beautiful, vibrant Leni, would be a gibbering, mindless shell in a hospital bed – in another couple of years, maybe one, maybe three, she would die._

 _Lincoln wept bitterly and often, and for a long time he couldn't even bring himself to look at her, because every time he did, he imagined he could_ see _it in her, nesting behind her eyes and gradually consuming all that was good and secreting death and madness in its wake. He also saw her as she would one day be – and that was intolerable. She was the kindest, gentlest, sweetest, most loving, and purest person he had ever known...the prospect of her suffering and dying, of the light in her eyes slowly fading until it was gone...he couldn't take it, he just couldn't; he wasn't strong enough._

 _He couldn't avoid her for long, though, because he wouldn't_ have _her for long. After graduation, he spent a good deal of his free time with her – he took her out to eat, drove her to the craft store, to Lori's where she played with Bobby Jr. until they both collapsed from exhaustion and fell asleep on the floor, cuddled up...and sometimes, they just cruised. Ronnie Anne came with them on occasion, but for the most part, it was just the two of them, brother and sister._

 _Lori got a typist job in July, working four days a week, and Bobby Jr. spent those days with 'ama' and 'eni'. Leni enjoyed having him over, and on his days off, Lincoln enjoyed watching them play._

 _One day, he would think, she won't be here, and he would have to leave the room to regain his composure. Sometimes it was difficult – others impossible._

 _His sister was dying._

 _Slowly, slowly dying._

 _There was some hope, though, because isn't there always? Mom and Dad busied themselves with finding other doctors – there were many across the country who claimed to have found ways to slow the march of doom that was Rentschler's Disease. They sought the best hospitals, the best care, in a desperate attempt to save her, and over the next year, Leni became well-acquainted with long drives and doctor offices. One gave her medication that stopped the headaches – they happened infrequently, and when they came, they weren't skull-shattering the way they used to be, they were dull, blunted, more of a pressure than a pain. It became increasingly clear that the disease itself could not be treated, only the symptoms, but still they hoped and booked appointments, because Leni was precious, she was worth it. Dad worked longer to provide, and Lincoln chipped in too. He was making three dollars an hour and working Monday through Friday, eight hours a day. He didn't get to spend as much time with Ronnie Anne as he wanted, but she was understanding – and Lincoln's love for her grew...if that was possible. They spent Saturday nights together – dinner, cruising, the movies, cuddling and doing_ other _things in the back seat of his Impala._

 _And through it all, the pall of coming death hung heavy._

A sharp sob rose up, and the priest pressed on, probably used to speaking over the sound of bereavement. A voice followed, low and tearful; Lincoln didn't understand words, if there even _were_ words. He glanced at Lori next to him: Her eyes were red and a single tear coursed down the plane of her cheek. He shifted closer and laid his hand on her leg. She blinked, bowed her head, and put her hand on top of his. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn't, so he just threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed. Lori was particularly affected: It happened at her house, after all, the one she and Bobby had moved into last year, the brick, crackerbox ranch with a low-pitched roof, a wide façade, boxed eaves, a broad overhang, and a red chimney rising up along the front. It was new and bright and happy – until she collapsed in the living room. Just like that. One minute she was playing with Bobby Jr., the next she was limp on one side and falling.

 _Death comes on swift wings_.

 _Very_ swift wings.

Spring isn't a season for dying, he thought suddenly; it's a season for life and rebirth. Everything is fresh and new and green...the world is just beginning, how can someone's world _end?_

It didn't make sense to him, but a lot of things didn't make sense to him. What happened in Cuba, what happened to Kennedy, what was happening in Vietnam – a civil war turning into an American war. The world is a mystery, and Lincoln suspected that nature's greatest gift to the human race was death, because if we lived eternal, one day we would solve that mystery...and go utterly insane. Our time here is limited, and thank God for that: Our minds aren't designed to handle the meaning of life, they are designed simply to live.

He felt like he was choking. He loosened his tie and dragged the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. The air was too hot, too stale, and the smell of flowers was too strong, too pervasive. His stomach turned, and he felt like he was going to vomit. He didn't want to be here anymore, he wanted out of this miserable place, wanted to put the whole sad, miserable business behind him and forget about death for a while. It wasn't time to go yet, however; there is a certain procedure in these situations, and Lincoln intended to follow it because that's what you do, and because she deserved his final respects.

Behind him, the hitching sobs lifted again, and he closed his eyes against a rush of tears. Something told him to turn, but he couldn't; he wasn't strong enough to see her like this.

He crossed his arms against an inner chill. Lori put her hand on his arm and squeezed. The priest stopped, and the mourners began to get up and file past the coffin. Lori, who was closest to the aisle, stood and followed. For a moment, Lincoln hesitated, but he had to do this – he had something to say. Getting to his feet, he moved between the pews to the edge, waiting for a woman in a black dress and vail to pass before falling in. He kept his head down as he anticipated his turn. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he turned. His father squeezed and Lincoln nodded.

When his time came, he forced himself to look into the casket. She wore a pink dress and her hands were folded on her chest. Her cheeks were rosy, her expression one of peace. Looking her in the face was hard, because it was so close to a face he knew and loved intimately.

"I'll take care of her, Mrs. Santiago," he said, and touched her cold hand, _"I promise."_

* * *

Ronnie Anne sat silently in the passenger seat on the ride to the cemetery, her arms crossed and her head bowed. Neither she nor Lincoln had spoken since she slid into the car: He was expecting her to ride with Bobby – they were each other's rock, holding each other and sharing tears during the service. She chose to the ride with _him_ , however, and that touched him. He felt like he should say something, speak some magical combination of words that would dry her tears, but none came to mind, and when he opened his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbed ineffectually. He put himself in her shoes – and realized that nothing could alleviate the pain. Time, yes, and maybe his constant love, but that was a process...one that would take days, weeks, and maybe even months; you don't bounce back from losing your mother to a stroke overnight.

Lori and Bobby were ahead of them in Lori's new car, a white four-door Dodge Coronet 440. Lincoln could see Bobby's face in the rearview mirror; his eyes were straight ahead as he drove, but even from here Lincoln could see the puffiness that tears bring. Lincoln had only seen him cry once before – when he was depressed and trying to get Lori to like him (did he cry, or was Lincoln misremembering?). He was taking it hard, Lori said. So was Ronnie Anne. They were working when Lori called to say that her mother had been rushed to the hospital; she left in a panic, but Lincoln couldn't, so he gave her his car keys. At the end of his shift, he caught a ride with Bob to the hospital: He found Bobby holding her in a waiting room on the third floor, and from the way they were crying, he knew. That was a week ago; she had been staying with Lori and Bobby since. Flip gave her as much time off as she needed, and Lincoln had barely seen her.

Presently, the hearse, at the head of the procession, turned into Heaven's Gate, a series of gently rolling hills covered in tombstones; it traversed a narrow, winding road and the other cars followed. The gravesite was in a valley between a moss covered crypt and a gnarled tree. Lincoln slipped one arm around Ronnie Anne and held her against him as the pallbearers brought the casket over and sat it down. She buried her face in his chest and gave in to the tears she had been holding since the church. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head, but he did not speak.

The service was short. A few more words were spoken, then the coffin was lowered into the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that stuff. Bobby stood dazed over the grave, his head bowed. Lori held Bobby Jr.'s hand as he tried to wiggle away. Ronnie Anne's tears had tapered off to sniffles, and Lincoln just held her: He had no word to give, only himself and his love, and he gave it all.

The mourners slowly started drifting away until only Bobby, Lori, Bobby Jr., Lincoln, and Ronnie Anne remained. Two gravediggers in gray coveralls stood a respectful distance back, one smoking a cigarette and the other sitting with his back against a headstone, a glass bottle of Coca-Cola in his hand. Bobby's shoulders sagged as if under a great weight. Lori came up behind him and touched him. Bobby Jr. tugged his pantleg. Bobby put on a smile that he surely didn't feel, turned, and picked his son up. Bobby Jr. threw himself back and caught sight of Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. "Amo! Yan!"

Ronnie Anne pulled away and wiped her eyes. "You okay?" Lincoln asked.

She nodded. "I'm fine."

The wake was being held at Lincoln's house. He didn't particularly want to go, and as they wound through back streets and residential avenues, Ronnie Anne said the same. "I really not in the mood for mingling," she said. "I'm so sick of people telling me how sorry they are." Here her voice broke and she looked quickly away: Her reflection in the window was miserable, and Lincoln's heart twinged.

"We don't have to go," he said, "I wasn't looking forward to it anyway."

She nodded her appreciation and dragged the cuff of her black dress across her nose. At Main Street, he took a left and passed Flip's, the union hall, and the bank. It was a bright, warm day and people were out enjoying it, women in bright dresses and men in suits or casual wear crowding the sidewalks, sitting on benches, and window shopping. They drove in silence, Ronnie Anne barely moving and Lincoln aching for her to be better – to be happy. "I just can't believe she's gone," she finally said with a heavy breath. "It's...it's surreal."

Lincoln reached across and patted her leg. "I love you," he said, because that's all he could think to say.

"I love you too," she said and rubbed his hand. "It hurts."

"I know," he said, "and it's going to for a long time." He weaved his fingers through hers. "But we'll get through it – together." Then: "She wouldn't want you to be upset."

She nodded. "I know. I can't help it, though."

Before reaching the bridge out of town, Lincoln hung a left and followed the river: It was gray and swollen with spring runoff.

"I never got a chance to say goodbye." She broke down crying, her shoulders shaking. Lincoln pulled to the side of the road, parking as far over as he could, and slid over, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her against his chest. The plaintive sound of her misery filled him with sorrow, and he started to cry too.

They sat there for a long time before Ronnie Anne got ahold of herself. She looked up at him, her eyes red and wet, and stroked his cheek. "I love you. You know that, right?"

He nodded. "I love you too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't forget that," she said, her eyes pleading. "Just in case I don't get to s-say goodbye to you."

He hugged her. "Shhh. Don't think like that. I'm not going anywhere. _You're_ not going anywhere." He rocked her back and forth, and eventually she was calm enough that they were able to continue driving.

"Flip misses you," he said as they passed the bowling alley. He automatically craned his head to see if he could spot Luna or Daggy outside, but couldn't. He saw their car, though.

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah, I think the day after tomorrow I'm going to go back. I love spending the day with Bobby Jr., but if I don't go back now, I might _never_ go back...and I need the money."

She had decided over the winter that she _did_ want to be a teacher, and was in the process of enrolling at Royal Woods Community College. The cost of tuition and books wasn't exactly cheap, but it was affordable at her rate. Lincoln, of course, was ready to help her where needed, though he doubted she'd let him. She could be stubborn (and proud) sometimes. Something occurred to him. "Is your...house paid off?"

"No," she said. "The bank's going to have to take it. I can't afford it."

"What if we moved in together?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't want to live there either way, Lincoln. There're too many memories."

He could see that.

"Do...do you want to move in together, though? Somewhere?" He threw her a nervous glance, his stomach knotting as she simply stared ahead, thinking. He had dreamed of living with Ronnie Anne Santiago, of sharing her bed, for a _long_ time, and he knew she'd dreamed of it too.

When she looked at him, she grinned, and his heart leapt. "Yeah. That would be nice."

He smiled widely. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

For the first time in a week, Ronnie Anne was smiling, and that made Lincoln smile too.

* * *

The next day, Luna Loud stood at the counter and drummed her fingers nervously on the surface. Her stomach was in knots and she was having second thoughts. Again. She scanned the dining room; it was early, and only a few tables were occupied by people sipping their morning coffee and reading their morning papers. She had ten dollars' worth of tips in the pocket of her apron already, and she told herself the night before that once she did, she would go.

She thought it would take longer.

She thought she would have a little more time.

With a sigh, she turned away and glanced at Lucy, who was bent over a notepad and jotting a list of needed supplies for the owner. Luna opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again; the back of her neck burned and she was beginning to tremble. "H-Hey," she finally managed.

"Hm?" Lucy asked without looking up.

"Are you good for a minute?"

"I'm fine," Lucy said quickly, "go on."

Luna favored her with a tight, closed-lipped smile that the beatnik probably didn't even see. She pushed away from the counter and started for the kitchen, but stopped and laid a hand on Lucy's shoulder. Lucy turned her head. "You're great," Luna said.

"I know," Lucy said, and the corners of her lips turned up in a smile. "Hurry back, though."

They were short staffed.

Luna nodded, feeling like the world's biggest piece of shit. "I will." She paused at the double doors, took one more look back, then went through. At the back door, she took off her apron and laid it on top of a box, then went out into the bright morning sunshine. A parking lot abutted the back of the shop, and she hurried across, turned onto Partridge Street, and followed it to Main, where she waited for a line of cars to pass before crossing. The county courthouse loomed over the square, and in its shadow Luna shuddered.

By the time she reached the door leading up to hers and Daggy's apartment, she was sweating and breathing heavily: She didn't realize she was walking so fast. She let herself in, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the front door. Inside, she stripped out of her uniform shirt and tossed it onto the couch as she went. In the bedroom, she kicked out of her shoes and wiggled out of her pants, and then pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting purple shirt. She sat on the edge of the bed, put her shoes back on, then grabbed two things from underneath the bed: Her guitar case and a bag she had packed the night before while Daggy was out. She carried them into the living room and sat them on the couch, her eyes falling on her uniform shirt. She couldn't just leave it like that. She picked it up, went back into the room, grabbed her pants, and then folded them neatly, leaving them at the foot of the bed.

In the kitchen, she rummaged in the junk drawer and found pen and a pad of paper: Leaning over the counter, she wrote him a note, and was not entirely surprised to find herself tearing up.

Like a Band-Aid, she told herself, quick and painless.

Ha.

She finished, laid the pen across the pad, and steeled herself. It was now or never...because if she didn't go through with it, she would chicken out, and she would never live her dream.

With a deep breath, she went into the living room, grabbed her case and the bag, and went to the door. She cast one last look at the apartment – memories flooding over her – then left, turning the light off and closing the door behind her.

It was a mile and a half to the bus station, and as she walked, she kept her head down, her eyes pointed at her feet: It was easier that way, just like it was easier to leave without telling anyone. Oh, she wanted to say goodbye, but she couldn't...she had to just go. At the bus station, she went up to the ticket window where a bored looking man sat. "I-I'd like a one way ticket, please," she stammered.

"Where to?" the man asked.

"San Francisco."

She paid and went into the waiting room, where a number of people sat, most of them looking impatient. A man in a denim jacket leaned against the wall and talked into the payphone, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Another man, this one older and pudgy, stood by the Coca-Cola machine with his hands in the pockets of his rumpled pants. She sat her bag and her case on the floor and sat, throwing a glance at the clock on the wall: 8:58am, Thursday, April 18, 1965. The bus to San Francisco would be here at 9:05. Seven minutes...seven minutes until she left everything – and everyone – she had ever known to follow her dream of being a rock and roll singer. Seven short minutes...now six.

Her stomach clinched and she felt feverish. What was she doing? She should get her bags and go home. She could see herself staying with Daggy – maybe having a kid or two. A routine life, you know?

Only she knew she couldn't do that – if she did, she would suffer under the constant weight of regret, always wondering what could have been. This had been her dream for so long that she couldn't remember a time when it wasn't – no, it wasn't _just_ her dream, this is who she _was_ : Luna Loud, rock and roll musician. She couldn't stay in Royal Woods and raise kids and knit like her mother any more than a fish could get out of water and live on dry land.

She _had_ to do this.

Her nerves were fraying and she felt like she was going to be sick. She had a couple joints in her bag, but she didn't have anywhere to smoke them, and if she went looking for a place, she would miss her bus – which was due in three minutes.

Fumbling in her pocket, she got up and went to the Coca-Cola machine, where she put her money in and selected a Coke. She could be kind of loopy sometimes when she was loose, but she wasn't stupid, and in her mind she deducted 10 cents from her net worth. She had four hundred dollars and 90 cents left. A lot of money that took her a _long_ time to save...standing on the edge of the void and not knowing what lies ahead, with nothing certain and nothing stable, however, it didn't seem like much at all.

She went back to her chair and sat down. She popped the tab and took a long drink. She pressed her knees and toes together like a little girl – she _felt_ like a little girl.

Stupid, stupid, stupid...she should turn around and forget all about this, stay in the safe harbor of Royal Woods and live a safe life.

When the bus arrived fifteen minutes later, she gathered up her things and went onto the platform. The door stood open...like inviting arms or a yawning, cannibal maw, she couldn't tell. Maybe both. The driver looked at her and raised a questioning eyebrow.

 _Last chance, Lune. You can still turn back. Once you get on that bus, you're committed._

She took a deep, shuddery breath and glanced over her shoulder, the bosom of home beckoning.

"Miss?" the driver asked.

Luna turned away and got onto the bus.


	32. April 1965: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Mustang Sally**_ **by Mack Rice (1965)**

* * *

On the morning of April 18, Lincoln woke just before dawn, his neck sore and his back stiff. He tried to move, but he was pinned in an uncomfortable position by a soft, warm weight, and his sleep-addled brain began to panic...then he remembered. He was sitting against the arm of Lori and Bobby's couch, Ronnie Anne resting against him, her head lolling on his chest, one arm draped across his lap and the other shoved between him and the padded backrest. He didn't want to leave her the night before, and they cuddled for a long, long time...until they both fell asleep, apparently.

He swallowed against a dry throat and shifted, wincing when Ronnie Anne muttered and stirred. He didn't want to wake her, but he had to get going soon: He was due at Flip's at seven...God alone knew what time it was now. Looking at her peaceful face, however, Lincoln didn't have the heart to move. Flip could take a flying leap. Unable to stop himself, he laid his arm across her back and grazed her scalp with his fingertips in slow, lazy circles. She snuggled closer and let out a muttering sigh. He kissed the side of her head, the smell of her hair filling his nostrils, and for a long time he stayed that way, relishing her warmth, her closeness, having her here with him in the hazy twilight world between sleep and full wakefulness. A smile crept across his face when he remembered their conversation in the car yesterday about moving in together. Soon, he thought, he could have this every morning – and on mornings that neither of them had anywhere to be, they could stay in bed even when they were awake, cuddling, holding hands, or just looking at each other and grinning like fools.

Lincoln looked forward to that _very_ much.

When thin light began to spread across the floor, he drew a sad breath and tried to slip out from under Ronnie Anne without waking her, but it didn't work.

"Where you going?" she asked tiredly, pushing herself up and regarding him with eyes so heavily-lidded that he couldn't tell if they were open or not.

"I have to go to work," he said and stroked her cheek.

Her brow pinched. "Don't want you to."

"I know, but I have to. I love you."

She smiled hazily. "Love you too."

He leaned in and pecked her lips, then got up. She curled up on her side and yawned deeply. "I have that thing later," she murmured, "don't know what time."

Lincoln completely forgot. When her mother died, her lawyer got in touch with Bobby, which was a surprise – no one knew she had a lawyer on retainer: He wanted Bobby and Ronnie Anne to come in for a will reading as soon as they could. Being busy with arranging the funeral, they couldn't before today. "Do you need me there?" he asked.

"I need you," she said, her voice thick was sleep, "period."

He grinned. In the bathroom, he relieved himself and studied his face in the mirror: Same as always, though he did notice that he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday, which wouldn't be a problem if they weren't a button-down white shirt, a black tie, and black dress pants. He'd have to stop home and change.

In the living room, he looked around for his coat, and found it bunched on the floor next to the arm of the couch. He picked it up and started to put it on, but draped it carefully over Ronnie Anne instead. He knelt, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "I love you." In the rising light of day, he thought he saw her lips move in a silent response.

Outside, a chill wind needled him and birds chirped happily. In the car, he turned the key in the ignition and lit a cigarette. He backed up and pulled into the street behind a pick-up truck, fiddling with the radio and finally settling on a station playing a newscast. _"Roughly 20,000 people gathered in Washington, D.C. yesterday to protest the U.S.'s bombing of North Vietnam."_ Lincoln rolled down the window and flicked his ash: The wind caught it and threw it back in his face, stinging his eyes and making him cough. _Really? "Operation Rolling Thunder, which began in February as a response to the attack of two U.S. Navy vessels last year in the Gulf of Tonkin by North Vietnamese gunboats..."_

Lincoln turned the channel. Yeah, we get it, the Air Force is bombing North Vietnam and they're talking about sending in ground troops. I agree, they need a whomping after attacking our ships, but sheesh, let's talk about something else. Two years ago he didn't even know where Vietnam was, now he could write an essay on it: North Vietnam was communist, South Vietnam was a democracy, the Vietcong were guerrillas in the south who wanted it to go communist and fought the government with the full support and aid of the North; the government of South Vietnam was in danger of collapsing; Operation Rolling Thunder was supposed to 'send signals' to the North to knock it off; President Johnson wanted to send U.S. combat troops in...which Lincoln didn't know about. That might be going a little too far. Then again, you had the Domino Theory: If one country in a region goes communist, the rest follow in a domino effect. From what Lincoln learned in school, China went communist in 1949, then North Korea shortly after, then North Vietnam...if the theory played out like they said it would (and it was so far), eventually India would turn communist, and from there God only knew.

Russia alone was scary...but backed by two or three dozen other communist countries with a combined army of millions? They could take over the world like _that_ and there would be nothing the U.S. could do about it. He tried to imagine what it would be like living in a communist country and couldn't: From everything he'd heard, they were like prisons. He still wanted to visit Russia and see for himself, but the more he thought about it, the more afraid he became that if he went over there, he'd wind up locked in jail for no other reason than being American. If all the stuff he read was true (and he had no reason to believe that it wasn't), he wasn't missing much anyway.

He pulled into his driveway, which was empty, meaning Dad had already left for the day. Killing the engine, he climbed out and went inside, going up the stairs as silently as he could so he didn't wake anyone. In his room, he dressed in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt over which he threw a light jacket. He went into the hall just as Luan came out of her room: Her shoulders were slumped and her head was bowed, her long hair spilling over her shoulders and her pink night gown rumpled and creased. Lincoln couldn't help himself. "Hey, Luan," he said.

She jumped and spun, her hand flying to her chest and a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Lincoln laughed, and her eyes narrowed. "You scared the _shit_ out of me," she croaked.

"Sorry," he said, "you just looked like you needed a wakeup call."

"Well, I got it," she said shortly, then, "Clyde wants to talk to you. Can you go to his house after you get out of work, please?"

Lincoln tilted his head. "What about?"

"That's between you and him," she said and yawned. "How's Ronnie Anne?"

"Alright," he said, "I mean, as alright as you can be after losing your mother."

Luna nodded. "Yeah. I feel really bad for her and Bobby." She sighed. "I gotta use the bathroom. Are you sticking around?"

"I'm heading out to work."

"Alright," she said, "have a good day."

He smiled. "Thanks, sis; you too."

* * *

Bobby, Lori, and Ronnie Anne sat before a wide oaken desk in a tranquil, dimly-lit office: Golden spring sunshine fell through wooden blinds and made wavering bars of light across the heavily carpeted floor. Bookshelves flanked either wall.

H.R. Thompkins, a frail man in his seventies or eighties (Ronnie Anne thought it was the latter) leaned over and opened a manila envelope with long, gnarled fingers that trembled slightly. "Your mother didn't leave a will per se," he said, revealing yellow teeth; his voice was like the rustle of dry paper. "She didn't have much to give, and what she did she figured you would divide evenly." He got the envelope open and removed two sheets of paper, looking from them to the kids before him with a smile. "She always said you two were close and that you weren't likely to bicker the way some families do."

Ronnie Anne glanced at her brother, and the corners of his lips turned up in a smile. It's a shame how some families fall apart when a parent dies...they get greedy and jealous...she couldn't imagine being that way to Bobby. In the week since their mother died, he had been her steady, her rock, her support. Whereas some siblings' relationships deteriorate in situations such as these, theirs had grown even stronger than it was before.

Thompkins slid one sheet in front of Ronnie Anne and the other in front of Bobby. Ronnie Anne picked up hers and looked at it: Her mother's flowery Spanish covered three quarters of the page. She folded it and laid it in her lap: She would read it when she was alone and no one, not even Bobby, could see her cry.

Thompkins propped his elbows on the table and tented his fingers, the cuffs of his gray suit falling down his bony wrists. "What are your plans regarding the house?" he asked, his rheumatic eyes darting between the siblings.

"W-We haven't really talked about it," Bobby said. " _I_ can't afford the payments."

"I don't want it," Ronnie Anne said, "just my things and pictures and some of the furniture, maybe. Me and my f-fiancé are moving in together."

Bobby and Lori both looked at her quizzically.

Thompkins nodded. "It will go to the bank, then. I can arrange an estate sale, but it might not be worth it. There is not much of value in the house and the cost of the sale may be greater than any potential profit. The foreclosure process can take up to several months if we...delay. That is up to you. I assume, from the way you're both speaking, you'd just as soon be rid of it once your effects are removed, yes?"

"Yes," Bobby said.

Ronnie Anne nodded.

"Alright," Thompkins said. He reached into his breast pocket and took out a pair of reading glasses, his hand shaking. He slipped them on and reached for something on the floor by his foot: With a grunt, he sat a metal lockbox on the desk. "Now, the matter of the inheritance," he said more to himself than anyone else.

Ronnie Anne's brow furrowed. "Inheritance?"

Producing a tiny silver key from his watch pocket, Thompkins unlocked the box and opened the lid. "Yes," he said, reaching in and taking out a piece of paper. He held it up and adjusted his glasses, tilting so that the sunlight fell across the page. "You're mother left stringent instructions that it be split exactly evenly, to the cent. Out of fairness, you see, not because she doesn't trust you." He wetted his lip and scanned the paper. "Ah, here. 5,052 dollars and fifty cents to Roberto and 5,052 dollars and fifty cents to Ronalda."

Bobby and Ronnie Anne both gaped. "Five thousand dollars?" they asked in unison.

"And fifty-two dollars and fifty cents," Thompkins reminded them. He took two stacks of bills out, each bound with a rubber band. He sat one in front of Ronnie Anne and the other in front of Bobby. Ronnie Anne's eyes widened. She had _never_ seen so much money in her life. Five thousand dollars? That was enough to put her through college and then some.

"Where did she get this money?" she asked.

"Some of it she inherited from her grandfather – there was more but it was spent – and the rest was saved over time. She insisted on leaving something behind. She was no doubt planning on there being more, and there would have been, but God has a way of striking when we least expect it." He closed the strongbox and pushed it aside. "Might I suggest investing? You can easily triple that amount in as little as five years."

Bobby looked at Lori, who shrugged. "If you want. We could really use it, though. We do have a mortgage and two car payments."

Bobby nodded. "Alright. I'll just take the cash."

Thompkins nodded, then looked at Ronnie Anne. "Ronalda?"

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "No."

He spread his hands. "Alright then. There are the funeral expenses. I trust you've worked something out?"

Bobby nodded. He paid for the bulk of it outright, and Ronnie Anne covered the remaining balance: The whole price was 750 dollars.

"Well, that should do it," Thompkins said, then looked at Bobby. "Your mother paid her yearly retainer fee in December, so until that time, I am yours. If you wish to retain me after that, the fee will be one hundred dollars per annum."

"I'll think about it," Bobby said.

"Good," Thompkins smiled and stood. Bobby did likewise, and he shook the old man's hand across the desk. In the car, Ronnie Anne counted the bills in her hand again and again, her mind still boggled by how much there was.

"So," Lori asked, glancing into the rearview mirror, "you and Lincoln are moving in together?" There was a sly smile in her voice that made Ronnie Anne blush.

"We kind of talked about it yesterday," she said. As they held each other on the couch, they discussed it more; they were going to do it, they decided. They just needed to find a place, probably an apartment to start with. The only bills either of them had to worry about at this point were her college expenses...and that was _before_ she knew about the inheritance. Right now, they were ahead of the game.

She smiled widely, then felt a rush of guilt. Her mother was dead and no amount of money could ever replace her. Her mood darkened, and she sighed.

"That's great," Lori said happily, "are you guys going to get married?" She half-lidded her eyes.

"At some point," Ronnie Anne said, and the thought of marrying Lincoln – the man she loved – lifted her spirits. "I'm actually...I'm kind of nervous about that."

"Why?" Lori asked, her head tilting.

Ronnie Anne shrugged one shoulder. It sounded kind of stupid when she articulated it, but...being with Lincoln was a journey, and for a long time she knew, or at least guessed, that the ultimate destination would be marriage and children. While that sounded wonderful...she was enjoying the journey, and even if what waited at the end was as beautiful as being married to him and bearing his children, she was in no hurry to end it: She wanted to savor every minute the way one would fine wine.

"It's a big step," she said simply.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, it is, but if you love him, it's really not." He glanced up in the rearview mirror. "Do you love him?"

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "You know the answer to that."

"Do you?" he pressed.

"With all my heart," she boldly admitted.

"You remember telling me you gave him your heart?"

"Yes."

"He still has it, right?"

"He does...and he always will."

Bobby lifted one hand. "Then why not just marry the guy?"

"Because I want to cherish every minute of the journey we're on, okay? Damn."

Bobby snickered. "You're a sap, Ronalda."

"Drop dead twice, creep."

He grinned into the mirror. "And look like you?"

* * *

At 3:30, the new evening cook came in and relieved Lincoln. He was a tall, lanky man with brown bushy hair, glasses, and a prominent Adam's apple named Oscar (the guy was named Oscar, not his Adam's apple). Lincoln was so happy to see him he almost planted a big, wet kiss on his thin little lips: It was a slow day, and he spent most of it standing around bored out of his mind. "Glad to see you, buddy," he told Oscar as he slipped his apron off and handed it to him, "have at it."

Up front, Flip was sitting on a stool, the paper folded in his hand. "Things are starting to get hot in Vietnam," he commented.

"Yeah," Lincoln said and leaned against the counter. "Ronnie Anne said she's thinking of coming in tomorrow. Is there room on the schedule?"

"I can make room," Flip said without looking up, "if she comes in."

"I can ask her and call you at home."

"Don't worry about it, kid," Flip said. "If she comes in she can work."

"Thanks," Lincoln said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...don't you have a home to go to or something?"

Lincoln chuckled. "Come on, Flip, you don't want to hang out with your old pal Lincy?"

Flip snorted. "I get enough of you during the day, Loud. Get outta here."

Lincoln saluted. "Alright. Later."

Outside, the day was warm and bright, the sun stinging Lincoln's eyes. He lit a cigarette and climbed into the Impala, rolling down the window as he did. He turned the key, and the car filled with music:

 _I bought you a brand new mustang 'bout nineteen sixty five_

 _Now you come around signifying a woman, you don't wanna let me ride._

 _Mustang Sally, think you better slow your mustang down._

Lincoln turned it up and glanced behind him as he backed out of his spot. He crept to the end of the parking lot and waited for a line of traffic to pass before turning right.

 _All you want to do is ride around Sally_

 _Ride, Sally, ride._

He tapped his fingers on the wheel and took a drag, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Alright, before going home he had to stop by Lori's and see Ronnie Anne, then –

Ah, that's right, Clyde wanted to talk to him. His plan _was_ to go see Ronnie Anne and then go home...but if he was honest with himself, once he was with Ronnie Anne, he probably wasn't going to leave until he absolutely had to – he might even sleep on the couch again. If he was going to see Clyde, he better do it now.

He pulled into the skating rink parking lot and did a U-turn, waited for traffic, and went left on Main. Hey, look, there's Flip's; let's stop in for a bite, huh? He grinned to himself. If Ronnie Anne was here he would have said that aloud and she would have called him a dork.

At Clyde's house, he parked at the curb and killed the engine, cutting The Rolling Stones off in the middle of _Not Fade Away_. He got out, went up the walk, and climbed the stairs, trying for the life of him to figure out what Clyde wanted to talk about. At the door, he knocked, and less than a minute later, Clyde's father answered: He wore black pants and a sweater vest. "Hi, Lincoln," he said.

"Hey, Mr. McBride, is Clyde here?"

"Yes, he is." He called Clyde's name over his shoulder, and after a minute Clyde appeared. His father left.

"Hey, Linc," Clyde said, coming out onto the porch.

"Hey, Clyde...uh, Luan said you wanted to talk to me."

Clyde nodded. "Yeah. Can...can we take a ride?"

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Yeah, sure."

Five minutes later, they were in the car and aimlessly cruising, the windows down and the radio on. Clyde stared out the passenger window, and Lincoln could sense that whatever he had to say, it was serious.

Was Luan pregnant?

That thought struck him like a slap.

For a long time Clyde didn't speak. When he did, he turned and looked at Lincoln with a grave expression. "My parents are moving to New York," he said, "and I think I'm going with them."

Lincoln's heart dropped. "What?"

Clyde nodded. "Yeah, my dad's opening a men's shop with a friend of his from school. I've been thinking a lot about it and I'm pretty sure I'm going to go."

Clyde must have seen the sudden flash of emotion in Lincoln's eyes, because he hastened to add: "I mean...a black guy like me stands a better chance is the city than in a town like Royal Woods. There's more opportunity. Here –" he shook his head, "– here I'm stuck. I've been looking for a real job since graduation and no one will hire me. I can't shovel shit for the rest of my life."

Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, but snapped it closed again. Clyde had a point: Racism was still very much alive and well in Royal Woods, and Lincoln suspected the rest of the county was no different. Still...Clyde _leaving?_

"I hesitated," Clyde said, "because...you're my best friend and I don't want to leave you, but...I have to think about what's best for me, and Royal Woods isn't what's best for me."

Lincoln drew a heavy breath and pointed his eyes at the road. No, it probably wasn't, and he was right: He had to look out for his own best interests. Though Lincoln often forgot that fact, they were adults now, he was eighteen and Clyde was closing in on nineteen, and as adults, you have to do things you don't want to do.

"When?" he asked, surprised that he managed to keep a tremble out of his voice.

"The end of the week."

Lincoln whipped his head around. That soon? "I was going to tell you sooner," Clyde said, "when I made up my mind, but then Ronnie Anne's mother...I didn't want to bother you, I figured you had enough on your plate."

Lincoln sighed.

"I'm sorry," Clyde said plaintively.

"It's fine," he said. Part of growing up, he supposed. "Does Luan know?"

Clyde nodded. "Yeah, we mutually decided to break it off. She's got her thing, I have mine. Did she tell you she found a college?"

"No."

"Yeah. UC Berkeley in California. It has all the classes she needs to become a social administrator – that's what they call it – and the curriculum is one of the best in the country. She's in the process of getting grants and student loans and all that." He sighed. "I'm happy for her, but life is taking us in different directions, you know?"

Lincoln forced himself to nod. "Yeah. If you think going to New York is best, it must be. You're a smart guy, the smartest guy I know, and I-I trust you know what you're doing. And you're right about here. I'm going to miss you, though."

"I'm going to miss you too," Clyde said. "You're the best friend I've ever had and probably the best I'll _ever_ have."

For a long time they cruised, reminiscing and laughing at eight years' worth of shared memories. Only eight years. Can you believe it? It felt like longer – it felt like he and Clyde had _always_ been friends. To be honest, Lincoln could barely remember what life was like before him...that's what happens when someone becomes such an integral part of your life.

Lincoln dropped him off at dusk then drove over to Lori's house, his chest tight and his mood dark. When it pulled into the driveway, it was just past eight, and he knocked very gently so as not to wake Bobby Jr. Lori opened the door. "Hey, Linc."

Ronnie Anne and Bobby were sitting on the couch, Ronnie Anne leaning forward to see him.

"Hey," he said, "I thought I'd drop by for a little while."

Lori nodded. "I figured you would. In fact, I expected you for dinner."

Inside, Lincoln dropped next to Ronnie Anne and slipped his arm around her. She leaned into him. "Hey," she said.

"Hey. How was your day?"

"Interesting," she nodded, "in a good way."

She told him about the inheritance, and his eyes widened. "Wow," he said, "that's great."

"I know," she said.

"That means you and Ronnie Anne have more money for your own place," Lori said. She was sitting next to Bobby now, her legs crossed and Bobby's arm around her shoulder. A can of beer was wedged between his legs.

"I told them we're moving in together," Ronnie Anne said.

"I guess that makes it official."

"Mmmm. I guess so."

He told her about Clyde, and her face fell just a fraction of an inch: He didn't think she liked Clyde as much as he did, but she did like him – for almost ten years, he and Clyde were the only people she hung out with. It might not be obvious on the surface, but she counted Clyde as a friend. "That stinks."

Lincoln nodded. "I know."

At 9:30, Lori and Bobby went to bed, and Lincoln was prepared to stay, but Ronnie Anne shook her head. "I need to be alone tonight. There's something I have to do."

The resolute tone of her voice and the determined set of her brows told Lincoln that she meant business. "Alright," he said, and kissed her. "I love you."

She kissed him back. "Hey – soon we'll have our own place and we won't have to do this anymore."

A sunny grin broke out across his face. "I know. I can't wait."

"Neither can I."


	33. April 1965: Part 3

Rita Loud heaved a heavy sigh. She, Lynn, and Alvin were sitting in the kitchen, Alvin leaning forward with his forearms resting on his legs in a posture of misery. When she opened the door to him twenty minutes ago, she knew instantly from the tears in his eyes that something was the matter: Her first thought was that Luna had been in an accident, and her heart seized. "What happened?" she asked, "what's wrong?"

"She's gone," he said, and for a terrible moment she thought he meant that she died; then he held up the letter. "She left."

Presently, Lynn reread the letter for the third time, his reading glasses sliding down his nose.

 _Daggy;_

 _I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't do this face to face like you deserve. I just can't. I'm weak. I couldn't say goodbye to anyone because it already hurts and doing it that way would hurt even more. I'm leaving for California to follow my dream...a dream you supported the entire time we were together. I appreciate that more than you'll ever know. I love you. I really do and I'm sorry I'm hurting you but I have to do this. I can't stay in Royal Woods for the rest of my life; that's not who I am. If it was, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with you and having kids. You're a real gone guy and I had a lot of fun with you. Please don't take this personally. And I know you probably hate me, but could you please tell my parents? I'll call them when I get to Cali – and I'll call you too if you want. Tell them I'm sorry I left without telling them, but I couldn't face them any more than I could face you. I'll be back one day, and who knows what will happen then? I love you all._

 _Luna._

He sat it down on the table and exhaled through his nose. Rita unconsciously clutched the front of her housecoat in a white-knuckled death grip; when she realized what she was doing, she let go and smoothed the fabric out. Luna was a grown woman and it is wrong for a parent to expect a grown child to stay within reach, but simply knowing that she was gone – on a perilous journey to a strange and alien land where she knew no one and had nothing, all to chase a dream that she had little chance of achieving – made Rita's heart ache like an abscessed tooth. Alvin, poor boy, just hung his head and struggled to keep his breathing steady. She could not say she ever approved of him or his habits, per se, but in his eyes she saw genuine love for her daughter, and that's all a mother could ever ask...for her child to be with someone who loved them. She leaned forward and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm okay," he said, his voice thick. He wiped his eyes with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. "I just didn't expect it is all."

"Dear," Rita said, "Luna cares about you very much, she just...she has to do this, apparently."

He nodded. "I understand. Really, I do. I was with her four years, we talked a lot about what she wanted. I just..." he trailed off. "I just love her."

Rita squeezed his shoulder. "I know you do, honey."

After Alvin left, Lynn got up and went to the fridge. There was always beer in it, but he only drank one on especially stressful days. Currently he grabbed one, crossed back to the table, and sat down. "She'll be fine," he said as he popped the tab, "she's a smart girl...a tough girl...she'll do well. As well as anyone can."

"I know," Rita said, "but I worry. You know how the city is like, Lynn. There's someone on every corner looking to take advantage of you, especially if you're a girl with a dream."

Lynn sighed. He knew. It's a fact of life that wherever people gather in high numbers, there will be predators to use, mistreat, and manipulate them...and as Rita said, women especially. He wasn't lying when he said that Luna was smart and tough, she was, but in a way he _was_ lying, because while his voice was calm, inside he was a tangle of emotions...chiefly among them was fear for his little girl. He took Rita's hand in his own and held it, trying to think of something to say. "She'll do fine," he repeated. It was all that came.

Fifteen minutes later, they were still sitting at the table in a semi-daze when Lincoln came in. Lynn and Rita were both mildly surprised to see him: He didn't come home last night and they expected him to not come home tonight either. The moment he entered, he read the looks on their faces, and his brow angled worriedly down. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," Rita said, "Luna just...left today."

Confusion flicked across his face. "What?"

Lynn held the note out, and his son took it, reading it with widening eyes. When he was done, he handed it back. "Gee, when it rains, it pours," he said. "Clyde's leaving too."

In his room that night, Lincoln struggled to find sleep, but it eluded him, and he lay awake long into the small hours of the morning. It hurt that Luna was gone – it hurt a lot – but what hurt most of all was that she didn't even say goodbye.

* * *

Ronnie Anne held the letter in trembling hands, her eyes wet and her heart aching with loss. It was well past midnight, and it had taken her this long – three hours? Four hours? – to simply take it out and unfold it. She started to read several times, but never made it past her name at the top.

 _Ronalda_. In her mother's handwriting.

She was sitting on the couch in a spill of warm lamplight with her legs crossed. The ache in her chest was so great that she could hardly draw a breath. She laid the note in her lap, tilted her head back, and squeezed her eyes closed. She missed her mom so much it hurt – literally every nerve ending crackled with the pain of grief, and if it continued much longer, she would die.

She had to do this, though, no matter how much it hurt. She opened her eyes, sat up straight, and began to read:

 _Ronalda;_

 _I have always tried to do my best by you and Roberto, and I know that wasn't always enough._

Hot tears coursed down Ronnie Anne's cheeks. _No, Mom, it was._

 _I love you and your brother more than anything else in the world, and I am so happy that God gave me such wonderful children. I only wish our lives had been easier._

 _Our lives were perfect,_ Ronnie Anne thought, and lost it, bowing her head and biting her bottom lip against a loud sob. Teardrops fell onto the paper and her hands, and a warbling moan slipped out, shattering the eerie stillness. She wiped her eyes and read on.

 _The money is not much, but I hope that it will be enough to help you. I don't know what the circumstances of life will be when you read this – I write a different one every year and have since your father left (it is 05/08/64 now)_ , _but that you are reading this version means that I died young. I am sorry._

Ronnie Anne felt herself teetering on the brink of breaking down once more, and closed her eyes until her footing was surer.

 _You are an intelligent girl, Ronalda, and I trust that you will use it wisely. Please use it wisely. You are with Lincoln now, and he seems like a good boy, but I don't want you to ever rely on him or anyone else the way I relied on your father. He told me he loved me and I believed him. Maybe he did. But things can and do change. Your future husband, whoever he is, may change, or he could die, or any number of things. Do_ _not_ _rely on him. Get an education and a career, and when you are sure you can take care of yourself and your children if need be, only then let yourself get pregnant. I do not regret you or Roberto in the slightest, but if I could do it over again, I would have waited and gone to school. There are not many good careers for women, but you can always find something if you look hard enough. I love you, my darling daughter; have a good life, be happy, and take care of your brother._

 _Love,_

 _Mom._

Ronnie Anne held the note to her heart and allowed the tears to come, letting them fall like a cleansing rain. _I will, Mom,_ she thought, _I promise...I'll have a happy life...and a career...and Lincoln._

* * *

It took two days to reach San Francisco, two long, anxious, sleep-starved days. The brown haired girl watched as America flashed by the grimy window: The smog-shrouded skyscrapers of Chicago; the rolling cornfields of Iowa; the amber fields of grain covering Nebraska; the snow-capped Rocky Mountains surrounding Denver; the stark deserts of Utah and Nevada; and finally the majestic Redwoods and vast, open spaces of northern California. She passed through a thousand towns, saw a thousand people come and go. For a while an old woman sat in the seat next to her and talked endlessly about her grandchildren; after her was a man in jeans and a denim jacket, his blonde hair long and his face covered with a bushy beard. He wore a red bandanna around his forehead and talked slowly, his eyes red. Luna liked him, he was cool.

At night, she tried to sleep, her head lulling against the window, but she was too nerve-wracked: Her anxiety rose with every mile the bus sailed, her stomach panging in a strange and not wholly unpleasant mixture of fear and exhilaration. She wound up staying awake through the whole drive and planning her moves once she landed in San Francisco – first she wanted something to eat, then she wanted sleep. She wanted to find a place to stay as quickly as she could – a boardinghouse would be preferable – and the thought of getting a motel just for the night wasn't a happy one. She had money, but it would go quickly – too quickly, especially if she didn't find a job for a while. She did _not_ want to walk around the city of San Francisco looking for a place to live on no sleep, though, so as soon as she ate, she'd had to suck it up and get a room.

They arrived via Oakland at dawn on April 21, and the exhaustion nesting in Luna's skull was blown away by a sudden rush of excitement. San Francisco is nestled on a peninsula with the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Bay to east. It is accessible from the north only by the Golden Gate Bridge and from the east by the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, a massive suspension structure much like the more famous one to the north: Whereas the other one was a warm orange, this one was gray and drab. She pressed her face to the window as the city opened up on either side of the highway, a dozen buildings soaring so high into the purple and orange tinged heavens that she had to crane her neck just to see their tops.

The Greyhound terminal was on Folsom Street three blocks northwest of the bridge in what Luna would later find out was the city's financial district. The morning air was warm and smelled like the sea. Gulls flew and wheeled and cawed overhead, and California Live Oak lined the sidewalk. A group of people in bright, flowing clothes sat clustered in a group along one of the terminal's walls, a man with a beard strumming a guitar much like Luna's own. They were dirty, grimy, and, yeah, to be honest, they made her uncomfortable.

From the station she walked south, aimlessly, her bag slung over her shoulder and her guitar case hanging from one hand. She saw a lot of businessman types on the sidewalks, but here and there were men with long hair. She knew long hair on men was coming into style, but now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember ever seeing it in person: All the men in Royal Woods were trimmed and clean cut, even the teenagers.

She walked a good five blocks, lost and looking around agog before she found a café with big front windows. Inside, the air was warm and smelled like bacon and eggs; her stomach rumbled, and she went over to a table and sat, sitting the bags on the floor next to her. A waitress came over and sat a laminate menu in front of her. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.

"Yeah, uh...do you have Coke?"

"No, we have Pepsi."

"That's fine."

As Luna waited for her pop, she scanned the menu: It was simple and to the point...bacon, sausage, pancakes, eggs, toast, waffles, a few different types of sandwiches, hamburger, cheeseburger, and the special – today pot roast with carrots and potatoes.

The waitress returned with a glass of Pepsi. "Are you ready to order?"

"Yeah," Luna said, "can I have an egg, sunny side up, bacon, toast, sausage, and a short stack please?"

The waitress's brow lifted as she jotted Luna's order down in a notepad. "You must be hungry."

"Yeah," Luna said with a nervous smile, "I haven't eaten in a couple days."

The waitress fixed her with a stern gaze. "You have money to pay, don't you?"

Luna blinked. Huh? "O-Of course I do."

The waitress nodded and departed without a further word. That was strange. Why did she think she didn't have money? She wouldn't have come in and sat down if she didn't. She took a drink of her pop and looked around. The place was small with wood-paneled walls bearing framed pictures. Down a brief hall was a sign for the bathrooms and, Luna noted, a phone booth.

She should really call home.

For a moment she was undecided – she said that she would, but the thought of being confronted by her mother's wounded voice made her suddenly queasy. She nervously chewed her bottom lip and tried to think of a good reason, a real reason, to put it off, but there was none. She finished in her pocket, found a dime, and got up. In the booth, she closed the little door, dropped her dime in, and dialed.

Mom answered on the third ring, her voice tinny and partially obscured by static. "Hello?"

Luna's lips were dry, and she wetted them with her tongue. "Hey, Mom," she said, "it's me."

"Luna?" Mom asked, her voice rising just a little. "Honey, where are you?"

"San Francisco," she said, "did Daggy tell you?"

There was a pause. "Yes, Alvin told us. I...I really wish you had done it yourself."

Sharp guilt filled Luna. "I know," she said lowly, "I'm sorry. I just couldn't. How is everyone?"

"A little upset," Mom replied, and Luna thought she detected a hint of reproach in her voice, which made her feel even worse. "But understanding. How are things there?"

"I just got here. I'm going to have something to eat then get a room for the night. Tomorrow I'm going to look for a job and a place."

Mom sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing, Luna. The city is a rough place and there are always people looking to hurt you."

Luna nodded. She knew: People are shitty. "I know, Mom, but I'll be okay. I promise."

In the dining room, the waitress sat Luna's plate on the table and disappeared again. "Look, Mom, I have to go. I'll call you soon. Maybe even later today. Tell everyone I said hi."

"Alright, honey," Mom said, then: "Please be careful."

"I will, Mom, promise."

"Okay. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom."

She hung the phone up with a trembling hand and drew a troubled breath. At her table, she sat, but suddenly wasn't as hungry. She ate every bite, though, and then paid at the counter, leaving a dollar tip for the waitress.

Outside, she looked left, then right, choosing right at random. Three blocks later she came to a two story motel shaped like an L: A giant palm tree stood in the crook. MOTEL 6 read the sign in the parking lot. In the office, a man in glasses sat behind the counter, his attention on a tabletop television set. When Luna came in, he glanced over and got up. "Morning," he said, "can I help you?"

"Yeah," Luna said nervously, "how much for one night?"

"Six dollars," the man said, then grinned, "that's why it's called Motel 6."

Luna nodded. She hated parting with six dollars, but she needed sleep.

"Sign the register, please."

The man pushed an open ledger toward her and handed her a pencil. She wrote her name in one of the boxes, and under 'home address' wrote _1216 Franklin Avenue, Royal Woods, Michigan, 27853_. The man spun it around, looked at it, and nodded. "Long way from home," he commented.

 _I know,_ Luna thought and felt like she was going to cry. "Yeah, I'm visiting a friend," she lied.

Five minutes later, she let herself into her room and laid her bags on the table by the window. A boxy television set sat on a chest of drawers. A painting of a pink flower (carnation?) hung over the single, neatly-made bed. She crossed to the nightstand, sat, and switched the lamp on.

Here she was.

California.

She was excited and scared and regretful and filled with hope all at the same time. She got up, went to her bag, and rummaged around in the side pocket. Sitting Indian-style in the middle of the bed, she plopped the joint into her mouth and sparked it, the astringent smoke filling her lungs and wrapping her tired mind in warm wool.

 _It's going to be alright,_ she told herself, _better than that...it's going to be_ great.

* * *

Luan Loud leaned against the back end of Lincoln's Impala with her arms crossed over the front of her white blouse. A warm spring breeze fluttered her yellow skirt and made her ponytail swing back and forth, the soft touch of hair against the nape of her neck irritating her. Ronnie Anne sat on the hood, her legs dangling over the edge and her hands planted on either side of her. As they watched, Lincoln came out of the house with a box in his arms, descended the stairs, and crossed the front lawn to the moving truck parked at the curb. Clyde came behind him with another box. Luan glanced away from him, not sure how she should feel and not liking it. They reached the decision to break up together: They both knew once she decided to go to Berkeley that it was only a matter of time. Still, she thought they'd have a little longer. He was excited about going to New York, and she was happy for him: He was right about Royal Woods not being the right place for him. Pretty damn sad, she thought, a great guy like him having to leave town because 'oh, lord, his skin is brown!' It made her furious.

Lincoln sat his box down, climbed into the back of the truck, and then picked it up again, sitting it against one wall. He reached down, took the second box from Clyde, and sat it next to the first. "That the last of it?" he asked as he jumped down.

"Yeah," Clyde said, his hands sliding into his pockets. He glanced back at the house. His parents came out of the house and closed the door, locking it behind them, and Luan's stomach lurched. Here it was.

It was time for him to go.

She suddenly felt his loss as a sharp, kneading ache in her chest. He was her first – in everything – and your first will always occupy a special place in your heart. You never forget them, and, in a way, they never cease being important to you.

Clyde's parents came down the stairs and went to the car. "Well, I guess that's it," he said. Lincoln drew him into a hug and patted him on the back. He wasn't crying, but Luan could see the emotion on his face.

"I'm going to miss you," Lincoln said.

Clyde hugged him back. "I'm going to miss you too." His voice was thick.

Ronnie Anne was next: She hugged him too. "Good luck," she said, "and you _better_ come back to visit."

"I will," Clyde said through a tiny grin and hugged her back. "Just as soon as I get some wheels and a little money, I'll be back."

When she let him go, he glanced at Luan and came awkwardly over. She stood up straight and took a deep breath. He heart was pounding and she suddenly felt like she was going to cry. For a moment they stood in front of each other, neither capable of looking the other in the eye.

"I'm going to miss you, Luan," he said.

"I'm going to miss you too, Clyde."

He surprised her by taking her hand and locking his eyes to hers. "I'll always cherish the time we had together and you'll always mean the world to me."

Luan grinned even as a single tear trickled down her face. "Me too." She hugged him, and he slipped his arms around her waist; when he kissed her cheek, she could feel his tears against her face. "I'll always love you."

He kissed her cheek again and drew back. "I'll always love you too."

She slipped her hand into his.

Then he was gone, the car backing into the street, following the moving truck, turning at the corner and disappearing from sight.

For a long time, no one spoke, and no one moved; Lincoln's hands were in his back pockets and he was slightly bent; Ronnie Anne leaned against the car; Luan hugged herself. "Speaking of moving," Lincoln said dully.

Ronnie Anne nodded. The day before, they looked at an apartment in a one story L-shaped building across town that wasn't the greatest, but it was cheap, clean, and the landlord seemed nice enough. Today they were signing the lease on a one-bedroom unit with plans to move in over the weekend. He rented a U-Haul; he didn't have much, but there was the furniture at Ronnie Anne's house: At first she didn't want any of it because it would remind her of her mother – now she did...because it would remind her of her mother.

"Luan?" Lincoln asked, coming over and putting his hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine, Linc," she said, her voice low and cracking. Before signing the lease, they dropped her off at home, and in her room, she struggled not to cry – she thought of Berkeley and of all the good work she would do after she graduated. And _that_ was enough to make her happy again.


	34. April 1966

**Lyrics to** _ **Drive My Car**_ **by The Beatles (1965)**

* * *

Ah, life's simple pleasures: Ice cream on a hot day, the stars at night, slowly coming awake next to the woman you love. That last one was Lincoln's favorite, especially on Sundays like today, when neither worked and Ronnie Anne didn't have class. His mind would languidly swim up from the depths of sleep, his nose would twitch, then his eyes would flutter open. Sometimes she would be snuggled against him, her butt touching his crotch and her hair in his face; sometimes she would be facing him, her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted, her breathing shallow and her cheeks glowing angelically. He could never decide which he liked best, and every Sunday was different, which gave him something to look forward to. Today, she was cuddled up to him, her knees drawn up and her butt pressed to his rigid morning erection. One of his arms was above his head, and the other was wrapped protectively around her stomach. He smiled lazily and kissed the back of her head. She muttered and stirred.

For a long time he skated along the hazy border between sleep and wakefulness, neither one or the other but somehow both. The bright morning sunlight falling through the window warmed his flesh, and at one point he stretched like a cat, a satisfied groan escaping his lips.

"You're poking me," Ronnie Anne murmured.

"It's saying good morning," he replied.

"Can't it find another way to do that?"

Lincoln grinned. "I'm sure it could."

She shifted so that she faced him. Her eyes were puffy with sleep, but from the way she brushed her teeth across her lower lip, he doubted she wanted go back to bed. He touched her face and arched his hips so that it jabbed her between her legs: Two thin layers of underwear separated them. He leaned in, and they kissed slowly, their tongues moving together in leisurely union. They had all day...there was no need to rush.

Kissing led to petting, their hands stroking unhurriedly over the other's body; his fingers massaged her chest, hers traced the outline of his bulge through his underwear. He broke from her lips, and trailed kisses down her chin, along her jawline, to the soft flesh of her throat, the caress of his fingertips on her stomach making her shudder and moan. Her heart crashed, and when his hand dipped into her panties, her passion surged, filling her with heat.

Lincoln's own desire crested, and he pulled down his underwear, his throbbing member popping out and grazing against her palm. She arched her back and pushed her panties down, wiggling her hips and rubbing her legs until they slid over her ankles. When she was free, she spread her legs, and Lincoln shifted onto her, his tip raking across her sensitive lips: She winced and drew a sharp breath. "Be careful with that thing," she said breathlessly.

He rolled his hips, and his tip skipped across her folds, making her shudder and utter a high-pitch _nngh_. He laughed, and she slapped his arm. "Jerk," she said around a smile.

"Sorry," he panted, and guided himself to her opening. "I'll behave."

The touch of his head against her life-spring sent a shiver racing down her spine. "You better," she said, "or I'll have to kick your ass."

He started to pull away. "Alright, if it's going to be like that..."

She grabbed him by his hips and dragged him back, his penis inadvertently spearing into her; she gasped and threw her head back. "God _damn_ ," she huffed.

They made love slowly in the warm spring sunshine, their bodies rocking gently together and their sighs mingling as surely as their breaths. She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his, and when her orgasm hit her, she squeezed, a long moan rising from her trembling lips. Lincoln expanded then yanked out, his body shuddering and grunts falling from his mouth as he pumped into the sheets.

When it was over, he rolled off of her and lay on his side, his hand coming to rest over her pounding heart. She remained on her back, her throat tacky and her chest rapidly expanding and contracting.

"Good thing it's laundry day," he said.

And they both laughed.

Afterwards, they showered together, then toweled each other dry. In the kitchen, Lincoln sat at the table and lit a cigarette: Ronnie Anne plucked it out of his mouth and took a drag while he glared playfully. "Here ya go, lame-o," she said and handed it back. "I wasn't gonna keep it."

While she cooked a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast, Lincoln turned the tabletop radio on and finished his cigarette. Chubby Checker was on with _Let's Twist Again_ and when he was done, an afternoon news program started, which told Lincoln that it was noon – lazy Sunday mornings sure do pass quickly, don't they?

Lincoln listened intently as the anchor talked about Vietnam: Over the past year, thousands of American troops had been sent to the front, and many of them came home in boxes. Protests were getting steadily larger and more vehement, and every day Lincoln, like virtually every other man of a certain age, waited with dread for a letter from the government ordering them to report for a physical – the first step in being drafted.

"How about some music?" Ronnie Anne asked over her shoulder; she was at the stove frying bacon.

Lincoln turned the dial, and found a station playing The Beatles. "There you go," he said.

"I will stab you," she said.

Pounding his fist against the table in time, he sang along:

" _Baby you can drive my car_

 _Yes I'm gonna be a star_

 _Baby you can drive my car_

 _And maybe I'll love you."_

Ronnie Anne watched him with flaring nostrils. "You're cute when you're mad," he teased.

She picked the frying pan up and lifted her eyebrows. "Want a grease bath?"

Lincoln shook his head.

"Then I suggest you change the channel."

"Alright, alright," he said, and turned the dial again, finally settling for Patsy Cline.

"Better, but not great."

"You're picky," he said and got up. He grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge and popped the top off with a bottle opener. He took a drink and went over to her, putting one hand on her hip and kissing her neck.

"Am not," she purred, and snatched the Coke from his hand. She took a sip. "It's called having good taste."

He took the bottle back. "It's called being irritating and making me angry."

"Oh?" she chuckled and half-turned. "If you wanna take this outside, Loud, let's go."

Instead, he kissed her neck. "No thanks. I'd rather not start my Sunday afternoon by getting beaten to a quivering pulp."

She leaned her head back into the crook of his neck and looked up at him. "I wouldn't beat you to a pulp; I'd just hit you 'til you got the point."

"You're forgetting something," he said.

"What?"

"I'm hardheaded. I wouldn't get the point until I'm a quivering pulp."

She shrugged. "True."

He kissed her forehead. "Love you."

"Love you too. Now get out of here before I burn the bacon."

* * *

It was late Sunday morning in Arizona: The sun shone fiercely in the piercing blue desert sky, and the wind, when it blew, was dry and harsh, like sandpaper. Lynn Loud, wearing a red button down short sleeved shirt with horizontal blue pinstripes tucked into white slacks, hurried across the grassy commons, which was empty at this hour save for a few long-hairs sitting in the shade of a tree. When Lynn first started at the University of Arizona four years ago, none of the boys wore their hair past their shoulders, and _very_ full of them had facial hair; now beards, mustaches, and flowing locks were everywhere. Lynn didn't like it, and he didn't like them: They were the ones who walked out of class last month in protest of the war, and they were the ones who crowded the commons with signs and bongos and other stupid shit. They smoked dope, didn't respect authority, and reveled in being 'different' – in this case 'different' meaning totally and completely abnormal.

He shook his head as he passed the hippies and went into the athletic building. On a Sunday morning, the halls were desolate, and his footfalls echoed, the sound of the stairwell door closing behind him as he pounded down the steps making him jump even though he was expecting it.

Coach Harriman's office was off the basketball court. A few guys in All Stars and training uniforms played, Lynn automatically turning his head to admire their form. Basketball was Lynn's third favorite sport after football and baseball – he knew it fairly well, and he knew the guys on the court now were _good_.

Better at their sport than he was at his.

All through his college ball career, he had been a middling player at best: He gave it everything he had, but everything he had wasn't good enough – at least to stand out. For the first two years, he focused on improving because it bothered him, then in the third year, he grudgingly accepted it: He wasn't very good and he wasn't going to go pro. Accepting that fact didn't make it any easier a pill to swallow. No, in fact, accepting it cut him so deeply that for a long time he could barely get out of bed.

Then, at the beginning of this season, football fell off his radar almost entirely.

Which is why he was here today.

He poked his head into Coach Harriman's office, a tiny space crammed with metal shelves overflowing with athletic equipment: Coach was sitting at a metal desk, clad in a gray sweat suit, a blue UoA cap on his head. He was writing something on a clipboard, and for a while Lynn waited, then cleared his throat. Coach looked up: He was a bullish man with salt and pepper stubble covering his developing jowls. His eyes were faded blue and hard, and Lynn never failed to squirm when they touched him. "Y-You wanted to see me?"

Coach gestured to a chair in front of the desk, and Lynn crossed to it, pulling his pantlegs up as he sat. Coach propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Why were you late to practice on Friday?"

Every Friday before a game, practice was held on the athletic field at four 'o'clock sharp. Two days ago, Lynn didn't show up until four-ten.

"I was running late," Lynn said, his eyes darting away.

"Second week in a row," Coach pointed out, his lips twisting in disgust.

Lynn nodded but didn't speak.

Coach sighed. "You've never been one of my best players, Loud."

Lynn bristled – at what he said or because he was right, he didn't know.

"But you've always been at practice when I told you to and you always put in 100 percent. Lately, though, you've become a real slacker. I know you're graduating in a couple weeks, but that's no excuse to treat me and my team like a joke."

Lynn nodded again. In three weeks, he would walk out of here with a master's degree in business administration and his football days would be over. Four years ago that thought would have terrified him. Today, he didn't really care.

"You're obviously not playing tonight, and I don't know if I want you playing next week, either."

"That's fine," Lynn said.

Coach's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yeah, you think? Do you wanna play ball again before you leave?"

For a moment Lynn didn't respond: Whatever answer he gave would not only determine whether he played for the University of Arizona again, it would, even if just symbolically, determine his entire future.

"No," he said.

Coach took a deep breath and sat back. "Alright," he said and lifted his hands. "That's that. You sit out the rest of the games, you collect your diploma, and you go."

"Alright," Lynn nodded. "Is that all?"

Coach shook his head sadly. "Go."

Lynn felt an odd mixture of dread and relief as he walked across the basketball court and up the stairs. Organized sports had been such a vital part of his life for so long that the thought of no playing them scared him, but he had seen his future, he knew what he wanted...and it wasn't football.

Outside, more students were on the commons, some lounging in the sun and others on their way to the dining hall for breakfast. He made his way in that direction, and when he arrived, he waited by the door, his back against the wall and his hands in his pockets. He scanned the faces of his fellow students as they streamed past, looking for –

"Hey, Lynn!"

Lynn started and turned, a grin creeping across his face. Kathy Parker, her blonde hair in a ponytail, stood with her hands clasped in front of her, a giddy smile touching her red lips. She was a tall, thin girl with clear blue eyes and delicate features; she wore a pink pleated skirt and a sleeveless white blouse.

"Hey," he said, and they kissed.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and they began to work, "I kind of slept in." There was a sheepish quality to her voice.

"That's fine," he said, "I just got here myself. I had a meeting with Coach Harriman."

"Oh? How did _that_ go?" she asked. She was a cheerleader – or had been up until the beginning of last month.

Lynn took a deep breath. "I'm pretty much off the team."

They were inside the dining hall now, a wide area dotted with tables and chairs; a line of red vinyl booths ran along one wall. The chattering din of a thousand voices filled the air.

Kathy pouted. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Lynn said. "I don't really wanna play anymore." He squeezed her close and smiled. "I have other things on my mind."

She giggled and he took her hand, kissing his knuckle, his lips lingering on the engagement ring.

* * *

Luna Loud poked her head out of the room, looked left and right along the hall, and then drew back, closing the door and locking it. She reached into the pocket of her pink uniform and took out a joint. At the window, she knelt, lifted the sash, and lit it, drawing the smoke deep. She held it until her lungs were bursting, then leaned over the windowsill and blew it out: Below was a busy city street. Horns honked. People rushed. She took another drag, but her lungs were tender, and she coughed.

"Alright, hand it over."

Fighting to breathe, she passed the joint to the blonde girl kneeling next to her. She wore an identical uniform: Pink, white trim, white apron around her waist. She lifted the joint to her lips and sucked, her head tilting back in delight. She exhaled and smiled. "That's better," she said.

Luna waved her hand. "The point is to blow it _out_ the window."

"Oops," Sam said, "sorry."

Luna plucked the joint out of her friend's fingers and took a puff.

She met Sam three weeks after moving to San Francisco: She was out looking for a place to live (or a job, whichever came first), and found herself walking through Golden Gate State Park and marveling at the natural beauty: Trees, hills, rushing streams, and flowers. At one point, she left the trail and perched on a rock above a narrow brook. Birds chirped, the sun shone, a breeze slipped through the trees, and water gurgled over rocks. It was beautiful...the perfect place to smoke a joint. She was half way through, her knees drawn up to her chest and her mind drifting, when a head popped up. "I _knew_ I smelled weed!"

Luna screamed and almost fell off.

The girl climbed on and drew herself to a sitting position. She had long blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders and wore a billowing purple shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and an assortment of beads, bracelets, and necklaces; her feet were bare and dirty. Luna pulled nervously away, but the girl only smiled. "I'm Sam. Can I have some?"

"Uhhh...yeah, sure," Luna said, and handed her the joint.

"Thanks," Sam said, and took a drag. "It's been hours since I smoked last." She laughed richly, and Luna couldn't help but laugh too.

"I know the feeling," she said, "I went a week without."

Sam winced. "A week? Why?"

"I just moved here and I don't know anyone."

"Now you know me, and I happen to know a lot of other people – real far out people, if you know what I mean." She laughed again.

No, Luna did not know what she meant, but she found out. Sam and her boyfriend Jim (everyone called him Leaf – which struck Luna as funny, because he was at least two hundred pounds and looked more like Grizzly Adams or some shit) lived in a Victorian near the corner of Haight-Ashbury with a half dozen other people. When Luna first came over, she was shocked at the state of the house and its occupants: Beer cans and other debris littered the floor; the walls were covered in drawings and graffiti; there was no power; and the first person she met was a man wearing tight jeans, a headband, and nothing else, his brown hair and beard both long and dirty. They reminded Luna of the people she saw at the bus station the day she arrived, and for a while, she was uncomfortable, but they turned out to be really cool.

Sam worked at the Union Hotel on State Street and her boyfriend didn't seem to do anything, though he always had money and reefer. Sam invited Luna to stay with them and offered to help her find a job. Luna initially turned her down, because cool or not, she did not want to live in a dirty house with no power. After a while, though, she gave in. Why not? Life is about new experiences, right? She moved in, Sam got her a job at the Union, and someone they knew wound up knowing someone else who owned a bar and wanted someone to play on Saturday nights.

Living communally with hippies was an adjustment, but, you know, Luna actually really dug it. They partied, they had fun, they shared, everyone was laidback; it was almost like a family.

Almost.

She called home at least once a week. She talked to Mom and Dad and Leni, and every once in a while she called Lincoln's and talked to him. Lynn was still in Arizona and Luan had gone to Berkeley which, as it happened, wasn't all that far away from Luna: She planned to drive up one day and see her. She just needed a car.

"Come on," Sam said now, "don't bogart it."

Luna took another puff and passed it. "I'm done," she said and got up, swaying and nearly falling.

Sam licked her fingers and pinched it out. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," Luna said.

Sam went to get up, and toppled over, landing to the floor with a crash. Luna lost it and laughed so hard tears streamed down her face.

"Guess _I'm_ not," Sam said and got to her feet.

Before leaving, Luna poked her head out the door and looked around: Whew, the coast was clear. "With the way you thudded, I expected everyone to come running."

"That's not the first time I've fallen down on the job," Sam said placidly as they slipped out of the room and locked it behind them. Luna could smell the faint aroma of marijuana.

"I broke a coffee machine at my last job when I was high," she said. They were walking down the hall now. "I was pretending to be an airplane."

Sam laughed. "You must have been _gone_."

"I was almost gone out of work," Luna said.

The supply cart was ahead, parked against the wall at the head of the stairs to the lobby. Luna kept her head down so that no one would see her eyes in case they happened along, the floral pattern on the green carpet making her dizzy. When they reached the cart, she grabbed a feather duster. She was going to use this before their break, right? She couldn't remember. On a whim, she brushed it across Sam's face: The blonde spazzed out and slapped it away. "Aw, man, come on, that's my face!"

They both laughed uproariously.

"We gotta be quiet," Luna said, "or the man's gonna get us."

Sam pressed her finger to her lips and nodded.

It was too late, though. The man, in the form of Mrs. Benson, the boss lady, called up the stairs, her voice hard and dripping with malice. "I hope everything's okay up there."

Sam and Luna both paled. "E-Everything's fine, Mrs. Benson," Sam called back.

"Good," Mrs. Benson replied curtly, "I'd hate to have to reprimand you again, Samantha."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Luna?"

Luna leaned forward and peered down the stairwell: Mrs. Benson was at the bottom, her hands on her ample hips and her red lips pursed tightly. "Sorry, Mrs. Benson," she said and flashed a nervous smile.

Mrs. Benson nodded and turned. When she was gone, Sam muttered something under her breath. It rhymed with 'witch'.

"Come on," Luna said, "back to work, _Samantha_. I'd hate to have to reprimand you again." She put her hands on her hips and tried to glare, but couldn't, and smiled again.

"Take that duster and shove it, man," Sam said.

Instead, she took it and dusted.

* * *

After breakfast, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne curled up on the couch in front of the TV: It was a brand new 1966 model Zenith with woodgrain, a flat top, and a knob for changing channels. It wasn't just _any_ TV, though; it was a _color_ TV, and _Lassie_ had never looked better.

"Kind of makes _me_ want a dog," Ronnie Anne said as Lassie dashed away from the well little Timmy was currently stuck in. Her legs were drawn up under her and her head was resting on Lincoln's shoulder.

"You do realize Lassie isn't real, right?" he asked. "If we got a dog, it wouldn't save us from a twister, it'd poop all over the floor and eat our shoes."

She shrugged. "It'd look cute as it did it, though."

"If I want to look at something cute, I have you."

She giggled. "I'm not a dog, though."

He looked down at her and smirked. "Well, you _can_ be kind of a..."

She drove her elbow into his stomach and he choked. "Don't even say it..."

For a long time they watched Lassie in silence, simply enjoying each other's company. When Ronnie Anne spoke, Lincoln was surprised to find that he was starting to doze. "Did you get the mail yesterday?"

He thought. Did he? After they left work, they stopped by his parents' house for a little while then came home around ten. He didn't remember getting it. "No," he finally said.

"Can you now?"

She was waiting on her first semester grades, and being impatient about it. Sighing, he got up and stretched. She slapped his butt, and he jumped forward. "Go get the mail and stop messing around."

"Alright, alright."

He grabbed a cigarette from his pack on the table, lit it, and went outside: The day was warm and breezy, the air redolent of flowers. He breathed deeply and exhaled. Ahhh...spring is lovely, isn't it? He pinched his cigarette between his lips and went to the row of mailboxes in the laundry room alcove, which reminded him that they needed to wash their sheets.

Standing at his and Ronnie Anne's box, he fished his keys out of his pocket, selected the correct one, and opened it. There were three envelopes inside; he reached in, grabbed them, and locked the door. Bill, Ronnie Anne's grades (oh, boy, she was going to be excited), and, last, something with his name on it and a return address he didn't recognize.

His step faltered. He tucked the others under his arm and ripped it open. As he read, his heart dropped.

Oh, shit.

The letter was headed: SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM, and just below, in big, ominous bold was: **ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSICAL EXAMINATION.**

Further down:

 _You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination by reporting at_ :

Then the address of the county courthouse and a date: Monday, May 2, 1966, 12pm.

Here it was.

For a moment he didn't move – couldn't move – then, when he did, it was to shove the letter into his pocket: He couldn't let Ronnie Anne see this; she'd worry. Getting a letter to report for a physical didn't mean 100 percent that you were going to be drafted, and if he didn't have to worry her, he wouldn't.

He'd do plenty of worrying for the both of them.

Back inside, he tossed her the envelope containing her grades. When she saw it, her eyes lit up. "Al _right_ ," she said, and opened it. He went into the kitchen, slapped the bill onto the table, and got a Coke from the fridge: His hands were trembling so badly that it took his three tries to get it open.

"Heh, straight A's," she said, "I _knew_ it."


	35. May 1966: Part 1

**Guest: I see myself on CNN with my neighbors saying "He seemed like such a nice guy..."**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **We Can Work It Out**_ **by The Beatles (1965)**

* * *

 **Monday, Monday, can´t trust that day  
Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way  
Oh Monday mornin´ you gave me no warnin´ of what was to be –**

 **\- The Mamas and the Papas**

Monday, May 2nd, was cool and rainy. Ronnie Anne had classes from eight to four, which meant that Lincoln could slip away without her knowing. He got to work at seven, just before open, and went in: Flip was busy taking inventory in the kitchen, the freezer door open and his hands on his hips. When Lincoln spoke, he jumped.

"Goddamn it, Loud, you almost gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry," Lincoln, "I, uh, I need to talk to you."

Flip closed the freezer and leaned against the prep table. "Alright. Talk."

Lincoln took a deep breath. "I need to leave at noon. Well, eleven forty-five. I'll be back, but I...I got a letter from the draft board. I need to report for a physical."

Flip blinked. "Really? Well...that's fine, I guess. I can cover. You know what that means, don't you?"

Yeah, Lincoln knew: His official draft letter wasn't too far behind. _Maybe_.

"Don't worry about it," Flip said, "the army isn't that bad. They pay more than I do." He rasped laughter.

All that morning dread filled Lincoln's stomach. The idea of the army wasn't what bothered him...it wasn't even the prospect of going to Vietnam...it was being away from Ronnie Anne; that _really_ bothered him. She was his life, his air, his everything, and him being away from her was like a fish being away from water.

He hoped to hell he wasn't drafted.

At eleven forty-five, he took his apron off, hung it up, and handed the grill off to Flip. In the car, he lit a cigarette and turned the radio up, even though he wasn't in the mood for music.

 _Life is very short, and there's no time_

 _For fussing and fighting, my friend_

 _I have always thought that it's a crime_

Yeah, life _is_ short.

When he parked in front of the county courthouse five minutes later, he was a pit of nerves. The draft board was housed in the basement, which was accessible by a side door at the bottom of a stone staircase. A sign reading ARMED FORCES INDUCTION STATION hung over the door. Inside, he signed in with a man in a drab army uniform, who gave him a paper to fill out, and then sat in a makeshift waiting room with a dozen other men, he recognized some of them from school: All of them looked as anxious as he felt. He tried not to look at them too closely; instead, he focused on the form: It asked for his family medical history, mental health status, whether he took drugs or drank regularly, if he smoked, if he was married, if he had children, if he was a college student, if he was a conscientious objector, what his religion was, and on and on and on; it even asked if he was a homosexual.

Done, he handed it back to the receptionist, who in turn handed him a black cloth bag. "What's this for?" Lincoln asked.

"To put your money in and hang around your neck."

Lincoln didn't understand, but he took his seat and put his money in the bag anyway, then hung it around his neck.

As he waited, he stole glances at the others around him. He did in fact know some of them, but not well enough to know their names. The guy with the red hair was Patrick, he thought, and the one with the black hair was...

Someone dropped into the seat next to him, and he couldn't help turning.

"Daggy?"

Daggy looked up from the clipboard in his hand and grinned. "Hey, Linc; they got you too?"

Lincoln had seen very little of Daggy since Luna left...not that he saw much of him when she was still around, though. His hair was shorter, less curly, which told Lincoln he'd gotten a cut within the past couple months.

"Yeah," Lincoln said and spread his hands, "they got me."

"Guess we're gonna be kicking some VC ass together," Daggy smiled.

Lincoln gulped. "Y-Yeah, maybe."

"Right on," Daggy said. He crossed his legs and rested the clipboard on his knee. "How is everyone?" he asked as he began to write.

Lincoln nodded. "Good. Luan went to Berkeley."

"Yeah, Lori was talking about that," Daggy replied without looking. "Where _is_ Berkeley?"

"California."

"Ah."

For a while neither of them spoke. "How about you? How you doing?"

"Alright."

"You nervous?"

"A little," Lincoln admitted. "You?"

Daggy shook his head. "Nah. I'm actually kinda...you know...not excited, but I think the army might be okay. I was looking into it, and you can learn a trade, go to college on the G.I. Bill when you get out...all kinds of stuff."

"Yeah?" Lincoln asked, intrigued. He didn't know any of that.

Daggy nodded. "Yeah. When you get down to it..." he looked at Lincoln, his face more serious than he had ever seen it before, "...I'm twenty-six and I stock shelves like a fucking teenager. I live in a one bedroom apartment over a bowling alley and I drive a piece of shit car that was falling apart long before I bought it. It's time to grow up, and what's gonna grow you up more than the army, huh?" He flashed a wan smile then went back to filling out his form.

For some reason Lincoln was suddenly very uncomfortable.

When Daggy was done, he gave his questionnaire to the guy in the uniform and sat back down, slouching with his knees far apart. "I hope they put in the auto pool or whatever. I like working on cars. What spot do you want?"

 _None,_ Lincoln thought, but out loud: "I don't know. I'm not sure what they have."

"Lots of stuff." He backhanded Lincoln's chest. "You've been working at Flip's forever, so maybe they'll put you in the mess hall. You can be a chef for the generals and shit."

You know...that didn't sound so bad. He'd rather be a short order cook at Flip's for Royal Woods's teenagers and sleep next to Ronnie Anne every night, but if he _had_ to go, being a cook...way, way away from the front...might just be his speed.

Before he could reply, a man in a uniform came out and had everyone line up. In another room, they were instructed to take their clothes off...as in get entirely naked.

He understood why he needed that bag now.

After folding his clothes, Lincoln stood in line with fourteen other naked men; he kept his eyes straight ahead, a blush spreading across his face. In yet another room, a man in a white lab coat handed Lincoln a glass bottle for a urine sample then pointed him to a half wall where three other men stood...filling their bottles. Lincoln took a deep breath, went over, and held the jar to his tip. Peeing with other people on both sides of you is not the easiest thing to do, but he did it...after five minutes of trying.

Next, he was given a chest X-ray; then his teeth were checked, his eyes, his ears, his nose; they took a blood sample. At one station, he sat nervously in front of a man in a black suit. The man read from a sheet of paper, his lips moving silently, then looked up. "Are you married, Loud?"

"N-No."

"Do you have a girl you're sweet on?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yes."

"How do you think you'll take the army?"

Lincoln thought. He didn't know much about the army, and he said as much. "I could handle it," he said truthfully, "I'd rather be home, though."

The man nodded. "Alright, that's all."

After that, it was over. He got dressed, took his money out of the bag, and handed it back in. It was pushing four 'o'clock when he got back to Flip's. Thankfully Ronnie Anne hadn't come in yet, so he wouldn't have to explain where he was. Inside, the first thing he did was track down Flip. "Four hours, eh?" Flip asked. "It took twice as long when I enlisted."

"When was that?"

"1918. I told 'em I was eighteen, but I was really fifteen."

Lincoln blinked. "Why'd you join so young?"

Flip shrugged. "I got sick of my old man belting me, that's why."

Oh. "Uh...could you not mention this to Ronnie Anne?" He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn't standing directly behind him – she wasn't. "I don't want her to know...if she doesn't have to."

Flip pretended to zip his lips closed.

"Thanks." Something occurred to him. "Ernie said you were on your way to the front when the war ended. In the middle of the ocean. Is that true?"

"Nope," Flip said, "I wasn't in the middle of the ocean, I was two goddamn miles from France. You could _see_ it from the poop deck. We stopped, refueled, then turned around. I'm kind of glad now, because I'd probably have wound up dead in a trench, but back then I didn't care, and I was sore."

"Were you seasick?"

Flip nodded. "The whole way. My sergeant got so sick of me puking he beat me harder than my dad _ever_ did." He laughed richly.

Lincoln gulped. "Are-Are they rough in the army?"

"They were fifty years ago. They're probably soft as kittens these days. Now are you gonna yak my ear off or are you gonna get your ass back in that kitchen? I got hungry customers..."

* * *

Leni Loud walked into the living room and looked around, her hands going to her hips. Hmmm...she was looking for something, but she could _not_ remember what it was. She knew when she started, but somewhere along the way it kind of slipped her mind. Stupid Rentschler's.

She touched her finger to her chin and looked around again. Was it her knitting stuff? No, she didn't think it was. Her earrings? No, she was wearing _those_. Her shoe? She lifted one foot, then the other; nope. It was _really_ starting to bother her. _Okay, Leni, think – what's missing?_

Well...Lincy was missing, but he was, like, at work or something. Luna was missing, but she was in California being a musician. Luan was missing, but she was in college. Lynn too. Lori was missing, but she was –

It came to her, and she grinned. She crept over to the couch, laid her hands on the back, and leaned over. Nope, not here. Next, she checked behind the TV, a space _just_ big enough to fit a four-year-old monkey. Nope, he wasn't there, either. She started to turn away, but stopped when she noticed something strange about the drapes covering the front window: They were wearing shoes. A sly smile crossed her face. "Oh, Bobby-bear., where are you?"

The curtains rustled.

Yep, _there_ he is.

Leni didn't like just going in for the kill, though; she preferred to toy with her prey, like a cat with a mouse. She took a step forward. "Are you...under the couch cushions?" She lifted one and leaned over. "Nope, no Bobby-bear

A stifled giggle sounded from behind the curtain. "Are you...in the fireplace?" She went over and squatted in front it, absently brushing her hair behind her ear. "Bobby-bear," she called into the chimney, "are you up there?"

" _No!"_ Bobby Jr. piped, unable to contain himself any longer.

Leni turned to the curtain. "What was that, Mr. Curtain? Bobby-bear. isn't up there?"

" _No!"_ Mr. Curtain giggled.

Leni propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand. "Well where is he? I really wanna see my Bobby-bear but I can't find him."

Suddenly the curtain was thrown aside and Bobby Jr. jumped out. _"Here I am!"_

"Bobby-bear!" Leni cried happily.

" _Leni!"_

Leni put her arms out, and he ran to her, almost knocking her down. "You're really good at this game," Leni said and hugged him. "I thought you were gone forever. It made my heart sad." She held him at arm's length and pouted.

"I wasn't gone, I was here," Bobby Jr. said and smiled, his dark eyes twinkling. "You couldn't finded me."

"No, I couldn't," Leni said, and poked him in the stomach. "You're a _way_ good hider. You know what time it is now?"

Bobby Jr. shook his head.

"It's time for auntie Leni to hide," she said, her eyes widening. He giggled and she nodded. "I know, you get to be 'it.' Cool, huh?"

He nodded. "Cool!"

"Now go stand against the wall and cover your eyes so auntie Leni can hide, okay? No peeking."

Bobby Jr. nodded, covered his eyes, and turned, stumbling toward the wall; he bumped into it and bounced back. _Awww,_ Leni thought, _he takes after_ me.

"One...six...three..."

Leni got up and tossed a harried glance around. Where could a full grown Leni hide that wasn't obvious, but wasn't, like, really _not_ obvious? The hall closet! It was perfect. She tiptoped over, opened it as quietly as she could, and slipped in, pulling the door silently closed behind her. He would look in here, but it would probably be the _last_ place he looked. Hehehe.

As she waited for him to find her, she thought of her siblings: When she was thinking that each was missing, she started to feel sad. She barely ever saw Lynn, she hadn't seen Luna in forever, she saw Luan before she left, but that was, like, months ago, and Lincoln and Lori...she saw both of them almost every day, but never for very long: Lori dropped Bobby Jr. off and then picked him up, and Lincoln and Ronnie Anne came by for dinner sometimes or just to hang out, but she still missed him. She really wished all her siblings still lived at home like they used to: It got really lonely here without them.

She drew a sad breath and looked around. Why was she in the closet? Gee, Leni, you do some dumb stuff, but this, like, takes the cake. She opened the door and went into the living room. Bobby Jr. came in from the kitchen, saw her, and giggled. _"I got you!"_

Darn it. _That's_ why she was in the closet.

All she could do was grin sheepishly and lift her arms, palms facing up. "You got me."

He ran over and threw his arms around her leg. She ruffled his black hair and he looked up. "Find _me!_ Find _me!_ "

"How about lunch instead? Is grandma in the kitchen?"

Bobby Jr. nodded. "She makin' sanddigits."

Leni laughed. "What?"

"Sanddigits."

Leni cocked her head. "I don't know that that is."

" _Sanddigits!"_

"What's that?"

" _Food!"_

He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the archway into the kitchen. Mom stood at the counter, assembling sandwiches and putting them onto a plate. "See? Sanddigits!"

"Oh," Leni said, " _sandwiches_."

"Sanddigits."

"No, _sandwiches."_

Bobby Jr. tilted his head cutely. "Samwishes?"

Leni opened her mouth to correct him, then shrugged. "Close enough. Does Bobby-bear want a sandwich?"

Bobby Jr. nodded.

"So does auntie Leni. Let's go get some sandwiches." She took his hand and they went into the kitchen.

* * *

Every Monday evening, come hell or high water, Bobby Santiago stopped at The Hidey Hole for a drink with Blades and Daggy before heading home. It was a small, dimly-lit nook with booths along one wall, metal road signs hanging over the bar, and a jukebox crammed with Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Tex Ritter, and Gene Autry. Ten years ago, Bobby gagged when a country and western song came on the radio, but now he sort of enjoyed it.

When he came in at half past five on the afternoon of May 2, Blades and Daggy were already sitting at the end of the bar, Blades in a white T shirt and Daggy in a green bowling shirt with wide tan stripes up the front. Blades saw him first; he held up his bottle. "There he is!"

Daggy glanced over, nodded, and went back to staring into his beer. Poor guy hadn't been the same since Luna left: Just getting him to come out was a chore, but Bobby persisted because you know what? Daggy was his friend, and while Bobby wasn't emotional or anything, he knew Daggy was hurting, and he wanted to help him out.

"Here I am," Bobby confirmed as he took the stool next to Daggy. "Ten minutes early, too."

He typically left work at six, but on Mondays he left a quarter after five. He got out earlier than usual today because the boss was on vacation and they were officially closed: Bobby headed a skeleton crew charged with shipping and receiving urgent, absolutely-cannot-wait loads, and being in charge, Bobby got to decide when the day ended, which he really dug.

"Bout time you got here on time," Blades said and took a drink, "you're always fucking late. It's like you got a job and a family or something."

Bobby snickered. "Didn't you get married last year, asshole?"

"Sure fucking did," Blades said, and tapped the bottle with his wedding band to punctuate that statement. Her name was Connie and she was what Bobby would have called a 'nerd' in his youth: Glasses, black hair that barely passed her earlobes, really smart. Nice girl, though, and she and Blades seemed real sweet on each other, so who gave a shit what Bobby thought? "You know what I like best about being married? When I want some all I gotta do is roll over."

"On your stomach, huh?" Bobby asked, "cuz she's got the dick."

"Keeps my nuts in her purse," Blades grinned.

The bartender, a fat man in a plaid shirt, came over, and Bobby ordered a Pabst. "I'm kind surprised she lets you outta the kitchen."

Blades shrugged. "I told her 'listen here, bitch; if you want me to bear your kids, you gotta give me some time with the boys.'"

The bartender returned with Bobby's beer; he nodded and took a long swallow. Next to him, Daggy looked thoughtful. "What's up with you, Dags?" Bobby asked and nudged Daggy's arm with his elbow. "You're like a silent movie over there."

"Just got a lot on my mind."

"Yeah? Like what?"

For a moment Daggy didn't reply. "I got an order from the draft board to get a physical. I'm probably gonna get drafted."

Blades and Bobby both looked at him with furrowed brows. "Oh, shit, really?" Blades asked gravely. Over the past two years, things had gotten hot in Vietnam: Johnson was throwing thousands of American troops at the Vietcong and the VC were throwing them back dead. Every night they showed footage from the front on the evening news: Boys pinned down in dense brush by fire from enemies they couldn't see; helicopters crashing in rice paddies; street-to-street firefights in cities and villages where anyone can be Cong and you wouldn't know until they stuck you in the back. Bobby was confident that if they called him up he'd get a deferment...he had a kid and his family needed him at home, after all...but that didn't mean it didn't make him nervous.

"Yeah," Daggy said, "and you know...I'm okay with that."

"Okay with it?" Blades asked quizzically. "Shit, I wouldn't be. I'd go but I wouldn't be okay with it."

Daggy shrugged. "I don't wanna go straight to the frontline, but, hey, I think the army might be good for me. You know...straighten me out a little." For the first time that since Bobby came in, Daggy cracked a grin.

Blades sighed and shook his head.

"I think you're nuts," Bobby said. "You go over there, Dags, you'll be the first one to get shot."

"He'll shoot himself," Blades said, "right in the foot."

Daggy smirked. "Come on, guys, give me some credit."

"He'll wind up burning his tongue on dinner and get shipped home with a purple heart," Bobby said, and he and Blades laughed deeply. Daggy shook his head, but he was smiling. "That or he's gonna go out in the jungle looking for a pot plant and get taken prisoner."

Blades slapped the bar. "Or break his foot getting out of bed in the morning."

"The sergeant's gonna yell get down, and Daggy's gonna jump up and start dancing."

All three of them laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. As a wise little boy once said on his first day in a desegregated school, you either laugh or your cry, and none of them were in the mood for crying.


	36. May 1966: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Wild Thing**_ **by The Troggs (1966);** _ **We're in the Money**_ **by The Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933)**

* * *

For nearly three weeks, Lincoln Loud lived a life of dread: Every evening when he and Ronnie Anne got home from work, he went to the mailbox the way a man would go to the electric chair...slow, dragging, his stomach knotted and his palms sweaty. Sometimes he had nightmares that he didn't remember on waking, but from the way his heart raced, he knew they must be bad. At night, he held Ronnie Anne tighter than usual, his face buried in her warm hair. He didn't want to leave her...she was his everything, and without her, his life had no meaning.

In South Vietnam, May was a particularly difficult month: During the rule of Catholic Ngô Đình Diệm from 1955 to 1963, Buddhists, who comprise the majority of South Vietnam's population, were heavily discriminated against. In 1963 Diệm was deposed and replaced by a military junta, but tensions remained between the two factions, and after a popular Buddhist general was removed and exiled as a 'threat,' they escalated into a full-scale rebellion: Thousands of Buddhist troops laid down their arms, refused to fight the North Vietnamese, and demanded free elections. Riots occurred in Saigon, South Vietnam's capital city, and firefights took place between government troops and rebel elements. The Vietcong supported the Buddhists not because they were sympathetic to Buddhism (they were not), but because when your enemy begins to crack, you drive a wedge into the fissure and pull with all your might.

For most of the month, Buddhists held the strategically important city of Da Nang. On the 18th, U.S. Marines engaged in combat with Buddhist forces at a bridge the Buddhists were attempting to blow up. A week later, the government of South Vietnam regained control of the city and quelled the uprising, though protests continued into June.

In America, anti-war protests swept the nation. In Washington, D.C., an estimated 2,500 people flooded the streets on May 12 to protest the draft, while two days later, similar events took place in Seattle, Portland, Austin, New York, and San Francisco. On May 16, thousands of college students across the country walked out of class at noon. At the University of Arizona, Lynn Loud Jr. rolled his eyes as half of his classmates left – he was getting really sick of these assholes and their protests, yelling and screaming and chanting and shit, pfft – and at UC Berkeley north of San Francisco, his sister, Luan, ignored them: If she was going to graduate and make the world a better place, she couldn't afford to miss class.

On May 20, nearly two thousand people crowded the streets around the White House with picket signs and bullhorns, many of them college students angered by President Johnson ending college deferments: Prior to May 15, being enrolled in college exempted one from the draft...after May 15, it did not, and college students were now subject to the same dread as everyone else. President Johnson watched the gathering from the Oval Office, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. What happened to goddamn patriotism? He and everyone he knew growing up in Texas was patriotic – even during the Depression and the Dust Bowl when no one had shit: These little sons of bitches grew up in a boom economy and took and took and took, but when Uncle Sam asked for something in return, they threw temper tantrums like the lilly-livered little bastards they were. They made him sick.

On Friday, May 19, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne left Flip's at seven-thirty; it had been a slow day, and Flip decided to close a half hour early. Like they did every Friday evening, they cruised aimlessly through the dusky streets of Royal Woods, the radio on and the windows down.

"This is our new song," Ronnie Anne commented at one point, rousing Lincoln from his thoughts. He listened to the lyrics:

 _You move me_

 _Wild thing_

 _You make my heart sing_

 _You make everything groovy_

He grinned. "Cute, but you still haven't let _me_ pick."

She shrugged. "One day."

"I'm going to pick a Beatles song out of spite," he said as he took a drag from his cigarette and blew out the smoke.

She turned to him, her head shaking and her eyes narrowing. "And _that's_ why I don't let you pick."

"I wanna hold your haaaand," Lincoln sang and held his hand out to her, "I wanna hold your hand!"

She slapped it away. "Take your hand and shove it, square-for-brains." She crossed her arms and lifted her brow. Her expression said _keep it up_ , but the smile she was fighting to contain said _I love you_. He laid his hand on her leg and grinned devilishly. She glanced down at it, and then back to him. "Forget it, loser. After that Beatles shit, the candy shop is _closed_."

Lincoln snickered. "You say that now."

"I _mean_ it now."

"Yeah. _Now._ "

Later, they pulled up in front of their building, and Lincoln killed the engine. "You wanna get changed and see a movie?" he asked.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "I kind of wanna spend the night in."

"So much for the candy shop being closed."

She slapped his arm. "I didn't say _anything_ about sex."

"You thought it, though."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh."

"Loser."

"Mushy little girl."

She punched him in the arm, and he let out a cry. "How's _that_ for mushy?"

"Okay, I was wrong, you aren't mushy. Damn." He grabbed the keys from the ignition and got out. The night was warm and still, the sound of crickets filling the air. He started for the door, but remembered the mail.

His favorite time of day.

He veered off toward the mailbox, found the key, and opened it.

There was one envelope inside.

He took it out and held it up: In the spill of a lamp on the wall, he saw his name, and his stomach clenched. Was this it? With trembling fingers, he tore one corner and took out a piece of paper. As he read it, his heart sank so deep it wound up on a street corner in China:

 _ **SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM**_ _  
_

 _ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION_

 _Local Board Stamp:_ _ **25698**_ _  
_

 _DATE OF MAILING:_ _ **May 15, 1966**_ _  
_

 _SELECTIVE SERVICE No.:_ _ **849649921**_

 _The President of the United States,_ _ **Lyndon B. Johnson:**_

To:

 _ **Lincoln A. Loud, 152 Oak Drive, apt 15, Royal Woods, Michigan, 27853**_

Greetings:

You are hereby ordered to report for induction into the ARMED FORCES of the UNITED STATES, and to report at:

 _ **Royal County Courthouse**_ _on:_ _ **June 2**_ _at_ _ **11:00am**_ _for forwarding to an ARMED FORCES INDUCTION STATION._

 _Signed: Harry J. Wimpling  
_

 _(Clerk of Local Board)_

 _ **IMPORTANT NOTICE**_ _  
_

 _(Read Each Paragraph Carefully)_

 _IF YOU HAVE HAD PREVIOUS MILITARY SERVICE, OR ARE NOW A MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL GUARD OR A RESERVE COMPONENT OF THE ARMED FORCES, BRING EVIDENCE WITH YOU. IF YOU WEAR GLASSES, BRING THEM. IF MARRIED, BRING PROOF OF YOUR MARRIAGE. IF YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL OR MENTAL CONDITION WHICH, IN YOUR OPINION, MAY DISQUALIFY YOU FOR SERVICE IN THE ARMED FORCES, BRING A PHYSICIAN'S CERTIFICATE DESCRIBING THAT CONDITION, IF NOT ALREADY FURNISHED TO YOUR LOCAL BOARD._

Valid documents are required to substantiate dependency claims in order to receive basic allowance for quarters. Be sure to take the following with you when reporting to the induction station. The Documents will be returned to you. (a) FOR LAWFUL WIFE OR LEGITIMATE CHILD UNDER 21 YEARS OF AGE – Original, certified copy or photocopied certified copy of marriage certificate, child's birth certificate, or a public or church record of marriage issued over the signature and seal of the custodian of the church or public records; (b) FOR LEGALLY ADOPTED CHILD – certified court order of adoption; (c) FOR CHILD OF DIVORCED SERVICE MEMBER (child in the custody of person other than claimant) – (1) Certified or photocopies of receipts from custodian of child evidencing serviceman's contributions for support, and (2) Divorce decree, court support order or separation order; (d) FOR DEPENDENT PARENT – affidavits establishing that dependency.

Bring your Social Security Card. If you do not have one, apply at the nearest Social Security Administration office. If you have life insurance, bring a record of the insurance company's address and your policy number. Bring enough clean clothes for 3 days. Bring enough money to last 1 month for personal purchases.

This Local Board will furnish transportation, and meals and lodging when necessary, from the place of reporting to the induction station where you will be examined. If found qualified, you will be inducted into the Armed Forces. If found not qualified, return transportation and meals and lodging when necessary, will be furnished to the place for reporting.

You may be found not qualified for induction. Keep this in mind in arranging your affairs, to prevent any undue hard ship if you are not inducted. If employed, inform your employer of this possibility. Your employer can then be prepared to continue your employment if you are not inducted. To protect your right to return to your job if you are not inducted, you must report for work as soon as possible after the completion of your induction examination. You may jeopardize your reemployment rights if you do not report for work at the beginning of your next regularly scheduled working period after you have returned to your place of employment.

Willful failure to report at the place and hour of the day named in this Order subjects the violator to fine and imprisonment. Bring this Order with you when you report.

If you are so far from your own local board that reporting in compliance with this Order will be a serious hardship, go immediately to any local board and make written request for transfer of your delivery for induction, taking this Order with you.

 _Failure to report will result in a six year prison sentence and a fine up to 10,000 dollars._

He was being drafted.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs wouldn't expand. A ripple of anxiety went through his stomach, and his knees felt week.

How would Ronnie Anne take it?

Not very well, he imagined. He tried to visualize her reaction, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He did _not_ look forward to telling her. _Not tonight,_ he told himself, _not tonight, and maybe not even tomorrow._ He looked down at the paper clutched in his hand. _June 2_. That wasn't very far off. She deserved to know _now_.

He closed the door and locked it, then went into the apartment; Ronnie Anne was on the couch in her nightgown, her legs drawn under her and her hair down, spilling over her shoulders. _The Smothers Brothers Show_ was on, and the canned audience laughed uproariously at something that wasn't funny...for some reason, Lincoln felt like they were laughing at _him_.

Ronnie Anne glanced up, and her brow furrowed in concern. "You alright?"

Was it that obvious?

He closed the door behind him, came over, and sat down next to her. She turned, her hand falling on his shoulder and her voice softening. "What's wrong, Linc?"

Wordlessly, he handed her the paper, and she took it. He didn't look at her as she read it, couldn't look at him.

" _You're being drafted?"_

Lincoln nodded heavily. "Yeah."

"Oh, my God." She put her hand to her forehead. "No, no, t-they can't...they can't draft you." Her voice hitched.

"They just did," he said.

"No, fuck that!"

"Ronnie..."

She balled the paper up and threw it onto the ground. "You can't go."

"I _have_ to," he said miserably.

"Tell them no!"

Lincoln looked at her; her dark eyes were pooled with fear. "And what? Go to jail? What good is that going to do?"

"It'll keep you from being killed."

Lincoln's stomach turned, and he put his face in his hands. "I might not go to Vietnam," he said. "They might send me somewhere else...like West Germany or something." It wasn't much, and his voice lacked conviction.

Ronnie Anne sighed deeply. "No, you're going to Vietnam."

"Honey, we don't..."

"You're not going."

"I _have_ to. I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

 _"Yes you do!"_ she screamed and jumped off the sofa. _"You're not going to Viet-fucking-Nam!"_

All the dread in Lincoln's stomach broke forth. _"I have to!"_ he screamed back. _"Or I'm going to jail! I'm not spending six years in fucking prison and paying a 10,000 goddamn dollar fine!"_

Ronnie Anne flinched: She had never heard him raise his voice, and rarely did he ever cuss. Fire spread across her cheeks, and she opened her mouth to say something back...but she began to cry instead, her trembling hand pressing against her face. Lincoln got up and took her in his arms. She tried to pull away, the tears coming faster, but he pulled her back, and she melted into him.

He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. He was crying now too. "I have to," he said, his voice quavering.

"Don't leave me," she sobbed, "don't leave me..."

* * *

Before Lincoln told his parents, he told Flip. Monday morning, he came in early and found the old man frying himself an egg and three strips of bacon on the grill; he was singing in a raspy, cracking voice:

" _We're in the money!_

 _We're in the money!_

 _We've got a lot of what it takes to get along!_

 _We're in the money!_

 _The skies are sunny!_

 _Ol' Man Depression, you are through, you done us wrong!_

 _We never see a headline 'bout a bread line today,_

 _And when we see the landlord,_

 _We can look that guy right in the eye!"_

When he was done, Lincoln clapped, and Flip jumped a foot. "Move over, John Lennon, there's a new hit maker in town."

"Piss off, Loud," Flip grumbled, "you're early."

Lincoln sighed. "Yeah, I am. I have something you need to see."

Flip turned his egg and plucked the bacon off the grill; he hissed as it burned his fingers, turned, and slapped it onto a plate. "What?"

Lincoln pulled the draft notice out of his pocket (it was crumpled and torn), unfolded it, and laid it on the prep table. Flip scooped the egg up with a spatula and sat in on the plate. He leaned over and scanned the paper, his brows furrowing. "Ah, so your number _did_ come up."

Lincoln nodded, his lips a tight line across his face. "Yep."

"Well," Flip said, "I'll see if I can get Oscar to cover your hours, and if they spit you back you, you always have a place."

"Thanks," Lincoln said.

"I can't afford to break in a new cook anyway."

That night, he and Ronnie Anne stopped by his parents' house and told them: Mom paled and Dad simply nodded. "I figured they'd get you eventually."

"When do you leave?" Mom asked, recovering.

"June 2," Lincoln replied. "And there's something else we have to tell you." He looked at Ronnie Anne and took her hand. She gave him a weak smile. "We're getting married."

They decided on Sunday night: After leaving work for the day, they applied for a marriage license at the courthouse. When they got it, they were going to have a civil ceremony in front of the JP.

An hour later, they told Bobby and Lori – bad news first, good news second. "I-I don't even know how to feel," Lori said, putting her hand to her head and looking so much like their mother it was scary.

They got the license on May 25th, and the next day they and their family – Bobby, Lori, Bobby Jr., Mom, Dad, Leni...and even Flip – gathered in one of the courtrooms off the lobby. Ronnie Anne wore a simple purple dress and Lincoln wore a suit he bought especially for the occasion: It was black with wide lapels. As they stood in front of the JP –who was not the same one who married Lori and Bobby five years earlier – Lincoln's heart raced. Being here, with his hands in hers and standing on the precipice of matrimony, was surreal. He knew this day would come, had been looking forward to it since – God, since he was twelve or thirteen, but he didn't expect it so soon. They agreed that they would get married and start their family when she was done with school – which would be another two or three years – but with...current events, it felt right to do it now...to hold hands in front of everyone they knew and declare their love in the purest, most permanent way possible.

A tear came to his eye as the JP read from his little book. Lincoln didn't even hear most of it. He turned to Ronnie Anne, and she smiled at him, her eyes, for the moment, not troubled, but glowing. She squeezed his hands and he squeezed hers.

"Now," the JP said, closing the book, "repeat after me."

Lincoln did, looking deep in Ronnie Anne's eyes. "I, Lincoln, take thee, Ronnie Anne, as my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."

Her eyes welled with tears and her lips trembled slightly. When it was her turn, her voice hitched. "I, R-Ronnie Anne, take thee, L-Lincoln, as my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day f-forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to c-cherish, till death do us part."

"You may kiss," the JP said.

Lincoln touched his wife's face and kissed her deeply, and she kissed him back, their tears mingling as surely as they hearts and souls. "I love you," she said when it broke, "I love you so much, Lincoln."

"I love you too," he replied, resting his forehead against hers and drying a tear from her cheek.

They gazed into each other's eyes and kissed each other's smiling lips, completely unaware of anything else. Bobby slipped his arm around Lori's waist and pulled her close; Leni squeed with excitement because _I have a new sister!;_ Mom dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and Dad beamed with pride. Flip had something in his eye and turned away so it didn't look like he was crying, because he sure as _shit_ was not.

That night, they consummated their marriage – and in the backs of their minds, both wished, abstractly, that they had waited. As they cuddled afterwards, Ronnie Anne muttered her new name again and again. "Ronnie Anne Loud...Ronnie Anne Loud..." It had a nice ring to it. She turned to her husband and kissed him. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

In that moment, she was so happy that she could almost forget that in a few short days, the army was taking him away from her...could almost forget that he might wind up in Vietnam like so many other boys.

Almost.


	37. JuneJuly 1966: Part 1

Lincoln watched the flat, sunbaked Louisiana countryside flash by, something approaching terror in his heart. The bus jostled and shook as it ambled down the two-lane highway, and each vibration threatened to make him throw up. The air was stifling, and when he tried to lower his window, the Sargent yelled at him. "Get your hands off that fucking window, you white-haired piece of shit, that window doesn't belong to you, it belongs to Uncle Sam, and Uncle Sam isn't a pussy, Uncle Sam _likes_ the heat!" The Sargent was a tall, built man in a green dress uniform with a brown campaign hat, the brim of which cast his sharp face in perpetual shadows. Lincoln froze solid and couldn't move. He had never heard anything more petrifying in his life. When he rested his hands in his lap, they were shaking.

That was over an hour ago, and the landscape hadn't changed much. Lincoln saw rundown dirt farms, tumbledown service stations surrounded by piles of rusted auto parts, and the occasional stand of trees that looked brown and dehydrated. They passed through a single town after leaving Baton Rouge, and Lincoln was shocked to see two separate water fountains outside the bus station: One for whites and one for coloreds. As far as he knew, that type of thing ended ten years ago.

He crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself tight. He hadn't even started basic training, and he was already so homesick he felt like crying: He was a twenty-year-old man, goddamn it, and he wanted his mother...and his sisters...and his wife. He hugged himself even tighter.

"Put your goddamn hands in your lap, shitbag!" the Sargent yelled.

Lincoln dropped his hands into his lap and shivered. He was cold...cold inside. He tossed a glance around, and the other guys looked just as scared as he felt. Presently, the bus turned down a long dirt road. In the distance was a cluster of buildings surrounded by a fence. Lincoln saw a guard tower and barbed wire. It didn't look like a training center, it looked like a prison.

The bus stopped at a gate manned by a man in a white helmet with MP on the front. He lifted the bar, and the bus proceeded in, parking alongside what Lincoln took to be the parade grounds: A wide, dusty space between the barracks. The Sargent scanned their faces and started screaming. "Alright, ladies, first, you will go through the reception station where you will be buzzed, tested, given uniforms, and made presentable. Next, you will be marched to the training area where you will be assigned a training regiment. You will meet your drill instructors, and they will tear your sorry asses limb-from-limb. You will call them 'sir' and you will like it. You will do whatever they tell you to, and you will thank them for the privilege. At the end of this eight weeks, you will be soldiers – or you will be sent home to your mamas in a goddamn jelly jar. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," everyone muttered half-heartedly.

" _DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"_

" _YES, SIR!"_

"Now get the hell off my bus, you stinking piles of dog shit!"

Everyone got up and filed off the bus, Lincoln waiting until last. When he got up, his knees were shaking and his stomach clenched painfully. Outside, the day pressed against him like a wet blanket. A tall man dressed much like the Sargent on the bus met them. "I am Sargent Jensen, and I am one of the drill instructors here at Fort Beauregard. You will address me as sir at all times, and you will follow my orders to the letter. If you step out of line, you will wish you were never born. Do you understand?

" _Yes, sir!"_ everyone cried in unison. Lincoln's voice hitched and he squeezed his eyes closed, certain that Sargent Jensen would come down on him like Armageddon. Instead, Jensen yelled, "Follow me!"

He spun around and began stalking toward a distant building. Everyone got into a sloppy line, Lincoln at the end, and followed.

The building was the reception center. There Lincoln and the others were put through the intake process: They were given a battery of tests, inoculations, and their personnel files were started. Afterwards, they were marched into a room where an army barber shaved their heads: Lincoln didn't think he was sentimental over his hair, but when he saw it all dropping onto his lap, he felt kind of sad.

When everyone was shaved, they were issued plain drab green uniforms. After they dressed, they lined up on either side of a hallway, Lincoln pressing his back as flat against the cinderblock wall as he could and standing as tall as he could, because that's what they wanted from him, right? Sargent Jensen walked up and down, his hands clasped behind his back and his cold blue eyes scanning the faces flanking him. "Alright, maggots, we are going to the parade grounds now. The distance between here and there is fifty-eight and a half feet when travelled in a straight line. We will not be travelling in a straight line. We will be taking the long way, and if I do not like _how_ you take the long way, we will be taking it twice. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

Sgt. Jensen opened the door. "Move out!"

Lincoln didn't know what taking the long way meant, but he did not expect his unit (if that's even what it was called) to be marched (or, rather, forced to run) out the front gate, a mile down the road, a mile across a barren plain, then back to camp. Lincoln was thin and in fairly good shape, so running had never been difficult, but he was not used to wearing heavy combat boots as he did it. The humid Louisiana air didn't help matters: By the time he and the others lined up on the parade grounds in two facing rows, he was out of breath, slathered in slimy, piss warm sweat, and dealing with a hot stitch in his side. Standing up straight was hard, but he dared not slouch lest Sgt. Jensen rain fire and brimstone down on his head.

For what seemed like an eternity they stood. Lincoln saw other regiments – those closer to completing their training – marching and doing other funtastic activities like push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks. From somewhere, gunfire sounded. Rifle training, he figured. He _hoped_.

Swallowing hard, he took stock of the men across from him. There were ten over there, and ten over here, Lincoln being on the very end. With their shaved heads, it was hard to tell them apart – they were all bald and of normal build. The only difference was skin color. There were three black men and one Hispanic facing Lincoln, and one black and one Hispanic on his side. They all looked afraid, staring straight ahead, their chests rising and falling rapidly. Lincoln wondered how many had been drafted like him, and how many had actually _chosen_ to come here.

Time passed. Nothing happened. Jensen and another drill instructor watched, their hands behind their backs and their legs spread.

The men were just starting to think they'd been left to stand at attention until the end of time when a tall, muscular man dressed in a green suit and campaign hat – just like Jensen's, except this guy wore a leather Sam Brown belt across his chest and had different markings on his uniform – came striding up, his hands behind his back. He was older, his face hard and weather-beaten; his muddled blue eyes made Lincoln shudder.

"I am Sargent Hellman, your senior drill instructor. From now on you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be "Sir". Do you maggots understand that?"

"Sir, yes, sir," everyone said weakly.

"Bullshit! I can't hear you! Sound off like you got a pair!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

"If you ladies leave my fort, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death praying for war. But until that day you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit!" He reached the end of the line and pulled a crisp about face. "Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn."

He turned again and came back down the line. "I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless. And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in this army. Do you maggots understand that?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Sgt. Hellman stopped at the end of the line, so close Lincoln could reach out and touch him if he had the guts (he didn't), and turned to a black man standing directly across from Lincoln. "What's your name, recruit?"

"Sir, Parnell Prat, sir!" the black man yelled.

"Where are you from?"

"Sir, Brooklyn, sir!"

"Brooklyn, huh? You're in the south now, Yankee, and you know what they do to your kind down here?"

"Sir, I've seen the news, sir!"

Sgt. Hellman leaned in until his nose was almost touching Pratt's. "If you fuck up I'll make those lynching's look like goddamn foreplay, do you understand me?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"I'll pop your sorry, nappy head off and stick my dick into the gaping, bloody wound where it used to be, do you understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Sgt. Hellman moved down the line to a short, scrawny man with glasses who visibly trembled. "What's your name, you ugly son of a motherfuck?"

"Sir, Steven Hyde, sir!"

"Not anymore. From now on your name is Faggot. You will answer to Faggot and to Faggot only. What's your name?"

"Sir, Faggot, sir!"

"Everyone addresses him as Faggot starting now. What's his name?"

"Sir, Faggot, sir!" everyone yelled in unison.

Sgt. Hellman wheeled around, stalked across the line, and stopped in front of the man next to Lincoln. Lincoln started to shake. He just _knew_ he was next.

"What's your name, recruit?"

"Sir, Anthony Hernandez, sir!"

"Where are you from, Hernandez?"

"Sir, New Mexico, sir!"

"Why are you smirking at me?"

Lincoln twitched his head ever so slightly to his left. The guy next to him _did_ kind of look like he was smirking.

"Sir, I'm not smirking, sir!"

"Yes, you are, you wetback son of a bitch, you think this is a joke? You think this is Howdy fucking Doody? You think I'm funny?"

"Sir, actually, sir..."

Lincoln jumped when, like a flash, Sgt. Hellman drove his knee into Hernandez's stomach. Hernandez let out a breathy _oof_ and sank to his knees. _Oh, God, they can hit you?_ He almost joined Hernandez as his knees buckled.

"Listen here, you brown bastard!" Sgt. Hellman screamed, jabbing his finger at Hernandez, spittle flying from his lips, "You might think you're funny, your spic friends back home might think you're funny, this goofy looking cocksucker next to you might think you're funny – but _I_ don't, and for the next eight weeks I am the only person in your life who matters. Not your _mami_ , not your fat, white-haired _abuela_ , not Jesus fucking Christ or the Virgin fucking Mary. Do you understand that?"

Hernandez nodded and coughed. "S-Sir, yes, sir."

"I don't believe you. I think you still think you're the class fucking clown. Do you know what happens to the class fucking clown in basic, you son of a bitch? They get beaten over the head with bars of soap in someone's wet, sweaty fucking socks because when _they_ foul up, the whole platoon pays. The next time you so much as fucking smile in my presence, I am going to make every single goddamn one of you run from here to Natchez and back again, and the _next_ time you fuck up and get everyone punished, they'll do my light work for me because they won't want me to fuck them up their asses again. _Com-pren-day?"_

Hernandez nodded. His face was white as milk. "Sir, yes, sir."

"Now get on your feet unless you wanna suck my dick."

Hernandez struggled to his feet and stood tall.

Like Lincoln knew he would, Sgt. Hellman came to him next. Lincoln's heart pounded against his chest and his stomach rumbled with nerves. Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man...

Sgt. Hellman leaned in, the corners of his mouth turning up in a sneer. His eyes were two pools of frigid hatred and his nostrils flared like Lori's when she got mad – _real_ mad. "What's your name, you goofy looking son of a bitch?"

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but his vocal cords were frozen. His Adam's apple bobbed impotently.

" _WHAT'S YOUR FUCKING NAME, YOU BUCK-TOOTH PIECE OF SHIT?"_

"L-L-Lincoln Loud."

Sgt. Hellman's face darkened. Uh-oh, what did I do wrong? He leaned his nose against Lincoln's, and when he screamed, his spit showered Lincoln's lips. _"I DIDN'T HEAR A SIR OR A FUCKING SIR IN THAT RESPONSE, YOU FRECKLE-FACED WASTE OF EJACULATE!"_

Lincoln licked his lips and shivered when he realized he just basically French kissed his senior drill instructor. "S-Sir, Lincoln Loud, sir."

"No, it's not," Sgt. Hellman said. "From now on your buck-tooth ass is Bugs Bunny. You will answer to Bugs and to Bugs only. What is your name, pantywaist?"

"S-Sir, Bugs, sir," Lincoln said, his face blushing in shame.

Sgt. Hellman noticed. "Do you find me sexually attractive, Bugs? Do you want me to kiss your neck like you're a woman and squeeze your butt cheeks?"

"S-Sir, no, sir."

" _STOP STUTTERING, YOU EFFEMINATE, LIMP-WRISTED_ _PILE OF GARBAGE! I HATE STUTTERING ALMOST AS MUCH AS I HATE COMMUNISTS!"_

Lincoln swallowed. "Sir, sorry, sir."

"Are you a homosexual, Bugs?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"No you haven't, you lying, stuttering homo-commie shit-dick! The day a woman opens her legs for you is the day I quit the army and start playing rock and fucking roll. You're a virgin, aren't you, Bugs?"

"Sir, no, sir...sir, I'm married, sir."

Sgt. Hellman drew his fist back, and Lincoln's heart squeezed painfully. "Sir, I'm a virgin, sir!"

Sgt. Hellman's fist crashed into Lincoln's shoulder, and he stumbled back with a pained hiss. Before he could recover, Sgt. Hellman grabbed him by his shirt and drew him close. Lincoln's eyes widened in fear and his heart stopped beating. Sgt. Hellman's eyes blazed with fury. _"YOU WERE LYING THEN OR YOU'RE LYING NOW, AND I DO NOT LIKE LIARS IN MY GODDAMN PLATOON. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, YOU TREMBLING LITTLE PIECE OF FAIRY TRASH?"_

Lincoln nodded dumbly. It was all he could do.

" _SOUND OFF, THEN, GODDAMN IT!"_

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Sgt. Hellman shoved him away and moved on down the line. Lincoln's shoulder ached and he had to fight hard to keep from rubbing it.

"What's your name, recruit?" Sgt. Hellman asked a tall, gangly man with a large nose.

"Sir, David Rosenbaum, sir!"

"I should have known you were Jewish by the size of your fucking nose. Do you know why kikes have such big noses, Hitler-bait?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Because air is free, and Jews love it when something's free. Do you clip coupons, Kikenstein? Do you haggle with every goddamn body over the price of every goddamn thing?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Good, because haggling doesn't work here. I have one job and one job only, and that's to turn you into a killing machine; I will not be persuaded or dissuaded. I will carry out my orders or kill you trying. If you think Auschwitz was bad, wait until you see what _I_ have in store for you. I guarantee you by this time next week you'll be begging me to shove you in an oven."

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Lincoln's shoulder _really_ hurt. He thought Sgt. Hellman broke something.

"What's your goddamn name, you fat, ugly dirtball?" Sgt. Hellman screamed in the face of a short man with a pudgy stomach.

"Sir, Ray Harrison, sir."

"How tall are you, Harrison?"

"Sir, five-eight, sir."

"Five-eight? I didn't know they stacked shit that high. Have you always been a fat, pathetic loser, or did you have to work for it?"

"Sir, I've always been husky, sir."

" _HUSKY'S A GODDAMN DOG, YOU'RE NOT A DOG, YOU'RE A FAT PIECE OF SHIT WITH A DISGUSTING BODY! JUST LOOKING AT YOU MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH! DO YOU THINK AN OVERWEIGHT SHIT-HEEL LIKE YOU CAN RUN THROUGH THE JUNGLE? NO! CHARLIE WILL KILL YOU! YOU WILL BE THE FIRST ONE TO DIE! YOUR WEIGHT WILL CAUSE THE CHOPPER TO CRASH AS SOON AS IT TAKES OFF, AND YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATHS OF EVERYONE IN YOUR PLATOON LIKE THE SLOPPY, INCONSIDERATE BASTARD YOU ARE!"_

Harrison blinked.

"You are a fat sack of slime, aren't you, Harrison?"

He licked his lips.

 _"AREN'T YOU?"_

"Sir, yes, sir."

"That's what I thought."

Apparently having had his fill, Sgt. Hellman strode to the center of the line. He scanned the rows. "I have been eating nuggets of filth like you alive since 1941, and never have I seen as sloppy a formation as this. I _was_ going to assign your sorry asses to platoons and show you to your luxurious accommodations, but I don't think you've earned that. I want all of you to drop and give me twenty push-ups."

No one moved.

" _NOW!"_

Jerking, Lincoln dropped to the dirt and started doing push-ups. Everyone around him did the same. Sgt. Hellman walked up and down the line. "Faggot, your arms are quivering and you've barely done five. What's the matter, those Coke bottles on your face weighing you down?" He knelt and plucked Faggot's glasses off his face. He was sweating and panting heavily. "If you want these back, you'll give me twenty push-ups. No, wait, twenty- _five_ for making me squat down like this."

Lincoln counted silently to himself as he did his set, touching the dirt with his nose before pushing all the way up. He was perspiring, but his arms felt okay: Years of training and roughhousing with Lynn had helped him build muscle mass. Not a whole lot, but enough that he was breezing through. 16...17...

"Bugs! That's how a girl does push-ups! Start over!"

Lincoln stopped and glanced up and Sgt. Hellman. The man loomed over him with his hands on his hips, his face so hard it could cut diamond. Lincoln took a deep breath and started over. 1...2...3...

"Bugs! That's how a girl does push-ups! Start over!"

 _Really?_

1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9...10...

"Bugs! That's how a girl does push-ups! Start over!"

Lincoln's arms were starting to quiver and his breath was hot in his lungs. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and splashed onto the dirt, making little dark patches. He panted and went on. 1...2...3...4...5...6...his arms gave out and he collapsed into the dust, grains of dirt puffing into his mouth and his nose.

Sgt. Hellman dropped to one knee. "My grandmother can do more push-ups than your candy ass, and she's dead! Were you raised by a bunch of fucking women? Did your daddy take one look at his faggot disappointment of a son and walk out, leaving you in the care of a bunch of nuns? He did, didn't he? Either that or you're just naturally weak! Are you weak, Bugs?"

"Sir...no...sir..." Lincoln panted. He was dizzy and lightheaded.

"Yes you are! You're the weakest one here! I'm going to send your ass home in a sling and your papers are going to have a big red G.F.F on them for gay fucking faggot, and every time you try to get a job or a loan they're gonna see it and laugh at your sorry, worthless ass!"

At this point, going home in a sling and being branded a G.F.F. for the rest of his life didn't sound so bad.

Sgt. Hellman snatched the back of Lincoln's shirt and dragged him. "On your feet, you dickless loser." He looked at everyone else. "Stand up!"

Everyone jumped up as fast as they could and stood perfectly straight. "That was an insult to every man who's died to defend this country. Do it again, this time like you actually give a shit about the U.S.A."

Lincoln started to hit the deck with everyone else, but Sgt. Hellman's grip tightened on his shirt. "Not you, Bugs. Watch how they do it...up!"

Everyone leapt to their feet and assumed the position, some faster and easier than others. Harrison, in particular, struggled. "Husky! Do you have any idea how fat and useless and stupid you look when you do that?"

"Sir, no, sir," Harrison said out of breath.

"Good, because if you did you'd weep with shame. I'm practically on the verge of tears for you. If I looked anything like that at your age, I would have stuck my gun in my mouth. Can you even find your Johnson under all that blubber?"

Harrison swallowed hard, his eyes pooling with anger.

"Oh," Sgt. Hellman asked softly and released Lincoln. "Are you upset?" He walked over to Harrison, who took a series of deep breaths through his nose. "Do you need a tampon, Private Husky? Do you need a napkin for your seeping, bloody _vagina?"_ He was in Harrison's face now, and Lincoln gulped. Something bad was going to happen. He could feel it.

"Sir, no, sir," Harrison said lowly. It was almost a growl.

Sgt. Hellman took a step back and tapped his jaw. "You get one free shot, dick for brains. Hell, I'll even make you a deal: If you lay me flat, _you_ can be senior drill instructor for the day. How does that sound, Private Period?"

Harrison seemed to mull it over for a minute. Sgt. Hellman leaned in. "I don't have all day, you fat bitch."

Lincoln saw something snap in Harrison's eyes. He moved, but Sgt. Hellman moved faster, his fist smashing into Harrison's face. The recruit stumbled back, his hands flying to his face, and Sgt. Hellman punched him in the stomach: He doubled over and fell to his side. Sgt. Hellman pulled his foot back and kicked.

"Alright, you sacks of dung," he said, turning to the rest of them. "Thanks to Private Husky, you're all in the shit."

Here's what he meant: The platoon barracks was set off to the side, past the mess hall. A narrow tunnel ran underneath it from the front entrance to the back, a distance of about five hundred feet. It was cramped, dark, and dirty. "This tunnel is home to spiders, fire ants, silverfish, the occasional small, vicious mammal, and to fuck-ups like you," Sgt. Hellman explained. "I hope none of you are claustrophobic, because it's tighter than a twelve-year-old virgin in there. The Vietcong use tunnels like these to move around...if you cannot make it to the end, you are literally worse than an uneducated Vietnamese commie peasant."

Lincoln and the others stood around looking at the dark, narrow opening. "Fat fuck, front and center!"

Harrison dragged himself to the front of the pack. His nose was an angry pink color and blood was crusted to his upper lip. "Since you're the one who got these lovely ladies into this mess, you get to break the ice." He turned and pointed to the opening. "Crawl through."

"I don't think I'll..."

 _"I DIDN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU, ROUND GUT!"_

Harrison took a deep breath. "Sir, I don't think I'll fit, sir."

"You goddamn well better, because if you don't, I'm putting you and that thing spilling over your waistband on a special diet: Water soup for breakfast and lunch and mud for dinner."

Harrison hesitated, and Sgt. Hellman shoved him. Sighing, Harrison got on his knees and crawled toward the hole, pausing and looking over his shoulder. "Now."

Nodding, he turned back and wiggled in, but stopped. For a moment he didn't move, then he started to thrash back and forth, gently at first but then violently. Lincoln heard the sound of muffled screaming.

"Well, now," Sgt. Hellman said, "looks like he was right." He turned to the others. "Since fatass is blocking the tunnel, I suppose I'll show you ladies to your quarters."

Lincoln had no idea what to expect, but the wide room with facing rows of bunk beds with not a surprise. At the foot of each bunk was a green metal box. Sgt. Jensen passed out bedding assignments, and Lincoln went to his bunk, which was the last before the opening to the bathroom/shower area. 1-A-B. That meant he was on the bottom bunk. He sank onto the bed and sat his bag between his legs.

Anthony Hernandez came over, looking at a piece of paper. When he glanced up and saw Lincoln, he nodded slightly. "Guess it's you and me." He threw his bag onto the top bunk. "Uh...Bugs, right?"

Lincoln started to correct him, but nodded instead: For the next eight weeks, Bugs was his name.

"I'm Tony, my friends call me..."

" _SHUT THE FUCK UP!"_ Sgt. Jensen roared, his voice echoing and making everyone jumped. _"NO TALKING! YOU HAVEN'T EARNED THE RIGHT TO TALK!"_

Tony shook his head and sighed angrily.

Lincoln flopped back onto the mattress and closed his eyes. His arms were sore, his legs were sore, his chest was sore, his shoulder still hurt like a bastard where Hellman punched him, his –

"All right, you sons of bitches!" Sgt. Jensen screamed. "Line up at the foot of your bunk! Now!"

Lincoln opened his eyes and sighed. He got up and stood on one side while Tony stood on the other. Standing up straight was hard, but Lincoln did it.

Sgt. Jensen walked the line, his hands behind his back. "This will be your home for the next eight weeks. You will treat it as your home. You will clean it from top to bottom every day, you will clean the toilets, the floors, the baseboards, the vents: You will make this barracks sparkle or you will be punished with extra P.T. This –" here he tapped a line of yellow tape running the length of the floor with his foot, "is the kill zone. When you are told to toe the line, you will come to it, put your toes on it, and wait for your drill instructor. If you do not have your toes and your toes _only_ on this line, you will all be punished. Your footlockers are to remain locked at all times, the contents are to remain neatly folded and organized at all times. Your footlockers will be inspected daily. If it is found to be unlocked or if your items are not in perfect order, _everyone's_ footlocker will be dumped in the kill zone. If you are found to be in possession of any contraband items – cigarettes, pornography, newspapers, magazines, or alcohol – everyone will be punished. You are a unit and you will act as such, you will be _treated_ as such. There is no 'I' in army. There is, however, a 'my' as in 'my ass belongs to Uncle Sam."

He about-faced and started down the other side of the line, shooting out his hand and slapping – what was his name, Goldblum? – in the stomach. "Stand up straight!" he barked.

Goldberg did.

"Your training will be broken into three phases. During phase one, you will learn to march, stand at attention, address your superiors, and how to fight hand-to-hand. You will learn the seven core values of the U.S. Army: Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage. You will learn the soldier's creed:

 _I am an American Soldier._

 _I am a member of the United States Army – a protector of the greatest nation on earth._

 _Because I am proud of the uniform I wear, I will always act in ways creditable to the military service and the nation it is sworn to guard._

 _I am proud of my own organization. I will do all I can to make it the finest unit in the Army._

 _I will be loyal to those under whom I serve. I will do my full part to carry out orders and instructions given to me or my unit._

 _As a soldier, I realize that I am a member of a time-honored profession—that I am doing my share to keep alive the principles of freedom for which my country stands._

 _No matter what the situation I am in, I will never do anything, for pleasure, profit, or personal safety, which will disgrace my uniform, my unit, or my country._

 _I will use every means I have, even beyond the line of duty, to restrain my Army comrades from actions disgraceful to themselves and to the uniform._

 _I am proud of my country and its flag._

 _I will try to make the people of this nation proud of the service I represent, for I am an American Soldier._

You will be sent to a gas chamber, where you will learn to use a gas mask. Then you will unmask and breathe in noxious fumes. During the third week of phase one, you will meet the rifle, Caliber 5.56 mm, M16."

He about-faced and strode down the line. Lincoln trailed him from the corner of his eye. Was he standing straight enough?

"During phase two, you will actually _fire_ the M-16 and use other weapons, such as grenades. There will be an obstacle course and you will be graded. You will learn the finer points of working as a unit and will build self-confidence."

He reached Lincoln, turned sharply, and addressed him directly. "Last is phase three – the most grueling experience of your lives. You will be administered a physical fitness test to ensure that you meet Uncle Sam's requirements. If you fail, you will be reassigned to another platoon to work on your weaknesses. You will be held back. Finally...there will be a field training exercise where you will be placed in a simulated combat scenario. You will be graded. If you fail, you will be held back."

Turning sharply again, Sgt. Jensen marched off, and Lincoln breathed a sigh of relief. The sergeant's intense, unwavering gaze was unnerving.

"Right now, you are at the very bottom of phase one. You are not allowed to leave the barracks without prior consent from myself, Sargent Hellman, or Sargent Kelso. There is a payphone in the mess hall – you are not to touch it, look at it, or even think about it. You may receive letters and you may write letters during personal time, unless you are otherwise disposed. You will gain independence as you demonstrate you are worthy. As of right now, you are worthy of nothing. A schedule will be posted by the bathroom. Study it, know it."

He stopped and looked at a black man dressed in an identical uniform. He stood at the head of the room with his hands behind his back. "This is Sargent Kelso. He is a Negro. Some of you might not like Negros, some of you might hate Negros. Sargent Kelso is not here to be liked, Sargent Kelso is here for the same reason I am: To prepare your sorry asses for the Vietcong. You will give Sargent Kelso the same respect you give me and Sargent Hellman, because like me and Sargent Hellman, Sargent Kelso is your better. Sargent Kelso could go to Vietnam right this second and survive. All of you would be killed." He nodded, and Sgt. Kelso returned the nod, turned, and marched out.

"In five minutes, Sgt. Kelso will return with cleaning supplies, and before dinner, you will clean this barracks from top to bottom. I want this barracks so clean that I could serve Sunday dinner on the floor. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" everyone yelled in unison.


	38. June July 1966: Part 2

_It'll get easier,_ Lincoln told himself on his first full day of basic training. _It has to._

The day started at 4:30am. Lincoln was lost deep in the bosom of sleep when the lights snapped on and Sgt. Hellman's screaming filled his head. "Up and at 'em, assholes!" Everyone stirred and muttered sleepily as loud clangs crashed off the walls. Lincoln rolled out of bed and fell to the floor, smacking his head against the tiles. Ow.

" _I SAID UP AND AT 'EM!"_

Lincoln got to his feet and staggered to the bottom of the bunk. The other guys lined up much the same. Harrison was directly across from him, having come in late yesterday afternoon after Sgt. Kelso and Sgt. Jensen pulled him out of the tunnel opening. Sgt. Hellman strode casually down the line, banging two metal trash can lids together like one of the creepy wind up monkeys that scared Lincoln when he was little. "That was the most pathetic at attention I have ever seen, and I am not exaggerating one goddamn bit. Bugs fell out of his bunk, fat shit rolled like a turtle on its back, Pratt shucked and jived, and Kikenstein robbed Faggot when he wasn't looking. You scumbags don't even know the basics, do you?"

Sgt. Hellman threw the lids away: They crashed to the floor and skitted. "When coming to attention: Heels are brought together and on the same line. Feet are turned out equally, forming a 45 degree angle with each other, knees straight but without stiffness. Arms hanging straight without stiffness at the sides of the body in such a way that the thumbs are along the trouser seams. The backs of the hands are turned away from the body and hands and fingers are cupped naturally. Chest up, shoulders back and level. Eyes looking straight to the front. When assuming the position of attention, bring the heels together smartly and audibly. _That_ is what I expected – nay, _demanded_ – to see. What I got instead was The Keystone fucking Kops!"

He wheeled on Lincoln, and Lincoln swallowed hard: It wasn't even 4:35 in the morning and already his heart was racing. "Were you masturbating, Private Bugs?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"You weren't playing with your prick and imagining your bunkmate putting his spic cock in your ass?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"Good, because if I find so much as one dick in you, Private, I will gouge out your eyes and stuff your skull full of shit stained toilet paper."

Lincoln barely suppressed a wince. "Sir, yes, sir."

Sgt. Hellman took a step back. "For that pitiful performance, drop and give me twenty."

Everyone dropped, Lincoln hitting the ground and going right to it, pushing himself up and down as quickly as he could and hoping to God Sgt. Hellman didn't do what he did yesterday.

Maybe it was the early hour, but he didn't, and when he finished, Lincoln jumped up at the same time Pratt and another man named Kolinski did.

Sgt. Hellman was glaring at him. "You think you're something special, don't you, Private Bugs?"

Lincoln blinked. Huh? "Sir, no, sir."

"We'll see how special you feel by the time the sun sets on your ass."

 _I didn't even_ do _anything! Except what he told me to!_

"Make your beds and take your showers. You get thirty seconds each."

Thirty seconds? How was he supposed to take a shower in thirty seconds?

After making his bed, Lincoln went to find out, getting into line behind Harrison. Tony Hernandez appeared behind him. "That guy's a real prick," he muttered, and Lincoln's heart seized. _Jesus, don't talk!_ Sgt. Jensen came down the line, and Lincoln winced. "Do my ears deceive me or did I hear you asking Private Bugs if you could suck his dick?"

"Sir, your ears deceived you, sir," Tony replied crisply.

"If you continue speaking, the entire platoon will be punished. You speak only when spoken to by one of your betters. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

The showers were communal, like the showers off the gym back at Royal Woods High. Harrison, Lincoln, and Hernandez showered side-by-side, each of them hurriedly lathering up and rinsing with lukewarm water. Harrison made the grave mistake of lathering up again, and was full of soap when Sgt. Jensen poked his head in. "Your time is up! Exit the shower area immediately!"

"Sir, but I'm covered in soap, sir," Harrison said.

" _YOUR TIME IS UP, EXIT THE SHOWER AREA IMMEDIATELY!"_

Lincoln cut the spray and toweled off, then dressed in his boxers and white T-shirt. When he returned to the barracks, his stomach panged. Everyone's mattresses had been ripped of their beds and thrown into the middle of the floor: Beds, sheets, pillows, and covers were heaped in a huge pile. Sgt. Kelso stood next to it, his hands behind his back. "Your beds were not made properly. Get your mattress and your dressings and remake them the way you were shown yesterday."

After dinner in the mess hall the previous afternoon, Lincoln and the others were marched back to the barracks where they were given an intense crash course in how to make their beds, keep their bunk area, and how to fold their clothes and keep their footlockers. Sgt. Hellman and Sgt. Jensen made each man make and remake their bed while screaming in their ear. "That's the sloppiest tangle of bedclothes I've ever seen, Private Bugs!" Sgt. Hellman screamed, so close to Lincoln that Lincoln could practically feel his senior drill instructor's lips brushing against his earlobe. "Were you raised in a goddamn flophouse? Was your mother a whore who didn't care how your bedroom looked? Remake it right now or this entire platoon is in the shit!"

Lincoln remade it with trembling fingers, following the instructions precisely. "I want it so tight I can bounce a goddamn coin off it!"

Following _that_ , Sgt. Hellman made each man write a personal essay detailing their likes, dislikes, and what was important to them. Lincoln didn't think this was standard protocol, but he didn't dare question it. He wrote about his family and Ronnie Anne and how much they meant to him.

Now, the men silently grabbed a mattress, a pillow, sheets, and a blanket from the pile, having no way of knowing which one was theirs, and remade their beds. Lincoln pushed himself to do it quickly and efficiently, terrified of what would happen if he didn't. He wasn't the first done, but he wasn't the last.

"Now get dressed!" Sgt. Jensen yelled.

Dressed for the day in a green drab long-sleeve shirt, green drab pants, and black boots, Lincoln joined the others as they were marched outside to the parade grounds. Two facing lines formed. It was already hot, and the sun had not even risen.

Sgt. Hellman strode down the middle, a riding crop in his hands. "Alright, you sacks of sick, good morning. Do you know how a man starts his day?" He paused at a recruit and leaned. "Do you?"

"Sir, no, sir!"

"He starts it with jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, and a two mile march."

And that's exactly how Lincoln's platoon started its first full day of basic training. Jumping jacks were basic...Lincoln had done a million in gym class and was fairly confident that he could make a strong showing.

"Private Bugs, you call that a jumping jack?"

Lincoln sighed and made an effort to tighten up.

"Private Fat Shit, the way your stomach jiggles is sickening. When are you due?"

"Sir, I'm...doing my...best, sir," Harrison panted.

"Your best is going to get you and everyone in your platoon killed because your best isn't good enough. Do better!"

After jumping jacks, they did push-ups and sit-ups. Lincoln's arm and core burned, and by the time he did his final sit-up and flopped back into the dirt, he felt like he was going to puke. Sgt. Hellman knelt beside him, and Lincoln braced for a harsh yelling.

It didn't come. Instead, Sgt. Hellman leaned close to Lincoln's ear and whispered. "You're not bad, Private Bugs. In fact, I think you might make it ten whole minutes over there before you die."

Lincoln gulped. He didn't want to think about dying, because if he went to Vietnam, it was a very real possibility.

Sgt. Hellman must have sensed this. "I can see you now, Private Bugs, lying on the jungle floor with your stomach ripped open and your guts spilling out, tears coursing down your cheeks as the darkness of death steals slowly over your vision. Your mind will feel fuzzy, Private Bugs, and you will realize that you are dying and that you will never see your family again. You will never see your mother again, you will never see your sisters or your fucking brother again, you will never see your wife again. You will realize as you die, Private Loud, that you have not failed your country or your army – you will realize that you failed your family. They will suffer every day for the rest of their lives because you're a scrawny, pasty little fuck who couldn't hack it...they will suffer every day for the rest of their lives because you are _weak_."

When Sgt. Hellman stood, Lincoln was trembling and on the verge of tears. He saw his mother and his sisters and Ronnie Anne weeping over his flag draped coffin, and he felt hot liquid fill his eyes. He imagined them carrying his loss with them for the rest of their lives...all his fault...

"You either man up, Private Bugs, or your family will suffer." Sgt. Hellman took a step back. "Alright, you scum-sucking maggots, get up. We're going for a run."

As Lincoln stumbled through the dark after his platoon, he vowed that he would get better – he would become the best goddamn solider the army had ever seen – not for him or President Johnson or the United States, but for his family, and for Ronnie Anne.

That didn't make the day any easier. By the time breakfast rolled around, he was weary and shaking. His stomach hurt, but he forced himself to eat because he needed his fuel. They spent the morning learning to march in formation. Lincoln hung on Sgt. Hellman's every word and followed his every instruction. When Sgt. Hellman screamed at him, he did better, when Sgt. Hellman insulted him, he took it to heart and used it to spur himself on.

By the time they returned to the barracks that afternoon, he was so tired he could barely stand up. _It gets better, it always does...it'll get easier_. _It..._

Everyone's personal possessions were in the middle of the room, each footlocker lying on its side and empty. Sgt. Jensen stood before the entrance to the shower area. "Private Faggot's footlocker was not secured properly!" he yelled. "Retrieve your items and return them to your lockers!"

Without question, complaint, or cross thought, Lincoln did so. He noticed some of the others shooting Faggot dirty looks; Faggot looked chastised, like a man who had let down his entire platoon.

Dinner was at five. A half an hour later, Sgt. Hellman lined them up at the foot of their bunks. "You ladies did good today...and by that, I mean I sincerely hope to the good God above that each and every one of you gets a cushy post here or in friendly territory, because if you go to Vietnam, you're going to wind up in pieces. If our whole army was filled with shit sucking ass clowns like you, we'd lose this war and every other war we got into. The Russians would move in and we'd be the U.S. .A."

He paused at Lincoln. When he spoke next, Lincoln felt as though he were talking directly to him. "You couldn't defend a shithouse from an army of pygmies with Polio. The Russians would eat you alive, the Chinese would eat you alive, and the Vietcong _will_ eat you alive."

 _No they won't,_ Lincoln told himself. _I will eat_ them _alive._

Later, during personal time, Lincoln wrote a letter to Ronnie Anne. He was so exhausted he would barely keep his eyes open, so it was brief:

 _6/10/66_

 _Dear Ronnie Anne;_

 _Today was my first full day of training and I think I'm dying. I am sore from head to toe and everything hurts. We started at 4 in the morning and didn't stop until 4 in the afternoon. We marched, ran, did push ups, jumping jacks, sit ups, and I can't even remember what else. It has been a long day and I am ready for bed. I have fire watch tonight which means at midnight I have to get up and spend two hours walking around with a flashlight and making sure there are no fires and no one trying to leave. I am not looking forward to it._

 _How are you? I miss you every day and I can't wait to see you again. How is everyone else? Could you tell everyone I love and miss them too? I don't have the energy to write more than one letter ha ha. I love you with all my heart. Xoxoxo_

 _Lincoln._

* * *

The first two weeks of Lincoln's basic training passed in a blur of yelling, marching, and physical exhaustion. At the end of the day he either fell right to sleep or laid awake with the drill instructors' screams ringing through the chambers of his head. During week two, they learned hand-to-hand combat. Channeling all the training he did with Lynn over the years, he thought he did well: Each recruit was partnered up and the partners dueled with one another. His battle buddy wound up being Hernandez, and while Hernandez was bigger and had more muscle, Lincoln was quicker, more experienced, and, Lincoln suspected, more determined: He usually mopped up in their spars.

He got a letter at mail call every day, it seemed. One from Luan: She said she 'hated' what 'they' were doing to him and prayed every day that he didn't have to go to Vietnam. One from Lynn, one from Mom and Dad, and, of course, Ronnie Anne – those always made him the happiest.

 _6/18/66_

 _Dear Lincoln:_

 _Everything is the same here. Nothing ever changes. I'm taking summer classes so I can get my degree sooner. Flip asks about you every day. Yesterday he said you need to keep your head down and do what you're told – "that's what the army's all about. Nothing else." Is that what it's about? How hard do they ride you, anyway? From what he said those drill sergeants are monsters. It bothers me to think of you putting up with that kind of thing. I really miss you too. I think about you all the time and I can't wait for you to come home. I hope you get a post close to home so I don't have to go so long without seeing you. I drove by your mom's house the other day and told everyone you said hi and you loved them. They said hi back. They'll probably write too._

 _Lincoln, I love you so much and I want you to know you mean the world to me. Keep your head down, do what those assholes tell you, and come home to me. PS I put a picture in here I found the other day. It made me smile. Love you._

 _Ronnie Anne._

Underneath her name she had drawn a big heart that she shaded with pen. The picture was a snapshot of them sitting on the couch at Ronnie Anne's mom's house, their arms around each other and their smiles beaming. He vaguely remembered it, but couldn't recall when it was. They were younger, maybe fourteen. He flipped it over and on the back was: Nov. 11, 60.

As time passed, things did, in fact, get easier. Waking early, rising early, and running/jumping/climbing/crawling/fighting was having an effect on Lincoln: He felt cleaner, more focused, as though he had been purged of all impurities. The drill instructors yelled and criticized less during phase two. The recruits were actually allowed to talk to one another now, and Lincoln found that Hernandez was a pretty swell guy – the way he talked reminded him of Bobby. Well, Bobby as he was years ago. He had a big family too, much bigger than Lincoln's: Eight sisters and three brothers. Whew. During mess one day, Lincoln was gazing at the picture of him and Ronnie Anne when Hernandez dropped next to him and leaned in.

"That your wife?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "It's an old picture."

Hernandez squinted. "She a Latina?"

Lincoln nodded. "Mexican."

Hernandez laughed. "She's fiery, huh? They all are. You cheat on her or anything, she's gonna cut your balls off. Guaranteed."

"Why would I cheat on her?" Lincoln asked, genuinely puzzled. "She's everything I ever wanted."

"Aw, that's real sweet, Bugs," Faggot said sarcastically across the table.

"What do _you_ got waiting at home, Fag?" Hernandez asked. "Something tells me your girl goes where you go." He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers.

Faggot chuckled. "I got girls. Lots of girls."

"Uh-huh," Hernandez said dismissively.

During phase two, recruits were finally allowed to make phone calls. You got five minutes twice a week. Lincoln used his first five minutes to call Ronnie Anne. When she answered, a big stupid grin spread across his face. "It's really good to hear your voice," he said.

She giggled. "It's good to hear yours too. How's boot camp?"

Lincoln leaned against the wall and watched a recruit mopping the mess hall floor. "It's better than it was. Things are getting easier. I could make my bunk and stand at attention in my sleep."

She laughed musically. "Good, you can come make _my_ bed. After you help me mess it up, of course." There was a playful hilt to her voice.

Lincoln grinned. "I think I can be of assistance."

"As soon as you get home, soldier boy," she said lustily, "we're hanging out. _All_ the way out."

"All the way, huh?" he asked through a grin.

"I'm gonna fuck your brains out, is what I'm trying to say," she replied. "In case that wasn't clear."

Lincoln laughed. "If you keep talking dirty, my soldier's going to be standing at full attention."

"That's not dirty talk," she scoffed.

"It is when your bomb bay's packing a full load."

She laughed so hard her voice hitched, and his heart swelled. "Couple more weeks," she said, "and don't drop your bombs until you get here. Alright?"

"It'll be the shortest war in history," he warned.

"Hey, square-for-brains, don't you think I'm horny too? As long as you get one or two..." she trailed off. "Fuck it, I don't have anymore military puns. As long as you get one or two thrusts in, I'll get off."

Lincoln's solider started to stir.

"Think you can handle that?"

"I think so."

Sgt. Jensen entered the mess hall and glared at him. Damn. His time was up. "Look, I have to go. I love you."

"I love you too, Lincoln," she said soberly, "with all my heart."

The next day, Lincoln laid on his stomach between Harrison and Hernandez, the stock of an M-16 nestled in the crook of his shoulder and his eye lining up the sights. Yards away, a paper target waited. "Alright," Sgt. Hellman yelled, "fire!"

Gunshots rang out up and down the line. Lincoln hit a bullseye with his third round, and got the rest close. Next to him, Harrison hit dead center with every shot.

"Goddamn, Private Fatass!" Sgt. Hellman cried, "you're a fuck of a shot...too bad that doesn't count for shit in a jungle environment!"

Phase three was, indeed, grueling, just as Sgt. Jensen had promised...but not as grueling as Lincoln had feared. He passed the physical fitness test, blew through the obstacle course, and, in the final hand-to-hand melee, wiped up everyone except Pratt, in whom Lincoln recognized the same fire he himself felt.

On July 30, the day before graduation, Sgt. Hellman lined them up at the foot of their bunks and walked the line. "I am thoroughly surprised that all of you made it this far. Eight weeks ago, I was certain that at least three of you would break. Faggot, Fatass, and Bugs."

Lincoln would have blinked, but he hadn't been ordered to.

"But they proved me wrong. You _all_ proved me wrong...and, goddamn it, I like it when I'm wrong." He paused in front of Lincoln. "Physically, Private Bugs, you had what it took from the beginning. I smelled vulnerability on you. I saw weakness in your eyes. Now I see fire...a will to live. For your family?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Good." He looked around at everyone. "The point of war is not to die for your country – it's to make the other guy die for his. You're no good to the good ole USofA dead. Whatever you need to think of, fucking survive. You're not going to die for liberty...you're going to make those gook bastards die for communism!"

That night, Lincoln had trouble sleeping. Tomorrow, he would graduate and become a solider...and soon, he would receive his post. He might go to Japan or Korea...he might go to Europe...or he might go to Vietnam, and though he swore to fight and live and thrive for his family, he knew that realistically, he might die, a thought he found intolerable. He couldn't do that to his parents or his siblings...or to Ronnie Anne. They were going to have a family one day...he couldn't die on her.

The next morning, he dressed in his dress uniform and marched out to the parade grounds, where a makeshift stage had been erected. Folding chairs faced it, and a sea of faces greeted him. He and his platoon lined up and he scanned the crowd, finding his parents in the third row. Leni was there too, wearing a red dress with polka dots. She saw him and beamed. Waving, she called out to him. He couldn't hear, but he could make out the words on her lips: "Hi, Lincy!" He smiled and nodded. Ronnie Anne wanted to come but couldn't because of school.

Sgt. Hellman gave a short address without the aid of a microphone, his voice booming. "Today, you people are no longer maggots. Today, you are soldiers. You're part of a brotherhood. From now on until the day you die, wherever you are, every soldier is your brother. Most of you will go to Vietnam. Some of you will not come back. But always remember this: Soldiers die. That's what we're here for. But the United States will live forever. And that means YOU will live forever."

At the end of it all, the soldiers – for that's what they were now, and no longer recruits – reunited with their families: Leni threw herself at Lincoln and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that cut off his air supply. "I missed you _so_ much, Lincy! How was, like, camp?"

"I missed you too," he said and rubbed her back, "it was fun. A lot of fun."

Next came his mother, who cried tears of joy as she embraced him. "We missed you so much, Lincoln."

"I missed you guys too."

His father stuck out his hand, and Lincoln took it. "I'm proud of you, son," he said. "I guarantee you'll make a better soldier than I did. Just don't get shot." He winked, and Lincoln grinned.

"I'll try not to."

Lincoln spent the afternoon with them before they left. He showed them around, pointing out the mess hall, the infirmary, and the barracks. "So...do you still have to go fight in that dumb war?" Leni asked as they walked. "Or can you, like, come home now?"

"I don't know where I'm going yet," Lincoln said. "I'll be home in a few days for leave, though."

"For how long?"

"A week or so," he said.

Leni pouted. "I want you home forever."

Lincoln grinned. "One day."

One day.

He hoped.


	39. August 1966

**Lyrics to** _ **Say I Am**_ **by Tommy James and the Shondells (1966)**

* * *

On August 5, 1966, Lincoln Loud stepped off a Greyhound at the Royal Woods bus station and grabbed his green army duffle bag from the storage compartment. His name, rank, and serial number were stenciled on the side in black. He wore his service uniform: Green pants, white shirt, black tie, green coat with gold buttons, and a peaked cap. He had been cooped up on the bus for over nineteen hours: His legs hurt, his butt ached, and the first visit he made was to the bathroom.

From the bus station, he walked east through downtown, his bag slung over his shoulder and sweat beading on his forehead. Everything looked the same as it had two months ago, but different somehow...the edges not as soft, the colors not quite as bright. As he was passing the town square, an old man who had to be in his eighties stood up from a bench and held out his hand. Lincoln took it without question and shook it.

He reached Flip's twenty minutes after leaving the bus station. Being a Wednesday afternoon, the parking lot was relatively empty, and looking into the windows from across the street, he didn't see many people inside. Unless her schedule had changed, Ronnie Anne would be working.

Waiting for a pick-up truck and a town police cruiser, he crossed the street and then the parking lot. Through the door, he saw Flip leaning against the counter and talking to an old woman in a floral print dress. A face he didn't recognize appeared in the window between the dining room and the kitchen with a plate. Flip turned, grabbed it, and sat it in front of the woman.

Lincoln opened the door and stepped in. Flip looked up, and a smile broke across his wrinkled face. "Well, would you look at that! How's it feel to be a real man now, Loud?"

"How's it feel to be old and fat?" Lincoln asked.

Flip laughed.

Lincoln came in and dropped his bag next to his foot. He looked around. "Where's Ronnie Anne?"

"I think she's taking a –" he glanced at the old woman, then at Lincoln – "I think she's using the restroom."

Lincoln glanced toward the bathrooms. "She's probably crying 'cuz you work her too hard."

"She's crying because she lost her husband to his army bunkmate."

Lincoln picked up his bag and tossed it into an empty booth. "Who says I can't have –" he cut his thought short when Ronnie Anne came out of the bathroom. She was wearing her pink uniform and a long strand of hair had come out of her ponytail. She looked tired and ragged – she looked beautiful.

She saw him, and froze. For a moment they stared at one another across a gulf of empty tables, then her face brightened and she was running to him, her arms out. She crashed into him with nearly enough force to knock him over and hugged him so tightly that his spine nearly snapped. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her warm, fragrant hair, the feeling of her in his arms better than anything else he had ever known. She started to tremble, and he realized she was crying, but that's okay, he was too.

"I love you," he said simply.

She nodded against his chest, hear tears wetting his coat. "I l-love you too, l-lame-o." She looked up, and her eyes shimmered wetly. Her smile was like a rainbow breaking through the rain. When they kissed, it was slow and gentle, their tongues caressing awkwardly at first, as though it was their first time all over again, then easier, more intimately.

"Hey, c'mon," Flip said, "I can't have you doing that in my place. Get a room."

They pulled away from each other and Ronnie Anne giggled. "I missed that."

"So did I," Lincoln said, and stroked her face. She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes like a satisfied cat.

"I missed that too." She opened her eyes. "I missed _you_."

He laid a chaste kiss on her lips. "And I missed _you_. Now I better give you back to Flip before he has a conniption fit."

"Actually," Flip said from behind the counter, "I was gonna send her home. She's been off and she's costing me money." He winked. "Why don't you kids go catch up, huh? Debbie'll be in in an hour anyway."

Ronnie Anne smiled up at Lincoln. "You wanna go hang out?"

Lincoln grinned. "Sure. Maybe we can see a movie."

"Maybe," she said. She glanced at Flip. "Thanks, Flip. I'll try to be in tomorrow."

Flip snickered. "I doubt it."

After Ronnie Anne got her purse from the back, she came out and threaded her fingers through Lincoln's. "Come on, square-for-brains. Let's go see that movie." Together, they went outside, Ronnie Anne leading the way. "I'm so _excited_ you're home," she said, "this town's a real goddamn drag with you." Lincoln's car was parked around the side near the dumpsters.

"I see you kept her accident free," Lincoln teased.

"I treated it like it was my own, lame-o," she said.

"That's what I was afraid of."

She slapped his arm and then they kissed again, Lincoln's hand fluttering to her face. Her knees buckled, and she grabbed a handful of his jacket to steady herself, then drew him closer, her breast smooshing against his chest and her arms snaking around his neck. Passion rose in Lincoln, and he cupped her butt in his hands, squeezing through the fabric of her dress. When she pulled away, she was gasping for breath. "Alright, if you don't get off of me I'm gonna jump you right here"

Lincoln grinned devilishly. "I wouldn't mind that."

He jumped when she grabbed his bulging erection in both hands and leaned in. "I know," she said, her eyes half-lidded, "but Flip would." She kissed the tip of his chin and let go, opening the driver side door. "Now come on. I wanna get reacquainted."

Chuckling, Lincoln slid into the passenger seat. "I'm the same old Lincoln, sorry."

"I'm okay with that," she said and started the engine. The radio came on with a commercial for Rankin's Hardware. "The old Lincoln's pretty great." She backed up and navigated through the parking lot.

"The old Lincoln thinks you're pretty great too," he said, and put his hand on her bare leg. Her flesh was warm and soft under his touch. A tremble ran through her body, and his body responded: His erection pressed insistently against the inseam of his pants.

She laughed. "You better watch it, mister, or you're gonna make me wreck."

They were waiting to turn onto the street, a line of traffic passing in both directions. Lincoln took a deep, shuddery breath and pushed the hem of her dress slowly up, revealing even more of her leg. How he missed the sight and feeling of her skin...how he missed everything about her.

She pulled onto the street and turned left, a low purr rising in the back of her throat. "Really, lame-o, you better knock it off."

"Oh?" he asked, slipping his hand under her dress, "or what?"

When his fingers skipped along the fabric of her underwear, she bit her bottom lip. Dank heat radiated from between her legs, and Lincoln's penis twitched like a hungry shark catching the scent of blood. He slowly rubbed her center, and her legs opened wider to give him better access. "Or I'm going to lose control of your car," she panted.

They came to a red light, and Lincoln leaned over and kissed her neck. "I don't care."

"I do, because once you blow your load and start thinking straight, you're gonna throw a hissy fit." She looked at him and grinned. "

"A hissy fit?" he asked. "When have I ever thrown a hissy fit?"

"That time I wrapped your car around a telephone pole because you were finger fucking me when I was trying to drive."

Lincoln sighed and pulled away. "Alright. You win."

"I always do," she smiled prettily. The light changed, and she pulled a right. She leaned over and took a pack of Camels from the console. She shook one out, popped it into her mouth, and lit it. "Want one?" she asked, holding the pack toward him.

"I really shouldn't," he said, "I've been off the stuff for nine weeks."

"What are you, a square?" she asked playfully.

He laughed. "Your brother asked me the same thing when he got me smoking ten years ago. You and him are a bad influence." He took one out and used her lighter. The moment the smoke hit his lungs, he remembered why he liked cigarettes so much.

"You can always grow a pair and say no," she said around her cigarette.

Lincoln shrugged. "I can't say no to a pretty girl."

She favored him with a sidelong glance.

Two blocks later, she pulled into the complex and parked under the wavering boughs of an oak tree. The parking lot was empty save for a station wagon and a van, both on the other end of the lot. She went to kill the engine, but a song came on and she paused. "Oh, I like this song," she said, turning it up. She glanced at him and grinned. "It reminds me of you."

Lincoln cocked his head and listened to the lyrics.

 _If you're lookin' for a lovin' man  
_

 _A lovin' man, say, say I am_

She touched his face. "You're my lovin' man."

He chuckled. "You're a sap."

She shrugged. "I wasn't before I met you." She killed the engine and got out, Lincoln following. He waited impatiently as she dug in her purse for the apartment key. She found it, opened the door, and they went in, Lincoln taking his hat off and setting it carefully and reverently on the coffee table. She cocked a brow. "That thing made of glass or something?" she asked.

"No," he said, putting his hands on her hips and kissing her neck, "it's part of my uniform, and I am to respect my uniform at all times."

She bent, raking her behind across his aching crotch. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She swiped the hat off the table; it landed in front of the couch.

"My cap!" He yanked his hands off of her hips and went to retrieve it while she laughed. He bent to scoop it up, but she shoved him and he toppled onto the couch. Before he could get up, she crawled on top of him, her eyes shining with an impish light. She ran her hands over his chest and bent her head, her lips touching his, her warm, sweet breath filling his mouth and his nose.

"It _is_ a nice uniform," she whispered as she began to undo the buttons. "But I like you better _out_ of uniform."

"I could say the same about you."

She lifted her brows. "Is that so?"

He nodded.

She got to her knees, his legs caged between them, and started to unbutton her dress. Lincoln's breath caught and his erection ached. She smiled teasingly as she deftly undid them, and then slipped it down her shoulder. She wasn't wearing a bra, and when her breasts poked out, Lincoln's throat went dry. "You act like you've never seen them before," she laughed. "Close your mouth."

He closed his mouth and cupped her mounds in his hands. They trembled with the power of her heartbeat, and she threw her head back. "I missed that too." He kneaded her nipples with his thumbs, and a moan escaped her lips.

"You act like I've never touched them before," he teased.

"It's been a long ten weeks," she said.

He slid his hands under her arms and pulled her down. Their noses were touching and her eyes were narrow with lust. "Then let's stop fucking around."

"Bedroom," she panted. "Now."

* * *

After making love, Lincoln held Ronnie Anne in his arms and nuzzled her neck. She let out a sleepy _hmmm_ and snuggled closer. He took a deep breath, relishing the warm, clean scent of her hair, and kissed her jawline. "How do you feel?" he asked.

She groaned, and he grinned. Before today, his record was twice back-to-back...now it was four: The last time he orgasmed, his dick practically dry-heaved...he had nothing left to give, yet he was still hard, and for a long time they rocked in time together not to achieve climax but simply to revel in the act of complete and total _coupling_ , of being one heart, one flesh, and one sigh. He kissed her shoulder and she stretched, turning onto her back, her breast appearing in his face. "Hi there," he said, and kissed her nipple. She giggled.

"Come on, lame-o, you're gonna get me hot again."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I can't take another round." She flopped her head to the side and looked into his eyes. "Sorry, but I'm throwing in the towel."

He draped his arm over her stomach and kissed spot where her body and her arm joined. He didn't think he could go again either, but he had two weeks, and something told him they would go _plenty_ more before that time was up. "I need to take a leak," he said, and slipped out from under the covers. Ronnie Anne hummed appreciatively.

"Nice ass."

He glanced over his shoulder and slapped his butt. She laughed.

In the bathroom, he relieved himself, which, considering all the sex he just had, wasn't easy. He washed his hands and went out into the bedroom, where Ronnie Anne lay under the sheets with a cigarette between her fore-and-middle finger. The sheet molded to her body, and he could make out every swell, curve, and line. His penis twitched, now only instead of the proud soldier it was that afternoon, it was a wounded veteran on pension and waiting for a trip to the VA.

He looked away from Ronnie Anne and glanced around the room. His uniform was strewn across the floor, his tie here, his jacket there, one boot by the foot of the bed and the other by the door. Something about it bothered him.

"Sargent Hellman would kick my ass if he saw this," he said as he gathered his clothes.

"Uh...I'll kick your ass if you don't get back in this bed," Ronnie Anne said and took a puff, blowing blue smoke into the air.

At the dresser, he neatly folded his pants and shirt. His jacket he draped on the back of the chair. "I'm not playing around, Loud, get over here."

"You sound like a drill instructor," he said as he crawled back into the bed, but not before grabbing his boots and setting them neatly beside the bed. He plucked the cigarette out of her mouth and took a puff.

"Does that turn you on?" she asked and took the cigarette back. "You got a thing for being ordered around now?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

She sat up, took a drag, and squared her shoulders. "Loud! Make your bed!"

Lincoln burst out laughing; he couldn't help it. The irritated look on her face made him laugh even hard. She sighed and took a drag. "Fuck you."

"I'm sorry, that was just pathetic."

He reached for the cigarette, but she stabbed it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, her lips a bloodless slash. "You could do better?" she asked and crossed her arms, one brow arched challengingly.

Shrugging, he said, "I don't know. Maybe."

"Do it then."

"I really don't..."

"Do it," she said, and it was an order.

"Alright," Lincoln sighed and got out of bed. "Don't hate me for the things I might say." He went around the foot of the bed and stood over Ronnie Anne, who looked up at him with a little smirk on her face. Lincoln took a deep breath and ran every encounter he had with a drill instructor through his head. Channeling his inner Sgt. Hellman, he leaned in until his nose was touching hers. _"THAT WAS THE WORST GODDAMN IMPRESSION OF A DRILL INSTRUCTOR I'VE EVER SEEN!"_ he roared. _"YOU JUST INSULTED EVERY MAN WHO'S EVER INSTRUCTED, AND WIPE THAT STUPID SMIRK OFF YOUR UGLY SEWER OF A MOUTH, YOU SCUM SUCKING SON OF A BITCH, BEFORE I GOUGE YOUR EYES OUT AND SKULL FUCK YOU!"_

When he drew back, Ronnie Anne's eyes were wide. "Wow," she said, "I gotta admit, square-for-brains, that got my heart beating a _little_ quicker. Did they really do all that in there?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yup." He dropped onto the edge of the bed and laid his hand on her knee. "The first day I was there the senior drill instructor kneed a guy in the gut, punched another one in the face, and hit me in the chest."

"Goddamn," she drew. "What did you do?"

"Well," Lincoln said, surprised to find himself smiling at the memory, "he asked me if I was a homosexual and if I'd ever been with a woman. I told him I had, and he didn't believe me. He pulled his fist back and I told him I hadn't been with a woman, you know, figuring that's what he wanted to hear, but he hit me anyway. He said I was lying one way or another and he didn't like liars in his platoon."

Ronnie Anne slipped her arm around him and kissed his shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," she said seriously and leaned her head against him.

"It's fine," he said, and wrapped his arm around her. "That's how it goes."

And indeed, that is how it goes.

* * *

Lincoln was home for fifteen days.

While Ronnie Anne was at work, he either hung out with his parents and Leni or he cleaned the apartment: He was in the habit of making things spotless, and he found himself scrubbing the grout in the kitchen with a toothbrush without remembering making a conscious decision to do so. Every day he met Ronnie Anne at Flip's for lunch. His uniform was clean, ironed, and hung up, so he wore a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt much of the time.

On his second day back, he drove over to Lori and Bobby's house after having a burger with Ronnie Anne (and blowing Flip's toilet to hell – he wasn't used to greasy food yet after almost two months of army chow). He had the windows down and the radio on, the warm summer wind caressing his cheek like the hand of a lover: It was just like old times...save for the fact that in less than two weeks he might very well be shipping off to Vietnam, though he tried not to think of that.

Bobby was at work, but Lori's Coronet was in the driveway. He parked at the curb and sat behind the wheel for a moment, finishing his cigarette and tapping the wheel to _Mustang Sally_. In the next driveway over, a group of teenagers were clustered around a red sports car, the leader wearing shorts and a blue polo shirt.

When he was done, he got out, crossed the front lawn, and knocked on the door, waiting with his arms at his sides and his back straight, the way he had been taught to stand in the army. After a minute, the door opened and Bobby Jr. looked up at him, his eyes widening. "Uhhh...hi." He looked scared, and for a minute Lincoln was confused, then he remembered that his hair was shorter and his cowlick was gone, so little Bobby probably didn't recognize him.

He knelt and smiled. "Hey, kid, it's me, Uncle Lincoln."

Bobby Jr. blinked. "Y-You looked _kinda_ like my Uncle Lincoln."

Lincoln smiled. "Well, that's because I kind of am. Where's your mom?"

"In the kitchen," Bobby said shyly.

As if on cue, Lori came out of the kitchen. She wore a sleeveless floral print dress. "Bobby, what a –?" She saw Lincoln and froze.

Lincoln stood up.

"Lincoln!" she squealed, and rushed over, her arms out, looking so much like Leni had at graduation that for a moment he was taken aback. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged. "I was wondering when you were going to be home."

"I got in yesterday," he said, patting her back.

"How was it?" she asked, holding him at arms' length and reminding him of their mother now.

Lincoln shrugged. "I'm alive and in better physical and mental shape than ever, so...good, I guess."

"Dad had me worried to death," she said, leading him to the couch by the arm, "he told every boot camp story he could remember. He said the sergeant broke someone's jaw. I half-expected you to die!"

"It wasn't that bad," he said as they sat. On TV, _As The World Turns_ started, telling Lincoln it was 1:30. "Worst I saw was the sergeant beat up a guy who tried to attack him."

"Jeez," Lori said. "It sounds rough."

"It was. But rewarding."

"Do you want some coffee? A slice of pie?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

Bobby Jr. dropped to his butt in front of the TV. "Aren't you going to say hi to your Uncle Lincoln?" Lori asked.

"Hi," Bobby Jr. said without turning.

Lincoln chuckled. "Glad to see I was missed."

"He missed you," Lori said. "For the longest time he kept asking about you. We told him you were in school so he'd kind of understand." She laughed and touched his arm. "He said 'he's in school just like me!'"

"How's he doing with it?"

"Good," Lori nodded. "He's going to be starting first grade next month. I've gotten used to having him around the house during the day, so it's probably going to be a bigger adjustment for me than it will be for him. How long are you home?"

"Two weeks."

Her eyes darkened. "Do you know if you're going...over there or not?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Not yet."

"They show it every night on the news," Lori said heavily. "It's awful. Did you hear about the plane they shot down?"

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "No."

"The North Vietnamese shot down one of our planes and took the pilot prisoner. They said it was the first plane we lost over there."

"Sounds like a lucky shot."

"I don't know," she said, crossing her arms as though she were cold, "I just don't want you to go over there."

Lincoln sighed. "I don't want to go over there either, but my ass belongs to Uncle Sam now, so I have to do what he says."

"Yeah, well, I don't like that." For a moment silence hung between them. Lincoln didn't like it himself, but that's the way it was.

He stayed at Lori's house for an hour, then drove to his parents' house. Dad was at work and Mom was out getting groceries, but Leni was in, and she spent forty-five minutes happily prattling herself in circles as they sat on the porch swing. She told him about her latest designs and all the cute dresses she saw in the fashion magazines...then about her latest designs and all about the cute dresses she saw in the fashion magazines. Lincoln frowned as she repeated herself.

When he picked Ronnie Anne up from Flip's at five, his mood was dark. Ronnie Anne sensed it as soon as she got in the car. "You alright?" she asked worriedly, laying her hand on his arm.

For a moment he didn't speak. "No," he finally said. He told her about going over to the house and listening to Leni repeat herself. She nodded understandingly, her hand softly rubbing his arm. "The last time I went over there she couldn't remember my name. She kept calling me 'Lincy's wife."

Lincoln sighed.

That Saturday, Flip gave Ronnie Anne the day off and they spent the whole day in bed, cuddling, having sex, and just talking, their fingers laced together. They had ice cream and went to a movie at the drive-in. _The Last Man on Earth_ starring Vincent Price. Something to do with vampires. Lincoln hooked the speaker to the driver side window and leaned back. Ronnie Anne clasped his hand. As time went on, they began to pay more attention to each other than to the movie. Around halfway, they climbed into the back seat: First they held each other, then they made love, their bodies moving in slow, affectionate tandem. As they rocked, they whispered words of love into each other's ears. Ronnie Anne held her hand up, and Lincoln put his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. Her body squeezed his, and he pushed back against hers. "I love you," he said into her ear as the end came.

"I love _you_ , Lincoln," she said, the 'N' dragging as she was swept away on a tide of warm pleasure.

When they got home, they made love again, and then again when they woke the next morning.

Later, they drove to Bobby and Lori's house for a cookout. They found the small family in the backyard, Lori sitting at a picnic table and cutting tomatoes and Bobby Jr. running through the yard like a madman. Bobby Sr. stood by the grill with a can of beer in his hand. He wore plaid shorts and a white polo shirt, and reminded Lincoln of his father. When he looked up and saw them, he smiled widely. "Holy sh- ot, it's Lincoln Loud!" He came over and stuck out his hand. "How's it goin', Mr. Army?"

"Alright," Lincoln said, shaking Bobby's hand. "How're you?"

"I can't complain," Bobby said, and took a swig. "Livin' the American dream. Kid, house, beautiful wife."

Lori looked up and blew him a kiss, which he caught. He turned to Ronnie Anne. "I went into Flip's yesterday and he said he gave you the day off. Saturday? Really? You don't like tips anymore?"

"I was busy," she said as Bobby slipped his arm around her shoulder. She did likewise to his waist and hugged him.

Bobby snickered. "I bet you were. You too, Private Loud. You want a beer? You look like you need to loosen up. Standin' there like you got a stick up your butt. You're not on duty, Private. At ease."

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "I'll take one."

"Atta boy," Bobby said. He knelt next to a cooler, opened the lid, and took out a can of Pabst, which he handed to Lincoln. "There you go. Crack it and relax a little, huh? I don't see any Cong hiding in the bushes."

Two days before Lincoln left, he got his marching orders from the U.S. government in the mail. He opened the envelope with bated breath and silently prayed to God that he was going to West Germany or to Alaska.

He was going to Vietnam.

That night, sitting at Ronnie Anne's kitchen table over dinner, he took her hand and gazed into her eyes. The words didn't come easy, because he knew they would hurt her. "I got my orders today," he said.

It was slight, but he could see her tense. "Where?" she asked.

Lincoln broke eye contact as he spoke. "Vietnam."

Her hand went limp in his and her exhalation was too quick, too heavy. She nodded slowly...then started to cry, her hand flying to her face. Lincoln slid out of the chair and knelt next to her, put his arm around her and rested his head against her hitching chest. "Shhh," he said, "it's okay."

"No it's not," she sobbed, "you're going to a fucking warzone."

"That doesn't mean anything," he said, "I'll probably end up guarding a mess hall a thousand miles from the front."

She cried even harder, and he pulled her onto his lap, where he held her and stroked her hair until the tears had tapered off and she sniffed. "I don't want you to go," she said. "Please don't go."

"I have to," he said.

"No, you don't. We can leave. I have family in Mexico."

"I couldn't do that to my family."

"Please?"

"Babe, no, I have to do this."

" _Si mueres, mi corazón también,"_ she said.

He kissed her forehead and rocked her gently. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she said. She clutched the front of his shirt, and began to cry again. She would cry off and on through the night, and Lincoln never let her go.

On the day he left, Ronnie Anne drove him to Fort Pearson, the closest Air Force installation. From there he would fly to Camp Pendleton in California, and then from there he would fly to the war in Vietnam. Neither spoke, neither had the words or the energy. For a while the only sound was the hum of the tires on the pavement, then, when that became too maddening, Ronnie Anne turned on the radio. She lit a cigarette, took a couple puffs, then silently handed it to him. They passed it back and forth until it was done, and Lincoln threw it out the window.

When they arrived, she parked in a slot near the reception center and turned to him. He did likewise. For a long time, they stared at one another, each committing the other's features to memory just in case this was it – the last time they would see each other. Then they held hands.

Finally, they got out and hugged: She clung to him and he clung to her. Tears stood in both of their eyes. "Come back to me, Lincoln," she said and looked up into his eyes.

Lincoln forced a weak smile. "I will," he said, "I promise."

She stroked his face, her eyes shimmering with love. _"Espero estar embarazada, y espero que se parezca a usted."_

Lincoln grinned. "I understood 'hope' and 'you.'"

"Don't worry about it, lame-o." She stood on her tippy toes and kissed him. "Just worry about getting the hell out of that stupid war."

She cried all the way home. Whether he came back or not – especially if he didn't – she meant what she said: She hoped she was pregnant and that it looked like him.


	40. May 1967

**We gotta get out of this place**  
 **If it's the last thing we ever do**  
 **We gotta get out of this place**  
 **'cause girl, there's a better life for me and you**

 **\- The Animals (We Gotta Get Out of This Place, 1965)**

* * *

Lincoln sat in the chopper with one knee drawn to his chest, his M16 propped between his legs. The vibrations of the whirling rotors jostled him back and forth, nearly knocking his helmet from his head. He reached up fumbled at the chin straps with trembling fingers, but couldn't get it and gave up. Around him, other men huddled, their faces covered in sweat and their eyes pooled with fear: The heat of the afternoon pressed again them like a wet blanket, and Lincoln found it hard to breathe.

It May 26, 1967 and they were soaring high above the green, hilly expanses of the Que Son Valley. Smoke filled the air, and Lincoln counted almost a dozen other choppers staggered across the sky, all flat green and tilted slightly forward at the nose. They had been airborne for nearly twenty minutes, and Lincoln figured they were closing in on their destination.

When someone slapped his arm, he jumped. Next to him, Lee nodded and flashed a grin, his teeth pearly white against his charcoal skin. He said something, but Lincoln couldn't hear him over the roaring of the blades, so he leaned his ear in. "You want a smoke?"

"Sure," Lincoln said loudly. Lee reached up and took a crumbled pack of Kools from the band around his helmet and shook two out, handing one to Lincoln. He lit his, then Lincoln's. Lincoln inhaled deeply and nodded his thanks.

"You ready for this shit?"

Lincoln took a drag and shook his head. "No."

Lee laughed and slapped him on the back. "Neither am I."

No, no one was, Lincoln figured. The only ones who didn't look eaten alive with nerves was the door gunner, who swept the land below with a mounted machine gun, and Lieutenant Benson, the platoon leader: He chomped on the nub of a cigar and nodded his head is if the sound of whomping helicopter blades was sweet music. He was a hard faced man with a pug nose, his beady little eyes hidden by a pair of Aviator sunglasses. Benson had been on the ground for two years, but this was his first search and destroy mission in command. Lincoln didn't like him: He enjoyed throwing his weight around too much.

Lincoln himself had been in Vietnam for less than a year. For the first two months he was assigned guard duty at a government building in Saigon, which entailed a lot of standing around and watching people stream past in the streets, silently wondering if any of them were Cong. See, the Cong didn't fight fair. With the Nazis and the Japanese, at least you knew who was who because they wore uniforms. The VC didn't. They could be anybody, anywhere, at any time. Guys who'd been in the jungle said they had this network of underground tunnels, and that they'd pop up out of them, shoot you, then disappear before anyone even knew you were dead.

That's what he was thinking about now. The vast jungles stretching out below were teeming with VC, and you'd never see them until it was too late...if then.

When the chopper began to descend, Lincoln's heart crept into his throat and he took a deep breath through his nostrils.

"Alright, you sons of bitches," Lt. Benson yelled to be heard over the blades, "it's go time!"

Lincoln's stomach rolled. "Keep your head low," Lee said, and nudged him, "you'll be alright."

Lee had been in longer than Lincoln but not by much. He had more experience on S&D missions, though. This was only Lincoln's second: In the first, the only thing his squad killed was a giant millipede, and the only Cong it saw was one of the ones another group took prisoner. Lincoln was surprised to see him wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. He imagined commies dressing...different. From what Lee said (and Lincoln was inclined to trust him), the mission ahead of them would be a relative cake walk. "Ain't many Cong in this area," he told Lincoln last night. "We're good."

Lincoln wondered. The stated purpose of the mission (setting up ambushes along a suspected VC trail) was simple enough, but everything sounds simple on paper. His mind spun a thousand horrible scenarios as they flew over the South Vietnam countryside, and all of them ended with him either dead or maimed. He felt panic clutching his chest. Resting the barrel of the rifle in the crook of his shoulder, he took off his helmet and held it in his lap. Inside, a faded black and white snapshot of Ronnie Anne was taped to the top, her black hair pulled back into a ponytail and her hands on her hips. Lincoln smiled.

"That your girl?" Lee asked.

Lincoln nodded and looked up. "Yeah," he said.

Lee nodded. "You married?"

"Yeah."

Presently, the chopper was coming down in a grassy field bordered by jungle. Lincoln shouldered his pack, buckled his helmet straps, and watched as the ground got closer and closer. When it sat down, Lt. Benson jumped out. Lincoln was next, followed by Lee. "Come on," Benson said, waving toward the tree-line. He ran at a crouch, and Lincoln did likewise, scanning the trees for snipers. That was another VC tactic: Hide in the brush. The U.S. Army was the greatest fighting force on the face of the earth...but Charlie was slippery.

When he reached the jungle, Lincoln flattened his back against the trunk of a tree and watched as other men hurried forward, their heads low. As they emptied, the choppers took off and sailed away, leaving them alone in the jungle.

Lincoln didn't realize Benson was on top of him until he was plucking the Kool out of his mouth and tossing it aside. "You sending Charlie smoke signals, Loud?"

"No, sir," Lincoln said evenly.

"You be careful with those damn things. I'm not losing fifty men because some clodhopper from bumfuck Michigan and his nigger boyfriend wanna smoke cigarettes instead of serving their goddamn country." He glanced at Lee, who sucked his lips in and looked away, presumably to keep from saying something back.

When Benson was gone, Lee shook his head. "That son of a bitch is gonna wind up getting his ass shot."

Lincoln chewed his bottom lip. "Just ignore him."

Lee snorted. "Wait til he needs my black ass to save him from Charlie. Hope you like getting taken POW, Lt. Benson." He said _Lt. Benson_ in a mocking tone that made Lincoln smile despite himself.

"Alright!" Benson cried. "Move out!"

A platoon is four squads - generally three rifle squads and one weapons squad, normally armed with machine guns and anti-tank weapons. Lt. Benson placed a man named Wickline in charge of Lincoln's squad. Wickline, short and bullish with hair the color of summer corn, reminded Lincoln of Benson, only dumber. He lead Lincoln, Lee, and nine other men (Lincoln knew some, but not others) north through the brush. Lincoln scanned the treetops as they moved forward, seeking but not seeing death. After the choppers took off, an eerie silence settled over the jungle, and presently the only sound was the soft hiss of the wind slipping through the bush.

"You guys ever see a punji pit?" Warner asked. A tall, gangly man with thick black glasses and a prominent Adam's apple, Warner was the RTO - radio telephone operator, the rig attached to a pack on his back. If there was one person in the platoon with a more nervous constitution than Lincoln, it was him, although Jasper, the medic, was a pretty nervous guy himself. He was a year younger than Lincoln and outright admitted that he was scared from the moment he got out of the chopper to the moment he got back in it. Lincoln believed him: His rifle shook in his hands, and Lincoln was honestly afraid he was going to wind up blowing someone away.

Lincoln had not, but he was scared shitless of seeing one up close...just like every other G.I. in the country. A punji pit was a simple pit filled with sharpened bamboo shafts and covered with brush. When you stepped on it, BAM, a jagged piece of wood skewered your foot like a shiskabob. Sometimes Charlie smeared shit or poison on the tips in a backwoods form of biological warfare.

"They could be anywhere," Warner worried. "Right in front of your feet, even."

Lee, who was following in Warner's footsteps, put his hand on the RTO's shoulder. "Why you think I'm behind you?"

They reached a ridge, and Wickline, at the head of the pack, dropped to his knee and held up a fist, which meant halt. Everyone crouched down, Lincoln's grip tightening on the rifle and his heart beginning to race. Wickline turned and settled down, taking his canteen out and unscrewing the top. "Take five," he grunted and took a drink.

Lincoln sat, took his helmet off, and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. He pulled off his vest, shrugged out of his shirt, and stuffed it into his rucksack. He put the vest back on over his bare chest: It was a little cooler, but not by much. He took out his canteen and uncapped it. The water was warm and slimy but his parched throat didn't care.

Wickline took his helmet off and scratched the back of his head. "Anybody gotta piss or shit, do it now 'cuz we're not stopping 'til we get there."

Merlino, an Italian guy from Brooklyn with dark hair and olive skin, peeled his shirt off and stuffed it into his helmet, which sat on the ground next to him. Wilson, a redneck from Alabama, broke into his rations and started eating. Wickline looked around. "No one?"

"I think we're good, Sarge," Merlino said and lit a cigarette with a match, ducking his head between his cupped hands. "Gotta go pee-pee, Loud?" he asked.

Lincoln shook his head. He was leaning against a tree trunk with one leg propped up. "I went before we left."

"Soul brother Lee?"

Lee held up a middle finger, and Merlino laughed. "Hey, come on, now, I'm not much lighter than you." He slapped his bare arm.

"Yeah," Lee said, "you Eye-Talians. Negros of Europe."

"Damn proud, too," Merlino said.

Lincoln took a pack of Camels from his vest pocket, took one out, and lit it. The silence around them was unnerving. He pulled harsh smoke into his lungs, then let it out in a plume. He glanced down at the helmet in his lap, and smiled when his eyes fell across Ronnie Anne's face. In two months, he'd see her again...just two short months.

In other words, forever.

As his platoon mates bantered around him, Lincoln frowned and put his helmet back on. Yesterday was their one year wedding anniversary...and he spent it cleaning a latrine 20 million miles from her loving arms.

"So I'm the only one of you shitsuckers who didn't get drafted?" Merlino asked. He was sitting on a rock now and looking around. "Lee? Loud? Anyone?"

Lincoln shook his head. "This is the last place I wanna be."

"Better than the USSfuckingR," Merlino said.

Lincoln shrugged.

Merlino shook his head. "Guess I'm the only patriot here."

"Take your John Wayne ass over that ridge if you're so patriotic," Lee said. "Us niggers and hippies will stay here."

Merlino waved him off.

Wickline spoke then, "If you assholes are done, it's time to move out."

"Sure thing, Sarge," Merlino said. He slipped his shirt back on and then his helmet. Lincoln planted the stock of his M16 into the ground and used it to pull himself to a standing position. Lee held out his hand, and Lincoln pulled him up.

"Come on, Sambo," Lincoln said and winked.

Lee laughed. "Rather be Sambo than Mammy."

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Who's that?"

"You ain't ever seen Gone With The Wind? Big old fat woman?"

"No, I haven't seen that one."

"Good movie, actually," Lee said.

Wickline went over the ridge, and the troops followed, ducking low. Lincoln held his M-16 in the resting position, the Camel jutting from his mouth and the smoke stinging his eyes. Beyond the rise, the jungle became denser, the tress closer together. All that jive about punji pits had him nervous, and instead of scanning the trees, he scanned the ground, looking for unusual piles of brush that might be covering something sharp and smeared with shit. What he said earlier was bullshit: He did _not_ want to step on a punji stick.

The deeper they slipped into the bush, the more sounds they heard. Bugs, animals, birds overhead. Every time something moved in the foliage, everyone jumped and aimed their guns at it. "A heart attack's gonna get me before Charlie does," Lee said from behind Lincoln.

"You and me both," Lincoln said shakily.

Three miles later, they came to a wide, lazy river with rocks strewn along either shore. The area was open, and Lincoln looked around at the trees. That one over there was moving...from the wind, or a Cong?

"Alright, ladies, you know the drill," Wickline said. Holding his pack and rifle over his head, he waded in and started across. The others held their own rifles and packs up and followed in a neat, single-file formation. The back of Lincoln's neck tingled, and he kept looking over his shoulder. Lee was chewing the bottom of his lip: Lincoln could tell he was anxious too. The river would be a logical place to watch, but did they really have enough guys to watch the entire length?

"Chill out, will ya?" Lee asked the third time Lincoln looked. "They ain't watching. They'd have opened up if they were."

On the other bank, Lincoln stomped his feet to get as much water out of his boots as possible. They'd have to stop soon for a sock change: Walking around in wet socks too long was how you got jungle rot, and when you got jungle rot, you couldn't fight.

You know...maybe he didn't _need_ to change his socks.

"How much farther, Sarge?" Merlino asked.

"Three klicks," Wickline replied.

Two miles...two miles until they reached their objective: The Cong trail. That's when the fun would begin.

* * *

Or not.

Back at camp, Lincoln listened to American Forces Radio because what the hell else was there to do? One of the songs he heard was called "All Along the Watchtower," and as he and the others were strung out along the narrow, rutted dirt road, it came to mind. A man was stationed every hundred yards or so. Wickline's orders weren't exactly clear, but from what Lincoln was able to gather, they were going to attack whatever came along then move out to a position ten klicks downriver where there was a suspected Cong base of operations. Lee and Merlino were charged with placing claymores along a designated section of the road, and if Lincoln understood right, when a truck or whatever hit one, they were supposed to start firing. Easy enough, right?

Lincoln sat against the trunk of a tree next to the road, his location obscured by foliage, and waited for something to happen.

It didn't.

Hours passed at a crawl, and the only thing Lincoln saw was a man carrying a bucket of water. No trucks passed, no jeeps, no troop formations, nothing. He didn't know if that was good or bad. Both, he finally decided. Good because every minute nothing came along was another minute that he wasn't getting shot in the face, and bad because every minute nothing came along was another minute had spent in the boonies, where Charlie had the advantage. He wondered if there were any tunnels nearby, and when the boredom began to weigh on him, he considered leaving his post and looking about, but decided against it. Wickline would be pissed. As the afternoon drew on, he started to get hungry. Setting his rifle aside, he drew his pack onto his lap and opened it, rummaging around for his C-ration. He took it out and sat it across his lap, a rectangular cardboard box heavier than a fucking brick. He glanced around, and when he was sure no VC were going to pop up and blow his head off, he opened it, taking a small metal can out and opening the top. Inside were crackers and brown discs of chocolate. He took one of the crackers out and popped it into his mouth. It was stale.

As he ate, he studied the box. What was the meal in this thing, anyway? He found it printed across the top, under the label MEAL, COMBAT, INDIVIDUAL: TURKEY LOAF. Lincoln grimaced. He didn't like turkey back in the states, and he fucking _hated_ army turkey. His stomach rumbled. He'd eat it, but he wouldn't like it.

He left a couple of the crackers and ate one of the chocolate discs. It was chalky and hard. Man, what he wouldn't give for a pot roast with carrots and potatoes like Mom used to make on Sundays. Or a hamburger from Flip's.

Returning the can to the box, he stuffed it back into his pack and set it aside. The rays of the afternoon sun fell through the swaying trees, dappling the ground with golden light. He reached into his vest for his Camels, but didn't find them. What the fuck? Where are my cigarettes?

He remembered sticking them into his helmet band before crossing the river, found them, and shook one out. He lit it and cupped his hands around it so that the smoke wouldn't be evident from the road. Was it him, or was it getting hotter? Sweat rolled down his face and chest like warm piss. He took a puff and blew the smoke away from the trail. It curled and danced in the stagnant air like a ghost cutting a rug.

A strange rumbling noise filled his ears, and for a moment he couldn't place it, then it hit him and he sputtered: A vehicle was coming...something big, like a truck, from the sound of it. He smashed his cigarette out on the ground and grabbed his rifle, quickly getting on one knee and craning around the tree trunk to see. Nothing was in sight, but it was coming. His heart started to pound, and he swallowed hard.

The rumble swelled, and suddenly it was ambling by, a big transport truck, its bed crammed with slant-eyed faces. Lincoln's heart dropped, and his grip unconsciously tightened on the rifle. It moved slowly, and in a second Lincoln saw why: A number of troops followed on foot, a few of them in NVA uniforms. They were so close Lincoln could spit on them if he wanted.

Instead, he crouched where he was, waiting for the claymore to blow, his heart jackhammering and his entire body perspiring. He glanced down the watchtower, but couldn't make out any of his men. Lee was the closest, and earlier he caught a glimpse of him shifting, just a quick flash of black skin through green leaves. Now, he saw nothing. He swallowed hard and pressed the stock of the rifle against the crook of his shoulder. The enemy soldiers on foot numbered about two dozen by the looks of it. They wore funny looking hats and carried AK-47s. They –

 _BOOM!_

Lincoln was stunned by the sudden explosion. Smoke and the sound of rocks and dirt falling back to earth filled the jungle. Lincoln turned his rifle and opened fire without aiming, raking the barrel left and right, bullets tearing through the brush and kicking up clouds of dust. At least one tore into a VC's leg, and he went down with a pained cry.

The enemy started spreading out as the platoon came out of the jungle. Lincoln aimed at a VC, but he jumped behind a rock and opened up in Lincoln's direction, the bullets whizzing by a good five or six feet to Lincoln's right. A half dozen bodies lie in the road, some of them moving, others not. Lincoln glanced to his right and saw Lee picking his way out of the brush. He glanced back at the road. Was Charlie still behind that rock? If so, Lincoln wasn't going anywhere.

As if in answer, he saw a flash of movement as the VC ducked out from his concealment and tried to rush back into the jungle. Someone yelled, then a burst of fire hit him, knocking him over.

The rattle of gunfire fell silent, and the only thing Lincoln could hear were the crackle of flames and the groaning of the wounded. Hefting his rifle, he got up and came out of the jungle in a crouch. The truck was a twisted hunk of burning metal. Bodies were strewn here and there, their limbs broken and their faces charred. A terrible stench found Lincoln's nose, and it crinkled. What _was_ it?

"Easy as fucking pie," Merlino said. He was bare-chested again. He was holding his .45. Lincoln didn't see his rifle. "Sarge, mop up?"

Wickline rolled a VC over with his foot. "Yeah."

Lincoln watched in horror as Merlino went over to a wounded VC, pointed the gun at his head, and pulled the trigger. _Blam!_ He went over to another, aimed, and did it again. _Blam!_ After the fifth one, he slipped the gun into the holster on his belt and nodded to himself. He turned, and saw Lincoln's wide eyes. "Welcome to war, Loud," he said and tittered. Lee brushed past Lincoln and knelt by one of the bodies. He rolled it partially over and slipped something under it. A charge, Lincoln figured as he came back to life and shook his head. When someone went to move it, boom.

They were all standing in the road now, Wickline walking among the dead and making sure they were, in fact, dead. "Alright," he called, "move out."

Nightfall caught them before they had reached their objective. Wickline set a parameter and ordered Lee and Lincoln to stand first watch. In two hours, they were to wake Merlino and Wickline himself.

Because of the heavy brush and because of the nature of their mission, they did not pitch tents, they simply leaned against tree trunks. Before turning in, Wickline issued a strict no-smoking order. The Cong could see the cherries in the darkness. Lincoln didn't mind: He went all through boot camp without a single puff, and if he could put up with Sgt. Hellman with no nicotine, he could put up with anything.

It was so dark in the jungle that Lincoln couldn't see two inches in front of his face. He had an AN/PVS-2 Starlight scope attached to his rifle, and every once in a while he would look through it and scan the surrounding wilderness, his finger resting on the trigger guard. The only thing he saw on it was Lee across camp. He heard funny sounds, and once swore that he could hear Vietcong creeping through the underbrush inches away. It was only a rat...a rat as big as a small dog. He _almost_ shot it.

Alone with only the night noises, his mind turned to Ronnie Anne. They spoke on the phone here and there, time permitting, and there were always letters, but that wasn't enough: He missed her so badly that sometimes he felt like he was going to double over. He wanted to be in her arms – he wanted to be with her and never leave her side ever again... he wanted her to have his children – lots and lots and lots of children. He wanted a lot of things.

Like a cigarette.

He sighed and looked through the rifle scope again. Nothing. Only desolation. He wondered if Charlie found the mess they left in the road. He thought back to Merlino shooting wounded Cong in the head and shivered. He tried to tell himself that those bullets were merciful – that if they hadn't been shot, they would have lain there in agony for hours until they bled out or an animal came along and finished them off, but it didn't _feel_ merciful. It felt like murder. God, one minute they were marching along and the next they were just...gone. How easily it could be him next time, shot in the head and left in the road for the vultures.

That thought turned his stomach.

When you get right down to it, how different are they from us? They're people with wives, best girls, sisters and brothers, hometowns where they lived and loved and that they missed and wanted to go back to. A lot of them were probably drafted just like him. _Here's a rifle, go fight because something-something-communism._

War is not waged by the men in the trenches, it is waged by politicians, priests, and noblemen. The boys in the trench are tools just as surely as the weapons they carry are tools. The boys on the ground just want to go home and be with their families the way he wanted to go home and be with his. Oh, that didn't mean they weren't dangerous and that you could go have a beer with them. Sometimes they're there against their will, and other times they've been lied to and fed a line of bullshit, but before the brainwashing, before the propaganda, before the government and the generals get their claws into them, men are men – human begins who need to love, laugh, and, sometimes, pray. None need to go half a world away and shoot someone in the face.

These and other thoughts kept Lincoln company as he stood watch, occasionally sweeping the night with his rifle. What was Ronnie Anne doing right now? It was afternoon in Royal Woods, so she was probably at Flip's. He closed his eyes and pictured her in her uniform, bags under her eyes from getting too little sleep and strands of her hair sticking out from her ponytail. His heart ached and his lungs constricted. She was so beautiful and he needed her so badly he could scream. Not needed her as in sexually, he needed _her_ , her love, her warmth, her presence. He didn't need this fucking war. He should have listened to her...they should have run away to Mexico. They could have a house on the beach away from the world and the war, they could...

Branches rustled to his left, and he turned, aiming his rifle and looking through the scope, his heart jumping into his throat.

"It's just me," Lee whispered, and huddled next to Lincoln, who lowered the gun and laid it across his lap. "You see anything?"

"No," Lincoln said, "nothing."

"Yeah," Lee said, "there ain't nothing out there. Not close, at least." A flame flicked, filling the darkness and bathing Lee's sweaty face. Lincoln's heart clutched.

"Hey, man, we can't..."

Lee touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette and inhaled. "Can't do a lot of things," he said, "we still do 'em, though." He cupped the cherry with his hand to hide it from sight. The smoke filled Lincoln's nose, and he started to salivate. He wasn't brave enough to spark his own, though.

"You ever hear of that cat Ray Charles?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "I know him."

"That nigga's blind. I wonder if this is what he sees all the time, you know? Can you see shit? I can't."

"Nothing," Lincoln said.

"Man, it'd drive me crazy. How you think he does it?"

Lincoln shook his head. He didn't know. If pure, unbroken black is all _he_ could see, he'd probably go crazy too...or at least be very, very, _very_ depressed. "You know that song he did? _Georgia on My Mind?"_

"Uh-huh," Lee said, a grin creeping into his voice.

"Does he even know what Georgia looks like?"

Lee broke out laughing, covering his mouth with his hand to stifle the sound. "Man, you're crazy," he hitched and took a hit, the glow of the cherry providing just enough illumination that Lincoln could see his hand. "You want a hit?"

"Yeah, I do," Lincoln admitted.

Lee held it out, and Lincoln took it, bringing it to his lips and inhaling. "I shouldn't have started again after basic," he said.

"Me either," Lee said. "Pretty fuckin' stupid."

"Uh-huh," Lincoln said, and took another drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs. "I had a pretty girl shove one into my hand though," he added before he knew he was talking, "what could I do?"

"Your girl?" Lee asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. He took another puff and handed it back. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he picked up his rifle and looked through the Starlight scope: The world was fuzzy, green, and empty. He sat the rifle across his lap and leaned his head against the trunk.

Lee stubbed the cigarette out on the ground. "That's nice. That's real nice. You got something to look forward to when you get back. That's good. Lot of guys don't even have that."

Lincoln nodded. He was thinking about Ronnie Anne again and it was bringing him down.

Lee sighed. "Well, it's time to go wake those two assholes up. Let them get their turn."

Try as he might, Lincoln did not sleep for a long time.

* * *

Morning. The temperature was already closing in one ninety degrees, and the dense, sun-dappled underbrush stifled even the slightest breeze. Lincoln's squad moved in a straight, single-file line, their boots crunching vegetation underfoot and their passage rustling the tangled bush. Lincoln was toward the back, behind Wilson and in front of Lee, and as they picked through the jungle, he glanced warily around, but couldn't see anything through the thick walls of foliage.

No one spoke as they moved along the trail. Ahead, Jasper's head whipped left and right, his eyes wide and his face the color of milk. At the head of the unit, Wickline swept the forest with his rifle. A twig snapped to their right, and everyone swung around. They waited, then moved on, Lincoln's heart starting to race. It was nothing, he told himself, just another animal.

"How much farther, Sarge?" Merlino asked, his voice low.

"Four klicks," Wickline replied absently.

"That far?" Wilson asked. "Damn."

Ahead, the land sloped to a rushing creek, and the jungle fell back from the path. Lincoln held his rifle in one hand, his finger resting on the trigger guard, and rummaged in his vest pocket for a cracker. He popped it into his mouth and chewed, his stomach rumbling. Before moving out, he ate half of the turkey loaf, but it wasn't enough. Should have eaten all of it.

On the other side of the creek, the terrain became less rugged, the trees spaced farther apart, allowing more sunlight in. Tall brown grass waved in a humid breeze. Lincoln dragged the back of his hand across his forehead and looked around. He still didn't see anything. If they were getting close to this base, there would have to be a fairly strong enemy presence.

Behind him, Lee lit a cigarette and inhaled, the tang of smoke touching Lincoln's nostrils. "When I get outta here you'll _never_ catch my ass in the woods again. I'm gonna stay in the middle of the fucking city til I _die_."

"Charlie don't mind the city," Wilson said.

"Charlie sets one foot in Harlem, his slant ass is gonna get a rude awakening."

The trail entered the jungle again. This section was not as dense. Lincoln looked around again. Nothing.

Ahead, Wickline stopped and held up a fist. Everyone halted. He motioned them to continue, and they started moving again. Lincoln considered a cigarette, but decided against it. A drink of water, on the other hand, sounded –

Gunfire rattled ahead, and Lincoln's training immediately kicked in: He dodged off the trail and dropped against a tree trunk, his heart slamming against his chest. Someone yelled something out, and more shots rang out. _Tat-tat-tat_. Next to him, Lee kept his head low and looked back down the trail. It stood empty.

The fire stopped, and Wickline barked orders. Lincoln poked his head out from behind the tree and saw someone lying in the middle of the path. Jasper lie on his stomach in the grass feet away, Wilson crouched against a tree behind him; he fired indiscriminately, and Jasper hurriedly crawled to the wounded man, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and trying but failing to pull him away. "Help!" he called, and Wilson dropped his gun and crawled over. Lincoln braced his rifle against the tree and provided covering fire, aiming not to hit but to suppress.

Jasper and Wilson dragged the man off the trail and crouched. "Loud! Lee!" Wickline cried. "Get your asses up here!"

Lee slipped behind Lincoln, and Lincoln pushed away from the tree, following through the brush. Lee hurried at a stoop, and when more fire erupted, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way. Lincoln did likewise, kissing dirt and doing his best to make himself as flat as possible.

Wickline was pinned down behind a fallen tree trunk, his back to it and his rifle in his hands. "Warner! Get me that goddamn phone!" he called. Lincoln crouched on one side and Lee the other. Bullets whizzed over their heads and tore into trees.

The barrage ended, and eerie silence fell over the jungle. "Warner!" Wickline screamed. Lee popped his head over the trunk and glanced around. Wilson darted across the path and threw himself down next to Lincoln. "Sarge, Merlino's hurt real bad; he took a burst to the guts. Jasper doesn't think he'll make it."

"Fuck," Wickline hissed. "Where's Warner?"

"Lying in the grass."

"Is he hit?"

"I don't know."

On the other side of their concealment, someone yelled in Vietnamese, and Lincoln's heart clutched. Lee braced his elbow on the tree and opened up. More Vietnamese yelling. "They're in the brush!" Lee cried.

Wickline took a deep, steadying breath. "Everyone get your asses here now!" he yelled. "Jasper, that means you! Leave Merlino!"

Lincoln blinked. You _never_ leave a man behind. "Sir, you can't..."

"Shut the fuck up, Loud; _I'm_ in charge here." Then: "Warner!"

Men started coming out of the brush and taking up positions along the trunk. Jasper appeared on the other side of the path, his hands and uniform stained with blood. "Sarge!" he cried. "Merl –"

"Fuck Merlino, get Warner!"

Jasper glanced over his shoulder, then started across the path. Gunfire sounded, and he went down. In response, six men popped over the transom and returned fire, the cacophony of reports filling the world. Wickline cursed. He threw himself to the ground and started crawling toward Warner's last known position. In the path, Jasper rolled back and forth in pain.

Next to Lincoln, a man fell back, a hole in his head. Lee ran out of ammo and ducked down, pulling a fresh magazine from his belt. He glanced at Lincoln. "There's gotta be a hundred of them!" he yelled, and Lincoln's stomach turned. At least that's what he _thought_ he said over the hellish din.

The fire stopped, and Lincoln could hear Jasper moaning, a low, haunting sound. Yelling, both in English and Vietnamese. Lincoln's heart slammed. Bullets started flying again, and they were totally pinned now, unable to return fire. Lincoln swallowed hard and glanced at Jasper again. He was thrashing. Blood stained the dirt.

Going after him wasn't a conscious decision: One minute Lincoln's back was against the tree, the next he was hurrying down the line, bent and carrying his rifle in one hand. At the end of the trunk, he dropped down and prayed for the shooting to stop just long enough for him to pop out, grab Jasper, and get back.

When it did, he threw down his rifle, rushed out, and grabbed Jasper by his vest. The man's face was pale and his eyes were dark: Blood seeped through the green fabric of his shirt. Adrenaline pumped through Lincoln's system, and his mind was focused. He didn't realize bullets were hitting the ground in front of him, didn't realize that one grazed his arm and seared his flesh. His only thought was to get Jasper under cover. Heart pounding, he dragged him along the ground and behind the trunk.

"There's too goddamn many!" someone screamed, and broke, crawling away. Another man got to his knees, lifted his gun, then screamed and fell back when a bullet hit him in the chest.

Lincoln rested Jasper's head in his lap and looked down at him. "You're gonna be okay!" he screamed because what the hell else was he supposed to scream? He glanced down the line as another two men started hurrying away. Oh, man, this was not good. He looked back down at Jasper. He didn't know how far he would be able to drag the wounded man, and getting to their feet was not an option.

Next to him, a man tossed a grenade over the trunk, and when it exploded, Lincoln heard pained screaming. Down the line, Lee aimed and opened up, but a bullet struck him in the arm and he screamed as a burst of red mist was torn out of him.

Jasper was breathing heavily now, his lips trembling. He was fading, and if they didn't get him out soon, he would die. He glanced down the line for help, but everyone was gone except for Lee and another man. Lee, his teeth clenched, picked his rifle off the ground and ducked as bullets streaked by.

It was hopeless.

Lincoln looked down at Jasper. His eyes were closed and his chest was still. He felt along his neck for a pulse, but didn't detect one. Shit.

Grabbing his rifle, he moved Jasper's head out of his lap and rushed down the line, stepping over dead bodies as he went. Lee crouched, his rifle in his hands and blood coursing down his arm. "How bad?" Lincoln asked.

"I'm fine!"

"Come on!" Lincoln screamed, nodding toward the rear. He started away, but stopped and turned when Lee cried out. What he saw made his blood run cold: NVA soldiers were coming over the trunk. One stood over Lee with a bayoneted rifle pressed into his back.

Working on instinct rather than malice forethought, Lincoln brought his rifle up and jerked the trigger: The NVA with the bayonet fell back as the burst hit his chest. Another aimed at Lincoln, but Lincoln swung the rifle and caught him in the neck and head. When his rifle ran dry, Lincoln tossed it aside and pulled out his .45. For a moment, no one else appeared. Shouting rose from behind him. On the ground, Lee whimpered. Lincoln glanced at him then up again. He couldn't leave him.

He moved forward, holding the pistol in one hand. A head popped up, and he squeezed a shot off, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

" _Chỉ một!_ _"_

In his time, Lincoln had learned a little Vietnamese. _Chỉ một_ meant _only one._

At once, seven men jumped over, and Lincoln's heart sank. He fired once, twice, three times, hitting one in the chest and missing the others.

Lincoln Loud had always been the type to give you the shirt off his back. He was helpful, kind, and considerate...but even someone like him has his limits. He liked Lee...he considered Lee his friend...but in that moment, his survival instincts took over and he turned tail, staggering to his feet and starting to run, his arms, legs, and heart pumping furiously.

He wasn't a slow man...he was one of the fastest runners in basic...but bullets are faster, and when one slammed into his back, he pitched forward and hit the ground face first, his brain jostling against his skull. Maybe he went unconscious, maybe he didn't...he would never be able to tell...but he was entirely conscious when they rolled him onto his back: A ring of slant-eyed faces stared evilly down at him, and his heart crashed.

One of the NVA soldiers knelt next to him and flashed a shark-like smile. _"Bạn thuộc về chúng tôi bây giờ."_

Everyone laughed.

Everyone except for Lincoln, that is.


	41. June 1967

**Lyrics to** _ **I'm A Believer**_ **by The Monkees (1967);** _ **Gimme Some Lovin'**_ **by The Spenser Davis Group (1966)**

* * *

Rita Loud's daily routine consisted of cooking, cleaning...and watching daytime TV. All of her children were grown and out of the house, save for Leni, and that meant that messes didn't happen the way they used to. When all of her children were at home, she would sweet, mop, and vacuum daily. Now, she could get away with doing it every two or even three days.

On Thursday, June 1, she was watching _The Dick Van Dyke Daytime Show._ The couch was less than ten feet from the TV, but she was having trouble seeing clearly – she needed glasses but she didn't want to admit it. Leni was sitting next to her and knitting a cap while humming a song they'd heard on _The Ed Sullivan Show_ the night before. Occasionally, she would sing under her breath: "Now I'm a believer...not a trace of doubt..." she would scrunch her brow and roll her eyes heavenward, having forgotten the rest...then start over again, humming, then singing.

"How does this look, Mom?" Leni asked, holding up what she was working on: A red knit cap.

"It looks good, dear," Rita said.

"It's for Bobby Jr.," she said happily. "It'll be cold this summer."

Rita's brow furrowed. "You mean winter?"

Leni looked at her, her eyes clouded with confusion and her head tilted. "Huh?"

"It'll be cold this winter, dear. Not summer."

Leni smiled. "Okay, Mom."

Rita started to reply, but a knock at the door silenced her. "I'll get it!" Leni said. She jumped up and crossed the living room. Rita picked up the cap and looked at it: Designing was the one area where, if anything, Leni was actually improving. Last summer they rented a booth at the flea market and Leni sold out of everything she brought: Ten dresses, five pairs of women's slacks, eight shirts, and a winter jacket. They were planning to do it again this year.

When Leni's voice drifted in from the foyer, Rita instantly detected concern. "Uh...Mom?"

Without replying, Rita got up and crossed the living room. Leni blocked her view of the door, but when the girl stepped aside, she saw, and her blood ran cold.

Two men in military dress uniforms waited, their faces inscrutable.

She knew why they were here.

She knew that her son was dead.

"Mrs. Rita Loud?" one of the men asked.

She opened her mouth and tried to reply, but a cry of misery bubbled up instead, and she clamped her hand to her mouth to hold it back, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Leni looked at her worriedly, her hand flying to her mother's back. "Mom...are you okay?"

Rita nodded and blinked back the tears. She had to be strong for Leni. "Yes, dear, I-I'm fine." She turned to her daughter and touched her face. "Please go to your room." Those last five words were barely above a whisper, and her voice broke on the last, more tears coming. Leni looked troubled, but obeyed her mother without question, glancing at the two men on the doorstep before going up the stairs, her mind working. Army costumes. Like Lincoln's. Mom crying. War. She tried to put it all together, but couldn't, and it frustrated her.

In the foyer, Rita took a deep breath. One of the men spoke. "Mrs. Loud?"

Rita nodded. "Y-Yes."

"May we come in? We have an important message to deliver from the Secretary of the Army."

Rita suddenly felt very tired...and very lightheaded. "Yes."

In the living room, the men sat side-by-side on the couch while Rita sat in the armchair hugging herself and fighting back tears. "Ma'am, it's our duty to inform you that your son, Private Lincoln Loud, is missing in action."

Rita's eyes darted up. "Missing?" Stubborn hope suddenly welled in her chest. If he was missing, that meant he might still be alive!

"Yes, ma'am. Your son went missing during an engagement near the border of North Vietnam. His squad was ambushed. He, and he alone, is unaccounted for."

She sat up straight and rested her hands in her lap. "He might be alive then."

"Yes, ma'am, it _is_ a possibility. He _could_ have been taken prisoner. We simply don't know at this point. The only advice I can give you, ma'am, is to hope for the best and prepare for the worst."

After they left, Rita sat alone in the living room and processed the information. Her son was missing...he might be a prisoner of war...he might be wounded...he _might_ be dead. Tears threatened to overwhelm her, but she consoled herself with the fact that at least she had _hope_.

She did not look forward to telling everyone else. She remembered Leni in her room, and figured that was as good a place to start as any. She went up the stairs and knocked on the door, but got no response. "Honey?" She opened the door, and found Leni prostrate on her bed, her face buried in her pillow and her back shaking. Rita's heart twinged. "Honey, what's wrong?" she asked as she went over and sat on the edge of the bed, her hand going to Leni's back.

For a moment she continued sobbing into her pillow, then she lifted her head, her cheeks stained with tears. "Lincy's dead!" She wept harder, throwing her face back down.

"No, honey," Rita said, rubbing the girl's back, tears coming into her own eyes, "he's not dead."

Leni turned her head. "Yes he is! That's why those army men came. To tell us he died!"

"He's just...he's missing, dear."

She explained what the soldiers had told her, and Leni's crying slowly tapered off as she listened. "He might be alive," Rita said. _Might_.

"He might be dead too," Leni said miserably.

Rita started to say something, but changed her mind. "Yes," she admitted, "he might be dead, but we don't know, and from what they said, he was the only person they don't know what happened to. If he was dead, they would have found him." Of course, he could have been wounded and taken away only to die later...or he could have crawled away and died...or...

"He's alive," Rita said, her voice strained. She said it not to convince her daughter, but to convince herself. "And he'll come home."

* * *

The phone on the kitchen wall was canary yellow. A bright, cheerful color...a cruel, mocking color. Lori Loud hung up the handset, crossed to the table on numb legs, and sat, propping her elbows on the surface and resting her face in her hands. She was there for a long time before Bobby Jr. came in and stood in front of her, his head tilted quizzically. "Mommy...why are you crying?"

Lori didn't trust herself to speak, so instead of replying, she took her son in her arms and hugged him as tight as she could, his tiny frame stiffening. She remembered Lincoln being that small...and even smaller...and the thought of her brother sent her off sobbing again.

When Bobby came through the door three hours later, she was sitting dazed in front of the TV, her hands folded in her lap. Through an open window, the sound of Bobby Jr.'s delighted laughter drifted in as he played. "Hey, babe," Bobby said as he passed through the living room and went into the kitchen. He sat his lunch pail on the table and went to the fridge, grabbing a can of Pabst and cracking it open. It had been a _long_ day: The new guy in shipping and receiving lost control of a forklift and smashed into a row of boxes, destroying over 1,500 dollars of merchandise. Bobby told the stupid bastard to go easy on the clutch, but he didn't fucking listen...he was one of those types that knows it all. Now the boss was pissed at Bobby like it was _his_ fault. Hey, man, I told the guy. He was doing okay then BAM, Armageddon. What should I have done, thrown myself under the wheels to save a bunch of fucking table lamps?

In the living room, he dropped next to Lori and took a swig as he favored her with a sidelong glance. Her eyes were pink and puffy like she'd been crying and her face seemed strangely...sharp, kind of like her flesh had shrunken against her skull. Bobby's heart started racing and he jammed the can between his legs. "What's wrong?" he asked and cupped the back of her neck in his hand. She leaned into him and started to cry; all he could do was slip his arm around her and wait for the storm to pass, his impatience growing. "What? What is it?"

"It's..." she hitched, "it's Lincoln."

Bobby's heart squeezed as cold dread flooded his stomach. "What about him?"

She told him about the phone call from her mother, and he listened with wide eyes. When she was done, he held her closer. "Sounds like those bastards took him prisoner. One guy out of a whole squad goes missing? It has to be. He's alive." He sounded certain, but he didn't feel certain...if he was honest with himself, he felt like crying.

"You have to tell your sister," Lori said.

That's when tears filled Bobby's eyes. Ronnie Anne loved Lincoln...full stop. She loved him with a fierce intensity that Bobby had never seen before. He loved Lori dearly, but he couldn't lie: Ronnie Anne loved Lincoln a whole lot more. He imagined her face when he gave her the news, and a vise of panic clutched his heart. "I-I-I can't do that," he said, "it'll kill her."

"You have to," she said. "She needs to hear it...and it needs to be from you."

For probably the first time since his mother died, Bobby felt totally, completely, and utterly _lost_. If she was here, he would go to her, and she would know what to do, but she wasn't. It was just him and Ronnie Anne, and Lori was right...she needed to hear it from him...needed him to be there.

He waited until after dinner, not that he ate and not that he would eat for a long time. He took the Coronet and drove across town as the sun set, taking streets that added miles and precious minutes to his trip. What would he say? How do you tell someone the person they fucking love is missing in a fucking warzone...and probably dead? How do you tell your little sister her husband is...? He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm and turned on the radio to drown out the thoughts:

 _And I'm so glad you made it, so glad you made it  
_

 _You got to gimme some lovin', gimme, gimme some lovin'_

He fucking hated this song, but he turned it as loud as he could anyway: Strangled wailing was better than the things going through his mind... _anything_ was better.

When he reached Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's building, it was dusk, and the sky was a cool shade of purple. He pulled in next to Lincoln's Impala and killed the engine. A light shone through the window of her apartment. He sat there for a long time, listening to the engine tick and cool as he prepared himself for what lie ahead. When he was as ready as he would ever be, he got out, slammed the door, and crossed to the walkway bordering the building. At Ronnie Anne's door, he paused with his hand hovering over the wood, his stomach sick with nerves. C'mon, Santiago, grow a set.

He knocked and waited. When she didn't come, he knocked again. When the knob rattled, he put on the happiest face he could muster, which didn't feel very happy. The door opened, and Ronnie Anne appeared in a pink bathrobe, her black hair wet and matted. She rubbed her head with a white towel. "Hey," she smiled when she saw him, "it's my dear brother who never visits." She socked him in the arm and he winced. She laughed.

"Alright, Ali," he said and rubbed his arm. "Hey, uh, can I come in?"

"Sure," she said and stepped aside, "you in the doghouse again?"

"No," he said and came in, "I was just cruising and thought I'd stop by." He crossed to the sofa and sat down.

Ronnie Anne went into the kitchenette. "You want a beer? You left a whole six pack over here. I've been meaning to drop it off."

"No, I'm good, I just wanna...I wanna talk for a minute."

"Alright."

A minute later she came in, dropped onto the sofa next to him, and went about drying her hair. Bobby waited for an opening but it didn't come. He'd have to be a man and make one. "Could you...stop for a minute? This is important."

She looked up at him, her eyes clouding with worry. "What?"

He took a deep breath. "It's Lincoln."

She recoiled as if slapped. "What about Lincoln?"

Bobby sighed. This was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

" _What about Lincoln?"_

"He's missing," Bobby forced. "He and his guys got ambushed and they can't find him. They think the gooks took him prisoner."

For a moment she was frozen, and Bobby expected her to start crying. "A bunch of guys got killed and –"

Like a shot she jumped up and flipped the coffee table. Bobby winced as the TV remote, a glass dish, and a can of Coca-Cola hit the floor, the glass breaking. She stalked to the bedroom and the door slammed, the walls quivering. Bobby took a deep breath and waited, not knowing what to do, then he got up and went to the door. The knob turned but it wouldn't budge: He leaned his shoulder into it and shoved. It came unstuck from the frame with a grating sound. Ronnie Anne was lying across the bed weeping, her body trembling violently. "Hey," he said lowly, and went to her, sitting on the bed. "Ronnie, look, he's probably alive, and if he is, he's-he's okay."

" _Sabía que esto me pasaría,"_ she hitched.

Bobby laid his hand on her shoulder but didn't speak. What could he say?

"I knew this would happen," she repeated, her voice thick. She cried harder and turned her head away.

"It's not as bad as it seems..."

"Missing is another way to say _muerto,_ " she moaned, then punched the bed violently. _¡ el hombre que amo está muerto!"_

"No he's not," Bobby said firmly, "he's alive and he's going to come back to you."

"No he's not. He's dead and so am I."

Bobby stretched out next to her and took her in his arms, drawing her to him. She resisted at first, but gave in as the tears overwhelmed her. Together they lay in the gathering gloom, and together they eventually slept, the grief and horror of the day heavy on their souls, and in their dreams.

* * *

Luna looked nervously into the production booth, and Julius Goldman nodded. A tall, lank man with a prominent Adam's apple and long, curly blonde hair, he wore a cheap brown suit lined with creases and wrinkles. He pressed a button, and his voice filled the studio. "That was good. I think it's a wrap."

Luna sighed. "Thank God," she said and removed the headphones. Her ears were red and sore, just like her butt. She got up and went into the booth, the billowy legs of her striped pants swishing around her calves. Her fingers hurt and her throat felt like she'd just spent a month gurgling with razor blades. The album was done, though, and that felt so fucking good she couldn't help smiling as she entered the booth: Julius was bent over the tech, a fat man in a tight shirt. He moved a series of levers, and her voice played back, gravelly and slow.

Julius nodded. "Alright. Guitar."

The tech pushed a lever and turned a knob, and the guitar kicked it: The fuzzy overdrive effect created by the turbo distortion pedal lending it the kind of sound she had become used to over the past couple years. It was all over the radio, and a lot of the bands Julius had introduced her to used it. She couldn't say she loved it, but everyone else did, so what the hell?

"Good, good," Julius said, and looked up at Luna. "This is gonna be big."

Luna smiled. "I hope."

Luna met Julius in April. She had a gig playing a bar near Fisherman's Wharf with a house band whose singer was in jail and he liked what he heard: When she was done, he came up raving about her voice, said he could make her big. "Mr.," she said as she put her guitar in its case and snapped it closed, "this isn't the first time someone's told me that." When she came out to California two years ago, she had stars in her eyes...but over eighteen months those stars slowly dimmed. She worked at a hotel cleaning up after dirty guests and lived with a bunch of hippies. It was fun at first, but it got old quick. She had her friend Sam for a while, and that made it better, but her and Leaf moved...somewhere, Luna wasn't sure...which really stank. Now, she was kind of jaded; everyone talked about how Haight-Ashbury was 'the scene' but she lived there and she knew what it really was...grimy runaways with long hair and dirty clothes panhandling and smoking dope.

"I'm telling you," Julius said, "I got a friend who manages a band. They had a contract but the singer got drafted and ran to Canada. It's a small label, but he knows people at CBS Records and they're watching him. I can take you to the studio tomorrow."

Luna wasn't stupid – in her time in the city, she came to realize something: All these 'hippies' were stupid kids and wherever stupid kids congregate, there's a virtual fucking army of rip-offs waiting to take advantage of them. Maybe she was cynical now, but she saw them everywhere...hell, she'd been taken a few times herself. First there was the "record producer" who said he was going to make her bigger than The Beatles. She believed him...and she fucked him. Guess what: He wasn't a record producer. Oops. Then there was that freak she saw hanging around the Haight even now...Charlie something. Had a bunch of women living with him and talked some strange religious bullshit. He called them his 'family.' She called them fucking cultists.

"I swear to God," Julius said, "I am dead serious. Look, give me your number. I'm not trying to take you for anything. Come down to the studio, check it out, if you like what you see, great. I can't promise you anything, but it's a shot, right?"

Whatever. She gave him her number. The next day he called and asked if he could come pick her up. "Alright," she said, "but I swear to God, man, if you take me anywhere but to a studio, I'll gouge your fucking eyes out." And she meant it.

Julius laughed. "Okay, okay, deal."

He picked up her in front of the house where she was currently staying...his car was a battered piece of shit Chevy that didn't sound like it would make it two blocks alive. "You don't have a lotta dough, huh?" she asked as they navigated through the city.

"I make money," he said, "not a lot, but it all goes up here." He tapped his nose and laughed like a lunatic.

Luna nodded, her fist tightening just in case she had to use it. "Right."

Well, to make a long story short, he wasn't jiving: He had a friend who owned a record label and he had a band that needed a singer. "Her voice would fit their sound _perfect_ ," Julius told the guy. His name was Frank and he looked like a square: Tight shirt, crewcut, beady little eyes.

Frank stuck her in the studio and had her sing two songs: Howlin' Wolf's _You'll Be Mine_ and Big Joe Turner's _Shake, Rattle, and Roll_. Luna was nervous as shit, but she must have done well, because Frank wanted her to come back and meet the band, which she did two days later. She didn't know what to expect (trippy tie-dye? Nehru jackets?), but it wasn't a bunch of dudes in blazers, western shirts, and cowboy hats. "What do these guys play?" she asked Julius, "country and western?"

"Blues rock," he replied. "It's in their name. _Blues Station_."

"Ah." She liked blues, and she wound up liking them, too. Billy the lead guitarist (everyone called him Tex because of course they did), Charlie the drummer, Blake the bassist, Cliff the rhythm guitarist...all cool guys. They liked her back, so here she was. When the tapes were done, Frank was going to pass them along to his friend at CBS and from there...well...who knew?

Presently, she and Julius left the booth and went into a break room with a kitchenette. Luna grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge and sat at one of the tables. Julius sat across from her, a smile on his face. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah, man, you told me," she said, cracking open the soda.

He reached into his coat pocket and took something out. "And you thought I was bullshitting you." He untwisted a baggie of white powder.

"I thought you were saying all that just to get in my pants."

He cut three lines on the table and glanced up, a smirk on his face. "If I did, mission accomplished, right?"

Luna chuckled. "Keep talking that shit and you won't ever get in 'em again."

Julius rolled up a twenty dollar bill, slipped the end into his nose, and sucked up one of the lines, throwing his head back and sniffing deeply. "You say that now." He gestured to her with the bill, and she slipped out of the chair and knelt next to him, taking it and snorting the second line while he ran his fingers through her hair like she was a cat and he was that guy from the James Bond movies. She snorted the third line and wiped her nose: Her nostrils were burning and she could feel the drip starting.

She got back into her chair and took a drink of Coke. You know...today was a good day. A damn good day. She just finished an album, she was starting to get high, and in a couple months, she might be big.

"There's this thing in a couple weeks," Julius said and sniffed. "Out in Monterrey. Me and Frank are trying to get you guys in. I don't think it'll happen, but it's possible. It's _big_. Fucking everyone's gonna be there. The Beach Boys, The Beatles, a bunch of new bands. Keep your fingers crossed."

Luna drummed her fingers on the table and shook her leg. "Yeah, sure, sounds great." She smiled. "This is pretty far out." Shit. You know who'd dig this? Mom and Dad. She saw a payphone in the hall. "Be right back."

In the hall, she picked up the handset and deposited a dime into the slot. She dialed the Franklin Avenue number from memory (or from heart – it was home, after all) and waited. When her mother answered, Luna started smiling. "Hey, Mom, it's me. Sorry I haven't called in a while, I've been really busy. Look, I just did an album and it might get picked up and go big and I'm over the moon here. Isn't that great?"

"That's wonderful, Luna," her mother said, "I-I have something to tell you, too."

"Sock it to me," Luna smiled.

When she came back into the dayroom ten minutes later, she was no longer smiling: Her eyes were dark and troubled, her shoulders were slumped, and her feet dragged. She dropped into her chair and hung her head. Julius, in the middle of racking up three more lines, glanced at her. "You alright?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No...it's my brother."

"Oh," Julius said, returning to what he was doing. "He's in the navy, right?"

"Army," Luna corrected.

"Oh, y –" his head whipped up. "He's okay, right?"

Luna slowly shook her head. "He's missing in action."

Tears filled her eyes and she fought hard to keep from breaking down.

"Hey," Julius said softly, and got up, kneeling next to her. He slipped his arm around her waist. "It's-it's alright. You know, when they're missing like that, that means they're alive. You know?"

Luna drew a deep sigh. Yeah. He was right. Lincoln _had_ to be alive. He couldn't be de-

She started to cry, and Julius held her tighter. "Hey...he's alright and he'd want you to, you know, relax." He didn't know what to do. Is there anything you _can_ do at a time like this? All he could do was lean forward and, using a razor blade, scrape a line closer. "Do you know what I do when I'm sad?"

"What?" she warbled.

He took the rolled twenty from the inside of his jacket pocket and laid it in front of her. "I stop being sad and be happy instead."

Luna looked at him through tearful eyes. He looked genuinely concerned, and that touched her. He pushed the bill closer. She nodded, blinked her eyes, and tried to find happiness in the snow.


	42. September 1967

**Lyrics to** _ **White Room**_ **by Cream (1968 – I cheated. This is an AU so let's just pretend that in this timeline it was out in September '67).**

* * *

Ronnie Anne Loud woke with a start. Her heart was racing and her stomach ached. Thin morning light filled the room, and for a moment she couldn't quite remember where she was...then it all came back to her. Hell, that's where she was...she was in hell, and had been for three months, three long, miserable months. There was a saying she had heard: Time heals all wounds. That was bullshit. Time might heal a boo-boo, but it doesn't heal a decapitated head, and that's what she had...a fucking decapitated head.

She rolled over and laid her arm across the bed. It was cold. Empty. Her mind flashed back to the two weeks she had Lincoln next to her, to how she would smile every time she woke to his face: His eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and failing. Sometimes she would wake up just to watch him, her elbow propped against the mattress and her head resting in her palm. _He's beautiful,_ she would think, _inside_ and _out. I love him._ Often she would lay her hand on his chest and thrill at the warmth of his skin, at the strong, steady beat of his heart. That always woke him up: He was a deep sleeper once upon a time, but after boot camp, you had to tiptoe to keep him down. "Hi," she would say as his eyes fluttered open.

"Hi," he'd say back.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Then they would make love...or hold each other...or just hold hands. When they were done, they would get up and she would make breakfast while he drank coffee and smoked at the table. He never was a coffee drinker, but again, boot camp. He had changed in a lot of ways –surprising ways, such as how he stood and bore himself – but he was the same where it counted, and she was thankful for that, because she didn't plan on _not_ spending her life with him. He was stuck with her regardless because...well...he was her sunshine...her air...her everything.

And now?

She took a deep breath against the rising anguish in her chest: She didn't want to start the day crying again. Instead, she sat up and stared across the room: In the bed against the wall, Leni was curled on her side, a pink sleep mask with a white fringe covering her eyes. In July, Mr. and Mrs. Loud invited her to stay with them. She was visiting (mainly to see if there was any news about Lincoln, but also because she genuinely liked them...and because here, she felt surrounded by Lincoln's presence) when Mrs. Loud brought it up. Under any other circumstances, Ronnie Anne would have said no: She had a place of her own, and even if staying at the Louds' would be "totally free...you're family, after all," she was happy in her own space. The presence of Lincoln's spirit permeating the very walls, however, decided her. Plus...it _was_ kind of nice to have other people around. At her apartment, she was alone and depressed and the curtains were always drawn, which made her feel like shit, because Lincoln would _not_ want her to be like this.

Dear, sweet Lincoln. He would want her to go on. If he was...gone (she couldn't bring herself to even think the dreaded 'D' word), he would want her to meet someone else and have a family and a life and all that shit. She loved him and she would do anything he wanted...but not that. Never that. You see...Ronnie Anne, unlike some people apparently, had but one heart, and when she was eleven-years-old, she gave it to Lincoln...you can't give something you no longer have, and why in the hell would she want to be with a man she didn't love? Money? She did alright. Companionship? She'd buy a cat or snag Bobby Jr. for the weekend. Sex? She hadn't even thought about sex since she found out Lincoln was missing: It was kind of a libido killer.

She would never have another. Never. Especially as long as there was the faintest possibility that Lincoln was still alive.

In the bathroom, she stripped and showered, her eyes closed and her mind clear: It took a lot of energy to keep thoughts and memories from coming, but it was worth it, because she didn't cry.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Loud was sitting at the table, a mug of coffee in front of her. Her blonde hair was done in a medium high beehive and her new glasses – pink, cat-eyed, and godawful – were perched on her nose. If anyone on earth was taking this harder than Ronnie Anne, it was Lincoln's mother. Sometimes she shuffled around like a shell-shocked vet, and every once in a while Ronnie Anne would catch her crying. The hairstyle was new – the third since June. She liked going to the salon, Ronnie Anne suspected, because if she didn't, she would stay inside and mope.

She looked up. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning, Mrs. Loud," Ronnie Anne said. She went to the drying rack by the sink, picked up a mug, and filled it with coffee. She took a sip and leaned against the counter.

"Is Leni up?" Mrs. Loud asked.

"She was asleep when I left the room."

When she first moved in, she stayed in Luna and Luan's old room. Leni, excited to have someone else in the house that wasn't a parent, was constantly in and out, and over time Ronnie Anne started to really like having her around. She was so sweet and kind, just like her brother. It was also better to bunk with her because of the disease. Once upon a time Lincoln vowed to her that he would take care of Leni, and since he wasn't here, it was her responsibility now.

"Could you be a dear and wake her when you're done? She has an appointment this afternoon."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Sure." Leni was going to see a new doctor in Detroit who claimed success with neurological disorders. Though it was a longshot, they were taking it, and Ronnie Anne didn't blame them. She would too.

When she finished her coffee, she sat the mug in the sink and went upstairs. Leni was in the same position Ronnie Anne left her in. She snorted gently, and Ronnie Anne smiled despite herself. She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a long strand of blonde hair from the girl's forehead. "Leni," she said, "oh, Leni..."

Leni snorted again and stirred.

"Lincoln's sister..."

"Uhhh," Leni moaned.

Ronnie Anne frowned. Speaking his name hurt but felt good at the same time. She took a deep breath and pushed Leni's mask up. One of the girl's eyes opened. "Hey, sleepyhead. You gotta get up."

"I don't _wanna_ ," Leni said defiantly.

"You have a doctor's appointment."

Leni pulled the covers over her head. "I know. I'm sick of doctors."

"I know," Ronnie Anne said, "but you have to go so you can get better."

Leni sighed. Did Ronnie Anne, like, think she was stupid? All the doctors said there _was_ no getting better. Her brain would be sick forever. Going to the doctors was totally pointless: It was time she could use to make cute dresses and stuff. Nevertheless, she threw the covers off and sat up. She would go for Ronnie Anne. "Fine," she said, "I'm up."

Ronnie Anne put her arm around Leni and hugged her close. "Good. I was starting to get bored. You want something to eat?"

Leni shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm just, like, going to take a thing."

Ronnie Anne's brow scrunched. "Huh?"

Leni squinted her eyes in concentration. "You know...a-a shower."

"Okay," Ronnie Anne said. When Leni was gone, she sighed deeply. Mrs. Loud told her the doctors gave Leni ten years before she would be "totally incapacitated." Ten years. That would be 1977. An impossible gulf of time. Though...hell...1957 felt like it was just yesterday. Time's funny like that. How old would Leni be? Thirty-six? Thirty-fucking-six and in diapers, unable to speak or think. What the fuck is wrong with this world? Lincoln fucking taken away and sent off to die in war and Leni's brain slowly rotting. Two of the kindest people she had ever known...yet everyday pricks walk around free and clear.

Anger overwhelmed her, and she fisted her hands. Life's not fair, they said. Fine. But why did it have to be actively _unfair?_

Shaking her head, she got up and dressed in her uniform. Before leaving, she poked her head into the kitchen. Mrs. Loud wasn't there...she was in the living room sitting in front of the TV and watching a game show. "She's up and in the shower."

"Thank you, dear," Rita said. "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah. I don't have class today so I'm going into work early."

"Alright. Have a good day."

"You too."

Before heading to Flip's, she drove around a little to clear her mind. When the silence became too much, she turned the radio on. A commercial for the county fair was on. Fun, fun, fun, it said, come on down and see the sights. Fun. Yeah. That sounded nice. She could use some fun.

She turned onto Main Street and stopped at a red light. A song started, crashing symbols, a...a chorus? Then the words:

 _In the white room with black curtains  
_

 _Near the station  
_

 _Blackroof country, no gold pavements,  
_

 _Tired starlings  
_

 _Silver horses ran down moonbeams  
_

 _In your dark eyes._

That didn't make sense.

She started to cry, bowing her head over the wheel and gripping it so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Nothing made sense anymore. Lincoln was gone, Leni was dying, she was lost, her mother was dead...she oughta take this goddamn car up to 100 and wrap it around a telephone pole. The pain would stop, the nightmares would stop, everything would stop and she would be free...free of the constant ache in her chest, free of the tears that came for no fucking reason, free of missing Lincoln so much it felt like she was being gutted.

Behind her, someone beeped. Fuck you. She lifted her head, pressed on the gas, and went through the intersection. When she pulled into Flip's, the tears had stopped, but she felt dead inside...hollow...empty. Flip noticed when she walked in – he always did – but he didn't say anything. She knew he hated seeing her like this, but she couldn't help it. The light of her life had been extinguished and she was in the dark. How can you smile pretty and be brave in the dark?

* * *

"CBS fucking _loved_ the album," Julius had said. That was back in early July after she and _Blues Station_ opened the Monterrey Pop Festival...like literally opened. They were the first band, and the fairgrounds were barely half full. The people who were there dug it, though...which meant she must have done good, which surprised the shit out of her: She was so nervous before they took the stage that she puked _twice_. Nasty, huh? She didn't like puking, puking was nasty. But the show went great, awesome, fucking amazing. She didn't think it would, she thought she was gonna tank, and she had to work up a little courage, you know? Her and this woman with brown hair snorted coke backstage and it gave Luna the energy and the fucking derring-do-gung-chung-ho she needed to pull it off.

"Which band are you with?" the girl asked, her nostrils crusted white. It was hot as hell and her brow was sweaty.

" _Blues station_ ," she said, and hit the table with her fist.

"Oh, groovy, who you with? The singer? The guitarist?"

Luna tilted her head...then she laughed so hard she cried. "I _am_ the singer. _And_ the guitarist."

The woman laughed too: Soon they were both crying and pounding the table. "That's-that's-that's really far out," she said, "you don't meet too much other women doing that. You got all the men out there but not too many of us. I mean, Ronnie-Ronnie Specter and The Supremes, but that's girl music, man, you know? Pop and soul and bubblegum. Not like what I play."

"What's _your_ band?" Luna asked.

" _Jefferson Airplane_."

Luna snorted. "What the hell kind of name is _that_?"

The girl shrugged. "I didn't name it, man. It wasn't my bag. What's a fucking blues station? Like a blues radio station? Train station?"

"I didn't name my band either! I think it's like, you know, being stationed somewhere. Station. Station. Man, does that even make sense?"

"Nothing makes sense."

"Man, that's the truth."

On stage, the sunlight was hot and Luna burst with energy. She sang until her voice fucking cracked and everyone fucking _loved_ it: She got so into the music that she grabbed the mic stand and bent it over her knee before tossing it aside. She felt _that_ in the morning. Couldn't walk right for a fucking week. Plus she had to pay a whole twenty bucks for it. Oh well.

"They like it?" Luna asked. They were in Julius's apartment. He just got back from wherever the hell Juliuses (Juli-i?) go when they're not fucking Lunas, snorting coke, or making records with Frankie the Squarey-Square. He was standing in the kitchen and she was sitting at the table. She just snorted some coke and she was buzzing, but she kept it toned down because sometimes you have to dial down the volume.

Julius nodded. "They wanna do it."

Oh, man, that was great. She hugged him and even sucked his dick because this was all him, man. The first fucking asshole out here who told her the truth. The album came out in August. It was called _Blues Station_. CBS wanted to do something with her name. _Loud this_ or _Loud that_ , but Luna thought that was stupid. Just call it _Blues Station_. That's what you do, you call your first album your band name. No frills, no bullshit, just _Here we are, everyone!_ It sold pretty well. 20,000 copies by September? It wasn't great, but, hey, it was on the radio too, and they did a couple shows with some other bands in the area and met some real groovy people. Jerry Garcia was pretty far out. Big dude with glasses and a beard. He had a band called _The Ungrateful Dead_ or something. She couldn't say she really liked what she heard of it, but they were cool people. And that girl from _The Mamas and the Papas_. The big one. Kind of wild, because Luna actually knew who they were. She didn't know _The Ingrate Death_ or what the hell ever. Cool people, though, really fucking cool people.

CBS wanted another record (something to do with a contract, she didn't know, nor did she care, Julius handled that) so she and the guys went and recorded another record. Julius cut her down on coke because "You're getting too damn fidgety." That was fine. She was tired and didn't really like being in the recording studio, but she did it, and after three weeks they had another record and Luna felt alright. Not euphorically happy, but good. She only did a hit here and there.

One thing leads to another though, and she started using heavy again. This time around, she wasn't so scatterbrained, and she didn't fidget. Not one damn little bit. Her body was used to it and it gave her laser eyes. She could see and focus really well. Like a laser. Sometimes you couldn't even tell she was on the stuff. She saw people, she partied with people, she was waiting for the break, you know, that one big break that would put her over the edge. A single, man, a hit single, that's what she needed, something with organs and tambourines and fucking people clapping their hands and shit. Julius listened to her idea with a raised eyebrow. "That...that sounds a little complex, Lune, let's just take it easy right now."

"Hey, I'm not into that stuff either, but you said yourself we need a hit, right? CBS wants a hit. I want a hit. We got this. I know we can do it."

"I have a better idea," Julius said and held up a finger.

His 'better idea' was taking her coke away and locking her in a room. "Write something slow and heartfelt," he said. "Like about your brother."

Luna paled and shook her head. "I don't wanna think about that."

"Come on. We need a hit, right? And a slow, sad song will be a hit."

She didn't think he meant that. She thought he just wanted to get her off the coke. Damn, all he had to do was tell her not to, she'd listen. Shit. Asshole. She should kick his ass. She could, too. He was scrawny.

Instead, she crashed and cried and thought about Lincoln. She started writing, then stopped, then started, then balled up the paper. What did she want to say? What if he was sitting right here in front of her...what would she tell him? She started to write, and it came hard at first, but easier.

 _When there's nothing left to say at the end of everyday_

 _I'll just think of you until the sunlight fades away_

 _Then sometime maybe I'll see your sweet face again_

 _I'll be hoping and praying and crying until then_

 _When there's nothing left in this old world to lose_

 _There's nothing else that I would choose_

 _Just to see you and hold your hand one more time_

 _And maybe you'll hold mine._

There was more. A lot more. When Julius came back Luna was lying with the side of her face against the desk, tears leaking from her eyes. She didn't know if it was night or day even though there was a window somewhere, not that she cared: When he entered, she didn't have the energy to lift her head.

"Did you write something?" he asked.

She nodded.

He came to the desk and laid his fingers on the paper: She lifted up just enough for him to slide it out from under her cheek. The paper was wet and some of the ink had run, but it was all still legible. He read it silently, nodding here and there and making humming noises. "I think you did it," he finally grinned. "What's it called?"

"I dunno, man, you call it something."

He rested his hand on her head and grazed her scalp. "You need to take it easy on the blow, honey. Alright? You're doing more than I am."

"I don't do that much."

He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, you do. You might not realize it, but you're blasting through grams and grams a day. You don't need that much."

"Fine," she said glumly, "whatever."

He broke out a baggie and cut a line on the desk. Luna lifted her head, pressed her finger to one nostril, then sniffed with the other. She didn't feel the overwhelming euphoria that dulled the edges of her grief, but she felt human again, and for right now that was enough.

She recorded the song on September 18. It was called _Come Back to Me_ and only parts of Luna's original composition were used: Before Julius tightened it up, it ran to three pages and rambled in places. Luna snorted a lot of coke that day to get through the session, and by the sixth hour in the studio, she was numb. The song might as well have been someone else's, and that was fine with her, because singing it hurt at first.

On the last day of September, Julius came through the door in a huff. She was sitting at the kitchen table and smoking a cigarette, her foot tapping and her mind telling her to snort more coke. "Pack your bags. We're going to L.A."

"Why?" she asked.

"CBS heard the demo and they think it's a number one hit. They want you to rerecord it in a better studio – one of theirs. Hell, they want you to rerecord the entire album. The guys are gonna meet us there."

Luna sighed. "Man, I don't wanna sing that song again. And I don't wanna record that entire fucking album again."

Julius knelt in front of her. "Look, Lune, this is _big_. _Really_ fucking big. CBS is giving you their best space and their best producer. That's their way of saying 'We believe in you.' This is serious shit."

His eyes gleamed with excitement and he positively thrummed with energy. Luna did _not_ want to do it – but he was right...if CBS was going _that_ far, they must be confident in her, and this _was_ her career. "Fine," she said, "whatever. Let's do it."

She threw some clothes into a bag, tossed it into the back of Julius's car, and got in. She watched as San Francisco, her home for the past two years, receded in the rearview mirror. She didn't know it, but she would never come back.


	43. November 1967

**What a field-day for the heat**  
 **A thousand people in the street**  
 **Singing songs and carrying signs**  
 **Mostly say, hooray for our side**

 **\- Buffalo Springfield (For What It's Worth, 1967)  
**

* * *

 _Tick-tick-tick._

Luan glanced at the clock next to her, its seconds hand sweeping around the dial in a slow, inexorable motion, time...fleeting. She watched it slipping away because if she didn't she would have to look at the paper in front of her, a single lined sheet filled with cramped script that she didn't want to read...didn't want to write. She slipped the end of the pencil into her mouth and absently chewed it, yellow splinters filling her mouth. 7:05pm. She looked at the flyer next to her essay. JOIN THE RESISTANCE. STUDENTS FOR A DEMOCRATIC SOCIETY MEETING TONIGHT 7:30. BASEMENT HAVEMAN HALL. A woman in a pair of jeans and a blue and white striped shirt shoved it into her hands as she crossed the commons on her way to class that afternoon. She wore a white button on her chest boasting a red clenched fist. A few others stood by a folding table decorated with signs. NO WAR, U.S. OUT NOW, BLACK POWER. Luan took it with a smile and read it as she hurried away, her thoughts turning to Lincoln.

When she first arrived at UC Berkeley, she didn't pay much attention to the burgeoning protest movement. She was intrigued, yes, because she didn't like what was happening in Southeast Asia any more than anyone else, but it wasn't an issue that moved her to action. For her, that was Civil Rights. Dr. King spoke at Berkeley, and she was there, clapping right along with everyone else. The war? She didn't know about the war, not like she knew about racism. Plus, she needed to focus on becoming a social worker so that she could help people and make the world a better place.

Then came the day she called home from the phone in the dormitory hall...the day her mother told her Lincoln's number came up and he was being drafted. When she hung up, she was cold, and no matter how tightly she hugged herself, she found no warmth, no respite. Her sweet, kind, gentle, sensitive little brother was being taken away and sent to a goddamn war zone...and for what? She didn't know the hows and whys of the war in Vietnam, but she saw the nightly news, saw men – boys, really – being dragged out of firefights missing limbs. She knew Lincoln was going there...and he was going to die. He wouldn't last five minutes.

She wept into her pillow that night. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that anyone had to go, but especially not Lincoln.

Over the coming days, her grief turned to anger. How in the name of God can they just come along, shove a rifle into your hands, and ship you off? What kind of country is this? What kind of 'freedom' is this?

On June 29th, she attended her first protest rally: A hundred kids crowded into People's Park with hand-drawn signs while a man shouted through a bullhorn; Luan was up all night making hers. It was red and blue on a white background: U.S. OUT OF VIETNAM. Short, sweet, and to the point. She stood nervously to the side and held her sign in the air as a series of speakers addressed the crowd. It wasn't much, she knew, but it was _something_ ; she couldn't take Lincoln's place, which she would in a minute, but she _could_ add her voice to the chorus of 'no's" and hopefully they would listen.

They didn't. The war escalated. Bombs rained down, boys barely old enough to shave came home broken or not at all, children lost their fathers, sisters lost their brothers, wives lost their husbands. She went to every protest she could, fighting for an end to the killing...for an end to Lincoln's imprisonment. She spoke to him on the phone twice, once before he left then again after he got there. She worried about him night and day, sometimes so much that she threw up. She lost weight, she couldn't sleep, she expected the hammer to drop at any moment, waited to hear that he had died in some goddamn rice paddy half a world away, bled out...and she wasn't there...she wasn't there to so much as say goodbye.

Then it came...the news that he was 'missing in action.' The army wouldn't tell them much, only that his squad came under fire and he wasn't found. Maybe he was alive and prisoner...or maybe he was dead. The not knowing was the worst part: She wept for a week straight, the grief so strong that she felt like she was going to die. Then...one day...it turned to _rage_. No more, she vowed, no more dead husbands, brothers, sons, and fathers, no more fucking bombs and bullets and goddamn napalm.

Through the summer of 1967, the protests became more desperate. Luan was there, her fist in the air, her teeth clenched, her sign held aloft. When the chants started, her voice was the loudest: "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?" "1-2-3-4, we don't want your fucking war!" Nothing ever changed, though. The eastern world kept exploding and she felt hopeless, frustrated.

It was in this frame of mind that she took the flyer, and was in this frame of mind that she considered its promise: A resistance...something more than chants and signs...an actual fight, vengeance for Lincoln.

 _Tick-tick-tick._

She glanced at the paper in front of her. It was headed: WHY I OPPOSE THE WAR IN VIETNAM BY LUAN LOUD. The original title was: WHY I FUCKING HATE LYNDON JOHNSON AND THE US GOVERNMENT, TOO, but she didn't think the professor would like that, so she changed it. She scanned the opening paragraph, and her eyes filled with tears.

 _My brother is the kindest, most caring, most beautiful person I have ever met in my life...I love him more than words can express...and because of Lyndon Johnson he's probably dead._

Every time she thought of Lincoln, she got mad, and sad, and felt sick and wanted to walk up to the president and shoot him between his beady weasel eyes.

She looked at the flyer. JOIN THE RESISTANCE.

She looked at the clock. 7:11.

Decided, she got up, grabbed her coat, and threw it on, shoving the flyer into a pocket and going out into the hall. A group of girls were clustered around the phone talking in excited tones. Luan hated how happy they sounded, how unaffected. Her brother was most likely dead and this country was falling apart, how could they giggle on the party line? How could they fucking _laugh?_

She didn't know, but it made her mad.

Outside, dusk had settled over the campus. It was chilly but not cold, a breeze slipping over the commons and rustling the treetops. Archaic brick buildings loomed over the square like mausoleums. When she first got to Berkley, she thought they were pretty, charming...now they were ugly and sinister.

Haveman Hall sat along a narrow footpath near a one way street. It was used primarily for functions, dances, and conventions. She had been inside once or twice, and thought that there was a set of stairs on one side leading into the basement. She walked around, and there it was. She paused at the top, one hand resting on the icy metal handrail: Light spilled through a half open door. A sign had been plastered to it featuring the same red clenched fist from the flyer.

For Lincoln, she thought, and went down the stairs. Inside, a small room decorated with posters opened before her. Several dozen metal folding chairs and been set up in front of a stage on which sat a podium. Behind it was a big black flag bearing the fist logo. People were sitting in some of the chairs, while a man and a woman stood by a folding table. The woman looked up, saw her, and motioned her over. Luan went, feeling self-conscious.

"Hi," the woman said, "are you a member?"

"N-No," Luan said, then, with a determined nod, "but I want to join."

The woman smiled. "Great. If I could just take down your information..."

Luan filled out a form, bending over the table and using a pen the woman provided. It struck her as kind of funny that an underground protest group would have her fill out a form like they were the Elks or something, but she figured every organization needed to know who was a member.

When she was done, she turned to the rapidly filling hall and looked for a place to sit, her brow furrowing when she heard someone call her name. She glanced over, and saw Shirley Berkman, whom she knew from English class. A tall woman with shoulder length blonde hair, she wrote strange beat poetry and smoked smelly clove cigarettes. She always struck Luan as weird, but as the amount of people increased as long with her nerves, she was happy to see someone she at least kind of knew.

Shirley waved her over, and Luan went, sitting in an empty chair next to her. "I _thought_ that was you," Shirley said, crossing her arms over her chest. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black pants. "I didn't know you were interested in this."

"I am," Luan said definitively, "my brother's missing in Vietnam and I...I want this shit to stop."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Shirley said genuinely and touched Luan's arm. "I had no idea."

"I don't really like to talk about it," Luan said. "It-It hurts too much."

For a moment, an awkward silence hung between them. "So...what _is_ this group, anyway?" Luan asked.

"Oh, it's a lot of things," Shirley smiled. "It's mainly student organizing, but we're involved in Civil Rights, the protest movement. We're sticking it to those fascist bastards in Washington. Tonight, the chapter president's going to talk about Vietnam. You're going to like it."

 _Sticking it to those fascist bastards in Washington._

Luan liked the sound of that. Those fascist bastards were responsible for Lincoln being MIA...they were responsible for every flag draped coffin that came back from Vietnam. She wanted to stick it to them _very_ much...in the form of a knife.

Shortly, the lights dimmed, and the chatter quieted. A man came up onto the stage, and the moment Luan saw him, she felt...a pull, a sort of animal magnetism that told her she was in the right place and among the right people. "That's Ted Harris," Shirley said, "he's the president."

Harris was a tall, thin man with lank black hair and a neat black beard. He wore black-rimmed glasses and an olive drab military shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his hairy forearms. He looked out over the crowd, then down at a sheaf of papers. "First of all," he said, a slight tremble in his voice that struck Luan as genuine – he was a real, honest to God man and not a polished politician – "I see a lot of new faces here tonight, which is encouraging." He flashed a smile. "The resistance grows." He shuffled his papers. "I'm going to keep this short and simple, because every moment we spend talking is a moment we don't spend _doing_. I'm sure you've seen the flyers and the posters on the wall. If you're one of those new faces, you might be asking yourself just exactly _what_ we're supposed to be resisting here."

He glanced nervously down at his papers, then back up. "Look around you. Tell me what you see...what you _really_ see, and not what your parents and your congressmen and your teachers what you to see. It's the same thing I see, isn't it? People are waking up to the lie of the American Dream...and Lyndon Johnson's goons smack us over the heads with billy clubs for our troubles."

Luan listened, rapt, as his words hung heavy in the air. No one spoke, no one moved...not a single garment rustled, not a single muscle twitched.

"And the American Dream _is_ a lie. It's a lie our parents fell for, it's a lie _their_ parents fell for – it's a lie that _we're_ not going to fall for, because we've seen it with our own eyes. We've seen blacks being hanged from trees in Mississippi for sitting in the wrong place, we've seen young people being beaten in the streets for speaking out against a pointless war, for having the audacity to complain when they're ripped away from their homes and their families and marched off to die. _That's_ America. We, the people, are not in control, and we never have been. That changes now. Each and every one of you is here tonight because you care about the future of this nation, you care about what is being perpetrated by those heartless cowards in Washington."

Luan found herself nodding. She _did_ care.

"We are resisting war, imperialism, racism, sexism, classism...all of the things so pervasive in American society that it _constitutes_ American society. We are fighting for a more just nation, a nation that places value on people over money, on freedom over conformism, a socialist society. What stands in our way is an entrenched and elitist class of capitalist pigs and their puppets – Marx's lumpenproletariats...the brainwashed many who are not interested in societal advancement, the middle American housewives and workaday stooges who watch what they're told, buy what they're told, and live how they're told."

His voice rose and his face flushed with righteous fury. "We are fighting the bankers, the businessmen, the politicians. We are fighting for a just and new society – a democratic society, a society that makes good on the promises our founders made in 1776 – liberty and justice for all...even if they're black, or poor, or gay, or from the wrong side of town. Do we have that now? Watch the television. We _don't._ Why? Because they don't want us to. Divide and conquer. Set the poor whites against the poor blacks, set the young against the old, set the man against the woman...and while the country tears itself apart, it's not looking at you."

He went on in this vein for a long time, his words nesting deep in the center of Luan's head and liberating parts of her she didn't even know existed, setting free thoughts she wasn't aware she had. It was all clear to her now: Her brother was a pawn of soulless monsters who cared only for profit, soulless monsters who were even now quaking in fear at the rising tempest among the people...the people were finally waking. She felt a swirl of emotions: Anger, fear, betrayal...and determination...determination to make them pay for their crimes against humanity.

The meeting broke up shortly after 8:30. Luan remained in her seat as everyone else filed out, her body tense and her heart beating with renewed resolve. Harris jumped down from the stage and crossed to the folding table in the back, where he spoke to the man and woman. Luan followed him with her eyes, his voice still ringing through her head. She had to talk to him, had to learn more, to achieve the level of consciousness that her parents never would. She got up on shaky knees, grabbed her coat, and folded it over her arm, blushing furiously as she went to him, feeling like she were a beggar approaching Christ himself.

She stood by as he chatted with the man, laughing easily and shrugging with a carefree grace that did little to betray the titanic mind within. He sensed her, and turned. Luan opened her mouth, but found words hard to form. "Hi, I-I really enjoyed your speech. I just joined."

He smiled. "Hey, that's far out. We need all the help we can get. I'm Ted." He offered his hand, and she took it.

"I'm Luan."

"It's nice to meet you, Luan," he said, "this must all be new to you...the things I said."

She nodded. "Very new...but I _feel_ it. It's all true."

"Look," he said, "why don't we sit down and talk for a minute?" He looked at the man. "Give me a minute." He glanced around. "I kind of hoped some of the others would stick around," he said, and motioned her to a chair, where she sat. He sank into the one next to her and rested his forearms on his knees, his head bowed. "So," he said, and looked at her, "what do you want to know? Actually, tell me what brought you here."

Luan took a deep breath and told him about Lincoln, the words coming hard at first. He nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry about your brother," he said, "I really am." He sat up and sighed. "I lost my father in Korea. A mortar shell or something." He shook his head. "He gave his life for this country, and they sent him back –" here he teared up and shook his head, an angry scowl crossing his face. "They sent him back in pieces. In a fucking trash bag like garbage."

He wiped his eyes, and Luan felt tears of her own. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

"That's just the way it is here," he said bitterly, "for now."

He painstakingly explained the SDS's goals and positions. He spoke of social justice, racial inequality, women's liberation, gay rights, and socialism. He told her of a world where men could live in harmony, and where everyone could have enough...no one would hoard wealth, no one would hurt you for being different, a world that was achingly close, but blocked by fascists and their agents.

At some point, they left Haveman Hall and walked through the night-shrouded commons, him speaking and her listening, her mind processing the glut of information, her eyes opening even more to the innate injustice she had always sensed, but had never been able to rightly name.

"The hippies are dead," he told her, "and that's a good thing. They were all wrong. Their hearts were in the right place, but all that "tune in and drop out" bullshit...how can you drop out when your world's on fucking fire? How can you sit there and talk about peace and love and then do nothing to achieve it?"

He was the teacher and she was the student, and she took all he had to give.

"How can we win?"

"Numbers," he said. "There are more of us than them. People are waking up all the time, and one day – one day soon – the scales are going to tip. It's our job to facilitate that, it's our job to get people organized, to get them fired up, to get them marching in the streets and demanding a revolution...then starting a revolution."

In his dorm, she sat on his bed and he handed her a thin red book with black writing across the front: _The Communist Manifesto – Karl Marx._ "At the base of everything is class struggle," he said, tapping the cover with his finger. "Everything. Racism, sexism, imperialism...the rich have been manipulating and using the poor since the very first camel trader pocketed the very first coin. Marx says it himself 'The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles.' And he's right. All it takes it a cursory glance to see that. It's always been the nobles and the slaveholders against the surfs and the slaves and the sharecroppers. It's a war that's been going on since the dawn of time...it's a war that we're _finally_ starting to win." He smiled brightly. "We just had a revolution in Cuba...a beautiful democratic revolution. And it's happening in Vietnam too. That's why we're there: Our fascist overloads are scared shitless of more communist states, and they want to stop it...kill it in the cradle. They'd be doing the same thing in Russia or China but Russia and China can defend themselves. They have nukes. Vietnam doesn't. America the bully picking on the little guy. Home of the brave, huh? Home of the brave my ass."

Luan considered his words. "You mean my brother...?"

He nodded. "He was sent to Vietnam for the same reason my father was sent to Korea: To protect the interest of capitalist swine. They're scared, Luan. They're scared shitless because they know communism is the future, and they have no place in that future."

Hot anger filled her. Her brother was probably dead because greedy fascists were afraid that one day they wouldn't be able to hoard wealth and push people around anymore. Tears of rage filled her eyes, and she fisted her hands in her lap. She fought hard not to break down and cry at the unfairness of it all.

Ted put his hand on her knee and she looked at him. " _That's_ what we're resisting." His eyes burned with the same righteous fury that Luan felt in her breast. "And that's why we have to organize."

When he kissed her, she kissed him back, and when he mounted her, she gave himself entirely to him – and to his cause.


	44. January 1968

**We chased our pleasures here  
Dug our treasures there  
But can you still recall  
The time we cried  
Break on through to the other side  
Break on through to the other side**

 **\- The Doors**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Judy in Disguise**_ **by John Fred and His Playboy Band (1967)**

Blackness. The sway of movement and the jostle of a rutted jungle road. He took a deep breath and some of the sack covering his head was sucked into his mouth. He pushed it out with his lips and shifted; his wrists were tied behind his back and chaffing against heavy rope.

The barrel of a gun jammed into his side. _"Đừng di chuyển!"_

"Fuck you," he spat, and the barrel pressed deeper, sending pain into his addled brain. They wouldn't shoot him, he knew that now: They were having too much fun with him to kill him off. There was a time, however, when he believed that they would, that at any moment he would feel cold steel against the back of his head and BAM, lights out. Don't resist. Do what they say. Dear God, cooperate and don't talk back.

Heh.

How long had it been? It felt like decades. Hell, he could barely remember a time he _wasn't_ captive. He had a life somewhere...a family and a girl who loved him and all that other happy shit. Keyword _had_. Now all he had was pain, suffering, and hatred. The barrel pressed deeper still, and, clenching his teeth, he threw his elbow against it, knocking it aside. "Fuck you!"

The stock of a rifle crashed into his stomach, and hot pain exploded in him. He doubled over, tears springing to his eyes, and bit his bottom lip so hard against a cry that he drew blood. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Not anymore.

The movement slowed, and the truck took a right turn. He was sitting in the back with three other POWs and several guards. He was the only one who had spoken since they were marched in and the journey began. The others were new: They'd been taken less than a week ago, and there was a softness in their faces that Lincoln never thought he'd see in a soldier. One was a Marine. Heh. Marines are the toughest of the tough, right? Well, he didn't look so tough: He looked like a scared little boy. Parris Island is one thing...this is another. When he was taken, Lincoln suspected he had that same doughy softness in his eyes, but the NVA beat it out of him during the week long march through the jungle. They hit him with bamboo sticks, they hit him with fists, they hit him with the butts of their rifles, they tied his hands to his neck and then to a tree while they ate and shit and slept. The bullet wound in his shoulder burned and ached, and for a while he had a fever. When they got to the camp, they put him in a bamboo cage and left him, coming back only to prod him with sticks while he slept, and to spit on him.

A Cong doctor finally removed the bullet with a pair of tweezers. The pain was so great that Lincoln screamed until his voice was hoarse; when it was over, they cauterized the wound with fire, and that hurt even more. Now he could feel the scar tissue scraping against the fabric of his shirt every time he moved. It only really hurt when you touched it, though, and the Cong _loved_ touching it.

After the surgery, they let him rest for one day...then it was back to being dragged out of the cage and beaten every day, back to being tied to a chair and having bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails while Charlie laughed, back to screaming until his throat bled. At least they fed him regularly now. Rice squirming with maggots and bits of rotten meat. Yum. The first time they shoved a bowlful of the stuff through the bars of his cage, he turned away, sickened. By the end of the week, he was president of the clean plate club. Sometimes, long after he ate, he could still feel them moving in his mouth.

The first time they questioned him, they tied him to a chair and wrapped a bandanna around his eyes. A Cong who spoke surprisingly good English loomed over him. "Tell us what you know."

Lincoln didn't reply for a moment. "I don't know anything. I'm just a foot soldier."

The Cong slapped him hard across the face. "Tell us what you know."

"I don't know anything!"

 _SLAP!_

It took two more sessions before he finally realized something: They knew he was clueless...they were just doing it for fun. The fourth time, he stated his name, rank, and serial number. _Slap_. Name, rank, serial number. _Slap_. At some point, they took him out of his cage, tied his wrists, and marched him into the jungle. When they reached a freshly dug hole, his heart clutched, and he knew he was going to die.

They made him kneel in the hole and put a gun to the back of his head. He closed his eyes and called up a vision of his family. His parents, his sisters, his brother, Ronnie Anne. That's the image he wanted to carry with him into death.

 _I'm sorry,_ he told Ronnie Anne. _I love you...please forget me_.

Tears fell down his cheek and his body trembled.

 _Click-click._

His eyes opened, and the Cong laughed hysterically...then someone hit him in the back of the head with the butt of their rifle. He didn't remember much after that. His ring finger got broken somehow, and it didn't set right, so now it was crooked and deformed.

Currently, the truck turned left and stopped. The tang of wood smoke touched Lincoln's nose, and he inferred from that that they had reached a camp. The back tailgate clattered down with a slight vibration and his captors started barking orders that they knew the POWs didn't understand. Someone grabbed the back of Lincoln's shirt and pulled him to his feet, then marched him to the end of the bed. Suddenly, he was flung forward, and he was falling, his heart leaping into his throat. He landed face first in the dirt with an involuntary _umph_. The hood rode up, and he struggled to his knees, wincing when it was yanked off and sunlight stung his eyes.

Immediately, someone slapped him across the face and dragged him to a standing position. Another Vietnamese face stared hatefully back. If you've seen one, you've seen 'em all. Over the Cong's shoulder, Lincoln took in the camp: A collection of grass and bamboo huts dotting the barren earth along a wide, lazy river. Jungle pressed close on two sides, and across the water, the other bank was an unbroken expanse of trees. Wood fires burned in the center of the camp, and ugly women carried buckets of water up from the bank.

The Cong grabbed Lincoln by the back of his neck and led him through the settlement. People stopped at stared at him with open hatred; a woman in a green military uniform spat on him.

"Fuck you, bitch," he growled, and his guard punched him in the ribs.

" _Không nói chuyện!"_

"Fuck you too!"

The guard punched him again.

A line of bamboo cages stood along the muddy riverbank. A few were occupied by downtrodden prisoners. The guard opened one next to a man with white hair and shoved Lincoln in, closing the door behind him. Lincoln dragged himself to a sitting position and watched as the others were placed into cages. He pulled against the rope binding his wrists, but the pain was great, and he gave up.

The guard returned to Lincoln's cage and pressed his face to the bars. His evil smile revealed rotten teeth. _"Chào mừng đến với địa ngục."_

He laughed.

"Fuck you, you piece of shit."

The guard turned away and left, leaving Lincoln alone. Lincoln watched him with hatred until he was gone.

"You have a bad attitude," the white-haired man in the next cage over said. Lincoln threw him a hard, narrow-eyed glance. He wore a black outfit that reminded Lincoln of pajamas. He faced forward. One eye was black and his bottom lip was split.

"Fuck you, too."

The man chuckled. "You're letting them in, you know that? That's what they want. They want you to be hateful."

Lincoln started to reply, but he didn't have the energy for philosophical bullshit. He leaned against the back of the cage and threw his head back. He was tired. He was in pain. His body hurt, his heart hurt, and every day brought him closer to giving up. The only thing that kept him going was his family.

In the next cage, the white-haired man sighed. "How long have they had you?"

Lincoln closed his eyes. He really didn't feel like talking. "I dunno. What month is it?"

"January," the man said, "I think. Either that or late December."

"Since May," Lincoln said.

"Well, you've had it longer than me," the man admitted. "They got me in October. Shot me down and took me out of a lake. Crushed my shoulder and stuck me with bayonets."

Lincoln winced. Ouch.

The man turned. "What's your name?"

"Loud," Lincoln said, "Private Lincoln Loud."

"Army?"

"Yeah."

"Lieutenant McCain," the man said, "U.S. Navy, and as your superior officer, I order you to clean up that attitude."

Lincoln didn't mean to laugh, but he did: All of the stress and pain and fear and everything else came bubbling up, and he laughed so hard he cried. He looked at McCain, who watched him with hard eyes, and laughed even harder. "Sorry, Lieutenant," Lincoln said, "really, I –"

"Listen here, Loud, maybe you're a selfish little bastard who's given up, but I guarantee there's someone waiting for you at home who hasn't, and if you give up on yourself and give in to these sons of bitches, you're giving up on _them_."

McCain's words stuck Lincoln like a knife. His face darkened. "Fuck you, _Lieutenant,"_ he spat, injecting as much venom into the final word as he could. McCain nodded slowly to himself and turned away. Lincoln whipped his head around and faced forward. Fucking prick. He hadn't given up: His family was the only reason he was alive right now. If it weren't for them, he would have rushed one of the guards and let them shoot him. What the hell did he have to stick around for outside of them, anyway?

For a long time, Lincoln sourly watched the comings and goings of his captors, the corners of his lips turned down and his eyes like flecks of ice. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, and all of them were dark. Hunger pangs rippled painfully through his stomach: It was empty, and he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Sometime before they left...a day ago? Two? He didn't know. Hell, he couldn't even say where he was. South Vietnam? North Vietnam? Laos? Cambodia?

At one point, the guard brought him a wooden bowl filled with rice, maggots, and sickly gray meat. Lincoln turned to show him that his hands were still bound.

" _Ăn như con chó bạn đang có."_

He shoved the bowl through the bars and walked away. "Fuck you too, slant!"

"Shut up, Loud," McCain said. "Be a man and take your lumps."

Lincoln shot McCain a dirty look...a dirty look that turned to a frown when he found himself fantasizing about wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing. The suddenness and savage intensity with which it came shocked him...and scared him. He turned away, shifted until he was on his stomach, and shoved his face into the bowl: The maggots wiggled against his lips and on his tongue, but he choked them down regardless. When only a few grains of rice remained, his licked the bowl. Hot shame rushed over him, but he didn't stop until it was clean. He struggled back to a sitting position and leaned back against the cage.

He couldn't say when, but he lapsed into sleep, waking only when the door was wrenched open and two Cong pulled him out and threw him to the ground. For a moment he was disoriented, then his mind cleared, and he tried to get to his knees, but one of his captors jammed his knee into his back and pressed down while another untied his hands.

"Get the fuck off me!" Lincoln roared.

"Take it like a man, Loud," McCain said without much force. "Just take it."

His hands were free and he tried to move them, but the Cong on top of him wrenched his right arm up behind his back, and he cried out as pain snaked into his shoulder. The other slipped a rope under him, and together they tied it so that his right arm was bound flat again his side but his left was free. They stood and moved away, and Lincoln got to his knees, his breathing ragged and his heart racing.

They both held lengths of bamboo.

One raised his and brought it around, hitting Lincoln's right shoulder hard. Pain exploded, and with a cry, Lincoln lunged at him, grabbing with his free arm. He snagged his pants, but the other brought his stick down across Lincoln's back, knocking a moan from Lincoln's throat. They both laughed. Lincoln still held fast to his torturer's pants. Head bowed, panting, he pulled, and another strike landed against the back of his neck, and he dropped, his mind swimming away.

When it came back, they were dragging him to his feet. He was woozy and could barely stand. One of the Cong stood aside while the other tossed his stick down and held up his fists, his head bobbing and a sadistic smile on his face. _"Chiến đấu với tôi, con chó."_

Without warning, he came forward, and Lincoln reacted, bringing his fist around: The Cong jumped back, and Lincoln stumbled, nearly pitching forward. The Cong capitalized, and smashed his fist into the side of Lincoln's face. Lincoln leaned into the punch and rammed his shoulder into the Cong's stomach, pushing himself against him and trying to knock him down. The Cong shoved him back, and threw another punch, hitting him in the chin. He lost his balance and went down.

Motherfucker.

"I'll kill you," Lincoln panted as he got back to his feet. His eyes were narrowed and his teeth were bared. The Cong bobbed and weaved, his buddy laughing. Lincoln ducked his head and rushed forward, but the second Cong stuck out his foot and he tripped, hitting the ground face first, his teeth clinking.

"Stay down, Loud," McCain said. "That's an order."

"Fuck your orders," Lincoln said and started to get back up. He was on his knee when the first Cong hit him in the nose: It shattered and burst, hot blood gushing down the bottom of Lincoln's face. He fell back in the dirt.

"See what happens when you don't follow orders?" McCain asked.

Lincoln panted. This time, he obeyed. When they started beating him with their sticks, he simply rolled over and brought his knees to his chest. Eventually, it was over and they stuck him back in his cage. Lincoln was punch drunk. His nose ached. His teeth hurt, and when he prodded them with the tip of his tongue, he found a hole where one had been knocked out. He lay on his side and didn't move.

Next to him, McCain shifted. "The harder you push, Loud, the harder they're going to push, and you don't stand a chance against them. Keep your head down and don't fight back."

Lincoln nodded. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

"And don't give hate a place in your heart. One day, you're probably going to go home...and that hate will go with you."

Lincoln's eyes were getting heavy, and when he finally slipped away, McCain's words followed him, echoing down the long, dark corridors of unconsciousness.

* * *

"Guess who's number four on the charts," Julius said. Luna was sitting on the couch of their rented apartment, a cigarette between her fingers and an icepack on her head: She had too much to drink last night.

She groaned.

Julius, who was standing by the front door, came over and knelt in front of her. "You are," he said with a smile.

For the past seven weeks, they had been watching _Come Back to Me_ climb the Billboard Top 100...from fifty to thirty-six to seventeen and finally to five, where it had been for two weeks. It was exciting as hell, don't get her wrong, but once she realized that this was her big hit, it hit her that she would have to play it here, there, and everywhere...and she didn't want to because every time she did she thought of Lincoln, and it made her want to cry. She was already booked to appear on _American Bandstand_ next month, and she was happy about it (that's a dream come true, man!), but she had to play that sad fucking song!

She could shoot herself for writing it.

"That's great," she croaked.

"Aren't you happy?"

"I have a splitting headache," she said, and took a puff of her cigarette. "This is as happy as I'm going to get."

There was a party in the Hollywood Hills the night before. She didn't know who was hosting (someone she and Julius had met, she thought), but there were a lot of famous people there. Robert Redford, Terry Melcher (he was Doris Day's son and a record producer), Dennis Wilson from _The Beach Boys_ , Steve McQueen, Anton LaVey, Jim Morrison. Jim Morrison was the only person she knew, and she spent most of the night drinking with him and looking out over the city through a big window. It was really pretty, the lights all twinkling and spread out. She didn't feel like she could really enjoy it, though. Not when Lincoln was missing...or dead. Probably dead.

And if he was dead, she would _never_ enjoy it – any of it...not really.

She was ready to leave by midnight, but Julius was having so much fun hob-knobbing that they wound up staying until almost four in the morning, and by that point she was drunk and miserable and most everyone had left. Dennis Wilson was still there, and they did a couple lines together. That made her feel a _little_ better, but the damage was done: She had too much time to think, drunk, and it was fucked up, you know? Lincoln was fucking dead or some fucking thing and here she was living it up with a bunch of fucking actors and shit. And her family...man, she needed to call them. They probably thought she didn't love them but she did. In fact...she kind of wanted to go home. Fuck music. Fuck Hollywood. She snorted another line and leaned back against the couch.

Suddenly it felt like the walls were closing in on her, and she couldn't breathe. She jumped up and bumped into the table, her knee catching the edge: She was numb to it.

On the balcony, she gripped the railing and leaned over, the cool, salty breeze plastering her lank hair to her sweaty forehead. She fought to catch her breath, and in her chest, her heart slammed painfully. A grassy hillside sloped down from the balcony, and for a moment the strange and inexplicable urge to jump seized her. The drop wasn't enough to kill her, and she didn't want to die, she wanted...man, she didn't know what she wanted. She just didn't fucking know.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she jumped, her heart rocketed into her throat. "Hey," Julius said lowly, "what're you doing? You okay?"

Luna hugged herself. She was hot and sweating and she couldn't stay still, so she rocked and shook her head. "No, I just wanna go home."

"Alright, alright," he said, "we'll go."

She sat in the passenger seat and watched the Sunset Strip flash by, the neon signs of a thousand clubs winking at her like knowing eyes. She was in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin when she thought, _This isn't what I meant..._

Presently, her head throbbed and she pressed her hand to it. Julius frowned and rubbed her leg. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

"I might," she said. She picked a glass of water up off the coffee table and took a sip. It was slimy and piss warm, but she didn't care. She doubted she'd sleep, but in bed nothing mattered, you know? "I have to do something first, man, just...leave me alone."

A shadow of hurt crossed his face, and Luna was sorry, but then it was gone; he leaned back on his knees and held his hands up. "Do whatever."

While he went into the bedroom, she picked the phone up and dialed home. Her mother picked up on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

The sound of her voice, tinny and staticky with distance, brought a sunny smile to Luna's face – or as sunny a smile as she could find with a raging headache, loose bowels, and an aching nose. "Hey, Mom," she said, "it's me."

"Hey, honey," Mom said happily, "how's it going?"

"Alright," Luna said, and it felt like a lie, "busy. A lot of stuff going on."

"Oh, I imagine. I heard your song on the radio in the car yesterday. I didn't recognize your voice, but Leni did." Mom chuckled. "She knew it instantly and got excited."

Luna smiled. Man, she missed Leni. And everyone. "How is she?"

"She's doing well. She gets forgetful here and there, but overall she's good The doctors say she might –" here her voice hitched, "she might hang on longer than they thought."

Luna blinked away a rush of tears. "That's great," she said.

"Have you seen Luan recently?"

"No, I haven't been up that way in a couple months." _Not that I saw her when I was_ ,she thought, and felt so guilty she ached. "Have you heard from her?"

"She calls from time-to-time," Mom replied, "she's busy too. Lynn's working at a car dealership now."

"Is he?" Luna asked. She couldn't remember the last time she spoke to him. The last she knew, he married some girl and said he was staying. God, she was a piece of shit. "Do you have his number?"

"I'll have to look around for it," Mom said. "Can I have yours?"

"Yeah," Luna said, and gave it to her. "Has...uh...has there been anything about Lincoln?"

"No," Mom said sadly, "nothing new."

That was a bad thing and a good thing, Luna figured. Bad because they hadn't found him...and good because they hadn't found his body. "You know that song? That song's about him. They-They made me kinda change it so it was, like, about a guy, but I-I wrote it about him." Her hands were trembling and she felt very tired.

"I'm sure he would be very proud," Mom said.

They talked for a little while longer, and when they finally hung up, Luna felt even worse than she had before. For a moment she sat cross-legged on the couch, her arms wrapped around her chest, then she got up and went into the bedroom. Julius was napping, and she exercised a respectful amount of silence as she took her stuff out of the nightstand drawer. In the living room, she knelt at the coffee table, opened the baggie, and scraped three lines out...then added two more because she was _really_ fucking down.

An hour later, she felt much, much better, except her heart – it slammed like a fucking drum.

* * *

Lincoln touched his nose and winced. It hurt. Probably broken.

It was night and the sounds of the jungle reached his ears. Fires crackled and somewhere, his guards talked and laughed – like this was summer camp and they were going to go skinny dipping or on a panty raid or something.

"You married, Loud?" McCain asked suddenly in the darkness, startling him.

"Yes," Lincoln said at length. His throat was dry. The last time he drank was that afternoon when a young girl in a brown NVA uniform brought the prisoners each a drink. She watched him with dark, clouded eyes as he reached through the bars, then moved onto McCain and did the same. He shouldn't have drank it all...he should have saved some.

"You miss her?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Use that."

"I _have_ been," Lincoln said, "for months."

"Use it longer...as long as it takes. You don't let go, Loud, you hang on."

"For how long?" Lincoln asked, turning. "How long are they gonna keep us? Until the war's over? When's that going to be?" He tried to imagine being here, in this cage, for another year, or two years, or three years, and he shuddered. He tried to imagine not seeing and holding Ronnie Anne for twenty-four or thirty-six months, and he wanted to cry. And now, he did, the tears sliding wetly down his bruised, dirt-stained cheeks. "All I wanna do is go home," he said. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "All I wanna do is be with my wife." The tears overwhelmed him, and he wept openly and unashamedly.

"Buck up, Loud," McCain said, "we all want to go home to our families. Antagonizing the Cong and making them beat you harder isn't going to get you there."

"Sitting in this fucking cage isn't gonna get me there, either," Lincoln sobbed. He sniffed and rested the side of his head against his knees. In the light of the moon, McCain was a vague shape.

The older man shifted. "What other options do you have? Trying to escape and getting shot?"

Well...he _was_ fast. If he could get a head start, he'd stand a good chance of getting away. Getting a head start, though, wasn't easy. These fucking cages were tough, and the only way he'd be able to slip away was if he did it under the cover of darkness.

"Stop thinking about it," McCain said. "That's an order."

Lincoln opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped, because who cared? "It might work," he said. "If both of us can get out."

McCain sighed. "No, it won't. And even if we got away, do you know where we are? Because I sure as hell don't. VC could be everywhere. They'd catch us and kill us. And my leg...I don't think I can run. You need to shut that line of thought down, soldier. Go with the program. If they want to beat you, let them beat you, because if you fight back, they'll beat you even more, and you'll never see that girl of yours again."

After that, they lapsed into silence. Lincoln's mind raced, and the more he thought about it, the more he fed the idea his desperation, the better it sounded. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he was sure that there was a way. There _had_ to be.

At dawn, he was roused from a fitful slumber by two guards who dragged him out of his cage and took him to a grass hut, where he was tied to a chair, his ankles to the legs and his wrists to the arms: His heart raced and his stomach clenched. He knew what was coming.

One of the guards loomed over him with a hateful grin on his face while the other stood watch, an AK-47 cradled in his arms. The first slipped his hand into his pocket and brought something out, holding it up for Lincoln to see and chuckling darkly. Bamboo shoots. Lincoln took a deep breath, preparing himself for the pain that was to come.

The door opened, and another solider entered. Lincoln looked up. It was the girl from the day before, the water jockey. She wore a rifle across her back, and her eyes darted nervously around the room. _"Tư lệnh Fao muốn nhìn thấy một trong số các bạn về những gì đã xảy ra."_

The guard looming over Lincoln turned. _"Tại sao? Anh ấy có tức giận không?"_

The girl nodded. _"Vâng."_

The first guard sighed and looked at the second. _"Bạn đã làm nó, bạn giải quyết các hậu quả_." The second nodded curtly and said something under his breath before brushing past the first and leaving.

" _Bạn ở lại và bảo vệ,"_ he said to the girl, and her eyes went wide. She slowly shook her head.

" _Tôi không thể. Tôi không..."_

The guard pointed to the spot his comrade had so recently occupied. _"Tôi ra lệnh cho bạn!"_

The girl took a deep breath, nodded, and went over, glancing at Lincoln and then quickly away. He got the impression she didn't want to see what was about to happen to him...good, let her fucking see. Standing still, she slipped her rifle off her shoulder and held it in her hands, her chin tilted up and her eyes gazing at the ceiling. The guard turned to him and smiled. _"Bạn đã sẵn sàng chưa?"_

Lincoln glared at him and worked up as much saliva as his dry mouth could muster...but McCain's words came back to him, and he swallowed it.

Still grinning, the guard took one of the shoots and pressed its flat edge under the nail of Lincoln's middle finger. Lincoln took a deep breath and closed his eyes: When it jammed deep under the nail, he clenched his teeth against a scream and shook with the intensity of the pain. He did what he always did when they did this to him: He called up a picture of Ronnie Anne's face and tried to lose himself in her big, brown, loving eyes.

Another jagged splinter was rammed under the nail of his thumb, and he shook harder, his teeth grinding. Spittle flew from his lips.

He thought of lying in bed with her, his hand on her face and hers on his chest; she was smiling, and the morning sun made her hair shimmer.

Another shoot was rammed under a nail, this time his pinky: He threw his head back and panted.

The guard laughed. _"Như thế này đủ chưa?"_

One of the shoots twisted, then was ripped out, tearing pieces of flesh and quick with it. Lincoln shook his head as tears began to involuntarily slide down his cheek. Another was ripped out, then another. The guard slapped him hard across the cheek, then hit the other cheek for good measure. Lincoln's eyes popped open, and the girl was pale, her hands trembling. "You don't like it when it's up close, huh?" he asked, and she looked at him, then away, tears standing in her eyes.

The guard hit him again, then yelled at the girl. _"Bạn không có dạ dày cho điều này! Đi và làm công việc của người phụ nữ!"_

She nodded curtly and hurried out of the hut. When she was gone, Lincoln hung his head and licked his chapped lips: He could taste blood. He closed his eyes and tried to think of Ronnie Anne again, but the guard grabbed him by the face and tilted his head back. _"Chẳng bao lâu bạn sẽ đi và tôi sẽ bỏ lỡ làm điều này. Con lợn."_ He slapped Lincoln's face again, and stars burst across his vision.

Shortly, the other guard returned, and together they dragged Lincoln back to his cage; he was semi-conscious at that point and offered no resistance, allowing them to throw him in like a bag of garbage and not moving until long after they had left.

"Did you fight back?" McCain asked.

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but the effort was too great, so he simply moaned and shook his head.

At some point, he passed out, and when he woke again, it was to the pelting of rain drops against his face: Through the slats of his prison, the sky was dark gray, and thunder rolled across the heavens. He closed his eyes and tried to escape again, but the drops came faster, so he curled up on his side. "You alright, Loud?" McCain asked.

"Right as rain, sir," Lincoln croaked, and tittered, his chest and shoulders shaking. Luan would appreciate that one.

McCain didn't respond, and Lincoln began to drift again; maybe if he went back under he would dream of holding Ronnie Anne's hand. That would be nice...so nice the thought brought tears to his eyes. "Chow's here," McCain said. Lincoln rolled onto his other side and narrowed his eyes as a guard approached carrying a tray: Through the blur of his tears, and his hatred, he could make out only the vaguest details. Slight. Short. Human...or as human as the North Vietnamese could get...which wasn't very fucking human at all.

As they drew closer, he saw it was the girl, the one who couldn't stand to see what he people did up close. "Yum," Lincoln said slowly, "maggot surprise."

The girl started with McCain, passing a wooden bowl and a wooden cup through the bars. He nodded and thanked her...actually thanked her. Lincoln snickered. Next, she knelt in front of his cage and pushed a bowl and a cup through the slats. _"Tôi xin lỗi vì những gì họ đã làm,"_ she said, speaking lowly. There was a plaintive quality to her voice that made Lincoln look up: Her lips trembled and tears stood in her eyes. Part of him wanted to reach out and give her a reassuring pat...and another part wanted to reach out and break her fucking hand. Instead, he closed his eyes until he was sure she had moved on to the next cage.

The rain was falling faster now, and his uniform was starting to soak through. When the girl was gone, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, took the cup in his trembling hands, and lifted it to his lips. He tried not to drink it all at once, but he did. He pushed the container through the bars where it could more freely collect rainwater, then went for his bowl; he was surprised to find just rice – no maggots, no rotting meat. Using his fore and middle fingers as a primitive spoon, he ate every bite, his stomach crying out to be filled, then complaining when the food was gone.

Later, after the rain had stopped and he lay curled into a shivering ball, he thought of two things: Ronnie Anne...and escape.

* * *

Every day that Lincoln was missing, Ronnie Anne Loud died just a little more. On January 25, 1968, she left work fifteen minutes early and drove through a light snow toward the Loud house, her eyes leaking and her heart throbbing. She was fine at the beginning of the day – or as fine as she could be – but then, at some point, it occurred to her that in four short months she would celebrate her second wedding anniversary...probably alone, just as she had the first.

That realization threw her into a deep funk from which she couldn't escape, and several times she had to go to the bathroom and cry. During the dinner rush, as she served a teenaged couple who stared longingly into each other's eyes the way she and Lincoln had when _they_ were kids, her mother's words came back to her...the words from her final letter:

 _Your future husband, whoever he is, may change, or he could die, or any number of things. Do_ _not_ _rely on him._

In that moment it occurred to her: She _did_ rely on him...not for money or anything else...she relied on him the way another might rely on oxygen or clean drinking water. He was her life, her heart, her happiness...she relied on him so deeply that without him, she was like her mother; her mother was poor in wealth, _she_ was poor in spirit.

Did she feel like this when Dad left? She didn't remember her being particularly broken up...then again, she didn't think her mother loved her father the way she loved Lincoln. Her love burned with the intensity of a thousand suns...cheesy, maybe, but it was true. She had loved him since she was eleven-years-old, and with each passing day over ten years, that love grew and grew and grew and grew. Maybe it wasn't normal...maybe she was obsessive or something, but that didn't change how she felt, and it didn't alleviate the constant, gnawing loss in her chest. It might be different if she had children to worry about the way her mother had her and Bobby, but she didn't...her body didn't accept his seed the last time they made love and she had nothing.

She thought of suicide again, of taking the Impala as high as it would go and slamming into something – the nightmare would be over and maybe she would be with Lincoln on the other side.

But maybe...just maybe...he was still alive somewhere: She didn't have much hope, but she had _some_ , and she would wait...even if it killed her inside...even if she had to cry herself to sleep every night and cry herself awake every morning.

She reached the house five minutes later, just as full dark was falling, and turned into the driveway, parking behind Mr. Loud's Packard. She was suddenly very tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep until she had to be up again. She got out, shivered as a cold wind buffeted her, and slammed the door. Inside, the living room was warm and dimly lit. Mr. Loud sat in his chair facing the TV, where _The Flying Nun_ was in full swing. Mrs. Loud sat on the sofa next to Leni, who was knitting and humming. Mr. and Mrs. Loud both looked up when she came in.

"Hi, Ronnie," Mr. Loud said and went back to watching TV.

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Loud said, "how was your day?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Fine," she said, her voice cracking. It was anything _but_ fine.

Leni broke out into song, oblivious to the world around her:

 _"Lemonade pie, hey got your brand new car_

 _Cantaloupe eyes come to me tonight..."_

She stopped and looked at her mother. "What's the rest?"

"It's Judy in disguise with glasses, dear," Mrs. Loud said, "Ronnie, honey, there's a plate for you in the microwave if you want it."

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said, "I-Maybe later."

She scurried up the stairs before anyone could talk to her again. She hated appearing rude, but she just couldn't do this right now. She needed to be alone; at any moment she could break down, and she didn't want them to see. In her room, she dropped her purse onto her dresser, kicked out of her shoes, and stretched out on the bed, her face buried in the pillow.

What if he never comes back? What if he stays missing forever? How long could she last? How long until she crumbled and really _did_ wrap the Impala around a telephone pole? She didn't know...God, she didn't know anything anymore. Lincoln was probably dead and so was she.

When the tears came, she didn't try to fight them; she gave in and let them fall. _Please be alive, Lincoln,_ she thought and hitched, _I need you..._


	45. February 1968: Part 1

McCain was right...letting the bastards have their fun and not fighting back was the way to go. It was hard, though, very, very hard. Once a week, they took him out of his cage, tied one arm behind his back, and beat him with sticks: He let them. Twice a week, they dragged him to a hut and jammed splinters under his finger and toe nails: He let them. The only thing he wouldn't do was make a statement against the United States, which they asked him to once a week like clockwork. He wasn't stupid, he knew what they wanted it for: Propaganda. McCain wouldn't do it either, and every time he came back, he was bloodied and bruised...just like Lincoln was when _he_ came back.

"One day they'll probably get it out of me," McCain confessed one night, his voice filled with shame, "and they'll probably get it out of you, too."

Maybe, but for now, not helping their propaganda department was the only means of resistance he had, and he relished it.

Three or four weeks after Lincoln arrived, McCain and the other POWs were loaded onto a truck and taken away, to where Lincoln didn't know, and a new crop replaced them. They were all army and Marine Corps, six men with sunken faces smeared with dirt and crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions. Sargent Henderson, U.S.M.C., took McCain's place. He was a thin man with dirty blonde hair, faded blue eyes, and stubble. The cage on Lincoln's other side was taken by an army private named Maddox: He had a bad attitude, and as the Cong beat him into the dirt one day, Lincoln wondered if _he_ looked as foolish to McCain.

Another prisoner was a black man named Jenkins. He was an army pathfinder, and he knew where they were: On a tributary of the Thu Bồn River forty-five miles south of the North Vietnam border. It was an area tentatively in VC hands: In September, he said, American forces pushed the Cong away from the coast; as far as he knew (he'd been in captivity for three weeks), the U.S. occupied land less than fifteen miles away.

Fifteen short miles.

Lincoln brought up the idea of escaping up to Henderson, and to Lincoln's surprise, he shot it down just as quickly as McCain had. "That's a good way to wind up dead, Loud. Forget it."

Heh. He thought Marines were made of steelier stuff.

Every day, the girl brought them their solitary meal, and every day she paused at each of their cages and said something, usually, _"Tôi xin lôi."_ In the beginning, Lincoln hated her just as much as he hated the others, but over time he came to pity her: She was probably a conscript like him, fighting a war she wanted no part of and missing her family. If he escaped and she got in his way, he thought coldly, he'd still break her neck.

With the arrival of the new recruits (heh), the guards lost interest in Lincoln and moved onto Maddox. They were trying to break him the way they thought they broke Lincoln. Oh, he did what they wanted him to without question, but he wasn't broken...if anything, he was getting stronger, his hatred growing, only instead of spreading it wantonly like Maddox, he was storing it, focusing it; and when the time came, he would use it reach the American line, even if he did it full of bullets.

One night, after a soaking rain, Lincoln was lying in his cage, shivering and grinding his teeth together so that they didn't chatter, when a dark shadow passed by. He lifted his head, and watched as the girl shoved something through the bars of Henderson's cage. Next, she came to Lincoln's, and shoved something through his as well: A tattered wool blanket so thin you could almost see through it. It wasn't much, but at that moment, it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

"Thank you," he croaked.

The girl glanced down at him with tender eyes. _"Tôi xin lôi."_

She moved onto Maddox's cage, then to Jenkins'.

In the morning, the guards dragged Maddox away, and then returned him an hour later: The bottom half of his face was caked with blood and both of his eyes were black. "You're making this harder on yourself," Lincoln said after they locked Maddox back in his cage.

"Fuck you," Maddox spat.

Lincoln laughed. "I was where you are. It doesn't work. It really doesn't."

"Fuck you," he repeated.

One night, Lincoln woke to the sound of thunder, and sighed deeply. Here comes the rain. Lovely. Only it didn't. The thunder continued, and after a while, he didn't think it was thunder anymore. "That's artillery fire," Henderson said, pressing his face to the slats along the back of his cage: Cold moonlight dappled the inky surface of the river. Maybe it was Lincoln's imagination, but he _thought_ he saw the glow of fire in the sky...very faint, very weak. "See?" Henderson asked, excitement creeping into his voice. "It's close...ten miles...maybe less."

"You think they're coming for us?" Maddox asked hopefully.

"If they knew where we were they'd send commandos," Jenkins said, "but they _might_ stumble across us."

Lincoln wrapped his hands around the bars and grinned as something like hope blossomed in his chest. If there was a battle that close, Jenkins might be right, their guys could happen across them. At the very least, it might cause some confusion he could use to his advantage: When the enemy's marching down on you, the only thing you care about is falling back, and if one of your prisoners happens to get away...well...screw it.

The artillery fire continued through the night, and Lincoln was so excited he couldn't sleep, so he worried at every bar, looking for a weak spot but finding none. Bamboo is strong shit.

Just before dawn, the roaring guns fell silent, and the early morning still was eerie. First light revealed worried Asian faces; the VC moved just a little quicker than before, and seemed just a little jumpier, their eyes filled with disquiet. Scared, you motherfuckers? Lincoln thought savagely.

Later, a flatbed truck and several smaller vehicles arrived, and Lincoln watched as the Cong hurried packed them, his hope soaring: If they were lucky, Charlie would ditch and leave them behind.

By noon, they were rushing, and at one point the unmistakable _whump-whump-whump_ of chopper blades filled the day: Everyone paused and turned toward the river, but wherever the whirly-bird was, it wasn't close enough to see over the trees.

After that, they hauled ass packing up. Lincoln was just beginning to think they were going to leave them behind when three guards came down the hill toward the cages. One was the girl, and she hurried ahead, dropping to her knees in front of Lincoln's and opening it. _"Ngoài,"_ she said curtly.

Lincoln's body tensed: He could rush her...knock her off her feet and make a break for it. Instead, he crawled out, inferring from the rope in her hands that she meant to bind him. One of the other guards tied Henderson's hands behind his back, then opened his door while the third did the same to Jenkins.

The girl grabbed one of his arms and tried to force it behind his back, but he held fast, looking at her over his shoulder. There was something in her eyes, a certain indefinable shadow, that made him relent.

As she bound his wrists, she leaned in and whispered into his ear. _"Tôi đang giúp bạn."_

Lincoln recognized two words. _Helping,_ and _you_.

She tugged on the rope, and Lincoln felt give. He flexed his wrists; it was loose enough that he could slip out with minimal effort. She stood, grabbed the back of his shirt, and yanked. He got to his feet, and allowed her to lead him through camp; VC hurried to and fro like chickens with their heads cut off, terror evident on their faces. At the top of the hill, she steered him toward the flatbed. A crate sat before the edge, and he used it to step up. She sat him on the bench seat running along one side and stood over him as the other POWs were loaded on: Henderson was directly across from Lincoln, a guard sitting on his right. Jenkins sat on Lincoln's own right, and another guard sat on his left. The girl locked eyes with Lincoln...then jumped down and hurried away. Just then, artillery fire filled the world, closer than it had been the night before. The guard on Lincoln's left spun around, his face white with fear.

" _Đi nào!"_ the other guard cried, striking the window running along the back of the cab. Someone rushed over and jumped into the passenger seat as the engine started, coughed, and caught. Lincoln flexed his right wrist. He could yank and be free, but the guards would notice such a sudden movement, so he had to be subtle...and slow. His heart began to pound and his stomach clenched with nerves. He glanced at the guard next to him: He was looking anxiously over his left shoulder: He held an AK-47 and wore a pistol on his hip.

The truck took off with a jerk, and began rolling along the road, its big tires splashing through puddles and dipping into ruts, jostling them. With each shudder, Lincoln yanked: The rope was on his wrist...then higher...then higher still...then slipping around his fingers...then his right hand was free.

He glanced at both guards, but neither were watching him. The one next to Henderson was straining to see, while the one next to Lincoln was looking at his feet in a posture of terror. Explosions sounded in the distance, and Lincoln was certain he heard choppers. He took a deep breath, his chest flooding with cold fear. He looked at Henderson, who was staring at his lap: His chest was bare, his dog tags glinting in the sun. Lincoln's mind raced as he tried to come up with a plan. He needed Henderson to take the other guard long enough for him to take the one next to him. That wouldn't be easy since Henderson's hands were tied, but all Lincoln needed was a few seconds...if that.

Swallowing against an arid throat, he tried to get Henderson's attention. The Marine must have noticed Lincoln's head movements, for he glanced up.

Lincoln nodded slightly toward Henderson...then toward the guard. Henderson's brow furrowed quizzically. Moving slowly, Lincoln pulled his right arm out far enough that Henderson could see that it wasn't bound. Next to Lincoln, Jenkins glanced over, his eyes going wide. One more time, he nodded at Henderson, then the guard.

The Marine nodded that he understood.

God, he hoped this worked...he hoped he was quick enough.

He slipped the rope over his left wrist and slowly, ever so slowly, inched his hand toward the gun on the guard's hip, his heart slamming faster and faster. When his fingers brushed the holster, he stopped, his stomach dropping. The guard didn't seem to notice; he was too busy worrying. Leaning slightly to his right, Lincoln grazed his fingertips along the holster: When he felt the cold metal of the gun, his muscles coiled and his body tensed; his breathing hitched and became ragged.

Now or never.

Henderson watched intently.

 _God, if you're there, please help me._

* * *

Lynn Loud Jr. stood with his arms crossed over his chest as his father-in-law, Big Bill Parker, leaned over and put his hands on his ample hips. They didn't call him "Big" for nothing: Over three hundred pounds, Bill Parker wore a light gray western suit coat, bolo tie, gray slacks, and a white shirt – and if you were standing far enough away, he looked like a walrus who decided it wanted to run a used car lot. His cowboy hat was in the office, and his thinning white hair fluttered in the stagnant breeze.

"I really don't _care_ if it has a cracked axel; I want it on the lot _today_." He spoke with a heavy Texas drawl. From what Kathy told him, he got his start in Houston before moving his family to Tucson in 1955 and opening _Big Bill's Car Emporium_ on North Campbell Avenue. In ten years, he'd made enough money to buy a three story Spanish style house in the fashionable Catalina Foothills north of town, where scrub brush and cactus dot the rugged terrain.

Currently, they were in the garage to the left of the showroom: It was dusky and cooler than it was outside, where the desert sun pounded and the air was like sandpaper against your face. A mechanic on a wheeled backboard, his head poking out from under a 1964 Dodge Polara, looked up with a blank expression, his face black with grease and motor oil and his big glasses making him look like a bug.

"Got that, Sparky?"

"I'm telling you, Bill, two weeks tops and this thing's comin' back with..."

"I. Don't. Give. A. Shit. I got me an ad in the _Tucson Times_ sayin' I got me a Dodge Polaris on my lot. Do you see any other Dodge Polarises? No? I didn't think so, and I'm not about to look like a goddamn liar. Give this hunk of junk a quick fix and park it out by the street where everyone can see it, okay?"

The mechanic sighed. "Alright."

"Thank you," Big Bill said with a nod, and turned to Lynn, who instantly unfolded his arms and stood up straight. Every time the old man looked at him, Lynn could barely keep from squirming. Thankfully, Big Bill liked him...enough. "Now that, son, is how you move inventory. It don't matter how busted up it is, if you got an ad in the paper, you best follow through."

Big Bill wasn't a professional shyster...most of his stock was good...but he certainly wasn't above hawking crap under the right circumstances; just last week Lynn saw him sell a Ford with faulty brakes to an eighty-year-old man because said eighty-year-old man wanted a blue Ford and nothing else...rather than lose the sale, Big Bill burdened him with a lemon. "Customer's always right," he said, and laughed until tears rolled down his fat face.

"Yes, sir," Lynn said now.

"Come on, I got a hankerin' for some lunch."

Lynn followed Big Bill out of the garage and around to the showroom. He was wearing a short sleeved white button up (with a black clip-on tie), and in fifty feet, the sun burned his bare arms almost to the bone. Inside the air conditioned space, Dean Everett, one of Bill's other salesmen, was showing a young couple a like-new Mustang. Lynn didn't like Dean – he smiled like a shark and talked bad behind your back.

In the breakroom, Bill went over to the fridge and opened it. "The missus made tuna casserole last night," he said as he pulled out a covered plate and rasped laughter. "Don't think you're gettin' none."

"That's okay, sir, Kathy said she was going to bring me lunch." Tuna casserole was Mrs. Parker's signature dish, and both her husband and her daughter went batshit for it. Lynn thought it was nasty.

While Bill sat, Lynn grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge and opened it with a bottle opener. He sat across from his father-in-law and took a long, grateful swallow. He _hated_ working at the dealership. It was long, boring work and at the end of the day, you didn't have anything to show for it. The pay so far was decent, and when Big Bill retired, he was going to pass it on to him, and owning a car dealership you hated was a lot better than not owning one at all. Hell, Big Bill was a millionaire – if something can make you _that_ rich, who cares if you liked it or not? Lynn didn't like ballroom dancing, but if he could earn him money like that, he'd do it until his feet bled.

Lynn was so lost in thought that when a hand fell on his shoulder, he jolted. "Hey, honey," Kathy said. She leaned in a kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled. "Hey."

She sat a brown paper bag on the table in front of him. "Hi, Daddy."

"Hey, sweetie," Big Bill said around a mouthful of tuna. Kathy went over and placed a kiss on his cheek as she had Lynn's. She was wearing a brown skirt that just covered her knees and a white blouse with brown flowers on it. Her blonde hair was held back in a ponytail, and her lips were firetruck red: Lynn wiped his face, and his fingertips came back smudged.

She sat and crossed her legs as Lynn opened the bag to see what was inside: A ham sandwich, a Ziploc baggie filled with pretzels, and a banana. Lynn nodded appreciatively, his stomach giving a low rumble.

"I saw that girl you used to run with," Big Bill said and dabbed his lips with a napkin, "Shelley something?"

"Shelley Hartford?"

"Hell, I dunno," Bill said, "she had the frizzy red hair."

"Yep, that's Shelley."

"Her grandmamma bought an Oldsmobile."

Kathy tilted her head and pursed her lips. "Was there anything _wrong_ with it?"

"Of course there wasn't," Bill said, offense creeping into his voice, "what do you think I am, some kind of damn cheat?" He winked. "I don't see junk to friends."

Lynn unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. If he remembered correctly, that Olds had dry rot in the trunk. Or maybe that was a different Olds. He wasn't entirely sure: Cars came and went sometimes on the same day, and it was hard to keep up.

"Sometimes you are," Kathy said and turned to Lynn, her eyes brightening. "How's your day?"

"I can't complain," Lynn said, "I'm doing something I love."

Well...that wasn't _entirely_ a lie...he was sitting next to the girl he loved, and if she was right about her ovulation cycle, she might very well be pregnant with his child. That thought brought a grin to his face. Growing up, Lynn never really thought about having children – in fact, if you'd asked him, he probably would have made a sour face – but once he met Kathy, he wanted nothing more than to have lots and lots of kids with her.

Kathy smiled and touched his face. "You poor thing, the heat's getting to you; _nobody_ loves working with Daddy."

Bill snorted. "Tell that to your mother. She's been working with me twenty-five years."

"That's why she has gray hair."

"No it ain't," Bill said, getting up, "she's just gettin' old." He took his plate over to the sink and dropped it in. "When ya'll are done, Lynn, come outside. I wanna make sure that goddamn grease monkey's doin' what I said."

"Yes, sir," Lynn said.

When he was gone, Kathy laid her hand on his leg. "Mama says I have a certain glow to my face." She preened. "Do I?"

Lynn chewed and studied her cheeks. She always looked radiant to him. He said as much, and she laughed. "She says I look pregnant."

"She can tell from your face?" he asked and finished off his sandwich. "Sounds like the heat's getting to her too."

"They say you can," Kathy replied. "And if anyone could, it'd be mama."

Kathy's mother certainly _was_ an observant woman; not much got by her. Before he first met her, Kathy told him, "If mama says you're okay, you're okay." Pfft, mama's girl. Oh, no, she was right: Her mother was like a lie detector and a bloodhound rolled into one. She made him even more nervous than her husband did.

"You're right about that," he said as he opened the pretzels and tossed a handful into his mouth.

Kathy beamed and ducked her shoulders back and forth. "I probably am."

She was.

* * *

Dick Clark was shorter in person, thinner too. Luna heard something once about the camera adding ten pounds, but she that thought was jive. Nope, it was true. Hell, she was a full inch taller than he was, and when she met him backstage before the show, she couldn't help but stare. _How's the weather down there, little guy?_ He was really nice though, which she liked, because since she'd come to Hollywood, she'd heard nothing but bad shit about a lot of the people she looked up to. Like Ed Sullivan. Everyone she'd ever talked to said Ed Sullivan was a prick, and that was disappointing, because she used to think he was cool. That made her nervous, because she was going to be on his show in a couple weeks.

Dick Clark sure wasn't a prick, though. Guy was a treat. Even though he wasn't really like Lincoln, he reminded her of him, and while she waited for the first act– a group called Iron Butterfly –she got so fucking depressed she could have cried. In the green room, she knelt at the coffee table, broke out a baggie of coke, and drew three lines across the surface. She was vaguely aware that someone else was in the room, but whatever. She brought enough for the whole class.

There was a TV in the corner playing a live feed of the show; as Luna bumped her first rail, Dick Clark introduced " _The_ Iron Butterfly" ( _the?_ Which is it?) and music filled the room, all fucking organs and distorted guitars:

 _In a gadda da vida, honey  
_

 _Don't you know that I'm lovin' you  
_

 _In a gadda da vida, baby  
_

 _Don't you know that I'll always be true_

Luna rocked back on her knees and sniffed deeply. Her heart was already starting to race. Tommy James, his arms crossed over his Nehru jacket and wearing love beads around his neck, watched her with a raised eyebrow, the corners of his lips turned up in an inscrutable grin. He wore a beehive. _Who is this dude, someone's grandmother?_

She snickered. "Hey, man, you want some?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

"It'll put hair on your chest."

"I have that covered, thanks."

"Suit yourself." She leaned over and sucked the second line up. She could feel her blood shooting through her veins like jets of boiling water; energy crackled along her nerves; her pupils dilated and the world started to blur. She was ready to _party_.

That's when it all went south. "Luna?" Julius's voice called from the hallway.

She sighed. "There's Captain Killjoy," she said, "and not a moment too soon – I was just starting to have fun."

She glanced over her shoulder as he entered the room: He started, and his hands went up. "Are you serious right now?"

Luna smiled sheepishly. "Hey."

Julius bowed his head and pressed his fingertips to his temples. "I cannot fucking believe this. T-T-The fucking _biggest_ night of your career, and you're getting goofy."

"I'm always goofy," she said.

"Yeah, you're always goofy because you're always doing coke. I'd be goofy too if I snorted enough of that shit to feed a family of five."

Whatever. Luna turned back to the table, bent, and snorted the third and final rail. "Yeah, real nice. Why don't you break out some more? Fuck _American Bandstand_ , fuck making records, fuck making money."

"Fuck _you_ , man," Luna said. He was really starting to get on her nerves.

"Yeah, fuck me too. How about I drop you back off at the shithole bar I found you in?"

Sudden rage burst in Luna's chest. She flipped the table (poor Tommy James jumped a foot) and got to her feet, her hands balled into fists and her jaw clenched. "Fuck you, you four-eyed fucking cocksucking piece of shit! I'm the reason you drive a car that doesn't break down every two fucking blocks! You weren't _shit_ before me!"

Julius's eyes blazed and his thin lips pulled back over his teeth. "The guys are setting their shit up," he said tightly, "we go on in five. Wipe the coke off your nose and don't fuck this up."

He spun on his heels and stalked into the hall, turning and pointing in the opposite direction. "The stage is _that_ way, junkie."

" _Fuck you!"_ She leaned forward and gave him the finger.

He shook his head and walked away.

Her heart slammed and blood pounded in her temples. She started after him, but stopped herself and took a deep breath. Fuck him. She slammed her fist against the doorframe, then again because she didn't feel the satisfying rush of pain the first time. "Bastard," she growled.

In the ladies room, she stood in front of the mirror and washed the coke off her nose. Look what this dumb motherfucker has me dressed in. Billowy fucking purple shirt, beads and fucking crosses (no, that's right, the cross was hers – she saw it and Jesus reminded her of Lincoln because he sacrificed for sinners too...sinners in congress and shit). Where the hell was her sun hat? She wasn't wearing that goddamn sun hat. It looked retarded.

She flashed and slammed her fist against the sink. Shithole bar. Fuck him. She glared at her reflection, then went back into the green room. Tommy James was gone, but her sunhat wasn't. Come here, you ugly son of a bitch. She snatched it off the floor and pulled it down over her head. There! Happy! Here's my _fucking_ sunhat!

"Miss Loud?"

Luna spun. _"What?"_

A technician holding a clipboard stood in the doorway, and when she turned, he jumped back. "Uh...you go on it two."

" _Thank you!"_

The tech nodded and rushed away.

Luna stormed out and down the hall. She could find the fucking stage. Look, there are signs. She could read signs without big stupid looking fucking glasses. At the curtain, she waited with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. She was the reason she was here, _her!_

A different tech appeared beside her. "Okay, you can go on out. We're on break."

"Yeah," she said and went through the curtain: Bright lights bore down on her, and her eyes stung. "They really have to be that fucking hot?" she grumbled as she made her way past the drum kit and between the guitarists. The mic stood on a slight platform, and she stepped onto it. She could make out the audience waiting patiently.

A technician knelt by one of the cameras and counted down from five. When he hit one, everyone started to clap, and Dick Clark held a microphone up to her mouth. "Ladies and gentlemen, Blues Station!"

Such a stupid name. Such a stupid band. Luna grabbed the mic out of the stand as the band began to play. _Come Back to Me_. Such a stupid title for a song. She grinned and started to sing. Look at me, I'm having a good time. _American Bandstand!_ Yay! Fuck you! She bent, she made a fist, she screamed, she jumped...she gave everyone what they wanted even though she hated all of them. Even Dick Clark. _My brother's dead I hate music I hate everything and I'm so fucking sick and tired of that bastard thinking he's better than me! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!_ _Here's your goddamn hit song! Dance it up, assholes!_

When it was finally, blissfully over, she was sweating and her heart hurt. Everyone clapped. _Good monkey...nice dancing...have a penny._ She shoved the mic back into the holder while Dick Clark shoved another one into her face. "You have a unique voice. Where, uh, where'd you pick that up?"

Say something funny, Luna, make all the people laugh like a good little monkey; that's what you do on _Bandstand_ , get with the program, groovy, outta fucking sight. "When I was...when I was three or something I swallowed a bunch of gravel outta the driveway." She grinned. "My voice hasn't been the same since."

 _Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!_ Dick bent over laughing and touched her arm. _Oh, stop!_ Regaining his composure, he asked, "Now, what advice do you have for all the little girls out there right now who look up to you?"

 _Look up to_ me? _Ha ha ha ha ha!_ "Just, uh, just follow your dreams and don't let anyone stop you."

In a rundown trailer on the outskirts of Bristol, Tennessee, two blonde girls – both six and identical – leaned toward the black and white TV screen, their eyes wide and similar feelings stirring in their chests. "I wanna be just like her when I grow up," the one in the pink dress said.

"Yeah, she's _cool_ ," the one in the overalls replied. The frog poking out of her chest pocket croaked its agreement.

"Lana! Lola! Turn that crap off!" their mother called from the kitchen. "It'll rot your brain."

* * *

Lincoln swallowed and balled his right hand into a tight fist. His heart was pounding so hard he imagined it was visible under his shirt the way Bobby Jr.'s feet were visible under Lori's when she was pregnant. Henderson watched, his eyes narrowed intently. He, too, was tense. An explosion sounded in the distance and reverberated through the jungle. The guard next to Lincoln turned his head to the left, his eyes widening in fright. The one next to Henderson half-stood and craned his neck, his flesh losing its yellow glow. When he sat, Lincoln told himself, he would strike. Now or never. Get the hell out of here and go home to Ronnie Anne or die trying. Maybe McCain would sit around and wait, but not Lincoln. He needed his wife the way a fish needs water; over the past year and a half, he had been slowly suffocating...and that ended today, one way or another.

He squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep breath. _God, please, help me...please._ He licked his lips and tried to remember when he had last spoken to God. When he was ten? Eleven? He didn't know; God didn't owe him shit, and Lincoln felt a rush of shame for coming to him for the first time in ten years asking a favor. _Hey, buddy, I know it's been a while, but there's something you can do for me_. Some nerve, kid.

Sometimes, though, that's all you have to hang onto: Your nerve.

He opened his eyes. The guard next to Henderson chewed his bottom lip and sat stiffly. He stole a sidelong glance at the one next to him. He was facing forward and looking worried. Lincoln moved his left hand and touched the handle of the gun.

Now.

With a primal scream, he grabbed the handle and brought his fist around: In one fluid motion, he yanked it from its holster as his hand crashed into the guard's nose, shattering it. The guard next to Henderson jerked in surprise and started to lift his AK, but Henderson headbutted him, and it clattered from his grip.

Lincoln raised the gun and fired: The guard jerked as the round slammed into his chest: A look of pain flickered across his face and he toppled to the side. Lincoln spun and fired into the other guard's side, then through the cab window, his teeth bared and his eyes flashing: The glass shattered as the driver's head disappeared in a red mist. The truck suddenly lost speed and began to veer to the left. The passenger whipped his head around, cried out, and bailed as the truck left the road and came to rest in a ditch with a violent jolt.

Everyone was screaming. "Loud!" Henderson cried. "My hands! Untie my hands!"

Lincoln didn't hear him: His focus – his hatred, his fear, his pain – was on the fleeing Cong...he pounded across the road and toward the jungle, his arms and legs pumping wildly. A sneer touched Lincoln's lips, and every slap, every bamboo shoot, the taste of every maggot he had eaten and the chill of every cold night he spent wet and on the ground came back to him. He sprang forward, leapt over the side of the truck, and landed on his feet, his knees bending and his left hand planting in the dirt. The Cong threw a frightened glance over his shoulder, a yell ripping from his throat as Lincoln got to his feet.

"Loud!" Henderson yelled.

Lincoln held the gun up and fired twice in rapid succession: One round slammed into a tree trunk, and the other hit the bastard in the leg. He fell forward and crashed down onto a bush.

"Goddamn it, Loud! Get back here! That's an order!"

Instead, Lincoln crouched and approached his prey, a savage smile spreading across his face. The foliage rustled and a round whizzed by his head, pinging off the side of the truck. Reacting instinctively, Lincoln hit the ground and squeezed off a shot. The foliage rustled again, and Lincoln caught a flash of his quarry limping hurriedly away. He got to his knees, aimed, and fired twice, neither bullet finding its target.

"Loud, you crazy son of a bitch!"

Lincoln laughed. He didn't know why. It wasn't funny. But laugh he did...he laughed until he cried, then cried until he laughed. "Tell your friends!" he screamed into the jungle. "Tell 'em fuck you!"

He threw the gun away and staggered to his feet, stumbling over to the truck and climbing up the side, using the back wheel as a steeping stool. Henderson stood over the remaining guard, his boot on the poor bastard's chest. The guard's eyes were wide and he shook like a leaf.

Without a word, Lincoln untied Henderson's hands, then Maddox's; they in turn untied everyone else's. Henderson snatched the fallen AK-47 and slipped the strap around his shoulder. Suddenly feeling dizzy and tired, Lincoln went over to the other guard: His chest rose and fell as he fought for breath: With each contraction, blood seeped from the wound in his side. He looked up at Lincoln, fear flooding his eyes. _"Xin đừng giết tôi."_ Tears streamed down his cheeks and mingled with the blood leaking from his ruined nose. _"_ _Xin vui lòng, tôi không muốn chết."_ He squeezed his eyes closed and began to sob.

Lincoln worked up as much saliva as he could and spat on him. When a hand touched his shoulder, he turned.

"Good work, Loud," Henderson said.

Lincoln nodded. Yeah. Good work.

"Alright, boys," Henderson said, "let's get the hell out of here."

Maddox picked up the second AK-47 and Jenkins took the other guard's sidearm. His eyes were closed and his lips were parted. He looked dead. Henderson climbed over the side of the truck, and the others followed, Lincoln in dead last. Always last in line, even in the middle of a war. That thought struck him as funny, and he tittered.

Five klicks later, they were rescued by an American patrol, becoming the only POWs to escape from captivity during the war in Vietnam.


	46. February 1968: Part 2

**Guest: I don't want to spoil too much, but yes, Lana and Lola will appear again in the 1980s and interact with members of the Loud family.**

 **Guest (Chapter 43): I don't think there's much a president can do about issues like that. I'm an independent now (I was once a liberal then a conservative), and I think both ideologies have major flaws. One of our biggest problems today, I think, is identity politics. I'll use a historical context to keep with the story: In the 1950s, white kids and black kids found something out – they weren't so different, they liked the same music, played the same games, and did a lot of the same things. What did that? Rock and roll. Rock and roll, maybe as much as the Civil Rights Movement, brought people together. Now we have people who are encouraging every subgroup in America to have its own culture, to disallow outsiders, and to mistrust everyone else. As the saying goes 'A house divided against itself cannot stand' and I see division so deep today it's disheartening.**

 **STR2D3PO: We'll see Manson again. When I first wrote that chapter I didn't think he would, so I stuck that reference in, but I found a way to make him and his crimes relevant to the plot beyond "Oh, look, historical event the characters are watching on TV."**

* * *

Rita Loud rarely ever looked at herself in the mirror anymore; when she did, she saw an old woman. Her fiftieth birthday was at the end of the month, and she looked every single year: Deep lines spread from the corners of her eyes and her mouth, and her hair was rapidly graying. Her eyesight wasn't the best anymore, and she wore glasses. Her hands ached from time-to-time, and she was beginning to suspect that she was becoming arthritic. She wasn't alone, at least: Lynn was going bald in the middle, and faint liver spots were had begun forming on his forehead. He was fifty-one and could pass for sixty if you didn't look too closely. Neither of them slept very well anymore, and sometimes Rita was up long into the night reading by lamplight and trying not to worry about her children, especially Lincoln. She told herself that he was alive somewhere, but deep down she knew that he probably wasn't. A girl can hope, though, can't she?

She did her best not to think of Lincoln – instead she transferred all of her worries onto the others. Leni was on a new medication for her Rentschler's that made her groggy, and some days she didn't get out of bed until well after noon: She was so pitiful and lethargic that Rita was seriously considering asking the doctor to take her off it. True, she didn't speak gibberish anymore, and her headaches came only rarely, but it's hard to speak gibberish and have a headache when you're always unconscious.

Lynn was doing well. He spoke to her once a week, always on Thursday evenings: She would drag a kitchen chair over to the phone and sit with the handset pressed against her ear for an hour, sometimes two. His wife was pregnant, which made Rita happy, but also annoyed her. She hadn't even met this girl yet, and had no idea who or what she was. Lynn spoke glowingly of her, but Rita, as they said, was from Missouri: She would believe it when she saw it. Lynn said his father-in-law was grooming him to take over the dealership one day. He didn't like it, but he liked the money, so that was that.

She hadn't heard from Luna recently, but she was on the television in February: Rita was not prepared for how utterly surreal it was. She knew her daughter was famous now (they played her on the radio all the time), but it never really sank in until she actually saw her. Bursting pride filled her, and she smiled all through the song, even though she thought Luna's outfit was a tad much. Leni, the poor dear, was so excited that she knelt in front of the TV and hugged it. "I miss you, Luna," she said. _"When I was three or something I swallowed some gravel outta the driveway._ Rita clapped her hands and laughed merrily. Luna did indeed eat gravel from the driveway when she was three...and four...and five...and, Rita suspected, even six. She was immeasurably happy for her...but she couldn't help notice that she looked thinner, and her cheeks seemed hollower. She hoped she was getting enough to eat.

Luan called more frequently than Luna, but far less frequently than Lynn: She had met a boy and they protested the war, she said, which worried her. She had seen protests on the evening news, and some of them looked dangerous. Just the other day a group of students at some college in Virginia stormed the administration building and wouldn't leave until the governor sent in the state militia. A week or so before _that,_ someone bombed the ROTC building at another college, this one in Washington State. No one was hurt, thank God, but what if someone had been? Rita couldn't say she liked what was happening in Southeast Asia (in fact, she despised it, because of what it had done to Lincoln), but blowing things up and possibly hurting someone is certainly not the way to do things. Luan promised to be safe and to focus on her studies, and Rita had no choice but to take the girl at her word: She was smart and she wanted to make a career of social work, so there was that.

Bobby Jr. was six now, and it never ceased to amaze Rita how big her grandson was getting. He was a typical boy, too: Tracking dirt through the kitchen, yelling, playing with cars and trucks on the living room floor. Leni absolutely adored having him over on the weekends, even though she was tired and he was so rambunctious. They played cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers in the backyard, and just the other day, Rita came into the kitchen to find the cookie jar missing: Leni and Bobby Jr. were _under_ the kitchen table with it between them, both of their cheeks bulging like two squirrels. "Hi, Mom," Leni said sheepishly, spraying crumbs. "Hi, Nana," Bobby Jr. said, following his auntie's lead. Rita didn't have the heart to punish them.

That was all her children.

All except for Lincoln.

Poor, dear, sweet Lincoln. Every time she closed her eyes, an image of his face materialized in her head, and her heart ached as though it were being squeezed in clawed hands. Her baby boy gone...and for what? A war that could never be won? She saw the special CBS ran the other night...saw the underground tunnels the communists used...saw how quickly American boys were shot and killed in the dense jungle...saw Walter Cronkite himself declare the war a stalemate: If he said it, it _must_ be true. Lincoln was gone and over some stupid war that they never should have been fighting in the first place.

Thinking about it made her sad and angry and anxious all at once, so she did what she could _not_ to think about it.

On the afternoon of February 28, she looked at herself in the mirror over her bathroom sink and tried to pinpoint the exact moment she had begun to look like an old woman. Her hair had been slowly graying for years, but most of the aging seemed to have occurred recently – over the past two years, perhaps? She was certain that that must be the case, but she didn't really _know_. Getting older has a way of sneaking up on you. Most days, physically at least, she felt the same as she did twenty years ago, and when she looked at herself in the mirror, she didn't look _too_ closely; she was not a vain woman, and when you don't pay attention, grays, spots, and wrinkles just happen.

She turned away from her reflection and went into the hallway, which once rang with the echoes of life but was silent now. It was just past one and Leni had just gotten out of bed and was eating breakfast...or lunch, depending on how you looked at it. Other than the two of them, the house was empty: Lynn and Ronnie Anne were both at work, and the others were living their lives as adults are wont to do. She wished Luan, Lynn, and Luna were closer. Perhaps it was selfish of her to want her, but she couldn't help it: She had never been a coddler, but she missed them greatly.

In the living room, _As the World Turns_ was just beginning, and Rita glanced at the screen as she passed. Once upon a time she never missed an episode, now she rarely sat through one entire: It didn't matter as much anymore. Leni was at the table paging through a magazine and eating a piece of toast, her gaze sweeping back and forth as she read. She didn't look up when Rita came in and poured herself a cup of coffee, didn't seem to realize she was there even as she sat across from her. Sometimes – like now – Rita couldn't help but study her daughter's face and dwell on her lot in life. She was twenty-six, beautiful, and, within ten or fifteen years (they couldn't decide which anymore, which encouraged Rita), she would be in a nursing home. She would likely never marry or have children, never drive, never live alone, never have her own life, and Rita didn't know which bothered her most: That, or the fact that on some level...she was glad, because she didn't have to let go...yet.

" _As the World Turns_ is coming on, dear," Rita said and took a sip of coffee.

"Okay," Leni piped, but made no move to get up. She finished her toast and turned another page. "There's a picture of Luna in here," she added matter-of-factly. "Do you want to see it?"

"Of course."

Leni flipped back a few pages, spun the magazine, and pushed it across the table. Rita adjusted her glasses and bent over the spread. Luna held a microphone to her open mouth, her eyes squeezed shut and her free hand clenched into a loose fist. A smile spread across Rita's face. "We should save this," she said as she slid the magazine back to Leni.

"Oh, I'm going to," Leni said, "I..."

She was cut off by a knock at the door. She glanced in the general direction of the front door, and her eyes clouded with confusion. "Someone's at the door," Rita explained. One of the primary symptoms of Rentschler's was failure of the brain to adapt to sudden stimuli.

Leni blinked, then went back to her magazine while Rita got up and crossed the living room. When she opened the door, her heart dropped into her stomach. Two men in army dress uniforms, one white and one colored, stood on the porch. Oh, God...they found his body...he's dead.

"Mrs. Rita Loud?" the colored solider asked.

She felt her soul beginning to break, and took a deep breath. "Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"May we come in?"

Rita steeled her resolve. She had the others to worry about...she had Leni, who needed her more now than even when she was little. "Yes," she said, and stepped aside, allowing them to enter. In the living room, they sat on the couch while Rita sat in the armchair. Déjà vu came over her, and her head spun: The same scene had played out less than a year ago. God, had it really been _eight months?_ It felt like it had been eight decades.

Before anyone could speak, Leni came in, her brow pinched curiously. When she saw the soldiers, her face went white. Rita sucked her quivering lips in and motioned for Leni to come to her. The girl did, her eyes filling with tears; she was not stupid. She sat on Rita's lap, and Rita wrapped one arm around her. Both of them were struggling to keep from breaking down, and both drew strength from each other.

The soldiers exchanged a glance, and Rita could have sworn a tiny grin passed between them. The colored one looked at her. "We have some good news about your son, Private Lincoln Loud."

Those two words _good news_ struck her like a fist, and confusion filled her. Good news?

"He was picked up by a patrol fifty miles south of Da Nang. He's alive."

Rita froze, her heart staggering drunkenly in her chest and her stomach tightening. Her mind worked to process the statement. "A-Alive?" She spoke the word hesitantly, terrified that she had misheard, and that the hope rising in her like hot lead would be crushed.

"That's right, ma'am," the white soldier said, "he was being held in a POW camp, but he and several other prisoners escaped."

It took a moment for the words to fully sink in, but when they did, she started to sob. He was alive...her baby boy was alive.

Leni gaped. "Lincy's alive?"

"Yes, ma'am," the colored solider said, "and all things considered, he's doing very well. He's currently en route to the Eisenhower Medical Center in Palm Springs."

Alive. That single word ran through Rita's head like a mantra. _Alive, alive, alive_. She wept harder. Thank God. Oh, thank God, he was alive. She cried even harder.

"You'll be able to see him once he arrives."

Rita laughed. "I never thought I'd see him again." She wept and hugged Leni; the girl was crying openly now too. "I never thought I'd see my baby again."

"You thought wrong, ma'am," the colored solider said, "your son's alive and well. A hero, too. He's the reason the escape took place."

Before the soldiers left, Rita gratefully hugged and kissed them on the cheek. She smiled widely; she felt ten – no, fifteen – years younger, and such intense happiness burned in her chest that she half thought it would consume her like fire. She had to call Lynn. And Lynn Jr. And Luna. And Luan. And Lori. And...and...Ronnie Anne.

She dizzily went to the couch and sat, taking the phone in her hand. Leni scooted close to her with a big grin on her face. "Are we telling everyone? I wanna help!"

Rita nodded as she began to dial. "We are, baby; we're going to tell _everyone_..." she laughed merrily, tears of joy spilling down her cheeks.

* * *

Ronnie Anne Loud leaned against the back door and lit a cigarette, the smoke rolling tastelessly into her lungs. It was cold out, but, you know what? It was cold inside, too. Not inside Flip's...inside _her_. And it had been for a long time.

No use dwelling on it, though. That was life now. Each day was a misery and you either adapt or you collapse...or you adapt just enough to make it _to_ the point of collapsing. She had adapted...but the collapse would come. She was holding on by her fingernails and waiting for the day she could let go and drop into the void...for the day she found out that Lincoln was dead.

Of course, she still had hope...she wouldn't be alive if she didn't...but with each passing day, the possibility of him turning up alive became more and more remote. It remained, though, and so did she, and like it, she faded just a little bit every time the earth revolved around the sun. Today was a good day as far as days went. She didn't dream the night before, and she woke up with dry eyes. The pain wasn't as sharp – it was a dull, throbbing ache, and dull, throbbing aches were manageable, at least.

She took a drag and blew it out slowly. She had a test coming up. She needed to study, because if she didn't, she would flunk, and it would all be for nothing.

All for nothing.

But wasn't it already?

She felt cold grief creeping in on the edges of her consciousness, and shoved it away. Think of something else. Anything else. Like that test. Yeah. It mattered. It was important. Studying hard was worth it. 100 percent. She squinted up at the pale sky. They said it was going to snow later; she was sick of snow. Rita wanted to move to Florida when Lynn retired; Florida sounded nice. She'd never been, so she didn't know, but she'd been to Royal Woods during the drab, deep freeze of post-Christmas winter, when the wind sweeps across the tundra and pushes clouds of snow through the streets with a ghostly wail, and she could say definitely that she didn't like it.

What did she have in tips? She rooted around in her apron, the cigarette clamped between her lips, and counted. Wow, ten-fifty. Ten-fifty can buy a lot, like...she didn't know. She didn't buy stuff too much. Groceries for the house and gas for the Impala (oh, and cigarettes), but otherwise, nope; there was nothing she wanted. Records? No, she didn't like the music these days. Clothes? She had clothes. Shoes? Well, she _could_ use new shoes – these were fraying and starting to fall apart. That meant going to the shoe store, though, and that thought made her tired. Maybe tomorrow...or the day after.

She took the cigarette between her fingers, puffed, and sighed. The cold was starting to get to her now, settling in and chilling the flesh of her bare arms. She leaned forward to throw the cigarette away, and the door bumped against her butt, nearly knocking her over. Goddamn it! Who the fuck –?

Flip poked his head out, and Ronnie Anne's clenched brow smoothed. "Your mother-in-law's on the phone."

"Okay."

As she walked down the hall and around the counter, she tried to remember if she got milk yesterday the way Rita asked her to. She _thought_ she did, but she couldn't be sure. Ha. She couldn't be sure of anything anymore. The phone was lying on the counter. She picked it up and pressed it against her ear. "Hello?"

"Honey," Rita said, her voice thick with emotion. An icepick wedged into Ronnie Anne's heart; oh, God, here it is...he's dead. "Honey, they found Lincoln...he's okay."

Ronnie Anne's entire body jolted. _"What?"_

Rita laughed happily. "He's alive and he's on his way to California. He's okay...he's okay."

Everyone in the dining room was looking at her; Flip leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and his brow raised.

Ronnie Anne opened her mouth to speak, but she started to cry instead. "He's alive?" She wasn't asking, she was begging. God, let it be true.

"Yes," Rita said, "he's alive, honey."

Ronnie Anne leaned against the counter on one elbow, covered her face with her hand, and wept, the dark melancholy flooding out of her in a rush of hot, cleansing tears. She shook and laughed and cried and shuddered; for the first time in almost a year, she felt alive, truly alive. Her Lincoln was okay...he was coming home to her.

They would have children after all.

They would actually get to grow old together.

She would touch his face and kiss his lips again.

"I-I-I have to go," she said and laughed through her tears. She hung the phone up without waiting for a reply and turned. Flip's eyes were filled with hope, and Ronnie Anne grinned wetly. "He's alive. Lincoln's alive."

A giant smile spread across Flip's face, and before she knew it, they were hugging and she was crying even harder. "He's alive," she said. _"Mi esposo está vivo y yo también."_ She giggled and Flip held her tighter.

" _Estoy feliz por ti,"_ he said. He was not crying too; it was only sweat. Sweat and nothing else.

* * *

Lori hung the phone up, breathed a deep sigh of relief, and smiled, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. In the living room, Bobby Jr. played with his cars and made engine sounds with his lips. She started in, but stopped and picked the phone back up. Like a newly converted Christian, she was bursting with good news, and she couldn't keep it to herself. She dialed Bobby's work number, and spoke to a secretary. After a few impatient minutes, Bobby came on the line, sounding out of breath. "Hey, babe," he said, "what's up?" There was an edge of concern in his voice; Lori didn't usually call him unless something was wrong, but not today. Something was _right_ today, and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

"Babe?" he asked quizzically.

She giggled again. "Guess who was just found alive in Vietnam."

There was a pregnant pause. "They found him?" Bobby asked hopefully.

Lori nodded. "Yep. He was being held prisoner but he escaped. He's on his way to California."

Bobby laughed. "Oh, my God, that's great! Wow!" He laughed again. Though Lori couldn't see him, he was grinning as he leaned against the desk in the office, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the elbow of his phone hand resting on his wrist. The secretary did her best to ignore him, but her ears pricked. They found someone? Who?

"Mom's planning on flying out to see him. I'm going too. Can you come?"

Bobby sighed. "Probably not."

She figured as much. "Alright. I'll take Bobby Jr., obviously."

When she hung up five minutes later, she shook with excitement. Lincoln was _alive._

She couldn't wait to see him.

In Arizona, Lynn Loud grinned broadly. He was leaning over the service counter with the phone pressed to his ear. He was in the middle of trying to sell a 1966 Ford to a teenaged boy when the secretary said his mother was on the phone: He took the call right away, of course, because if Mom was calling him at work in the middle of the day, it had to be important.

And boy was it.

"Yeah," he said, "I can see if I can get a day or two off and we'll drive over."

"Lincoln would like that very much – and so would I. I'd love to finally meet this girl you married."

The thought of seeing Lincoln again made him smile, and the thought of seeing everyone again made him giddy with excitement. The last time he saw everyone together was...what, three years ago? Longer?

"I'll ask and see."

"Please do."

Several hundred miles away, Luna Loud's phone rang...and rang and rang and rang.

To the north, Luan Loud returned from class to find a message waiting: CALL YOUR MOTHER. She knew in an instant that it had to do with Lincoln, and cold dread filled her. As she dialed Mom's number on the payphone in the dayroom, her eyes welling with tears, she made a promise to herself: If Lincoln was dead, she was going to do something. She didn't know what, but something, and not just protest.

"He's alive," Mom said, and Luan stumbled back.

"A-Alive?"

Joy filled her. She had her brother back! Then her joy dimmed, because how many other girls like her – and women like her mother – weren't so lucky? Hot rage toward the imperialist capitalist system bubbled up in her stomach like acid. That would have to wait, though. First, she had to see to Lincoln. "Call me as soon as he's in." When she hung up, she went to tell Ted the good news.


	47. March 1968: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Mony Mony**_ **by Tommy James and the Shondells (1968)**

* * *

Lincoln's first stop was a hospital in Saigon where he spent two days being checked over by army doctors. His nose had indeed been broken, but set on its own. It was lumpy, tender, and misshapen, but not bad enough that Lincoln wanted it broken again and reset. He was shocked the first time he saw his face in a mirror: His cheeks were sunken and his flesh was sallow. Dark bags hung under his haunted eyes, and wrinkles lined his gaunt face like cracks. He could easily have passed for thirty or thirty-five.

There, they examined the gunshot wound in his shoulder. It wasn't infected (no shit, doc, it's only two fucking years old, I would _never_ have known if you didn't point it out) and had healed on its own. Like his nose, it was lumpy and unsightly. Unlike his nose, however, it wasn't tender...at least it wasn't until the asshole started prodding it. Lincoln took a little, but finally he snapped. "Can you stop touching it? Jesus Christ, it's fine."

Next, he was loaded onto a DC-8 and flown to Hawaii, where he stayed for four days and four nights (all expenses paid, of course). His hospital room overlooked Pearl Harbor, and he passed long afternoons sitting by the open window and looking out at the _USS Arizona_ memorial, listening to gulls, and basking in salty sea breezes. He couldn't entirely relax, though, and was a little frustrated that they wouldn't let him have a gun. Oh, you're a hero, son, but you can't have a .45.

He _was,_ however, allowed to call home. The first time he spoke to his mother, he could barely talk through the tears: Hearing her voice punctured something in him, and he wept. She did, too. So did Leni. And Lori. And even Ronnie Anne. Especially Ronnie Anne.

"I thought you were dead," she told him between sobs, "I was so fucking broken I wanted to die."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"I missed you so much." She laughed humorlessly. "I almost lost my mind."

"I thought of you every day," Lincoln said, "you kept me going."

The second time they talked was easier, though just hearing her voice made him well with emotion.

On March 3, he was flown to Palm Springs where he was admitted to the Eisenhower Center. He was put on the fourth floor, and had a scenic view of the parking lot and the arid desert beyond. He had nightmares and sometimes, just sitting in his room, he would start to panic for no reason: His stomach would clench and he would break out in a cold sweat. He talked to an army psychiatrist his first day there, but Lincoln didn't like him, so he lied about the dreams and the panic attacks. If they knew, they might put him on the psych ward, and he did not break out of one prison just to be stuffed into another. He wanted his honorable discharge and to go home. That's it.

His family wasn't allowed to see him yet, so they waited impatiently. Lincoln spoke to his mother and Ronnie Anne every day, and every day his frustration grew. People from the army came to visit him. Salutes all around. On March 9, William Westmoreland, the commander of American forces in Vietnam, dropped in, and so did a team of newspaper men. Apparently he and the others (who had been scattered to other hospitals) were the first U.S. personnel to escape captivity during the war, and because he was the 'mastermind' he was a hero. He kind of got that before Westmoreland came, but he didn't realize how big a deal it really was. ABC wanted to talk to him, as did NBC and CBS. Lincoln didn't want to talk to them, though, only his family. Fuck the media. Fuck the army, too. Westmoreland mentioned something about medals and a promotion in rank, and Lincoln grinned as if he cared. "Thank you, sir."

His picture was on the front page of the March 10 newspaper. Great, first they send me off to fight then they parade me around like a fucking trophy. He did get _some_ good news that day: His family could come see him now. He called his mother to let her know, and she said that they would start packing and leave that night.

Later that afternoon, he got a phone call from Lyndon Johnson. "How're you doin', son?" the president asked.

"Swell, sir," Lincoln said, and Johnson rasped laughter. He was too stupid to recognize the sarcasm in Lincoln's voice.

"I'm glad to hear it. If we had a couple thousand more men like you, Vietnam wouldn't be in the sorry shape it's in."

Lincoln resisted the urge to tell him to stop kissing his ass.

Later still, he took calls from others. Robert F. Kennedy, George McGovern, Richard Nixon, Eugene McCarthy, and George Wallace. He was perplexed, but then he realized all those assholes shared something in common: They were running for president. 1968 _was_ an election year. Call the hero and congratulate him. Yeah. Not political at all. We're just glad you're safe. Really.

That's the way it goes, though. If they have no use for you, you're nothing; if they do, you're their best buddy. They'll buy you a drink, put their arm around you, and promise you the moon and the stairs. Guys like them...they needed guys like him...but guys like him didn't need guys like _them_. Guys like him made the world go round – they _built_ the world – guys like them only destroyed.

But he wouldn't be bitter. His family was coming, his wife was coming, and despite the nightmares and the cold sweats, the future lay before him, and he looked forward to meeting it and seeing what it brought.

* * *

When you're famous and everyone loves you and wants to hear you play the same sad, stupid song every single night, things have a way of popping up. A couple days after Luna Loud appeared on _American Bandstand_ , Julius got a call from the manager of Jefferson Airplane: They were doing a tour of California and their opening act bailed at the last minute. Was Blues Station available?

Of course Blues Station is available! We're doing Ed Sullivan on March 10, though. Oh, sure, fine, whatever, man, groovy, far out, cool, hip, Sullivan's big.

"A tour?" Luna asked with slumped shoulders. She was sitting on the couch and recovering from another one of those stupid parties that always seemed to be happening in the Hollywood Hills: Stars, coke, booze, jazz records that gave you a headache. Who listens to this crap? So many of the people at those things were fake and fucking boring; condescending, too. It's easy to get a swelled head when everyone's screaming your name, Luna knew that first hand, but don't these people ever go home and come down off it? She did. It was like a drug, and once the high was over, you crashed. Yeah, everyone was dancing and shouting last night, but who are they, and where are they now? When she looked out in a crowd, she saw herself ten years ago, and she realized something: They might be all giddy and shit, but they went home and they had families and lives and those were more important, even if they didn't know it. They didn't love her, the way she never loved Chuck Berry or Little Richard. Sure, she dug them and wanted to hang with them, but did she love them like she loved her brothers and sisters? Like she loved her parents?

Like she loved Daggy?

No, she didn't, and none of the fans loved her like that either. They might dig and respect her or something, but it was a flash in the pan, you know? Family love is like a candle burning low and slow. Junk food, man, that's all it was.

"It's just a local thing," Julius said. They made up after their fight at the TV studio. He said he was sorry and that was good enough, because if she kept it up, she'd have to deal with his little attitude, and the thought of that made her tired. She got it, though, he was stressed. She was stressed too. "Four shows. Two in San Fran, one here, and one in Mexicali."

"Isn't that in Mexico?"

Julius blinked. "Yeah, but it's literally just across the border; it's not like we have to stay the night or anything."

Luna didn't feel like it, but she said yes anyway. Deep down, she still cared, still loved music even if sometimes it didn't feel that way. Things were just jinky right now. That's it. She was in that awkward transitional phase – the puberty of her career – no longer a girl but not quite a woman. Once she got a little deeper into it, things would smooth out.

They drove up to San Fran and did two shows in two nights at the park: People were crammed in like sardines, all long hair and bright colors, some of them waving tye-dye flags or carrying big banners with peace signs on them. She met the band backstage; turns out she did coke with the leader singer way back. Who knew? You know what they say about history repeating itself, though: Luna was so amped when she got there she shook and shit like she was possessed. Everyone fucking ate it up. Here ya go, San Fran, dancing monkey, at your service. It was fun, though, because she wasn't angry. She was happy. It was fun. All fun and rainbows.

The L.A. show was fun too. It was indoors and there wasn't even a stage (or seats), so when she was singing, she just fucking walked around in the crowd and danced with people. Here's a story for your grandkids, I got to dance in the same place as someone else, but they happened to be famous so it's a really big deal. I'm just Luna Loud, man, not Jesus or anything. Fuck. It was fun though.

Now the Mexicali show...she didn't like that one. It was hot, the open air arena was dirty and crowded, the power kept cutting out...then, out of nowhere, it started raining and everything turned to mud. She was kind of surprised. It rains in Mexico? She and Julius were at each other's throats almost the whole time because he was constantly being a whiney little bitch. "As your manager" this and "as your manager" that. That got really fucking old, really fucking quick. "As your manager you shouldn't be snorting coke with Grace Slick. Wah-wah-wah." She and Grace were snorting coke off a table once when this guy came in and started griping. "You really need to lay off, Luna, I have no balls and I wear big dumb glasses yuk yuk yuk."

Finally, she glanced over her shoulder. "Man, go change your fucking tampon."

Grace Slick laughed, her guitarist laughed, everyone laughed at this guy. He was fucking ridiculous.

He looked like a steamed vegetable. "Fuck you, Luna."

At the Mexicali show he was stomping his feet because it's _raaaaaining_. Dude was flapping his limp wrists and crying and huffing like a woman. It was embarrassing. Yeah, I sleep with this guy. I let him put it in me. He has a penis, shocking, I know. She snickered behind her hand.

"What the fuck are _you_ laughing at?" he demanded, his hands flying to his hips.

"You," she said, "you're acting like a queer." She lifted her arm and let her wrist dangle. "' _Heeeeyyy, it's raining."_

He flipped. "I'm glad this is all fun and games for you. _I'm_ the one dealing with these promotors and the scummy assholes who own this shit show while _you_ do coke and dance around like a dumbass."

Luna put the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. "My job, oh, my _jooooob."_

"You're getting on my last fucking nerve, Luna," he said, and jabbed her hard in the chest with his finger.

Luna flashed, her eyes narrowing and her jaw setting. "Do something about it... _bitch_."

He leaned in, and she leaned in too, both of their faces dark. Before it could come to blows, however, Jefferson Airplane's roadie, a big black guy named Jeff, got in between them. "Break it up," he said gruffly.

Shaking his head and sighing disgustedly, Julius stalked off with mincing little fairy steps and found a dick to suck somewhere. During the car ride back to Los Angeles, neither one spoke...for the most part. The tense silence eventually started to wear on her, and she turned on the radio. Tommy James was on. Hey, I did coke with him:

 _Break this, shake this, Mony, Mony_

 _Shotgun, get it done, come on, Mony_

 _Don't stop cookin', it feels so good, yeah_

Julius stabbed the off button.

Luna glared at him and turned it back on. "Don't touch my radio, bitch."

"Car's in my name," he said.

" _I_ bought it," she growled.

They hit traffic in San Diego, and he huffed and puffed like a fucking woman. She almost strangled his scrawny little ass.

Things cooled off when they got back home, but he made it a point to sleep on the couch. Like that was punishment. Hahahahahaha! More like a vacation. On the afternoon of March 10, they were getting along fairly well, but Luna was seriously thinking of canning his ass anyway. She met Ed Sullivan back stage and couldn't get over how pudgy and smarmy he was: Maybe that didn't translate well on TV, but in person, he was fucking skutty. "How you doin', dear?" he asked as they shook; his hand was sweaty and his teeth were so big you could lay down and take a nap on them.

"I'm pretty excited," she said honestly. Like _American Bandstand, The Ed Sullivan Show_ was where she saw all her favorite bands growing up. To her, it was the top.

"Good," he said, and his eyes flicked down. "I like your get-up."

She was wearing loose blue and orange circus striped bell-bottoms, a flowing gray long sleeve shirt with a V-neck and wide cuffs, and some kind of fucking boots that hurt her feet. Chains and beads and shit hung around her neck. Oh, there's the cross that reminds me of Lincoln. She took it and held it tight. "Every day's Halloween when you're a performer."

Sullivan chuckled. "That's true."

After Ed wandered off to do whatever Ed Sullivans do when they aren't on TV, Luna went to the green room and sat down. Really far out actually _being_ here, shit. Kinda like loving football and playing at the championship game or something. She liked _Bandstand_ better because it was just music while _Ed Sullivan_ was everything, but hey, sometimes you saw something you liked that you never thought you would, which is kinda cool. Did she tell Mom she was going to be on? She cocked her head and tried to remember when she talked to her last – before the tour started. Was it _after Bandstand_ or _before_?

She didn't know. She should really call; Leni would get a kick out of it. Then again...man, she didn't wanna sound like she was bragging or anything. _Hey, Mom, I know I never call you, but I'm going to be on TV; be sure to watch!_ God, that made her sound like a total fucking scumbag. She shouldn't bother. Still...now that she was thinking of it...she _really_ wanted to hear Mom's voice.

Getting up, she went out into the hall as Captain Kangaroo came in. Luna saluted and he grinned. Where's that payphone? I know I saw one. She walked this way and that, looking around, but the phone was in the mood for hide and seek. She passed a tech and stopped him. "Hey, man, where's your payphone?"

He pointed down the way he had come. "Take a left. It's by the bathrooms."

"Thanks."

She found the phone, picked up the handset, and fished in her pocket for change, which she then deposited. She dialed home and put the phone to her ear.

It rang and rang and rang.

Hm. It was late, someone should be home.

She was just about to hang up when her mother came on the line sounding out of breath. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom, it's me," she said. "I, uh, just..."

"Luna, honey, where have you been? I tried to call you."

Luna blinked. "I've been on the road. Sorry."

"They found Lincoln. He's alive and at a hospital out there."

Have you ever heard the phrase "the world stood still"? Luna had, but up until that moment, she had never actually experienced it for herself: Everything seemed to freeze, and the back of her neck tingled strangely. "Wh-What?

"He's okay. We're packing to come out there now."

The world stopped standing still and crashed against her, pushing her heart into her throat. _"He's alive?"_

"Yes," Mom said and laughed. "He's alive. We all talked to him on the phone."

Luna couldn't breathe: She tried, she really did. It was like someone had punched her in the guts. Her grip tightened on the phone and suddenly hot tears were spilling down her face. "H-He's really alive, Mom?" Her lips quivered, and her soul clenched in anticipation of being crushed by a last minute change-of-heart. Nope, honey, sorry, he's dead.

It didn't come. "As alive as ever."

A happy laugh bubbled up in Luna's chest, but it came out as a sob instead. She was trembling all over. "Where is he?" she asked.

"The Eisenhower Medical Center in Palm Springs. It's an army hospital. We've all been cleared to see him. You just need your license."

Luna planted one forearm against the wall and rested her head, the tears coming faster. She couldn't believe it...her baby brother was alive...after all this time, all this pain, he was okay. _He was okay!_

"Luna?"

The spirit of flight took hold of her then. Palm Springs wasn't that far away. She could see him _tonight_. "I-I gotta go, Mom. I'm gonna see him. Bye." Without waiting for a response, she slammed the phone down and turned, her body thrumming with elation. She let out a half-laugh/half-sob and balled her fists in excitement. He's alive! _She had her brother back!_

She plunged down the hall, brushing past technicians and taking random turns, too happy to know where she was and too happy to care. She didn't even realize she'd passed Julius until he called out. "Hey, what're you doing?"

"They found my brother," she said through a mile wide smile, "I'm gonna go see him."

"Whoa! Hey!" She didn't stop. "You can't bail now, this is _Ed Sullivan!"_

"Fuck Ed Sullivan," she laughed.

Julius was hurrying after her. "No, not fuck _Ed Sullivan!_ If you fuck Ed Sullivan, you're gonna fuck Luna Loud!"

"Fuck Luna Loud," Luna said.

"I know you're excited, we can go after, but..."

Luna turned a corner. The exit door was ahead.

" _Goddamn it!"_ Julius snatched her by the arm, and Luna reacted, spinning around and punching him hard in the mouth. He let go and stumbled back, his glasses flying off his face. She felt temporary remorse...but fuck him, he was trying to keep her away from Lincoln.

He touched his hand to his mouth, and it came away bloody. He looked at her with wide, shocked eyes. "You crazy _bitch_."

"Fuck you!" Luna roared. "You're fired...as my manager _and_ my boyfriend. _Go to hell!"_ She wheeled toward the door and then turned again. _"Give me my fucking car keys!"_

A dark shadow passed across his face. He reached into the pocket of his blazer, pulled them out, and flung them angrily to the ground in front of her. "I hope you crash."

She stooped, snatched the keys, and flipped him off.

His voice followed her as she went out into the night. "They're gonna kick you out of the band for this!"

" _You_ be the singer," she called over her shoulder.

* * *

Lincoln Loud asked for a radio his first day at the Eisenhower Center, and finally, on the evening of March 10, he got one: A boxy transistor with a handle, a knob, and a rectangular plastic dial. It was a small thing when you got right down to it, but it improved his mood and even made him crack a smile: Sitting in his chair by the window, he held it in his lap and turned through the stations, staticky music and talk programs filtering through the speaker. He finally settled for a Spanish language station playing mariachi music and sat the radio on the nightstand.

He leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and dozed for a while, coming awake with a start when a sneering yellow face filled his mind's eye. Nothing, he told himself, just a dream, that's all. The sun was starting to go down, and he snapped the bedside lamp on; warm, muted light spilled across the bed and sent shadows scurrying into the corners. A nurse came in with his tray shortly thereafter, and he thanked her. When she was gone, he shifted through the meat and potatoes with his fork, examining them closely. He realized he was looking for maggots, and laughed softly. Nope, no maggots here.

That's what he told himself every time he ate.

Still, he could feel them squirming in his mouth, and he shuddered but forced himself to swallow. Each bite was harder than the last, and he finally sat the tray on the bed lest he puke. It was just as well, he was already full: His stomach had shrunk to the point that he could barely put down a single handful of food. Speaking of stomach, it wouldn't be long before it spilled its contents via the back door: All but the blandest fare gave him diarrhea. It would pass, the doctors said, but until then, he could do little more than suffer.

Oh well. He was used to suffering. In fact, he was so used to it that sitting here now, in a semi comfortable chair in a warm room felt strange...unnatural, even. He glanced suspiciously around, but he didn't see any enemies lurking in the gloom...why would he? He was back home in the good ole US of A. There were no VC here. Not even one.

Regardless, he slipped out of his chair and looked under the bed. He knew it was stupid – he _felt_ stupid – but he _had_ to.

Satisfied, he sat back down, grabbed the radio, and found another station: The mariachi music was starting to hurt his head. A newsbreak was on. Something about protests on college campuses and a riot in a city somewhere. He looked at his fingers. They were gnarled, and trembled slightly. He balled his hands into fists and rested them in his lap. He hoped his discharge paperwork came through soon. The only thing he brought up to General Westmoreland the previous day was wanting to go home: The general nodded and said he would see what he could do. Hopefully that meant he'd help him out.

Lincoln doubted it.

He drew a heavy sigh. He wanted out of this fucking place. He wanted out of the fucking army. He was done. He served his country and if his country asked more of him, it could go to hell. Let someone else go to Vietnam and eat maggots and have splinters shoved under their fingernails; he just wanted to put it all behind him and go home, nothing more, nothing less. Medals and promotions? Fuck those. Gee, thanks for getting shot in the back and spending eight months in a cage, here's a piece of metal and some string. He realized he was hugging himself and rocking back and forth, and forced himself to stop. Didn't wanna look crazy, because if someone walked in and thought he was crazy, they'd keep him, and keeping him was the last thing he wanted. Dead last. Well, except for going back to Vietnam ever again, but that's a given, isn't it? Hey, kids, let's all hope in the family car and go back to where Daddy had to eat maggots and let yellow people beat him up. Hold your breaths, okay? We have to drive _under_ the ocean for a while. Hahahahaha.

No. That would never happen. He'd take his family on a road trip to hell before he'd take them to Vietnam.

What happened to that guard he shot? The one who got away through the forest? Did he die? Was he rotting in the jungle? Or was he even now creeping through the night...just outside the window...reaching up to open the sash? Lincoln glanced nervously over his shoulder, but nothing was there. Even so, the back of his neck prickled and his heart raced.

 _Stop it. You're acting stupid._

He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. There were no Vietcong here, no NVA, no bamboo shoots, no maggots, no fucking reason to worry. Relax. He reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes on the nightstand, took one out, and lit it. They were out of Camels, go figure. These were okay, though. Smooth. Mild.

Something clattered to the floor in the hall and he jumped a foot, his heart rocketing into his throat. Just a bed pan, he told himself, or a metal tray. Take it easy, will you? He took a long drag and threw an unconscious glance over his shoulder: In the window pane his reflection was dark and watery, his eyes two pools of blackness and his face sickly white. He grabbed the ashtray off the table and tipped his ash into it. It was getting kind of full. He'd have to dump it. He...

There was a maggot in it. It was fat and pale and squirming. He blinked, and it was gone.

Alright, that's e-fucking-nough. Get ahold of yourself, goddamn it. There're no fucking maggots.

He tapped his ash and frowned. No maggots. He glanced over his shoulder. And nobody outside your window.

A flash of movement flickered across the pane, and a face appeared: Lincoln's heart seized and his lungs contracted. The world started to go gray at the corners...then he realized it was a reflection. He whipped around, and Luna was there, standing in the doorway with her fist to her mouth. She was wearing funny pants and a long, billowy shirt with beads and necklaces around her neck. Lincoln blinked, but instead of dissolving like he half-expected her to, she came slowly forward, his fist falling away and her lips trembling. Was it Luna? _Really_ Luna, the sister he hadn't seen in three years?

"Linc," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lincoln dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and sat it on the nightstand. His hands were shaking. Before he could get up to greet her, she dropped on her knees before him and laid her hand on his knee. Her big brown eyes shimmered with tears. She touched his face with unsteady fingers and laughed. "You _are_ alive," she said, and began to cry.

She buried her face in his leg and wept, her entire body shaking. Tears flooded his eyes and he blinked them away. "I'm alive," he confirmed and stroked her hair; he laughed now too, and he, too, began to cry.

"I thought you were dead," she moaned, and turned her head so that her cheek was pressed against his knee. "I thought you were fucking dead."

"Everyone did," Lincoln said and wiped his eyes. "Ye of little faith."

She snickered and pushed herself up. "You look different."

"So do you."

She lifted her hands and looked down at herself, then back to him with a giggle. "Stupid, I know. I never thought I'd talk to you again." She bowed her head and squeezed her eyes closed, her shoulders hitching. She shook her head and looked up; her face was flushed. Instead of speaking, she got up and shifted into his lap, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his forehead. Lincoln slipped his arm around her back and pulled her close; for a long time they stayed that way, clinging to each other and fighting back tears that refused to stop. When she trusted herself to speak, Luna said, "I'm sorry I left like I did. I couldn't say goodbye."

"I don't care about that," Lincoln said, and he didn't. He had her now and that's all that mattered.

"I do. It makes me feel like shit."

"Shhhh."

They lapsed into a silence that remained unbroken for what may have been many minutes or many hours; neither could tell because they were lost in each other – in each other's closeness, in each other's embrace, in their shared togetherness. Lincoln did not realize how sorely he missed his big sister until now, on finally getting her back. He tightened his grip on her as if to keep her from leaving him again, and kissed her cheek. "How are you?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm good now." She drew back and touched his face, the corners of her lips turned up in a smile. "Better than I've been in a long time."

Lincoln beamed. "I'm glad. Mom said you're famous now or something?"

"Yeah, that doesn't matter. How are _you_? You look...I mean..."

"Like shit?"

Luna's eyes flickered momentarily away. "I wouldn't say _that_ , but...yeah, kind of."

He nodded. He knew he looked rough. Spending eight months in a North Vietnamese prison will do that to you. "I'm okay. Nothing's broken. Except my nose, but that healed. My finger, too. Otherwise, I'm A-OK."

She opened her mouth to ask how his nose was broken – but she realized that she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know _anything_ about what happened to him because she didn't think she could take it.

"Have you been on TV yet?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, then grinned. "Dick Clark's shorter in person."

For a moment they just looked at each other...then they broke out laughing. It wasn't all that funny, but they pressed their foreheads together and laughed until their sides ached anyway. It felt good to laugh, and to be together.

"I can top that," Lincoln said playfully, " _I_ talked to the president earlier. And Richard Nixon. And Robert Kennedy."

"Wow," Luna said, "sounds like you're famous too."

Lincoln shrugged and sighed haughtily. "Yeah, I'm a pretty big deal. War hero and everything."

"You're still a square," Luna grinned, and pecked his forehead. "Even if you _do_ hang with the president now."

"We hardly hung," Lincoln said, "it was a five minute phone call."

Luna tilted her head back and forth. "Still counts as hanging, bro. Pretty soon he's gonna be having you over for slumber parties and shit."

Lincoln snickered at the image of him and Lyndon Johnson in frilly, girly pajamas and talking excitedly about boys. "We can invite you and Dick Clark and make it a double date," he offered.

"Nah, man, me and Dick prefer the drive-in."

"Any good movies playing?"

Luna snorted. "I don't fucking know."

They both laughed. "Well...I'm proud of you," Lincoln said, and that was the truth.

She smiled broadly. "I'm proud of you too, Linc."

Lincoln took his sister's hand in his and squeezed. "You did it. You made it big."

"I really haven't enjoyed it, though," she said with a sigh. "You being gone like that...I haven't enjoyed anything." She grinned. "I'm enjoying this, though. I missed the shit out of you, man."

"I missed the shit out of you too, Lune," Lincoln said.

She put her hand on his face. She still couldn't believe he was actually here, alive and in front of her: She kept expecting him to disappear like a mirage, but every time she touched him, he was warm and solid.

"Lincoln?"

They both looked up. Luan was in the doorway, dressed in a black turtle neck sweater and dark red corduroy pants. Her hands were balled against her chest, and a big, goofy smile ran across her lips. "Luna?"

"Hey," Luna said. "You, uh, you gotta wait your turn."

She came into the room and knelt much the same way Luna had. And like Luna, there were tears in her eyes. "Linc," she said tenderly, and laughed. "Oh, God, Lincoln."

"Yes, I'm alive," Lincoln said.

She took his hand in both of hers and sucked her quivering lips in: A single tear coursed down her cheek. "You look like shit." She broke down.

Lincoln and Luna both slipped off the chair and hunkered around their sister, embracing her as she wept. "What did they do to you?" she hitched. "What did they fucking do to you?"

"Nothing," Lincoln said softly, "nothing."

"They sent you off to die," Luan wept, "to fucking die." Her voice broke.

"I'm alive, though," he said.

"Thank God!"

None of them knew how long they stayed tangled on the floor, and none of them cared. They were all together at last, and time didn't matter. At one point, Luan rocked back on her knees and just looked at her brother, the sun of her smile breaking through the cloud of her tears. Like Luna, she could scarcely believe that he was actually here, actually alive: Him being missing had loomed so large in her mind – had weighed so heavily on her heart – for so long, for what felt like so long, that it being over was bizarre, dizzying, even. She scanned his face and his eyes. He wasn't the same as he was in her memories. He was gaunt and his skin was an anemic shade of white. His nose was crooked and his brown eyes were faded and murky. Scars and cuts crisscrossed his cheeks and forehead.

Look what those bastards did to him – look what the government did to her baby brother. She stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said, "it's over. And I have you guys with me. I haven't been this happy in a long time."

"Neither have I," Luan said. It was true, but her happiness was tinged with grief.

"Me too," Luna said. She put one arm around Lincoln's shoulders, and the other around Luan's. "I'm so fucking happy I could blow up." She laughed and pulled both of her siblings to her chest.

"Ow," Luan said.

"I just you just broke my neck," Lincoln gasped.

Luna smiled sheepishly and let them go. "Sorry. I'm just excited."

"So am I," Luan said, "but don't kill us. Sheesh." She started slightly. "Oh. Damn. I forgot. I'll be right back." She jumped to her feet and rushed out of the room. Lincoln and Luna looked at each other, and a shrug passed between them.

Lincoln slipped back into the chair, grabbed his cigarettes, and lit one. He held the pack out to Luna, and she hesitated, but took one anyway. "These things are bad for you," she said archly as Lincoln held out his lighter and lit it. She drew the smoke in and blew it back out as she scooted over to the nightstand, leaning her back against it and drawing her knees up.

"And all that reefer you used to smoke wasn't?"

She laughed. "Used to?"

Presently Luan returned with a tall, lanky man in tow. He wore glasses and a neatly trimmed black beard and was dressed in slacks and a gray tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. He looked uncomfortable.

"Guys," Luan said, "this is Ted."

He came forward and shook Lincoln's hand with a nervous grin. "Nice to meet you," he said. He glanced down at Luna; the cigarette jutted from between her fore-and-middle fingers.

"How's it going?" she asked disinterestedly.

"She _is_ your sister," Ted said as Luan came up next to him.

"I told you," she grinned and looked up at him. "And you didn't believe me."

"I've never seen that bitch in my life," Luna said around a mouthful of smoke.

Luan made a face. "She lip synchs."

Clamping the cigarette between her lips, Luna held up her middle finger. Luan chuckled, then frowned. "What happened to your knuckles?"

Luna's brow furrowed, and she turned her hand to look: Three abrasions marred her flesh. For a moment she was really confused, then she smiled as she remembered. "I punched my manager in the face."

"Why?" Luan asked.

Luna shrugged. "He was being a little bitch again." She glanced up at Lincoln, who regarded her with a single raised brow. "I wanted to come see my brother but oh no, piss. Piss, moan. I fired him."


	48. March 1968: Part 2

Why was she so nervous?

She had been asking herself that since they landed in San Bernardino, and even now, as Mr. Loud piloted the rented Ford Galaxie along US10, rugged mountains with craggy peaks rising against the blue sky on either side of the highway, she did not know. Lincoln Loud was her husband, her friend, the love of her life, and she had known him for eleven years...but her stomach rippled with anxiety and her flesh burned hotly. It's just Lincoln, she told herself, you're married to him...you've slept with him. Relax. She couldn't, though. She felt giddy and happy and hesitant and scared and a thousand other things, and sitting still in the back seat was _really_ hard. Next to her, Leni stared dazedly out the window, her head swaying back and forth. The motion of the car always put her to sleep, but she was determined to stay awake because even though her parents reassured her that they wouldn't, she was afraid that if she nodded off, they wouldn't wake her up and she wouldn't get to see Lincoln 'like Lori.'

Bobby Jr. took sick at the last minute with vomiting and diarrhea, so she couldn't come, which killed her. Lynn, too, wouldn't be able to make it: He was stuck working. Mrs. Loud was not happy about that because she really wanted to meet his wife...so much so that she suggested flying to Tucson before flying back to Royal Woods.

Ronnie gazed at the passing landscape as she struggled against the fluttering in her stomach. Parched scrub brush grew from loose brown soil along the blacktop. To the right, a town spread out in a valley below the highway, stucco houses lining narrow streets and tall, wavering palms rising proudly here and there. She'd never seen one in person before. Did they have coconuts like the ones on _Gilligan's Island?_

In the driver seat, Mr. Loud leaned over and changed the radio station: Since leaving San Bernardino they'd been listening to a squaretastic big band and swing program, but the farther away they got, the statickier it became. Next to him, Mrs. Loud, like her daughter, gazed out the window. On the flight from Detroit, she and Ronnie Anne sat next to each other and talked for much of it. She was just as nervous as Ronnie Anne, if not more so. "War changes a person," she said. "It changed Lynn. Not much and not in a bad way, but he came back rougher."

That, Ronnie Anne figured now, was where her own nerves began. Was Lincoln the same man she fell in love with, or was he different? She hoped not...God, she hoped not. If he was, she would adapt because she loved him, but she wanted him as he was...beautiful, kind, flawed but perfect regardless.

Mr. Loud settled for a station playing a news broadcast. _"...has decided not to seek reelection in November, this coming on the heels of a disappointing finish in the New Hampshire primary and furthering the divide among Democrats._ " There was a pause and Ronnie Anne watched a tractor-trailer blast by. _"Seven US servicemen who escaped from a Vietcong prison camp in South Vietnam late last month are back in the states, the Department of Defense says."_

Everyone's ears perked up.

" _More details about the brazen operation are being released at this hour. The escape took place when the servicemen were able to overpower their captors while being transferred to a different camp. Secretary of Defense Clifford, in his second statement to the public since replacing Robert McNamara, calls it a 'miracle.' This is ABC News."_

It _was_ a miracle, Ronnie Anne thought, an answer to many, many prayers she had sent up; she didn't think God was listening, but He apparently was.

A half an hour later, they reached the Eisenhower Center, a modern brick and glass building nestled in a grove of palms and California Live Oak. Mr. Loud parked in a lot flanking one side, and the moment the car stopped, Leni came alive. "I'm awake," she said and opened the door. "Where's Lincy?" She tried to get out, but the seatbelt held her back. "Get off of me!" she cried and thrashed against it.

Ronnie Anne reached over and pushed the release button; Leni slipped out and spilled to the pavement. Oops...probably shouldn't have done that.

"Leni, really," Mrs. Loud said and got out.

"I'm okay," Leni said and jumped to her feet. "Where's Lincy?"

"Inside, dear."

They checked in at a reception desk, and the nurse gave them directions to Lincoln's room. In the elevator, Ronnie Anne wrung her hands nervously and took a series of deep breaths that failed to calm her. Leni bounced on her heels. As soon as the door opened, she burst out and brushed past a doctor in a lab coat. "Honey!" Mrs. Loud called after her. "This isn't our floor!"

Slumping her shoulders and sighing, Leni came back and crossed her arms. When the doors opened again, Mr. and Mrs. Loud got out, and Leni followed. Ronnie Ann brought up the rear, her stomach churning sickly. At the end of the hall, the three went into through an open door, and Ronnie Anne paused.

"Mom!" she heard Luan cry. "Dad!"

"Lincy!" Leni squealed.

Her heart raced and she took a deep breath. It's just Lincoln...the man you married...the man you love.

She went hesitantly in: Mr. Loud was hugging Luna and Mrs. Loud was hugging Lincoln. Leni threw her arms around Luan, and a man she had never seen before stood on the sidelines, his hands on his hips. Mrs. Loud was sobbing as she rocked her son back and forth on his heels.

Tears threatened to fill her eyes, but she beat them back. Mr. Loud let go of Luna and went for Luan while Leni went for Luna. "I saw you on TV!" Leni said excitedly. "You looked smaller."

"So much for the camera _adding_ weight," Luna said through her tears.

Mrs. Loud let go of Lincoln and held him at arms' length. He was grinning widely, and a pang went Ronnie Anne's heart. Her husband...her love... "You're so _thin_ ," Mrs. Loud said. "Oh, my God."

"I working on it," Lincoln said. "Where's...?" he turned, and his eyes locked with Ronnie Anne's. Her breath caught and she could feel herself smiling even as she felt herself beginning to cry. She went to him and swept him into her arms. He hugged her back, and she gave in, letting herself weep against his neck.

"I missed you too," he said, and it was so simple, so understated, so matter-of-fact, that she couldn't help a tearful laugh. She pulled back and pressed her forehead to his. She tried to speak, but it came out as a sob instead, so she just held him tight, relishing the way his heart pounded against her chest, the way his strong arms circled her, the soft puff of his warm breath against her lips. She leaned in and kissed him, and it was like the first time all over again: Needy, clumsy, tender, and powerful.

When she finally trusted herself to speak, she said, "Don't ever leave me again, you son of a bitch."

He grinned and stroked her face. "Too late. I signed up for a second tour. I leave in three days."

She went to punch his arm, but stopped herself and kissed him instead.

Mrs. Loud was right, Lincoln _was_ thin, a fact that Ronnie Anne didn't really notice until he sat in the chair and motioned for her to sit on his lap: She was afraid of breaking him, but she sat anyway, curling up and resting her lips against his neck. Leni knelt by his left hand like a puppy happy to see its master after a long day alone. "I missed you so much, Lincy, I was really sad and lonely but Ronnie Anne's been living with us so I was just sad and not lonely too, but I still really, really, _really_ missed you and I'm _so_ glad you're home!"

Lincoln threaded his hand through her hair, tilted her close, and kissed her forehead. "I really missed you too. The whole time I was there I kept thinking 'I really miss Leni, I wish she was here to knit me a pair of gloves or socks.'"

Her eyes brightened. "Do you want gloves? My knitting stuff's in the car, I can go get it and knit you some gloves right now. Well, they won't be done right now but I can start them right now, and I can put hearts on them and your name and everything, they'll be so cute."

"I'd love some gloves," he said, "but don't start them right now."

"Okay. I'll stay _right_ here."

Mom and Dad sat side-by-side on the bed, their hands clasped and smiles on both their faces. If he looked thin, Lincoln thought, they looked _old_. When his mother first came in, he almost didn't recognize her: Glasses? A beehive? _Wrinkles?_ They were both in their early fifties, but they looked older. Then again, so did he.

"How was it?" Dad asked now.

Lincoln held up his left hand and extended his thumb. "The cuisine and hospitality were both excellent."

"What happened to your nose?" Ronnie Anne asked, looking up at him with concern in her eyes.

"I broke it."

" _You_ broke it?" Mom asked.

Lincoln shook his head. "I also didn't shoot myself in the back."

"You got shot?" Luna and Luan asked in unison, matching expressions of horror on their faces.

Oh, right, they didn't know.

Lincoln nodded. "My shoulder. It was nothing. I didn't even feel it."

Mom wiped her eyes and shook her head. Dad put his arm around her shoulder. Ronnie Anne took one of Lincoln's hands and held it. "Really," Lincoln said, "it's not a big deal. I'm fine. I just want to get out of here and go home."

"When will they let you?" Mom asked.

Lincoln shrugged. "I don't know. Soon, I hope."

While everyone mingled and caught up, Lincoln held Ronnie Anne close and peppered the top of her head with kisses. There was a time, and not all that long ago, that he thought he would never get to see her again, but here, now, she was in his arms and he was happier than he had ever been in his life: Happier even than he was on the day of their first kiss, and on the night they first made love. It was a deep, burning joy that he could barely contain. He smiled widely and fidgeted, everything that had happened over the past year totally and completely forgotten.

"So, Ted," Dad said, "what are you studying?"

"Economics," Ted replied, "I think I'd like to teach college myself one day."

"Luna, dear," Mom said over her shoulder, "how high did your record get?"

Luna and Luan were sitting on the other side of the bed talking. "I dunno, Mom," Luna said, "fuck that record."

 _"Luna!"_

Luna grinned nervously. "Sorry." She had forgotten herself.

Luan snickered behind her hand, and Luna slapped her arm. "Hey!" Luan cried, and slapped her back. Laughing, Luna sprang at her and they tumbled playfully back onto the mattress.

"Girls," Mom said sternly, "you're going to break the bed."

Luan pushed Luna off. "She started it," she said, and laughed when her sister flipped her off.

"Now I'm ending it. This is a hospital, not a playground." Lincoln could tell from the twinkle in her eye that she was enjoying being a mother to her daughters again.

"Sorry, Mom," Luna said.

"Yeah, sorry," Luan added...then poked Luna in the cheek. Luna grabbed Luan's ponytail and yanked. Luan grimaced but didn't cry out.

"I'd forgotten how crazy my family is," Lincoln said and shook his head.

Dr. Sam Maxwell, a tall, broad man with glasses and a graying crewcut, came in later, his eyes widening at all the people in the room. "Quite a party," he commented, then looked at Lincoln. "I just got off the phone with General Westmoreland. He has taken the liberty of expediting your discharge. We're getting your paperwork in order now and when you get it – which should be in the next half hour – you're free to leave and return home."

Holy shit, the general actually came through for him.

Lincoln didn't expect that.

An hour later, he was out of the hospital and, unofficially, the army. A month later, he would be formally mustered out at Brigham Field in Chicago...after being given his Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service Medal, and a promotion to Corporal. The ceremony was nice, as far as those things go: He wore his dress uniform and saluted and all that shit; he even smiled, because after this, he was officially out.

On the car ride back to Berkeley, Luan dabbed tears from her eyes as she thought of all the suffering Lincoln must have gone through because of Johnson's fascist war. Shot in the back...his nose broken...and God only knows what else. Anger filled her...and sorrow, because at least she had her brother back...a lot of mothers, sisters, and daughters weren't so lucky.

She resolved to fight hard against the imperialist scum...to give everything she had to defeating them and bringing about social change and peace.

When Luna got back to L.A., she called Tex because, hey, it seemed like the right thing to do: Turns out, they _didn't_ kick her out of the band. "He was freaking out like he does, you know, and said you went to see your brother, and I said, 'The one that's been missin' in Vietnam for, like, two years? Can't blame her for that.' Shee-it, you gotta be a cold-hearted son of a bitch."

She had a lot to celebrate, and she celebrated she best way she knew how: Snorting a bunch of coke.


	49. May 1968

Lincoln Loud came awake with a start, his brow covered in cold sweat and his heart aching painfully. He panted for breath.

It took him a moment to realize where he was: In the room he and Ronnie Anne shared at his parents' house: Once upon a time it was Luan and Luna's, now it was theirs...and sometimes Leni's too if she had a bad spider dream. Pale morning light fell through the slats of the blinds covering the window above the bed, and the silence was deep, broken only by the soft sound of Ronnie Anne's breathing – a soothing, calming, _normal_ noise.

 _Just a nightmare,_ he told himself, _that's all_. He laid back against the pillow and rubbed his grainy eyes with the heel of his palm. Everything's alright, Linc, no Vietcong here, just your beautiful wife and you. He smiled sleepily and rolled onto his side, his arm falling into the crook of Ronnie Anne's hip. She stirred and, in her sleep, scooted closer to him, her butt rubbing against his crotch. He was partially erect, but exercising – even if it was sexual – was the last thing he wanted to do right now; falling back into a peaceful sleep with Ronnie Anne in his arms sounded much, much more appealing. He buried his face in her hair, took a deep, fragrant breath, and closed his eyes.

 _Beep-beep-beep._

Son of a _bitch_. He rolled over and slapped the alarm's OFF button. So much for slumber and Ronnie Anne in his arms and not getting up. He swung his legs out from under the covers and sat up. You know, as a war hero, he shouldn't have to work. The government should pay him for being amazing. How much would a Distinguished Service Medal net on the black market? Enough to keep him and Ronnie Anne (and their eventual children) going for the rest of their lives? Probably not. Can't even pawn the damn thing. That's a shame.

"What time is it?" Ronnie Anne muttered sleepily and rolled over in a rustle of sheets.

"Too early 'o 'clock," Lincoln said and grabbed cigarette from the pack of Lucky Strikes on the nightstand. He lit it and inhaled.

"...one."

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. She was lying on her side, her eyes barely open. "You better wake up a little," he teased, "or you'll burn the house down."

She pried her eyes all the way open. "How's that?"

"Better," he said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and putting it into hers. She scooted up, and the sheet fell away, revealing her bare breasts: Lincoln smirked and lifted his brows.

She looked at him. "Take a picture, lame-o, it lasts longer."

He reached out, took one in his hand, and squeezed. "Honk."

She giggled and pushed him away. "Stop! It's too early for dweeb stuff."

"It's never too early," he replied and got up: His limpid, naked penis swayed with every step. At the dresser, he pulled out a pair of underwear and a pair of jeans, and slipped them on. Ronnie Anne watched appreciatively. "Take a picture," he said, "it lasts longer."

"Hmmm, I think I will."

He took out a white T-shirt next and slipped it over his head. "I like no shirt better," Ronnie Anne said.

"I don't think Flip does," Lincoln said, grabbing socks and his shoes and sitting.

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "Eh, who cares what he likes?"

"If I wanna keep my job, me." He pulled his socks and shoes on, laced them up, and plucked the cigarette from Ronnie Anne's hand.

"Hey," she said indignantly.

He took a drag, tapped it in the ashtray, and handed it back with a grin. "Love you." In the hall, he waited outside the bathroom door for Leni to finish. Seriously, there was literally two other people in the house who used this bathroom, and he _still_ got stuck waiting in line. Usually Leni would still be asleep, but there was a teacher work day or something and Bobby Jr. didn't have school, so he was coming over.

He _really_ had to pee.

When the door opened and Leni came out in a puff of steam, he shoved her aside and slammed the door. "Lincy, that was _rude!"_ she cried indignantly. Yeah, it was...but he made it, though.

On his way back to his room, he knocked on Leni's door. "Yeah?"

"Are you decent?"

"Um, no."

"Okay. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For shoving you out of the way like that."

There was a pause, and Lincoln figured she was going to give him the silent treatment, then the door opened and she stuck her head out. "What?"

"I'm sorry for pushing you out of my way. I just really had to go."

She pinched her brow and tilted her head. "What are you talking about?"

He hooked a confused thumb at the door, "I just –" he cut off the rest of the thought as it hit him: She'd totally forgotten. In the three months he'd been back home, she had forgotten numerous things (she made him those gloves he asked for in California...then a month later made him a new pair because she didn't remember giving him the last one), but never minutes after they happened. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes upwards in contemplation. "Yeah," she said.

A lot of the times her forgetfulness was accompanied by a headache.

"Now shoo, I have to get dressed."

She shut the door, and for a moment Lincoln stood there, worry gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He hated seeing her like this. In his and Ronnie Anne's room, Ronnie Anne was curled up on her side and snoring, the remains of her cigarette smoldering in the ashtray next to her. Lincoln picked it up, sat it on the nightstand, then leaned over. "Hey," he said, grazing his middle finger along her brow, which furrowed cutely. "Come on. You have to get up."

"...don't wanna..."

"You have to."

"You come back to bed."

"I wish I could," he said, and he did, "but I have work and you have school. Last day before graduation."

She muttered wordlessly.

"Plus, today's a very special day. You haven't forgotten, have you?"

She pried one eye open and smiled hazily. "Happy anniversary."

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, but that wasn't good enough: She puckered her lips, and he kissed those too, flicking his tongue out and tracing them. She opened her mouth and he kissed her deeply. "I'm tired, though," she said when he came up for air.

Sometimes she was a real layabout in the morning, and many, many times he wondered how her mother got her out of bed. He asked Bobby once, and he shrugged. "She was the one getting _me_ out of bed." He had to get creative, and he knew a surefire way to wake his pretty little sleepyhead up.

Laying next to her, he propped himself up on one elbow and slipped his hand under the sheet, his fingertips grazing the smooth, warm flesh of her hip. Her eyes opened a crack. "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged innocently. "Nothing."

His fingers danced along the crease of her pelvis and down toward her center. "That's not nothing," she said, a mischievous grin touching the corners of her lips.

"It's nothing," he said.

"It's –" her words turned into a sigh when he dipped his fingers between her silky folds. She tried to squirm away and giggled as he shifted after. "Stop," she said, "we don't have time for this."

"Yes, we do," he said, and brushed her swelling nub with the pad of his thumb; his middle finger made lazy circles around her opening. She bit her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, hot color creeping across her face.

He gradually increased his speed, and her eyelids fluttered, a soft moan falling from her lips. "You're bad," she said breathlessly.

Lincoln smirked. "I know."

"I like it," she said and spread her thighs. He moved closer and kissed her; their tongues grappled furiously as he rubbed quicker, more firmly. His member ached against his pants, and he almost took it out – but she climaxed, arching against his hand and gasping into his mouth. That's my cue to stop; we really _don't_ have time. He pulled away, and she looked up at him with sparkling eyes.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning."

He rubbed her clit, and she jerked. He did it again. "Stop!" she laughed.

"Sorry," he said, "I just like making you squirm."

"You do a pretty good job of it," she replied and sat up. "How long do I have?"

Lincoln glanced at the clock on the nightstand then back to her. "Ten minutes."

"That's five more than I need," she said and got up. Lincoln admired her bare back as she crossed to the closet; her muscles flexed under her bronze flesh as she took a dress from a hanger. He forced himself to look away because he was still _very_ hard. "You don't have anything planned for tonight, right?" she asked as she slipped into her bra and underwear.

Lincoln shook his head. It was their second anniversary, but the first they were together and not a half a world apart, so Lincoln was planning something special. He didn't know what, but something. As the first of May approached, however, Ronnie Anne made it _very_ clear that all she wanted was 'you.' _No candles, no gifts, no fancy restaurants, no mushy shit...just you and me cuddling and stuff._ He was fine with that, though not doing something special for her seemed kind of...wrong.

"Good," she said, then, "how do I look?"

Lincoln turned. The dress was sleeveless and dark blue with tiny white polka dots and a white collar. It was a Leni creation; she gave it to Ronnie Anne yesterday as an anniversary present. Lincoln got a sweater "with love in every stitch, Lincy!' "It looks good," he said.

"Yeah?" she asked, and knelt on the bed, her eyes lidding seductively.

His head bobbed up and down. She crawled to him on her hands and knees; her arm shot out, and she cupped his bulge in her hand. "We don't have time," Lincoln said, "...but I wish we did."

"I wish we had a _lot_ of time," she said, and pressed her lips against his cheek. "But we will later."

Lincoln was _this_ close to saying screw it and taking her, but Leni popped in. "Lincy, I..." she paused. "You're wearing my dress!" she cried happily.

"Told you I'd wear it today," Ronnie Anne said and slipped off the bed. "It's cute."

Leni beamed. "Do you like _mine?_ " she asked, putting her hands on her hips. It was brown with a frilly white collar and frilly white fringe on the cuffs. If he was honest, she looked like a pilgrim.

"It's adorable," Ronnie Anne said. Sitting, she pulled her shoes on and got up. "Come on, lame-o."

Lincoln got up, and Leni looked at him, her face falling slightly. "Why aren't you wearing your sweater?"

"Because it's seventy-eight degrees outside." At least that's what the weatherman on the radio said it would be.

Leni stuck out her bottom lip and gave him puppy dog eyes. "Oh, no," he said and turned away. "Not gonna work." He looked at Ronnie Anne for support...but she did the same thing.

"Lincy..." Leni said.

"Lincy..." Ronnie Anne added.

Lincoln slumped his shoulders. He was a sucker for puppy dog faces. "Fine." He went to the closet, pulled out his sweater, and slipped it on. "How do I look?"

"Much better!" Leni chirped.

Outside, the day was warm and bright, not seventy-eight but well on its way. Lincoln rolled his sleeves up and went to the car. "It's a nice sweater," Ronnie Anne said as they got in.

"It is," Lincoln said, "but it's going to wind up in the back seat." Not only was it going to warm up, he couldn't wear it to work; it'd be ruined.

"That's where the fun is," Ronnie Anne said and preened.

"Cute," he said and looked behind him. No cars were coming, so he backed out into the street and swung left. A car was coming now, and he knew who it belonged to from the grill alone. It came to a stop at the curb, and Lincoln pulled alongside it. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out as Lori did the same. "I saw you weaving all over the place and I said 'there's Lori.'"

She laughed. "My driving's not as bad as yours, kid."

"Hey, I've only wrecked one vehicle," Lincoln blurted, and flashed back to it: Jamming a gun into a man's side and pulling the trigger; shooting another in the chest; firing through a window and watching someone's head explode. A cold chill went through him.

"That's one more than me," Lori said smugly. Bobby Jr.'s head appeared between the seats, and he smiled. "Uncle lame-o!"

Lincoln lifted his hand. "Hey, buddy."

Ronnie Anne leaned forward, and Bobby Jr.'s smile got even bigger. "Aunt doofus!"

Ronnie Anne's jaw dropped, and Lincoln laughed deeply; Bobby Jr. laughed too.

"Who told you to call me that?" she demanded.

Bobby Jr. looked sheepish. "Daddy," he finally said.

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Alright. Tell your dad aunt doofus is going to pay him a special visit soon." She held up her left hand and punched it. "Do that."

Bobby Jr. did.

"Yeah, tell him and do that."

"Alright, we gotta go," Lincoln said, "have fun with auntie Leni, kid. Lori...go back to driving school."

Lori flipped him off and he laughed.

"Can you believe that?" Ronnie Anne asked as they got back under way. "Aunt doofus. Bobby's just _asking_ for it."

Lincoln lit a cigarette and inhaled. "You've had him calling me uncle lame-o since he was two," he said, "so I don't really pity you."

She socked him in the arm. "That's not going to sway me to your side." She leaned forward and kissed the spot she'd hit. "That might," he admitted.

"Baby?"

He glanced at her. She was giving him puppy dog eyes.

"What?"

"You beat Bobby up for me?"

Lincoln snickered. "You seem to forget I was in the army. These hands are dangerous weapons."

She shrugged and slipped a cigarette from the pack. "Use your feet then."

"Those aren't much better."

"Come _on_ , Linc. You gotta defend my honor."

"It's 1968," he said, "you can defend your own honor."

She sighed heavily. "I guess."

When they pulled to the curb in front of Royal Woods Community College, Lincoln leaned over to kiss her, but she turned her head. "No," she said, "you won't defend my honor." She crossed her arms with a flourish.

Lincoln sat back and rested his forearm on the wheel. She turned to favor him with a sidelong glance. "Alright," he said, "get outta my car."

"Fine," she said and reached for the handle.

Lincoln shot his arm out and dug his fingers into her stomach. She jumped and squealed. "Stop!" He tickled harder, and she thrashed.

"Kiss me."

"No!" she laughed.

He tickled harder still, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He really _did_ like making her squirm. "Kiss me."

"No!"

Alright, you asked for it: He threw in his second hand. "Alright! Alright!" she wailed. He pulled back. "You're an asshole," she said and they kissed. "But I love you."

"I love you too," he said, and cupped her cheek, "happy anniversary."

"You too," she said, and did the same. For a long time, they stared into each other's eyes, then they kissed again, slowly, passionately, both of them thinking the same thing: _If I didn't have somewhere to be..._

* * *

Luna Loud had everything she could ever want: Her little bro was home and safe, the last three singles from the album all hit the top twenty (none got as high as _Come Back to Me._ which peaked at four, but a song Tex wrote called _Always Down_ got to number eleven, so at least she had something else people wanted to hear other than that stupid song she stupidly wrote), and money...lots of money. Julius, it turned out, was stiffing her. Her new manager, Bobby Preston said he had to have taken her for at least ten or twenty grand; he'd give her a little and keep the rest up his asshole or something for himself, now she was getting more. They were recording a new album for CBS. She liked the songs – they had nine, and she wrote three of them – and, you know, to be honest, singing _Come Back to Me_ didn't hurt much anymore...at least not the way it used to. It reminded her of all that pain, though, so she still didn't want to, but she could manage.

In other words, everything was okay.

So why did she feel shitty? Yeah, she liked the songs, but in general, man, just no. Oh come to the studio, oh play this show, oh we have to do a tour...it made her tired just thinking about it. Luckily, there's a quick fix for being tired.

Cocaine.

When she was on, man, she was _on_ , zipping and bopping and doo-dah-daying. _Rolling Stone_ said her concerts were energetic and raw or some shit (was it April she was on the cover or May?). Well, yeah, man, because I'm rolling. Everything's a good time then. It's when she _wasn't_ rolling that she felt lethargic and depressed. Why? She didn't get it. Everything's coming up Luna; what the hell did _she_ have to be depressed about? Still, she was, but cocaine took those blues _right_ away (hey, _take the blues away..._ good title for a song).

Thank God for coke, man, thank God for coke.

On May 26th, she woke up still high from the night before and after the shakes passed, she took a long, hot shower and tried to remember if she had to go to the studio today. 26th...weren't they off? Man, she didn't know. She'd have to call Bobby Preston and see; he'd have the scoop.

Done, she got out and toweled off: Her skin was flushed and her heart raced. Guess the water was too hot. Try some cold next time. In her bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed Bobby Preston's number. He answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Bobby Preston, it's me, Luna. You know, every time I say your name it reminds me of the guy my sister's with, that's why I call you by both names, so I don't get you mixed up. They're married. They have a kid, too. Did I tell you they were married?"

"Yeah, you may have told me once," Bobby said.

"They have a kid too."

He chuckled softly. Yeah, having a kid's real funny. "I have a question: Do I have the studio today?"

"Nope," he said instantly, "you have it tomorrow. Then Friday we leave for San Francisco and Saturday you play the Filmore."

Great, another long ass drive up the coast. "We're also working on your tour. Should have everything set up by next month."

Ugh. "Alright." She frowned. "I don't have _anything_ today?"

For a moment he was silent. "Let me check," he said at length. Papers shuffled. "It's your brother's wedding anniversary."

Luna slipped a cigarette from a pack and lit it. "Which one?"

"Lincoln."

Oh, shit, that's right. "Oh, man, I gotta call him. That's it?"

"Yep. Today is yours, sweetie. Do what you want."

"Cool. Thanks." She hung up the phone and took a puff. Whatever I want, huh? She got up and went into the living room, then through a sliding glass door to the balcony. The apartment was new and in a nice part of the city near downtown. She let Julius have the other one, but his bitch ass couldn't afford it without her. He tried to get in with some other bands, but when you're a cheat, word gets around. Out here you can rape people, beat them up, kill them, the works, and no one gives a shit, but start messing with their money and they get angry.

Gripping the railing, she leaned over and scanned the streets and shops and sidewalks and palms and boulevards below, looking for something to do. Nope. Nothing. This town's worse than Royal Woods.

Lunch?

Yeah, she thought with a nod, she could go for some lunch. She had to call Lincoln first before she forgot, though. Inside, she sat on the edge of the bed and dialed home. Leni answered on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

I'm gonna have some fun with her. Grinning, Luna deepened her voice. "This is the police, you've been a bad girl and we're coming to get you."

There was a pause. "W-What?"

"You're going to jail, dirtbag." Luna pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from laughing.

Leni sounded scared. "No, I-I didn't do anything, I swear!"

Luna lost it. "It's me, Leni, Luna. I'm messing with you."

Leni sighed in relief. "You scared me!"

"Sorry. Is Lincoln home?"

"No. he's at work. Bobby Jr.'s here though."

"Well, hot damn, put him on!" She cradled the phone between her head and her shoulder and reached into the nightstand drawer, taking out a baggie of coke.

When Bobby Jr. came on, he sounded really shy. "Hello?"

"Hey, little guy," Luna said, "you can talk now, that's cool."

There was a pause. "Yeah."

"You gonna come see your aunt Luna?" she scraped three lines and sat the razor aside.

He didn't respond for a second. "Uh, yeah."

"We can go to the beach, lotta beaches out here. Disneyland, too. You wanna go to Disneyland?"

"Yes!"

Luna laughed. "Tell your mom and dad to bring you out here then."

"Okay!" In his excitement, he hung up the phone. Luna hurriedly sniffed one rail then called back. Leni answered.

"Now he's, like, singing the Disneyland song," she said. In the background she could hear him chanting _Dis-ney LAND! Dis-ney LAND!_

"Tell his parents to bring him. I haven't seen him in forever." How long? When she left, right? She didn't really know, but she didn't _think_ she'd seen him since. She sure as hell didn't get to see Lori – or Lynn – in Palm Springs, and that kind of stank.

"I'll tell them but I don't know if they will. They, like, always work and stuff."

Pfft. "Work is lame."

"I know," Leni agreed. "Designing dresses is _so_ much more fun. I made one for Ronnie Anne for her anniversary and it's _so_ cute. You should see it."

Ah, right, I almost forgot. "Cool. Hey, what time does Lincoln get home? I wanna tell him happy anniversary."

Leni hummed. "Around six or seven or something."

Luna nodded. "Alright, cool. Is Mom there?"

"No, she went shopping – Bobby-bear., don't jump on the couch!"

Luna chuckled. "Alright, I'll let you get back to little junior Bobby. I'll call later. Be ready."

"Okay!"

Luna hung up the phone, bent over, and blasted the remaining two lines. There, now _that's_ better. Do I have anything today? Why did I ask myself that, I know I don't, Bobby Preston told me to go have lunch or something. Lunch sounds good. Burgers and tacos and pizza and maybe some fried chicken, roast beef. She shook her leg and crossed her arms. Where's there a good restaurant around here? I don't know, I don't really go out, but I think there's one on the corner with tables and a patio and stuff. Yeah, the green awning place. Looks fancy though and I'm not in the mood for fancy bullshit. Give me a hotdog. I want a hotdog. Yeah, with French fries on it. Just like the old days. How's Daggy doing, anyway? Didn't he go to Vietnam too? Hope he's okay. He's a cool dude. Coolest dude I've ever known aside from Lincoln and Lynn, but Lincoln and Lynn aren't just dudes, they're brothers, and brothers have to be cool.

She got up and started for the door. Lunchtime. She was just opening it when she realized she was still in nothing but a towel. Getting dressed might help. Dumbass. She turned, went back into the bedroom, and selected a light pink pair of bell bottoms from the drawer and pulled them on. Next, she grabbed a long sleeved purple shirt with a fruity design from the closet and slipped it over her head. Can't forget my necklaces and shit. It's part of my look. She picked a tangled mass of metal, silver, and gold off the dresser and put it on.

There. She was ready for lunch.

* * *

Lincoln shoved the spatula between the grill and the patty, pried, and flashed when it came apart. Goddamn it! He scraped it off and flung it into the trashcan flanking the prep table with a frustrated sigh. The stupid son of a bitch Flip had working yesterday didn't clean the grill right, and from the moment he walked through the door, they were busy so he didn't have the time to do it himself. I love it when people don't do their fucking job. He snatched a squeeze bottle of butter, squirted enough onto the grill to flood even Noah and his family, then slapped another patty on.

That really pissed him off...and it pissed him off that it pissed him off because shit like this usually didn't bother him. Lately, though, it did. Sighing and shaking his head, he took the fries out of the fryer and dumped them onto a plate, which he sat aside. Just looking at it made him mad. There should be a burger on there too, but there wasn't because that piece of shit didn't clean the grill and shit was sticking. He poked his head out the window into the dining room and looked around. Were there more orders about to come in? He _really_ needed to clean this stupid thing. He saw a couple people reading over menus, and a couple more sitting there like they were waiting to be served.

He sighed and went back to the grill. Let's try this again. He flipped the patty, and praise be to Jesus, it didn't stick.

Twenty-five minutes later, all the orders were out and no one else was waiting, so he quickly cleaned the grill. By the time he was done, it sparkled. He leaned against the prep table and watched the dishwasher, a colored kid name Donald, scrub a pan. "When you see Robert, tell him the next time he doesn't clean this grill I'm going to knock him out."

Robert was a new hire (well, he'd been there a year, but Lincoln had been there seven – not counting that time he spent eating maggots in South Vietnam): A tall, thin hippie-type who reminded him a lot of Daggy; eyes always red, slow speech, 'man' this and 'man' that. From what Flip said, the guy had a nappy, shaggy beard when he was first hired, but Flip made him shave it...he also said he couldn't wear his tye-dye shirts to work.

You know, sometimes Lincoln didn't even recognize his own country: So much had changed in the nearly two years he was in Vietnam that it was unreal. Before he left, he _never_ saw long hair on a man; now every tenth guy in a crowd looked like a woman. And the fucking riots...Jesus Christ: It seemed like every day he watched a group of assholes on TV tearing down cities, starting fires, and flipping cars. 'Oh, we're anti-war.' Yeah, that's why everywhere you go looks like a fucking warzone. It pissed him off to see people trying to live their lives having their stuff smashed by a bunch of long hair fucking teenagers who didn't know shit about shit. Did the world go crazy while he was gone? Because it sure felt like it did.

"Flip told him the same thing," Donald said over his shoulder, "he doesn't listen."

"He's got all that damn hair in his ears, it's no wonder," Lincoln said sourly. He pushed away from the prep table and grabbed his cigarettes out of his apron. "Come get me if we get an order."

Out back, he sat on an overturned bucket and lit a cigarette. He didn't like the war in Vietnam either – hell, he was there, so he knew it better than some fucking high schooler – and protesting something you don't like it fine...burning buildings and trashing windows isn't. Fuck that. Let someone try that shit here – bunch of fucking college kids who never made a dollar in their life and didn't know the value of the shit they were breaking. Give it twenty years and let someone turn _their_ car over, see how _they_ like it.

He shook his head and took a deep breath. He got angry a lot lately and he didn't like it. He'd think happy thoughts...like being with Ronnie Anne later. _That_ made him smile. Back inside, Flip was at the grill watching a patty sizzle. "It's for me," Flip said when Lincoln entered and glanced semi-angrily at Donald – I told you to get me, man.

Lincoln leaned against the prep table. "Did you see I cleaned the grill?"

"I saw," Flip said. Like Lincoln's parents, he'd aged in the past couple years. Not much. His hair was thinner and age spots were forming on his forehead. He was sixty-four, almost sixty-five...isn't that retirement age? Not that Flip planned to retire. He said so. _I don't plan to retire_. _What am I gonna do, grow a spice garden?_ "Thank you."

Lincoln shook his head. "Just doing my job...unlike a certain fuzzy-headed hippie I know."

Flip chuckled. "He's not a bad kid, he just smokes that shit and gets lazy."

"Next time that grill's not cleaned I'm calling him in to do it."

Flip turned the patty. "Today's your big day, huh?"

"Yeah," Lincoln nodded, "two years."

"You doing anything special?"

"No, she doesn't want to. No gifts, no fancy dinners – just us."

Flip rasped laughter. "She's a keeper, Loud. No presents, though, huh?"

Lincoln shrugged. "There's something she's mentioned here and there that I'm going to pick up after work." He had to get her _something_ for their anniversary – whether she liked it or not. It was a household item, so he'd benefit from it too.

"She said no gifts, Loud," Flip said, "I'd listen if I were you."

"She'll like it," Lincoln said.

* * *

Ronnie Anne's last day of community college ended at 1pm; she caught a ride home with a girl she knew and came through the door at 1:15 to find Bobby Jr. asleep on the couch and Leni curled up asleep on the floor. She smiled and went upstairs as quietly as she could. In her room, she dropped her purse onto the dresser, sat on the edge of the bed, and kicked out of her shoes. She stretched out and closed her eyes. She was so excited to finally be done with school: As soon as she could, she'd put in an application with the Royal County public school system.

Well...maybe. She was conflicted. She _really_ wanted to, but there was something _else_ she really wanted that should probably come first. Or second. Maybe it should come second. She remembered her mother's final words, written on a sheet of paper in flowery Spanish, and sighed. Her mother was a wise woman, but she'd already failed her by becoming emotionally dependent on Lincoln, so why not go all the way? Lincoln was a good man, though, so there was no reason to worry.

Smiling warmly to herself as thoughts of Lincoln danced through her head, she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber, and didn't come awake again until someone was shaking her. She started, but relaxed when she saw Lincoln's face.

"Hey," she muttered and stirred. Weak late afternoon light fell through the blinds. Her head swam with sleep, and when her eyes were heavy. "What time is it?"

"Almost five," he said. "Did you do anything but sleep today?"

"No," she said.

"Figures," he replied and got up. "I have something for you."

She pushed herself up and rubbed her feverish forehead. Though she needed it, she hated afternoon naps: They always left her feeling groggier than she did when she laid down. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and squinted. A large box with a bow on top sat on the dresser. "Really?" she asked. "I said no gifts."

Lincoln shrugged. "It's for both of us."

She cocked a quizzical eyebrow as he went over, opened the flaps, and took something out. Her eyes widened and a grin touched the corner of her lips. "Okay, now _that's_ cool."

He pushed the box aside and sat a small portable TV next to it. It was square with a handle, a telescoping antenna, and two over and under knobs on the side. Lincoln knelt, plugged it in, and pulled out the antenna: Ronnie Anne crawled to the foot of the bed and sat on her knees as he turned it on.

"Wow," she marveled, "it's color, too."

"That's right," he said and laid his hand on the top. "You kept saying you wished we had a TV in here, so...happy anniversary."

She smiled. She told him no gifts but he didn't listen...just like him. "I love it, thank you."

He came over and bent, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"I feel bad, though, I didn't get you anything."

He gestured to the TV. "If it makes you feel any better, I slipped a twenty out of your purse and put it toward this thing."

"How much was it?"

"A hundred."

Ronnie Anne gaped. "That's a lot of money."

Lincoln shrugged again. "Eh." He sat on the bed and laid his hand on her leg. "No expenses spared."

"You're a dork," she said and kissed his cheek, "but I love you."

Lincoln kicked his shoes off and they stretched out together to enjoy their new TV, Ronnie Anne cradled in his arms and enjoying every second of it. "You know how much I missed this?" she asked, not for the first time.

"As much as I did?" he asked, as he did every time.

"Hmmm. More."

He kissed the top of her head. "I doubt that."

"I did," she said and snuggled up against him. At six, someone knocked on the door.

"Like, are you decent?" Leni asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "come in."

She popped her head in. "Dinner's done."

"Alright," Lincoln said, then turned to Ronnie Anne. "Hungry?"

Her stomach rumbled. "Yeah, actually, I am."

Dinner was spaghetti, one of Dad's favorites: Before they discharged him, they shipped him to southern Italy for a couple weeks to do guard duty and he picked up a taste for the stuff. Lincoln liked it too. He liked steak better, but, hey, you can't win 'em all. "What time is your graduation again?" Mom asked Ronnie Anne.

"One," Ronnie Anne said.

"I'll pick you guys up," Lincoln said, "I'm leaving early."

"Sorry I can't be there," Dad said. "The auto industry never takes the day off."

"That's okay, we'll take lots of pictures," Ronnie Anne said.

When dinner was over, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne went back to their room and resumed their cuddling, neither speaking but both immensely relishing the other's closeness. It was nearing nine 'o'clock when Ronnie Anne laid her hand on his stomach and looked up at him. "I lied."

He glanced down at her. "About what?" Lincoln asked.

"About not wanting a present. There _is_ something I've been thinking about."

Oh? Ronnie Anne wasn't the type to keep things to herself. If she saw something and liked it, she said something. "What's that?" he asked.

"A baby."

Lincoln faltered. "A baby?"

She nodded. "A baby is..."

"I know what a baby is, but do you think it's the right time?"

"As right a time as any," she said. "I'm done with school, I haven't started a teaching job yet...I'm sure your parents wouldn't mind us staying a little longer."

No, they wouldn't. In fact, when he first came home from California, Mom said _Stay as long as you want...I wouldn't mind if you stayed forever!_ That wasn't going to happen, but he wasn't in a breakneck rush to leave: Their arrangement worked. For now.

And he _did_ want a baby...and had for a while. A little Lincoln Jr. who was the perfect mix of him and Ronnie Anne...that sounded really cool.

"You sure?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Well...alright, I guess."

She pouted.

"Okay, okay," he laughed, "let's do it: Let's have a baby."

* * *

Luna Loud floated along the sidewalk in a rushing daze. Her heart pounded, her head ached, adrenaline surged through her veins, and every time someone stopped her for an autograph, she'd fidget and twitch. Standing still was hard, but meeting people was fun when she was zooming. Sober, it was a drag, like, oh, can't I just walk to the store for a pack of cigarettes without being bombarded? Goddamn. Yes, I sing, I still put my pants on one leg at a time like you though, sheesh. How did other celebrities do it?

With cocaine, of course!

At the corner restaurant she remembered, she sat on the patio, scraped some coke onto the table, and sniffed it, her head flopping backwards as it hit her. Ahhh, yeah, that's the stuff. A waiter in a white shirt and black tie came over and took her order, glancing at her nose like it was covered in coke or something (hahahaha!). She didn't pay attention to the place when she passed it, and it wound up being some kind of French deal. She ordered water and something called S-car-go. She bopped her head, tapped her foot, and watched people passing by on the sidewalk as she waited. Is that Richard Burton? Looks like him. And that dude looked like that guy...what's his name? It probably wasn't him, though...wasn't he dead?

The waiter brought her a glass of water, and she nodded. It was cold and fresh and you know what would make this better? Some coke. She brought her stash out, dumped some in, and stirred it with a spoon until the liquid was cloudy white. Rubbing her hands crisply together, she picked up the glass and took a drink. Her mouth went numb and she grimaced. Welcome to bitterville, population one. She took another drink to wash it away, but that only made it worse. She snatched the waiter as he passed by. "Can I have another glass of water please?"

"Certainly."

He came back a few minutes later with water _and_ her food. Al _right_. He sat the plate in front of her and Luna did a double take. "Uh...my plate's infested with snails."

"Yes," he said, "it's escargot."

She looked up at him. People ate snails? "How does it taste?"

"Quite good."

It _smelled_ alright. Whatever. "Thanks."

He was right. Snails _were_ good. Who would have known? Wonder how spiders taste. Are those good, too? She did a show in Barstow last year, way out in the Mojave, and when she was going back to the car she saw a tarantula scuttling across the ground. Snatching it up and taking a bite wasn't exactly the first thing on her mind, but now she was thinking. You probably have to cook it first, though. She wasn't a very good cook...thank God for the microwave oven.

When she was done, she took a shot of coke water then a shot of regular water. Man, it's a nice day. She sat back and closed her eyes, her foot tapping. The beach sounds like fun, she should go to the beach.

Yeah, you know what? The beach. She was going to the beach.

A shadow passed across the sun and she creaked one eye open. A man with shaggy brown hair and stubble stood over her. He was wearing a black suit. Looked like someone's high school principal. "Luna Loud?" he asked in a light British accent.

"Yeah, man, how's it going?"

"Lovely," he said, "I saw you and I just wanted to say I'm a fan."

Dude looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. Had they met before?

"Thanks," she said, "it's cool to know my stuff's big, you know, 'across the pond.'"

He chuckled. "It's very big across the pond. We've always loved the blues in England."

They chattered for a few more minutes then he left. She was going to the beach, wasn't she? Yeah, she just had to get her shit together. Swimsuit, towel...other stuff. What the fuck do you take to the beach, anyway? She hadn't been in so long she was practically a beach virgin. Who _was_ that guy, anyway? His name was on the tip of her tongue. Oh well. Beach, here I come.

She was on the beach two hours later, wandering around and watching the surf when it hit her. Oh, that's right, it was Paul McCartney. From The Beatles. Huh. Should have known that.

By the time she got home, it was dark and her skin was red with sunburn. It was worth it, though: Swimming, lying on her towel, smelling the salty air...that was fun, lots of fun. Did she have studio time tomorrow? Man, she hoped not, she wanted to go back to the beach. She dropped onto the sofa and turned the TV on, but there was nothing good, just a bunch of crap like always. The news, riots, Vietnam, blah blah blah. Don't people ever get sick of this stuff? Like how can you make news your life? Hey, I'm Walter Cronkite and I never get bored of the same old shit.

But hey, wasn't she doing the same old shit?

Eh, not like _that_. When she played shows at least she did them in different venues. Cronkite was in the same studio every day at the same time talking about the same thing. If he didn't wind up sticking a gun in his mouth, he was a better man than Luna.

She laughed because she wasn't a man, but still. She was starting to feel tired. Some coke will clear that right up.

Instead, she stretched out on the couch and faced the TV. Same old stuff. Yawn. Doesn't anyone get tired of - ?

 _Snore._

* * *

The ceremony was nice, as far as ceremonies go. It wasn't much different from their high school graduation: The students walked across a stage in their cap and gown, collected their diploma, and everyone clapped. When Ronnie Anne went up, Lincoln beamed: He was really proud of her.

After it was over, he, Mom, and Leni met her on the commons, and he hugged her. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"Feels like I just spent five thousand dollars for a piece of paper," she said, but she was smiling ear-to-ear.

"It's a very important piece of paper," Mom said. "It's the key to your future."

Leni's brow pinched. "That doesn't look like a key," she said.

"Not all keys do," Mom said.

Later, at home, he and Ronnie Anne stretched out on the bed together and he held her close. "Wanna try again?" she asked with a smile in her voice.

"Sure," he said, and grinned. "We have to keep trying until we get it right, huh?"

She rolled and faced him. "Yes we do."

They tried again. And again. And later still, _again_.


	50. August 1968: Part 1

**AberrantScript: Looks like you're almost caught up...so here's a 6,000 word chapter. Merry Christmas.**

* * *

 **Turning and turning in the widening gyre**

 **The falcon cannot hear the falconer;**

 **Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;**

 **Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,**

 **The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere**

 **The ceremony of innocence is drowned;**

 **The best lack all conviction, while the worst**

 **Are full of passionate intensity.**

 **\- William Butler Yeats**

* * *

By August 1968, the Democratic Party – like the country itself – was fractured and falling apart. Battered by years of protests, Lyndon Baines Johnson, the man Luan held directly responsible for the torture Lincoln suffered in Vietnam, was not seeking reelection, and on August 26th, the Democratic National Convention kicked off in Chicago. Luan had been in the city since August 5, working closely with Ted Harris and representatives from a dozen different organizations – The Youth International Party, the National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam, The American Resistance Front – to coordinate protest activities. The Yippies were new, radical, far-out, and in the weeks and months leading up to the convention, they issued a dozen threats that they did not _really_ intend to follow through on: They would dump LSD into the city's water supply, they would drop nails from overpasses, they would block intersections with cars and storm the convention hall. The pigs were scared, and Luan reveled in their quaking terror.

Minor protests took place ahead of the convention week: Marching formations carrying signs and pictures of Che Gurava, Fidel Castro, and Chairman Mao. They were peaceful for the most part, the city's police force standing aside and watching with stupid looks in their eyes. They were the vanguard of the fascist empire, the puppets, the hate-filled and brainwashed cronies of big business.

Unsurprisingly, the city denied them permits to hold protests during the convention itself, bringing up every excuse you could imagine. MOBE filed a lawsuit, and the judge who heard the case – Mayor Daley's former law partner, don't you know – summarily dismissed it. Five days before the convention started, Luan sat in the apartment of a comrade and his wife, her arms crossed and her mouth a tight slash. Ted sat beside her, his expression almost identical. "We'll fucking do it anyway," a man with bushy black hair sat. He was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed and a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His name was Abbie Hoffman and he was one of the YIP leaders. Sitting on the coffee table and nodding his head slightly was another, Jerry Rubin. Abbie took a drag and blew a plume of smoke that hung lazily in the air. "These pigs think they can push us around forever and play bullshit games, but the people have spoken. We're gonna do this even if we have to tear down the entire fucking city."

"How far can we get?" Ted wondered.

"As far as a bunch of pissed off Americans can get us – pretty fucking far. 'Oh, you need a piece of paper to exercise your constitutional right.' Man, fuck their piece of paper. Did we need a piece of paper at Bunker fucking Hill?"

"It's gonna get hairy," Ted warned.

Abbie threaded his fingers through his bushy hair. "I'm fucking ready." He laughed.

"Babe?" Ted asked, laying his hand on Luan's leg. "You ready for this?"

Without hesitation, Luan nodded. "Yeah, I'm ready. Fuck those bastards."

Abbie grinned and clenched his fist. "Right on, mama. Right on. Jerry – you ready?"

Rubin nodded. He was currently rolling a joint. "I've been ready." He brought it to his lips and licked it.

The protests began in earnest on Friday, August 23rd. People had been flooding into the city over the past week, and the parks were filled with kids. People played bongos and guitars, held signs, set up tables and served free food. Abbie and Jerry were expecting a turnout in the hundreds of thousands, but by Friday, it was starting to become clear that the actual attendance would be much, much lower. "They flaked _big,_ man," Ted worried. He, Luan, Jerry, and Abbie were standing among a sea of people in the Civic Center plaza. Jerry had just arrived with the Yippie candidate for president, Pigasus – a pig. Ted raked a hand through his hair and shook his head.

"That's what we get for relying on a bunch of fucking middle class liberal bastards," Abbie said. "Man, fuck them. They're a part of the problem just as much as those assholes in the Hilton."

The Hilton Hotel was where many of the delegates were staying. It was within sight of the park, and many times that afternoon Luan found herself glaring at it. Policemen in blue shirts and white helmets pressed close to the park, and when Jerry released Pigasus, they arrested him and a bunch of other people, to the taunts and jeers of the crowd. Luan lobbed an empty pop can at a cop, and Ted pulled her back into the masses before they could come for her. "Fucking pigs!" she cried.

That night, Luan and a group of women attempted to picket in front of the Hilton, but the police forced them away, and they dispersed without incident. There were supposed to be thousands – there were only sixty.

Later, as she lay next to Ted on the pullout couch in their comrade's apartment, Luan thought back over the day, and felt such implacable rage that she shook. How can a movement succeed, how can a war be fucking _won_ , when no one wants to work for it? Resistance isn't an idle exercise...it isn't something that can be done from the comfort of one's own home...it's something you have to go out and _do_. The way she saw it, they were fighting a war on _two_ fronts: Against the cabal of war pigs in control of the country (plus their stooges), and against armchair liberals. She didn't know which enemy posed the greater danger, but she hated both with equal intensity.

On Saturday night, in keeping with Mayor Daley's 11pm curfew, Luan and the others streamed out of Grant Park and into the streets. Chants ran through the crowd as police set up a defensive line in front of the park. "Peace NOW!" "Fuck LBJ, fuck the KKK!" Luan locked hands with Ted on one side and Jerry Rubin on the other, the power of the crowd flowing into her. They might be small in numbers, but so were the Vietcong, and they were winning – they were beating the fascist pigs at their own game.

They paused at Wells and North Avenue, and cops with helmets, clubs, and shields moved in, shouting orders for them to disperse. The crowd hurled taunts and insults. Someone threw a rock at a police car, and two pigs wrestled him to the ground and put him in handcuffs. Someone else threw a rock, and a windshield shattered. The police formed a tight skirmish line and marched into the crowd, which fell back and started to dissipate. Luan stood her ground, but Ted and Abbie pulled her away. "Not tonight!" Abbie shouted in her ear. "Wait until the convention! The press will be on this shit like white on rice!"

She didn't _want_ to wait for the convention. She was high on the moment and she wanted to fight _now_.

On Sunday, 500 people marched through the Loop, chanting and thrusting their fists into the air. When the police arrived, they moved into Grant Park to avoid arrest. A man with a bullhorn climbed a flagpole and addressed the simmering many, proclaiming the day a success. Success? Not a rock had been thrown and half a world away, boys were being fed into a meat-grinder. She was lucky that Lincoln survived, but how many others out there _had_ lost their brother? How many people felt the pain she had felt? Hers was temporary, theirs was forever. And it would happen again if they didn't stop it. And again. And again.

A music festival had been planned for that afternoon – the only band to show up was a group called MC5. They began to play around 4: Abbie and Ted planned to have a flatbed truck come in to act as a stage, but the police blocked them, and after ten minutes of music, the sound went off. Something to do with a pig not wanting his power used to run the equipment. The crowd grew restless, and a large number of people marched on the truck, which had been detained at the curb. Cops were pinned between it and the surging mass, but no violence took place.

At 9, policemen formed a skirmish line around the bathrooms, and the crowd naturally gravitated in that direction, Luan following Ted, her eyes scanning the ground for a rock but finding none. The police eventually charged into the crowd, their clubs swinging. One came toward Luan, but Ted stepped in-between them and shoved him back: The cop cracked him over the head and he sank to the ground. Luan sneered and threw herself at him, but he brought the club up and down onto her shoulder. "Get back!" a cop yelled through a bullhorn. "Get back!"

Kneeling next to Ted, pain radiating through her body, Luan shook with impotent rage. The cop grabbed Ted by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Before Luan knew what was happening, another cop was putting handcuffs on him, and he was being dragged away, screaming and cussing.

With tears streaming down her face, she struggled to her feet, and the cop regarded her with a stony expression. "Get outta here, little girl," he said, and shoved the tip of his club into her chest, "before _you_ get run in."

She swatted the club away and jabbed her finger in his face. "Fuck you, pig!"

He pushed her back, and someone pulled her away. "Man, fuck you, you fascist shit!" Abbie Hoffman yelled, flipping the cop off. "Nazi motherfucker!" The cop started forward, and Abbie slipped his arm around Luan's shoulder and hurried her away, shouting obscenities over his shoulder.

"Where's Teddy?" he asked. The crowd was breaking up around them.

Luan gave into her tears and wept. "T-They arrested him."

Abbie shook his head. "He'll be out by morning, don't worry." He glanced over his shoulder, then at Luan. "You alright? You wanna head back?"

Luan nodded. The fight had run out of her for the day. "Alright, I'll walk you. Can't go down the street in this fucking country without getting your ass kicked."

That night, Luan lay awake on the foldout couch, cold and alone under the thin blanket. After crying, she was more determined than ever to fight back. She woke the next morning in a bright bar of sunshine. Ted was sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing her arm, a lopsided smile on his face. When she saw him, her heart burst and she smiled. "Morning, sleepyhead," he said.

"Hi," she said, and sat up. "Abbie said you'd be out by morning."

"I was out two hours ago," he said. "How are you? Did you get hurt?"

"My shoulder," she said. She pulled down the arm of her nightdress to reveal the ugly purple bruise. Ted's eyes darkened and he drew a heavy sigh. She stroked the back of his neck and put on the bravest smile she could muster. "It doesn't hurt, though."

"That's not the point," he said.

She figured it wasn't. "How's your head?"

"You know me," he said, and looked at her, "I'm hard-headed."

She touched his cheek, and they kissed, slow at first but with more urgency as they began to thrill in the simple act of _living_. Their lovemaking was similar, slow in spots, faster in others. There was a war on and neither were certain they would live to see another day, but in that moment the war was far, far away.

* * *

Sunday mornings are supposed to be easy. Sunday, August 25th, was anything but for Ronnie Anne Loud. Oh, it started off fine: She came slowly and peacefully awake in a warm bar of sunshine, the man she loved on his side next to her, his gentle breathing even and regular. It was a tranquil scene, and she was totally and completely at ease.

Then her stomach clenched, and her eyes widened. Uh-oh. She leapt up and rushed to the bathroom, her hand pressed to her mouth. _Please be free, please be free._ Thank God it was, and she made it to the toilet just as a wave of vomit erupted from her mouth: It splattered the rim, the seat, the wall, and the bowl.

Dropping to her knees, she leaned over and puked again; the sound of it splashing wetly in made her puke even harder, and the world went gray at the edges. Nothing happened for a moment, and she thought she was done, but nope, her stomach turned and she puked yet again.

By the time she was done, she was panting and trembling, both her chest and her stomach aching and her mouth slick with the bitter taste of stomach acid. She propped her forearm on the rim and rested her head as she waited to see if she was done or not. After a few minutes, she decided that she was, and got up on shaky legs. Look at this _mess_. Ugh. She went over to the sink, opened the cabinet, and took out an armful of cleaning supplies. Just what I wanted to do with my Sunday, get sick and clean. It was probably those damn beans and franks.

Or maybe she was finally pregnant.

She froze. Was she pregnant? She and Lincoln had been trying since May and so far they hadn't had any luck, and she was just beginning to think that there was something wrong with one of them. Excitement blossomed in her chest, but she shoved it back down again. It could be nothing, so no getting your hopes up.

Only it was too late: The corners of her lips turned up as she scrubbed the toilet. She didn't _feel_ different, and from what she'd heard, a lot of women just 'knew' when they were pregnant. Pausing, she listened closely to her body. She was still queasy, but otherwise, she was the same as always.

Done, she replaced the supplies and washed her hands in the sink. In hers and Lincoln's room, she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over herself. Lincoln snorted and muttered something, his voice trembling. She rolled onto her side and slipped her arm around him. He had nightmares sometimes; he didn't like to talk about them, but she figured they had to do with Vietnam. Every once in a while he talked in his sleep, never more than a single word: 'No' or 'stop' (well, there was that one time she was pretty sure she heard 'fuck you,' but she could be wrong). Every once in a while, he'd act strange while awake, glancing nervously over his shoulder or digging through his food like he was looking for something. A couple weeks ago they were driving to work when a car backfired, and he jumped, the blood draining from his face.

"You alright?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "That just sounded like a gunshot."

Now, she hugged him tightly and pressed her forehead against his back. _I love you, Lincoln,_ she thought and kissed his shoulder, _I love you so much._

Holding him, she started to drift, but guess what: She suddenly had to puke again, and if she didn't hurry, she'd throw up all over the bed.

Like a shot, she was up and streaking toward the bathroom. This time, she got it all in the bowl, but her hasty exit from bed woke Lincoln, and he came in rubbing his head as she dry wretched. "You okay?" he asked.

"No," she moaned miserably.

Frowning, he knelt next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I'm puking my guts out," she said, then forced a smile. "On the upside, I might be pregnant."

A slow grin spread across his face, and she giggled. "Don't get your hopes up, though. I might not be."

An hour later, when she and Lincoln went into the kitchen, Mrs. Loud was making breakfast and Mr. Loud was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and the Sunday paper. Leni was in the living room watching a cartoon and gasping every time the animated characters suffered a fate that seemed fatal. "Poor rabbit!" 'Poor duck!" They were always okay, and she would clap her hands with a happy "Yay!"

"Morning," Mr. Loud said over the top of the paper as she and Lincoln sat.

Ronnie Anne started to reply, but the smell of cooking bacon hit her, and her stomach turned. She pushed roughly away from the table, making glasses sway, and rushed back upstairs where she puked some more, only this time, her stomach was empty, so all she could do was retch and spit up stomach bile.

She was starting to rethink having a baby.

Not really.

"Alright," Lincoln said as he knelt next to her and slipped his hand into her hair, "how about we go back to bed?"

"Yes," she nodded, and allowed him to lead her by the hand. He tucked her in and kissed her forehead, which made her smile despite the rolling, icky feeling in her stomach. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he replied and stretched out beside her. She took her arm out from under the blanket and threaded her fingers through his. His eyes twinkled and a sly smile skipped across his lips. "Pregnant, huh?"

She sighed. "I don't know. Maybe. I said don't get your hopes up."

He lifted his free hand in a gesture of supplication. "Hey, they're not up," he said, even though she could see they were...at least kind of... "but it's a real possibility."

"Yeah, it is." Her hopes were up too. If she _was_ , she hoped this sickness wouldn't last long. "I'll make an appointment, I guess."

* * *

Blues Station's first national tour kicked off on June 5 in San Francisco: 1,300 people crowded into a concert hall meant to hold a thousand and jived to two hours of music and a half an hour of some dude doing comedy that consisted of cussing and sex talk. Yeah, man, penises and vaginas are hilarious. When she came out on stage, all you could see was a sea of faces; beards and headbands and long hair and chicks with their nipples poking out the fronts of their shirts. She bumped a little bit of the C-word before coming out and had a good time.

From there, they went north to Portland, where it rained the whole time. Seriously, it did nothing but rain. Living in Los Angeles, Luna had forgotten what rain even _was_. Man, what's this wet shit falling from the sky, is it dangerous? And get this: It was an outdoor show. Julius would be pissing in his panties. People came, though. Next was Seattle, and it rained there too, but on the concert day it was dry, so, yeah. Lots of rain. Lots of gray skies. On June 25, they played in Chicago, then Pittsburgh on the 27th. Pittsburgh was cool. It reminded her of Michigan, you know, lots of factories and working class neighborhoods. Nice place. Long Island was next, and they spent a couple days in Manhattan. Man, you wouldn't _believe_ how crowded that place is. Shit. The buildings are like passengers on one of those overstuffed commuter trains where no one can move and it's all 'man, your pits are in my face and ma'am your knee's in my crotch.'

Central Park was nice, though. She heard it got really rough after dark, lots of hookers and stuff. You could probably buy coke in there too, but she brought enough for the trip, so she didn't need to find out. She would if she had to, though; she wasn't afraid of hookers, fuck them.

In D.C. on July 8, there was a huge protest in front of the White House that slowed the limo down. People were carrying signs and banging drums and holding banners. She was _preeeetty_ sure she saw a hammer and sickle, too. The concert wasn't packed like the others, and that's when she realized all her fans were probably out there being communists and shit. Oh well. She blasted through some of that sweet, sweet vitamin C and had a good time. Really, really good time.

The last show was in Orlando on August 3. You wanna know something about Orlando? It's hot and it's _bright_. Holy shit, the sun's like a death ray in one of those spy movies. You walk outside and turn into a puddle. It had to be over a hundred, and it was _humid_. "Man, this is bullshit," she said backstage as she took a gulp of water. Their opening act, a band called Purple Thunder, was performing, and Luna was _not_ looking forward to going out in the sun.

"I thought L.A. was bad," Bobby Preston said. He was sitting next to her at a folding table, a fan oscillating between them and barely stirring the wet air. He was a big man with graying hair and dark eyes. He wore a dark suit every day...except today: His coat was gone and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. He had a tattoo of a battleship on his arm. It was pretty cool. Said it was the one he served on in WWII. He mopped his brow with a white handkerchief and sighed.

"People actually _live_ here?" Luna asked. Her elbow was propped on the table and her feverish head rested against her upturned palm. Her lank brown hair was plastered to her sweaty brow.

"It's not living at these temps, honey, it's _surviving_."

She blew a raspberry. "Is what's-his-face wearing that purple jacket?"

The lead singer of Purple Thunder wore a purple Nehru jacket with some frilly lacy white shit at the neck: He looked like a fucking eggplant.

Bobby Preston scrunched his brow thoughtfully. "I think I saw him in it."

"Cat's crazy," she said. She brought out her coke and scraped two lines on the table. Bobby Preston watched her with a disapproving glower but didn't say anything. She pressed her finger against one nostril, bent, and sucked up the lines with the other. "We get to go home after this shit, right?"

"Yep," he said.

"Groovy," she said and made a V with her fore and middle fingers. "Far out. Fantastic. Anything we gotta do on the record?"

Bobby Preston shook his head. "Nope. CBS is happy. Looking at October 10th for a release date."

Great, new songs to play! "Now that really _is_ far out. I'm getting sick of what we got. Singing the same shit every night, man, uh-uh."

When it was her turn to go out on stage, she steeled herself, her heart already slamming. It was three in the afternoon, people were crowding against the stage, the sun was high, and she instantly started sweating. By the time they were through the first couple songs, she was soaked and starting to feel light-headed. "Man, it's fucking hot out here," she said after _Always Down._ The crowd laughed. She wasn't trying to be funny.

The show closer was that bring-me-down fucking I'm-depressed-because-Lincoln's-probably-dead bullshit Song that Shall Not be Named. Half way through, the world started to spin, and she had to lean against the mic stand for support. Her heart was racing and blood crashed in her temples. Fucking heat. Fuck Orlando. And fuck Florida too. She made it through, though, but as soon as she got backstage, her knees gave out and she collapsed. Bobby Preston and everyone 'oh my god give her room help her up water we need water stat.' They dumped water on her face and down her throat, but she was losing consciousness.

Her memories after that were disjointed for a while: Being carried to the limo between two roadies, slumping against the window and watching sun-baked palms give her the figurative middle finger, lying on the bed in her hotel room, her heart bursting painfully the whole time; Bobby Preston loomed over her with his hands on his hips, "Get her in a cold bath," he ordered.

"It's probably an overdose," the roadie said.

"No, it's the fucking heat," Bobby Preston said. "Get her in the bath, okay?"

Man, that bath _was_ cold: As soon as they sank her into it, she gasped and seized up. "Awwwww, fuck!" She started shaking violently and one of the roadies knelt down and held her by the arms.

"I'm telling you," he said over his shoulder, "it's an overdose."

Bobby Preston made an ugly face and put his hands to his head. "It's not an overdose, it's fucking heat exhaustion, that's all." He sounded desperate. "Just get her body temperature down." He jabbed a finger at the roadie. "And don't mention this to _anybody_. I do _not_ need the press on this shit."

She was shaking all over and a vise grip tightened her heart. "You'll be alright," the roadie said softly, "just take it easy."

She passed out and didn't wake up until the next afternoon. She felt groggy, achy, and generally like shit. After that, Bobby Preston started regulating her coke intake like he was her fucking mother or something (speaking of which, I gotta call her). That's how you get fired, buddy. It was just heatstroke, damn.

Just heatstroke.

* * *

Rita Loud cocked her head as if to listen, which maybe she was...even though Ronnie Anne and Lincoln were on the second floor and she and Lynn were at the kitchen table. "Did you see the way she ran out of here?" she asked her husband.

He grunted and continued reading the paper.

"She looked ill. Poor dear. Sickness in the morning can be a _lot_ of things."

"Like your cooking," Lynn said, and Rita rolled her eyes.

"Like a grandchild."

Lincoln told her at the beginning of the summer that he and Ronnie Anne were trying to have a baby, which pleased her. Lynn's wife was pregnant too, but something told her she wouldn't see it very often once it was born. Lincoln's baby, on the other hand, would most likely be here, in the house (for a while, at least). You know what that meant: Unrestricted access...all the kisses, tummy tickles, and back rubs she could stand. Yes, she hoped very much that they were expecting.

"Maybe," Lynn said, "she did act like Lori."

"I _know_ ," Rita said, "meat never bothered me. The smell of milk, on the other hand..."

Lynn chuckled. He remembered well what the smell of milk did to Rita when she was pregnant: The gagging, the retching, the time she puked all over the pot roast (that was with Luan...or was it Lynn?) and they had to go out for dinner. He had tremendous respect for what women dealt with in the normal course of life – menstruation, pregnancy, and, gah, childbirth. He did not think he would enjoy being a woman, and he saluted them for all they did...even when they left the iron on his shirt too long or burned dinner. "Remember the cravings?"

Rita nodded. "Like yesterday. Soggy bread, onions...dirt."

"I remember coming home to dirt all over the kitchen floor," he said. "I thought the kids did it, but there you were with it smeared all over your face and hands."

They both laughed easily. It wasn't funny at the time, but now, twenty plus years later, it was...it was also sad, because it made them both realize just how quickly time had gone. You think you have all the time in the world, but one day you wake up twenty or thirty years down the road and wish sorely that you'd had just a _little_ more.

"Grandchild number three," she said and shook her head. "Do you think we'll be around for _their_ children?"

"I don't see why not," Lynn said. "We'll only be in our early seventies. Unless they all decide to wait. Between twenty and twenty-five seems to be the going age in our family, though."

That was true. "If Bobby Jr. does, we'll have great-grandchildren sooner."

Lynn nodded. "He's, what, almost seven?"

"He'll be twenty in 1981."

Lynn whistled. That seemed so far as that it might as well have been on the other side of the universe. Of course, so did 1968 once upon a time. "Great-grandchildren by 1983 then?"

"Hopefully," Rita said.

"Good," he said, reaching across the table and laying his hand on hers. "I look forward to meeting them with you."

Rita smiled. "And I with you, dear."

* * *

It was Monday, August 26th, 1968. The Democratic National Convention convened at the International Amphitheatre. It was a chaotic opening as several states had competing slates of delegates attempting to be seated. It was hot, the hall was packed, and tension was thick in the air: Outside the city was in turmoil, and thousands of protesters flooded the streets. Security was tight, a correspondent reporting that it was "Exactly like approaching a military installation; barbed-wire, checkpoints, the whole bit." Inside, a Georgia delegate was being ushered out by security when CBS News correspondent Dan Rather approached wearing a microphone headset. "What is your name, sir?" he asked. Security agents grabbed him by the front of his coat and pushed him away: On live national television he could be heard shouting "Don't push me...take your hands off me unless you intend to arrest me!"

He was thrown to the floor, and pandemonium ensued. When he got back to his feet, he addressed anchor Walter Cronkite, who sat at a desk above the melee:

"Walter ... we tried to talk to the man and we got violently pushed out of the way. This is the kind of thing that has been going on outside the hall, this is the first time we've had it happen inside the hall. We ... I'm sorry to be out of breath, but somebody belted me in the stomach during that. What happened is a Georgia delegate, at least he had a Georgia delegate sign on, was being hauled out of the hall. We tried to talk to him to see why, who he was, what the situation was, and at that instant the security people, well as you can see, put me on the deck. I didn't do very well."

Cronkite shook his head. "I think we've got a bunch of thugs here, Dan."

On the stage, many delegates made disparaging remarks about Mayor Daley and the Chicago Police Department's handling of the situation outside. During his nomination of George McGovern, Connecticut Senator Abraham Ribicoff condemned the violence. "With George McGovern as President of the United States, we wouldn't have to have Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago!"

The camera panned to the Illinois delegation as Mayor George Daley cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted a reply that couldn't be heard over the din. Lip readers across the country swore it was: "Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch!"

On the third day of the convention, August 28th, 10,000 people gathered in Grant Park, Luan among them. Her shoulder still ached, and she suspected it was fractured, but she wasn't going to drop out of the fight. That afternoon, a man ripped the American flag from a pole and set it on fire. Police rushed in and began beating him while the crowd closed in and hurled trash, rocks, and bottles. Luan pegged a cop in the back with a chunk of concrete, and took great satisfaction in his cry of pain. Chants of "Pigs are whores!" and "Fuck the CPD!" rose up. Later, as dusk drew on, more police and national guardsmen amassed at the edges of the park. When a contingent of protesters approached, they lobbed a tear gas canister, and a stinging gray cloud wafted over the park. Tommy Hayden, an SDS organizer that Luan had met many times, urged the crowd into the streets. "If they wanna gas us, they're gonna have to gas the whole fucking city!"

It was full night when the crowd – thousands strong – reached the Hilton. Luan watched with a nervous twist of the stomach as a phalanx of police marched from the opposite end, their clubs at the ready and their boots like thunder on the pavement. She squeezed Ted's hand and he gave her a reassuring look. Behind the police, big trucks with metal barricades attached to their grills ambled slowly along. Looking past them, Luan could see National Guard troops with rifles. Lights bathed the crowd as news crews recorded the event. A chant went up, and Luan joined in: "The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!"

Around her people dropped to the ground and sat in a show of civil disobedience. Luan remained defiantly on her feet.

"The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!"

For a tense moment, the police and protesters faced each other, inches apart, then the cops moved aside as a blue and white police van pulled up. When it was in place, they rushed into the crowd and started swinging. Ted dragged Luan back as the crowd retreated, screams rising up. After a moment, some began rushing toward the line, pushing against the advancing police. Up and down the vanguard, cops and protesters clashed. "Come on!" Ted cried into Luan's ear and tried to drag her away, but she pulled against him. Just then, an explosion rang out, and noxious gas covered the battlefield. Luan's eyes stung and her throat constricted; tears streamed down her face, and she could offer little resistance as Ted pulled her away. The crowd was dispersing now, running wildly through the streets as the police gave chase. Coughing and choking, Luan followed Ted, throwing a glance over her shoulder as roving gangs in blue knocked protesters down and mobbed them.

A shirtless man streaked past her and clocked a cop in the jaw. Another cop brought his club down on the man's head and drove him to the ground. A man in glasses threw himself at a cop, but the cop shrugged him off and hit him over the head.

"Get that line back!" a cop yelled, pointing. "Away! Away!"

Luan's heart raced. This wasn't supposed to happen. _This wasn't supposed to fucking happen!_ Cops and National Guard troops fanned out. Bodies littered the ground, heads gushing blood, those too weak to flee being cuffed and dragged off like cords of wood. When they were well away from the fighting, Luan collapsed into Ted's arms and wept openly against his chest. "Shhhh," he whispered, stroking her hair. "It's not over. This is just the beginning." His eyes shone with brilliant hatred and his teeth ground audibly together. "Just the beginning," he repeated.

While sirens, tear gas, wounded cries, frantic screams, and explosions filled the night, the convention center erupted in thunderous applause: Vice President Hubert H. Humphrey and his running mate, Senator Edmund S. Muskie, had the party's nod, and in November they would face Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew.

And lose.


	51. August 1968: Part 2

**Merry Christmas Eve, everyone.**

* * *

"You alright?" Big Bill asked around a mouthful of beef stroganoff. "You seem like you got something on your mind."

They were sitting in the dealership breakroom on the afternoon of August 28. Hot summer sunshine fell through the window over the sink.

Lynn nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm fine," he said a little too quickly, his voice cracking _juuust_ a little. Like his wife, Big Bill was perceptive – not quite to her degree, but enough that Lynn _knew_ he'd been caught.

Sighing, Big Bill sat his fork down and leaned across the table. "Come on, son, tell me what's the matter. You nervous 'bout the baby?"

Lynn opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and took a deep breath through his nose. Yes, he was nervous about the baby – what expectant father isn't? – but that's not what was bothering him. He wished it was, though, God how he wished it was.

Big Bill nodded impatiently. "Spit it out."

Lynn didn't want to tell him anything; he was still upset that he wouldn't give him the time off to go see Lincoln in California (really upset, actually...he'd rather the old bastard just spat in his face), but he found himself beginning to talk nevertheless, three days' worth of dread, anxiety, and gnawing fears spilling out. "I got a letter from the draft board. I-I have to go in for a physical this Friday. After that, I m-might get drafted."

Big Bill pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair.

"I didn't tell Kathy because I don't want her to worry." He chuckled nervously. "I'm worrying enough for the both of us. I..."

Big Bill held up his hand. "I'm gonna stop you right there. See, I happen to know the feller who heads the board. I'll talk to him for you. You got no reason to worry."

Lynn blinked. "Y-You know him?"

"Reggie Hanks," Big Bill said.

Lynn nodded. The letter was signed _Reginald Hanks_ , a name that Lynn had read again and again.

"Plus, you got a kid on the way, you could get deferred easy. We don't have to go that far, though. That process is a pain in the ass anyway. I went through it in WWII. It almost woulda been easier just to go." He slapped the table and rasped laughter.

Lynn flashed another nervous smile, but his fears were not allayed. At the end of the day, he drove home in his 1967 Buick and chewed his bottom lip the whole way. He did _not_ want to go to Vietnam. Big Bill said having a kid would exempt you, but what if it didn't? What if they made him go anyway? He saw footage from the front every night on the evening news, and it was downright terrifying: It's easy to romanticize war when it's not in your living room every night, staring you in the face. Maybe guys in the forties were eager to go fight Hitler and Hirohito, but they didn't see what that fight looked like until they were too deep. He _had_ seen what the fight in Vietnam looked like, and he was afraid.

He and Kathy lived in a one story ranch house in the Palm Flats subdivision on Tucson's southern fringe: Small homes flanked wide avenues. He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, but didn't immediately get out. He hoped Big Bill was telling the truth about talking to this guy.

Inside, Kathy was just starting dinner, and when he came into the kitchen, she had her back to him. "Hi, honey," she said.

"Hey," he said, coming up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist. Her stomach was firm and just beginning to bulge with life, a fact that never ceased to amaze him: No matter how many times he touched it, he just couldn't get over the fact that _his_ child was in there. The prospect of fatherhood was scary, exciting, nerve-wracking, and exhilarating all at once, and mind-boggling too. In just a few short months (November 15, the doctor said), he would have a son or daughter; he was hoping for a boy so he could teach him sports.

"How was your day?" Kathy asked as he kissed her neck.

"Exhausting," Lynn said.

"You say that every day," she teased.

"Because it exhausts me every day."

After dinner, they snuggled on the couch and watched television, Lynn's mind so preoccupied with war and horror that he was barely able to enjoy _Felony Squad,_ his favorite show. On the bright side, he was also too preoccupied to suffer _Peyton Place_ , Kathy's favorite. Maybe if he didn't have a family he wouldn't care as much, but he did, and the thought of leaving Kathy, and their baby, twisted in his heart like the cold, steely blade of a knife.

He thought of Lincoln and of what his mother had told him over the phone. _He's so thin and jumpy, poor thing. Ronnie Anne says he has nightmares._ And the sad part was this: Lincoln was one of the lucky ones. A lot of guys who went over there didn't live to have nightmares and lose weight.

Lynn was _not_ going to Vietnam. Nope. Call him a coward, call him what you wanted, but there was no way in hell he was going to set foot in that fucking shithole, no way in _hell_.

Across town, Big Bill Parker sat in an armchair in Reginald Hanks' study. It was a wide, warmly appointed room with a stone fireplace, overflowing bookshelves, busts, and gleaming wood paneling. Reggie sat in the chair next to him, a thin man with a wrinkled face and thinning white hair; he wore a dark suit with a light blue tie; everyone called him The Judge (or just Judge) because he was a city circuit judge or some damn thing back in the forties. Big Bill had known Reggie for almost fifteen years, and from what he had seen, the man had no job other than being a prominent citizen; Big Bill would never admit it, not even to himself, but he was jealous of The Judge. He, too, wanted to be a prominent citizen, and had been doing everything he could to attain that position. He wasn't there yet (he was stuck down the chain at 'local fixture'), but by God, give him enough time and he'd eventually make it.

"Have you been watching the news lately?" The Judge asked. A cigar smoldered between his fingers and firelight touched his pale blue eyes.

Big Bill grimaced. "Ah, hell, I don't watch that stuff. It's all bad anyway. Gets-Gets my blood pressure up." He laughed.

"Goddamn kids are tearing Chicago to the ground," The Judge said and puffed grandly. "It's a disgrace."

The Judge had been active in local Democratic politics since the thirties: He campaigned for FDR in 1940 and 1944, Truman in 1948, Stevenson in 1952 and 1956, Kennedy in 1960, and Johnson in 1964. This year, however, he refused to 'touch it.' Humphries had the nod and while he was a solid old style Democrat, the Judge had come to mistrust the party. "Those communists are the future of the Democratic Party," he said now, as he had said a million times before. "Mark my words. Give it fifty years and they'll turn us into another Russia."

"Probably," Big Bill said now. He didn't care either way – in fact, he thought politics was a load of horse shit and didn't give one hot damn about it, but if you want to be a prominent citizen, you have to keep up on things like that. "They're gonna be around long after we're gone."

"They've been trying to take the party over for years. Makes me wonder if Joe McCarthy wasn't right."

"Could be. Lot of them Hollywood types are comin' out of the woodwork red."

"That they are. Civil rights, women's rights, the war." The Judge laughed bitterly.

"Now, speakin' of the war, that's actually kind of why I'm here."

"Oh?" The Judge asked.

"Yeah, you see, my boy, Kathy's husband, got himself a notice in the mail to come down for a physical. They have a kid on the way, and you and I both know he's going to get a deferment, but I figured I'd save him the trouble and the...the suspense. I'd appreciate it if his name didn't come up again."

The Judge took a long puff of his cigar, blue smoke filling the air, and gazed deeply into the fire. His protracted silence unnerved Big Bill. "I can do that," he finally said.

"Way I see it, it's not so much to ask, like I said, he's got the kid comin' and they wouldn't take him."

"Who knows?" The Judge said. "They're starting to get desperate. He'll have to come down for the physical, but I'll make sure his file gets marked unsuitable. What's his name?"

"Lynn Loud. Junior, I think. Yeah, he's a junior."

"Alright," The Judge said. "Tell him he's safe."

The next day, Lynn Loud breathed a sigh of relief. He and Big Bill were standing on the lot, Big Bill's hand on Lynn's shoulder. "You still gotta go let 'em play with your nuts, but that's gonna be that, so stop worryin'."

"Thank you," Lynn said earnestly.

"Yup. Now I see a young couple comin' this way; let's push that station wagon with the belly rot on 'em."

Lynn grinned. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Friday afternoon, Lincoln sat in the chair facing the examine table, his arms crossed and his stomach knotting. Ronnie Anne was on the table, her back straight and her hands resting on her lap: She looked just as nervous as he felt.

On Monday, she came in for a blood test, and the results were in: They were minutes away from finding out if they were pregnant or not. Both hoped they were...but both also wondered if they _should_ be. Maybe Lincoln was right, Ronnie Anne thought anxiously, maybe they should have waited another couple years until she was established in a teaching job and they had their own home; maybe it _was_ too soon.

Maybe she made a mistake.

But if so, it was the best mistake she could ever make. Established or not, own home or not, she _wanted_ this baby, and she wanted Lincoln to have it; she wanted to look into its face and see a mixture of them; wanted to cradle it in her arms. She wanted this so badly that she ached, and her rational mind, though nagging, could not persuade her otherwise.

Lincoln crossed his legs and rested his chin in his palm. Having a child was a big responsibility; once it was born, its wants and needs would forever supersede his own. He would need a better job, more money. It was intimidating.

But it was also beautiful to imagine; a permanent symbol of his and Ronnie Anne's love for each other, the most sacred declaration of loyalty and love two people can make to one another...making a child together.

When Dr. Hartfield entered, Lincoln sat up straight, his stomach clenching. Ronnie Anne looked up, her body tense. "Mr. and Mrs. Loud," Hartfield said and glanced at the chart in his hand. That would usually make both of them smile contentedly, but today neither could manage it.

"Am I pregnant?" Ronnie Anne pressed.

Dr. Hartfield chuckled. "You like to get right to it, huh?"

"Is she?" Lincoln asked. He was sitting forward now, his butt barely on the chair.

Hartfield looked at the chart again and didn't speak for a moment. Come on, man! Is she or isn't she?

"Yes, she is," he said, and the air left the room...but in a good way.

"I am?" Ronnie Anne asked, a twinkle coming to her eyes.

"About a month," he confirmed. "I estimate a mid-April showing."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne locked eyes, each one's hazy smile a reflection of the other's. When Hartfield was gone, they held each other tightly. "We're going to have a baby," she said dreamily.

"Yes we are," Lincoln said. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, and he blinked them away. He had known since he was at least twelve-years-old that he wanted Ronnie Anne to be his future...now, all these years later, they were married and expecting, their love and devotion cemented forevermore, their hearts, their spirits, and their very flesh entwined in matrimony and in the life growing within her. This is all he ever wanted from life, and this, the promise of building a family with the woman he loved...the woman he had always loved and the woman he always _would_ love was what kept him alive through his darkest moments, what sustained him at his lowest. Lynn had football, Lincoln had Ronnie Anne.

He pulled away from her and laid his hand on her stomach; she giggled girlishly and he tittered like a loon. He couldn't _feel_ anything yet, but one day he would...he would feel it moving and kicking and _living_. "We have to tell my parents," he said.

"And Bobby."

"And Lori, and...and everyone." He laughed and hugged her again.

"I love you, Lincoln."

"I love you too, Ronnie Anne."

"Forever."

"Forever."


	52. April 1969: Part 1

There's a saying...something about having money to burn...Luna Loud never understood that...until now. She had so much money she could start a brush fire that would blaze from L.A. to San Fran. Well...maybe not really _that_ much, but more than she would ever need. She wasn't a big spender and never had been: Her major expense was cocaine, but after a couple weeks in rehab during September, she wasn't doing as much anymore. When she got out, Bobby Preston shoved a bottle of whiskey into her hands. "Here...get drunk like a normal person, huh?" The rehab stay was his idea. They kept it hush-hush: She checked in under an assumed name and blah blah blah. She didn't like thinking about it. Those three cokeless weeks were a fucking nightmare, man. Coming off that shit is _not_ fun: Now she snorted twice a day (breakfast and a mid-afternoon pick-me-up) unless she was at a party or something, then she allowed herself a cheat day.

During the early spring of 1969, she found herself at a lot of parties. In January, she started renting a house in Benedict Canyon north of Beverly Hills: It was a lush one-story with a pool at the bottom of Cielo Drive. Standing on the back patio, you could see rugged hills, hazy mountains, and all kinds of cool nature shit. Out front, you could see L.A. all laid out and hazy like a desert daydream; at night the lights twinkled and it was beautiful, man, just beautiful. Her nearest neighbors were Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate who lived just up the road: He was a director or some damn thing and she was an actress. Luna pretended to know who they were but in reality she had no fucking clue. In Hollywood, though, telling someone you don't know them is worse than spitting in their faces. They had people over a lot, and she was one of them, you know, invited to be neighborly or something. Those get togethers were pretty nice: She met Warren Beatty, Mia Farrow, Jane Fonda, Kirk Douglas, and, hey, Jim Morrison was there a lot too.

Sharon was a sweet girl; there were few people Luna genuinely liked in Hollywood, and she was one of them. She was pregnant and real strict about it, you know; no drinking, no drugs, really into being a mother, which Luna dug. That's real, you know? A lot of people out here are so fucking fake you have to wonder if they even have hearts and blood and shit.

Blues Stations' second major label album, _Feeling Alright_ was released on October 25, 1968, the title track being a reworking of a song Luna did years and years ago: She totally forgot about it until she unpacked a record from a box and, boom, flashback to 1963 or something. She sat cross-legged on the living room floor with this shitty little charity album in her hands and grinned like a fool because she remembered how happy she was when it came out...a lot happier than she was when the last album came out, now that she thought about it. Man, she showed _everyone_. It was a good song, too, which she'd forgotten. With a little retooling, some steel guitar, twang, all that shit, it sounded nice, and by February it was number fifteen. Not too high, but whatever. Luna didn't give a shit. People paid, she played, she got her two blasts of coke and her whiskey every day, so it was alright.

On the afternoon of April 8, she was sitting on the patio and smoking a cigarette and counting down the time until she could have her second dose of vitamin C. She spent the previous day at the studio laying down tracks for the _next_ album and she sneaked a third helping in to get through it. Tomorrow would probably be a three bumps kind of day because she was getting up early and flying out to Royal Woods for a while: Ronnie Anne was about to pop, from what Mom said, and she'd missed a lot of shit, but she was _not_ about to miss Lincoln's baby. She would have been there for Lynn's baby, but she had to be in the _studio_ (mocking face): Gotta put down this vocal track, God forbid it wait a few days. She flew out in December, though, and that was pretty cool. Man, she hadn't seen Lynn in forever; he was getting chubby, hahahaha.

Presently, she stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and glanced through the patio door: A light breeze stirred white curtains. It was just after one, and she was due at four. That's a long fucking time...four hours, man, four hours of being fidgety and thinking about it and restless and shit. She threw her head back and moaned.

You know...Bobby Preston wasn't here...and none of the furniture would rat on her if she snuck in a third. Hell, he was the one with the problem, not her. _I don't want you winding up back in the fucking blizzard and collapsing again_. Because it _totally_ wasn't the heat that knocked her out. It was the coke. The big, bad, evil coke. She sniffed. Her nose was sore today. She hoped she wasn't getting a cold. She didn't wanna get Lincoln's baby sick, and she was not going to postpone this trip for anything – even if Bobby Preston told her to. She'd punch him like she punched that last asshole. Fuck them.

Sighing, she glanced through the patio door again. Her stash was calling her name. _Luna...come on, Luna...it won't bite...come get happy, girl_. It was better than the whiskey. At least with coke she didn't fill the toilet with vomit at the end of the night and wake up on the hall floor in the morning. Fuck that.

Alright, you know what? Let's get happy.

She got up and went inside.

* * *

When you get something shiny and new, you obsess over it...you look at it, hold it in your hand, think about it, talk about it, _dream_ about it...then you lose interest and move onto the next thing. Lynn Loud was terrified – _terrified_ – that he would feel that way about his child. As the summer of 1968 turned into the fall of 1968, and the palm trees dotting Tucson began to brown, his unease grew until it was almost panic. What if he didn't have it in him to love his child? What if he was gung-ho in the beginning, then became one of those distant sits-in-his-chair-and-watches-TV-with-apathy fathers? He didn't want to be like that...he wanted to be a good dad, an involved dad, a dad that was there for his kids.

That fear, as it turned out, was unfounded. Every day, he was excited to come home, every day he called on his lunch break to ask about Lynn III, and he worried – over everything. Was the bottle too warm? Was he wiping too hard? What if Lynn falls, what if he drops Lynn? On and on and on. This, he figured, would be the rest of his life, and he was alright with that: He loved Lynn with all his heart and soul, and had from the moment of birth...which happened on November 20 instead of the fifteenth. He was on the lot trying to get an old woman into a Buick when Big Bill came rushing over, his hand clamping his hat to his head. "Son, it's happenin'."

Lynn blinked. "Huh?"

"Kathy's water broke. Her mama's takin' her to the hospital now."

Lynn jolted and his eyes went wide. He tried to speak, but sputtered stupidly instead. "Go on," Big Bill said, "I'll be right behind you." He turned to the old lady. "Sorry, ma'am, but this is mighty important." He looked around and spotted Dean leaning against a pick-up truck and talking to an old man. "Dean! You got yourself another customer over here!"

Lynn was rooted in place. It was happening? Oh, God, it was actually _happening?_

"Go on!" Big Bill said and slapped his arm. Lynn came alive with a start and rushed off in a frenzy. "No, damn it, your car's _that_ way!"

He changed directions, pounded to it, and hopped in, peeling off in a scream of tires: The whole way there he was a mess of nerves, every emotion under the sun roiling in him like water on a stove. He was speeding and weaving in and out of traffic, and didn't realize it until red and blue lights appeared in the rearview mirror.

"Shit," he muttered as he pulled to the curb. The police car pulled in behind him, and a cop in a tan uniform with a big gold badge over the breast stepped out: He wore dark sunglasses and a white cowboy hat like Big Bill's, and he strode slowly to the driver side window as if Lynn had all the time in the world.

"Look, I'm real sorry," Lynn said, "my wife's having a baby and..."

"That's what they all say," the cop said, "license and registration."

Sighing, Lynn fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet, pulled out his license, and then reached into the glovebox for the registration. The cop took both, sneered at him, then walked back to his car, leaving Lynn in a state of bursting impatience: He drummed his fingers on the wheel and tapped his foot on the floor. "Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up." At one point his foot tapped the gas, and the car jolted forward, knocking his heart into his throat. In the rearview mirror, the cop angrily slammed his door and stalked toward him. Uh-oh.

"You tryin' to run, boy?" he yelled.

The color drained from Lynn's face and he shook his head. "N-No, sir."

"I coulda shot you through the back of your window and you'd be dead right now." He threw Lynn's license at him. "Get the hell outta here before I drag you out and pound your head in the pavement."

Nodding jerkily, Lynn rolled up the window and got out of there as fast as he could – within the speed limit, of course. Fifteen minutes later, he was in a waiting room with Big Bill and his wife, too restless to sit, too shaky to pace. "She was six centimeters," Mrs. Parker said. "The baby should be along shortly."

The old woman was right, like she always seemed to be; within ten minutes, the doctor came out and congratulated Lynn. In the room, Kathy lie in bed like a dish rag wrung dry, a baby cradled in her arms. When she saw him, she offered a weak smile and whispered to the baby, "There's your daddy."

Lynn had never believed in love at first sight – he didn't even love Kathy when he first saw her – but looking into the eyes of his child, he felt it, an instant and total congealing of unconditional love: It was strange, it was staggering, and it was complete. He would give anything for this baby – his comfort, his happiness, his very life: He came out of that room a different man than he was when he went in, and he embraced his new self with open arms.

Mom was insistent on meeting the baby, and Kathy, so she, Dad, and Leni flew out in December. Maybe being a father changed him more than he expected, for when he saw them, he teared up and almost, _almost_ wept. Mom and Dad looked so _old_ now – the stress

they felt over Lincoln probably had a lot to do with it – and Leni looked exactly the same: Either she was in that strange middle ground where a few years makes no difference, or her absent-headed innocence shielded her from the worry lines and tension blemishes most people accumulate. "Lynn!" she said happily and threw her arms giddily around his neck: Say what you want about Leni, but she's _strong_. Almost snapped his head off. "Where's baby Lynn?"

When he showed them baby Lynn, they all melted into puddles of goo. "Awwww," Mom said, "she looks just like you when you were a baby."

She was lying in her crib, swaddled in a pink blanket and fast asleep, a white cap covering her head and her sparse, silky brown hair. Next to her was a stuffed bear in a baseball jersey and cap, a plush bat in is paws.

"Hi, baby Lynn," Leni whispered, "I'm your auntie Leni and I made you something." It was a pink blanket with BABY LYNN stitched across the front over a picture of a smiling baby. When Lynn finally woke up from her nap, Mom and Leni took turns holding her.

"Three Lynns now," Dad said, and clapped Lynn on the shoulder. "How are we going to tell each other apart?"

"You're one, I'm two, she's three," Lynn grinned.

"You're going to call your daughter '3'?"

"No, we'll just throw her middle name in."

Her middle name was Evelyn, after Kathy's maternal grandmother, who, Lynn had been told, was from Georgia and related somehow to General Beauregard of the Confederate Army. She died long before Kathy was born.

"You're only supposed to do that when they're in trouble," Dad said and nudged him in the ribs. Lynn heard his middle name a _lot_ growing up.

"Has Lincoln talked about names for his baby yet?" Lynn asked. He was disappointed that Lincoln wasn't able to come; he really wanted to see him.

Dad shook his head. "They haven't mentioned anything."

"Is she showing?"

"Oh, yeah," Dad said and laughed. "Not much, I mean, but she's a thin girl and her stomach is starting to poke out."

Presently, Lynn glanced at the showroom clock, saw that it was five to noon, and said screw it: He'd been behind the desk most of the morning, so he earned an early lunch. He straightened his tie, got up, and went into the breakroom, where he picked up the handset of the wall mounted phone, put it to his ear, and dialed home. Kathy answered on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, babe, it's me."

"Hey," she said happily. "How are you?"

"Hanging in there," he said, "is Lynn awake?"

"She is," Kathy replied, "I was just feeding her. Do you want to talk to her?"

"Please."

He waited a minute, then, in the background, Kathy said, "Say hi to Daddy."

Lynn broke out in a smile. "Hi, baby."

In response he got a gurgling sound that made him chuckle. "Are you having a good day?"

A yawn.

"Daddy misses you, baby girl. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"She said bye, Daddy," Kathy said.

Lynn passed the rest of the day anxiously awaiting the moment he could clock off and go home to his daughter, his mind drifting to all the things he wanted to do when she got older. Tea parties and fairy princess stuff, sure, but _he_ was excited about the sports: Baseball, basketball, football. His daughter was going to be a better athlete than most boys, and he was going to be very, very proud of her.

* * *

Today was _not_ a good day. At all.

Hugging herself tightly, Leni Loud pouted at the TV and tried _really_ hard not to cry, but she was sad and when she was sad she cried. It wasn't fair, this was, like, a happy occasion: Ronnie Anne was going to have a baby and Lynn had a baby and Luna was going to be here this evening and she _should_ be happy, but that morning she forget Lincy's name...totally and completely forgot her own brother's name. That was _not_ good. It made her feel like an awful sister. Yeah, her head was sick and she forgot tons of stuff, but Lincoln's _name?_ He was, like, one of the most important people in the world, how could she forget his name?

It happened when she came out of her room that morning to use the bathroom, and he was already in there. She leaned against the wall to wait, and when he came out, she started to say "Hi, Lincy," but she drew a blank after the 'Hi' part. For thirty seconds she just stood there looking at him with furrowed brows trying to remember his name...then it came to her. Lincoln.

"Are you alright?" he asked, cocking his head slightly.

She nodded quickly. "Umhm. I just remembered I forgot something." She hoped he didn't know, because she didn't want to worry him; every time she had a brain fart like this he, Mom, and Dad got worried and she didn't want them to be upset because of her stupid head and her stupid whatever-it-was-called. _She_ was worried, though; if she could forget her own Lincy's name, what's next? Would she forget about Bobby Jr.?

Gasp. She hoped not. She loved Bobby Jr. and since he started going to Kindergarten, she'd been really upset because she didn't have her little buddy to play with anymore. If she forgot Bobby Jr. she would cry.

Why did he have to go to stupid school? School was, like, boring; playing with your auntie Leni is _much_ more fun. On the bright side, though, Ronnie Anne was going to have her baby soon, so she would have him or her to play with! Should it be a boy or a girl? She didn't know. She kind of wanted a girl, because Bobby Jr. was a boy and it would be nice to play dress up and stuff, but she _did_ have a lot of fun playing cops and Indians and stuff...so she'd be happy either way.

"Are you upset about something, dear?" Mom asked from next to her. She glanced over and furrowed her brow. No, why would she ask _that?_ Well...

Leni sighed. "I'm sad that Bobby Jr. has to go to school, but I'm happy Lincoln's baby is going to be here soon."

"So am I," Mom said. "And I'm sure he or she is going to love auntie Leni just as much as Bobby Jr."

"I hope," Leni said, "I like being an auntie." She started to say something else, but stopped, a light blush spreading across her cheeks. It was embarrassing to say to her mother because she, like, wasn't stupid and she knew where babies came from, but...she kind of wanted to be a mommy and have a baby of her own.

She doubted that would happen, though. She, like, had to fall in love with someone first, and she didn't really know anyone _to_ fall in love with...plus she was sick and she might forget her baby's name.

That made her cry.

"Honey," Mom said, scooting closer, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she moaned and hid her face in her hands.

"Something _must_ be wrong. You're crying." Mom put her arm around her shoulders and stroked her hair.

Leni squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself to stop, and eventually she did. "I'm just sad about Bobby Jr.," she lied.

"Oh, honey, you still see him on the weekends, though."

"Yeah, but it's not the same."

"Well...you know...summer's coming up in a few months. I'm sure Lori would be more than willing to send him over here during the day. And who knows, he might even be able to spend the night."

Leni blinked. He could do that? "Yeah?" she asked, looking cautiously up from her hands, her momentary dejection gone – indeed, she'd forgotten why she started crying in the first place...oh, right, Bobby Jr. Focus, Leni.

Mom smiled warmly and nodded her head. "You can build forts out of couch cushions and play with Lincoln's baby and..."

Leni brightened. "I _like_ the sound of that!"

"I figured you would."

After that, Leni was happy.

* * *

Ronnie Anne felt like a walrus: Her stomach was all baby and she didn't walk so much as waddle. In her mind, she was still thin, and sometimes she would go to get up only to have her bump in the way. Getting in bed was hard, getting _out_ of bed was hard, climbing the stairs was hard, coming _down_ the stairs was hard...hell, just being _alive_ was hard. She was always tired, her back was always sore, her feet always ached, and now, over the past few days, her breasts had started to ache too. Oh, and her hormones were off the charts. One minute she was mad, the next she was crying, and the next after _that_ she was so horny she could jump Lincoln in front of his entire family and not care if they saw. She loved the idea of being pregnant, of nurturing hers and Lincoln's child in her womb...but she didn't actually like _being_ pregnant. At all. In fact, she doubted she'd ever do it again.

"I know _exactly_ how you feel," Lori said. They were sitting on her couch. On TV, some stupid guy was hosting a stupid game show and talking to stupid contestants. They annoyed the hell out of Ronnie Anne; she wanted to reach through the screen and strangle them. "Being pregnant with Bobby Jr. was _literally_ hell." Lori picked up her coffee mug and took a sip. "The hormones were the worst."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah, they're pretty fucking bad."

Lori laughed. "Have you lost your mucus plug yet?"

Ronnie Anne grimaced. "My _what?"_

"Your mucus plug. It's stuff that accumulates in your cervix during pregnancy. When it comes out, it means your cervix is opening and getting ready."

Uhh...actually, she _did_ notice some gross clear stuff down there the other day; she felt wet and when she wiped, the toilet paper came back with a snotty glob of awfulness that made her gag. What the fuck _is_ this shit? Am I dying? "I think maybe," she said uncertainly.

Lori brightened. "It won't be long now, then."

Ronnie Anne bit her bottom lip; though she had been preparing herself for nine months to give birth, she was just as nervous as ever. Birth, like death, is something you can ready yourself for but never truly _be_ ready for...until it happens. There was the pain, of course, and the possibility of complications, but there was also the fact that once the baby was out, it was out: Your life kind of...started over. In a good way, but, wow, it's a huge step and if you're not anxious about it, you must be nuts. "H-How long?" she asked.

Lori shrugged. "Depends. It could be a couple days or a couple weeks. For me it was...two weeks, I think? When did you lose it?"

Ronnie Anne had to think for a minute. "Two days ago."

"It could be any time then. Do you have a bag packed and ready to go?"

She nodded. "Yeah." She and Lincoln had a bag filled with supplies she figured she would need at the hospital packed and ready to go.

"Bring socks," Lori said.

"Socks?"

Lori nodded. "Believe it or not, your feet can get _really_ cold during labor. And be nice to the doctors." She smiled knowingly. "With the pain you're going to be pretty grumpy. I know I was: I told my mother I was never going to let Bobby touch me again." She laughed.

"That bad?" Ronnie Anne asked, a hint of concern creeping into her voice.

Lori nodded. "It's pretty intense, but when you hold your baby in your arms, it'll be worth it."

She was sure it would be, but the pain scared her. Many times over the past few months she'd inserted a finger into herself and wondered, with a shudder, how a baby's head was supposed to come out of there. Sometimes, when he was really aroused and therefore extra hard, Lincoln felt like he was ripping her in half...and his penis was nowhere _near_ as big as a baby's cranium.

She must have looked worried, because Lori laid a hand on her leg. "It's really not so bad. It sounds worse than it is."

Yeah...she didn't believe that. It was going to _hurt_...but she did _not_ want to be medicated: She had heard horror stories of babies coming out drugged from the scopolamine, and she would be damned if her baby was going to come out floppy and doped up.

She really wished the hospital would let Lincoln be in the delivery room with her, but they wouldn't; they asked. Having him there would make this a _lot_ less frightening.

"How's Lincoln doing with the no smoking?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Good." As soon as she found out she was pregnant, she stopped smoking cold turkey. Lincoln did it with her because he was a fantastic husband. "He still does it from time-to-time," she said with a sly grin. "He thinks I don't know but I can smell it on him. Super-duper pregnancy nose."

Lori sighed. "Tell me about it. I could smell a stale fart a mile away."

"I let him get away with it. I don't wanna bust his balls. I wasn't going to make him quit; as long as he doesn't do it around me I don't care. It's sweet that he's trying, though." A tear came to her eye, and she blinked. Ugh. Goddamn hormones. It _was_ sweet, though.

"I told Bobby not to do it around me, and he doesn't to this day. I'd like him to quit because those things give you cancer, but no matter _what_ I say he doesn't listen, so..." Lori held up her hands in a _whaddaya gonna do_ gesture.

"You know, I think out of both of us, _I_ got the better deal."

Lori laughed. "I don't know, Bobby's pretty great."

"Not like Lincoln."

Lori shrugged.

* * *

Lincoln slipped into the booth and looked at the girl: She was petite with blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and a button nose, her delicate cheeks smattered with freckles. She wore a bright orange mini dress with no sleeves, a white collar, and a pink and yellow floral print. He was making change at the register when she came in, and he couldn't help notice that the hem of her dress stopped well, _well_ above her knees. Lincoln was no prude, but _that_ bordered on obscenity.

"Hi," she said brightly when she came up to the counter, "I'm here for my interview."

Ah, right, the interview. Lately, Flip had been showing him 'the ropes': How to run the register, how to place and receive orders, how to do this, how to do that. Today he was supposed to interview for a temporary replacement for Ronnie Anne, who worked right up until last week even though Lincoln told her to take it easy. This girl was his first.

Now, he glanced down at the application in his hands, then back up to her. She gave him a toothy smile. "How old are you?" he asked.

"Fifteen," she said buoyantly, "and a half."

Lincoln looked down at the application to hide his grin. You know they're young when they factor in percentages. She didn't look fifteen, though; she looked thirteen or even twelve. "Do you have a student ID card or anything?"

"Yep!" She reached into her purse and pulled out a pocket book, from which she took a laminate ID card. She handed it to Lincoln, and he held it up: Lilly P. Rawlins DOB 10/15/54.

Alright, well, she wasn't lying about her age. He handed it back to her and she put it back into her pocketbook. "You go to school?"

"Yep. Royal Woods High."

"Is Principal Wilson still there?"

Lilly sighed. "Yes, he is, and he's a _total_ square."

Lincoln chuckled. "Some things never change." He scanned the application. "Alright...now, with this job, you have to be on your feet a lot, you're going to have to carry trays full of food, you're going to have deal with irate customers from time-to-time...do you think you can handle that?"

"Totally," she said with a nod.

"Have you ever had a job before?"

"My grandparents own a general store in Florida and I work there when I visit them in the summer. It has a little dining room so I'm, like, the waitress there."

"How busy does it get?"

"Um, it gets pretty busy. It's on the highway, so we get a lot of tourists and stuff."

"I assume you're only available to work after three."

She nodded, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. "Y-Yeah. Because of school."

"That in of itself isn't a problem," he reassured her. "My wife and I worked here all through school."

"Oh, you're married? Groovy, what are you, like, thirty?"

Lincoln snorted a laugh. "Twenty-two."

Lilly blinked. "Oh, I-I'm sorry, you just looked kind of...older is all." She looked nervously away as though he would take offense. He didn't. He knew how he looked. Vietnam and all. And the nightmares...those didn't help matters. He didn't have them as often as he did when he first came home, but at least three nights a week he was back in that cage with a mouthful of maggots...and they were eating him...and the gooks were dead but alive, their eyes black and their faces white, rotting lips stretched over sharp, jagged teeth. He didn't scream on waking, though...he never screamed.

Uh...let's see...what else should he ask her? Something? Anything? He'd never done this before, so he was flying blind here. It felt kind of...skimpy. Then again, she was interviewing to be a waitress, not a corporate manager or something. Can you carry plates? Can you smile? Can you take an order? That's pretty much the extent of the job. Part of him wanted to comment on her dress (you know, you shouldn't wear something like that to a job interview), but he didn't have the heart to potentially hurt the girl's feelings.

"That should be it," he said, glancing down at the paper for a phone number and finding it, "we'll call you if you get the job."

She smiled brightly. "Alright, thanks!"

As she walked away, Lincoln watched the swish of her dress him against the backs of her legs. Something told him she didn't have a father, because if she did, there was no way in _hell_ he'd let her leave the house in a dress that short. God, if he had a daughter and she even _tried_ , he'd...well, he didn't know what he'd do. Say no, obviously, and probably ground her for disrespecting herself like that: You're a lovely young lady, honey, not a piece of meat and not one of those little prostitutes running around Saigon barely old enough to be in middle school. Treat yourself with dignity. Sheesh.

"I caught you, Loud!" Flip cried and slapped his back. Lincoln jumped and spun, his heart blasting into his throat.

Flip nodded. "That's right, I saw you looking. What would your wife say?"

"It wasn't like that," Lincoln said, and leaned against the counter. "I was thinking of what I'd tell _my_ daughter if she wore something like that. You see it? It barely covered her...you know."

"Eh, times change, Loud. I almost shit myself the first time I saw someone walking around in a T-shirt. Now look at me." He pinched the fabric of his white T and pulled it out.

"That's not the same, though," Lincoln said. "That little girl's barely dressed. Would you let _your_ daughter walk out of the house like that?"

"Shit, no."

Lincoln threw his hand up. "There you go."

"Give it fifty years and everyone's gonna be walking around naked and no one's gonna care."

Lincoln snorted. "So much for progress. Sounds like we're going _backwards_."

"Maybe," Flip allowed, "all the boys these days look like cavemen. Beards, long hair, no shirts."

"They act like cavemen too," Lincoln said. "Like those assholes in Chicago last year."

"Yeah, those people're pieces of shit, now stop your damn grousing and get back to work..."


	53. April 1969: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Born on the Bayou**_ **by Creedence Clearwater Revival (1969);** _ **Magic Carpet Ride**_ **by Steppenwolf (1968);** _ **Yummy Yummy Yummy**_ **by Ohio Express (1968)**

* * *

Lincoln picked Luna up at the airport in Detroit at 6:15: He parked in front of the terminal and smoked a cigarette while listening to the radio. Ronnie Anne didn't come with him because getting into (and out _of_ ) the car was a titanic struggle that left her red faced and panting for breath, so he was alone save for Joe Camel, his oldest and dearest friend: He was there when Lincoln was in school, he was there when he was Vietnam, and he was even there after his brief affair with Lucky Strikes. Lincoln hated to see him go, but it was only fair that he quit too. Having one every _once_ in a while was alright, though...hey, chocolate cake isn't good for you either, but a slice here and there never killed anyone.

"Just you and me, Joe," Lincoln said, holding his cigarette in his fingers and looking at it: Was it his imagination, or did it look like something was moving inside of it...like a maggot?

He burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. A maggot. Yeah. Sure. He took a drag and turned up the radio to drown out the thoughts that were starting to come. The music was loud, the twangy guitar filling his head and pushing the memories away:

 _Wish I was back on the bayou rollin' with some Cajun queen.  
_

 _Wishin' I were a freight train, oh, just a-chooglin' on down to New Orleans._

He never got down to New Orleans, but he saw some bayous on the bus to boot camp: Swampy, marshy, stagnant shitholes, and if you looked close enough, you could see the tops of alligators skimming the surface of the scummy water. Why the hell anyone would want to be on one of those was beyond him.

When he got tired of listening to the radio, he got out and leaned against the front of the car. It was warm and breezy. Nice night. Is that a maggot on the ground? I'm joking, I'm joking...see? I can make light of it. I'm here, aren't I? Wasn't so bad. Hell, some people eat those things for fun. The rotting meat was another story, but it wasn't important right now, the important thing was...

Speak of the devil, there she is!

Luna came out of the terminal with a bag slung over her shoulder, her head darting back and forth like she was looking for something (maggots?): She wore a pair of bell bottoms with horizontal red, white, and black stripes, a long sleeve purple shirt with flared cuffs, and a brown vest. A tangle of beads, necklaces, and medallions hung around her neck and a cigarette jutted from between her lips. She looked thinner than she was last year, and there were dark bags under her eyes.

"Hey, weirdo!" Lincoln called.

She jerked her head in his direction, and a big, sunny grin spread across her face. "Hey, bro!" she waved. The heels of her boots clicked against the pavement as she came over.

"I like your costume," he said and hugged her.

"It's always Halloween when you're a musician, man," she replied and hugged him back. "How you been? You excited for little Lincy?"

"I'm good. Nervous." He took her bag, opened the back door, and sat it on the seat.

She chuckled. "I bet. I'd be going _crazy_." She opened the passenger door and climbed in; Lincoln went around back, slipped behind the wheel, and slammed the door. "I don't have room for kids right now. I mean _my_ kids. Your kid's cool. And Bobby Jr. He's cool too." She sniffed and rubbed her nose, then hugged herself and rocked forward. "Oh, and Lynn III."

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "You alright?"

"Yeah, man, I'm fine. Really excited to see Lori and Bobby Jr. I saw Lynn, did I tell you? He's getting a little pudgy." She laughed. The words tumbled from her in a shaky torrent. She's on something, he realized with a clap of horror...has to be.

Shaking his head, Lincoln threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. She rubbed her chin, then her arm, then tapped her fingers against her fist, her legs moving and rubbing together the whole time. "You sure you're alright?" Lincoln asked.

"A-OK, bro. Just drank a lot of coffee on the plane. I didn't get much sleep last night; there was this thing up at Sharon Tate's house and I was hanging out. I figured I could sleep for a few hours and be fine, drink some coffee on the plane, take a nap. Didn't get mu-didn't get much of a nap."

She leaned forward and turned the radio up. "Anything good on? Oh, hey, I know these dudes, they opened for us at the Fillmore!" She turned it up louder, crashing drums and warbling keyboards filling the car:

 _On a cloud of sound I drift in the night_

 _Any place it goes is right_

 _Goes far, flies near_

 _To the stars away from here_

Lincoln winced and turned it down a little. She looked at him strangely. "It's a little loud," he said.

She held up both thumbs and grinned.

Holy God, she is high as a _kite_ , and it's not on grass.

She looked down at her chest, started, and grabbed a cross. "Did I show you this last time? It reminds me of you." She held it out like a self-conscious child with a piece of artwork.

Did she show him that? He honestly couldn't remember. "I don't think so. Why does it remind you of me?"

"Because you're Jesus."

"What the fuck are you on?"

She shrugged. "You just remind me of him."

"How do I remind you of Jesus?"

Luna threw a hand up. "You sacrificed, man. In the war."

"A lot of people sacrificed. A lot of people are _still_ sacrificing. Some of them sacrificed their lives, Luna. I didn't."

She nodded heavily. "I know, but for a while I thought you were d-dead and it really hurt." She blinked back tears and hugged herself again.

Lincoln sighed, then reached out and took her hand in his. "I know it was rough, and I'm sorry. It was rough on everybody. Mom, Dad, Ronnie Anne, you."

"It's not your fault," Luna said and weaved her fingers through his. She squeezed his hand. "They made you go."

"Yeah, but that's the past. I'm back now and everything's alright."

She smiled. "Yeah, it is."

Dusk was falling over the landscape now, darkness pooling across the surface of the ground like black water. Purple light touched the western sky, and a sliver of moon glowed among the evening's first stars. Luna leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath. "You hoping for a boy or a girl?" she asked.

"Either one's fine with me," Lincoln said. He lit a cigarette (his last for the day) and rested his left arm on the door. A part of him hoped for a son, but another part wanted a little girl who was just as beautiful as her mother. It was like apples to oranges: Both great, but totally different experiences, or so his mother said. _Boys are easier,_ she said. Maybe they were, he didn't know.

"What about Ronnie?"

"Same," he said, "though she says she wants to give me a son. I told her it doesn't matter, but she has her heart set on it." Several times now in bed she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. When he asked her what she was doing, she said _Making our baby a son_. She did it half-joking, but she was kind of serious about wanting him to have a boy. Hey, if it didn't work this time, they could always try again, wink-wink.

"You gonna name him Lincoln Jr.?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Nah. I'll give him his own name. Bill or George..."

"Anything but Sue?" Luna grinned.

Lincoln laughed. "I didn't know you liked Johnny Cash."

"I didn't know _you_ liked Johnny Cash."

Lincoln shrugged and took a drag. "I never really liked country, but, I don't know, it's alright."

"Everything's got something good, you know? Except opera. I don't think I like any opera."

Lincoln tilted his head. He didn't think he liked any opera either...not that he knew much about it. Hell, most of what he knew about opera came from Bugs Bunny cartoons. Okay, not most... _all_. "You never go to the opera out there?" he asked playfully.

"Nah, man, I don't really go out. To parties and stuff but not _out_." She fidgeted restlessly, her hand slapping her knee. "There's nothing I really like to do. Sometimes...sometimes I don't even like playing music."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Sometimes it just isn't fun."

"Well, I guess even if you love something it can't _always_ be fun. I love Ronnie Anne, but sometimes she's grumpy or on the rag and it's not fun, but all the other times make up for it."

Luna bobbed her head thoughtfully left and right, her bottom lip sticking out. "Yeah, I guess. You still at Flip's?"

He nodded. "Yep. Unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately?"

"It's not a real job. I have a kid on the way, I need to find something better. Ronnie Anne's got teaching, and here I am flipping hamburger patties." He sighed. It kind of made him feel like a failure as a man. He said as much, and Luna gasped.

"Dude, you're, like, a war hero. You get a pension, right?"

Lincoln shook his head. "I'm eligible. I applied and I'm waiting on the VA paperwork, it's just a pain in the ass."

Luna grinned. "That's pretty cool if you get it. Money for nothing. I mean it's for something, but you don't have to do anything else, you know?"

"I just hope it comes through."

"I'm sure it will," Luna said confidently. "Like I said, bro, you're a war hero."

"No, I'm not a war hero."

Luna laughed. "Yes you are. Stop with the bullshit humble stuff."

"I'm not being humble. I don't think I'm a hero."

"Fuck what you think," she said. "Everyone else thinks you are."

Lincoln barked shocked laughter. "Fuck what I think?"

"Yeah. Fuck what you think. Dumbass."

They both laughed. "Alright, alright," he said, "fine."

"And if you ever want a job, man, come see me. I can put you in the band. I been wanting to do a song with tambourines and people clapping their hands and shit, you can be on it. Just clap. That's all. Take you five minutes."

Lincoln snorted. "I'll spend more flying out there than I'll make."

Luna shook her head. "No you won't. _I'll_ fly you out. I want you and Ronnie Anne to visit anyway. I think you guys would like L.A. It's pretty nice. And the place I'm renting has a far out view."

"Yeah, that might be fun," Lincoln said honestly. He wouldn't mind seeing Los Angeles: From all the pictures and movies he'd seen, Southern California was beautiful.

"I'm telling you," she said and sniffed. "You got a napkin in here?" She opened the glovebox and froze.

"What?" Lincoln asked.

"Dude...why's there a gun in here?"

"Self-defense," he said. Why else would he own a gun? He glanced at her; she sat stock still, her eyes wide, like she was staring at a coiled snake instead of a .38 revolver. He leaned over, grabbed it by the barrel, and took it out.

"Uh...from what? Ninjas?"

Lincoln shrugged. "From whatever." No, he did not buy it with the Vietcong in mind, and no, he wasn't going to shoot anybody (unless he had to): He bought it because he had a family now, and when a man has a family, the more important thing to him is providing for them...and protecting them. The world is full of dangerous people, robbers, rapists, killers...you might not give that much thought on your own, but when you have a child on the way, a precious and invaluable _baby_ who depends entirely on you to keep it safe, you do, and if it doesn't make your blood run just a _little_ cold, you're either stupid or crazy.

Luna nodded. "Alright."

Lincoln glanced at her. "It's just a – your nose is bleeding."

She blinked. "Oh, yeah, that's right, a napkin." She rummaged in the glovebox, then pulled out a tissue. Lincoln watched worriedly as a thick trickle of blood coursed down from her right nostril and dripped over her upper lip. She sniffed, and dabbed her nose.

He had a sudden realization, and claws of apprehension dug into his stomach. "You're doing cocaine, aren't you?" When he first got to Vietnam, the brass showed the new arrivals a film on the dangers of drug use, and one of the drugs it discussed was cocaine: Symptoms of cocaine use ('inform a superior officer if you suspect one of your fellow servicemen is using') include agitation, restlessness, and nosebleeds. "You are!"

Luna shook her head. Her face was suddenly white. "Nah, man, it's not like that."

"Yes it is! Goddamn it, Luna!"

She held up her hands. "I swear, I don't do blow!"

This was _not_ fucking good. "Luna, that shit's _really_ dangerous."

"I swear, I'm not doing cocaine!"

He looked at her, and she faltered under his gaze, turning away and hugging herself. "How long?" he asked.

She didn't reply.

"How long?"

"Don't worry about it," she said sullenly.

"Yeah, I'm gonna worry about it. How long have you been doing coke?"

She sighed deeply and gazed out the window. They were crossing the bridge into Royal Woods now, the lights of town scattering the darkness that had been pressing against the windows.

"Luna, h –?"

" _Don't worry about it!"_ she roared, spinning in her seat. _"I'm fine!"_

Lincoln looked at her: Her jaw was clenched and her eyes were two pools of shadows; her skin was white, ghostly, and in the rush of a passing streetlamp, a sheen of sweat stood out on her brow.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the road and took a puff of his cigarette. His mind whirled with a thousand questions, his chest rippled with a thousand emotions – chief among them was concern.

For a long stretch, dark tension filled the car. "I'm stopping, okay?" Luna finally said. "I'm in the middle of quitting. You don't have to worry."

He shot her a sidelong glance: More blood was trickling from her nostril, and she dabbed it with the napkin. One thing Lincoln remembered about cocaine from that film was that it's highly corrosive – it eats away the membrane of your nose. "I'm already doing better than I was. I'm weening myself off of it."

Okay. Sure. Just like an alcoholic weens himself off bourbon or whiskey.

They pulled into the driveway and parked behind Dad's Packard. Lincoln killed the headlights and cut the engine. "Hey," Luna said, and he looked at her. "Please don't say anything about this."

"I won't," he said, "but you need to realize how bad that shit is for you. Look at your nose. You might as well be sniffing broken glass. And your heart – you know that stuff fucks with your heart, right?"

Luna nodded like a chastised child. "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry, I just...you know, it happened and I'm taking care of it."

He sighed and put his hand on her leg. "Please do. I don't want anything bad happening to you." He forced a weak smile. "I'm not busting your ass because I wanna be a prick, I'm busting it because I care about you."

"Aw, thanks, bro," she said and patted his hand. "I care about you too."

"Come on," he said, "everyone else wants to see you."

He got out, opened the back door, and reached across the seat for her bag. She came around the front of the car and looked up at the house, something like wonder touching her eyes. "Man, this place hasn't changed a bit."

Lincoln slammed the door and laughed. "It's only been...what, four years?" He thought about it. "Four years exactly. It was April when you left."

Luna nodded. "Yeah, yeah it was. Sometimes it feels like it's been forty years or something.

Inside, Mom and Leni were on the couch and Dad was in his chair, a rerun of _The Beverly Hillbillies_ on TV. When Lincoln and Luna came through the door, they all looked over, and each one smiled. "Luna!" Leni cried and jumped up.

"Hey, guys!" Luna said.

While she got caught up, Lincoln carried her bag upstairs and into his and Lynn's old room, snapping the overhead light on as he went. He sat it on Lynn's bed, which he made up for her the night before, and started to leave, but stopped. Making sure he was unobserved, he unzipped the bag and rummaged inside, tossing nervous glances over his shoulder. His fingertips brushed across something, and he picked it up: A clear bag full of white powder. Though he knew already, actually seeing it, and holding it in his hands, made his heart clinch.

For a moment he didn't know what to do: A very, very large part of him wanted to flush it down the toilet, but a very _vocal_ part of him objected: He was smart enough to know that pushing an addict (if he wasn't overreacting and Luna _was_ addicted) would only make things worse. He did not want that...on the other hand, he did not want her putting toxic crap up her nose.

Sighing, he shoved the baggie back in, zipped the bag, and went to his room. He needed to think.

Ronnie Anne was in bed, the covers pulled up to her chest and her stomach making a humped peak. She was laughing when he came in: _Laugh-In_ was on...she loved _Laugh-In_. He didn't: It was kind of stupid, especially the sketch where the woman says, "Sock it to me!" and gets water thrown on her. He told Ronnie Anne in the past that he wouldn't insult her taste in comedy...if she had any: She punched him so hard in the arm he saw stars.

"Hey!" she said happily.

"Hey," he replied and dropped onto the edge of the bed. He untied his shoes and pulled them off.

"You're just in time, your baby is awake."

"Yeah?" Lincoln asked.

"He or she's having a dance party in my stomach."

Lincoln chuckled and stretched out next to her. He slipped his hand under the cover and rested it atop her bulge. "Here," she said, taking his hand and guiding to her left side; his fingertips brushed a baby-foot shaped protrusion. Every time he felt his baby move, a big, stupid grin broke across his face, and his grin usually made Ronnie Anne grin. Lincoln pressed against the foot (felt like the heel), and it yanked away. "Playing hide and seek with daddy, huh?" she asked.

Shifting, Lincoln pressed his lips to her stomach. "Where'd you go?" he asked.

Ronnie Anne let out an _oof_. "You sacred him. He jumped a _foot_."

"Sorry," Lincoln said. "Daddy didn't mean to...come back."

He (or she) did, kicking him in the mouth. Ronnie Anne laughed until tears streamed down her face while Lincoln pulled back and sat up. "Fine then," he said, "playtime with Daddy is _over_."

Ronnie Anne waved her hand and tried to catch her breath, but his quizzical expression made her laugh even harder. "Kid's gonna be just like you," he said.

"Pay back for scaring 'em, lame-o," she said.

Lincoln started to reply, but Luna cut him off. "Sounds like a party in here!" He turned as she came into the room, her head down and a grin on her face. She knelt on the bed and shifted onto her butt. "Is that my little Lincy-baby in there, or are you just happy to see me?"

"No, she's just fat."

Ronnie Anne tried to swat him, but her stomach was in the way and he pulled back with a laugh.

"Can I touch your bump?" Luna asked.

"Everyone else does," Ronnie Anne said.

Grinning ear-to-ear, Luna drew her legs under her and leaned forward; she laid both of her hands on Ronnie Anne's stomach like a mystic would a crystal ball, and then slowly moved them back and forth. "Man, this is really – hey, it kicked me!" She laughed merrily.

"It just kicked daddy in the face," Ronnie Anne said.

"He or she hits as hard as mommy does."

"Hey," Luna said, "where'd you go? Come back. Your aunt Luna wants to hang."

"Little one likes hide and seek," Ronnie Anne said.

"So does auntie Leni," Lincoln said. "Something tells me they'll get along just fine."

Luna sat back and rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. "How's it been? Like, easy?"

Ronnie Anne sighed. "I feel fat and bloated and moving is hard. I don't know if I want to do this again."

"You're tougher than me," Luna said, "I don't think I wanna do it _once_." She sniffed. "Are they gonna drug you up?"

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Nope. I'd like my baby to _not_ come out stoned."

Stoned.

Being home and with the two people he loved most – Ronnie Anne and the life growing inside of her – Lincoln had almost completely forgotten about Luna and her coke, but now it all came back, and he found himself watching her as she and Ronnie Anne talked. He didn't know enough about cocaine to know if she was high right now or not, but he didn't think she was. Her pupils were normal and she didn't fidget the way she did in the car. She was pale and sweaty, though, and every once in a while she sniffed. When he first saw her at the airport, he thought she looked thinner; looking at her now, he _knew_ she was. Her cheeks were on the verge of hollowness, and her eyes weren't exactly sunken, but they were getting there.

In other words, she looked awful.

Lincoln's stomach twisted.

"You guys got any names in mind?" Luna asked.

"We've talked about it," Ronnie Anne said.

They had settled on two names – one girl name and one boy name. It wasn't easy finding one of each gender that they both liked, but they did – after many, many months of searching.

He looked at Luna again. She said she was quitting...but could he believe her? And if she wasn't, what could he do? Yell at her? Slap her across the face?

Kidnap her and hold her somewhere until she cleaned out?

He didn't know. He just didn't know.

* * *

When Luna Loud woke the next morning, her head was achy and her stomach rolled sickly. Still half asleep, she pushed herself up in bed and looked around. Something wasn't right. The shadows were different, the light fell in strange patterns. What? Where was she?

She swung her legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. What time was it? She looked up at the nightstand, but her clock wasn't there. Did she get robbed?

Her heart clutched. Oh, shit, she got robbed! She tried to get up, but her knees wouldn't support her.

She was beginning to come more awake now, and slowly memory crept back. Oh, right, she was in Lynn and Lincoln's old room. In Royal Woods. She tittered. Wow, Lune, go back to bed and try this again, huh? She would have, but she _really_ had to pee. She got up, waited until she was steady, then went out into the hall. She heard TV sounds and talking from downstairs. Mom and Dad were up, Dad heading out to work for the day. For a moment the strongest sense of déjà vu she had ever felt swept through her, and she leaned against the wall. Man, it's like I never left.

The bathroom door was closed, the muffled hiss of the shower coming from beyond. Yeah, sorry, I am _not_ waiting in line. She turned the knob and poked her head in. Steam rushed out over her, and the sound of Leni's high, musical voice drifted to her ears:

" _Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy and I feel like a..."_ she trailed off, then started again, singing the same snatch of song three times while Luna listened, her nose crinkled. Leave it to Leni to like that bubblegum stuff.

"Hey, sis, I'm coming in," Luna said when she remembered she was there to piss and not to judge her sister's musical tastes.

"Okay, I don't mind!" Leni chirped.

Luna crossed to the toilet, lifted the lid, and yanked her pants and underwear down. She sat, and gasped as the cold seat touched her warm flesh. "Do you wanna do something today?" Leni asked.

"I was gonna go see Lori," Luna said, "you wanna come?"

"Yes, please!"

"Alright, it's a date," Luna said and started to pee.

"Uhhh...we're sisters, Luna, we can't date."

Luna propped her elbows on her knees and rested her face in her hands. "Sure we can...just don't tell Mom and Dad."

Leni was quiet for a moment. "Alright," she said uncertainly, "just, uh, be a gentleman."

Luna laughed so hard tears filled her eyes. She'd forgotten what a trip Leni could be. "Alright. I'll keep my hands to myself."

"Thank you!"

Luna nodded and yawned. "Sure thing." She was done peeing now, but she didn't have the energy to get up, so she looked around and grabbed a tube of toothpaste from the sinktop. Let's see what's in this stuff.

As Luna read, Leni started to sing again, apparently having remembered more lyrics – or maybe she was making up her own, Luna didn't know:

" _Yummy, yummy, yummy_

 _I got love in my tummy that your love can satisfy_

 _Love, you're such a sweet thing, good enough to eat thing_ " She stopped again and sighed frustratedly. "Why can't I remember that song?"

Luna sat the toothpaste aside and grabbed a wad of toilet paper. "I don't know. Don't feel bad, sometimes I forget my own songs." She laughed. It was true; a couple times she'd pulled a blank onstage and had to whip something out of her ass to cover.

"You should totally play some of your songs later," Leni said, "that would be _cool_."

"Sorry, but I left my ax in Cali."

"That's okay, your old one's still here."

Luna paused in the middle of getting up. "Old one?"

"Yeah, the one you made."

It came back to her then: Before Daggy gave her her first real guitar, she made one out of a cigar box, just like Bo Diddly. Wow, she hadn't thought about that thing in _years_. "It's still here?"

Leni hummed in confirmation. "It's in the garage. I just saw it, like, the other day."

Talk about a blast from the past. Suddenly she really wanted to see it. But first, breakfast.

In her room, she shut the door, went over to the bed, and knelt. She pulled her bag out, unzipped it, and found her coke. Holding it in her hands, she thought back to the argument she had with Lincoln the night before and felt a rush of shame. Man, she didn't mean to yell at him like that. And she got it, he was trying to look out for her – just like him – but he didn't get it. Yeah, it's bad for you, but it's not like you're gonna take a hit and die. Sheesh. Those cigarettes he smoked were just as bad.

Right?

She shook her head and cut a line on the nightstand. She wouldn't do much – just enough to get her through: If she started acting loopy, Lincoln would have a cow. He just cared, that's all. She leaned forward and sniffed...it burned going up, and she started coughing. Ouch.

She debated another line, but decided against it. Instead, she got dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple white blouse. She reached for her beads and shit, but said screw it, though she did take the cross that reminded her of Lincoln.

Downstairs, Mom was sitting on the couch. "Morning, honey," she said.

"Good morning, Mom."

"How'd you sleep?"

"Good."

In the kitchen, Lincoln was sitting at the table and eating a bowl of cereal. He glanced up and nodded since his mouth was full. "Hey, bro," Luna said and grazed her hand along his head as she passed. At the counter she poured herself a cup of coffee. The coke was kicking in and she felt human again. "You got work today?"

"Yeah," he said, "Flip's a slaver."

Luna laughed. "Yeah, I'd like to see him." She took a sip. "Is, uh, is Daggy in town?"

"I don't think so."

Luna knew he was drafted at the same time as Lincoln but beyond that, she didn't know much else. Bobby got a letter from him every once in a while: The last she heard he got a bump in rank for doing something brave. She sighed. She was really hoping to see him. "What time do you leave?" she asked.

Lincoln glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes."

"Do you know if Lori works today?"

"Yes!" Mom called from the living room. "She'll be off at three, though."

"I can take you by there later if you want," Lincoln offered.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

After Lincoln left, Luna finished her coffee and sat the cup in the sink. So, Lori was at work and Daggy wasn't here...what could she do with herself?

When Leni came in wearing a sleeveless yellow sundress, it hit her. "Hey, where'd you see my guitar?"

"In the garage."

"Where in the garage?"

The older girl touched her finger to her chin. "Ummm...I can't remember."

She went through the connecting door and Luna followed. Some things never changed, she supposed, and the garage was one of them: It looked just like it did in her memories, and she was slightly taken aback. Leni crossed to a row of metal shelves and put her hands on her hips. "I was looking for...I don't know, but it was in this area, I think." She stood on her tippy toes, then knelt. "Oh, here it is!" She reached into a box and pulled it out: When Luna's eyes fell upon it, her head exploded. Not literally, but, wow, yeah, blast from the past. She went over and Leni handed it to her. It felt strange in her hands...she turned it over and studied it: The square body, the loose strings, the slightly crooked fretboard. She grinned stupidly. The memories she had with this thing: You couldn't just tune it, you had to use pliers or something, and didn't she take this to audition at a bar or something? Yeah! The day she met Daggy. The owner said she couldn't play or something and she was so upset she almost cried – or she did cry. Something.

"You play me a song?" Leni pouted, still kneeling.

Luna snickered. "Yeah, I'll play you a song." She sat next to her sister and leaned against the leg of a workbench. She held the guitar across her lap and tore a quick riff, the corners of her mouth turning up. Man, this thing sounded like shit compared to her Fender. For a second, she tried to think of something to play – she wasn't in the mood for one of her songs – then she started strumming. Leni tilted her head, not recognizing it until Luna began to sing, then she did and her face lit up.

"Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy..." she trailed off and looked at Leni. "I don't know the rest. You gotta help me out, okay?"

"Okay!"

Luna chuckled. "Alright, from the top: Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got love in my tummy..."

"And I feel like a-loving you, love, you're such a sweet thing, good enough to eat thing, and that's just a-what I'm gonna do." Leni bobbed her head back and forth and giggled.

"Yummy, yummy, yummy, I want coke in my tummy, it'll make me feel good." Luna burst out laughing. "What other songs do you like?"

"Your songs," Leni said without hesitation.

Luna smiled. "You know, my songs aren't like the other stuff you listen to."

"I know. I still like them, though."

"Alright," Luna said. "How about I do a song just for you?"

"Just for me? Yay!"

Luna grinned. "Let's see." She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling and thought for a minute. She started to play. "Leni is my sister...and boy, I missed her...now we're together and my heart's light as a feather." She snickered and Leni giggled. "She wants a song so here we go, a song for Leni...whoa."

"You're silly," Leni said. "I like it, though."

"Thanks," Luna said. "I just made it up on the spot."

"Do one about Lincoln's baby!"

Luna nodded. "Alright." She thought for a minute, then plucked the strings. "Lincoln, my bro, is gonna have a baby, you know. It's gonna come out Ronnie's belly and then poop really smelly."

Leni laughed so hard she nearly fell over. "Stop!"

"Then it's gonna pee on Leni's dress," Luna grinned, "and make one hell of a mess."

"Gross!" Leni cried between laughs. "That's _not_ gonna happen."

Luna nodded. "Oh, yes it is."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh. It's gonna pee on all your clothes and you're gonna have to wear a burlap sack...then it's gonna pee on that too."

"You are _wrong,_ Luna. Babies don't pee on auntie Leni."

Luna started to play again. "Leni's gonna be covered in pee, pee, pee, just wait, Leni, and you'll see, see, see."

Leni slapped her arm and Luna laughed. She hadn't had this much fun playing music in years; only if she had a little more coke...


	54. April 1969: Part 3

Lincoln made change and handed it to an old man in pants that came up to his nipples. "Thank you," the geezer said shakily, then turned around and hobbled away. Lincoln closed the register and rubbed his head. It was approaching one and he was getting a twinge above his right eye, which usually meant he'd be flat on his back unless he took something. Luckily, there was a first aid kit under the counter: He whipped it out, opened it, and found a bottle of aspirin. He unscrewed the lid, shook two tablets into his hand, and tossed them in, crunching them between his teeth and grimacing as bitter chalk filled his mouth.

"So," Flip said as he came up and leaned against the counter, "which one are you hiring?"

Lincoln worked up saliva and swallowed. "I don't know." After Lilly, he interviewed three more women for the position: One was in college, one was so old she could barely walk, and the last was in her twenties. He liked her the best because she had open availability: Lilly and the other girl could only work in the afternoons and on the weekends.

He said as much, and Flip nodded. "Yeah, I kind of liked Santiago being here whenever. No schedule hassle." He sighed, then said, "I mean Loud. I kind of expected you to take _her_ last name."

Lincoln blinked. "Why's that?"

Flip shrugged. "She's the one who wears the pants in the family."

Lincoln shook his head and Flip laughed. "I'm messing with you, Loud. Don't pull no army moves on me. Mine are rusty."

"Dangerous weapons, Flip," Lincoln said of his hands, "dangerous weapons."

"My ass is a dangerous weapon after a can of beans," Flip said.

"Gas is outlawed under the Geneva Convention." Through the front door, Lincoln watched two people cross the street and start across the parking lot. He leaned forward and squinted: Luna and Leni.

Flip blew a raspberry. "In _my_ war gas was an everyday thing."

"You mean the war you didn't fight in?" Lincoln teased. Luna reached the door first, and held it open for Leni, then came behind.

Flip started to reply, but saw Luna and stopped. "Hol-ee shit, it's the Reefer Queen."

"Hey, bro!" Luna cried happily.

"Hi, Lincy!"

Lincoln lifted a hand. "Hey."

They came up to the counter, Luna looking at Flip and narrowing her eyes. "Wow, Flip, you got old."

"Least I didn't look like a clown on national television."

She snickered and leaned against the counter. "You saw _Bandstand?"_

"Yep. I was so embarrassed for you I turned it off after two minutes."

"That's how _everyone_ dresses in Hollywood," Luna said. She slipped onto a stool and Leni did the same.

"Yeah, Holly _weird_. What do you want?"

Luna grinned. "The usual, man."

Flip clapped Lincoln on the back. "Your sister wants a burger with fries and spit on it. Go make it happen."

"What do _you_ want, Leni?" Lincoln asked.

"Uhhh...just a hamburger."

In the kitchen, he slapped two patties on the grill and threw some fries into the strainer. While he waited, he watched Luna through the window: She smiled and gestured with her hands as she and Flip caught up. Her pupils looked normal from here, but he couldn't really tell. He didn't _think_ she was high.

Good.

When the burgers were done, he plated them and carried them out, sitting one – topped with fries – in front of Luna, and the other in front of Leni. "Thanks, bro," Luna said. "Thank you, Lincy," Leni added.

"Did you see Ronnie Anne before you left?"

Luna, her mouth full, nodded. She said something but it was a garbled, food-spraying mess. She laughed, and started to choke: Leni slapped her on the back, and a wad of chewed up burger landed on the counter. "You're kid's really kicking her ass today," she said.

"He or she kicked my hand off of mommy's belly," Leni pouted. "Auntie Leni is sad."

"That active, huh?"

Luna nodded. "Yeah, man, he's _all_ jazzed up."

Well, it _was_ close to go time. Bobby Jr. got really active right before he was born; maybe Ronnie Anne was about to go.

That made him happily nervous...or nervously happy...whichever you prefer.

A rush of customers came in, and Lincoln had to get back to the grill. By the time he was done, Leni and Luna had left. Making sure there were no other orders waiting to come in, he slipped up front and called home. Mom picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom, it's me, can you have Ronnie Anne come to the phone?"

"You're in luck," Mom said, "she's in the kitchen eating lunch. Otherwise I'd tell you no; going up and down stairs is torture for a pregnant woman."

"I've heard."

She laid the phone down, and a minute later Ronnie Anne's voice came on the line. "Hey, square-for-brains! Checking up on me?"

"Actually, yeah," he said, "Leni and Luna just came in and said the baby was really active."

"Yeah," she said with a laugh, " _really_ active. If it keeps up like this, my water's going to break _any_ minute."

Lincoln's grip tightened on the phone. "Should I come home?"

"Relax," she said, "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Your mom's here and she's had six kids, so I'm okay. If my water breaks, I'll call you. And don't panic. There's no reason to rush around like dumbasses." He detected a nervous undercurrent in her voice, and that made _him_ nervous. _Relax, Loud, she's just having a baby. Most normal and natural thing in the world._

Yeah, normal and natural, heh. Nothing to worry about, just chill out.

"Alright," he said, "well...yeah, call me."

"I will," she said, a smile in her voice.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Lincoln. Have a good rest of your day."

"You too."

Lincoln hung up.

No reason to worry...no reason to worry _at all_.

* * *

Walking through Royal Woods was like a trip down memory lane: Everywhere she looked Luna remembered _something_...sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes something she couldn't name. Outside the bowling alley, she stood on the sidewalk and craned her neck up toward the windows in hers and Daggy's old bedroom. Red curtains hung in it; they had white. She drew a sad sigh and thought about him as she walked next to Leni; Leni prattled happily about everything under the sun, and while Luna nodded here and there, she wasn't listening. She hoped he was okay over there: Even after all these years he meant a lot to her. She _would_ get his address off Bobby, but he never answered the letters she sent from California, so he probably wouldn't answer any new ones. She couldn't really blame him; she hurt him...she probably wouldn't write to her either.

From the bowling alley, they walked south, Luna leading the way. When they reached the coffee shop, she stopped, and Leni kept going, her eyes closed. Luna snatched her by the back of her dress and pulled her to a stop.

Inside, it looked the same. There was a girl behind the counter with red hair. Luna asked about Lucy, but Lucy got married a couple years ago and moved away, sorry. That bummed Luna out; she was hoping she was still here.

She ordered a coffee for old times' sake, and she and Leni sat at a table by the window. Luna sipped slowly as she watched people passing on the sidewalk. She didn't recognize anyone. Shouldn't she recognize _someone?_ She lived in this town nearly her entire life, she went to school here, to _college_ here...why didn't she recognize anyone? She turned to Leni, then stopped. The girl's eyes were clouded with confusion and her brow was pinched. "You alright?" Luna asked.

"I'm fine," Leni said, "I just...I forgot what I was talking about. Is your coffee good? It looks yummy. Can I have a sip? You can have a sip of mine."

They switched coffees. Leni's was overly sweet – like her. Leni grimaced. "You don't, like, have any sugar in here. You're weird."

Luna grinned. "I like it straight. Maybe some whiskey in it. You know, Irish coffee."

"Irish? What makes it Irish?"

"The whiskey."

"Why?"

"Because Irish people are alcoholics."

"Oh. I didn't know that."

After leaving the coffee shop, they walked aimlessly. It was about three at that point, and the teenagers had been let out of school: She saw shaggy hair, mustaches, dresses so short they barely covered crotches...and kids who looked so square it hurt. Plaid shirts tucked into Chino pants, beehives...those were stranger than the long hair!

When they got home, Luna was starting to flag, and if she didn't get some coke in her system, she was going to crash. Mom was on the couch watching _One Life to Live_ , and Leni squealed. "I totally forgot! Did Mark come out of his coma yet?" She dropped next to Mom and leaned excitedly forward.

"Not yet, dear, it just came on."

Upstairs, Luna went to her room, shut the door, and locked it. She knelt, got her bag out from under the bed, and scraped a line onto the table. She leaned over, sniffed, and then scraped another. Fuck it. She _needed_ it.

When she was done (oh, yeah, I'm feeling it now!), she got and went into the hall. I know, I'll hang with Ronnie Anne! In her room, Ronnie Anne was sitting up in bed and watching TV. She looked over when Luna came in. "Hey, sis," Luna said, "what are we watching?" She climbed onto the bed and sat next to Ronnie Anne.

" _The Edge of Night,"_ Ronnie Anne said. "It's a soap opera but not one of those sissy ones like your mom watches. No offense."

"Pfft, no skin off _my_ ass, man; I hate those things. How's the baby? Still wailing on you?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Oh, yeah. My stomach is _so_ sore. He kicked me so hard earlier I thought my rib was going to crack."

"Can that actually happen?" Luna asked with drawing horror.

"Apparently. Your mom said it happened to a friend of hers."

Luna shuddered and hugged herself. "Damn." She laughed. "That's wild." She felt something trickling from her nostril and sniffed. Man, this was some cheap ass coke.

"Yeah, I'm hoping to have it _out_ before it maims me."

"It's gonna maim your cootchie anyway, man."

Ronnie Anne winced. "I'm actually pretty worried about that. Not that it'll mess me up or anything, but...I mean, how can a whole _person_ come out of there?"

"I don't know. I never really thought about it. Your body's _supposed_ to do it, though, so I guess...you'll be fine."

Ronnie Anne sighed. "Still scary, though." She shifted to the edge of the bed and got up, but froze, her breath hitching.

"You alright?" Luna asked, suddenly worried.

Ronnie Anne turned slowly. The first thing Luna noticed was her face: The color had drained from it and her eyes were wide. The second was the bright red blood staining the front of her maternity dress. Rivulets coursed down her legs.

"Oh, shit," Luna muttered.

* * *

Lincoln tossed a patty onto the grill and leaned against the prep table. He was tired and all he wanted to do was clock off and go home, but closing wasn't for another two and a half hours, and the dinner rush was just starting. He sighed, grabbed a bag of fries, and dumped them into the fryer. Next, he went to the fridge, grabbed a stack of patties, and laid them out on the table. He checked the serving table, found that he was almost out of tomato slices, and grabbed one from a shelf underneath. He picked up a knife and hurriedly cut it.

At the grill, he flipped the patty and took the fries out, then dumped them onto a plate. "Lincoln."

He sputtered and glanced up. Flip was in the window, a pinched look of concern on his face. "Here." He held up the phone, and as soon as Lincoln saw it, he knew something was wrong.

Grabbing it, he pressed it to his ear, leaning so that the cord didn't rip from the wall. "Hello?"

"Honey, you need to come home right now," Mom said, her voice even – too even.

Lincoln's heart sank. "Why? What's wrong?"

"We need to go to the hospital."

"Is she having the baby?"

"I-I don't know."

 _I don't know. I don't know?_

Panic filled Lincoln. "Alright. I'm leaving now." Without waiting for a response, he handed the phone back to Flip. "Sorry, I gotta go, something's wrong."

Flip nodded. Lincoln ripped his apron off, threw it aside, and forced himself to walk through the dining room instead of run. Outside, he broke and rushed to the car, his heart starting to throb.

 _We need to go to the hospital..._

 _I don't know..._

That forced calm voice.

Lincoln threw the car into reverse, nearly slammed into a pick-up truck, and hit the gas, pulling onto the street in front of a bus: Brakes screeched and a horn honked. He didn't notice, though; his hands gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white, a thousand horrible visions flashing through his mind and bringing tears to his eyes. When he realized he was doing seventy, he let up on the gas and swallowed hard.

When he pulled into the driveway, the front door swung open and Mom came out, followed by Ronnie Anne; Luna and Leni were on either side of her. Lincoln noticed the blood on her dress, and his body turned to ice. Mom came over to the door behind the driver seat and opened it. "What's happening?" Lincoln asked fearfully.

Ronnie Anne's step faltered, and a look of pain crossed her face. Mom gestured for them to hurry. _"What's happening?"_

"She's bleeding," Mom said, "it could be nothing but we need to go _now_."

Luna got into the car first and helped Ronnie Anne from the front while Leni held her hand. She sat, and cried out.

"What happened?" Lincoln asked into the rearview mirror.

"I-I don't know," Luna said, "she just started bleeding."

Leni got in and closed the door. When Mom was in the passenger seat, Lincoln threw the car into reverse and backed into the street.

"Does it hurt?" he asked Ronnie Anne.

"A little," she said through clenched teeth, "it's mainly pressure."

That was _not_ good. It could be any of a million things...a million awful, terrible things. "I was alright then when I went to stand up, I started gushing."

"Honey, slow down," Mom said. Lincoln glanced at the speedometer: He was pushing seventy again. He eased up.

Ronnie Anne moaned. "Ahhh, that hurt!"

"What?" Lincoln asked. His voice was shaking. Hell, _he_ was shaking.

"Focus on the road, man," Luna said, "we got her." She squeezed Ronnie Anne's hand, and Leni stroked her brow. Lincoln's stomach lurched at the look of pain in her slitted eyes.

"It's probably nothing to worry about," Mom said, "we just need to make sure. Bleeding _does_ happen."

"Like _that?"_ Lincoln asked. There was a _lot_ of blood...too much to be normal. Oh, God, she was going to lose the baby. Hot tears flooded his eyes.

"Sometimes," Mom said weakly. She didn't sound too sure of herself – and that scared Lincoln all the more. She was Mom, the expert, the sage, she knew everything about this kind of thing because she had been there...repeatedly. If she didn't know, if _she_ was worried, it _had_ to be bad.

The hospital was ahead on the right. Lincoln changed lanes, cutting off a Plymouth, and then swung onto the entrance road. "Let us off at the front and then park," Mom said. Lincoln nodded absently, and glanced in the rearview mirror. Ronnie Anne's face was clutched in pain and sweat stood on her brow.

At the doors, he parked and waited impatiently for Mom, Leni, and Luna to get Ronnie Anne out of the car. Ronnie Anne was bent and hissed painfully with each step; Lincoln watched her with terror in his heart.

When they were clear, he drove into the parking lot, found a slot, and jumped out. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a second floor waiting room with Luna, his mother, and Leni, his elbows on his knees and his folded hands to his face as if in prayer. His mother rubbed lazy circles on his back. "Don't worry, honey, it's going to be fine."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips were quivering and if he tried to speak he would burst into tears, and right now he needed to be strong...for Ronnie Anne _and_ their baby.

On his other side, Leni stroked his arm. She didn't know what was going on, but Ronnie Anne was bleeding, the baby might be in trouble, and Lincy was scared. She was scared too, but he looked like he was about to cry and she wasn't, so she was kind of like stronger and if she tried really hard maybe she could give him her strong.

Next to her mother, Luna hugged herself; the image of Ronnie Anne covered in blood was burned into her mind, and she shivered. That wasn't normal, man; women don't bleed like that. She wasn't a doctor or anything, but she wasn't dumb...something was wrong with the baby...and it might die.

Hot tears blurred her vision, and she sorely regretted not bringing her coke, she could _really_ use it.

Mom squeezed Lincoln's shoulder and got up. "I need to call Bobby...and Lori," she said. "Stay right here."

She said that only because she didn't know what else to say...she was not an expert on pregnancy, but she knew enough to know that bright red blood at this stage was a bad thing...a _very_ bad thing...

...and she was scared.

* * *

Bobby Santiago was exhausted. Since being promoted to general supervisor six months ago, he'd been working slave hours...six in the morning to six in the evenings, and Saturdays too. It was dark when he left the house and dark when he got home and some days he came through the door, wolfed down his dinner, then went straight to bed. It was starting to feel like this job was his entire life, and he was _really_ coming to hate it.

Presently, he was sitting in his car and finally eating the lunch Lori packed for him...four hours late because, hey, when you're the man, you're responsible for everything, and that means you don't get to take off at noon like you're one of the guys. The pay was good, though, and one day he'd get to retire. He was twenty-nine now, and if he retired when he was sixty-five, he'd be out of here in...2005. _2005?_ He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 200fucking5. That was forever and a day away...so far ahead he couldn't even _begin_ to imagine it. And being sixty-five...that was a trip, too.

He finished his sandwich and started on his apple. Man, what would the world _be_ like in 2005? Would they have flying cars? Hell, they were saying they'd have flying cars in the eighties, and that was only eleven years away. By 2005 they'd probably have nuclear-powered day trips to amusement parks on the moon. Look, ma, no gravity! Bobby Jr. would be forty-four and probably have grandkids of his own...wait...that didn't sound right. Bobby was the father, Bobby Jr. was the kid...alright...Bobby Jr.'s kids would be Bobby's grandkids...then their kids would be Bobby's great-grandkids...okay, never-mind: For a second there Bobby thought he was going to have great-great-grandkids at sixty-five. It kind of reminded him of this story he heard on the radio, some kind of horror thing: This girl was at a party and her friend, who was hosting the party, sang this song. The friend liked it and wanted to know more about it, so the host asked her mother...who asked _her_ mother who asked _her_ mother all down the line until they got to this fucking thousand-year-old mummy or something. _Hey, great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-greatgrampa Bobby, what was it like in the fifties? Which fifties, kid? The 1950s, the 2050s, or the 2150s?_

He finished his apple and dropped the core into the bag. He glanced at his watch, saw he had a good ten minutes left, and lit a cigarette. He kind of wanted to take a nap. Instead, he turned the radio up and listened to the news. President Nixon was promising an end to the Vietnam war; kids were protesting on the streets of Berkeley, California, and the governor, some guy named Reagan, was sending in the National Guard...blah, blah, blah. He turned the channel and found a station playing country. He took a drag and blew it out slowly. Off to his left, Dave Henson, the floor manager, appeared on the loading dock and looked around. He was immediately below Bobby in the foodchain and, Bobby suspected, hated every second of it: He was a short, middle aged man with a bald spot, glasses, and a mustache.

Bobby stuck his head out the window. "You looking for me?" he called.

Dave jerked his head in Bobby's direction. "Yeah," he called, "your mother-in-law's on the phone."

His mother-in-law? What did...?

Then it hit him with a jolt. Ronnie Anne must be in labor.

Throwing his cigarette aside, he got out, slammed the door, and hurried into the office, where the phone lie on its side on the desk. He scooped it up and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Bobby, honey," Rita Loud said, and there was a tremble in her voice that immediately struck him, "we're at the hospital. Can you come?"

Bobby glanced at the clock on the wall. "I-I don't know, I'm kind of busy."

Rita sighed. "Something's wrong."

"What?" Bobby asked. "What's wrong?"

"Ronnie's bleeding," she said, "and it might be serious."

Bobby's chest tightened.

"Bobby?"

"Y-Yeah, I'll be there in a few minutes," he said through numb lips. He slammed the phone down and looked up at Dave, who stood in the doorway. "I have to go, something's wrong with my sister."

He didn't realize it until he laid his hands on the steering wheel, but he was shaking...badly.

* * *

Ronnie Anne Loud screamed and fisted the sheet in her hand as hot pain radiated out from the center of her stomach and enveloped her body. She was in a hospital bed with her legs propped before her in an M and a team of doctors urgently working between them. A nurse stood by the head of the bed and dabbed Ronnie Anne's brow with a damp cloth. Another burst of pain erupted inside of her, and she hissed over clenched teeth. When the pain ceased, she sucked a deep breath. The doctors were talking excitedly, but she couldn't make out words...everything was muted as if underwater. "W-What's wrong?" she asked for the hundredth time. "What's wrong with my baby?" Her voice hitched on the word 'baby'. Tears came to her eyes.

"Shhh," the nurse said, "everything's going to be alright."

"Cephalopelvic disproportion," she thought one of the doctors said. "We're going to have to perform a cesarean."

"Use the forceps."

"We _can't_ , it's a complete breech. We have to open her."

"You can't _do_ that with a placental abruption. The chances of losing one or both of them are too high."

Ronnie Anne's heart clinched. "What?"

"We have to, she's losing too much blood and the fetus is in acute distress."

Ronnie Anne started to cry. Something was wrong with her baby and she was scared and alone and she didn't know what was happening and _pain!_

A throat-ripping scream wrenched from her lips as excruciating agony tore through her like a spinning blade. She flopped her head back against the pillow, and the light above the bed began to dim as she started to sink into unconsciousness. Panic gripped her, and she tried to pull herself back from the void, but she was fading. _I'll never hold my baby,_ she thought with drawing horror, _I'll never get to kiss it and love it and..._

Her own hysterical sobbing was the last thing she heard before she slipped away.

* * *

Lincoln lit a cigarette and took a puff. His eyes were hollow, his face the color of milk. Leni laid her hand on his back and tried to think of something to say, but she couldn't. It had been over an hour since the screaming stopped and a bunch of doctors rushed into the delivery room, and even Leni, with her dumb head, knew something _really_ bad must have happened. She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm and sniffed. Her heart was very sad and her tummy hurt. She hoped Ronnie Anne and the baby were okay...if they weren't she didn't know _what_ she would do.

Bobby was sitting next to Lori, who showed up with Bobby Jr. a half hour ago. He looked like Lincoln: Dazed, afraid, and like he was going to cry. Luna was hugging herself and Mom was sitting ramrod straight with her hands folded in her lap. The atmosphere was dark and heavy; it was hard to breathe, and Leni felt like the walls were closing in on her. Bobby Jr. tugged on her dress, and she turned to him. He looked up at her with big brown eyes. "Is my cousin okay?" he asked.

She forced a weak smile and put her free arm around his shoulder. "Yes," she said, even though she didn't _know._ Lying was wrong, but sometimes you had to lie because the truth was really hard and bad.

"I hope so," he said heavily.

Lincoln got up and started pacing again, his hands on his hips and the cigarette jutting forgotten between his lips. His fingers drummed against the fabric of his jeans. "I'm about to go in there," he said.

"They'll come get us when it's time," Mom said.

"She's been in there for almost two hours," he said, then raked a hand through his hair. "Something's wrong."

"They're working with her."

He lashed out and kicked the coffee table.

"Lincoln," Mom said firmly, "stop it. Being angry is not going to help."

He threw himself into his chair and took another drag from his cigarette. It trembled in his fingers. Leni patted him on the back.

Inside, Lincoln was a vicious tempest of emotions. Above all, he was scared...more scared than he had ever been in his life. More scared than he was in Vietnam, more scared than he was in that cage, more scared than he was in the instant before he took the guard's gun from his hip...it was a deep, gnawing thing that made him want to scream and cry and claw his eyes out. Every second was an eternity, and with each passing millennium, the pressure mounted: If it kept up, he would explode into a million pieces. What was happening in there?

An image came to mind: Ronnie Anne lying dead on the bed, her face pale and the light in her eyes gone...their baby was on her chest, its arms draped over her. It, too, was dead.

Tears flooded his eyes.

If they were, he would go downstairs, get into his car, take the gun from the glovebox, and put it in his mouth. He would already be dead, so why not finish the job?

He stabbed his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray even though he had smoked less than half, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. _Please, God, let her be okay...let the baby be okay...please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease..._ he was crying now and he couldn't stop himself, so he went with it, the tears gushing from him and making his body shake. Leni snaked her arm around him. Someone did the same from his other side, but he didn't know who it was and didn't care. He didn't care about anything but Ronnie Anne and their baby.

"It's going to be okay," Lori said softly. "It's all going to be okay."

 _No it's not_ Lincoln tried to say, but it came out as a strangled sob. He sniffed and wiped his eyes: The tears had stopped, and he was cold...so, so cold.

She's dead. He could _feel_ it. She was dead and so was their baby. All he needed was to hear it...and see them for himself just to make sure. When he was certain, he was going to blow his brains out...then _maybe_ he could be with them.

"Hey," Luna said. She was kneeling in front of him, her hand on his knee. "Ronnie Anne's a fighter, man. She's not going anywhere and she's sure as hell not letting your baby go anywhere."

Lincoln took a deep, shuddery breath and nodded. She _was_ a fighter...and she would do everything she could to come through...but that might not be enough.

When the door to the delivery room opened and a doctor came out, Lincoln shot to his feet. "How is she?" he asked.

The doctor pulled a white mask off of his face. Lincoln noted the bloodstains on his top and fought a rush of faintness.

"She's alright," the doctor said, and Lincoln nearly went limp with relief. "The baby was complete breech, which means it was butt first with its legs crossed, and we had to perform an emergency C-section. She lost a lot of blood and there was damage to the fallopian tube so she won't be able to conceive again but she's going to be okay, and so is your daughter."

"Thank God," Lincoln said. "Can I see them?"

Twenty minutes later, he stood at Ronnie Anne's bedside, his hands gripping the metal railing. She was hooked up to a number of machines and an IV: A heart monitor beeped softly. "Hey," she said weakly through chapped lips. Her eyes were open to slits and muddled with medicated drowsiness.

Lincoln reached out and took her hand in his. She felt frail...small. "Hey," he said. "You scared me."

"Payback," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. "You got me." Tears dribbled down his cheeks.

"Have you seen her?"

"No. They're bringing her in soon."

Ronnie Anne smiled dreamily. "She's beautiful. She has your eyes."

Lincoln brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "She's your daughter, of course she's beautiful."

Ronnie Anne hummed. "She's _our_ daughter, lame-o."

Lincoln nodded. "Our daughter."

She smiled, and he smiled back. "I love you," he said.

"I love _you_."

Sometime later, a nurse wheeled a bassinet into the room and parked it near the head of the bed. "Is that her?" Ronnie Anne muttered. She was starting to fall asleep.

"It's her," the nurse confirmed.

"...wanna hold her."

"Let's let dad meet her first," the nurse said and looked at Lincoln. "Come on."

Lincoln went over on shaky knees and looked down. His daughter lay inside, saddled tightly in a pink blanket. Her eyes were closed and her face was flush. Fine strands of pale black hair stuck out from under the cap on her head. Her lips moved silently, as though she were greeting him in her sleep. Lincoln's vision blurred and he felt a goofy grin spreading across his face.

"She _is_ beautiful," he said, then looked at the nurse. "Can everyone else come in?"

"Yes, that'll be fine. They can't stay long, though. Your wife really needs her rest."

Lincoln nodded. He poked his head out the door, and everyone looked up. "Come on," he said with a grin.

In the room, they all crowded around the basinet. "She's so beautiful!" Leni said.

"She looks like you, Linc," Lori said.

"I think she looks more like her mama," Luna said.

"She looks like both," Mom said.

"What's her name, Uncle Lincoln?" Bobby Jr. asked, looking curiously up at Lincoln.

"Alejandra Carmen," Lincoln said. "Alejandra because it's pretty and Carmen after your grandmother." Carmen was Ronnie Anne's mother's middle name.

"That's pretty," Leni said, "just like her. We're going to have _lots_ of fun doing girly stuff together."

"I'm gonna teach her how to rock," Luna said.

Bobby clapped Lincoln on the shoulder. "How's it feel being a daddy, little man?"

Lincoln nodded. "It feels good. Really good."

It had been a rollercoaster of a day. First he was at the lowest he had ever been...now he was at the highest he had ever been. He stared down at the little bundle asleep before him, and felt such exhilarating happiness that he could barely contain himself. He wanted to run out into the street and shout his joy for all the world to hear, he wanted to hold his daughter aloft for every eye to see. He was proud, he was giddy...he was in love.

Deeply, madly in love.

For a long time after the others left, he stood over the basinet and watched his daughter sleep. When it came time for him, too, to leave, he leaned forward, kissed her on the forehead, and said, "I love you, Alex."

She stirred in her sleep, and her lips quivered. _I love you too, Daddy,_ he imagined her saying, and that night, her face was the last thing he thought of before he slept.


	55. August 1969: Part 1

**Look out helter skelter**  
 **She's coming down fast**  
 **Yes she is**  
 **Yes she is coming down fast**

 **\- The Beatles**

* * *

"There's Daddy's little slugger!"

Lynn was sitting in her high chair, her face smeared with orange goop. She jerked around and grinned widely at her father, her eyes twinkling. Kathy sat next to her, a jar of baby food in one hand and a spoon in the other. "Morning, Daddy," she said and held the spoon up. Lynn slapped the table with her hands and laughed.

Big Lynn, as Kathy had taken to calling him, fixed his tie and sank into an empty chair across from his wife and daughter. A plate piled with toast, eggs, bacon, and sausage sat before him, and his stomach rumbled. They say too much of a good thing is a bad thing, and if that's true, all you had to do was look at Lynn's budding gut to know that Kathy's cooking was a _very_ bad thing. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom and jerk because _who's that fat bastard?_ That's it, he'd think, I'm cutting back, then he'd come into the kitchen and smell the good smells of breakfast and...oh hell, you only live once.

Little Lynn threw her head forward and took a spoonful of...whatever...to the cheek. "Well, that wasn't very bright," Kathy laughed. The girl giggled.

"You have to get it _in_ you, little girl," Lynn said, "that way you can grow up big and strong and play lots of baseball with Daddy."

" _Bah!"_ Lynn said, opening her mouth wide.

"That's right!" Lynn said happily. He had already decided that baseball would be the perfect sport to ween his daughter on. It wasn't too rough, like football, but it also wasn't candy ass like soccer. Her room was decorated with baseballs and baseball bats, most of her outfits (those that weren't frilly and girly, per Kathy's tastes) had baseballs on them, and her favorite toy in the world was a stuffed bear holding a baseball bat. In the evenings after he got home from work, he would sit her down in the living room and roll her a baseball; so far all she did was flop forward and slap it, but it was a start.

Kathy dipped the spoon in the jar and held it out. Lynn leaned forward and took it in her mouth. "Hmmmm," Kathy said, "good carrots."

"Why don't you give her some real food?" Lynn asked and bit into a piece of toast.

"I want to use the last of this baby food," Kathy said.

"She doesn't want it," Lynn said. "She wants protein. She's a growing athlete, after all." He cut one of his sausage links into tiny, bite-sized pieces, scooped them up, and leaned forward, depositing them onto her tray. "Here you go, champ; eat up."

She looked at the pieces, then picked one up and put it in her mouth. "Yummy," Lynn said. "Baseball fuel."

" _Baybah!"_

Lynn laughed. "Baseball."

" _Baybah!"_

Kathy sat the jar aside and shook her head. "Ya'll are two peas in a pod," she said.

Lynn chuckled. "Chip off the old block. Speaking of baseball, there's a game on tonight, so clear little girl's schedule. You gonna watch baseball with daddy?"

 _"Baybah dada!"_ She picked up a piece of sausage and shoved it into her mouth then bounced happily.

"You ruined her," Kathy said with a grin. "I was _hoping_ to have a little debutant. I'm gonna wind up with Babe Ruth instead."

"You got _that_ right," Lynn said and forked a piece of egg into his mouth. "She'll be the best that's ever been."

" _Baybah! Baybah! Baybah!"_ Lynn bounced violently and slammed her hands on the tray: The remaining pieces of sausage flew off and landed on the floor.

"Settle down, little girl," Kathy laughed, "you can play baseball with daddy later. Right now he needs to hurry up and eat his breakfast or he's going to be late."

Lynn glanced at his watch, and started when he saw that it was nearly 7:45. "Mommy's right," he said, and shoved a piece of toast into his mouth. "Daddy's going to get reamed by grandpa if he doesn't hurry."

" _Pa!"_

"That's right," Lynn said and took a sip of orange juice. "Grandpa's gonna rip daddy a new butthole."

" _B'hol!_ "

Lynn paled, and Kathy clapped her hands and laughed. "You gotta watch what you say, honey; this little girl's a sponge."

When breakfast was done, he got up, carried his plate to the sink, then kissed Kathy on the cheek. "Love you."

"Love you too. Have a good day."

"I'll try." He leaned over and kissed Lynn on the top of her head. "Bye, baby. When daddy comes home we'll watch baseball. How does that sound?"

Lynn whipped her head around and looked up at him with a big open mouth smile. _"Baybah!"_

"Baseball!"

" _Baybah!"_

He laughed and rubbed her head. "See you girls later."

Outside, the sun shone harshly from the sky. The ground was parched and brown, and by the time he reached the car, he was sweating. In the next driveway over, George Stevens was getting into his own car. "Mornin', Lynn!"

"Morning, George!" Lynn called back with a wave. He had heard, somewhere, that sometimes women who live together (mothers and daughters, sisters, etc) can somehow get on the same period cycle. He and George Stevens were on the same _life_ cycle: They seemed to always leave at the same time in the morning and come back at the same time in the afternoon. And every so often, on a Saturday, Lynn would go out to wash the car or cut the lawn just to find that George was on the same mission. Then again, most of the men in the subdivision seemed to leave at eight, come home at five, and do yardwork on the weekends. It was like one of those Swiss clocks where a little wooden figure comes out and moves along a track at a certain time...no change, no variation, all the same, all the time.

It was kind of disconcerting when you thought about it: A thousand people living a thousand lives identical to each other, every one of them a cog in the machine easily interchangeable. Whoops, Bob died, better replace him with Ted, he wears a suit and drinks coffee too, ya know.

Awful, huh? _Much_ worse than what Lincoln went through in Vietnam, _much_ worse than starving kids in Cuba and China. Poor Lynn, you have it _so_ rough.

On the drive to work, he listened to a station playing the news and waited impatiently for the sports scores. _"Representatives from the United States and North Vietnam met in Paris yesterday to discuss peace terms...President Nixon is hopeful..."_ Lynn tuned it out and turned onto Palm Oak Boulevard, which, as the name suggests, is lined with palm trees. One thing Lynn hated about palm trees was that in the winter, the palms turned brown and ugly. It's called 'going dormant,' and apparently lots of plants do it. He didn't know that: He either wasn't paying attention that day at school, or it went in one ear and out the other. A lot of things did that. How long had he and Kathy been married and on their own? Three years? Not once in that time had he used even a quarter of the crap they taught. Math, yeah (he knew that was important so he made sure to pay attention), but biology? Chemistry? He couldn't remember the last time he found it necessary to dissect a frog or mix two chemicals together, and something told him he wouldn't find it necessary anytime soon.

Now a class on how to do your taxes would have come in handy. Home ec for boys or something, but no, it's more important you read the work of Shakespeare. _That'll_ pop up every day in life.

He was pulling into the lot now. Pennant string flags flapped lazily in the arid breeze...you know, the little triangle shaped banners each a different color: Red, blue, yellow, green. Lynn never understood what purpose those things served or why seemingly every car dealership in the world had them. He considered asking Big Bill, but that might be a stupid question, and he did not want to look stupid.

Parking near the garage, he got out and the wind caught his tie, throwing it over his shoulder. Stupid thing. He _hated_ ties. They were irritating. And dangerous. He saw one of those ABC Movies of the Week where a guy got his tie caught in some kind of machine and it sucked him in: They didn't show what happened to him, but if his throat-ripping screams were anything to go by, it wasn't pretty. How long until that happened to _him?_ He could see it now: Leaning over the engine block of a 1957 Chevy because some persnickety son of a bitch wanted to make sure it wasn't cracked or something...the guy's kid climbs behind the wheel to play, hits the gas, the gears catch his tie and yank him in, and blood splatters _everything_. Talk about being a _gearhead_. Hahahaha. Luan would love that.

Holding his tie flat against his chest, Lynn went into the showroom to start his day...his long, mind-numbing, soul-sucking, headache inducing day.

* * *

Luna Loud kept a weird schedule...but don't all celebrities? People think it's some kind of joke, oh, hey, look, that person's an actor, they don't _really_ work; sitting in a studio? Recording _music?_ Oh, man, you must be exhaus _teeeeeed_. What they don't realize is, man, sometimes, you're working twelve, fifteen hours a day. They get to clock off and go home at five, meanwhile you stay in that goddamn studio playing the same stupid guitar riff until four in the morning...then you have to come in at noon and do it all over again. That's why celebrities sleep until noon and stay up all night, even when they're not working. During the summer of 1969, she'd stay twelve or fourteen hours at the studio, go home, do coke, come back, do another couple hours, go home, sleep from five or six to three or four in the morning, and then stay twelve or fourteen hours at the studio, go home, do coke...you get the picture.

Blues' Station's third (fourth? Tenth?) album _Borderline_ was released on July 15. The lead single was the title track; she didn't write it, but whatever, she was getting paid. It came out in June and by the beginning of August it was number fifteen. Pretty nice. Top twenty. It didn't get much AM play, but it was really big on FM...which, Bobby Preston said, was the wave of the future. See, when Luna was growing up, you had your AM stations and you liked them. They played the top forty programs, the DJs talked a lot, it was hep. These days, FM was coming on strong, and it was different. They played stuff on there you'd never hear on AM in a million years...longer songs, album cuts, crazy, far-out shit that made you cock your head and say 'What the fuck is _this_?' The DJs on FM were fucking wild, man. There was this one dude called himself Wolfman Jack. Talk about trippy, he had this gravelly voice and he'd howl and shit, and hawk all kinds of junk like pills for your sex drive. He said 'it's some zing for your ling nuts.' Hahahahahaha. He said this on the radio! He wasn't no fucking Alan Freed or Murray the K, that was for sure!

Where were we? Oh, yeah, lot of FM play for _Borderline_. That's where all the good music was these days. You turn over to AM and you had the stuff Leni liked...bubblegum for the teeny-boppers and the stuff bands put out so they'd have a hit. It wasn't terrible. Secretly, Luna kinda like some of that stuff. It was happy, you know? A lot of the shit down on FM was protesting this, or so outta sight your fucking head couldn't take it...every once in a while it was nice to have something up-tempo. In mid-July Bobby Preston came over to her house and they sat in the living room. "There's this thing in Upstate New York. I'm trying to get you guys in. Big show on a pig farm."

Luna blinked. This dude dragged her out of bed on a Sunday morning to have her play a fucking _pig farm?_ She laughed at him...literally laughed. "Man, you've got me some shit gigs, but a farm?"

He held his hand up. "I know, it sounds dumb, but it's gonna be a big deal. Lots of people. The Who's gonna be there, that Hendrix guy, uh...Jefferson Airplane...you know them, right? And The Grateful Dead? Oh, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Those guys are getting big. Major show. They say 200,000 people's gonna be there."

Hm.

"It'll be big for you guys."

"Alright, well, if you get us in, you get us in. Cool. If not, boo-hoo."

On August 8, she had studio time, but it wasn't a marathon session like she'd been doing since June: They laid down the last track and bam, they had twenty songs ready to go. Luna was excited because that's two whole albums, which meant she wouldn't have to step foot back in this studio for a _long_ time. Bobby Preston, though, was talking about making the next a 'double album.' "The Beatles just did one," he said. Who fucking cares? Though, Luna thought it'd be kind of funny to make it a fucking quadruple album or something...six or seven fucking records in this one big ass package. Here's your music, man, all fifty pounds of it, enjoy. Whatever, studio time wasn't _that_ bad...at least she got to sleep in her own bed.

Before she left (around five in the afternoon), Bobby Preston took her aside. "I got you guys in. There was a last minute cancel and I snapped it up. We're leaving on the fifteenth, you're gonna play on the sixteenth, then we're coming back on the seventeenth. Easy-peasy."

Whatever. "What're we making?"

"7,500."

Luna hummed appreciatively. Not bad. Wasn't someone's birthday coming up? She couldn't remember, but she'd send her end to Lincoln or someone as an early Christmas present. Oh, oh, oh...she could send some to Bobby Jr., some more to Lynn part 3, and some to Alejandra. Nephew and nieces taken care of. Who's your daddy? Aunt fucking Luna's your daddy! Hahahahaha!

An hour later, she was home in the house on Ciello Drive. It was still daylight and hot, so she jumped in the pool and floated around on her back for a little while. This is nice, she thought...real nice.

When she was good and pooled out, she got out and sat on the porch for a little while, her wet clothes drying in the dry southern California heat. What day is it? Friday? Do I have mail? When was the last time she _checked_ her mail? The box was on the corner of Ciello Drive and Benedict Canyon Drive...across the yard from her driveway, so when she came in it's not like she could just grab the mail and go. Whose fucking bright idea was _that?_ Hey, you know what sucks? Convenience.

Man, that thing's probably overflowing. She sighed, got up, and crossed the yard. Surprisingly, there wasn't all that much. She stood by the street and flipped through it all. Bill, bill, bill, George, Ted, John. She started back to the house just as a brown '68 Camaro turned onto Ciello and slowed. Oh, she knew that car. It belonged to...

The driver side window rolled down and Jay what's-his-face was behind the wheel. He was a handsome man with neatly-styled black hair (he was a hairstylist and every time Luna did coke with him, he'd say something like, "You _really_ need to let me work on your hair..." Like...what, is something _wrong_ with my hair?). Sharon Tate leaned forward in the passenger seat and smiled. "Hey!"

"Oh, hey!" Luna walked over. "How's it going?"

"Good," Sharon said. She was a stylish blonde with soft, glamourous features. She was wearing a loud maternity dress that stretched tight across her baby bulge. She was, like, nine months if Luna remembered correctly. Any day she was gonna _pop_. "I'm surprised to see you. You're never home."

"Yeah, I'm surprised to see me too," Luna laughed. "How's the, uh, baby coming?"

"Kicking a lot," Sharon said.

"That means he's gonna come soon. My brother's kid was Fred Astaire right before she came out."

Sharon laughed. "How's she doing?" She was one of the only people Luna talked to about Ronnie Anne's complications. The guys in the band knew, and Bobby Preston, but other than that, it was just Sharon...and the guy Luna was seeing now.

"Good," Luna said, "she's...uh...four months now. I wanna fly out and see her but I got a tour starting in September, I think, and there's this thing in New York in a couple days. Big concert."

"Woodstock?" Jay asked.

Luna shrugged. "I don't know what it's called." She laughed. "I just go where my asshole manager tells me to."

"That's pretty good," Sharon said, "they've been talking about it nonstop."

"Yeah, man, like 200,000 people are supposed to show up."

"That's a big concert," Jay said.

"Yeah, yeah, real big."

"Are you home for the whole day?" Sharon asked.

"Uh...yeah. I might have my guy over later if he's free, but I'm not planning on going anywhere."

"We're having some people over later, you should come."

Sharon's husband, Roman, was out of the country shooting some kind of movie or something. Not wanting to be alone, Sharon constantly had people over, mainly Jay. Luna suspected they were doing it (if Jay wasn't a flaming homo, which she thought male hairstylists usually were) but that wasn't her business. She'd been to Sharon's house a lot over the summer...a lot being more than she was at anyone else's house...five times? Four times? Usually the get-togethers were small: A half dozen people playing records and Parcheesi or something. And doing coke. Not Sharon, though, she was serious about not fucking her baby up.

"Yeah," Luna said, "I might come over."

When they were gone, she went back inside and snorted a line, then she picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Hey, it's me," she said around a smile, "what'cha up to?"

"I just got home."

"You wanna come over? It's kinda lonely out here, you know what I mean?"

He laughed. "Well, I wouldn't be very much of a gentleman if I let my girlfriend spend her Friday night alone."

"Nah, you'd be a real piece of shit."

They both laughed.

"Give me...an hour or two," he replied.

"Alright," she said.

After hanging up, she did another line and watched TV; her heart and mind were racing and her heart was in the lead. Ow. On the screen, Walter Cronkite read the day's news...you know, routine stuff: Someone hijacked an airplane, U.S. troops were under fire in Vietnam, Governor Reagan was calling in the National Guard again because a bunch of kids were running through the streets of Berkeley. Wonder if Luan's a part of that. Hahahahaha. Nah, she wasn't like that. Did she graduate yet? She talked to Luan less than she talked to her mother. She had her number written down _somewhere_.

With the lazar focus of a woman high on cocaine, Luna went off to look for her sister's number. She checked the fridge, the freezer, under the bed, in the bathroom, behind the TV, in her datebook, in the dining room, on the patio, in her datebook, under the couch, and in the fridge, but could not find it. What the fuck? She stood in the middle of the house with her hands on her hips and her heart pounding painfully. Where could it be? She grabbed her datebook from her nightstand, brought it into the living room, and plopped down on the couch. It was dark by now, and the only light was the soft blue TV glow. _The Name of the Game_ was on NBC. She kinda liked that show. Snapping on the lamp, she paged carefully through the book, scanning every single word with contrived slowness, because when you're rolling, man, you roll quick.

Aha! There it is! Luan: Her name was in a heart like all of her family's names were.

Now to call the bitch.

She reached for the phone, but a knock at the door stopped her. Who the fuck is _that?_ It came again, this time in a pattern. Shave and a haircut or whatever it was called. Only one person in the world is silly enough to knock like that.

Smiling, Luna got up and went to the door: Through a pane of glass he was blurry, but she knew it was him. She opened it and leaned against the frame all sexy-like. "Hey, man," she said.

"Good evening, Ms. Loud," Mick Swagger said with a sly grin. A tall man with flowing brown hair, brown eyes, and big lips, he wore a brown leather jacket over a button-up shirt with pink and blue horizontal stripes. His jeans were so tight Luna could see his bulge...his big fucking British bulge.

She bit her bottom lip and groped it with her eyes. "I see you brought a friend."

"He insisted on tagging along."

"Well, come on in, I got a friend for him."

Mick came in and Luna shut the door behind him. His ass looked really good in those jeans, too. "I assume there's blow?" he asked and shrugged out of his jacket.

Luna hugged him from behind and pressed her lips to his ear. "What _kind_ of blow?"

"The kind you snort, love," he said.

"Of course there is."

While he sat on the couch, she broke out her coke and scraped three lines out onto the coffee table – two for him and one for her. "Here you go...primo stuff."

He slid off the sofa and knelt next to her. "That's not all that's primo," he said and bent. He sniffed deeply and threw his head back.

"What _else_ is primo?" She leaned over and snorted her line.

"You," he said.

She giggled like a girl. She met Mick at the end of June – he and his band _The Falling Rocks_ were recording their CBS debut (they were with A&M before) in the studio next to hers. She went to get a drink in the breakroom and he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. The attraction was instant. Some people said he looked like a frog, but Luna thought he looked like a sexy British dude. Why he made her feel like a schoolgirl, she didn't know, but it was nice.

He snorted his second rail and tossed his head. "Right. That's better." He turned to her, and she kissed him.

They started on the couch, their minds and bodies lost in a whirlwind frenzy of passion and cocaine, then they moved to the bedroom.

Neither saw the headlights of a car splash across the living room wall...neither saw it creep up Ciello Drive...

* * *

"Make it _gruesome,_ " Charlie said, and laid a hand on Tex Watson's shoulder. Charlie was a short, thin Christ-like man with shoulder-length black hair, a black beard, and fevered eyes that seemed to peer into your soul and _see_. He had powers...he could _do_ things...Watson had seen it for himself. He had a way of _knowing_ , so when he said something was coming down, Watson and everyone else listened. _Blackie's gonna rise up,_ Charlie said as they sat around a crackling fire in the desert, a dozen dirty hippie dropouts, mainly girls, who found the hippie dream a lie. They were misfits, outcasts, they had no one – no one but Charlie. _The white man's gonna lose, but we're gonna live, and when the niggers realize they can't run the show, they'll come to us._ He grinned darkly, shadows and firelight flicking across his face. The LSD came next, a tab for each. Charlie said it opened your mind, tuned you into the wavelengths of the universe. He had to guide you, though, because he was the only one who knew the way.

Charlie called the coming war Helter Skelter after the song by The Beatles – he said The Beatles knew things, he said they were The Four Horsemen from the Bible. They did an album and Charlie said it was _full_ of messages to them – the chosen, the Family. Watson accepted this without question...Charlie had been calling Susan 'Sadie' for almost a year before the album came out, and what was one of the songs? _Sexy Sadie_. The other clues were a little harder to see, but after a tab of acid, they were plain as the nose on his face. It was real. It was coming down.

 _We gotta get 'em started, though,_ Charlie said a few weeks before. _They're too stupid to do it on their own. We gotta show 'em how._

Tonight was the night. August 8, 1969. Watson was standing in the middle of Charlie's cabin with the girls – Sadie, Linda, and Patty. He was nervous as hell, but he drew strength from Charlie's touch. Charlie nodded. "Now's the time for Helter Skelter." He glanced at the girls. "Leave a sign...something witchy."

They nodded. Like the other girls – and the men...and like Watson...they wanted only to please him.

He gave them a blessing, then they piled into Linda's yellow 1959 Ford Falcon, Watson behind the wheel. The Spahn Ranch, where the Family lived, was high in the rugged, dusty hills above Los Angeles, and as Watson navigated the car along twisty mountain roads, no one spoke, the radio did not play.

When they reached the bottom of Ciello Drive, Watson spun the wheel, his eyes instantly going to the house on the corner. "We should stop there on the way out," Sadie said from the back seat. "Do them too."

"No," Watson said. Charlie didn't tell them to, and you don't do what Charlie doesn't tell you to, even if you think he'll appreciate it.

A half mile up Ciello, they came to a telephone pole. Watson parked, hopped out, and shimmied up, his heart racing: He didn't like heights. Near the top, hanging on with one hand like King Kong from the Empire State Building, he pulled a knife from his belt and cut the line, cutting 10050 off from the rest of the world. He climbed down, took a moment to stop shaking, then got back into the car.

After another half mile, they came to the gate: Beyond, 10050 sat atop a hill, a narrow driveway winding down to the road. Watson backed up to the gate and killed the engine. "I don't know if this gate has an alarm on it," he said, "so we're gonna have to go up the hill."

He took a .22 revolver with a long barrel from under the seat and got out. The night was warm and still, save for the symphony of a million crickets. He led the girls up an embankment flanking the road, then down the other side. They were on the property. The house was above, its windows lighted.

They started up, but headlights appeared on the drive, and like well-trained troops, they reacted as one, dropping to their knees between two bushes. "Shit," Watson said. He glanced at the girls. "Stay here."

Pulling the knife from his belt, he got up and stepped onto the asphalt, pointing the gun. The car came to a halt a few feet from him, and he went around to the driver side. A boy with glasses was behind the wheel, his face pale and his eyes wide. "H-Hey, look, don't shoot, I won't tell!"

Watson flashed the knife down, but the boy threw his hand up at the last minute: The blade caught his palm, and he cried out.

Watson had never stabbed someone before, and at that point he panicked: He brought the gun up and fired four times, hitting the kid in the chest and stomach: He slumped over the seat, dead.

Shit. Was that too much noise?

 _Idiot...fucking idiot,_ he chastised himself.

The girls watched from the bushes, their eyes wide with malicious glee. "Come on," he said, and nodded toward the house. They hurried across the lawn and approached from the side, staying low and moving fast. When they reached the side of the house, he had Linda look for an open window. When she found one, he sent her back to the gate to keep watch. At the window, he took the knife out, slashed the screen, and climbed into an empty bedroom, Patty and Sadie following.

 _Make it gruesome,_ Charlie said, and they did. Standing in the living room a half an hour later, Watson took great, heaving breaths as adrenaline surged through him. Behind him, a man lay dead on his side, a rope wound around his neck and a pillowcase over his head. Before him, a woman was flat on her back, tears coursing down her cheeks. "Please," she begged, her voice breaking, "don't hurt my baby." Watson's eyes flickered to her bulging stomach, and his lips twisted in a sneer of disgust. "Please, God, don't hurt my baby!"

Sadie knelt beside her, a knife in her hand. She leaned over the sobbing woman. "Fuck your baby, bitch." She brought the knife up, and then jammed it into the woman's stomach. She screamed and thrashed, her head flopping back and forth: Watson lashed out and kicked it as Sadie ripped the knife out and stabbed her again.

" _Please stop!"_ the woman shrieked.

Watson kicked her again.

He felt no sympathy for this high falutin' bitch _or_ her baby. Sadie giggled madly as she brought the knife up and down, up and down, the blade ripping flesh. "Fuck you...fuck you...fuck you," she chanted in an evil singsong voice.

The woman's fight drained out of her, and she died whimpering. _"My baby...please..."_

Watson kicked her in the head one last time for good measure. Patty came up and looked down at the body. "The other two dead?" Watson asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

There were another man and another woman. Both of them made a break for it: Their bodies were outside on the lawn. Watson stabbed, shot, and broke the handle of the gun over the man's head...and while he was stabbing the woman, he was stunned to see the guy staggering away. He ran him down, stabbed his some more, and left him. He _has_ to be dead now, he thought.

"Charlie said leave a sign," he said. Sadie made mocking faces down at the pregnant woman's body and held up one middle finger, then the other.

"Alright," Sadie said and got to her feet, a spring her in step. "Bye, bitch," she said to the dead woman, and spat on her. Using a bloody towel, she sopped up the woman's blood and wrote PIG on the front door.

"That looks good," Watson said, and surveyed the carnage. _"Damn_ good."

Charlie would be pleased.

Helter Skelter was coming down.

Inside, Sharon Tate's baby gave one final kick, then fell still.


	56. August 1969: Part 2

A thin, warbling cry ripped Lincoln from the depths of sleep. Huh? Whazat? Next to him, Ronnie Anne sighed. "Your turn, lame-o."

Lincoln blinked. His turn? His turn for what? The gears of his mind started to turn, then the cry came again.

Oh.

"I'm a war hero," he muttered, "it's _your_ turn."

"I'm starting a teaching job next month. It's _your_ turn."

"I got shot in the back."

"You're gonna get a whole lot worse if you don't get your ass up and feed our daughter."

Alright, she had him there. The Vietcong were nothing compared to a tired, grumpy Ronnie Anne Loud: There were times over the past four months he kind of wished he was still in that cage by the river. Not really, but, yeah, she was a bear when she didn't get enough sleep...which was just about every day now.

Sitting up, Lincoln snapped the lamp on, flooding the room with soft light. Alex's basinet shook as the little girl entered the first stages of a hunger induced tantrum, her cries becoming sharper. He got up, went around the foot of the bed, and looked down at his daughter. He was going for stern, but he couldn't keep a smile from breaking across his lips. She was in a white sack-like outfit her auntie Leni made her: Her feet kicked and her face was flushed; each cry revealed pink, toothless gums.

"Poor baby," Lincoln cooed and picked her up. She kicked against his chest, her cries rising at the outrage of being taken out of bed. He grabbed her bottle and the Carnation milk tin from Ronnie Anne's nightstand and carried them over to his side of the bed. He sat, laid the baby in the indent of his lap, and mixed her bottle, being very careful not to spill any. By the time he was done, she was quiet, watching Mommy with a curious expression: Ronnie Anne's eyes were closed and her brow was pinched. "That's Mommy," Lincoln said softly and cradled his daughter in one arm. "We have to be _really_ quiet. Mommy's tired." He held the bottle up and slipped the nipple into the little girl's mouth: She instantly began sucking greedily, her breathing becoming heavy. She blinked, then fixed her big, dark eyes on Lincoln. He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Better?"

Her pants of contentment were answer enough. "You must have been _really_ hungry, little girl. It's almost like you _didn't_ eat two hours ago."

Alex blinked, her gaze never wavering.

Lincoln cherished these moments with his daughter...even if too often they occurred on the wrong side of midnight. Holding her in his arms and staring down into her big beautiful eyes was the high point of his day: Nothing could compare, not even Ronnie Anne. He loved his wife dearly, but the love he felt for Alejandra was different. He tried again and again to describe it to himself, but words eluded him: He never imagined it was possible to feel this strongly, this _fiercely_ for someone. He thought he knew what love was...he thought he'd felt it before...but until this little girl was born, he had no fucking clue. When he looked at her, it flooded his chest and spilled into his stomach, a warm, heavy, almost suffocating emotion. It was love, it was affection, it was adoration, it was everything he felt for his wife but stronger, much, much, much, much stronger.

Presently, Alex glanced at Ronnie Anne, one tiny arm lifting as if in an attempt to reach her mommy. From the moment they brought her home in April, they had split the nighttime feedings fifty-fifty. If Alex was anything it was regular: She would wake every two hours almost on the nose. Midnight, two, four, six. Most nights, Ronnie Anne took the two later feedings because he had to work, but sometimes she just couldn't muster the energy; that was alright, because a couple times now _he_ couldn't muster the energy when it was _his_ turn. It's almost as if she knew that this was supposed to be Alex/Mommy time, not Alex/Daddy time. She jerked her body and tried to get to Ronnie Anne.

"No," Lincoln said softly, "it's you and me, little girl. You can see Mommy later."

Alex looked at him, blinked, and settled down. _Okay, Daddy._

"Good girl," Lincoln said.

When she was finished with her bottle, he grabbed a dish cloth was his nightstand (Ronnie Anne had Leni mass producing them), laid it over his shoulder, rested Alex carefully against it, and patted her back until she let out a long burp that made Lincoln chuckle.

"Did that feel good?" Lincoln asked.

In reply, Alex squirmed.

Before he put her back to bed, he changed her diaper and tickled her feet. She kicked and wiggled and chortled. Lincoln grinned. "Alright. Bedtime. Again."

He kissed her and laid her back in the basinet with the exaggerated care one might use with a Fabergé egg. She looked up at him and rhythmically kicked her feet as though she were trying to run. "Save the exercise for tomorrow," Lincoln said. He got up, went around the bed, and turned the lamp off. He came back and knelt by the basinet. Alex made a breathy _ahhh_ sound, and he laid his hand on her head, her fine, pale black hair like silk under his fingers. "Shhhh," he said and stroked. "Bedtime."

She threw her hands up, and he tapped her tiny palm with his index finger: She clutched it and held on for dear life.

That's how she fell back asleep that night, holding Lincoln's finger tight, as if she didn't want him to go, and for a long time he didn't.

"I love you," he said and kissed the sleeping baby's head.

Back in bed, he rolled onto his side and draped his arm over Ronnie Anne. Her eyelids fluttered and she stirred. He kissed her forehead, and she murmured something that he couldn't make out.

 _I'm starting a teaching job next month..._

Yes, she was; she was going to be teaching mathematics at Royal County High School...where they were students just yesterday, it seemed. Five years...five short years. She was lucky to find an opening so quickly; he was expecting it to take a while, but nope, she was on for the 1969-1970 school year. Really good luck, huh? He loved it when things just sort of came together like that.

Now he just needed to find something better than burger flipping. He was eligible to attend college under the G.I. Bill, he just didn't know what the hell he wanted to do. And speaking of G.I., he was still waiting on his pension paperwork to be either approved or denied by the VA. Isn't that just like the government? When you owe _them_ money, they're right there beating down your door, but when they owe _you_ money, they take their sweet fucking time. All the shit he went through for this country, they should be taking care of _him_ first. Bastards.

He sighed. It wasn't important, though. Fuck them and their thirty pieces of silver. He'd get by without it...he would provide for his wife and his daughter without it.

His beautiful wife and his beautiful daughter.

The two most precious things in the world.

* * *

Mick left just before dawn, and for a long time Luna lay in bed, wavering between bursts of hyperactive energy and long, drowsy periods of near sleep. She was naked and sore, her heart throbbed painfully, and her nose burned. Overall, she felt pretty good, except for the blood: It trickled from both nostrils, and after a while she got up, went into the bathroom, and shoved toilet paper in her nose. Back in bed, she drifted for a while, the weak, amber rays of the morning sun creeping across the floor and eventually spreading across her body, warming her flesh...but stinging her eyes. Ugh. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. It smelled like Mick's cologne; she smiled hazily and took deep sniff...sucking a piece of toilet paper deep into her nose. Goddamn it.

 _That_ woke her up. She got out of bed, slipped on a silk robe, and went into the living room, where she turned on the TV and sat on the couch. What's on the tube? Anything good?

Nope.

It was so early the stations hadn't even signed on yet: A multicolored test pattern filled the screen, a low, ear-piercing _beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_ issued from the speakers. You know what's a real hoot? Falling asleep on the couch during a program and then starting awake when the station goes off the air and that goddamn _beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_ comes on. What time do they start these days? Eight? Seven? She got up, crossed to the TV, and cut it off again. _That concludes our broadcast day. Oooohhh, say can you see by the dawn's early light...?_

What time is it, anyway?

I know.

Coke'o'clock.

She went into her bedroom, broke out her coke, and took it back into the living room. She knelt at the coffee table. She poured a little bit on – just a little – and pushed it into a line with her pinky. She took the toilet paper out of one nostril and looked at it.

Red.

Maybe she should mix it with some water and drink it instead.

Yeah, that's probably a good idea.

She got up, went into the kitchen, and grabbed a glass, which she filled with water at the sink. In the living room again, she held the glass flush with the edge of the table and swept the coke in. She held it up and swished it around until the translucent liquid was opaque. Bottoms up, Loud. She drank it all at a draught, and shivered at the bitter taste. Bleh.

Leaning back, she sat against the couch and stretched her legs out in front of her. She should go for a morning dip. A _skinny_ dip. It was early enough that no one would see. Hell, who would see anyway? Someone passing on Ciello? They wouldn't see much, just a quick flash of –

 _BANG-BANG-BANG._

Luna jumped and uttered a harsh cry, her head whipping toward the front door. A dark, blurry shape filled the window. The sound of a frantic, muffled voice drifted through. _BANG-BANG-BANG._

What the fuck? Who was banging on her door at coke'o'clock in the morning?

She didn't know, but they sounded scared, like they needed help or something.

Swallowing hard, Luna got up and started for the door, but went back and snatched the glass off the table just in case she needed a weapon.

 _BANG-BANG-BANG._

She unlocked the knob and yanked the door open. A portly Hispanic woman in a pink maid uniform stood on the step, her eyes wide and haunted. _"¡Ayudame por favor! Están muertos, todos muertos!"_ She clawed at Luna's robe and began to sob. _"¡Alguien los mató! ¡Es horrible! ¡Hay sangre por todos lados!"_

"Whoa! Hey! What's wrong?" Luan asked as the woman collapsed against her and wept, her body shaking.

" _¡Llama a la policía! ¡La Sra. Tate está muerta! Dios, ellos son asesinados!"_

Luna froze.

Tate?

Sharon Tate?

She held the woman at arm's length. "What's wrong with Sharon Tate?"

The woman's eyes were filled with tears. _"Sí, Sra. Tate! ¡Ella esta muerta!_ _¡Todos están muertos! Hay cuerpos en todas partes, ¡es terrible! ¡Llama a la policía!"_

Policia. That sounded like police. Something was wrong with Sharon Tate and she needed the police. "A-Alright, I-I'll call the police. Sit down." She helped the woman to the sofa, then went into the kitchen and dialed the police, her heart beginning to race – and not from the coke.

"Hello? M-My name's Luna Loud and I'm at 10000 Cielo Drive. There's a woman here and she's all hysterical and shit saying something's wrong at 10050. Please get someone out here quick."

When she went back into the living room, the woman was sitting on the couch and weeping into her hands. _"Dios mío, Dios mío, esa gente pobre ..."_

Luna sat next to her and put her arm around her shoulders. She opened her mouth to say something comforting (not that she would understand), but she couldn't: She was suddenly very, very scared.

* * *

Lincoln arrived at Flip's ten minutes before open, parked in his usual spot along the side, and went in. His eyes were achy and full of unspent sleep, and his back was stiff; he was up early with Alex (by choice) and having spent the morning with his daughter more than made up for his mild discomfort.

Inside, Flip was sitting on a stool behind the counter, his elbow propped on the surface and his chin resting in his palm. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. He hadn't been feeling well recently: Tired, groggy, sick to his stomach. Lincoln was worried about him, but Flip waved him off. _I'm fine, Loud. Geez, I'm sixty-six, what do you expect? Of course I'm going to be tired during the day._ He opened one eye when the bell over the door dinged. "The one man on earth who's as tired as I am," he said.

"You won't catch me nodding off though," Lincoln said.

"What are you, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three," Lincoln corrected.

"That's why. Give it forty years. You'll be in your PJs before noon."

Lincoln grabbed his apron from the rack by the kitchen door and slipped it on. "I sleep naked."

"There's an image I didn't need." He sighed and got up.

"I hope that grill's clean." Lincoln had yesterday off; Robert the fuzzy-headed hippie had grill duty, and when he worked, the grill sometimes didn't take a bath the way it should.

"It is," Flip said. He grabbed his cane, which had been leaning against the counter, and hobbled over. He had been using it since June because of his 'gout.' "I made sure because I didn't want to hear you crying all day."

"Your customers would be the ones crying. 'Oh, my burger tastes like charcoal. Wah-wah-wah. Comp me, Flip.'"

Flip snickered. "My customers don't sound like that, you miserable bastard." They did, that's why it was funny. The last time the grill didn't get cleaned, at least three people made such a stink that Flip had to let their meals walk out for free. Lincoln told him to take it out of that shaggy-headed doofus's paycheck, but for all his empty bluster, Flip was too nice to do something like that. If _Lincoln_ was in charge, things would be different, but he wasn't, even though he suspected Flip showing him the ropes was his way of grooming him. He _was_ sixty-six...hiring a manager and taking a step back would make a great deal of sense. Then again, Flip didn't always made sense, so who knows.

Donald the dishwasher came in a half hour later, and shortly after that Lilly bounced through the door. Lincoln was surprised by how well she had taken to the job; he kind of suspected she would bomb, but she was doing great and all the customers loved her...which made him look good since he was the one who hired her.

The breakfast rush came and went: Lincoln made eggs, bacon, and pancakes then, around ten, he switched to burgers and hotdogs. He had been experimenting with pancakes lately, making all kinds of crazy shapes: Hearts, Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse. He was damn good, too. Flip and Donald were out of their minds at what he could do. "I bet'cha can't make a swastika," Donald said the other day as he watched over Lincoln's shoulder. Flip, on the other side, snorted. "It'll fall apart," Donald added, "all those angles and shit. He'll never pull it off."

Five minutes later an edible hate symbol sat on a plate in the middle of the prep table: Hitler himself couldn't have done it better. "Dig in, guys," Lincoln said smugly.

"I'm not eating that fucking thing," Flip said. "I don't even want it in here. Take it out back and throw it away."

Donald pulled one of the arms off and shoved it into his mouth. "How's it taste?" Lincoln asked.

"Like National Socialism," Donald said, and Lincoln and Flip both laughed until they cried.

"You two are nuts," Flip said and shook his head.

Presently, Lincoln threw a couple patties on the grill and wondered if he could make a swastika shaped hamburger. He'd probably have to bake it like a meatloaf or else it _would_ fall apart. What other crazy shapes could he come up with?

What about a meatloaf shaped like a house? Yeah, you got gingerbread houses, why not beef houses? You can fill it with cheese and onions...yum. For some reason he was reminded of the Jell-O salads his mother was real hot on making when he was a kid – awful gelatinous molds with green beans and carrots inside, served cold from the fridge, of course. For a good six months she did this, then one day she realized no one was eating them. Even Dad turned his nose up at the stuff. Oh, God, he could still _taste_ them: Lime flavored Jell-O stuffed full of sweat peas and lima beans...gah. The jellied beef mold was the worst, though. He'd rather eat maggots.

Ummmm. Cold, jellied maggot mold with hunks of rotting beef and fingernails served on a bed of bamboo.

Suddenly he was gagging – literally and honestly gagging; hot stomach bile filled his throat, and he threw himself over the trashcan. He could _taste_ it, all cold and slimy and wiggling as it slid down his throat.

He vomited.

"You alright?" Donald asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," he moaned. He wiped tears from his eyes and spat. "Just...I smelled something funky. That's all."

When the current orders were done, he went out back and smoked a cigarette. The sun was high and the day was hot, the dry air stirring faintly. This Vietnam shit needs to stop, he told himself. It's in the past. Stop being a fucking pussy and get over it. Ha. Easier said than done. He _still_ dug through his food before he ate it, but, in his defense, by this point it was a habit and half the time he didn't even realize he was doing it. And the nightmares...he was down to one a week now. Hooray. It was usually a doozy, though, and every time he woke up from one, he could _feel_ the maggots squirming in his mouth.

He finished his cigarette and went back inside.

Quit being such a fucking spaz, Loud. Don't think of maggots. Think of something happy. Like Alex.

Yeah. That was _much_ better. She was smiling a lot these days; that Dr. Spock book Ronnie Anne had said a baby starts to smile – really smiling and not gassy reflexive smiling – by two months, so what he was seeing was her honest-to-goodness _I'm happy_ smile, and it lit up the room, just like her mother's. It also said to expect a baby's first word by six months. He and Ronnie Anne had a bet going: She said Alex's first word was going to be 'dada' and he said it was going to be 'mama'; the loser would have to give the winner a foot rub every day for a week. Lincoln didn't mind rubbing Ronnie Anne's feet...but she was so smug about it. _I'm gonna win, lame-o, better build up your hand strength._ Oh? He spent the whole morning with Alex...and the entire time he kept saying 'mama.' Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama, mama. The only downside was Ronnie Anne had her all day, and she was probably doing the same thing right this very minute. But hey, she was starting school next month and Mom and Leni would be watching Alex; conning them into working with her to say mama would be a piece of cake. Watch out, honey; Lincoln's feet comin' at'cha.

If he was lucky, he'd develop corns and bunions between now and then. Sorry, babe, my feet are _really_ gross...you still have to touch them, though.

* * *

Luna wrapped her arms around her chest and leaned forward; hot tears blurred her vision. Mick was on the couch next to her, his arm protectively over her shoulder.

It was mid-morning and they were on the couch. A detective from the L.A.P.D., a thin man with a leathery face and a crisp crewcut, stood before them, a notepad in his hand. His partner, a black man with a mustache, sat in the armchair, his legs crossed.

"You didn't hear _anything?"_ Crewcut asked. Luna thought he said his name was Dorman but she didn't know. She wasn't exactly in the frame of mind to remember little details like some cop's name.

"No," Mick said, "we didn't hear a thing."

"You didn't see anything? A car? Someone on foot?"

"Nothing," Mick said.

This was the third time they'd been through this; Luna didn't know why they kept asking the same fucking questions, but it was really starting to get on her nerves.

"About what time did you get here last night?"

Mick sighed. "I told you, between nine and nine-thirty. We watched television, had dinner, listened to records, and talked. We neither saw nor heard anything out of the ordinary."

Luna rubbed her arms. She was cold. So fucking cold; every time she thought about poor Sharon and her baby she shivered. Who would do something like that? And why?

"How well did you know Mrs. Tate?" Dorman asked Luna. Again.

Luna tried to speak, but sucked air instead. Mick tightened his hold on her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, the tears coming fast. "You've asked her this, can't you see she's upset? We don't know what happened."

"I do," Dorman said. "Last night between the hours of 11pm and 2am, five people were butchered a mile up the road, two of 'em shot multiple times. You expect me to believe that no one in this goddamn canyon heard _anything?"_

A chill ran through Luna and a sob bubbled up in her throat but did not pass her lips.

"I expect you to go find who did this and not harass innocent people," Mick said tightly.

Dorman sneered, and his partner (Bennett?) held up his hand. "Alright, look, we're just trying to get a handle on this thing. Someone did something really awful up on that hill last night and we want 'em off the street. It might seem like we're harassing you, but that's not our intention. Our intention is to make absolutely certain that you didn't see or hear anything. And to do that, we have to ask the same questions over and over again. To jog your memory."

"There's nothing to jog," Mick said, "we saw nothing, we heard nothing, we _know_ nothing. If you wish to continue questioning us, I would like my lawyer present."

Dorman started to speak, but Bennett cut him off. "That won't be necessary; I think we have everything we need."

"I trust you can show yourselves out," Mick said.

When the detectives were gone, Luna gave into her tears, and Mick put his arms around her. "Hey," he said softly and ran his fingers through her hair. An image came to mind: Sharon Tate the previous afternoon, glowing with maternity, a happy light in her eyes. She was so _excited_ to have that baby. She cried harder, and Mick hugged her to his chest. "Shhh."

Sharon was almost as far along as Ronnie Anne was when she flew out to Michigan: It was like if someone killed Ronnie.

That thought made Luna moan.

"Luna," Mick said softly, "love, it's alright."

"No it's not!" Luna sobbed. "Someone fucking killed her, man! And her baby!" Alejandra's face appeared in Luna's mind, her eyes filled with light and her mouth open in a smile. Sharon's baby was practically as old as her when she was born. "What kind of sick fucking bastard...?"

"I don't know," Mick said, and rested his chin on the top of Luna's head. "I don't know." He drew a deep sigh. "This world is full of sick people, love. Especially this fucking city."

Luna sniffed wetly and clung to Mick. Through the picture window, an ambulance crept down Cielo Drive and turned onto Benedict. A policeman stood at the corner of Luna's yard, his black and white Plymouth parked along Cielo's narrow shoulder. Another police car was parked on the other side of Benedict, its red and blue beacons rotating lazily despite the fact that the day had grown hot and bright. She tried not to imagine what was in the back of that ambulance...under a white sheet...with blood seeping through.

She shivered and pulled away from Mick. She couldn't do this. She needed a line – hell, six lines, _twenty_ lines. She dropped onto her knees before the coffee table, took the baggie of coke from the pocket of her robe, and twisted it open: Her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped it, spilling some across the surface. She picked it back up, but dropped it again.

"Here," Mick said, slipping off the couch and sitting next to her. He took the baggie and poured a measure out, then patted his jacket pockets in search of something to line it with. Fuck it. Luna leaned forward, buried her nose in the pile, and sniffed: Coke shot up both nostrils and burned like a bastard. She pinched her nose with folded, prayer-like hands and squeezed her eyes closed against the pain. An image of Sharon Tate's headless, blood splattered body, her stomach laid open and her baby's shattered head poking out, materialized on the backs of her eyelids, and she opened them. Her blood was cold in her veins.

Yesterday afternoon...she just saw her yesterday afternoon...not twenty-four fucking hours ago. She _couldn't_ be dead. It wasn't possible. People don't just die like that, not when they're young and healthy and full of life – literally and figuratively.

The phone rang, and Luna started with a cry. Mick got up with a sigh and went into the kitchen to answer it while Luna used her pinky to form the remaining coke into a fat rail. Mick poked his head around the corner. "It's your manager. He's calling to make sure you're okay; apparently it's all over the news."

Luna held up her thumb and bowed her head. The coke was already starting to take effect: She didn't feel much better...but it was something.

"She's lying down at the moment," Mick said into the phone, "she's pretty shaken up, as you can imagine. Yes, we spoke with the police; they took our statements and left. Yes, I'll have her call you. Goodbye."

Luna sat back against the couch and held her hand to her forehead. It wasn't trembling as badly now. "I can't wrap my mind around it, you know?" she asked as Mick sat and slipped his arm around her shoulder. She didn't feel like she was going to cry anymore, but her voice wasn't steady and she doubted it would be ever again. "It's fucking awful."

"I know," Mick said, "I-I can't imagine who would do that to a pregnant woman. It's ghastly."

"Real fucking ghastly," Luna said. Suddenly, she wanted to hear Ronnie Anne's voice...just to make sure she was okay, Alejandra too. She got up, went into the kitchen, and dialed home. When Mom answered on the sixth ring, she smiled, albeit weakly. "Hey, Mom, it's me."

"Oh, hi, honey," Mom said, "it's good to hear your voice, you haven't called in a while."

As far as Luna could remember, she hadn't spoken to anyone since the end of June. Lincoln mailed some pictures of Alejandra in July, and she'd been meaning to call and say thank you, but it kept slipping her mind.

"I know, I'm sorry," she said. "Is Ronnie there? I kinda...kinda need to hear her."

"Yes, she's here," Mom said, a hint of confusion in her voice. "Leni, can you get Ronnie Anne, please?"

"Okay, Mom! Hi, Luna!"

"Hey," Luna said, "love you."

"You too!"

"You sound like you've been crying. Is everything alright?"

Wow, she's good. Mommy senses or something. "Actually..."

"What?" Mom asked sharply, her voice filled with concern.

Luna sighed and put her hand to her forehead. She should have lied...only she wasn't in a state to lie. "You're probably gonna see it on the news...my neighbor, this girl named Sharon...someone killed her."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah, they went in her house and killed her and a bunch of other people."

"Oh, my God." She sounded horrified.

"Yeah, and...she was eight months pregnant." Luna broke down crying then. "I keep thinking of Ronnie Anne and Alejandra, man, and I-I just gotta talk to her."

"Oh, honey...here she comes now."

There was a rustling sound, then Ronnie Anne's voice filled the line. "Hello?" she sounded worried.

"Hey, sis," Luna said, still crying, "h-how's it going?"

"Uh...fine. What's wrong?"

Luna clutched the cord in her free hand and moved it nervously through her fingers like the beads of a rosary. "I-I can't, ask Mom, just...you're okay, right?" Luna knew she was, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. And worrying that maybe she wasn't.

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne said, "I'm great."

"Good. How's my baby girl?" Her voice cracked on _baby_.

"She's fine. Just went down for a nap. Finally."

Luna smiled through her tears. "Good. Give her a kiss for me. Please."

"I will."

Leni came on next. "Hi, Luna! I'm glad you called. I want to make you a shirt or something for Christmas, but I don't know what, like, hippies wear these days."

"Anything," Luna said, "I'll wear anything you make."

"Yay! It's gonna be a shirt. Or pants. Or a shirt. Or maybe a hat. Or maybe a shirt. I don't know, but I'll..." she trailed off. "Hello?"

"I'm still here."

"Oh, hi Luna! I'm glad you called, I want to make you...nevermind." She laughed nervously. "How's everything?"

"Uh, it's fine, I just wanted to call home. I miss you guys."

"We miss you too."

After talking to her mother again, Luna hung up and leaned against the wall. Her knees were shaky and her heart was racing painfully. In the living room, she sank onto the sofa next to Mick, who was staring at the TV: A house she was familiar with, one that she had been to, one just up the road, filled the screen. The camera jumped to Detective Dorman (if that was his name) standing before of a crowd of reporters in Sharon Tate's driveway. The late morning sun cast a shadow across his brow. "...the caretaker has been taken to the station for further questioning inasmuch as he was on the premises, uh, during the evening." He glanced down at a notepad in his hands, and for some reason Luna expected him to look into the camera, lock eyes with her, and accuse _her_ of the murder. "That is about what we have at this time in the preliminary investigation. The bodies will have to be made in examination by the coroner to determine the cause of death."

"There's no evident cause of death?" a reporter asked.

"Not that we can say at this time."

"Is there anything scrawled on the front door of that house...in blood?" another reporter asked.

Luna shivered. Scrawled on the door? In blood?

Dorman looked at the reporter. "I can't answer that question.

"Where were the bodies found?" the first reporter asked. "All in one room?"

"No, two of the bodies were found in the...inside the house, one in the vehicle, and two on the front lawn."

"Turn it off," Luna said.

"Were there any hangings?"

Dorman shook his head. "No."

"Wasn't there a body covered by a hood with a rope around its neck?"

Luna snapped: She snatched the glass from earlier off the table and launched it at the TV. It shattered, and the transistor tube popped: The screen went dark and a black burn mark spread across the screen.

She buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.


	57. August 1969: Part 3

**Lyrics to** _ **People Are Strange**_ **by The Doors (1967);** _ **I-Feel-Like-I'm-Fixin'-To-Die-Rag**_ **by Country Joe and the Fish (1967)**

* * *

Lincoln dumped water onto the grill and scraped the day's gunk into the grease trap, the _scritch-scritch-scrtich_ of metal-on-metal setting his teeth on edge like it did every evening. It was like nails on a chalkboard...which is probably why that hippie fuck-up Robert didn't like doing it. Lincoln didn't like doing it either, but you know something: He didn't like doing a lot of things but he still did them. Taxes, for one. Usually Lori did his taxes for him (for a small fee), but just the idea of paying the government so much of his hard earned money pissed him off. That's Uncle Sam for you, finger in everyone's pie. _Ah, Linc, I see you have a pocketful of dollars – be a shame if someone...taxed them_. Still waiting on my pension. Let's make a deal: You'll get your money when I get mine. How about it?

Something slammed against the floor with a sound like Judgement Day, and he jumped out of his skin. "Goddamn it," Donald muttered. Lincoln looked over his shoulder as the dishwasher scooped up a shallow metal baking pan and stuck it into the sink.

When the grill was clean, Lincoln grabbed a broom and an upright dustpan and thoroughly swept his area, making sure to get as far under the grill as possible: Loose fries, bits of chicken, a tomato, shreds of lettuce, and a whole cooked patty (how the hell did _that_ happen?). Next, he wiped down the prep tables, then looked out the window to the dining room: A few people were finishing up their meals; outside, the afternoon light was feeble, shadows long. "Alright," he said and took his apron off, "that's my day done."

"See you tomorrow," Donald said.

"Catch ya on the flipside, man," Lincoln and made a V with his index and middle finger.

Donald laughed. "Night, Robert."

In the hall to the back door, Lincoln punched his card then went to the counter. Flip was sitting on a stool and wiping the surface with a rag. "You need anything else?" Lincoln asked.

"Nah, you can go," Flip said, then: "Actually, come here. I gotta talk to you."

Lincoln walked over and leaned against the counter. "What's up?"

For a moment Flip didn't reply; he gazed down at the counter and rubbed the same circle as though it weren't already clean. "I had an idea. I don't know if you'll go for it."

"What's that?" Lincoln asked even though he thought he already knew.

Flip sighed. "I hate to admit it, but I'm getting old, Loud, and I don't know how much longer I can do this every day grind bullshit. I was thinking I'd make you manager and have you help me out."

Lincoln nodded. That's what he expected Flip to say. The idea of being manager was both appealing _and_ appalling, appealing because he'd (probably) make more money – and it would look good on his resume – and appalling because it meant more work and longer hours.

Flip must have sensed Lincoln's trepidation. "I'll come in in the mornings and open up, you get here and take over, I go home, then I come back at the end of the day. I'll probably be in and out through the day. My body just can't handle this anymore. I'm falling apart." He uttered harsh laughter.

He wasn't wrong. In addition to the gout, he was starting to stoop, his back bending ever and slowly forward like the sweep of a clock hand. His fingers also trembled slightly: If he laid his palms flat on the counter, they thrummed as though he were crackling with electricity. For a long time Lincoln had suspected the job was getting to be too much for him, and was surprised he didn't bring up making him manager sooner...though he'd been grooming him for a while, so he definitely had it in mind as early as last year.

Before he spoke, he already knew he was going to say yes. Money and resume aside, Flip was his friend and he needed him. "Yeah, I can go for that," he said. "You're giving me a raise, right, you old dog?" he grinned.

"No, I'm gonna have you do more work for free," Flip said sarcastically, "of course I'm giving you a raise."

Lincoln nodded. "Alright, yeah, I'll be your manager."

"It's not gonna happen right away," Flip said. "First we need a new cook. Hell, probably two new cooks – they got big, floppy shoes to fill."

Lincoln looked at his feet. They were neither big nor floppy.

"Of course we can always bump Robert up."

Lincoln slumped his shoulders.

"Come on, Loud, he's not _that_ bad."

"As long as he doesn't slack off, I really don't care," Lincoln said...begrudgingly. Flip was right, Robert really wasn't a bad cook (or a bad guy), he could be lazy now and then and his hippie shtick got real old, real quick. "You think he can handle taking over for me? I work like a goddamn slave back there."

Flip blew a raspberry. "Pffft. You got it good, Loud. Do what I do for a week and you'll be _crying_ to get back on that grill."

"Twenty bucks says I won't," Lincoln grinned.

"Twenty bucks says I'll need a new manager by New Years'."

Lincoln nodded. "Alright. We'll see."

"Yes we will. Now get the hell outta here. Go home to your family."

On the car ride home, Lincoln smoked a shame-faced cigarette (it was only his third of the day – and would be his final). A group of shaggy headed teenagers stood in a big group outside the pharmacy smoking and talking. One wore a white T-shirt with a peace sign drawn on the back in marker. _Peace, man...except when we're rioting in the streets and breaking shit_. On the radio, The Temptations wrapped up _I Can't Get Next to You_ and a news bulletin came on: _"At this hour police in Los Angeles are still searching for clues in the brutal slaying of actress Sharon Tate and four others at a home in the Benedict Canyon area. The murders occurred overnight and are 'ritualistic' in nature according to Los Angeles Police Department spokesman James Vernon. A live-in caretaker who occupies a guest house on the estate is in custody and cooperating with police."_

Lincoln's stomach turned. Benedict Canyon? Isn't that where Luna lived? He tried to remember. It _sounded_ familiar, but he couldn't be sure.

" _President Nixon today wrapped up a weeklong visit to Romania, where he met with_ _Nicolae Ceaușescu. The President's stated goal was to establish stronger ties with the maverick Communist nation. Last year Ceaușescu was the lone dissenting voice against the Warsaw Pact invasion of member state Czechoslovakia, which had been implementing democratic reform under_ _Alexander Dubček. President Nixon praised Ceaușescu in a speech in Bucharest yesterday."_

He _thought_ it was Benedict Canyon. Where _else_ would he have heard of it?

Suddenly he was very worried.

When he got home, he parked behind the Packard, killed the engine, and got out. Inside, Mom, Leni, and Ronnie Anne were sitting on the couch, Leni holding Alex and rocking her back and forth. Dad was in his armchair. "Hey, lame-o," Ronnie Anne grinned, "welcome home."

"Hey," he said and shut the door. "Have you heard from Luna?"

"Yes, she carried earlier," Mom said. "I assume you heard."

"Yeah, something on the radio about a bunch of people being murdered. It was in her town, right?"

"Her neighbors," Ronnie Anne said.

"Wow, really?" Lincoln asked and came over. Ronnie Anne scooted aside and he sat between her and Leni. He reached out for his daughter.

Leni pouted. "But Lincy..."

Lincoln cocked his head. "You've had her all day."

"All day isn't long enough," Leni said.

He wiggled his fingers. She sighed and handed the baby over, then crossed her arms sullenly.

"Hi, baby!" Lincoln said.

Alex threw her head back and looked up at him, a gummy smile forming on her lips. "Daddy missed you today."

She flopped forward as if to hug him, and he rubbed her back. "I love you too." Then, to his mother: "She's alright?"

"She's upset. She knew her."

"She was pregnant too," Ronnie Anne said.

Jesus.

"Competition for movie roles is getting tough out there," Dad said.

"You're not funny, Lynn." Mom said sharply. "A woman and her baby were killed."

Lincoln shuddered and held his daughter just a _little_ tighter.

* * *

When Bobby Preston first brought up the idea of flying out to New York, Luna was ambivalent...even when she found out it was going to be a big deal. By the morning of August 15, Luna was ready to get the hell out of L.A...and she wasn't sure she wanted to come back.

What happened to Sharon Tate bothered her to no end – she couldn't stop thinking about it no matter how hard she tried. As if that wasn't bad enough, it happened again: On the night of August 10th, someone broke into a house in Los Feliz and slaughtered an upper-middle class married couple named LaBianca. They were beaten and stabbed (she heard they carved stuff into the man's stomach and let a two-tined carving fork sticking out of his chest), and words were written on the wall in blood.

Everyone was scared. If the Tates and LaBiancas of the world weren't safe – in their own fucking homes – who was? She was so freaked out she had Mick stay with her, and every time he left the room to take a piss or make a sandwich, she would start to hyperventilate. She kept the curtains drawn, and every hour or so she would go around to all the doors and windows and make sure they were locked. On the eleventh (or was it the twelfth?), someone used her driveway to turn around – a not uncommon occurrence – and she almost went into hysterics. She wouldn't go outside; when she tried, she got tingly all over and her heart started to race. She and Mick spent most of their time either in bed or in the living room listening to records: She didn't want to listen to the radio because she was terrified that she'd hear about _another_ massacre somewhere. The night before she left for New York, she and Mick sat at the coffee table and did coke, Luna dividing her attention between the blow in front of her and the front door, certain that at any moment, it would crash open and the killers would come for her. Music drifted darkly from the turntable; the piano and chanting chorus combining with the coke and making Luna paranoid:

 _When you're strange_

 _Faces come out of the rain_

 _When you're strange_

 _No one remembers your name_

 _When you're strange_

 _When you're strange_

 _When you're strange_

I'm not strange, everyone else is fucking strange. What kind of world is this where you can't even live your life without people coming into your house and killing you? Just a mile up the road a house was dark and haunted and oh god what if I wake up one night and hear Sharon Tate's baby crying and she's at the window looking for it, all bloody and dead and glowing white and she tries to get in because she thinks _I_ have it? And what if I look over and it's on my bed looking at me?

She was shaking violently. "What's wrong?" Mick asked, concern in his voice. He touched her, and she screamed.

"Hey," he said, and put his arm around her, "come on, relax."

"I want out of this fucking house," she stammered. Her teeth chattered.

"Alright, well, I'll help you look for a place when you get back."

Luna nodded jerkily. "Yeah. Let's do that. Man, I can't take being so close to what happened. I keep thinking..." she trailed off, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly standing up.

She was being watched.

She threw a nervous glance over her shoulder, and her blood turned to ice water when she caught a flash of white disappearing around the corner.

Sharon Tate.

Luna started to sob hysterically, and she was still sobbing when Mick put her in the car and backed into the street, was still sobbing an hour later in his apartment. "She's in my house," she managed.

"Who?"

"Sharon Tate, man, I _saw_ her."

Mick stroked the back of her neck but didn't reply.

Things looked better in the morning, but not by much. Mick drove her back to the house, and she stayed in the car – with the doors locked and her cross clutched protectively in her hand – while he went in and packed her a bag. She stared at the dashboard and fought the urge to look up at the house, because if she did and saw Sharon Tate in the window, she would go on a trip to Crazyville and never come back. When she felt herself giving into temptation, she squeezed her eyes closed. Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, you saw her last night, wasn't that enough?

Mick said she didn't _really_ see her – it was just the coke – but Luna knew she did; she was trapped between worlds and looking for her baby.

Someone tapped on the window, and she jumped. It was Mick. Just Mick. She reached over and unlocked the door. He tossed her bag into the backseat and climbed in. "I really wish you'd relax," he said as he backed into the street, "you're going to drive yourself crazy."

Luna laughed harshly. "Man, I wish I could. I really fucking do."

Her flight left at ten: Thankfully Bobby Preston was in the seat next to her so she didn't have to be alone. "This is gonna be a real good time," he said once the plane was in the air. "They say attendance is already twice what they expected."

Luna nodded absently. That woman three rows up looked like Sharon Tate. "Cool."

"The roads are jammed twenty miles in every direction," he laughed. "We're gonna take a helicopter in."

"Far out."

"Oh, here, this is yours." He reached into his briefcase and took out a flyer. He handed it to Luna, and she scanned it, grateful for the distraction: It was red with a cartoonish drawing of a dove perched on a guitar fretboard.

WOODSTOCK MUSIC AND ART FAIR PRESENTS AN AQUARIAN EXPOSITION IN WHITE LAKE, N.Y. 3 DAYS OF PEACE AND MUSIC. There was a list of performers, and Luna reach it carefully, dragging out the seconds until she wouldn't have anything to occupy her mind, until she started thinking about ghosts and killers and dead babies again.

They landed at LaGuardia at three that afternoon. Luna snorted a few lines in the bathroom before the final approach, and by the time she and the others were settled in their rooms at the Weltmore on Manhattan's Upper East Side, she felt better. L.A. was far behind, the death and terror of the last few days was far behind, everything was fine, everything was good. Sitting on the bed, she called home. "Hey, Mom, it's me."

"Luna?" Mom asked. Luna could hear a smile in her voice. "You're spoiling us with all these phone calls lately."

Luna laughed. "Making up for lost time. How's everyone?"

"Good, everyone's good. Lincoln and your father are at work, Ronnie and Alex are visiting Lori, and Leni is...I think she's taking a nap. How are you?"

"Alright. I'm in New York City. There's this festival tomorrow I'm doing and I'm really glad to be out of L.A." She laughed nervously. "Did you hear someone else got killed?"

"Yes," Mom said seriously, "it's terrible."

"World's going crazy."

A knock came at the door. "Hey, I gotta go. Love you."

"I love you too, honey."

She hung up and answered the door. It was Bobby Preston. They sat on the bed and talked. "Alright, here's how it's gonna go," he said, "we got a car picking us up at nine. We're going to Stewart Air Force Base and they're gonna airlift us in. You're going on at 2:45 and you got twenty-five minutes, maybe half an hour. It's a clusterfuck up there and half the bands they got playing can't even get there. It's not the best slot, but hey, at least everyone's gonna be awake."

Luna nodded. Sure. Great. Awake.

That night, she had trouble sleeping even though she left all the lights and the radio on. She wished Mick was here. She didn't like being alone.

When she finally did sleep, it was thin, fitful, and haunted by nightmares: In them, she was walking up Cielo Drive, the dry California breeze slipping through the dense vegetation on either side. She knew where she was going, and her heart seized in terror, but her feet did not respond to her brain's frantic commands to stop. Soon, the road bent, and Sharon Tate's house appeared, high on its hill like a castle in a black and white horror movie. The gate stood open, and she went through it, her dread mounting as she climbed the driveway. She tried to break free of the dark forces drawing her forward, but she was trapped, powerless, a spectator in her own body as she reached the front door. PIG was written in blood.

It opened of its own violation, and she walked in. The living room was tastefully decorated. The carpet was brown. The walls were white. A turntable sat near the entrance to the kitchen. A Zenith cabinet model television flickered on, and a flapping American flag filled the screen as the national anthem filtered through the speakers. "That concludes our broadcasting day," a voice said – then static.

Luna's chest throbbed as she approached the living room. _God please...please God..._

She stopped, and her head was tilted to the right as if by unseen fingers. A figure in white was hunched by the end of the couch. Her heart blasted and she squeezed her eyes closed, but she could still see, could still hear the feeble sobbing. A moan passed her lips, and the figure's breathing hitched. It turned, and electric fright burst through Luna's body when she saw Sharon Tate's white, blood-streaked face. Her eyes were two pools of inky black, and her split lips peeled slowly back over teeth that were too long, too sharp.

Moving with the fluid grace of a phantom, Sharon spun and stood, her back bent and stooped like an old woman's. She wore a billowy white nightgown: Blood stained her stomach and crotch, and even though she didn't change, even though her hair was still blonde and her complexion was still fair, Luna knew that she wasn't Sharon Tate anymore, but Ronnie Anne.

" _Luna..."_ she said in a voice like the rustle of a shroud, _"...where's my baby?"_

Luna's brain screamed at her to run, but her body wouldn't listen: It was locked in place.

" _Where's my baby?"_ she asked more insistently and took a shuffling step forward.

Luna tried to speak, but her vocal cords were frozen.

" _Where's_ _Alejandra?"_

Luna's lips formed words that she didn't hear.

The Sharon-Ronnie Anne thing started to cry hysterically. _"I want my baby, please...I want to hold my baby."_

Tears blurred Luna's vision.

" _Just once,"_ the thing hitched, _"I want to hold her just once..."_

The high, eerie shriek of a baby in pain filled the world, and Luna's paralysis broke. She turned, and fell back with a mind-blasting scream: Jay stood behind her, a rope wound around his neck. Only she knew it was Lincoln.

" _I came back to you, Luna,"_ he said through blue lips, and came forward, _"I came back."_

She sat bolt upright in bed and screamed, her hands flying to her face.

 _Just a dream._

She hugged herself and wept.

* * *

The ride from Manhattan to Stewart AFB took just over an hour: From the city, the highway passed through the Hudson River Valley, and as Bobby Preston and the guys in the band shot the shit, Luna gazed out the window at the low mountains and lazy streams flanking the road. The sky was overcast and gray, and by the time they packed into a dull gray helicopter, it was sprinkling rain.

After the chopper lifted off, Luna stared out the window, and the worst of her anxiety melted as her interest grew: A patchwork of fields, highways, farms, and forests opened up below, and she couldn't help but admire its beauty. As they drew closer to their destination, the roads became crazily jammed with cars. People sat on hoods and played guitars or smoked cigarettes (and, presumably, other things), some, with packs on their backs, trekked along the grassy shoulder like pilgrims on their way to Mecca.

"Are people really leaving their cars?" Bobby Preston asked the pilot, shouting to be heard over the roaring din of the propellers.

"Yes, sir!" the pilot shouted back. "It's a real mess down there. Last I heard Governor Rockefeller might close the thruway. We've already got some exits sealed off to keep anyone else from getting on."

Bobby Preston shook his head.

Fifteen minutes after setting off, the chopper banked right, and Luna held onto her safety harness. "There it is!" the pilot yelled.

Luna glanced out the window...and her jaw dropped.

"Holy fucking shit!" Bobby Preston cried.

"Goddamn," Tex said.

The festival grounds occupied a vast, hilly field bordered on multiple sides by lush stands of trees. The stage was at the bottom of the hill, a dirt road running along its back. Tens and tens of thousands of people – hell, maybe _millions_ – fanned out from it in a rough semi-circle seemingly miles deep. The crowd wasn't loose, either – it was packed as tight as a tin of sardines: Luna couldn't pick out individuals...she saw one large, teeming _mass_. Vendors and craft tents occupied the top of the hill, where the audience began to peter out, pitched yellow tops poking up like beacons. The hills surrounding the fair were dotted with sleeping tents and cars of every description: Volkswagen buses, Plymouths, Pontiacs, Chevys, a school bus painted a psychedelic shade of gibberish. A dirt lot on the other side of the road behind the stage was filled with cars, trailers, vans, and box trucks. A footbridge ran over the road and lead to the stage. As the chopper drew close, Luna saw that the road – which was as densely packed as the area before the stage – lead into a forest where more tents had been set up.

She had never seen so many people in her _life_ , and she had played some big shows.

Wow.

For the first time in she didn't know how long, she smiled. All the shit with Sharon Tate, all the shit before that, melted away as an ember of excitement flared in her chest. This...this was actually pretty fucking cool.

The helicopter soared over the crowd, the stage, and the road, then sat roughly down in the grass. "This is the performer area!" the pilot shouted. "You should see the talent rep walking around, he's a Mexican guy wearing a red headband. He'll get you all set up."

"Thank you," Bobby Preston said. The pilot pushed a button, and the door next to Luna slid open. She took her harness off and jumped down, her boots sinking into the mud. The wind displaced by the chopper blades buffeted her, threatening to knock her off her feet. Bobby Preston climbed out, took her arm, and helped her away as the others followed. The chopper door closed, and it took off. An amplified voice rolled out over the crowd.

" _Gimme an F!"_

" _F!"_ a billion voice chanted.

" _Gimme a U!"_

" _U!"_

" _Gimme a C!"_

" _C!"_

" _Gimme a K!"_

 _"K!"_

" _What's that spell?"_

" _FUCK!"_

 _"WHAT'S THAT SPELL?"_

 _"FUCK!"_

 _"WHAT'S THAT SPELL?"_

"FUCK!"

Luna snickered. Oh, so it's _that_ kind of place. Alright. "Stay right here," Bobby Preston said to her and the guys, "I'm gonna go look for this asshole. Don't get lost, we'll never find you."

The chanting ended and turned to singing accompanied by folksy acoustic guitar:

 _Well, come on all of you, big strong men,_

 _Uncle Sam needs your help again._

 _He's got himself in a terrible jam_

 _Way down yonder in Vietnam_

 _So put down your books and pick up a gun,_

 _We're gonna have a whole lotta fun._

"You see all those fucking people?" Cliff the rhythm guitarist asked, crossing his arms over his scrawny chest. He wore jeans and a black vest over white T-shirt; a humid stir of wind ruffled his shoulder length blond hair.

"Gotta be close to a million," Charlie the drummer said. He wore a red and white checkered shirt, the sleeves pushed up.

Luna heard someone calling her name, and turned. A girl in a long blue dress waved from the road, and Luna lifted her hand in return. Hey, how's it going?

 _And it's one, two, three,_

 _What are we fighting for?_

 _Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,_

 _Next stop is Vietnam;_

 _And it's five, six, seven,_

 _Open up the pearly gates,_

 _Well there ain't no time to wonder why,_

 _Whoopee! We're all gonna die._

Bobby Preston came over with a skinny, dark complexioned man in tow. He wore tight jeans, an olive green military style jacket over his bare chest, and a red headband; his long black hair spilled over his shoulders and his chin was covered with a splotchy attempt-a-beard. "Alright!" he cried. "I'm glad you guys made it, damn, half the people who're supposed to be here today are late. It's worse than yesterday!"

"This is Martinez," Bobby Preston said, "he's...I don't know what the fuck he is."

"Talent relations," Martinez said. He twisted around and pointed at a white tent. "We got food over there, water, I'm sure there's drugs if you want some, uh...pussy, maybe." He grinned. "There's a pond in the woods, and everyone's swimming naked, man, it's great. Everyone's having a good time. You will too."

"How many people do you think are here?" Bobby Preston asked.

"Fuck if I know. A hell of a lot more than we expected."

Bobby Preston grinned. "You guys are making a _killing._ "

Martinez shook his head. "Nope. We're losing money like a motherfucker. We didn't have time to finish the fence and it was either build that or the stage, and without a stage we'd have a lot of pissed off people and probably a riot. People been coming through gaps in that fence since Wednesday, and we had no choice but let it happen."

Bobby Preston winced. "Ouch. Sounds like your headliner's bankruptcy."

Martinez shrugged. "I don't know, I'm just here to hang out with cool people and watch hippie chicks get naked, but, yeah, someone's gonna lose their shirt."

" _Luna Loud!"_ someone called. Luna turned to the road, and a shirtless man – really a boy – with glasses and black hair waved. _"I wanna do you!"_

"Hey, fuck you!" Tex returned before Luna could open her mouth.

" _Fuck_ you, _Tex Rayburn. My eight-year-old sister can play guitar better than you!"_

Tex rolled up his sleeves and started after the kid, but he broke and ran.

"Just hang out until it's time to go on," Martinez said and glanced at his watch. "It's almost two now, that means Santana's up then you guys."

"Where's the bathroom?" Luna asked.

"Over by the tent, we got porta-potties."

Luna nodded. That's fine. She wasn't a picky date. Never had been. She told Bobby Preston where she was going so he wouldn't flip and think she wandered off, then crossed to the tent.

In the porta-potty, she got down on her knees and pulled her stash out of her pants pocket. Am I really going to snort cocaine off the seat of a public toilet? she asked herself. Of course I am! she answered. She measured out enough to make two lines, then dug in, sucking that white, powdery goodness straight into her brain. She was already in a good mood, and the chemical euphoria that overcame her only made her happier. Man, this was really fucking neat, all kinds of people, fucking huge stage, tents and naked women everywhere. Wait, I don't like naked women, but, hey, whatever, nothing wrong with the human body. _She_ wasn't about to show her body to everyone, come on, have some respect, but if someone else wanted to, hey, it was on them, not her. Whatever. Okay. Shit. Damn. Stop talking.

She laughed and made another line, which she ran through the way a fucking football player runs through a line of _other_ football players. That's enough for now, gotta save some for after the show, don't know when that chopper's coming to get us so we might be here awhile. Oh, man, I hope we don't get stranded. There's _no_ fucking way out here, all the roads are closed and jammed, fuck, man, people _really_ wanted to come to Woodstock. It's cool and all, but she wouldn't leave her car in the middle of the road to go see a show. Who does that? I mean, like, wow, your car, man!

Alright, alright, alright, alright. She twisted her baggie, stuck it back into her pocket, and got up. Outside, drops of rain fell from the churning gray sky. Shit, imagine being out there in front of that stage in this soupy, boggy mess with a million other people all flopping around half naked and high on LSD. You know they're doing it. Probably seeing rainbow colored Jesus right now. That food smells good. That tent, huh? Nah, I don't eat, though. I don't wanna have an accident on stage. That would _not_ be good. Damn kids would probably wanna dance in it. People were waving from the road and she waved back. Hello, everyone, just trying to find my manager. There he is, sitting on a picnic table with the guys – _the guys_ , the penis-havers, the dudes whose lead singer was a chick. Hahahahaha. It's kind of funny, because when she sings, everyone assumes she's singing about a guy, so she's singing "I love you" to a man and they're back there playing their instruments and agreeing with her. "We love men too. In a queer way."

Queer, queer, queer, queer. Say it enough times and it loses its meaning. Stops sounding like a word and starts sounding like dripping water. She sat next to Bobby Preston and clapped her hands onto her knees. These purple pants were nice, the fabric was soft. She didn't notice how soft. Her shirt, with the big arms and the wide neck, was nice too. She ran her hands up and down her chest. Feels like gray! No, it's a gray color it doesn't _feel_ that way. It was just a joke. Oh, here's my cross, reminds me of Lincoln. Gimme an L! What's that spell? What's that spell? What's that spell? I thought this was a rock concert, not grade school.

"How you feeling?" Bobby Preston asked her.

"Right as rain," she said and looked up at the sky, her eyes squinting. Drip...drip...queer.

"You look better. You looked like shit this morning."

Yeah, I did. I know. I had a fucking bad dream but I'm not going to think about that right now because it's Woodstock time, then it's going home time. "Is that helicopter coming back to get us?" she asked.

"Yes," Bobby Preston said. "It'll be here about four-thirty or five."

"Right on," Luna said, "I don't wanna get stuck here, it looks fun, man, but I don't wanna be trapped. You saw those roads."

He nodded. "I did. They were packed."

"Stalled traffic. For twenty fucking miles. I shouldn't be in such a hurry, I guess, I really don't wanna go home. I saw Sharon Tate's ghost in my house." Damn it, that just slipped out; now she was thinking about it and she didn't want to think about it, she wanted to be happy, focus on something fun. Woodstock? Yeah, it looked fun enough. Seeing her niece! That would be fun. She should fly out to Royal Woods soon...

"Her ghost?" Bobby Preston asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Luna said and waved her hand, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"That was some bullshit what happened," Cliff said.

"They say the second wasn't the same people," Tex said. "I think that's bunk. Same thing happened, some writing on the walls, it's the same people."

"I don't wanna talk about this," Luna said, clasping her knee in her hands and trembling with energy."

"Well," Bobby Preston, "as an atheist Jew, I don't believe in a soul, so..."

Charlie furrowed his brow. "Atheist Jew? How can you be an atheist _and_ a Jew?"

"I'm a cultural Jew," Bobby Preston said.

"So...how does that work?" Cliff asked.

Bobby Preston shrugged. "Judaism is a culture as well as a religion. You can be a Jew without being a religious Jew."

Where's that dude who was spelling 'fuck'? There were people milling around and talking with bottles of water in their hand, but she didn't see a flashing sign or a nametag saying: "Hi, my name is FUCK Guy." She turned to the back of the stage and watched. All sorts of musical equipment, speakers, sound systems, wires, techs working. The music was groovy sounding. Is that bongsos I hear? Or is that _are those bongos?_ Hand claps, too. Ah, there's the guitar. She tapped her foot and bobbed her head. Sounds Spanish or something. Maybe it didn't exactly _sound_ it, but it had that kind of vibe.

"Sure, I still celebrate Hanukah," Bobby Preston said. He and the penis-having dudes were still talking that Jewish stuff, huh? Didn't they hear this music? It was good. Bongos and guitar. The bongotar. A bongo with strings on it. Or a string with bongos on it. Bongo. Bongo. That's a fun word to say. Luna was nodding her head faster and looking around. Yeah, yeah, this is nice. Just listening to music. Not a care in the world. Hanging out. Rain falling. Getting kind of faster, picking up.

Like her heartbeat. Bangin' like a bongo. Boom, boom, boom. There's your next hit from Luna and the Louds.

Time passed quickly after the Bongo Song ended. Before she knew it, Martinez was coming over and waving. You're going on! It's 2:45! Time to play! Come on, come on, yeah, yeah. She crossed the footbridge and looked down at all the people passing below – it was an endless river of humanity, so many people just everywhere. She couldn't get over it. There were fucking _cities_ smaller than Woodstock.

At the stage, she picked up a guitar and slung it over her shoulder, then tuned it so that it sounded _juuuusssssssst_ right. If she didn't have to shove into a teeny tiny helicopter she would have brought her own.

Alright, go on out. It was a blur, man, a sea of faces forever. Guys with afros, and beards, and no shirts, and chicks with no shirts too, their breasts hanging free and flowers painted on their stomachs. She saw headbands and sunglasses, military jackets like Martinez's, long flowing hair and fucking arms and legs and mud, man, mud _everywhere_. Black people, white people, all free and happy and not fucking breaking into each other's houses like they did in L.A. It wasn't paradise, but it wasn't half bad...not half bad at all.

When she came out, there were cheers and claps and whistling. Nothing major, though, not like at her concerts. They weren't here to make noise and yell, they were here to groove. Luna liked that, she liked that a lot. Don't make a big fucking deal. Me coming out doesn't mean jackshit. You wanna show me you dig me, bob your fucking and _dance._ She went up to the microphone and took it off the stand. Wow...there were so many people. Hahahahaha.

For a moment she just scanned the crowd. I gotta say something funny, I guess. Dance monkey dance. "First thing I heard when I got here," she said, "was 'what's that spell?'"

 _"FUCK!"_ the crowd roared.

She laughed. Hey, that was kind of fun. "I said alright, this is my kind of party." She glanced back at Tex, and he nodded. She slipped the mic back into its holder and picked up the guitar. They were going to play four songs – maybe five depending on how things went. See, at live shows, you got to improvise and have fun. A guitar solo that lasts fifteen seconds on an album can last fifteen minutes at a concert and no one cares – in fact, they like it. The first song was going to be _Come Back to Me_. I hate that title. The song itself, though...it felt like someone else wrote it; it didn't kick her in her heart muscle the way it used to...hell, these days it didn't even _remind_ her of the pain. It just...was.

She started to play, her eyes flicking down to her fingers as they picked the strings. Wow, it's crazy, she wasn't even thinking about it, she was just _doing_ it...like breathing. You don't think about breathing, you just breathe. I've been doing this long enough. Stepping forward, she looked up at the crowd and started to sing.

" _On a bus down to New Orleans_

 _In the middle of the night_

 _Just me and my guitar, oh something ain't right_

 _There's something I'm missing now_

 _And he's not around_

 _How can I live when you're not here with me?"_

Heads bobbed, bodies moved, half naked hippies grooved. Hey, another hit from Luna and the Louds. She smiled.

" _When there's nothing left to say at the end of everyday_

 _I'll just think of you until the sunlight fades away_

 _Then sometime maybe I'll see your sweet face again_

 _I'll be hoping and praying and crying until then_

 _When there's nothing left in this old world to lose_

 _There's nothing else that I would choose_

 _Just to see you and hold your hand one more time_

 _And maybe you'll hold mine."_

She paused and played silently for a moment, stretching the solo out to fill time.

" _My heart and my soul will never be free_

 _Until the day, honey, you come back to me_

 _My cryin' eyes will never see_

 _And my world won't be the same_

 _Until you come back to me."_

Faint memories stirred, and for a brief second she _did_ remember the pain – how great it was, how _deep_. She remembered how the days dragged and how, at first, she anxiously waited for a call – first to hear that he was found alive, then that he was found dead – and tears filled her eyes. It was okay, though, it turned out okay: He came back.

" _Standing on a corner_

 _In the pouring rain_

 _Got nothing_

 _Not a dollar to my name_

 _But I wouldn't care a bit_

 _No, I wouldn't cry_

 _Just as long as you were by my side_

 _Everything is broken now, and everything is gray_

 _But I guess I'll have to live just one more lonely day_

 _To wait and see_

 _If you'll come back to me."_

She looked out over the half million attendees and smiled. He did, she thought, he came back to me.

When it was over, the cheers were louder. The rain was picking up and her hair was damp now, but she didn't care, she felt invigorated, euphoric. It's all going to be okay...like it was with Lincoln. When she got back to L.A., she would move out of that haunted fucking house and never look back. And she wouldn't have nightmares about Sharon Tate...it was going to be okay.

All okay.


	58. September 1969

_Beep-beep-beep_.

...huh...?

 _Beep-beep-beep._

Go-way.

 _Beep-beep-beep_.

Ronnie Anne Loud creaked open one tired eye and stared at the clock on the nightstand, its face a red, blurry smear in the darkness. What's happening here? Why is it going off? She blinked, and the numbers swam into focus: 5:10am.

Then it hit her and she jumped up. Next to her, Lincoln stirred.

 _Beep-beep-beep._

She slapped the off button. In her basinet, Alex moved and let out a deep sigh as if indignant at being woken. Was she awake? Ronnie Anne sat absolutely still and listened, her head cocked to one side. Nothing happened...then Alex started cooing happily to herself. Yep. Sorry, Linc. She turned to her husband and laid a hand on his leg. "I'm up," he muttered and rubbed his forehead.

Her plan was to _not_ wake Alex and Lincoln, but, hey, even the best laid plans go to shit. Could you blame her, though? This was the first time she'd done this, and waking up at 5:10 in the morning is not something you can just jump out of bed and do at first. You had to ease into it...like cold, icy water.

Alex gurgled and started to pant and thrash. _I hear you, Daddy! Good morning! Pick me up!_ Ronnie Anne snapped on her bedside lamp and swung her legs over the edge of the bed; the movement was enough to make her dizzy. I made a huge mistake, she thought, fuck teaching. Alex's basinet shook. "Are you getting her?" she asked and looked at Lincoln. He was flat on his back with the covers pulled up to just below his nipples. His eyes were closed but his brow was furrowed, which told her he was awake...and probably regretting her career choice just as much as she was.

"Yes," he said, then sat up. "Go get ready."

I'll try, she thought, but I might fall over. She got up and stumbled, but didn't go down. Al _right_. She stood over the basinet and peered down at her daughter: The baby was smiling widely, her dark eyes filled with joy. _Hi, Mommy!_

Ronnie Anne grinned. "Good morning, baby," she said, and tickled Alex's belly; the girl gave a hitching, breathy laugh and kicked her feet. "Mommy's up _way_ early and so is Alex and so is Daddy." Alex wiggled like a worm. She _liked_ being up early. "That's right, little Miss Almost-Five-Months." She picked up the baby and turned to Lincoln, who was sitting up now, his back resting against the headboard. He gave a tiny ghost of a smile. She kissed Alex and handed her to him.

In the bathroom, she turned the water as hot as she could stand and climbed into the shower, a hiss escaping her lips when it fell on her naked flesh. They say cold water wakes you up, and while it certainly did Bobby when they were younger, hot water worked better for her: How can you not be awake after having your skin boiled off?

She reached for the shampoo, squirted a measure into her hand, and held her head under the spray, wetting her hair. As she massaged the sweet smelling gloop into her scalp, she thought of what lie ahead: Truth be told, she was nervous. She wasn't the type to get nervous often or easily, but ever since her final interview with Superintendent Chalmers in July, she'd been a knotted ball of anxiety. _Teenagers are goddamn savages,_ he said, _if they smell fear, they'll eat you alive._ She laughed and assured him she could handle teenagers – it wasn't that long ago that she was one herself – but the more she turned his words over in her mind, the more the tiny spark of dread in her stomach grew. _Teenagers aren't that bad...I know, I was one just a few years ago but_ _I'm on the_ other _side of the desk now...things are totally different_.

Sighing, she held her head under the water again and rinsed the suds from her hair, threading her fingers through and making sure to get it all. Kids were also different now. They wore their hair longer and looked like those people from the news – the ones who rioted in Chicago last year. She grinned as she remembered how _mad_ Lincoln got. _Look at those assholes,_ he said, _destroying people's property. Fuck them_. That was TVland, though; things weren't like that in Royal Woods. Then she started paying attention to the kids on the street, in the park, and at the grocery store. Not _all_ of them looked like the protesters, but too many _did_ , and that was scary, because those protesters had no respect for authority – you heard people like them on the news angrily railing against "the Man": Police, the government...and teachers.

She wasn't afraid of being attacked – she'd break their little noses – but she _was_ afraid of twenty students running over top of her, talking, cutting up, not listening, waving her off like a fly. She was _very_ afraid of that, to be honest.

Presently, she cut the water, grabbed her towel, and dried herself thoroughly before wrapping it around her body. At the sink, she rubbed the condensation off the mirror and studied her face, all too aware that her freckles and her rabbit teeth write their own cruel, teenage jokes. No one dared say anything in school because she had a reputation for punching people, but she couldn't do that now – those kids were safe behind the ramparts of their youth and she was held back by the leash of her position.

Sigh.

She went into her room: Lincoln was sitting up in bed, holding a bottle to Alex's lips and smiling down at her. She slurped greedily. She was such a noisy eater; Mommy's little baby slob.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she grabbed her brush from the nightstand and raked it through her hair. "Today's Mommy's first day of school," Lincoln told his daughter, "you won't have her. But you'll have auntie Leni. And Grandma."

Leni was excited about babysitting Alex. In fact, she probably didn't even sleep: Ronnie Anne could see her now, sitting up in bed with her hands fisted in excitement and a wide, toothy grin on her face, waiting, biding her time, counting down...2am, 3am, 4am...

When her hair was silky smooth, Ronnie Anne laid the brush aside and got up. At the closet, she scanned the five dresses she recently bought for the school. One was brown with black crisscross stripes that reminded her of a telephone pound sign (# is in this season), one was purple, one was green, one was blue, and the final was black and sleeveless with a V neck. She went for the most conservative ones she could find, calling up memories of what her own teachers wore as she shopped: She got the sleeveless one because it looked nice...maybe she would wear it to school, maybe she wouldn't.

She selected the pound sign dress, took it off the hanger, and carried it over to the bed, where she laid it out. Lincoln glanced at it, then up at her, a sly, devilish grin touching his lips. She couldn't help her own grin. "Don't say a word," she said.

He held up hand.

"I mean it. I know you've got something smart alecky to say."

"Not me," he said, "I was just thinking that if you and your students have free time, you can play a game of tic-tac-toe."

She pursed her lips. "Cute."

While Lincoln changed Alex's diaper, Ronnie Anne got dressed. What should she do with her hair? Leave it down? No. Ponytail? Ehhhh...no. She wanted to look professional. In the bathroom, she pulled it back in a tight bun and examined herself in the mirror: She looked so much like her mother she was taken aback.

Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Loud were sitting at the kitchen table, Mrs. Loud in a pink robe and Mr. Loud in his work clothes: Brown pants and blue button-up shirt. They were both drinking coffee. When she came in, Mr. Loud glanced at her, then to his wife. "Honey, there's a teacher or librarian in our house. I can't tell which."

"You and your son are full of humor today," Ronnie Anne said as she went to the coffee pot.

Mr. Loud chuckled. "Chip off the old block."

"I think you look very nice, dear," Mrs. Loud said.

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said. She did too: She looked like a teacher, and if you want to be it, you have to look it first. She poured coffee into a mug and took a sip. It was hot and bitter – just the way she liked it.

"There's toast and bacon if you're hungry," Mrs. Loud said.

No, actually, she was _not_ hungry. "I'm not really hungry. Thank you, though."

"Are you excited?" Mr. Loud asked.

She nodded. "Pretty excited."

That wasn't a lie. She was: Today was the first day of her career, and she was teaching math, a subject she knew a lot about even before going to college for it.

After finishing her coffee, she washed the mug, put it in the drying rack, and went back upstairs. Lincoln was lying on his side with his arm out. Alex was snuggled up against him in an identical position, and Ronnie Anne's heart melted. Awwwww. She went over, leaned, and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm leaving," she said.

"Have a good day," he muttered.

"You too. You have less than an hour."

"I set the alarm."

She went around to the other side of the bed, planted one knee on the mattress, and bent over to kiss Alex on her cheek. Another thing that made her nervous was not being with her little girl: She hadn't been away from her for more than an hour or two at a time since she was born – now she was going to go _all day_ without her.

That made her sad.

Outside, the sun was up and weak amber light filled the sky. Last month, she and Lincoln bought a second car – a light blue 1968 Ford Pinto – so that she would have something to drive back and forth to work. It was parked along the sidewalk because the driveway was already full. Behind the wheel, she checked herself in the rearview mirror (still professional looking), started the engine, and pulled away from the curb. She turned on the radio and fiddled with it as she approached the intersection, finally settling on a station broadcasting the morning news.

" _...in Libya, occupying airports, police depots, radio stations, and government offices in Tripoli and Benghazi. The communist overthrow, as it has been labeled by U.S. officials, comes on the heels of an attempted socialist coup in the European state of Moronica. The tiny state nestled between Italy and Greece has been the scene of unrest over the past month as thousands take to the street to protest King Horowitz, the Spanish backed monarch many have called 'fascistic.'_

She turned onto Main Street and followed a red pick-up past Flip's. She remembered a day when she and Lincoln would walk this very same route from his house. It seemed like a long way now, but when it was one of the only times of the day they could be together, it passed in the twinkling of an eye.

" _North Vietnam's former leader, Ho Chi Minh, has died at the age of 79 from heart failure."_

Oh. Lincoln would be happy.

The school was up ahead on the left. She pulled into the parking lot along the western wall and slid into a spot marked RESERVED FOR FACULTY. Hey, that's me. She cut the ignition and got out. Her stomach was rolling now and she took a deep breath.

Alright, girl, it's time to do this.

She went inside.

* * *

"She eats every two hours," Lincoln said, "and make sure to burp her when she's done or she'll get an upset tummy. She usually goes down around two and sleeps for about an hour, hour and a half. Oh, make sure to –"

Leni blinked. "Lincy?"

"What?"

"I know how to take care of a baby."

Her bluntness threw him off balance. "I-I know that, but I'm making sure you know how to take care of _my_ baby."

They were standing at the door, Leni holding Alex in her arms. Mom was sitting on the couch with her legs and arms crossed. It was still early – barely 6:45 – and she hadn't changed out of her robe yet.

Leni rolled her eyes. "I know what I'm, like, doing, Lincy, now go to work so I can have Alex all to myself." She flashed the baby a toothy smile. "Yeah, it's just you and me." She ticked Alex's stomach, and the baby laughed. "Baby Alex and auntie Leni."

Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, but closed it. It was true, Leni knew what she was doing. He was just a little antsy, that's all: This was the first time Alex wouldn't have either him or Ronnie Anne, and even though Leni was good with kids, he still wasn't entirely adjusted to the idea yet. "Okay," he allowed, "you're right."

She brightened. "Of course I am. Now shoo."

"I love you, Alex," he said and kissed his daughter's head. She laughed at him.

He drove to Flip's in silence, wondering how Ronnie Anne was doing right now. School didn't start for another half hour, so her day hadn't even begun yet. What was she doing? He'd have to ask her; he always wondered what teachers did before the first bell. Drink coffee? Prepare lesson plans? Shoot dice?

When he got in, Flip was sitting behind the counter reading the morning paper. The radio was in the window, the sounds of an orchestra filtering through the speaker. "Got good news for you, Loud," Flip said without looking up.

Lincoln's step faltered. Good news? "What?" he asked guardedly.

"Ho Chi Minh. You know him?"

Lincoln's brows angled savagely down for the briefest of moments. "Yeah, I know him."

Flip nodded. "Dead."

"Yeah?" Lincoln asked. "Good. I hope he's in hell."

"He might be," Flip said. "Or maybe he's in heaven."

"In that case I hope _I_ go to hell."

Flip laughed. "Be careful, Loud, you might get what you wish for."

* * *

At lunch, Ronnie Anne went into the teacher's lounge, a little room between the nurse's office and the library, and made herself a cup of coffee. She had been in here several times – once that morning, and once during Principal Wilson's tour shortly after she was hired – but she couldn't quite get over it. When she was a kid, the teacher's lounge was a mystery, even though the door was sometimes open and she had looked inside. It was barred, exclusive, and alluring. Now she could come and go as she pleased (within reason...she couldn't just walk out of class and take a coffee break); it was kind of surreal.

Holding her mug, she sat at one of the tables and sipped slowly, relishing the relative silence. She was pleased with how things were going: None of the kids had given her any problems, and every one of them did as she said. She didn't know what she was expecting (open mutiny?), but it surely wasn't the easy adjustment she got.

Mrs. Carr, the history teacher, came into the lounge and went to the coffee maker. A tall middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and blue eyes, she was one of the many, many faculty members who were around when Ronnie Anne was in school. History was never her favorite subject, but she liked Mrs. Carr enough. She took a mug from the drying rack by the sink, filled it with coffee, and turned, startling when she saw Ronnie Anne. "Oh," she laughed, "I'm used to being the only one in here." She came over and sat across from Ronnie Anne. "How are you liking it so far?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Very much. It's different from the first time around."

Mrs. Carr laughed. "Yes, it is. I was very nervous my first day. Gosh...that was twenty years ago." She took a sip of her coffee. "I have to be honest, of all the kids I taught, I never imagined you'd be one to teach."

"Neither did I," Ronnie Anne replied. "My sister-in-law wanted to be a teacher, and she got me thinking about it."

"Which one?" Mrs. Carr asked. "You married the Loud boy, right?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yes. It was Luan."

"I remember her. Sweet girl. How is she doing?"

"Good, the last I knew. She's in California studying to be a social worker...of some kind." Ronnie Anne still wasn't exactly sure what it was Luan wanted to do. She talked about 'macro-work' whatever _that_ is.

"That's nice. I see Lori in town from time-to-time. She married your brother, correct?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yes. Eight years ago, I think."

Mrs. Carr smiled. "Your brother wasn't exactly a troublemaker, but he always made me a little nervous with that leather jacket of his."

"He makes me nervous to this day," Ronnie Anne quipped.

"How is Lincoln? I heard he was in the war and did something notable. I can't remember what, though."

"He's fine. He was in the army for a couple years but he's out now." That's all Ronnie Anne wanted to say about that, because if she talked too much about it, she started to remember the near-suicidal agony she felt during Lincoln's absence. To brighten her mood, she thought of something happier. "We have a daughter now."

Mrs. Carr's eyes widened. "Oh, that's nice. How old is she?"

"She'll be five months in a week."

"Awww. I remember when my boys were that little. My son Thomas is twenty-one now and in the navy, and my daughter Margret is nineteen and just started college. Sometimes I can't believe they're all grown up. What's her name?"

"Alejandra Carmen," Ronnie Anne said.

"That's pretty."

"Thank you."

When the bell rang, Mrs. Carr finished her coffee and got up. "There goes _my_ lunch," she said. "I hope you have a good rest of the day."

"You too, Mrs. Carr."

She laughed. "Honey, we're both adults. You can call me Helen."

"Alright. You too, Helen."

Calling one of your teachers by their first name – even if they haven't been your teacher in half a decade – is strange and somehow satisfying. Smirking to herself, Ronnie Anne put her cup in the sink and went back to her classroom, getting there just as the second bell rang; a few last minute stragglers hurried in and took their seats as she picked up a piece of chalk and wrote her name on the board. It occurred to her that if she'd been quicker to go to college, she very well could have wound up teaching kids she actually went to school with.

Now _that_ would have been strange.

* * *

At lunch, Lincoln called home. His mother picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mom," he said, "it's me. How's Alex?" He hoped she didn't hear the nervous tremor in his voice. He trusted Leni, he really did, but how would Alejandra react to not having Mommy _or_ Daddy? Well, he hoped.

He was standing behind the counter and scanning the dining room, which was virtually empty. Flip had a doctor appointment, and he was pulling double duty, cooking _and_ running the register. Well, technically, since he was in charge, he was actually pulling...multi-duty. Yeah. Let's call it that.

Mom chuckled. "She's fine, honey; she and Leni are on the floor right in front of me. On their bellies. Alex is doing very well with holding her head up."

In the background he heard Leni's voice. "Leni says to leave her alone, she wants to spend time with her niece."

Lincoln sighed, but he was grinning. "Alright. Give Alex kisses for me."

"I will."

"And make sure she eats..."

 _Click._

Lincoln held the phone out and looked at it. He would never call his own mother a bitch, even in jest, but sometimes things pop into your mind and you can't stop them.

Hanging it up, he went back into the kitchen, where Donald the dishwasher was leaning against the sink. On slow days like this, he often enjoyed long stretches of standing around with nothing to do. Usually Lincoln let him because, hey, he wasn't the boss, but Flip was going to make him manager at some point...and he _was_ the boss for now...so he had to start thinking like a boss. "Alright," he said, "grab a rag and start cleaning. Wipe down the fridge and the freezer, get _under_ the sink, the legs of the prep tables, and...the wall could use a once over." He grabbed a rag himself and squatted in front of the grill. He washed the grease build-up off every couple days, and while it could wait until tomorrow, why not do it now?

Flip got back about an hour later. "The place is still standing," he marveled. Lincoln was at the register making change for an elderly couple.

"I thought I had longer to mess it up," Lincoln said, "I got busy and didn't get a chance. Maybe next time."

"How much money did you steal outta my till?" He hobbled over on his cane and waved Lincoln away. Lincoln gave the old people their money and a smiling nod. Come back again.

"I wouldn't steal from you, Flip," he said, "if what you pay me is any indication, you can't afford to lose any money."

Flip counted the money and hummed. "You wanna cry about wages, Loud, the door's that way."

Lincoln chuckled. "Me and Donny are unionized. We're gonna strike on your old ass."

Flip sighed dreamily. "Then I'll _finally_ be rid of you two bastards. I've been dreaming about that since 1960...or was it '61. When the hell did you start working here?"

Lincoln started to reply but stopped. For a minute he had no fucking idea when he started working here, then it came to him. "'61. Feels like 61, alright – 61 years."

A familiar car pulled into the parking lot and slid into a slot in front: A light blue 1958 Dodge four-door. Bobby Santiago got out from behind the wheel and threw a cigarette down. He was wearing black pants and a blue shirt with his name over the left breast. "Oh, hell, now I got _this_ asshole coming in," Flip said. Bobby came through the door and grinned when he saw them.

"We don't serve your kind here," Flip said and held up a hand.

Bobby blinked. "What, Mexicans?"

"No, losers."

Bobby nodded. "Real funny, Flip. So funny, in fact, I forgot to laugh." He came over and sat on a stool. "Linc, how's it going? I haven't seen you in a while. You need to come over more."

"I can't when this old bastard works me 24/7."

Flip nodded toward the door. "It's right there, Loud."

"Come work with me," Bobby said, "I got an opening. Packing and unpacking trucks. It's real easy. Give it a week 'til Flop comes crawling after you on his hands and knees."

"What do you want?" Flip asked.

"A hamburger and fries for old times' sake."

Flip slapped Lincoln's chest. "You heard him. Make 'em _special_."

Lincoln nodded and snorted like he was hocking up a loogie.

"See? This is why I don't come in here anymore," Bobby said.

* * *

Ronnie Anne got home just after 5:30, a full two and a half hours after school let out. A lot of teachers, or so Principal Wilson told her, like to go home and prepare their lesson plans. That might be good and well for them, but she was never one for homework, so she stayed behind and did it at her desk. By the time she was finished, she was alone in the building save for the janitor, an older black man in dark gray coveralls. She didn't unnerve easy, but it was kind of eerie the way the heels of her shoes clicked and echoed down the halls. Almost like a horror movie.

When she came through the door, Leni was bouncing Alex on her lap and smiling at her. Mrs. Loud was next to her, her arms crossed. They both looked up, and Leni's face fell. "I guess that means our time is up," she said. Alex flopped her head around, saw Ronnie Anne, and gave a big smile.

"Hi, baby!" Ronnie Anne said. She put her arms out and crossed the living room. Leni handed her over and Ronnie Anne picked her up. "Mommy missed you. Did you have a good day with auntie Leni?"

Alex gurgled.

"They had a very good day," Mrs. Loud said. "In fact, I felt like a third wheel."

Leni looked sad, and Ronnie Anne squeezed her shoulder. "Hey...you're watching her tomorrow, right?"

The older girl's eyes lit up. "Yes!"

Alex giggled.

"I think she's looking forward to that," Ronnie Anne said.


	59. December 1969

**RandomReviewerReturns: I'm currently writing chapters set in 1982. That's to say, I'm pretty far ahead of 1969. I write a lot.**

 **Guest: No, Luna is not gay and she is not bisexual.**

 **Anonymous789: Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's elementary school principal (he'll be appearing again in a few chapters) is named Strickland after the principal in Back to the Future.**

 **Everyone: This is a pleasant little breather of a chapter too; enjoy it, because things go majorly south for a certain radical starting in the next installment.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Sugar, Sugar**_ **by The Archies (kind of – 1969)**

* * *

" _How're we gonna live through this shit?"_ Clem asked one night. The sky was black. The moon was white. Fire crackled and cast orange light across dirty faces. If you dropped acid and looked into it, you could see the center of the universe, and all the secrets it held.

Clem was eighteen with matted blonde hair that stopped just above his shoulders and a dopey expression permanently plastered to his face. Everyone called him Scramblehead because he was dumb – possibly even a little retarded. Sometimes, though, Tex Watson thought he was faking.

Charlie, sitting cross-legged on a rock, smiled. _"The Hole,"_ he said.

The Hole was a vast underground network of caverns beneath Death Valley. _"It's got trees, fresh water, everything you could want. I know it's there, I just don't know where the entrance is. That's being kept from me."_

When blackie started to rise, Charlie said, they'd hide in the Hole until it was over. After the killings, Charlie had a vision that Helter Skelter was about to start, and they packed everything they had into a school bus and drove into the desert. They set up at an abandoned ranch nestled among craggy, rock-strewn hills and spent their days endlessly combing the surrounding area for access to the Hole. They stole cars and converted them to dune buggies, and they would pair off – two in the west, two in the east, two in the north, and two in the south. Watson always seemed to wind up with Scramblehead, much to his chagrin.

Death Valley is an inhospitable place where temperatures routinely reach 120 degrees during the day, then dip down into the thirties at night. The terrain is unforgiving, the wildlife dangerous. After being stalked by a pack of wild dogs, Watson took to wearing a gun on his hip like an Old West cowboy; he shot a buzzard with it one day out of spite. In mid-November, a new member named Russ fell down a washout and snapped his ankle; he was scouring the hills in the east along with Sadie when the rocks under his feet gave out and he spilled. Watson and Scramblehead brought him back to camp. Charlie said to take him away. _"This happened for a reason – we can't find the Hole for a reason...because there's a Judas among us, and it's him."_ They loaded him into the back of a dune buggy, drove him into the desert, and shot him in the head, leaving him for the vultures and coyotes. A week later, another member named Sarah got bitten by a tarantula – the wound got infected and her skin started to blister and turn black. Sadie dragged her into the bush and beat her head in with a rock.

It had been a month and a half – give or take – and they still hadn't found that goddamn hole. Watson started to doubt. Maybe Charlie was lying. Maybe he wasn't the great Messiah he claimed to be. His misgivings only grew – Charlie said Helter Skelter was already happening and blacks were killing whites in the cities, but when Watson listened to the radio (a pocket transistor that he'd hidden from Charlie because-he-didn't-know-why) he didn't hear anything about it. The news was the same as it had always been. They played the same songs, the same stupid jingles. One night when they were around the fire, Charlie passed out LSD tabs. Watson palmed his, and when Charlie told him to open himself to the universe, he did – and felt nothing, saw nothing. Acid is the key, he told himself, that's why, but he wondered.

A few days before Thanksgiving, while Charlie was visiting with Leslie, Watson snuck into his cabin and looked around, hoping to find proof that Charlie was god – or that he wasn't. In his rucksack, Watson found a book. _How to Win Friends and Influence People_. That made him laugh so hard he cried, then cry so hard he laughed. The great Charles Manson got it from a book – and acid.

He left that very day, taking a dune buggy and driving east into the desert. He didn't feel remorse for what he did – for killing the Tate bitch and the others – he felt only anger that he was lied to, that the murders weren't some holy undertaking, but Charlie getting back at society or some damn thing.

The dune buggy broke down thirty miles out, and he walked for two days through the Mojave, trailed by buzzards and the brutal rays of the desert sun. The birds were as big as men, and it was all too easy to imagine they weren't birds at all but demons waiting for nightfall to strike. He started to get delusional. He heard talking and screaming and high, hitching laughter that came from nowhere – and everywhere. Phantoms flitted around him, dark shapes that always disappeared when he turned to look at them full on, and on the second day, Charlie appeared ahead of him, his arms out and light shining around him. Watson froze, his body petrifying with terror. Was he wrong?

" _Tex..."_ he said disappointedly.

Watson blinked, and the mirage shimmered.

" _Tex..."_

"Fuck you," Watson growled. His voice was thick with dehydration and hysteria. "Fuck you!"

" _You can still go back..."_

Watson ripped the gun off his hip and fired: The vision dissipated, and he was alone.

Later, he reached the highway and caught a ride to Tucson with a long haul trucker. He called his parents in Texas, and they wired him a little money. He got a motel room, a hot meal, and a used car from a fat man in a western shirt and his buzz-cut, clip-on tie wearing son-in-law. He drove home, and for a week, he thought it was over; California was a distant memory, Charlie was a distant memory, and all those people he killed – well, he might as well not have killed them at...they were that unimportant. But then, on a Saturday afternoon, the McKinney police came by the house looking for him. They knew...how in God's name they did, he didn't know...but they did, and they put him in handcuffs. That night, sitting in a concrete-walled jail cell, he had an acid flashback: Him kicking Sharon Tate in her uppity head as Sadie stabbed her chest and stomach. In real life she begged and pleaded, but in the vision she was smiling at him – mockingly, _knowingly_.

"Fuck you, bitch," he sneered.

 _All for nothing, Tex, you did this all for nothing._

" _FUCK YOU!"_

She laughed coldly as he began to sob.

* * *

Alex was lying on her stomach, her head up and her arms pushing at the floor, her widdle hands searching for purchase but sliding on the carpet. She let out a frustrated babble. "I _know_ ," Leni cooed, "crawling is hard. You'll get it, though."

Leni's head might be dumb and she might be really forgetful sometimes (and _maybe_ she was getting a little clumsier – she tripped over her own feet sometimes) but she was not stupid, especially when it came to babies. Alejandra was eight months old and _should_ be crawling by now. Babies, like, go at their pace and all, she got that, but she _really_ wanted to see her crawling. It would be _so_ adorable. Of course, she might be like Bobby Jr.: He pretty much skipped crawling altogether. Leni knew some babies did that, but wasn't it, like, pretty rare?

Hmmm. She touched her finger to her chin and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Did _she_ crawl? Her earliest memory was...hoola hoop in the backyard. Wait, no, she was, like, a grown up when that happened, because it was Lincy's thirteenth birthday party...the one where he got the bike. She tried to think back farther than that, but everything was hazy. She remembered...falling down on the playground...falling off the swing set...oooh, getting a pretty dress for her eighth birthday party...but nothing else.

What was she thinking about again?

Oh, right, did she crawl. She didn't know. She tried to remember if Lincy crawled, but she couldn't remember that either. Ugh. This can be so frustrating sometimes. Why couldn't she have an unstupid head like everyone else? She was _really_ sick of forgetting things and falling down and stuff.

Like her mind wandering. She could start at point A and wind up at, like, point 5 and the little dotty trail she left behind her got all twisted around her ankles, and she'd start falling and screaming and waving her arms like a big Leni sized bird. Sigh. Were there actual birds the size of a Leni? What's that cartoon chicken, the one that says _That's a joke, ah say, that's a joke, son_? He's, like, a bird, but he was _not_ Leni sized: He was much, much bigger. You could feed a family for a long time on his meat.

Um. A cold chicken sandwich with mayo sounded good right about now.

Her stomach growled.

"Auntie Leni's belly says it's time for lunch," she said and looked down at Alejandra.

Gasp.

She wasn't there.

For a moment Leni couldn't believe her eyes. She blinked and rubbed them, but they weren't lying: Alex was gone.

A chunk of ice dropped into Leni's stomach. Where is she? She looked around, her heart beginning to race. She wasn't behind her, she wasn't on either side. Oh no, I lost Lincy's baby! I'm a terrible auntie!

Hot tears flooded her eyes. "A-Alex?" she called and got on her knees. "Where are you?"

"She's in here!" Mom called from the kitchen.

Sweet, blissful relief washed over Leni. She got to her feet and went into kitchen. Mom was standing at the sink and smiling down at Alex, who stood on her widdle feet and clutched at Mom's housecoat, her head thrown back and a big smile on her face. "I was washing dishes and I heard the patter of little hands slapping linoleum."

"She crawled in here?" Leni asked, then beamed. "Good job, Alex!" She went over and knelt next to the baby. Taking a faux serious tone, she pointed at her. "You almost scared auntie Leni to death. I thought I lost you. Next time tell auntie Leni before you crawl away."

Alex bounced on her feet and gurgled. Leni leaned in and started to kiss her widdle nose, but stopped and sniffed. "Oh, yucky, you crawled the poop right out of your butt." She scooped the baby up and stood. "It's time for a diapie change."

Humming and bobbing her head from side-to-side, Leni carried Alex up the stairs and went into Lincy and Ronnie's room. The baby stuff was on the dresser: She grabbed a diaper, tossed it onto the bed, then a pack of Nice-Pak wet wipes. "Alright," she said, "in three...two...one...blast off!" She laid Alex down and let her go: She immediately rolled onto her stomach and kicked her legs.

"That's not the diaper changing position," Leni said and rolled her niece over. The little girl kicked and let out a whine. Alex did _not_ like having her diaper changed. It was, like, a pet peeve or something. Leni didn't get it: What do some babies have against a clean butt? She, personally, preferred being nice and dry and _not_ being covered in poop. Alex, though, was a different story.

But auntie Leni had her ways. Oh yes she did.

Unbuttoning Alex's outfit, she started to sing, and the baby's legs went still:

 _"Sugar...ah, honey honey_

 _You are my Alejandra_

 _And auntie Leni loves you so."_

Alex cocked her head cutely. _Huh?_

Leni pulled the baby's legs out of her legholes and opened the wipes with one hand.

" _I just can't believe the loveliness of loving you_

 _I just can't believe it's true_

 _I just can't believe the one to love this feeling to  
_

 _I just can't believe it's true"_

Alex chortled and Leni undid the tabs of the disposable diaper. What waited inside was _really_ icky and green like peanut butter. Gag. Leni soldiered on because it might be totally gross, but it needed to be done: If she didn't do it, the bad, awful poopy would burn Alex's soft baby butt, and Leni did _not_ want that to happen.

" _Ah sugar, ah honey honey_

 _You are my baby Alex_

 _And you've got me changing you."_

Alex blew a spit bubble and Leni took the horrible, terrible, poo-poo filled diaper away. "Ooooh, I'm just like Luna," she said proudly. "I can be a music person too." She slipped the clean diaper under Alex's butt, then put her legs back in the holes, buttoned the outfit up, and wah-lah. "And _that_ is how auntie Leni changes a baby."

" _Eee,"_ Alex said.

"That's right, Leni." Leni stopped and whipped her head around with a gasp. "Did you just say my _name?"_

" _Eeee!"_

Leni put her hands to her face. "You said Leni!"

" _Eeeee!"_

Leni laughed. "You are, like, _full_ of firsts today. Too bad your mommy and daddy weren't here to see them." Leni pouted. Poor Lincy and Ronnie; they didn't get to see baby Alex crawl for the first time, or hear her talk. But at least she said Leni! It –

A Cheshire grin spread across her face as something occurred to her.

Later that afternoon, Ronnie and Lincy came through the door at the same time. Leni was sitting on the couch with Alex in her arms and watching _The Brady Bunch_ : She had been waiting for her brother and sister-in-law for a _long time._ "Hiii," she drew and tilted her head, the corners of her lips turned mischievously up. Ronnie was wearing a light purple dress and Lincoln was wearing a denim jacket over a black long-sleeve shirt. Both of them furrowed their brows.

"You're up to something," Lincoln said.

Leni sighed. "Well...Alex crawled today...and said her first word."

"Her first word?" Lincoln asked, his jaw dropping. "What was it? Please tell me it was mama."

Leni shook her head slowly.

Ronnie Anne snickered and elbowed his ribs. "Ha. She said dada."

"Nope," Leni said in a singsong voice, "wrong."

"Uhhh...what _did_ she say?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Leni held Alex up, making sure the little girl faced her parents. "Say auntie Leni."

Alex threw her head back. _"Eeee!"_

Ronnie Anne laughed. "You're talking! Lame-o, our baby can talk now."

Lincoln grinned. "I hear."

"Yup," Leni said. "She said my name...you know what _that_ means."

She kicked her bare feet up onto the coffee table and wiggled her toes.

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's brows lifted in similar expressions. "Ah, actually," Lincoln said, "that bet was between –"

"You know what _that_ means," Leni repeated.

"Leni," Lincoln said, "I don't think you –"

"You know what _that_ means."

Wiggle-wiggle.

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne looked at each other. Five minutes later, Leni sighed in contentment as her brother worked one foot and her sister-in-law worked the other. Alex rested drowsily against her chest, her bottle in her mouth and her eyelids fluttering. "You guys should make bets more often."

"Nice going, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, rubbing her thumbs into Leni's heel.

"Me? The bet was _your_ idea!"

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "You didn't _have_ to take it, though."

"Now, listen here –" Lincoln started, but Leni cut him off.

"Less talky more rubby."

When Lincoln looked up next, both his daughter and his sister were asleep. "They _are_ cute," Ronnie Anne said and blotted her hands on her dress.

Lincoln nodded. "Yes they are." He looked at his wife and smirked deviously. "Wanna have sex?"

A lusty smile touched Ronnie Anne's lips. "Let's go."


	60. April 1970: Part 1

**PretzelSticks, is that you? I thought you were abducted by aliens. In case you haven't read the comments, AberrantScript is happy to see you too.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **ABC**_ **by The Jackson Five (1970)**

* * *

Luan Loud had a problem – a major problem, a problem so fucking big it could blot out the sun and cast the whole world into darkness if it were made manifest, a problem that ticked like a time bomb inside of her, counting down the hours, the minutes, and the seconds to detonation, a problem that threatened to sideline her from her work for the rest of her life.

She was pregnant.

She started to suspect in early February. In December, she and Ted dropped out of Berkeley and moved into a Victorian house on a side street in Oakland where fellow travelers from a dozen different organizations had set up a collective. It was a combination home/office/printing press/and general revolutionary headquarters. Posters of Che Guevara and Vladimir Lenin hung on cracked walls next to flags and banners, fliers and leaflets were typeset and printed in the basement, and Black Panthers, Yippies, radical feminists, members of the burgeoning gay rights movement, militant socialists, and outright communists held meetings in the living room. If you went into the attic and moved a particular box, you would find a crawlspace crammed with weapons: Rifles, pistols, shotguns, pipe bombs, and grenades.

They lived as true communists – sharing everything equally (in the words of Karl Marx: From each according to his ability, to each according to his need). Money was collected and pooled, the food in the pantry was for everyone, and the very _space_ itself was for all, not one square inch of house belonging to any one person. The housework was divided fairly, with one or two people responsible for making meals for everyone else (on a rotating shift, of course) while someone else was responsible for this and someone else for that. One morning at the beginning of the month, when it wasn't Luan's turn to wake early and make breakfast, she went into the kitchen, and the overpowering smell of sizzling bacon sent her running to the toilet where she puked so hard her head pounded.

The possibility of being pregnant didn't occur to her at first – she and Ted were extremely careful (he pulled out every time). She must have picked up a stomach bug. It happened. Living in close proximity with so many people – many of whom came and went, not to mention out-of-town guests who stayed for a few nights or maybe a week before leaving again – you share a lot more than housework and a love for communism.

But there were _other_ signs. Her breasts became swollen and tender, she always felt tired, and her mood was up and down then back up again in the time it took her to get out of bed and pee in the morning.

Then, of course, she missed her period, and she _knew_.

She couldn't go to the doctor – the only free clinic in Oakland had been closed the previous year – but as her stomach grew firm and began to distend, well...who needs a fucking doctor by that point?

She was pregnant. Shit. She held off on telling Ted, but she couldn't wait forever – he wasn't stupid and he would notice her bulging gut. When she told him, the color drained from his face and his hands flew up in a defensive gesture. "Whoa, no, no, no, we can _not_ have a baby, Luan; we can _not_."

They were in their room, Luan sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands in her lap and Ted standing. Loud music blared from speakers in the next room over, the walls trembling: _"Kick out the jams, motherfucker!"_

"I know," she said.

Ted ranked his hand through his hair. "W-We are in the middle of a fucking war. Shit's coming down, and it's coming down _fast_. Bill and Bernardine are gonna be here in three weeks and –"

Luan flashed. _"I know!"_

Ted took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, his head cocked back and his lips pursed. Luan was well aware that they had no place for a baby – the revolution was heating up and there was a very real chance they would all wind up dead or in jail (that's a risk worth taking when it means a brighter future, isn't it?). They were practically fugitives, and soon, they might well become _actual_ fugitives. You can't bring a baby into _that_. It wouldn't be fair – to the baby, to her, or to Ted. Even if they weren't fighting, neither one of them worked. How could they support a child?

The answer was: They couldn't. They could not afford a baby in _any_ sense of the word 'afford.'

Yet here she was, a human life growing in her womb and a heavy weight pressing on her mind – and her heart.

Ted sighed and sat down next to her; he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. "We can take care of this," he said, "it's not the end of the world, things will be fine, we'll handle it." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than Luan. He slipped his arm around her, and she leaned into him – maybe for comfort, maybe for strength, maybe just for something to do. A small part of her _wanted_ this baby, but she had to be rational: There was no way in hell she could.

She was so conflicted that she could barely breathe, and that night, at the revolutionary council meeting in the living room, she couldn't bring herself to focus no matter how hard she tried. An argument broke out between two men: Huey Stone wanted direct action now, while Will Heaton wanted to wait. It got heated and almost came to blows, but a man in a black leather jacket and black jeans whose name Luan couldn't remember (if she ever knew it) stepped in-between them.

"Hey, man, look, we're not helping anything if we start ripping each other apart. I agree with Huey, we need to start _now_."

"We _can't_ ," Will said, "we don't have the numbers, we don't have the infrastructure. We have to keep organizing. If we start now, we're gonna be just like those Manson people."

"Manson had the right idea," a woman named Barbara said. "Imagine that shit happening twenty times a day all across the country. Those pigs will roll over in a week."

Will held his hand up. "He had the right idea but he didn't have the _manpower_. We do _not_ have enough people onboard. We can't just walk out there and start doing this shit. We need back-up. And you know what? I don't think we fucking have it. Every time we expect a thousand people to show up, we get five hundred. The average liberal is not down with the cause. The average liberal is a bourgeois piece of shit that's all talk. We have to make sure we have enough manpower to do this right, which means we have to keep organizing."

"People will join once they see someone actually _doing_ something," Huey said. "We have to be the ones to break the ice. Come on, man, you're a psych major, you know how it works: No one wants to be out there alone, but when they see they aren't alone, they'll put in."

Was it Luan's imagination, or could she _feel_ the baby in her stomach like a ball of nerves? She laced her hands over her middle and pressed, sure that her palms would graze a mass, a protrusion, something.

There was nothing.

The council voted 12-2 to begin a campaign of direct action, and in bed that night, Ted told her that he and a couple other of the men were planning something involving the Oakland Courthouse – chosen because a Black Panther had recently been railroaded there over the murder of a cop. She listened, or tried to, and agreed when it sounded like he wanted her opinion, but her troubled mind was far away.

Presently, March 5, Luan sat in the passenger seat of a 1966 Ford Fairlane belonging to one of the council members and gazed out the window as a rough section of Oakland flashed by. Over the tops of the crumbling tenements, the Oakland-Bay Bridge rose darkly against the ash colored sky like the bones of a prehistoric creature. Ted was in the driver seat, gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. The previous night, the council voted to 10-4 to give them the responsibility of planting a nail bomb outside the courthouse. Deep down, Luan was conflicted: On one hand, Chicago had taught her that action and action alone would achieve their aims...on the other, she was scared shitless.

Ever since she was a little girl, she wanted to make the world a better place. Once upon a time she thought she would do this through teaching, then social work – now it was clear to her that she could do it only through revolution. The capitalist American system is a framework designed at its very foundation to oppress minorities, women, and the poor, a system that works for the very few, the very wealthy, and the very white. In her lifetime, she watched in shocked horror as people were hanged from trees, churches were bombed, children were killed, people went without, unjust wars were waged...and she saw firsthand that anyone with the moral fortitude to stand against was beaten by Gestapo Stormtroopers masquerading as Andy Griffith and thrown in jail on nonexistent charges. Working for change within the legal confines of such a system is like working legally for Jewish rights in Nazi Germany. The ones with the power will quash you mercilessly: Is it any coincidence that every peaceful, nonviolent activist with a following – Martin Luther King, Gandhi – winds up shot dead? No, it isn't. There is a monkey on the back of the people, and when that monkey is threatened, it digs its claws in deeper. You can't beg it, you can't reason with it, you can't ask it to please get down – you have to rip it off and beat its head in with a stick.

Challenging the monkey, however, is a dangerous undertaking, because if the monkey sees you plotting against it, it will kill you. It might look like an accident, or an assassination, or even cancer, but in the end, you will die...or wind up in prison, which is just as bad. Planting that bomb, Luan knew, would be the point of no return. As it stood now, she had the option to back out, to assimilate and make a reasonable facsimile of a life if she so chose to. Once she poked the monkey – really fucking jabbed it – she was locked in forever, win or lose, stand or fall.

Her fear was selfish, she knew that. This was for the good of the collective, she knew that too. Still, she was human, and she couldn't help it.

Her task this afternoon was a similar matter. It was for the best, but it made her feel cold and slimy inside. She sucked a deep lungful of stale air. Ted reached out and turned the radio on – was he chafing at the dark silence the way she was? Grotesquely happy, up-tempo soul music flooded the car, and Luan couldn't decide if it was as bad as the silence or worse.

 _Reading, writing, arithmetic_

 _Are the branches of the learning tree_

 _But listen without the roots of love everyday, girl_

 _Your education ain't complete._

Luan crossed her arms as Ted pulled into a trash strewn alley heaped with tattered bags of garbage; dented metal cans stood sentry on either side of a door. The paint was green and flecking. He parked next to an overflowing dumpster and killed the engine, cutting another top 40 pop song off at its start. He looked at her, his face wan and drawn, and took a deep breath. "Are you ready?"

Luan nodded even though she was not.

He got out and Luan followed. Rain drizzled from the sky, icy droplets peppering her hair and the shoulders of her olive drab coat. A cold, needling wind swept between the buildings and she shivered.

At the door, Ted knocked, and a moment later it opened just wide enough to reveal a wrinkled face with suspicious eyes that softened only slightly. "Ah, I wondered if it was you," a voice rasped like rusty hinges. The door opened wider, and Ted entered, Luan falling in behind him. Inside, the man closed and latched the door with trembling fingers. She was surprised at how old he was: His hair was wispy white and his face was like cracked leather; his blue eyes were faded and glazed. He wore a long sleeve white shirt tucked into black pants and thin black suspenders, and when he walked, he shuffled.

"Through here," he said, leading them down a hall and into a room lit by the soft light of a lamp. The walls were covered in floral print wallpaper. A scarred kitchen table sat in the middle of the carpeted floor. An array of metal instruments were fanned out on an end table, towels were folded on a chair. It stank like mothballs and mold.

Luan's stomach turned.

The old man brushed past her. "Get ready," he said and shuffled through an archway into the kitchen. Her heart raced as she shrugged out of her jacket; Ted took it and tossed it onto the floor. Though she was wearing a sweater, she was cold.

Moving slowly, robotically, she sat on the table and took her shoes off, then stood, her fingers pausing at the button of her jeans. "It's okay," Ted said quickly, "he's a doctor."

Luan knew that.

It didn't change anything.

She unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down to her ankles, then stepped out of them. She hooked her thumbs into her underwear and pulled them. Naked from the waist down, she sat on the edge of the table, the wood like ice against her butt, and crossed her arms. This is for the best, she told herself, for the best.

Right?

It didn't _feel_ right – but she was a rational woman, and she knew that sometimes what is wrong feels right and what is right feels wrong.

Ted knelt next to her and rested his hand on her bare knee. She looked up at him, and her vision began to blur. "It's going to be alright," he said reassuringly and rubbed, "Kermit knows what he's doing. It'll be over before you know it."

She blinked back her tears and nodded.

Ted sighed. "I know it's hard, but it has to be done. You know that."

"I know," she said barely above a whisper.

"Alright," Kermit said as he ambled into the room, "we can start." His sleeves were rolled up and water gleamed on his hands and forearms. At least he's sanitary, Luan thought. "Lay back, please."

Ted gave her knee a comforting squeeze and got up. Kermit came around the table, grabbed the chair, and dragged it over. He picked up the towels, and sat one on the table for Luan to rest her head on. He sat, put the remaining towels in his lap, and took a long, thin metal instrument with a hooked end from the tray. Luan gulped. "It's going to be okay, honey," Ted said.

She nodded and laid back; she propped her heels on the edge so that her legs were in an M. "Like that," Kermit said dispassionately. Ted crossed his arms nervously over his chest and watched.

"I need you to remain perfectly still," Kermit said. Luan glanced down at him; his tongue darted out and wetted his lips. "If you move, your vaginal walls may be damaged." He leaned forward and brought the hooked-whatever-it-was up. Luan's heart seized and she squeezed her eyes closed.

 _It's for the best, it's for the best, it's for the best..._

Cold metal touched sensitive skin, and she jerked.

"Still," Kermit said firmly.

Luan focused on keeping her breathing steady as it slid into her. It was cold and hard and alien. She suppressed a shiver and bit her bottom lip. Please, God, let this be over quickly.

The quivering rod snaked deeper, its tip on a search and destroy mission like a platoon in Vietnam. _Kill the commie, kill the commie_. Tears slid down her face.

The old man jerked, and sudden, hot pain exploded in Luan's skull. She let out a loud, throat-wrenching scream and shook, the hook tearing her more. "Damn it," Kermit hissed as though he had simply spilled a glass of milk. _"Take it out!"_ she shrieked. _"Take it out!"_

Warm liquid gushed, and Ted's face went white. "Take it out, take it out, take it out!"

Kermit sighed and pulled the rod slowly out. Luan wailed and slammed her fists against the table as the hook raked along her walls. "Stop moving. You're only making it worse." When it was out, he threw it onto the floor in a show of disgust.

"Don't you know what the fuck you're doing?" Ted demanded as Kermit pressed one of the towels against Luan's bleeding vagina. Luan's head swam and her heart pounded: Throbbing pain radiated out from her loins and streaked across her body like fire.

"I've done a million of these," the old man said over his shoulder, "I know _exactly_ what the fuck I'm doing. She moved."

"She didn't fucking move, man, _you_ moved!"

Luan started to cry; it hurt so bad.

"This is what happens when you don't follow directions," Kermit said. "You goddamn kids think you know everything."

" _It was you!"_ Ted screamed.

"It hurts!" Luan moaned.

"Of course it hurts," Kermit said. "You should probably go to the emergency room. We can proceed..."

" _No!"_ Luan and Ted cried in unison.

"Fine," Kermit said tightly. "Enjoy the next eighteen years of your lives. I still expect payment, however."

Ted yanked a bottle of whiskey from his back pocket and shoved it into the old man's hands. "Here, you fucking drunk."

While Kermit drank his pay, Ted helped Luan into her pants: The slightest movement of her legs sent bolts of agony into the middle of her head and made her cry out. Wrapping her in her jacket, he carried her out to the car. "I'm sorry," he said, "Luan, I'm so sorry."

The pain throbbed with every beat of her heart, and she could feel hot, sticky blood pooling in her jeans. She opened her mouth to speak, but sobbed instead. Outside, Ted opened the passenger side door and sat her in the seat: She screamed at the pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said. "W-We'll go to the hospital. Right now."

He drove as carefully as he could; each jar and jostle hurt so badly that Luan was in danger of passing out. She leaned her head against the window and the next thing she knew, he was carrying her into the emergency room: The lights were blinding white and everything was echoy.

She didn't lose very much blood, the doctor said, and the cuts weren't very deep. 'Superficial' is the word he used. They didn't _feel_ superficial. They prescribed her pain medication and told her to stay off of her feet for a week.

When they got home, Ted helped her to bed and called an emergency meeting of the council. The plan was for them to plant the bomb tonight; Ted asked that the duty be transferred to someone else, or for it to be postponed. A vote was taken: The date was pushed back a week.

The medication made Luan drowsy, and she slept most of the afternoon. When she woke around midnight, the worst of the pain had passed, and her insides were a dull, aching mass. "We're not doing that again," she told Ted, her voice edged with resolve. They were lying in bed, his arm draped over her chest.

"We won't," he said.

"I'll have the baby and we'll give it up."

He didn't reply, and she knew he wasn't happy with that. Neither was she, but there was no way in hell she was going to go through that pain – that violation – again. She would rather be murdered.

"Alright," he finally said.

* * *

At midnight on April 13, Luan and Ted climbed into the Fairlane and drove through sleepy nighttime streets toward the courthouse, a large Art Deco building near the waterfront. Luan sat in the passenger seat with a box in her lap; it was heavy and splotched with oil stains...a red wire poked out of one corner. She was surprisingly calm; the only thing that made her nervous was the drop. Ted would pull into the parking lot and park at the end of a walkway. She would get out, go up to a glass door flanked by windows, set it down, then get back in. It would take a minute tops, but in that minute they could be spotted.

The bomb was not meant to kill anyone – deep in her heart of hearts, Luan didn't know if she could bring herself to plant it if it was...rhetoric is one thing, knowing that in the end you're doing the right thing is one thing, but actually _doing_ it is another. The idea was to take action and to signal to others that the revolution was here. The courthouse was empty: The only casualties would be the door, the windows, and the office beyond. Before they left, a man named George set the timer for one hour. Luan could hear it now, softly ticking...almost like the timer in her own stomach.

As he navigated a series of back streets and alleyways, Ted nervously drummed his fingers on the wheel, beating out an anxious tempo that served only to irritate her. "Could you stop, please?" she asked sharply.

He glanced at her, then back to the road.

A couple minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot behind the courthouse. An arch sodium lamp cast a harsh pool of light on the pavement. There were no cars in any of the slots. The building blocked them from being seen from 8th Street, and a park bordered the grounds to the east and north. Homeless people sometimes slept there, and Luan worried that one might see them.

Ted pulled a U-turn and rolled to a stop at the bottom of the walkway. Moving quickly and wincing at the ghost of pain in her crotch, Luan threw open the door, climbed out, and hurried up to the door. Inside she saw a desk flanked by potted plants, the Oakland city crest on the wall behind it, and a long hallway lined with doors. She sat the box down and pushed it against the door with her foot, then got back into the car. It wasn't until they were moving again that a cold wind blew through her stomach and that she began to feel paranoid, looking over her shoulder and expecting to see red and blue lights but seeing only the lamp and empty parking lot.

She didn't feel safe again until they were back at the house, then she allowed herself a smile.

It was all going to be worth it in the end.

Across the city of Oakland, a man in a suit picked up a briefcase, snapped the light out, and left an office. The building was empty and dimly lit, and as he walked along the hallway toward a side entrance, he could see why people of weak constitution could believe in ghosts. He, however, did not; he was a rational man. He was a trial lawyer, then a judge, and now he was in the process of being appointed to the 8th Circuit Court by President Nixon. A man such as himself could never believe in ghosts.

Nevertheless, the back of his neck prickled, and he found himself quickening his step. At the door, he pushed it open, but there was something in the way. He furrowed his brows and looked down to see a cardboard box.

Hm. What –?

 _BOOM!_


	61. April 1970: Part 2

_Blink_.

Leni laid her hands in her lap and narrowed her eyes: They were starting to sting and tear up.

Across from her, Alex blinked again, slowly, her eyes big and curious. She wore a pretty pink dress, and her pale black hair was pulled back in pigtails. Her two front teeth and her little cowlick made her look like a wee ittle rabbit.

 _Blink._

"Bun-ny," Leni said, "you're, like, not supposed to blink."

 _Blink_.

Leni's eyelids were getting heavy so she narrowed them even more. Alex found that funny; she slapped Leni's knee, and Leni finally blinked.

"I guess that means you win," Leni said. She reached out, grabbed her niece under the arms, and drew her into her lap. Alex giggled.

They were sitting on the living room floor, Leni's back against the couch. Dad was on a stepladder taping one end of a banner to the wall while Lincoln stood on a chair and taped the other end. _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_ it said, each letter a different color than the last: Red, green, yellow, blue, orange. Leni picked it out herself. She also helped Mom bake the cake (and not _just_ because she got to lick the spoon at the end). She _would_ help Dad grill hamburgers and hotdogs too, because she wanted to be as involved in Alex's party as humanly possible, but, oops, it was raining _real_ hard, so they had to have it inside, which meant no grill and no playing outside. Pout.

Leni dug her fingers into Alex's soft stomach, and the girl screamed laughter and kicked her feet. "Give me that belly!" Leni said. "I want that baby belly!"

Alex went limp and tried to wiggle out of Leni's arms, but Leni wouldn't let her quarry escape _that_ easily. She held tighter and tickled faster.

"Leni, dear, you're going to make her pee herself," Mom said as she passed behind the couch with a tray of snacks in her hands.

Leni rolled her eyes. "She's fine. Aren't you, Bunny?"

Alex whined.

"Alright, alright," Leni said and unhanded the girl as Mom sat the tray on the coffee table. Leni's eyes widened. There were crackers and cheese and little, like, meat circles...and chocolate balls.

She licked her lips.

"Do _not_ touch these snacks," Mom said sternly, "they are for when everyone else gets here."

Leni stuck her bottom lip out and looked up. "But moo-ooom!"

"No."

Leni blew a puff of air that rustled her bangs. "Okay."

Alex got to her feet and toddled toward the snack tray. "No, no, Bunny," Leni said. She wrapped her arms around the girl's tummy and pulled her back into her lap. "Those are for when everyone _else_ gets here."

" _Uh! Uh!"_ Alex cried and tried to pull away.

Well...Bunny _was_ hungry, and what kind of auntie lets their baby bunny go hungry? And if one just so _happened_ to fall onto the floor, well...Leni couldn't let her niece eat food off the yucky ground: She would just have to eat it herself.

She let go of Alex and got on her hands and knees. She threw a cautious glance over her shoulder; Dad and Lincoln were done hanging the banner and were back in the kitchen. Leni turned to Alex, who stood next to her with her finger in her mouth. "Okay, Bunny," Leni whispered, "do you want num-nums?"

Alex looked at her, a serious expression on her face, and nodded slowly.

Leni crawled over to the table. Alex toddled after. "Hm, what does auntie Leni – I mean Bunny – want to eat?"

Alex reached out and grabbed a cracker, then shoved it into her mouth.

"I know," Leni said brightly. She picked up a chocolate ball, but, whoops, it fell out of her stupid fingers and landed on the carpet. Pout. She picked it up and plopped it into her mouth. "Ummmmmm!"

Alex looked at her...then spit mushy cracker onto the floor. _"Uh?"_

"Auntie Leni's clumsy," Leni said. She plucked another chocolate ball up and handed it to Alex; the little girl took it and pushed it into her mouth. Leni could swear her niece's pupils dilated in pleasure. "Is that good?" she asked.

Alex's headed bobbed up and down, her hand still pressed to her mouth. "Here," Leni said, "have another." She picked it up, but, oopsie, it fell. Leni tilted her head and put her arms out, her palms turned to the ceiling. "Guess I'm gonna have to eat that one too." She took it and tossed it into her mouth. "That's so yummy."

Alex took her hand away from her face and grinned: She had chocolate lips and chocolate cheeks. Leni grabbed another chocolate ball and handed it to her. She took it and crammed it into her mouth.

The balls were lined up in four rows. Leni counted. Okay, so there were ten in each row and she and Alex had...four. Now there were nine. If they didn't eat anymore, maybe no one would notice. She turned to the little girl and whispered, "We can't have _any more_ chocolate or we'll get caught."

In the kitchen, Mom laughed, and Leni glanced over her shoulder. No one was coming. She turned back to Alex just as she reached out and grabbed another. "Bun- _ny_ ," she pouted, "we can't."

Alex blinked slowly...then shoved the chocolate past her lips.

Great. Now one row was short.

Guess we have to even them out. She looked over her shoulder again, then grabbed one and threw it in. Alex took another and did likewise: Her cheeks bulged. Leni giggled. She had chipmunk cheeks...but she could _very_ easily choke. She held out her hand. "One at a time, please."

Alex stared at her blankly.

"You can have it back when you're done with your first one."

 _Blink_.

Leni pouted. "Pwease?"

Alex leaned forward and spat: A mushy brown mess plopped into Leni's palm. It was warm and wet and gross.

While she waited for Alex to finish her first piece, she helped herself to another. There. All the rows were even now. Good job, Leni. She patted herself on the back, then froze. _I had chocolate in that hand_. She twisted around, and the shoulder of her dress was smeared brown.

Oh well. That's why God invented the Maytag.

She turned to Alex; the little girl watched her with big eyes, her hands fisted to the underside of her chin. _Where's my chocolate, auntie Leni?  
_

Darn. She couldn't deny her precious little Bunny her rightful second piece of chocolate, now could she? It was already in her mouth. That was, like, cruel. Sighing, Leni handed Alex another piece, then took one for herself. Gotta even those rows up.

"You two are awful quiet in there," Mom called, and a ripple of dread went through Leni's stomach.

"Uhh...we're napping."

"Alex is sleeping?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Leni nodded, then, realizing she couldn't see a nod, she said, "Yes."

Actually, she was reaching for another chocolate ball, her little hand jittering. She yanked it up, shoved it into her mouth, then went for seconds. Okay, this was, like, getting out of control. "We're all done with the chocolate," Leni said and took Alex's second ball away.

" _Uh?"_

"You're gonna get a sugar rush," Leni explained.

" _Uh!"_

"I'm sorry. You can't have anymore. I don't want you to be a nutty squirrel. You can have more later."

" _Uh!"_

"Bunny..."

Alex's face darkened; she spun, shoved her hands out, and pushed the tray off the table: Chocolate balls rolled away and meat discs littered the carpet.

Leni's jaw dropped, then her brow set. "Alejandra Carmen Loud," she said firmly, "that was _bad_."

" _Uh!"_ Alex cried and slapped the table.

"You're a bad bunny rabbit. That was..."

Someone gasped, and Leni's head whipped around. Mom's hands went to her face. "My snacks!"

Leni gulped. Uh-oh.

Mom looked at Leni, then pursed her lips. "I see you and Alejandra got into them."

Leni shook her head. "No, Mom, I swear, I bumped the table!"

"Then why is Alejandra's face covered in chocolate?"

"Well..."

"And why is _your_ face covered in chocolate?"

Leni bowed her head. Looking at her aunt, then at her grandmother, Alex did the same. Mom opened her mouth to further scold them, but someone knocked on the door, and she went to answer it. Whew. Leni looked at her niece. Her hands were fisted under her chin again, a hangdog expression on her face; Leni melted. "I can't stay mad at you," she said, and pinched the little girl's cheek.

Mom opened the door; Lori, Bobby, and Bobby Jr. were clustered on the step, Bobby Jr. holding a pink paper wrapped box that was almost as big as he was. "Hey!" Lori cried. She wore a nice blue dress and Bobby wore a suit. They looked like they were going to church, and Leni snickered behind her hand.

"Hi, honey," Mom said, then looked at Bobby Jr. The eight-year-old's plaid-clad knees quivered.

"Hi, grandma," he grunted.

"That's a _big_ box."

"Yeah...heavy, too," he said.

Mom stepped aside. "Come in. Uh...set it...I'd say set it on the couch but Leni and Alex with probably get into it like they did the snacks. Put it in the kitchen."

Leni rolled her eyes. What did Mom think she was, a little girl or something?

"They got into the snacks, huh?" Lori asked as they came in.

Bobby held a case of beer in his hand, and shook his head as he followed his son into the kitchen. "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

"Hey, there he is!" Dad cried as Bobby Jr. entered. "Let me take that box off your hands."

"Yes, they did," Mom said and looked at Leni. "I am very disappointed."

Lori grinned as she crossed to the couch and sat. "I see chocolate was involved," she said with half-lidded eyes, and stroked Leni's hair. She looked up at Alex. "You ate chocolate with auntie Leni?"

Alex nodded shyly.

"She was hungry and I had to, like, feed her," Leni said by way of self-defense.

Lori touched a finger to Leni's face and swiped. "Did you feed her like a mama bird?" she teased.

"Ew, gross, no!"

Bobby Jr. came around the couch. "Hi, auntie!" he said.

Leni scooted so that she was facing him. "Hi, Bobby-bear! I like your outfit."

He wore green and orange plaid pants with matching vest over and orange shirt with a butterfly collar. "It reminds me of peas and carrots...I _love_ peas and carrots." Leni smacked her lips.

"Mom made me wear it," he said and dropped onto the couch. "Hi, Alex."

Alex blinked shyly.

"I wanted you to look nice for Alex's birthday party," Lori said. "Look at her, she's wearing a pretty dress. Auntie Leni is too...expect for that big chocolate stain on her shoulder." She sniggered.

Huh? Leni twisted, saw it, and gasped.

"At least I _hope_ that's chocolate."

Bobby Jr. laughed mischievously. "It's poop."

"It is _not_ poop," Leni said.

"I see a piece of corn!" Bobby Jr. shouted.

Lori scrunched her face. "That's a little much, Bobby."

In the kitchen, Bobby Sr. sat a case of beer on the table, startling Lincoln. "Hey, Lincy, want a beer?" Bobby asked.

"Sure," Lincoln said, then went back to counting the money in his hand.

Bobby ripped the case open, took a can out, and sat it in front of Lincoln. When he saw what his brother-in-law was holding, his eyes widened. "Holy shit, where'd you get _that?"_

"Luna," Ronnie Anne said. She was sitting across from Lincoln, Alejandra's cake – chocolate, naturally – in front of her. She was writing _HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALEJANDRA_ in blue frosting. It was her baby girl's first birthday, and she wanted everything to be perfect, so she worked with painstaking care, her tongue plastered to her upper lip.

Bobby whistled and spun a chair around. He dropped onto it and crossed his arms on the back. "How much?"

"Five thousand," Lincoln said after a moment. He slapped the money on the table, then reached for an oversized manila envelope. He pulled out another stack of bills and laid it in front of Bobby. "That's for Bobby Jr."

"Jesus Christ," Bobby muttered and picked it up. Licking his thumb, he counted it. "Your sister sent ten thousand dollars through the mail?"

"Actually, she sent fifteen thousand through the mail," Ronnie Anne said, "she sent Lynn five too."

"That girl's nuts." He grabbed a can of beer and popped the tab. "She should have wired it Western Union or something." He took a long drink.

"It was very sweet," Mom said. She was at the sink. Dad was forming hamburger patties with his hands. They couldn't use the grill on account of the rain, but like skinning a cat, there's more than one way to make a hamburger.

Bobby shrugged. "Yeah, it's sweet, but mail gets lost all the time. I ordered a pair of pants from this catalogue a couple years ago, and they got lost. Some thieving mail carrier in Muncie's probably wearing them right now."

"And looking like the world's biggest dork," Ronnie Anne said. She finished with a flourish and sat the icing bag on the table.

"Hey," Bobby said and held up his middle finger, "drop dead twice."

Ronnie Anne held up her own middle finger. Bobby retaliated by thrusting his forward. She pressed hers against his and pushed. He pushed back. Lincoln watched as they strained back and forth. Bobby pulled away, and Ronnie Anne started to fall, but saved herself...by throwing out her hand and bringing it down on one corner of the cake.

Lincoln threw up his arms. "Smooth move, Ex-Lax."

Ronnie Anne's jaw dropped and panic flooded her eyes. Bobby paled. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry."

Mom glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, no."

"What?" Dad asked and turned. "Oh. I'll eat that piece. No need to..."

Ronnie Anne glared...then slapped Bobby's arm with her cake hand, grinding chocolate into the fabric of his coat.

"...get upset."

Bobby pulled away. "Really? You had to ruin my coat?"

"You ruined my daughter's birthday cake!"

"It's not ruined," Bobby said and gestured wildly, "it's one little corner. It's not even a whole piece. Plus, it was _you_ who smooshed it."

Ronnie Anne balled her fists...then tears began sliding down her cheeks. She jumped up and stalked into the living room, wiping her eyes as she went. Lincoln's heart twinged. They had been planning Alex's party for nearly six months, and she had her heart set on making it perfect: It was going to be sunny and warm and they would eat outside while Alejandra toddled around the yard...but then it started raining and now the cake, the cake she spent nearly two hours getting _just so_.

Lincoln sighed and got up. "Hey, man, I'm really sorry," Bobby said earnestly, "I didn't mean for that to happen."

"It's fine," Lincoln said. He wanted the party to be perfect too, but, come on; a one-year-old's not going to care that one corner of her cake is squished. Hell, she probably won't even _notice_.

In the living room, Leni was spinning Alex in circles and giggling. Alex screamed with laughter. Bobby Jr.'s head went in circles as he followed them with his eyes. Lincoln palmed the boy's cranium and stilled it. "You're gonna hypnotize yourself if you keep that up."

"Really?" he asked excitedly and turned.

"Yep," Lincoln said, "you're gonna wind up clucking like a chicken."

"Cool!" He started turning his head back and forth under Lincoln's palm. Lincoln let go and laid his hand on Lori's head next.

"Hypnotize you too."

"That literally won't work on me, Linc," she said, "I have an iron-clad will."

Lincoln chuckled. "You got a point."

He went up the stairs and found Ronnie Anne in their room; she was sitting on the edge of the bed with her arms crossed and tears standing in her eyes: From the chocolate on her face, he inferred that she completely forgot and put her head in her hands. She didn't look up as he sat next to her. He put his arm around her shoulder: Her body was tense and rigid.

"I wanted everything to be perfect," she said thickly, "and I ruined it."

Well...it _was_ her fault (and Bobby's, too), but that's like saying it's their fault a glass of milk tipped over. It was really no big deal. "Honey, Alex is going to love the cake no matter _what_ it looks like." He collected his thoughts for a moment. "Things don't have to be perfect for you to love them. Look at you, you're not perfect – you're a goofball and you and your goofball brother smooshed the cake – but I still love you."

She snorted a laugh.

"Now if you knocked it off the table or something, that'd be a different story; I'd probably be bending you over my knee right now."

She turned to him, a gleam in her eye. Ha, made ya feel better. "You think?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I do."

She replied by pouncing him and knocking him back onto the bed. She moved with gazelle-like grace, and before Lincoln even knew he was trapped, her knees caged his legs and her hands pinned his wrists to the mattress. Her lips turned up in a jackal smile and a long strand of black hair came loose from her ponytail and swished across Lincoln's cheek. Her eyes narrowed to half-slits as she leaned her head in, the tip of her nose brushing the tip of his. "You're a candyass."

Lincoln furrowed his brow, and her grin widened. "You couldn't whip me if you tried."

He shook his head. Yeah, I could.

She did likewise. "Noooo, you couldn't. You couldn't even whip Bobby Jr."

Lincoln shoved up and to the right; Ronnie Anne screamed and laughed as they rolled onto their sides, her grip never breaking. "Stop it, Lincoln!" she cried. "You're embarrassing yourself!"

Oh? He heaved, and they rolled again, her legs wrapping around his waist. He was on top now, and she was beneath him. Her ponytail had come undone, and her soft black hair pooled around her head. She still held onto his wrists, though, so he jerked them and broke her grasp. He leaned in and smooshed his nose against hers; her eyes widened slightly and her teeth raked her bottom lip. "Who's the candyass now?" he asked.

She tilted her head up, and they kissed slowly, their tongues moving delicately and affectionately over one another. He pulled back, and she giggled girlishly. "Okay, Loud, you got me that time, but I have the rest of my life to get you back."

"I'm looking forward to it," he said and pecked her lips, "Loud. Now come on. It's our daughter's first birthday party."

"Alright," she said.

He shifted off of her and together they went back downstairs, their hands clasped. They were just starting to cross the living room when someone knocked on the door, and Lincoln jumped. _The Vietcong deliver now?_

Ronnie Anne cocked a brow. "You alright?"

Lincoln nodded quickly and hoped she couldn't hear his pounding heart. "Yeah, I'm fine." He let go of her hand and went to answer it.

 _There's no VC out there,_ he told himself as he turned the knob. He knew that, but nerves shredded his stomach lining anyway. He opened the door, and Flip was there, dressed in a rumpled brown suit from the thirties (at least) and a black Derby hat. "Afternoon, Loud," he said, "you look like you were expecting Satan himself."

Did he? "Well, I got him," he said and stepped aside.

Flip came across the threshold and took his hat off. "Oh, God," Ronnie Anne said with a roll of her eyes, "you invited _him?"_

No, actually, she invited him.

"Nice to see you too, Santiago."

"I haven't been a Santiago in, like, five years, Flip. You know that."

Flip snorted. In the kitchen, he sat his hat on the table, and Bobby looked up, a grin spreading across his face. "Flip-flop," he said happily, "you made it."

Rita looked over her shoulder. "Hello, Flip, it's nice to see you."

"You too, Missus Loud." He pulled his pantlegs slightly up and sat in the chair Ronnie Anne had so recently occupied. His eyes fell on the cake, and he frowned. "What happened to your cake?"

"Ronnie Anne happened," Bobby said. Ronnie Anne shot him a dirty look. "And Bobby," he added, "Bobby happened too."

Flip shook his head. Alejandra toddled in, brushed past Lincoln and Ronnie Anne, and froze when she saw Flip, her eyes going wide. "Hi there, little Loud," he said and leaned forward. "Happy Birthday."

She fell back a step and bumped into Lincoln's leg. He put a steadying hand on the top of her head. Once Alex got to know you, she was a nutty squirrel (as Leni called her), but until then, she was a shy little turtle.

Flip reached out his hand, and she pushed back against Lincoln's leg as though she could sink into its safety. "Shake?"

Bobby took a swig of beer. "Come on, Flip, you're scaring the kid."

Flip pulled his hand back and rested it on his knee. "Alright, but I'm gonna shake your hand before the end of the day."

Alex blinked.


	62. April 1970: Part 3

Luan was up before the crack of dawn, knelt at a dirty, stinking porcelain altar and offering the contents of her stomach to a cruel and merciless demon-god. Her fingers gripped the rim, stained and caked with yellow mass wine the way a Catholic's fingers would grip the beads of a rosary; she moaned and grunted strange, wordless prayers and her heart pounded like tribal drums under exotic moons.

In layman's terms: She was puking her guts out into a piss soaked toilet.

She knew from Lori's pregnancy that morning sickness didn't _always_ happen in the morning, but so far, hers had: She was fine at noon, she was fine at five, and she was fine at midnight – but come 6:00am, she was up rushing to the bathroom and pressing her hand to her mouth. It wouldn't be so bad if she didn't keep such late hours: Sometimes she was up until two in the morning attending meetings, assisting in printing literature, or doing something _else_ to midwife the revolution.

Like planting bombs.

She rocked back on her knees and closed her eyes; a trickle of warm bile dribbled down her chin. Please, no more. _Please_.

Her stomach clenched, and she threw her head forward; her chest constricted as she scraped the bottom of her stomach. She had nothing left to give, and if this kept up, she would be forced to spill out her internal organs.

When the wave of nausea receded, she crossed her arms on the rim and rested her sweaty head. This was miserable. Why a woman would intentionally allow herself to become pregnant was beyond her. _Hey, I want a baby, shoot your sperm in me so I can be sick, achy, and sore for nine months_. Yeah, fantastic idea. Why not go out and infect yourself with the plague while you're at it? That'd be a _hoot_. Then – then – go play in traffic with a tube of nitroglycerin.

People are so stupid.

Sighing, she pushed herself up and got to her feet. Her knees shook and her stomach rolled. For a second she thought she was going to be sick again, but it passed. In her room, the bed was empty save for two pillows and a tangle of blankets. She glanced at the clock and saw it was almost seven: The morning news would be on soon, and everyone was eager to see what they said about the bomb. She assumed it went off: Lying in bed last night, she heard a chaotic mess of sirens wailing in the distance. "There it is," Ted said through a grin. Luan felt a rush of excitement as she listened to the din; it felt good to actually accomplish something, even if it only _was_ blowing up an empty building.

Not wanting to miss the broadcast, she shrugged out of her nightgown and pulled on a pair of jeans and a black sweater. She sat, donned socks and shoes, and hurried downstairs: Everyone was clustered in the living room waiting, shoved onto the couch, sitting on the arms, on the floor, on the coffee table. She heard laughing and talking and smelled the sweet tang of burning marijuana.

In the kitchen, she took a glass from the cabinet over the sink, filled it with water, and drank it slowly, wincing as it washed bile back down her throat. Ugh. She filled it again then went into the living room. Ted was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He glanced at her and grinned. "How you feeling?"

"Like shit," she said honestly.

One of life's great injustices, she thought, was that women were the ones burdened with childbearing while men got to prance happily away from the mess _they_ caused. It should be _them_ waking up at six in the morning so nauseous they could barely move.

When the newscast started, David Greenberg, a man with thinning hair and a beard, shushed everyone else. "Here it is, here it is, here it is," he said excitedly. Everyone fell silent. Luan's stomach turned, and she put her hand to it. _Stop,_ she thought firmly, hoping the same tube that delivered food to the baby would also deliver the command. _Stop it, please. At least let me eat something so I have something to throw up._

The thought of eating only made it worse.

On TV, a white haired anchor appeared. Behind him was the Channel 6 logo. "This is it," someone snickered.

"Let's see how those pigs fucking like it."

The anchor nodded curtly to the camera, his expression inscrutable. Luan hated that about media types: They were always so robotic, like they didn't have souls – which, she supposed, they probably didn't; they sold them to the fascists for a nice haircut and a spot on TV. "Good morning, I'm Jim Page with the news."

Oh? I wouldn't have known from the name below your talking head.

"News of the revolution, man," someone snickered.

On air, Page continued. "A federal judge was killed last night in a bombing at the Oakland city courthouse, police say."

The air left the room in a whoosh. Luan's blood turned to ice water in her veins, and her lungs stopped working, leaving her breathless.

"Oh, shit," someone drew.

David Greenberg's face went white. Next to him, Barbara's hand fluttered to her mouth. Ted's shoulders slumped and his jaw dropped.

"Judge Harold Manning, who had been nominated to the 8th Circuit Court by President Nixon, was working late on a case related to the Charles Manson murders. Police say he was leaving through a side door when the bomb exploded."

The glass slipped from Luan's hand and shattered against the floor. A scream of horror tore from her throat, and her knees gave out: Ted caught her, and tears burst from her eyes.

She killed someone.

She'd talked about it – even thought about it; she fantasized about wringing fat Capitalist necks and bayonetting members of the fascist vanguard...but now she broke down and wept because she killed someone...she actually ended a human life.

"I _knew_ some shit like this would happen," Will Heaton said, his hands pressing against the side of his head. "God _damn_ it!"

"Relax," a man named Paul said and held up his hand, "so we killed a fucking pig. What of it?"

"What of it?" Will asked, his eyes flashing. "We killed a fucking federal judge! You think they're just gonna let that go? We're not talking about some hobo off the street; they actually _care_ about judges, man! That's why the mob doesn't go after cops and shit, too much heat. They're gonna give this everything they have and we're gonna be fucked. I _knew_ we were going off half-cocked. We're not organized enough for this shit."

Luan moaned. A murderer. She was a murderer. She thought she could kill someone, but she was wrong, so, so, so wrong. "Hey," Ted said softly, his voice trembling, "t-take it easy."

On TV, Jim Page said, "Manning is survived by his wife and three children."

Luan cried harder.

* * *

Alex sat in the middle of the living room, her head whipping between the group of adults in front of her. Her grandparents sat on the couch, Bobby Jr. between them; her mother was wedged against one arm and her father against the other. Her aunt and uncle stood behind the couch next to the old man she didn't know, her aunt holding a camera to her eyes and smiling. The flash made Alex blink. She didn't know what was happening. There were so many people and so much activity and her stomach was full of hamburger and cake and she was sleepy and there was a big box in front of her and she didn't know what was inside. "Open our present first!" Bobby Jr. cried, jarring her nerves. "You're gonna love it!"

She curled her hands under her chin and blinked back tears. Something moved next to her, and she looked up at auntie Leni, who smiled warmly. "You want some help, Bunny?" She reached out and ripped the paper covering the box. It made a crisp tearing sound that intrigued Alex. "Here you go," auntie Leni said. "Your turn."

Alex looked at her. What did she mean?

Leni reached up and tore another strip. _Riiiiipppp._ "Now you do it."

Alex looked from Leni to the box and back again. How did she make that sound? Alex liked it and wanted to make it too.

Leni picked her up and sat her in her lap, slipping one arm comfortingly around her stomach and scooting closer to the box. She took a strip of paper in her free hand and pulled it slowly. _Riii-iii-ppp_. Alex smiled. "Here," Leni said, "you finish it."

The paper strip was hanging limply, and Alex stared at it, her little mind working. She reached tentatively out, gripped it, and tore. _Rip!_

She giggled.

"Good job!"

That was _fun_. She strained against auntie Leni's arm, extended her hand, and tried to grab more, but her fingertips brushed smooth, unbroken wrapping paper. She blinked. Where's the rippy-rip?

"Oops," Leni said. She dug her nails into the paper and shredded it. "There you go!"

Yay!

"What is it?" Lincoln asked, glancing over his shoulder at Bobby.

"A do –" he started, but his son cut him off. "No! Don't tell!"

Lincoln looked at his nephew. "It's not _my_ birthday," he said and mussed the boy's black hair.

"I know, but I want it to be a surprise to you too."

Lori nodded. "He is the one who picked it out."

On the floor, Alex giggled happily as she and Leni tore the wrapping paper from the box; the sparkle in the little girl's eyes made Lincoln smile. Smooshed cake corner or not (he took one for the team and ate it – it was good), she was having a good time, and that's what it was all about in the end.

Bobby Jr., perhaps impatient for his cousin to see the gift he got her, slid off the couch and, on his knees, started ripping the paper off the other side. "We have help!" Leni cried. She hugged Alex to her chest and kissed her cheek. "Bobby-bear's a good cousin, isn't he?"

Alex laughed and slapped at the box.

"I try," Bobby Jr. said with a shrug.

When the wrapping paper was all gone, a plain cardboard box was revealed. Bobby Jr. got to his knees and opened the flaps. "You're really gonna like this, Alex," he said, "even _I_ like it, and I'm a boy."

He reached in, and pulled out a white dollhouse with a green roof. It was roughly three feet tall and folded open to provide access to the inside. "It's just like a real house," Bobby Jr. said, "it has a bathroom and everything."

Alex stared at it with wide eyes. Leni sat her on the floor, and she crawled over to it, sitting and hesitantly touching it as though she were afraid it would bite. "Look," Bobby Jr. said. He pulled it open, and Alex's eyes widened. "Here's the kitchen, and the living room, and I think that's supposed to be a junk closet, and, oh, the bathroom."

There were other presents that day, but the dollhouse was undoubtedly Alex's favorite: She, Bobby Jr., and Leni spent most of the day playing with it, Bobby Jr. making up stories about people falling down the stairs and getting stuck in the toilet while Leni pretended to search high and low for more chocolate balls. "I found some!" Bobby Jr. cried at one point.

"Where?" Leni asked.

He grinned deviously. "The bathroom."

Alex started to get groggy, and Leni held her in her lap. Within minutes, she was conked out, her head lolling against her shoulder and her mouth hanging open. Lincoln took her from Leni and carried her upstairs, his hand stroking her back and his lips brushing her cheek. He laid her in her crib and looked down at her, his heart filling with the strongest and most poignant love. Ronnie Anne joined him, and he put his arm around her waist. "She had a good time," Lincoln said.

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne replied, a tiny smile on her lips, "she did."

"Even if yours and Bobby's dicking around _did_ smoosh her cake." He pecked her on the cheek to show her that he was only joking.

"She's one, she didn't notice," she grinned, throwing Lincoln's words back at him. "How did it taste?"

Lincoln nodded. "Good. But you _always_ taste good."

She snickered. "You're dirty."

Alex stirred and snorted.

"And waking our daughter up."

Downstairs, Flip was sitting at the kitchen table and working on his second beer. Bobby was on his third or fourth, his suit coat draped on the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Mom and Lori were doing the last of the party dishes. "Looks like you won't be getting that handshake today, Flip," Lincoln said.

Flip shrugged one shoulder. "Eh. I'll get it one day."

"Ten bucks says you don't," Bobby said.

"Twenty says I do."

Bobby tossed back the rest of his beer, sat the empty can on the table, and held his hand out. Flip gave it a quick pump. "You're never gonna get it," Bobby said. "You're old and creepy and stink; she's terrified of you."

Flip chuckled. "Wait until she finds out who Santa is. I look just like him; she's gonna see me and give me a handshake _sure_."

"Yeah," Bobby said and cracked another beer, "you look like Santa – fresh off a three day bender."

Flip nodded. "Yeah, says the guy working on his fifth beer."

"I only drink this much when I have to put up with you."

Flip nodded toward the living room. "Door's that way, Santiago."

"You can _both_ leave," Ronnie Anne said.

"Stay outta this, Loud," Flip said.

"Yeah," Bobby added, "get lost."

Ronnie Anne slapped his arm, and he wailed. Flip laughed. She raised her hand to him, and he jerked. "Shit!"

"Okay, everyone settle down," Mom said.

"Yes, Mrs. Loud," Bobby, Ronnie Anne, and Flip said in unison.

And thus concluded Alejandra Loud's first birthday party.


	63. April 1970: Part 4

**Lyrics to** _ **American Woman**_ **by The Guess Who (1969);** _ **The Midnight Special**_ **by Creedence Clearwater Revival (1969)**

* * *

Luan lay on her side in darkness, her arms wrapped around her chest and her knees drawn up as far as her hard, pregnant stomach would allow. She shivered despite the blankets heaped on her, despite the heavy sweater and jeans she wore – clothes she lacked the energy to change out of; it was a deep, pervasive chill that settled into her bones and turned her marrow to ice. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and every time she thought about that man's family, she began to cry: She knew what they were feeling, the agony, the anguish, the chest tightening, heart piercing sense of loss...she'd felt it herself for eight long months. The only difference was this: No matter how dark the night, there was always a glimmer of light on the horizon, a sliver of hope.

They didn't have that.

They had a body that was so mangled they couldn't have an open casket funeral, wouldn't be able to see their husband or their father one last time.

And it was her fault.

 _She_ did that to them.

The pain in her heart was like a thousand knives, and she clamped down on her lower lip with her teeth to keep from crying out.

 _Aren't you happy?_ a cruel voice asked from the center of her head. _You wanted to do this and now you have. Congratulations._

Only she _didn't_ want to do this. In her mind, the opposition was always nameless, faceless, a cartoonish villain wringing its hands as it committed crimes against humanity. It never had a face, or eyes, or children who loved it and waited for it to come home so they could play with it and snuggle with it and have it read them bedtime stories. It was never a _person_ the way she was, the way Lincoln was, the way any of her family were. She never thought too much about it; she was blinded with fury, fury at what happened to her brother, fury at what was happening in Mississippi and D.C., fury at injustice. Now her eyes were clear and that fury had grown cold, its remains heaped like ashes in her soul.

She was stupid...and hateful...and ultimately no better than any of the fascists she had been fighting against. They killed people with bombs; _she_ killed people with bombs. They made widows and orphans, _she_ made widows and orphans. What did she think the revolution was going to be? Sunshine and rainbows? She knew – vaguely – that there would be death and destruction, but it's easy to skip over that in your mind, easy to block out the blood and the dying screams and the smell of sizzling flesh. When adventurous boys fantasized about going to war, they didn't see the blasted, white-faced corpses of people they knew and cared about lying in the mud, they saw action and excitement; none dwelled on the gory parts. She was the same: She saw not the violence and savagery that accompany revolution, but the promise of a better a future, of a world where everyone was equal and no one went without food or medical care, of a world where wars weren't waged out of greed or fear or ignorance, of a world where no one amassed wealth and no one starved on the street. In her mind, the actual mechanics of the revolution were shadowy, the violence – when she did imagine it – like the violence in _Gunsmoke_ or _Bonanza_ : Bloodless and righteous, with her wearing the white hat and the other guy wearing the black hat. Murder in defense of the innocent is justified, and to her, she _was_ defending the innocent: The poor, minorities, single mothers, boys like Lincoln who were given a gun and sent to a foreign land to kill because 'we can't have communism taking over – it'll put us out of business!'

Righteous or not, she was not a killer. Maybe at one time she thought she was – or could be – but she wasn't. What Ted and the others wanted was what she wanted, and maybe in the end it would work out and the world would better off...but she couldn't do it, she couldn't kill and maim and hurt people no matter how much they deserve it or how much she might want to.

She blinked her eyes and sniffled wetly. Next to her, Ted snorted in his sleep. He didn't feel the way she did. He regretted not the murder – the taking of another person's life – but the timing of it. Earlier that day, the noise and activity, the very faces of her coconspirators, for that's what they were, became too much for her, and she came up here to be alone, curling up much like she was now. When Ted found her and noticed the tears in her blankly staring eyes, he got angry. "You need to get a grip, Luan. I'm not happy about it either, and yeah, I feel bad for his kids, but, ultimately, _this_ is what we signed up for. If you want a better future, you need to toughen the hell up." She saw coldness in his eyes. In fact, she saw coldness in _all_ their eyes. They might want the same things she wanted, but what did it matter when they were cold and hard? Cold people, hard people, can't be in charge of a just world, because they're just like that song by The Who: Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. The old boss was tough and cold and hurt people; guess what the new boss is and does.

A chill ran through her like cold November wind, and her chest felt heavy, as if under a great weight. She drew a shallow breath and realized her eyes were leaking. She wiped her tears away and sighed. She didn't want this anymore, she didn't want to be _here_ anymore, she wanted...

Her mother.

God help her, she was a grown woman but she wanted her mother. She wanted to be hugged and kissed and told it would be alright even though she knew it wouldn't be; she wanted home, where everything was safe and warm and sepia toned and she was happy and normal and didn't kill people; she wanted to be in the arms of her family – far, far away from this cursed place, and the memory of her crime. She wanted it so badly that she ached.

But could she really go back? The mark of Cain was upon her, and no matter where she went, the ghost of the man she killed would follow, and perhaps, too, the police. Her old life was a pile of ashes just as surely as her fury, and while she could go through the motions, she could never truly pick it back up. She killed it along with Harold Manning.

She didn't care.

She wanted to go home.

For a long time she hugged herself under the covers, listening to the steady sound of Ted's breathing and tracing the indistinct outline of his face, black against the shadows. Then, being careful not to wake him, she slipped out of bed, pulled her shoes on, and went into the hall, pausing in the doorway and looking nervously left and right. A crack of light shone under the bathroom door, and muffled music drifted from down the corridor:

 _American woman, get away from me_

 _American woman, mama, let me be_

 _Don't come a-knockin' around my door_

 _Don't wanna see your shadow no more._

Someone was slumped against the wall near the head of the stairs, his chin lolling against his chest and an empty glass bottle lying on the floor next to him. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his long, dirty hair spilling over a tightly wound bandana around the crown of his forehead. For some reason Luan's heart caught and she expected him to wake up and grab her if she tried to pass.

She glanced back into the room – she could always crawl back into bed.

 _Colored lights can hypnotize_

 _Sparkle someone else's eyes_

 _Now woman, I said get away_

 _American woman, listen what I say, hey._

No.

She couldn't.

She _wouldn't_.

She took a deep breath, pulled the door closed, and started down the hall.

 _American woman, said get away_

 _American woman, listen what I say_

 _Don't come a-hangin' around my door_

 _Don't wanna see your face no more_

 _I don't need your war machines_

 _I don't need your ghetto scenes_

Her heart pounded and her stomach clenched. She watched the man warily as she approached. He let out a snort, smacked his lips, and shifted: She froze and waited for him to fall still again before continuing on. At the top of the stairs, she laid her hand on the bannister and crept down, passing graffiti on the wall: J. EDGAR HOOVER SLEEPS WITH A NIGHTLIGHT, a black power fist, END THE WAR, a middle finger, UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER, cartoon Richard Nixon looking up as a bomb fell from above. At the bottom, she stopped and listened: She heard talking from the living room; the smell of dope caressed her nostrils.

Act natural, she told herself.

She pushed away from the stairs and went into the kitchen. A black man with a bushy afro was sitting at the table: He wore a black leather jacket and a black beret. The first thing Luan noticed was the white button on the front of his coat: A black panther with the legend MOVE ON OVER OR WE'LL MOVE ON OVER YOU. The second thing was that he was slowly and methodically loading a revolver, plucking brass cartridges from the table and slipping them into the chamber. Three days ago, it wouldn't have bothered her, but now, it did: She was certain that betrayal shone in her eyes like a flashing neon sign, and that anyone who saw her would _know..._ she was an enemy of the cause...an enemy of the people.

The man looked up, and Luan glanced away. She went to the cupboard and opened it: Inside was a metal coffee can without a top. The back of her neck tingled as she reached in and grabbed a handful of bills. She counted them: Two fives, a ten, and three ones. Good enough. She shoved them into her pocket and turned. The Panther was still watching her, his face completely expressionless. He dropped the last bullet into the cylinder and jerked his wrist: It snapped closed with a crisp metallic sound. The corners of his lips turned up in an evil smile at the terror he must have seen in her eyes, and with a flourish, he jammed the gun into a shoulder holster under his jacket as if to say _don't worry, I'm not gonna shoot you...yet._

Luan gulped and scurried to the back door. The keys to the Fairlane hung from a pegboard, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw them. She grabbed them and went out the door. The night was cool and still; a lamp above the door cast a feeble glow across the step and the yard. The stockade fence separating their property from a narrow back street loomed forward like the ramparts of an ancient ruin. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder, then hurried around the side of the house, through a gate, and into the driveway running along the western wall. The car was reveled in a spill of light through the kitchen window. By the time she reached the driver door, she was tiptoeing and her heart beat like a drum. She reached out, opened it carefully, then spared one last look back. No one had followed. They had no reason to; nothing strange about a member of the community using the community car.

Behind the wheel, she started the ignition, threw it into reverse, and backed into the street. A curtain fluttered in the lighted front window, and she saw a face.

She punched the gas, and the car surged forward with a screech of tires against pavement.

She was going home to her family, where everything was happy and normal and she was loved and where maybe, if she squinted hard enough, she could almost forget what she had done. This was a happy occasion – so why was she crying bitterly?

* * *

Ah, the life of a rock star. You know what Luna Loud's favorite part of it was? When the drummer and the bass guitarist got into pissy little arguments while recording a song. That was _grooooovy,_ man. Far out. Cool...uh...the bee's knees...she didn't have many more, but she had the time to think some up since Charlie and Blake wanted to act like a couple of little queers and sulk instead of work. She lit a cigarette and drew the smoke into her lungs. She was sitting in the breakroom with a bottle of Coke open before her; Tex was sitting across from her with a big sandwich in his hands and a woebegone look in his eyes, his hat sitting within arm's reach. "My eyes are bigger'n my stomach," he said sadly, and for some reason that struck Luna as so funny she laughed uproariously. He glanced up at her with a wounded expression, and she laughed harder.

"It's not funny," he said, though he was visibly fighting back a grin, "I got this big ol' sandwich and I can't eat it all."

"Make a smaller sandwich next time," she suggested.

He shrugged. "That don't help me now." He sat it down on his plate. "I know – you eat half." He reached into his pocket and brought out a switchblade. The stabby part flicked up.

Luna held up her hand. "Nah, I'm not hungry."

His brow angled down _just_ a little, which told Luna he didn't like that answer. Oh, well, sorry, man. "Really," he said, and cut the sandwich down the middle. "I want you to have half."

"I don't want it," Luna said more firmly.

He looked at her then back down at the sandwich. "You look like you _need_ it, though."

For a second she didn't know what the hell he was saying, then it hit her, and suddenly she was aware of the fabric of her shirt resting against her jutting-way-the-hell-out collarbone. She crossed her arms, and her fingertips grazed her ribs, which also jutted way the hell out. "I'm fine," she said in a tone that barely concealed her anger. She was skinny, so what? She ate. Just last night she put away two cheeseburgers and a shit load of French fries. Or was that yesterday? Maybe it was two days ago. It didn't matter; she was always thin, and not having Mom's home cooked meals for three years (oh, wait, five... _five?_ ) didn't help. Happened to everyone.

Still looking down at the sandwich, he shook his head. "Alright." He picked up the half he'd been eating and went back to it. A tense silence hung in the air. "How's Mick doing?" he asked around a mouthful.

If he was trying to push Luna out of the danger zone, he was failing. "Fuck Mick," she said tightly. Mick was back in London getting ready to appear on some goddamn stupid BBC show called _Top of the Pops_ where he'd shake his butt like a fag for a bunch of ugly British girls with bad teeth. She hoped he fell off the stage and broke his scrawny little neck.

"Huh?" Tex asked, "I thought you two were in love or something."

Luna blew a raspberry. She was never in love with him, but she liked him...until he cheated on her. You know how she found out? She saw pictures in a tabloid of him shoving his tongue down some go-go dancer's throat. The story said he shoved a candy bar in her pussy, too, the sick bastard. Everyone's all about free love, but, you know, call her old fashioned, but if you're with someone, you should be with _them_ and not everyone else. You know how many dudes she turned down because she believed in being loyal? A fuck ton, man, a mega _fuck_ ton.

Whatever, though. Fuck him. "Nope."

Tex nodded slowly.

Blake came in and went to the coffeemaker. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt with Bugs Bunny on it...just like the little fucking kid he was. "Hey," Luna said over her shoulder, "you about ready to get back in there? I don't wanna be here until five in the morning."

"No," he said shortly.

Luna made a fist and bared her teeth; she oughta go over there and pop him in the back of his stupid blonde head, fucking lazy, work-shucking piece of shit. Instead she took a deep breath. It was the coke. It made her mean sometimes...especially when two grown men acted like a couple of butt sucking bastards and it kept her from getting shit done and getting out the door. _Fucking assholes!_

Oh, speak of the Devil, here comes Charlie now, wearing a black tank top and showing off his veiny noodle arms, big Confederate flag tattoo looking like someone did it in prison in exchange for an ass licking. He saw Blake at the counter, and his eyes narrowed. "Oh, _he's_ in here?"

It started an hour ago. They just got in the studio and started for the day, Luna had her headphones on and she was singing and playing and blah-blah-blah...then she hears Blake spit, "Your drumming sounds like shit."

"That's not what your mother said last night," Charlie retorted.

"My mother's dead, you son of a bitch," Blake snarled.

"Oh? I thought she was just a really bad fuck."

In the production booth, the producer rolled his head and sighed.

"Man, fuck you," Blake said. He ripped his guitar off and threw it aside. "I want this asshole out of the band."

The producer hit the intercom button and his voice filled the studio. "Hey, guys, can we get back on track, please?"

"Not until this loser and those pubes on his upper lip kick rocks."

You know, it was surprising. Blake and Charlie usually got along really well. They laughed, they joked, they hung together outside the band, they probably took turns railing each other in the ass. One of them probably came too soon last night and wouldn't give the other a reach around.

Presently, Blake's shoulders tensed. "Yeah, I'm right here."

Charlie sighed. "Fuck this, I'm out."

He started to walk away, but Luna snapped. "No! Get your fucking ass in here! _Now!_ "

Luna didn't usually talk like that to them, and it made him freeze. "We're gonna work this shit out like adults or something. Sit down." She pointed to the empty chair next to Tex. He gaped at her stupidly. "Now."

Sighing like a teenager, Charlie came into the kitchen and dropped into the chair. She glanced over her shoulder. "You too. Pull a chair up and sit." She pointed at the floor next to her.

"Can I finish making my - ?"

" _Now."_

He threw his hands up, grabbed a chair, dragged it over, and sat, crossing his arms and legs. Luna did likewise, kicking one leg over the other with a flourish just so they knew who was boss. Three sets of eyes stared at her expectantly...and a little fearfully. Where the hell was Cliff? Oh well, he didn't _really_ need to be here. "Alright," she said, "what is going on between you two? Yesterday you were practically sucking each other off now you're going at it like Liberace and Paul Lynd. This is bogus. We should be halfway done by now."

"It was _him,"_ Blake said and jabbed his finger at Charlie. Charlie crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Luna fixed him with dangerous eyes, and he squirmed. "What did he do?" she asked without looking away. I'm watching you, noodle arms.

Blake took a deep breath. "We were at this bar last night and these two chicks came up and started talking to us. He was gonna have the redhead and I was gonna have the blonde. Well, I go to take a piss, and when I come back, they're gone. He took 'em both!"

Luna blinked. Really? This was about some fucking bar skanks? Two at once, though, was kind of impressive. Luna grinned and held her hand up. "Nice going."

"Luna!" Blake cried, shocked.

Charlie grinned and hit his palm against Luna's in a hive five. She threaded her fingers through his, squeezed, and jerked in a clockwise motion: He wailed as his wrist twisted like Chubby Checker on coke. Tex, who had been leaning against the table with his arms crossed, sat up like a jack-in-the-box.

"That's a really fucked up thing to do to your friend," Luna said through clenched teeth.

Charlie moaned. "Please, let me go!"

The stupid look of terror on his face made her even madder, so she twisted harder. _"Ahhhh!"_

"Luna!" Tex barked. "Let him go!"

"Not until he apologizes," she said. Truth be told, she was kind of enjoying this.

Charlie pounded his fist against the table in an impotent display of agony.

"Say sorry."

" _God, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's my fault! Please, let me go! Please!"_

"Let him go!"

Luna yanked her hand away and crossed her arms. Tex glared at her and Blake snickered.

" _It's not funny!"_ Charlie cried, spittle flying from his lips. _"She almost broke my hand!"_

Blake made a fist and put it to his lips. Luna backhanded him in the forehead as hard as she could. He jerked and howled. "You're the one who started this...telling him his drumming sounded like shit. What, you couldn't whip him on your own time like a _real_ man?"

"That's enough!" Tex yelled and slammed his fist against the table. Charlie blubbered silently and Blake held his hands to his face and moaned. "You can't just go around kickin' people's asses. That's now how it works."

Luna whipped her head to Blake, and he cringed. "Are you going to get your ass back in that studio?"

"Yes!"

She looked at Charlie. "You?"

He sniffed wetly and nodded his head.

She smirked at Tex. "Yes it is."

With that, she got up and went into the hall, pausing in the doorway. "Come on! I don't have all goddamn day!"

Tex, Charlie, and Blake all looked at each other...then followed; none of them wanted to make Luna angry.

Bad, bad, _bad_ things happen when you make Luna angry.

* * *

Luan drove northeast from Oakland, his hands tight on the wheel and her foot pressing the pedal to the floor. Every so often she glanced in the rearview mirror, certain that something would be following her – a police cruiser, a car full of Yippies and Black Panthers with AK-47s and torches, the ghost of Harold Manning – but every time she checked, the road was dark and deserted. For the first fifty miles, she drove in silence, the only sound the hum of tires on the pavement; when the quiet became too cloying, too empty, she turned on the radio. A late newscast was on and she stared blankly ahead as it played, not hearing. _"...of the Apollo 13 is in serious jeopardy this morning and will_ not _be making a moon landing. As Apollo 13 was some 205,000 miles from earth speeding its rendezvous with the moon scheduled for tomorrow night, the fuel cells that supply it with electrical power suddenly failed, and with this lack of power the mission to the moon could not be completed. Now it is a question of getting the men home safely."_

She glanced in the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Of course not. No one's following you.

Yet.

She swallowed hard and tried not to think of her pursuers. She failed. They were men in black suits who drove black cars. Their boss was a fascist named J. Edgar Hoover, they broke laws, and, when no one was looking, they broke heads. They were the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and sooner or later, they would catch up to her; Ted was right, they would work long and hard to avenge the killing of a judge, and they would get her in the end.

She shivered.

No. The police didn't have any clues; they knew nothing. No one saw them, she didn't leave any fingerprints (the ones on the box blew up...and if they _did_ somehow survive, she had never been fingerprinted in her life, so they would have nothing to match them to). They _wouldn't_ come after her.

The ghost of Harold Manning, on the other hand, was already here, haunting her conscious and dragging chains of ice across her heart: Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his blood-splattered specter, the flesh of its face hanging in tatters and its eyes inky black with hatred. _You did this to me,_ it said and lifted an accusing finger.

 _I'm sorry!_

And if she didn't see him, she saw his children; she didn't know what they looked like in real life, or how old they were, but in her mind they were a boy and a girl, the former ten and the latter five or six. She saw the moment their weeping mother told them the news, saw the instant their hearts broke and the tears began to fall. _Daddy's not coming home,_ the mother hitched...then looked turned to Luan with slitted eyes. _Because some stupid bitch blew him up._

 _I didn't mean to!_

 _No more tea parties...no more catch in the backyard..._

Luan wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. The Fairlane's headlights washed across a reflective green exit sign. She should get off the road, turn around, drive back to Oakland...and turn herself in.

 _That's what you'd do if you were_ really _sorry, Luan._

Icicles formed in her stomach, and her grip on the wheel unconsciously tightened. A thousand images flashed through her mind in an instant: Her sitting in a concrete walled cell as, outside, the seasons cycled again and again, her shoulders growing more stumped and her hair slowly going gray; her strapped into a chair, a gallery of cold, emotionless faces watching as a black hood was placed over her head and panic filled her. _No, please, God, don't!_ Her body jerking forward as 2,000 volts of electricity surged through her, stopping her heart and short-circuiting her brain. Under the hood, her eyeballs bust wetly and leaked down her face as she wailed in agony; her bowls released and splattered the chair; the top of her head caught fire; her skin sizzled and blackened as she wept blood, tears, and other fluids, crying out for her mother in her final moments like a frightened little girl. The worst part, the part that stuck in Luan the deepest and kept her from turning off the interstate: Her baby was still inside her when they did it.

 _Her baby._

She swallowed and pressed harder on the gas, her hands beginning to tremble. Up until this very moment, she had not thought of the life growing in her womb as _her baby_. It was an inconvenience, a mistake, a hindrance that would prevent her from playing John Adams in the Revolution of '70. It was a faceless form like the fascists she imagined fighting. Now, suddenly, it wasn't: It was a human being.

It was _her baby._

Emotion overwhelmed her, and she could feel herself losing control: Easing up on the gas, she pulled to the shoulder and bent over the wheel, her body shaking and tears flooding her eyes. She made such a mess – she was pregnant and alone and a killer and she was a horrible human being because she thought of her baby as trash and a mistake and she ruined her life, its life, and everything she'd ever touched. She bowed her head and wept openly, giving into the torment tearing through her chest like a dynamo, her sobs rising above the folksy music filtering from the speakers – music that didn't mean anything like nothing meant anything.

 _Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me_

 _Let the Midnight Special shine a everlovin' light on me._

She planned to give her baby up – how selfish. How fucking _could_ she? She was honestly going to push it out and just hand it away. _Here, take it. I have things to do and no time for this thing._ She imagined a nurse carrying her blanket-swaddled newborn away, unloved, unwanted, and she cried harder. What was she thinking? Was her mind really _that_ clouded?

She was a piece of shit.

A despicable human being.

 _I'm sorry,_ she said now to the baby in her womb, _I'm so sorry._

She lifted her head, and her watery eyes fell on the craggy face of the full moon: It was sinking behind a stand of trees ahead, its glow falling over her like a shroud. She couldn't take back what she did to Harold Manning, but that moment, she vowed to keep her baby – if she could – and to be the best mother possible – for as long as she was free.


	64. April 1970: Part 5

**Lyrics to** _ **Spirit in the Sky**_ **by Norman Greenbaum (1969)**

* * *

 _Knock-knock-knock._

Lincoln Loud turned his head toward the door. He was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed and one arm draped over the back. Next to him, Ronnie Anne knitted quietly. Leni walked in from the kitchen. "Bun- _ny_ , where _are_ you?" She and Alejandra were playing hide-and-seek: Alex was hiding behind the TV. If Leni would stop sweeping the room with her eyes and focus on the screen, she would see Alex's cowlick poking up from behind Walter Cronkite's desk. He acted as though she weren't there.

 _Knock-knock-knock._

"Could you get that, dear?" Ronnie Anne asked. She sounded like his mother.

On TV, Cronkite read the news just like he had every night for a thousand years. _"Ten Marines are dead this evening after their platoon came under fire on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. They were patrolling the edge of the Vietcong held city when they were attacked."_ He glanced down at Alex and smiled bemusedly. _"Cute kid."_

 _Knock-knock-knock._

More urgent, more insistent.

"Oh, there you are!" Leni cried as she spotted Alex. She crossed to the TV, knelt, and reached in, hooking her hands under the little girl's arms and pulling her out.

 _She really has to stop going into the TV. It's not healthy._

He got up, stretched, and went to the door. When he opened it, his eyes fell on a pizza box and his stomach rumbled. The good smells of garlic and melted cheese wafted into his nostrils, and he breathed deeply. Ahhh. He pushed the lid up and froze.

Maggots.

It was topped with maggots. They squirmed and writhed on a bed of golden brown mozzarella with a wet squelching sound.

He looked up, and a slant-eyed face lost in shadows smiled shark-like, its gleaming white teeth visible in the darkness.

Suddenly, he was strapped to a kitchen and sitting in the middle of the living room, his heart racing and his breath coming in short, hot gasps. He frantically jerked his head left and right, up and down.

He was alone.

"Alex!" he cried. "Ronnie Anne!"

Terror filled him and he struggled against his bonds, but they were too strong. He had to get out, he had to find his fami –

" _Daddy?"_

Alejandra was standing in front of him, her hands fisted to the bottom of her chin and her eyes filled with fear. When he saw the Cong behind her, a wide grin on his face and a knife in his hand, his heart melted slickly into his stomach like black ice. "No," he said, his voice a pleading whisper, "please, no..."

The Cong's smile grew impossibly bigger. Slowly, tauntingly, he reached out, grabbed Alex's cowlick, and yanked her head back, baring her soft, vulnerable throat. _"Daddy?"_ her voice trembled.

" _Please, God, no!"_

The Cong held the blade to her skin.

Lincoln started to cry. "Not my little girl..."

The Cong flicked his wrist, and Alex's scream turned into a strangled gurgle.

That's when Lincoln jerked up in bed screaming, his hands flying to his face and his heart slamming against his chest. Ronnie Anne started and sat up, her mind still clouded with sleep and her heart racing. _What's happening?_ She snapped the lamp on: Its soft light revealed her husband sobbing into his hands. In her crib, Alex started to cry, and for a moment Ronnie Anne didn't know what to do. She slipped out of bed, crossed the room, and picked up her daughter; her eyes were wide with shock and she hitched as she drew breath. Ronnie Anne's heart melted. She cradled her. "Shhh...it's okay, it's okay, baby."

She sat on the bed and frowned deeply at Lincoln, her eyes filled with concern. She reached out and laid her hand on his bare shoulder. He tensed, then relaxed – a little.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she asked softly, though she suspected she knew. She squeezed comfortingly and brushed her thumb along his collarbone. Alex was quiet now, though her lips trembled and her eyes were still as big as plates. Ronnie Anne stroked her cheek and smiled down ta her.

Lincoln shook his head. "N-Nothing. It was j-just a nightmare. That's all. I'm sorry." He looked up at her; his eyes were red and puffy. He glanced down at Alex, and blinked as a rush of tears spilled out. "C-Can I hold her?" he asked in a cracking whisper. His eyes were pools of leaking misery, and the note of desperation in his voice twisted in Ronnie Anne's stomach like a knife. She held Alex out, and Lincoln took her in his arms, shifting her so that the side of her head rested in the crook of his neck. He hugged her tightly and squeezed his eyes closed. Ronnie Anne blinked back her own tears, then scooted next to him and put her arm around his shoulder. She stroked his hair and peppered kisses along the ridge of his shoulder blades –hoping to God that her love was strong enough to save him from whatever happened in his sleep.

A knock came at the door, and Lincoln tensed. "Come in," she called out.

The door opened, and Mr. Loud, Mrs. Loud, and Leni filled the threshold, all of them in robes, Leni with a sleep mask pushed back over her forehead. "Is everything alright?" Mrs. Loud asked worriedly.

"I-It's fine," Lincoln said, his voice thick with grief. "I just had a nightmare. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Are you alright?" she pressed.

"I'm fine," he replied.

"Are you sure?" Leni asked. "It sounded like a _bad_ nightmare. Was it about –" she shuddered – "spiders?"

Lincoln shook his head. "No. It was worse."

Worse than spiders? Poor Lincy!

"But I'm okay. I swear."

When they finally went back to bed a half an hour later, Lincoln insisted on having Alex between them; he draped his arm protectively over her. Ronnie Anne faced him and caressed his cheek, her heart aching with worry. "What was it about?" she asked in the dark.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"Lincoln," she said, and she didn't know if it sounded like there was a pleading edge in her voice, but there was, "it wasn't nothing. You looked...God, you looked terrified. I've never seen you like that and...and it's scary."

He didn't reply.

"We haven't talked about what happened...over there...I don't want to push you. I know you went through some shit and..." she trailed off and collected her thoughts. "I want you to be okay, Lincoln. I love you."

He shifted and laid his hand on her face. "I _am_ okay. It was just a nightmare. You have to expect that every once in a while. It doesn't _mean_ anything."

"What was it?"

He sighed. "Baby, I _really_ don't want to talk about it. Not right now. I'll tell you tomorrow."

She nodded and kissed his hand. "Okay."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Lincoln."

They snuggled closer, and huddled warmly (and safely) together, the Loud family slept.

* * *

Luna Loud had a bad habit of misplacing her blow. She'd whip it out, snort a line or three, roll, crash, and when she'd get up the next morning, presto, it was gone like a fucking magic trick. She'd eventually find it after hours of searching, sometimes under the couch, sometimes under her bed, and sometimes even in the fridge, which necessitated a quick visit to her guy for more. If she didn't know any better, she'd say a ghost was messing with her, but every time she found it, she'd remember putting it there herself, or dropping it and figuring she'd get it in the morning. Today, she woke and reached into her nightstand. Nope. Not there. She heaved a sigh and rubbed her grainy eyes. Lovely. Good morning to you too.

Some people need coffee to start their day, and others needed a hot breakfast – Luna needed cocaine. Not a lot, she never did more than a line or a line and a half in the morning; the point wasn't to get high, it was to perk up a little, you know? Jumping out of bed and running around the house without her daily recommended dosage of sweet, sweet sugar was _not_ an easy task, but presently she swung her legs over the side and sat up. Her mouth was dry and tasted like the inside of a truck stop toilet ( _...I think_ ). She needed a Coke. Coke and coke, the ultimate tag team. You know they used to actually put cocaine in Coca-Cola? Crazy, right? Back in the 1890s people used cocaine for lots of stuff. She saw an old ad once from, like, 1900 for cocaine based toothache medication, you know, because cocaine numbs your mouth. Pretty cool. People back then were alright by her, not like the people today. Oh, it's bad for you; Luna, cocaine makes you mean; Luna, you're acting like a fool.

Everything's bad for you.

Right?

Right. Hell, walk out onto a patio high above Los Angeles and tell me what you see: Smog. A thick, fucking noxious blanket of smog. You're telling me breathing that shit in isn't bad for you? A whole lot worse than cocaine.

Sighing, she got out of bed and went into the living room. After coming home from Woodstock, she got the hell out of the Cielo Drive house and started renting an apartment in Beverly Hills: It was in a stucco Spanish-villa-or-some-shit inspired building nestled among palm trees on a slanted side street. She only brought one box with her: It contained personal stuff, like pictures of her family, keepsakes, that kind of thing. See, she didn't want to be in that house any longer than she absolutely had to. Hell, now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure she left some primo stuff between the mattress and box spring.

Speaking of primo, where's my blow, man? She put her hands on her hips and looked around. The living room was small, with an ugly, puke green sofa that looked like hands (literally, the arms were the thumbs and the back were fingers – it was Italian or something...and it was awful) and a TV with long cabinets on either side of the screen: It was also a turntable and an AM/FM radio. The future is now, man.

What time was it, anyway? She bent, turned the knob, and the screen blinked on. A newscaster sat behind a desk. Oh, so noon, then. Kind of early for Lunas to be awake. _"A judge in Los Angeles has granted Charles Manson permission to act as his own attorney in the upcoming Tate-LiBianca trial_. _"_

Luna froze. Oh, man, she did _not_ want to hear about Charles Manson and his fucked up little friends: Every time she did, she went right back to the house on Cielo Drive and to the terror she felt in the days following Sharon's murder.

On TV, Charles Manson, a small man with a beard and shoulder length black hair, was being led by policemen and suited detectives down a hallway. He wore a stylish vest over a long-sleeved white shirt and mugged for the cameras. Luna's jaw clenched. You piece of shit. Oh, if only she had five minutes alone with that guy...

She took a deep, shuddery breath and turned the TV off. Every time she saw his face it put her in a bad mood.

Oh, shit, there's my coke! It was poking out from under the couch. Grinning to herself, she went over, bent, and grabbed it; she turned it over in her hands and beamed. Good find, Lune, good find. She sat at the glass coffee table, her back against the sofa, and broke out two lines...usually she didn't do so much, but seeing that cocksucking scumbag Manson made her mad, so...two it is.

She blasted through the first, sniffing deeply, then the second. Okay. Hello, Mr. Drip; how about some breakfast?

In the kitchen, she stood in front of the pantry – she wasn't in the mood to cook, so...cold cereal? Okay! She got a metal bowl from atop the fridge, dumped the rest of the Fruity Pebbles into it, and splashed some milk on it. She sat the bowl on the counter and looked around for a spoon. The coke was starting to hit her and she was beginning to roll; her heart raced and blood crashed in her temples. You know, it seemed to get more and more intense every time she did it; she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Hey, spoon's in the drawer, dummy. Oh, yeah, where it's always been. She took one, grabbed her bowl, and went into the living room. Before she sat, she turned the radio on.

She sat cross-legged on the couch and ate her cereal as the noon news went off and music started to play, all fuzzy guitars and handclaps and tambourines – just like she said Blues Station should do. This song was pretty popular, they fucking played it enough...so much it kind of made her think, you know?

 _When I die and they lay me to rest_

 _Gonna go to the place that's the best_

 _When I lay me down to die_

 _Goin' up to the spirit in the sky_

 _Goin' up to the spirit in the sky_

 _That's where I'm gonna go when I die_

 _When I die and they lay me to rest_

 _Gonna go to the place that's the best_

There's only one spirit in the sky she knew about, and his name was G-O-D. Her family wasn't really religious, but when she was little they went to church here and there, and she remembered some stuff, you know, about sinners and hell and salvation. Gotta ask God for forgiveness because we're all sinners and stuff. She didn't know why Mom and Dad stopped taking them to church, but she was kind of glad, because hell's a scary thought, you know? Any moment you can die and if you aren't right you'll burn for all eternity.

It made her skin crawl.

 _Prepare yourself you know it's a must_

 _Gotta have a friend in Jesus_

 _So you know that when you die_

 _He's gonna recommend you_

 _To the spirit in the sky_

Her spoon scraped metal and she shivered. Nails on a chalkboard, man. She glanced in and saw she was outta pebbles. Shit. Those things are good, too. Brand new. Only available on the West Coast, she heard. She started to get up, but the phone on the end table rang and she started. Great. It's not even out of the noon'o'clock hour and someone was calling. That usually meant _bad_ news when someone called you so early. She sat the bowl on the table, crossed her legs, and picked up the handset, her elbow propped on the arm. "Hello?"

"Hey," a familiar voice said through a hiss of white noise, "it's Lynn."

Luna smiled. "Hey, bro, how's it going?"

"Good," he said, "I'm keeping busy with Little Lynn and the dealership, so...you know, never a dull moment."

She laughed. "I hear that, man."

"I just wanted to thank you for the money you sent. I, uh, I wasn't expecting that."

"I know," she grinned, "I did it just because. That's hippie money, you know, from, uh, Woodstock. Maybe it'll be valuable one day."

Lynn laughed. "That movie they did's doing pretty good. Even _I've_ heard of it."

The previous month, Warner Brothers released a documentary someone made about Woodstock. It had interviews and performances and all that stuff – she was in it, which was pretty cool, though she kinda thought she looked like a jackass. But hey – everyone looked kinda like a jackass. Except Santana. She wasn't a slut, but she'd lay that dude in a minute no questions asked. Oh, and F-U-C-K Dude wasn't too hard on the eyes either. Name was Joe McDonald. _And on his farm he had a fuck, E-I-E-I-O_. Hahahahahaha. Long story short, the documentary was a big deal or something...which really didn't make her feel accomplished because, you know, it was a video of something she already, that's like a song you did becoming popular twenty years later. It's great, but I don't really feel like I've _done_ anything.

"Yeah, it's pretty big." Her heart was racing faster now. Painfully so. Ouch. "Might even wind some awards."

"Hey, that'd be cool."

 _Throb-throb-throb_. Like it was being squeezed in sharp, steely claws.

"I'm on lunch so I can't talk long. I just wanted to say I really appreciate the money, Luna." His tone was serious.

"No problem. You gonna set it aside for college?"

"Yep," he said, "we opened up a bank account and we're going to add to it. Kathy's folks chipped in a thousand, so we're doing alright."

 _Throb-throb-throb._ She felt dizzy and short of breath. "That's great," she said.

"I gotta go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure."

"I love you, Luna."

"I love you too, bro."

She hung up the phone, the handset dropping into the cradle as a spasm of pain wracked Luna's chest and her fingers released. Gritting her teeth, she clutched her chest and bent over. Ahhhh, shit, that hurts! She took deep, even breaths, and let them out slowly. The vise around her heart tightened...then began to let go. After what could have been minutes or hours, the pain was gone, and she felt cold inside.

Every once in a while this happened, and it was never fun.

 _Maybe I should lay off the coke._

That...that might not be such a bad idea. She _did_ overindulge here and there.

Sigh. Nothing that's good is ever good _for_ you. What kind of fucked up world _is_ this?

* * *

 _Creeping through the morning halls_

 _Dodging questions like ping-pong balls_

 _Just to make it to work on time._

Okay, Lincoln wasn't a lyricist like his older sister, but on the morning drive to Flip's, that little ditty formed itself in his head like a hurricane, and while it wasn't poetic, it was apt: When he got up that morning, he crept through the hall hoping he didn't see anyone and that they didn't bring up his nocturnal outburst. He was _almost_ to the bathroom when Leni popped out of her room, dressed for the day in a sleeveless yellow dress with buttons, a collar, and a brown floral pattern. "Hey, Lincy, how you feeling?"

"Good," he said, and hoped she left it at that.

She didn't. "What did you dream about? Are you _sure_ it wasn't spiders? It sounded like it was spiders. I woke up screaming once and I felt spiders on my neck and I almost lost it but it turns out it was just my hair and I was sobbing and shaking for nothing." She giggled, then her eyes clouded and her head tilted. "What were we talking about?"

Lincoln frowned. "We were talking about...you...going downstairs."

"Oh. Okay. Bye, Lincy!" Whew.

In the bathroom, he stripped out of his underwear and jumped in the shower. As he massaged shampoo into his scalp, he tried not to think about the dream, but flashes of it came to him anyway: Alex's head being wrenched back, her screams, the sound of bloody gurgles. His heartbeat quickened and he rested his forehead against the tile wall as he fought the horrible images back. They came faster, stronger, and panic squeezed his chest. He saw other things now, too. Bowls of squirming maggots and rotting beef; evilly grinning gooks with bamboo shoots; himself shoving a gun into a man's side and pulling the trigger. He was panting, his heart blasting: A gleaming knife blade touched his daughter's throat.

With a growl of impotent rage, he drew back his fist and slammed it against the wall: Hot, red pain streaked up his arm and detonated in his brain, consuming the gruesome images in holy fire.

He did it again.

And again.

His knuckles were torn and bloody and his chest heaved, but it was over...his mind was no longer full of hateful visions. He held his fist under the spray and winced as hot water stung the open wounds. Blood swirled in the drain.

When he was done, he cut the shower, toweled off, and got out. In the room, Alex was standing in her crib, her little hands grasping the rail, while Ronnie Anne dressed in a white blouse and a white skirt with tiny black polka dots that crazily reminded Lincoln of pepper. _"Dah!"_ Alex cried breathily.

"Morning, honey," Lincoln said. He crossed to the crib and kissed her forehead. Memory of the dream threatened to stir, but he quashed it. She held her arms up and looked at him with an expression that put him in mind of a dog sitting by its master's feet at dinner and begging scraps. _"Uh?"_

He smiled and picked her up. "How did you sleep?" he asked and kissed her on the cheek. She turned her head, clamped her hands on the sides of his face, and drew him into another kiss. "I'll take that as _good, daddy,_ " he laughed. He grabbed a white and green one piece outfit from the dresser, laid her on the bed, and changed her diaper. She squirmed and fussed like she did every time. Leni sang to calm her down...the last time he tried that, she got even more upset. He wasn't a very good singer.

"How are you feeling?" Ronnie Anne asked as she put her hair back in a bun.

"Fine," Lincoln said matter-of-factly.

"Good," she said. She came around the bed, sat next to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Can we talk about it when I get home?"

Lincoln sighed. "Yes," he said. He didn't _want_ to, but she obviously did, and she was his wife, keeping her in the dark probably wouldn't be fair. On the other hand, he really hoped the nightmare was _all_ she wanted to know about. He didn't relish the idea of telling her about the maggots and the beatings. It would serve only to disturb her.

She kissed his cheek. "I know it's hard," she said, "but I want to help you."

He nodded. "I know."

Alex glanced over at Ronnie Anne and smiled. _"Mah!"_

"Hi, baby!" she leaned over and tickled her stomach. She kicked and laughed.

After Ronnie Anne left for the day, Lincoln took Alex downstairs and strapped her into her high chair. Mom was at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and a copy of _Life_ magazine open before her. Please don't ask if I'm...

"...feeling okay?"

Lincoln's shoulders slumped. "Yes, I'm fine. It was just a nightmare." He grabbed a jar of baby food out of the pantry and a spoon from the drawer. He pulled out a chair and sat across from Alex, whose eyes widened, her lips starting to work as she realized she was going to be fed.

"It sounded like a pretty bad nightmare."

"It was," Lincoln said and unscrewed the lid. Alex leaned forward and smacked her lips, her hands fisting and unfisting.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Apparently Alex didn't like how slow he was going: She slapped the tray and let out an impatient _"Uhh!"_ her little cowlick bobbing.

"Alright already," Lincoln said. He dipped the spoon in and held it out. Alex hummed happily when the apple sauce filled her mouth. He dipped the spoon in again, and Alex screeched, her lips spraying droplets of apple sauce into Lincoln's face. For some reason Lincoln had not been able to pinpoint, Alex liked to _yell_ sometimes. Maybe she liked the echo of her voice, or maybe she liked the look of pain on everyone's face as her screams pierced their eardrums. It made feeding time a, uh, noisy experience.

Lincoln opened his mouth to scold her, but Leni cried out from the living room. Alex grinned, slapped the table, and yelled. Leni responded in kind.

Mom rubbed her temples.

Leni poked her head around the corner and grinned. _"Ahhh!"_

" _Ahhh!"_ Alex replied.

"Good morning, Bunny!" Leni said as she came in. She was crouched like a lioness stalking through the Serengeti as she approached, a tiny smile on her lips and light in her eyes.

" _Eee!"_

The little girl threw herself against the strap and brought her hands down hard on the tray. Lincoln remembered struggling against his own straps in last night's dream, and shivered. Leni knelt in front of the highchair and put her hands on the tray, palms down. Alex slapped Leni's knuckles and let out a loud yell.

"You can, like, leave now, Lincy," Leni said without looking at him, "I'll take over."

Lincoln started to protest, but Alex yelled, and his eardrums throbbed. "Alright." He kissed Alex's forehead and stroked her hair. "I love you."

She screamed and slapped Leni's hands again.

In the car, he made up his little song before he even backed out of the driveway. He wouldn't be able to dodge much longer, though. Ronnie Anne wanted in, and – in a way – he wanted to _let_ her in. In a bigger way, however, he didn't: He didn't want her to have to share the burden of what happened to him in Vietnam.

 _Too late for that,_ a voice spoke from the center of his head, _she shared it last night, didn't she? And Alex..._

Cold wind swept through his chest cavity.

It was beginning to affect his family.

What? A nightmare? That's all it was.

Or _was_ it? He had nightmares several times a week, and sometimes when he was awake he would kind of...flash back; sometimes he would be nervous and jittery for no reason, and when they were a sudden loud sound, he would jump or – and thank God he was alone when this happened – throw himself to the ground.

Sometimes...it was like the war came home with him.

And in war, you don't face the enemy alone. Your squad is with you.

Your wife...your daughter...

By the time he reached Flip's, his mood was dark and he felt like crawling back into bed and sleeping for a few decades. Flip was sitting behind the counter when he came in, and he waved him over. "I'm interviewing a couple cooks today," he said, "if I hire one, are you ready to manage this heap?"

Lincoln paused. Yes and no. He didn't relish the idea of working longer hours, but he did like the idea of making more money. One outweighed the other. "Yeah," he said, "I'm ready."

Flip nodded. "Good. The first week I'll pop in here and there and make sure you got it. It's not hard."

"I know," Lincoln said, "I've been watching you sit on your ass for nine years, Flip. Keep my chair warm for me."

Flip furrowed his brow. "Get your ass back in that kitchen, Loud, and start making patties. I don't have time for your jokes."


	65. April 1970: Part 6

After Sacramento, I-80 ascends into the steeply wooded California highlands, where the terrain rises back from the road and stately pines tower into the crystal blue heavens, some of them so old they remembered wagon trains and the Indian settlements before them. At points, rushing rivers matched the highway turn-for-turn, and at others, the trees fell back to reveal rolling vistas of forests, hills, and silvery ribbons of water. It was beautiful.

And Luan was blind to all of it.

She gripped the wheel tightly and kept her eyes straight ahead; she was focused on one thing and one thing only: Home. She didn't care about the scenery or the tourist traps (some of them advertised on big billboards miles and miles out), she cared about being home...with her family.

The closer the got to the Nevada state line, the more open the landscape became: The trees disappeared, replaced by a craggy rockface on one side and a sweeping view of time worn hills on the other. She didn't know much about Nevada, just that it was mostly desert: Would that start once she went through Reno, or was the northern part of the state _not_ desert?

It was noon when she crossed the Yuba Pass. She had been on the road for nearly twelve hours: Her back was stiff, her butt was sore, and her eyes were grainy. She didn't want to spend any money she didn't have to, but she _really_ wanted a bed and a hot shower.

On the final approach to Nevada, the landscape remained relatively unchanged, though the soil did become finer, more like sand, and the grass flanking the road took on a brown, deadish hue. On the other side of the border and just before the highway dropped into the city, the trees all but disappeared: The hills were barren and humped like frozen waves.

She got off at the first exit she came to and drove north through a confusion of streets whose names she didn't catch, seeing houses, parks, the ever present mountains in the distance, and an outdoor mall like they had in San Francisco, but no motels. When she finally found one, she decided she was staying no matter the price. In the office, she paid a whole seven dollars and the manager gave her a key. The room was small and decorated in warm, earthy colors. The bed was nearly made and a painting of a sailboat hung above the bed. There was a television set (COLOR TV! the sign proudly proclaimed) and a big square GE clock radio (with analog dial) on the nightstand. She stripped to her underwear and wished she brought extra clothes. In the bathroom, with its seafoam green tiled walls, she drew herself a hot bath and sank into it, her tense muscles relaxing – a little.

As she bathed, she listened for sounds, like knocking on the door: Being still made her nervous, and she cursed her body for needing sleep. She yawned and closed her eyes; when she began to feel herself drifting, she got out, toweled off, and pulled the drain stopper: The water gurgled as it went down.

She pulled back the covers and slipped into the bed, tossing the towel aside; the sheet softly caressed her naked skin. Lying on her side, she took a deep breath and drew her knees up. She pressed her hands to her stomach and rubbed, as if she could find the spot where her baby resided. "I really fucked things up," she said to it. She remembered lying on a cold, hard table with her legs spread, and shivered. Maybe it would have been best if it worked, because now she was on the run and when they found her – which they eventually would, they had to – the baby would suffer right along with her. What would happen to it? Would they put it in an orphanage? Would they adopt it out? Adoption would probably be best. Her life was such a mess that a loving adopted family would probably be far, far better for it.

She felt a very faint flutter in her stomach, and her hand froze just above her navel. Was...was that the baby? Did it _move?_

For a long time she was entirely still, waiting for it to happen again, _willing_ it to happen again. Just when she was beginning to think it wouldn't, she felt it, like the fleeting kiss of butterfly wings. A smiled touched her lips and she rubbed. "I wonder what you are," she said. "Are you a little boy or a little girl? And who are you going to look like: Me or your father?"

She was surprised to realize that she was _very_ excited to find out.

Gently stroking her stomach, she lulled, her eyelids growing heavy. A knock at the door startled her, and her heart leapt into her chest. She got up, crept to it, and peered through the peephole.

It was her mother.

Smiling widely, she opened the door, and then froze. It wasn't her mother at all, it was an old woman with long white hair, big eyes, and stooped shoulders. She wore a black cloak and her horrible hooked nose was covered with warts. She reminded Luan of the Old Hag from _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_.

With a cackle, she shoved Luan back onto the bed, and the cord of the lamp and the clock radio wound around her wrists. Her heart raced and she pulled against her bonds, a terrified scream bubbling in her throat but unable to pass. She tried to kick her legs, but they were a thousand pounds each and wouldn't move. The old woman flashed an evil grin and waved a hand: Luan's legs obeyed her command and propped themselves in an M. Suddenly there were others there, standing around the old woman and watching with emotionless faces: A black man in a black leather jacket and a black beret; Abbie Hoffman in a long-sleeved American flag shirt; men with long hair and beards, hammers and sickles on their shirts; Ted; the savaged ghost of Harold Manning; Lincoln; her parents; a silent gallery seeing _into_ her, judging her.

" _You killed my son,"_ the old woman said. She looked different now. She looked like Kermit the abortionist. _"Now I'm going to kill yours."_

With that, she plunged her hands deep into Luan's womb: Pain seared her walls as they ripped and blood gushed out of her and splattered the bed. She wailed and tried to move, but an unseen force held her down. She felt a strange _wrenching_ inside of her stomach, and the old woman removed her arms. In them was a naked, blood covered baby. It howled as the woman brought it to her face.

"Please stop," Luan wept.

The old woman wrapped her hands around the baby's neck.

Luan's heart burst. _"STOP!"_

The baby shrieked as the woman throttled it, its little head flopping back and forth. The others began to chant in a low, buzzing monotone. At first she couldn't make out words, but their voices became louder like a radio when you turn the volume knob.

" _The whole world is watching...the whole world is watching..."_

The baby was limp now. Dead.

" _The whole world is watching...the whole world is watching..."_

She let out a throat ripping scream, and that's what woke her.

* * *

Lincoln pulled into the driveway at half past six that evening and parked next to his father's Packard. Ronnie Anne's Pinto was parked at the curb, which told Lincoln she brought her papers home to grade them. Heh. She's a grown woman and she has homework.

He killed the engine, got out, and went inside. Leni was lying on her stomach and crying. Alex sat against the couch, a puzzled look on her face. Lincoln's heart clinched. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Leni looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Hi, Lincy! Alex was being a _bad_ bunny and hitting me, so I told her if she didn't stop she was going to make auntie Leni cry." She looked at Alex with a contrived glare. "You _don't_ hit people, Bunny."

" _Uh!"_ Alex cried. She rocked forward on her knees and slapped Leni in the face.

"Alejandra," Lincoln said firmly, and his daughter's head whipped around. She looked up at him, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping. "You do _not_ hit. It's bad."

Her face had a doe-in-the-headlights quality as he approached. He sat and picked her up. "Where's Mommy?" he asked the girl.

"Upstairs with her homework," Leni said and giggled. "She's an adult and has to do homework."

Lincoln grinned. "I was just thinking the same thing. You think if she doesn't do it she can say Alex ate it?"

Leni giggled again. "Babies don't eat paper, Lincy."

He shrugged and kissed Alex on the top of the head. "Eh. What if she says Alex peed on them?"

"That might work," Leni said. She went to stand up, but froze: She was on her hands and her knees, her blonde hair shrouding her face.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked.

She didn't immediately reply. "Yeah, I, uh...I forgot how to get up." He could hear a hint of shame in her voice, and his heart broke. He sat Alex down, got up, and held out his hand. When she didn't move, he got behind her, put his hands on her hips, and lifted her to her feet.

"Thanks, Lincy," she said with a weak smile. Her eyes darted away, and she scurried out of the room. Lincoln didn't know much about her condition, but from what Mom repeated to him, Leni was back and forth with it. The doctors couldn't quite figure it out: Sometimes she seemed to be getting worse and other times better. They still didn't know too much about Rentschler's, but usually it was a steady downward fall. Leni was up and down like a heart monitor, which gave him hope. Maybe it would take longer with her, and maybe...

He blocked that thought out: He couldn't think about his sister losing her mind and...dying. It was too painful.

Instead, he spun Alex around and looked down at her. She watched him with big, slowly blinking eyes. Her nose twitched, her cowlick rustled, and her front teeth stood out against her bottom lip. She _did_ kind of look like a little bunny rabbit. "Hitting people is _not_ nice, Alex."

She blinked.

"Auntie Leni loves you and she's _always_ nice to you. Hitting her is _mean_."

Blink.

Dad came in from the kitchen and dropped into his chair. He noticed Lincoln. "Oh, hi, Lincoln. How was work?"

Lincoln shrugged. "We hired a new cook today. I'm being promoted to manager."

"Hey," Dad said appreciatively, "that's good."

"Yeah. Longer hours but higher pay."

"If you want money you gotta earn it."

"Yeah. How was _your_ day?"

"Same as it always is: Crap. Not as bad as it could be, though. They're starting to lay people off."

"Lay people off?" Lincoln asked. "Why?"

Dad waved his hand. "Cost cutting bullshit. Cars are getting more and more expensive to make. They want seatbelts, padded dashboards, less pollution, better brakes. Pretty soon they'll want recliners, TV sets, and telephones."

"They aren't going to lay _you_ off, are they?" Lincoln worried.

Dad laughed. "I've been there twenty-two years, I'm a production manager, and the treasurer of the union chapter. I'm not going _anywhere_." He sighed. "Until I retire in ten years." A grin touched his lips. "I can't wait for that."

Alex squirmed and tried to slide out of Lincoln's lap. He held her fast. _"Uh!"_ she cried indignantly. "Is Mom still trying to talk you into moving to Florida?"

"No, she hasn't brought that up in a while," Dad said. "Truth be told, I kind of miss her badgering me."

Alex threw herself against Lincoln's arms. _"Uh! Uh! Uh!"_

"You hush, little girl," Dad said, "I've had enough of you yelling and grunting for one day."

Alex turned her head to him.

Blink.

Leni came back in from the kitchen and sat down next to Lincoln, crossing her legs Indian style. She looked at Alex and narrowed her eyes. "Are you done hitting me, Bunny?"

Blink.

Leni stuck out her arms, and Alex thrashed to get to her. Lincoln let her go, and Leni sat her on her lap.

Upstairs, Ronnie Anne was sitting in the middle of the bed, stacks of papers fanned out across the blanket. A hardback Reader's Digest book on American folklore balanced on her knees and serving as a makeshift table. She held a red pen, scanned the paper before her, and made a mark. She looked up as he entered, and grinned. "Hey, lame-o," she said.

"Hey," he said, "what's all this? Homework?"

He smirked at the word _homework,_ and she cocked her head in warning.

"Technically it is," he said. He moved a stack of papers and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Technically you're a doofus."

He shrugged. Can't argue with that.

"So," Ronnie Anne said, and Lincoln braced for it.

Only 'it' didn't come. Something else did.

"I was thinking...it's time we got our own place again."

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder, relieved because he didn't want to talk about...well, you know...and disappointed because he knew he was going to have to, and he wanted it out of the way. Sitting around and waiting for something bad to happen, the dread building in your stomach like noxious, corrosive gas, is often worse than just doing it. You know, the Band-Aid principle: Rip it off quick and clean so it'll hurt less. It'll still hurt though, but, less is better than more in this case, right?

"You think we're ready?" he asked. They had been living with his parents for just over two years, and in that time they'd saved up a little money – not too much, but enough – plus, he _finally_ got his army pension approved: 250 dollars a month. When he got his first payment, they back dated it to the beginning of the year, which meant an extra 750 – all of which went straight into savings. They had talked about looking for a place is the past, but both were hesitant. They really wanted to buy a house and _not_ have to deal with bank loans and mortgages.

She nodded. "Yep. Alex is getting older. Look how cramped we are in here." He gestured toward the crib: It was against the wall and stuck out so much that there was only a narrow path between it and the bed. Every time Ronnie Anne wanted to pass she had to turn to the side. "She needs space."

That _was_ true. You could argue that she had space in the living room, but she needed her _own_ space...in their own home. Lincoln loved his parents and Leni, but he didn't want to live with them forever. As it stood, they had already been here two years. Yeah, it _was_ time.

"Alright," he said. "I'm not too crazy about dealing with banks and shit, but you're right."

"Of course I am," she said and preened. "I'm _always_ right."

Lincoln snorted. "Shut up and do your homework."

She pursed her lips and looked around for something to throw at him, but all she had in easy reach were papers. Getting desperate, she slipped the paper she was grading off the book and lifted it – the book, not the paper. Lincoln jumped up. "Not the face!" he laughed. "Please!"

Snickering, she sat the book down. "I wouldn't do that to you, square-for-brains. I _like_ your face." She leaned forward and smiled seductively. "I'd hit you below the belt but I like _that_ too."

Lincoln grinned. "Yeah? You ever do it on top of a bunch of kids' classwork?"

"No, and I'm not going to," she said. "Speaking of work, you're bugging me. I need to get this done."

He held up his hand. "Say no more." He started out the door, but she stopped him.

"Hey!"

He turned and looked over his shoulder. She tapped her index finger against her lips. He came over, bent, and kissed her. "There," she said, "that's just the pick-me-up I needed."

"Glad to be of assistance," he said and tipped an imaginary hat.

"Maybe," she said and raked her teeth over her bottom lip, "if you're quiet, you can assist me with something else later." Her eyes danced with a devious light that never failed to make Lincoln just a _little_ hot under the collar.

He pecked her lips again. "Maybe."

* * *

There was a McDonald's up the street from the motel: On her way out of town, Luan stopped and ordered a hamburger, fries, and a Coca-Cola. All told, she spent just over fifty cents – and she did it only grudgingly. In addition to sleep, her body needed food. After all, she was eating for two now.

She held her hand to her stomach as she stood in line, knowing that she wouldn't be able to feel the baby kick yet but hoping nevertheless. When her turn came, she ordered, then took her tray to a table by one of the windows. In the parking lot, a group of teenage boys stood around a red Mustang smoking cigarettes and passing a bottle of alcohol back and forth. It was Friday night and apparently that's how the kids celebrated in Reno.

She ate slowly and sparingly, chewing thoroughly and thinking _Here it comes, baby_ every time she swallowed. _It's not the best food, but it's something_. _When we get home we can have_ real _food. How does that sound?_

The baby didn't answer, of course; if it did, there was a problem. She smiled at that. Get it? Because it would mean she was crazy.

Her mind flashed back to the night she sat a bomb in front of a door and frowned. Okay, maybe she was _already_ crazy.

No one was supposed to die, though. That's why they did it at midnight. If they wanted to kill people, they would have put it in a duffle bag and left it in the hall at high noon. Instead, they waited until the building was empty.

Only it _wasn't_ empty. Someone was working late, chose _that_ door out of three or four to leave by, and...her stomach turned. _Did he die quickly, or did he suffer?_

She imagined him lying on the ground, gone from the waist down, a pile of steaming intestines coiled where his legs should be, his eyes wide with fright and his face rapidly draining of color, and her chest tightened. She closed her eyes and willed the tears back, but one or two managed to slip through and slid wetly down her cheek. She didn't _mean_ for it to happen, not _really_ , but what good did that do? A lot of people don't mean to do things, but once they're done, they're done, and not intending to do them didn't lessen the impact. She thought of his family, of the grief and pain they must be feeling, and she suddenly didn't want to eat anymore. She did, however, because the baby needed food. _I'm only do this for you,_ she said as she shoved the remaining piece of hamburger into her mouth. It tasted like cardboard, and as she chewed it turned to cold mush. She tried to swallow, gagged, and finally got it down.

After McDonald's, she stopped at a gas station near the interstate and paid the attendant to fill the Fairlane's tank. She gave him extra to go in and get her a bottle of Coca-Cola for the road. As she waited, another car pulled into the lot. She watched it pull alongside her, and froze. It was a light blue Pontiac with two red lights spaced far apart on a roof rack like devil horns. A big yellow star was painted on the driver door, and the words HIGHWAY PATROL formed an arch over it. Her heart turned to icy sludge and she hurriedly glanced away, a puff of air locking in her lungs.

She waited for the door to open, waited for a firm voice to tell her to exit the vehicle; her heart raced and sweat began to trickle down her brow.

It didn't happen, though. The attendant came out and rushed around the front of the car. "Here you go, ma'am," he said, handing the Coke through the window. Luan took it with a trembling hand. "T-Thank you," she said.

He nodded, and turned to the cop.

"Fill her up," the cop said.

Luan tossed the Coke onto the passenger seat, put the car in drive, and fought hard not to speed as she pulled away from the pump and turned onto the street. She spared a glance over her shoulder, and saw the cruiser tethered to the pump, the attendant leaning over to talk to the cop.

She was shaking by the time she pulled onto the interstate and merged behind a tractor trailer. For the first fifty miles, she divided her attention between the road and the rearview mirror, sure that at any moment the darkness would be rent by flashing red lights. When they didn't come, she allowed herself to relax.

Mile begot mile begot mile. For long stretches she was the only car on the road, and the night pressed against the windows like a living creature desperate to get in and consume her the way it had consumed the rest of the world. The only sound was the singing of tires on asphalt, and when she began to hear words in it, she turned on the radio, finding nothing but static up and down the band. She glanced nervously out the driver side window at the impenetrable wall of black: It was easy to imagine that the night really _had_ consumed the whole world, that everything was gone and she was the only thing left, damned to ride the highway for eternity in search of safe harbor that didn't exist, for a sunrise that would never come. The night was closing in on her, and it was getting harder to breathe.

 _It's alright, baby,_ she told the child in her womb, _it's just the dark and grownups like Mommy aren't afraid of the dark. Mommy's just sad because she's a bad person and she deserves anything that happens to her. Mommy did something very bad to someone and she almost did something very bad to you. She wasn't thinking clearly, she...she...she doesn't know! She's scared and confused and she just wants this nightmare to be over with._

But it never would be. She would always be a murderer, and every time she looked into her child's eyes – if she ever even got the chance – she would remember the feeling of cold steel slipping into her body like a hungry serpent...

She wiped her watery eyes. If it weren't for the baby, she decided, she would kill herself – death would be better than the constant haunting memory of the destruction and pain she caused, and the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, if she had stayed where she was, she could have been convinced to cause _more_.

Ahead, lights appeared off the highway. She remembered something she had read somewhere about a deep sea fish that has a lure sprouting from its forehead with a light on the end. Other fish see it glowing in the darkness and swim toward it, only to be snatched in the wide, jagged maw of a nightmare apparition. A shiver went through her, and she unconsciously pressed harder on the gas, the Fairlane jerking forward with a _vroom_ of acceleration.

Toward dawn, the static on the radio was broken by a faint voice that Luan couldn't help but imagine belonged to a phantom trying to reach out to her from the Beyond. Harold Manning, maybe.

" _...the wicked shall be cast into the fires of hell, and their screams of pain will lift unto the heavens forever. The flesh will melt from their bones, and their eyes and tongues will burn. Maggots will roost in their mouths and fill their stomachs, they will eat the insides of those who sin – the homosexuals, the idolaters, the communists, the fornicators, the murderers, those who offend God and will surely suffer His wrath..."_

Luan turned the knob. She was so cold inside that she shivered.

 _That's not true, baby,_ she thought, _hell isn't real...God isn't real, Religion is an opiate. It keeps the masses content and distracted._

She knew that in her mind.

But in her heart, she could _feel_ the lick of flames against her exposed skin, she could _taste_ the maggots as they squirmed down her throat and nibbled at the soft lining of her esophagus.

 _Stop it! Goddamn it, stop!_

Daybreak found her just across the Utah border. In the south, a town fell away from the interstate, its pitched roofs rising up from an oasis of trees. Beyond, vast, white salt flats stretched to low, eroded mountains on the horizon. She was growing road weary, but she didn't want to stop, couldn't stop.

She wanted to be home as quickly as she could...like the lost, broken little girl she was, she wanted to be safe in her mother's warm, loving embrace...where nothing bad could hurt her.

* * *

After making love, Ronnie Anne and Lincoln held each other in the darkness, their hearts gently pounding and their bodies flushed from desire and exertion. Lincoln planted soft, sleepy kisses along her jawline and lightly skipped his fingertips over her shoulder blades; he relished the soft, warm feeling of her flesh...and its salty taste. She lazily grazed her nails up and down his back, which sent pleasant tingles into the pit of his stomach.

For a long time, neither of them spoke, the tranquil silence broken only by their breathing and by their daughter's occasional snort, which made both of them smile. Leni called her Bunny, but at night, she sounded more like a piggy. Finally, Ronnie Anne shifted in his arms and looked up at him with serious eyes. "What was your nightmare about?"

Lincoln drew a heavy sigh. He was afraid to tell her...afraid for many reasons, but afraid mainly because she might think there was something wrong with him, that he was sick or evil or dangerous – only a sick, dangerous, evil mind can come up with such horrible visions. Only he _wasn't_ any of those things. He loved his wife and his daughter, and he would sooner stick a gun in his mouth than _ever_ hurt them. "It was about Alejandra," he said finally.

"I figured that," Ronnie Anne said, "from the way you acted. What was it about?"

He told her everything, stumbling over his words here and there as the images started coming back to him. She stiffened in his arms, then hugged him tight as his tears began to fall. When he was done, she didn't speak for a moment. "No wonder you woke up screaming," she said. "It must have been awful."

"It was," he said.

"You have nightmares a lot."

It was a statement, not a question.

"No, not a lot. Sometimes. Never like that, though."

She pressed her forehead against his and lovingly stroked his cheek; her breath was warm against his lips. "What happened over there?" she asked.

Lincoln loved Ronnie Anne. He loved her with every fiber of his being, and if there is such a thing as soulmates, he believed – nay, he _knew –_ that she was his. Years ago, perhaps for a school assignment, he read a book on Greek mythology (he thought it was Greek, at least). One of the only stories he could recall...the _only_ he could recall, come to think of it, was about humans and how when they were first put on this earth, they had two heads, four arms, and four legs (or something). One of the gods feared that they were too powerful, so he split them in two, and forevermore human beings have been cursed to search for their missing half. Ronnie Anne was his missing half, and with her he was fulfilled. Every thought he had, every sorrow, every triumph, was hers as well, and vice versa. She deserved to know his heart and his soul entire. He knew that...and he wanted her to.

He did _not_ want her to endure the pain, however. A heart and a soul always come with shadowy corners, corners where one ought not peer, corners where our worst memories, our worst feelings, are stored out of sight, but never entirely out of mind. Lincoln knew what he kept in those corners, and he knew that if their roles were reversed, looking into those corners of her heart would kill him.

But regardless, he would want to know.

"Torture," he croaked, and swallowed hard. "They tortured me."

She shuddered, and snuggled closer to him.

"They beat me, they kept me in a cage, they shoved bamboo splinters under my fingernails, they...they put a gun to the back of my head and pulled the trigger...it was empty but I thought...I thought it wasn't."

"Lincoln," she said, her voice filled with sorrow.

"They...they starved me and...they made me eat maggots."

She started to cry.

Lincoln tightened his arms around her and kissed her forehead as her body hitched against his, her eyes and lips closed tightly to minimize the sound. "I'm sorry," she said, a miserable hilt to her voice, "I'm so sorry, Lincoln."

He shushed her. "It's okay. It's all over."

She cried harder, and he held her tighter. Eventually her tears tapered off, and she sniffled. "Did you kill any of them? The ones who tortured you?"

He thought for a moment. He couldn't remember if any of the guards he killed during the escape had tortured him or not – he seemed to think at least one of them had. "Yes," he said, "three of them."

"Good," she said savagely, and Lincoln was shocked into laughter. "I mean it. I hope they fucking suffered."

He kissed her forehead. "Maybe they did. I don't know. I don't _care_. I care about you and Alex and putting all of that shit behind me."

She stroked his back. "Me too." She looked up at him. "When you have a bad dream...will you talk to me about it?" The beseeching look in her eyes surprised him. She wasn't demanding, she was imploring.

He nodded. "Yes."

"Good." She snuggled closer. "I love you, Lincoln, and I want to help you."

"You already have," he said, "you gave me a beautiful daughter and you've always been there when I needed you. I thank God for you every day, Ronnie Anne. You're my everything."

In the darkness, Alex snorted.

" _Almost_ my everything."

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

* * *

Leni was a baby hog. From the moment Lincoln walked out the door in the morning to the moment he (or Ronnie Anne) came through it in the evening, she was playing with Alex, singing to her, tickling her, napping with her, or simply holding her and watching television. _That's the bad guy, Bunny; he's yucky and mean; she's, like, in a coma and when she wakes up, she's going to be_ real _mad her husband spent her fortune; that's Barnabus, he's a vampire, vampires are_ scary, _but not as scary as spiders. Spiders are, like, the scariest thing ever._ Rita enjoyed watching her daughter and her granddaughter, but that enjoyment was tinged with sadness; she knew how achingly Leni wanted to be a mother. In March, she found the girl on the couch weeping into her hands. She asked her what was wrong, and she said _I want a baby but I know I can't because I'm stupid._

Rita's heart shattered into a million pieces and she wrapped her arm around the girl's shoulder. _You're not stupid, honey, you...you're sick. And having a baby is not something you should do when you're sick_. Leni had a working understanding of her illness. She knew, or so Rita thought, that she would get sicker over time. They had talked about it on occasion, especially when, last year, the many doctor appointments suddenly dropped off. There was nothing anyone could do. Everywhere they went they got the same dire prediction. _Within ten years she will be in a nursing home_. She was up and down with it, seeming better some weeks and worse others, and while that mildly surprised the doctors, they all said the same thing: She would go downhill sooner or later.

 _I know,_ Leni moaned, _but I_ really _wanna be a mommy._

 _I know you do, honey,_ Rita said, _but you can't._

It was for this reason that Rita dreaded Ronnie Anne and Lincoln moving out. Over the past couple days, they had been looking at houses around town. Rita was happy for them and sad for Leni, because while she would still watch Alex during the day, she wouldn't have the same 24 hour access to her that she enjoyed now. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne would have their own lives and that would not include spending all their free time here. Rita understood that and she respected it. Such is life. She just didn't want Leni to become more depressed than she already was.

Today, while Leni and Alex played on the living room floor, Rita cleaned the master bath, a pair of yellow gloves pulled nearly to her elbows. She wore a pink muumuu with a flower pattern, her glasses hanging from a chain around her neck: Though she had been using them for several years now, they sometimes felt alien on her face, so she took them off. After a while, however, she got a headache: The world was just blurry enough that her eyes were forced to strain more than they should.

Done with the toilet, she stood and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair had thinned some and wrinkles lined her forehead and cheeks. She had put on weight, too. She didn't know if this is how fifty-two was supposed to look, but sometimes she imagined she looked much older.

Not that she cared much. She had never been a vain woman. It was just surprising to see the face of an old woman in the mirror when you still felt thirty (more or less). She supposed she was in a sort of transitional phase, much like puberty. Children at that age aren't quite children but they aren't quite adults yet either. One day soon, she imagined, she would catch up to herself and feel as old as she looked. She did not relish that day.

When she was finished cleaning the bathroom, she returned the supplies – including the gloves – to the cabinet under the sink and went downstairs. Leni was standing by the front door, her arms out. "Come on, Bunny! Come to auntie Leni!"

Alex sat in the middle of the floor, watching Leni intently.

"She can already walk, dear," Rita said. At least once already Leni forgot that fact.

"I know," Leni said matter-of-factly, "I just want to help her practice."

Rita crossed to the couch and smiled at her granddaughter. Alex's head flopped backwards and she looked up. "Hi, baby," she cooed as she sat. "Are you going to see your auntie Leni?"

 _Blink._

Alex looked at Leni, then started to crawl.

"No, Bun- _ny_ , walk!"

Alex paused and blinked. _Huh?_

Rita settled back against the couch and glanced from her granddaughter to the television set: The afternoon newscast was on, and it was all bad news, as it always seemed to be these days: U.S. forces had invaded Cambodia to chase the Vietcong and protests were taking place on college campuses across America, some of them violent. Funny, the last she heard Nixon was beginning to withdraw troops and handing the war effort over to the South Vietnamese. It was their war, anyway, why so many American boys had to go die in it was beyond her.

Alex reached Leni and pulled herself up on the older girl's leg. "Good job, Bunny," Leni said as she picked her up, "but you were supposed to walk." She started back into the living room, but paused when someone knocked on the door.

"I'll get it," Rita said and stood. She was planning on starting lunch in a few minutes anyway. Leni stayed where she was and dug her fingers into Alex's stomach, which made the baby shriek with laughter.

Rita reached the door, turned the knob, and opened it. She didn't know who or what to expect, but it certainly was not Luan, clad in a pair of brown corduroy pants and a baggy black sweater. She wore a nervous smile. For a moment Rita was too stunned to speak or move.

Then she noticed her stomach.

"Hi, Mom," she said.


	66. June 1970: Part 1

"Where is she?"

When he woke to find Luan gone, Ted Harris was disappointed: He thought she was a better woman, and finding out that she lacked true dedication to the cause made him shake his head. _At least the trash had the decency to take_ itself _out_ , he thought. There was a war on, and deadwood like Luan Loud had no place in the ranks of the People's Army. He understood that she was upset about what happened to that judge...he didn't much like it either: The news that the bomb killed someone hit him like a brisk slap. For years he had been building himself up to fight – and kill – but doing it...well, that's a different animal altogether.

Nevertheless, he was committed and he would continue. Revolutions, by their very nature, are never bloodless. Take the American Revolution, for example. How many people died on both sides? How many loyalists were tarred and feathered by patriots, and how many patriots were hanged or stood up against stone walls and shot? The Founders – as deeply flawed and misguided as they may have been – were not, he believed, evil men, and their aim was not to kill and cause mayhem but to achieve independence, to throw off what they felt was the yoke of British domination (the Crown was actually quite reasonable when it came to the colonies, but it was still a fascistic monarchy, so neither side was particularly innocent). His – and his comrades' – goal was to throw off the yoke of imperialist/capitalist domination. They were like the Founders, and if it came to violence, they would commit violence, though they preferred not to. Death, in revolutions, happens. He understood that...he wasn't over the moon about it, but he understood it. He thought Luan understood it as well.

Over the next few weeks, something peculiar happened: He started to miss her. He missed her laugh, the sound of her voice, the way her eyes twinkled like sun-struck sapphire. At night, alone in bed, he missed the feeling of her in his arms. He missed talking to her and...and everything else about her. He missed her with a gnashing intensity that consumed him like jagged teeth. By the beginning of May, he began to feel incomplete, as though there were a hole in his heart – a hole shaped like a girl with a ponytail. The cause seemed less and less important: Nixon invaded Cambodia, and he hardly cared; four students at Kent State University were gunned down by national guardsmen during a protest, and he cared...but in a muted sort of way. The others were enraged. He was simply upset. He knew he loved her, had known since almost the beginning, but he didn't realize how _much_ until she was gone. One night, as he sat up in bed with his arms crossed and his mind on Luan, an old saying occurred to him: Appreciate what you have before it becomes what you had.

He didn't appreciate her.

And now she was but a memory.

That cut him deeply.

"Teddy...where is Luan?"

Presently Ted looked up at the man across the table from him. He was balding, gray hair on the sides, with icy blue eyes. He wore a black suit and a black tie.

"I don't know," Ted said, "she left without saying."

In the two-way glass behind the man, Ted caught a glimpse of himself. His beard, always neatly trimmed, was shaggy, and his hair was messed. Ever since Luan left, he didn't care about such trivial things as shaving.

"You must have some idea where she went. You were together for...how long?"

"Two years."

The man nodded. "That's a long time. I mean...you don't sleep with a woman for that long without getting to know her. What she likes, what she wants..."

He had an idea where she was...but he wasn't going to say. See, Ted loathed the F.B.I. and he loathed J. Edgar Hoover, its director, but he didn't think they were stupid: They probably figured she went home, and they _must_ have gotten her address from Berkeley. The point of this little interrogation was to bring him even lower, to torture him by making him give her up...to make him rat her out in a desperate and cowardly bid for leniency.

Not going to happen.

"I don't know," he said now.

The man (Agent...Carlisle?) sat back in his chair and regarded him the way one would a particularly disgusting bug. "I think you're full of shit. You know where she is and you're protecting her."

Ted didn't reply. How long had he been here? Three days? He mentally counted. Yep. Three days since the raid, three days since the front door burst open and a flood of cops swept screaming into the house, guns drawn. Someone had buyer's remorse and turned themselves in (he thought it was David Greenglass – he disappeared two days before it happened) and faced with jail time or even execution, others flipped in custody. The feds knew everything: Who built the bomb, who planted it...everything except where Luan was.

Or so they claimed.

"You two stand to lose a lot here. You might not be the ones who built it, but you're the ones who placed it. You're the triggermen. Of course...you were acting on someone else's orders. The way I see it, they're the _real_ bad guys. You and Luan –" here he spread his hands –"you're just pawns. Very important pawns. If you confess and work with us, things will come out a whole lot easier for you. If you _don't_ , you could possibly wind up in the electric chair."

Ted's heart dropped. He knew what they were facing, of course, but hearing it spoken aloud made it seem more real. A cold chill ran through him.

"What's it gonna be, Teddy? Help us out and walk away in twenty years...or ride the lightning?"

An image flicked across his mind: Luan, her eyes filled with terror, being strapped into a chair by burly guards. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she shook her head back and forth as if in denial of her impending death. They slipped a black hood over her head, and the last he saw of her, she seemed to be looking at him, a mixture of hurt, confusion, and pleading on her face. He blinked against his own tears, and wiped them away with the heel of his palm.

Agent So-and-So leaned ever closer. "Where is she?"

"Michigan," he said.

* * *

Bravery, they say, is being afraid but forging ahead anyway. Maybe that's true of most people, but it was not true of Sargent Alvin Goldberg, U.S.M.C. In his case, he just didn't care.

Three years ago, before his first battlefield promotion, he woke up one morning and decided to die. He stuck his .45 in his mouth but couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger: He sat in the latrine for fifteen minutes, the barrel pressed against the roof of his mouth and slick gun oil coating his tongue, before taking it back out and returning it to his holster with trembling hands. Later that day, he tried again – and failed again. He thought of his mother back home...he didn't want her to know how badly he was hurting, how thoroughly he had lost hope. He didn't want her to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that he killed himself in a fucking outhouse like a yellow-bellied pussy. The least he could do for her was die a hero – give her something to be proud of.

Three days later, he got the perfect opportunity: His platoon was pinned down on the edge of a rice paddy by heavy VC fire and one of the choppers coming in to extract them crashed in a ball of flames. Ignoring his sergeant's orders, he got up, ran through a hail of bullets, and proceeded to pull three men out of the wreckage. Rounds pinged off the fuselage, grazed his arms and legs, and one even embedded itself in his helmet...but he didn't die. Instead, he was saluted by his commanding officer and promoted.

Two months later, his squad was ambushed while on patrol: Everyone else ducked for cover, but he stood firm on the trail and raked the dense undergrowth with fire. He did not, however, catch a bullet. Can't these sons of bitches _aim?_

"Goddamn it, Goldberg," the sergeant yelled afterwards, "are you _trying_ to die?"

"No, sir," he lied.

During the day, he searched for the elusive Reaper, and at night he laid awake in his bunk staring into the darkness, his fingers laced behind his head and his mind stirring with phantom memories...memories of a girl he loved once, and still loved today. When he slept, he dreamed of her, and when he woke, the aching loss was so much worse than it was during the day because in dreams, he remembered how happy he was. Neither one of them said 'I love you' very often, but he did, he loved Luna completely: He loved her smile, her easygoing nature, her warm brown eyes, the raspy sound of her voice, the way she laughed. He loved her from the bottom of his heart, and during those four beautiful years they had together, he thought he would always have her: Every time he envisioned the future, he saw her by his side, a sly grin on her face and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. He was going to ask her to marry him. In fact, he bought an engagement ring the day before she left, and he was nervous about giving it to her because she meant everything to him.

Then he came home, expecting her to be there, sitting on the couch and watching TV: She would glance up at him and smile like she did every day, and everything from the shit day he had at work to the restlessness deep in his chest, would melt away. Instead, he found a letter, and he wept bitterly because without her, he had nothing. She was his heart, his soul, and his future; she was the only thing good thing to ever happen in his rotten life, and now she was gone.

He didn't realize it until later, but he died that day. The joy he found in life left with her, and each passing week grew harder, darker...colder. He dreamed of her every night...in many of them, she was sitting on the couch with a baby in her arms, _their_ baby, and she would coo to it while he watched with a stupid grin on his face and brimming love in his heart. Those were the hardest dreams to wake up from, because the happiness lingered just long enough for his conscious mind to register it...and the sorrow that came after was that much keener.

Maybe it's pathetic to feel the way he did over a woman...but he did. He loved her and he wanted to make a family with her. He wanted her to have his children, and he wanted to come home to her every day; he wanted to share his life with her, he wanted her to be his sunshine, and he wanted to be hers.

When she left, so too did his hope and his happiness. His heart throbbed endlessly, and he imagined it crying out for hers. Time didn't heal his wounds – if anything, time only made it worse. He considered dating other women, but he didn't want another woman, he wanted Luna Loud...he wanted to laugh with her the way they used to, he wanted to snuggle with her on the couch like they did, he wanted...oh, who gives a shit? He wanted a lot of things, but wanting doesn't mean a thing. He wanted death, but all he got were a couple crummy medals and a promotion to Sargent. Hooray.

On the morning of June 10, he woke from another Luna dream – in this one she was walking easily through a sunlit field, a little boy on one side of her and a little girl on the other. The boy looked like him and the girl looked like her. They held hands, and as they came toward him, Luna smiled. _There's daddy_ , she said, and his children smiled too. His heart filled with joy and when he came awake, his dirty cheeks were streaked with tears. He was sitting against a tree, his rifle laid across his lap: He and his squad were in a sub quadrant of the Mekong Delta on a search and destroy mission. Today they would march seven clicks to the extraction point.

Shoving the dream aside, he stood and got his men together. He didn't want to be a sergeant, but he took his position seriously. He was responsible for these eleven men, and he would see them through come hell or high water.

They got underway just before eight 'o'clock: The day was already so hot that sweat flowed down his back in rivulets, dampening the green fabric of his uniform shirt. The trail passed through dense jungle, and not even the slightest breeze stirred the tangled brush. He wiped his gritty forehead with the back of his hand and scanned the growth on either side of the path. No one spoke. The only sound was the crunch of boots against dirt and rock, the snapping of twigs, the call of birds from their roosts.

In the three and a half years he had been in Vietnam, he had learned to keep his mind clear of thought when out on patrol: A man lost in his own ass won't notice a Cong until it's too late. He didn't care if he didn't notice one, but he had eleven men to worry about, and none of them were going to die because Daggy Goldberg was heartbroken. They had families – some of them had girls they loved the way he loved Luna. Therefore, he didn't think, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling. It was like a wide, yawning mouth was consuming him from the inside out. A pang rippled through his stomach as he remembered the sunlight on his dream family's faces, and the soft, excited way Luna said _there's daddy._

A twig snapped to his left, and he spun around just as a slant-eyed face appeared five yards off. "Get down!" he yelled just as gunfire erupted, shredding the vegetation. His men ducked for cover, and he dropped to one knee, bringing his rifle up. The face disappeared as he squeezed the trigger. A bullet whizzed through the air and grazed his right arm, stinging as it tore flesh and cloth. He raked the rifle back and forth, and someone screamed in pain. His men had taken cover on the other side of the trail, some on their stomach and some behind trees. They provided covering fire, and he turned and ran at a crouch, throwing himself behind a tree.

More fire came from the enemy position, and one of his men, a black guy named Hutson, cried out. Daggy got to one knee, leaned heavily against the tree, and fired into the jungle: The foliage was so dense he couldn't see his target. Jameson stood behind him, also leaning against the tree, and fired too. Daggy glanced over his shoulder. "Paulson, get me –" his words cut off as something hit him hard in the stomach and knocked him back on his ass.

Frederick pulled the pin out of a grenade and lobbed it over hand: It came down on the other side of the trail and exploded in a spray of dirt. Someone screamed, and Jamison and Teal broke from cover and pushed onto the path.

Daggy stared up at the sky, a strange numbness settling over him. Thornton, the medic, a baby-faced kid no older than nineteen with messy black hair, appeared over him, his eyes wide. Thomas, Avery, and Howser also came into view: They all stared down at him with horror in their eyes, and that scared him. "H-How's Hutson?" he asked. His lips were numb too.

"H-He's fine, Sarge," Thornton said, "and you're gonna be fine too." He looked nervously around. "Hey, man, gimme that fuckin' phone! We need a medevac _now!_ "

Daggy was suddenly very cold. He tried to push himself up on his elbows, but fiery pain filled him, and he cried out. "Take it easy, Sarge," Avery said.

Teal walked up. "How is – holy shit."

Frederick came over, and his face paled.

It struck him then. He was wounded. He tried to lift his hands to assess the damage, but they were too heavy, and he only got them a few inches off the ground before they dropped. "Here," Thornton said, and shoved a wad of fabric against Daggy's stomach. Agony flowed through him.

So this is what being shot feels like. It didn't hurt – much. He just felt cold. And drowsy. Keeping his eyelids open was getting more and more difficult by the moment, and the sounds around him were getting echoy, as if he drifting down a long corridor.

Howser tapped him on the cheek. "Stay with us, Sarge, the medevac's on the way just...d-don't go to sleep."

The edges of his consciousness were growing fuzzy and warm. He closed his eyes then opened them. Worried faces huddled close. They spoke but he couldn't make out what they were saying. What the hell were they doing not paying attention? The VC could sneak up in a heartbeat. He opened his mouth to order them to watch their asses, but speaking was hard, and he was slipping.

He closed his eyes again, and he saw them: Luna and their children coming to him hand-in-hand-in-hand. _There's daddy,_ she said, and the boy and girl broke free from her grasp with happy squeals.

His face stung, and he cracked one eye open. Thornton was bent over him, his lips moving slowly but nothing coming out. Above, a chopper hovered into view and paused. Wind and dirt swirled against his face, and he closed his eyes.

Luna smiled at him, and he smiled back. Her eyes were big and warm and filled with love, and her brows angled playfully up as her head tilted forward. His face stung again. He was being loaded into a basket...was being hoisted up. Were they taking the others too? They couldn't just leave them down there. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and he wasn't sure if he actually spoke, but he thought he lips moved, thought they formed the words _my men._ The medic holding onto the rope and riding with him glanced at him then up at the whirly-bird.

Daggy's lids fluttered shut, and Luna's face was there again, her cheek resting against a pillow and her sparkling eyes locked with his. How many times had he fallen asleep gazing into her eyes? How many times had he woken up to those eyes watching him, and a tiny smile breaking across her lips? Not enough. A thousand times, a _billion_ times would never be enough. She grinned at him now, and he grinned too, because he was finally happy again.

He remembered that day years ago they sat on her porch swing, and he played guitar for her. He turned _be-bop-a-lula_ into _be-bop-a-luna_ , and her cheeks got red and her eyes lit up. He was so nervous that day because he really liked her and he wanted her to like him too, but he didn't think she would. She was pretty and cool and what the hell would she want with an asshole like him? But when he saw her blush, he knew. His blushing, bright-eyed Luna sitting on her mama's porch and fighting to contain a grin.

That's the image he wanted to die with.

And it was.

* * *

Three days...three days until they moved into their new house. Lincoln didn't think he would be nervous – he and Ronnie Anne lived on their own once before, so it wasn't exactly like this was uncharted territory...home ownership, on the other hand, _was_. Bank loans were, too. And all the other stuff that goes along with it. One thing that made him really nervous was the fact that in his own home, he was it: There was no landlord to call if a pipe bursts, no adult to call on (wait, _I'm_ an adult...uh-oh), just him, he, and himself, and those three were about as good at handyman stuff as the 3 Stooges. Ronnie Anne was a _little_ better, but they needed to be _great_ , because what if something funky goes down at three in the morning? No one's going to come out that late, and by the time they _do_ get out there, the place will be flooded, or burned up, or full of Vietcong. Well...he had something for _that_ in his glovebox, but you can't pump _all_ of life's problems full of bullets. Boy, if only it were that simple.

After Ronnie Anne left for work at six, Lincoln brought Alex downstairs and into the kitchen for her morning feeding. The only other person up was Luan, who sat at the table with a shockingly large stack of pancakes in front of her. When he came in, her head was tilted back and a look of rapture touched her closed-eyed face as she chewed. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a blue button up shirt that was baggy on her arms and chest but tight on her stomach, which, given her naturally thin frame, was _all_ baby. It was like someone superimposed an 'O' over an 'I'. She heard him and opened her eyes. "Hey, Linc," she said. She didn't meet his eyes...though she never did anymore.

Though Lincoln couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, there was something in them...something different. He noticed it when she first came home from California. _Haunted_ is the word that always came to mind; he saw it every once in a while when he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He supposed it had something to do with the baby's father, but when he asked, she swore up and down that it didn't, and, while he wasn't an expert on lying...he didn't think she was.

Having her back was strange. In the past five years or so, he had only seen her once, when she came to visit him in the hospital. Five years might not seem like much, but it's certainly enough time for a person to change, and change Luan had. She wasn't as bubbly as she was – she was more serious, quieter, a little less inclined to laugh.

Whatever happened, it must have really affected her.

"Morning," he said as he sat Alex in her high chair. Her head whipped around and she gave Luan a big, toothy smile.

" _Ahn!"_

"Alex!" Luan cried. "Want some pancakes?" She cut off a sliver with her fork, dipped it in a river of syrup, and held it out. Alex bent forward and Luan put it in her mouth. The little girl leaned back with a satisfied _ummm_. "There's extra on the stove if you guys want some," she said.

"I'll take one for Alex," Lincoln said. He usually made himself something to eat at work. He went over to the stove where a plate piled with pancakes sat, took down a plate, and forked one on. "That's a lot of pancakes," he said as he sat next to Alex and reached for the syrup.

Luan nodded. "The baby was hungry this morning." She tenderly patted her stomach. Among the many changes in her personality Lincoln had notice was that she wasn't talkative...though she talked to her baby a lot. Sometimes he would come into the living room and she would be sitting on the couch having a full conversation with her stomach. It bothered him that she didn't have a partner to be there for her the way Lori and Ronnie Anne did, and he tried his best to fill that role: He took her to doctor appointments, gave her support...he didn't feel like there was much he could do but he did what he could. "I think its eyes were bigger than its stomach, though," she sat and sat her fork down. "You want the rest, Linc?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Alright," she said begrudgingly and got up, grunting with exertion. The doctor said she was six months and was due September 15. She looked bigger than that to Lincoln, though to be fair, he remembered Lori looking _huge_ at just a couple of months: He was so used to his sisters being scrawny that any added weight made them seem larger than they were.

" _Dah!"_ Alex cried and slapped the tray.

"Sorry," Lincoln said and cut off a piece of pancake, "Daddy was woolgathering again."

Luan scraped her plate into the trash and sat back down.

"Do you have an appointment today?" he asked.

"No," she said, "tomorrow."

In April, Flip hired two new cooks, and at the beginning of May, he promoted Lincoln to manager. He came in most mornings (though not all) and opened up, but he spent the majority of his day enjoying semi-retirement, or so Lincoln imagined. Maybe he spent it suffering, who knows? Lincoln didn't make it a point to pry into people's lives. Well...unless they were his family and he thought something was wrong. On days that Luan had an appointment, he would leave, drive her there, come back, then go and get her. He felt bad because he wanted her to have someone with her, but he couldn't stay during work hours; just leaving for twenty minutes was pushing it.

"What time?"

"12:30."

Luan's appointments never took long. Ronnie Anne's always seemed to last a lifetime – her doctor was old and slow, which meant long wait times, Luan's was young and energetic: Sometimes just watching him made Lincoln tired. The funny thing is – and this just now occurred to him – the doctor was probably older than he was. Young, huh? And what did that make _him?_

Alex slapped the tray. _"Dah!"_

Lincoln shoved a piece of pancake into her mouth. "Alright. I'll leave work at noon, swing by here, run you over, then be back...1:15?"

She shook her head. "I'll drive myself."

"You sure?" Lincoln asked. "I really don't mind. It's not that big a deal."

"It's fine."

Alex smacked her lips. _"Ummhmm."_

"Someone likes pancakes," Luan said, and ruffled her niece's hair. Alex's gaze remained steady on Lincoln, her eyes lighting up when he lifted the fork.

Lincoln snickered. "I'd be surprised if she didn't."

Some kids are picky eaters, and some kids are Alex Loud: You could feed her a rock and she'd be happy. Seriously, the kid enjoyed every single thing he and Ronnie Anne had given her, from bread to hamburger meat to lemon. The last one made her face pucker up, but after she got it down, she opened her mouth, sat forward, and grunted...her way of saying _more, please!_ Children's taste buds change as they get older, or so he had read, but for right now, anything that could go into her tummy was her best friend.

As they were finishing up, Leni came in and went to the coffeemaker. She wore an orange dress with a black swirl pattern and a white collar. Her hair was neatly combed, but dark bags hung under her eyes, betraying a rough night. "Morning, Leni," Luan said.

"Good morning," Leni replied in a breaking croak.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked. He was wiping Alex's hands and face with a wet wash cloth – all three were still sticky.

"I'm fine," Leni said.

"Nightmare?" Luan asked.

"No," Leni said. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down.

" _Eee!"_

Leni's droopy lips lifted. "Hi, Bunny," she said with a playful hilt. "Did you eat breakfast?"

" _Dah!"_

"Did Dah feed you breakfast?"

Alex jutted her chin out. _"Mmmmm."_

Leni laughed. "Was it good?"

" _Mmmmm!"_

"We had pancakes," Luan said, "there are some on the stove if you want them."

Leni took a sip of coffee. "Maybe. Like, let me wake sk – wake up first."

When Alex was as clean as Lincoln could get her, he picked her up and slipped his forearm under her butt. Her head was several inches above his, and she looked down at him with a start. _What are you doing down_ there, _daddy?_ He grinned. "Give Daddy kiss?"

She leaned in and presented her lips for him to peck. Learning to actually _kiss_ was apparently too difficult right now.

On the way to work, Lincoln started thinking about the upcoming move again. The house was a one story ranch with a light green roof and a red door on a quiet street a block from the park. It had three bedrooms, a laundry room, and two full baths: The floor in the kitchen was linoleum and the wallpaper in the living room had a dark yellow flower pattern that complimented the cherry wood wainscot, and the carpet was a dark forest green. It had a warm, cozy feeling: He could see himself sitting in an armchair and reading the paper by lamplight while Alex played on the floor and Ronnie Anne knitted (she didn't like to knit, but for whatever reason, that's what she was doing in his vision). Despite being nervous, he was really excited to move in.

At Flip's, he parked in his usual spot and went in, where he found Flip sitting by the register and drinking a cup of coffee. "And here I thought by taking over I'd be getting rid of your old ass," Lincoln said.

"It's not that easy, Loud," Flip said, "I sank thirty-odd years of my life into this dumpster – she might be a dog, but I still feel for the old girl."

Lincoln grabbed a waist apron from a rack by the door and knotted the strings behind his back. "You're forgetting one thing, though."

"Yeah?" Flip asked. "What's that?"

"She's with _me_ now." He patted the old man on his shoulder.

Flip glanced around. "I can tell. It looks worse than usual. You ever hear of deep cleaning, Loud? You might wanna give it a shot sometime."

"That's all residue from when _you_ were running the show," Lincoln said. "Thirty years of a fat man sitting on a stool and watching grease build up."

"Hey, I can lose weight, what can you do about that white hair?"

"Shave it off and use it to cover that big bald patch in the middle of your head."

"Keep talking like that and you'll lose your job."

In Flipspeak, that meant _You're a swell guy, Lincoln._

Lincoln thought.


	67. June 1970: Part 2

"Ow."

Leni frowned, held the needle as steadily as she could...and jabbed herself in the finger. Again. "Ow!"

She was sitting in the living room. Alex was napping upstairs and Luan was...well, Leni didn't know _where_ Luan was, but she did know this: She _really_ wanted to finish this outfit for Luan's baby, but the needle kept biting her. Sighing, she held it _reaaaally_ tight and...

"Ow!"

Leni didn't get angry very often, but it did happen, like now for instance: She flung the needles and thread across the room and slapped the air. Stupid stuff. Her fingers were, like, all hurty now. She got up to go and get it, but her mother's voice stopped her. "Honey, why don't you take a break?"

"I don't _wanna_ take a break," Leni said sullenly, "I wanna knit." She crossed her arms and squeezed her stupid hands against her body as hard as she could. It was _their_ fault she couldn't knit. They were, like, shaking...not much, just enough to throw her off and make her keep jabbing herself. It had been like this for a week now, and it was getting _really_ old. The doctor said it was a symptom of her Rentschler's and it would only get worse. She didn't _want_ it to get worse; how would she knit stuff for her niece, nephew, and Luan's mystery baby if her hands shook? She wouldn't be able to! Knitting is, like, a Leni's favorite pastime...aside from playing with an Alex and a Bobby Jr. Knitting was lots of fun. You could make hats and scarves and gloves and all kinds of stuff. A couple weeks ago she made a little blanket for Alex that had a bunny rabbit with a little cowlick on it. She knitted the words ALEX'S BLANKET underneath so no one would get confused and think it was theirs because it wasn't, it was Alex's.

That project took a while; she misspelled blanket twice. Finally, she got a dictionary and copied it exactly: B-L-A-N-K-E-T. She wouldn't have cared if it was something for her, but she didn't want Bunny to have a dumb blanket. It was _really_ cute and she liked it a lot. She even said _"Banket"_ when she wanted it.

Ow. Why did her fingers hurt? She looked at them. There were red pokey marks. Oh, right, her dumb hands. She held them flat out in front of her, palms down, and glared at them, her eyes narrowing at the way they trembled _just_ slightly. _Stop it_ right now, she thought, _I wanna knit and you're not helping._

She got up, crossed the living room, and grabbed her stuff from the floor. On the couch again, she picked up where she left off, moving _very_ slowly and _very_ carefully. Ha! I didn't hurt myself, so there!

Luan came in and Leni glanced up. "Hi, Lu-ow!" She whipped her head around: The needle point was resting against her flesh. _I turn my back for_ one minute!

"You alright?" Luan asked. She settled down in between her mother and sister, her brow soft with concern.

"It's my dumb hands!" she said, "they're messing me up!"

"Take a rest, dear," Mom said. "You're only making it worse."

Leni tossed her knitting stuff aside and crossed her arms again. Fine. Luan's baby wouldn't have an outfit like Alex and Bobby Jr, Luan's baby could be naked and cold and everyone will say look, she didn't make anything for Luan's baby because she doesn't care about Luan's baby and Luan's baby will grow up thinking auntie Leni hated him or her.

Leni started to cry. She covered her face with her dumb, trembling hands and bowed her shoulders. "Leni," Luan said softly and slipped her arm around her sister's back. "What's wrong?"

Leni tried to speak, but all that came out was a wordless sob. _I can't knit, I can't make your baby anything, I'm sick and I'm getting worse and I wanna be a mommy but can't and shouldn't and I can't even knit anymore!_ She cried harder.

Rita watched her daughters with a pained expression. The doctor said that the Rentschler's was beginning to wear away at Leni's motor control. It was small for now, shaking hands and the occasional clumsy misstep, but within a few years, she would be unable to walk or take care of herself. Their definition of 'a few years' was maddeningly nebulous: It could be two years, or it could be ten. At this point they just didn't know. It was a wait and see sort of thing...and the more Rita considered the matter, the more she hoped she died before it happened: She loved her children and grandchildren and wanted to be there for them as long as possible, but she didn't think she could stand to see Leni like that. She could barely stand to think about it.

Water flooded her eyes and she got up and went into the kitchen, where she leaned against the sink and fought back the storm. When she was relatively certain she was under control, she went to the fridge, opened the freezer, and took out a tub of chocolate ice cream, which she scooped into a bowl. It was Leni's favorite.

For some reason that brought the tears back and she had to squeeze her eyes closed. Her daughter was slowly dying in front of her and there was nothing she could do about it. Poor, sweet, innocent Leni with her bright eyes and happy disposition. She was basically a child still, a little girl. Little girls don't die. They grow up and have lives. They marry, have children, and, in this day and age, maybe even a job.

Leni would have none of that.

And the girl wasn't stupid, she knew she was missing something. She wanted a child so desperately – like any other woman – but she could never have one. She must, too, feel the absence of other facets of normal life.

Rita drew a deep, calming breath. No. She wouldn't think about that. It would do her no good.

In the living room, Leni had stopped crying; tears stood in her eyes and stained her cheeks. Luan rested her head against her sister's shoulder and slowly stroked her long blonde hair. When Rita came in, both of them glanced at her. "Leni," Rita said in her happiest singsong voice and held up the bowl, "look what _I_ have."

The sun immediately broke through the clouds of Leni's grief. "Ice cream?" she asked hopefully.

"That's right." She crossed to her daughter and held out the bowl.

Leni grinned and took it. "Thank you, Mom!"

* * *

Bobby Santiago was in a good mood: There hadn't been a fuck up on his watch in months, Mr. Richmond, the owner of the company (and Blades' father) was happy, and he was looking at a dollar an hour raise. Life was good. Real good.

During lunch, he sat in the car and ate the sandwich Lori made him while listening to the radio. When he was done, he cracked a bottle of beer and drank it slowly while he smoked. It was warm, but warm beer's better than no beer, right?

After finishing his beer, he slipped the empty into the brown paper bag his food came in and sat it on the passenger seat. Inside, he started for the storeroom to take inventory, but Joanne, the secretary, popped her head out of the office. "Mr. Santiago, Mr. Richmond's on the phone."

Bobby's step faltered. Oh? It was Mr. Richmond's company and he called from time-to-time, sure, but usually when he did, that meant there was a problem. Great, there goes _my_ good mood.

Noticing the slight slouch of his shoulders, Joanne clarified: "The _younger_ Mr. Richmond."

Blades? What the hell did _he_ want?

When Bobby first started, Blades drove a delivery truck, but left after a few years to work for a trucking company out of Sherman Heights three towns over. He and his wife now had a little boy named James.

In the office, Bobby sat in a creaking swivel chair and picked the handset up from the desk. "Hello?"

"Hey," Blades said, and Bobby could tell from the tone of his voice that something was wrong. "I, uh, I have something to tell you."

"What's up?" Bobby asked seriously. "You alright?"

Blades took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I just did a drop at the supermarket...in town...and I saw Daggy's mother. H-He's gone."

"Gone?" Bobby asked, confused.

"Yeah," Blades said, "he's dead."

Bobby's stomach clutched. "Dead?"

Joanne, as her desk, glanced over her shoulder.

Blades sighed. "Yeah, I didn't...I didn't get the full story, but he got shot and they're, um, they're shipping him home. I guess there's gonna be a funeral, but I don't know, I-I didn't really ask."

Bobby slumped back in the chair, sitting up suddenly difficult. He felt like someone punched him in the stomach. His brain struggled to process the information. Daggy _dead?_ That can't be right.

"You there?" Blades asked.

"I'm here," Bobby managed and raked a hand through his hair. His vision blurred as it started to sink in. All at once, he was very cold. "I...I'll call her and see about the...about it." He couldn't bring himself to use the word _funeral._

"Yeah," Blades said glumly, "she said he's leaving tonight and he'll be here tomorrow or the next day, I don't know."

When Bobby hung up, his hand was shaking. You never realize how important someone is to you until they're gone – gone as in gone for good, kaput, never coming back. In that moment, Bobby felt his friend's loss like a steel blade in his soul. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he bowed his head in grief. Every fucked up thing he ever said to Daggy – all of it just kidding around, of course – came back to him in a flood; he squeezed his eyes closed and put everything he had into keeping the dam from bursting.

"Are you alright?" Joanne asked, her voice full of concern.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Throughout the rest of the day, he could hardly focus on his work. His mind kept drifting back to Daggy, and every time it did, he just couldn't believe he was really dead. For a lot of years, Daggy was a big part of his life. They didn't share secrets and have slumber parties like a couple of girls, but they were friends – for all the gas Bobby talked, he really liked him. The thought that he was dead and that he'd never see him again just...he couldn't wrap his head around it. He wondered if Daggy knew how he felt about him. Guys kid with each other – hell, he and Flip did nothing _but_ kid – and that's how it goes, because as a man you don't bare your emotions like a woman...still, he found himself desperately wishing that at least _once_ he'd put his hand on Daggy's shoulder and said something like _You're a good guy,_ or _I like you, Dag._

He left at six and drove home in a funk. Lori was sitting on the couch when he came through the door – the air was thick with the smell of something (pot roast?) cooking in the oven. She glanced up, and her smile fell when she saw him. They'd been married nine years – together thirteen – and she knew him the way a woman knows her favorite soap or something. "Tough day?" she asked as he dropped next to her.

He nodded. "Yeah. Real tough."

"Mr. Richmond yell at you?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Daggy died."

Lori gaped. "What?"

"Yeah, Blades saw his mom at the grocery store. He got shot."

Her hand fluttered to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

Bobby nodded. He could feel the tears coming again, but he beat them back.

"How is she? His mom, I mean."

"I don't know, he didn't say. Her son's dead, I bet she's taking it hard." He got up and went into the kitchen. He took a beer from the fridge and came back into the living room where he sat.

"How are _you_?"

Bobby popped the tab and took a deep drink. Men aren't supposed to be emotional...they had to be strong and stoic and all that jazz, but no matter what anyone says, men are humans too, and they feel. Talking about it might not be hip, but, you know, if you can't talk to your wife about how you feel, who the hell _can_ you talk to? "I'm upset," he said honestly and blinked. "He was my friend."

Lori rubbed his back in soft, reassuring circles.

"I..." tears started coming, and he turned away and closed his eyes until they passed. "I'm upset, that's all." Changing the subject: "Where's Jr.?"

"At Tommy Hillard's house," Lori said. Tommy Hillard was one of Bobby Jr.'s classmates. He lived at the end of the street, and he and Bobby Jr. got along well, so they often played together.

Bobby nodded. "What's for dinner?"

"Pork roast."

"Sounds good."

He took a drink of beer and focused on the TV.

* * *

 _Two days,_ Lincoln thought as he laid awake in bed that night. Ronnie Anne was humped next to him, lying on her side with her knees drawn up and her brow puckered as if in deep thought. He glanced at her, and wondered if she was having a nightmare: She dreamed about what happened to him in Vietnam sometimes. He hated that it troubled her that badly.

Sighing, he looked up at the ceiling. Two days until they moved in. He was excited and nervous and happy aaaaannnnddd that's not what was keeping him up. It was Daggy. When he got home, Mom told him the story as Lori had told it to her. He was shot, he died, and his body was being brought back stateside in the next couple days. No one knew what his mother and stepfather were doing yet. A funeral? Cremation? Lori said Bobby was going to call her and see if there was going to be some kind of service.

Lincoln liked Daggy enough. He wasn't crazy about all the dope smoking he and Luna did, but other than that, he was alright. The thing that _really_ bothered Lincoln was this: Daggy was like him. He was drafted and sent to the front. Whether or not Lincoln liked him, he felt a certain kinship with him (and others like him) that he couldn't say he felt with anyone else. He was in the same situation once – the only difference is he made it out while Daggy and many, many others didn't.

He felt guilty for bringing it back around to himself, but it was all too easy to see himself in Daggy's shoes, lying there on the jungle floor full of bullet holes and slowly dying...thousands of miles from home, scared, realizing that your life is ending and you'll never get to marry or have children or do any of the other things you wanted to do. He couldn't count the number of times during his imprisonment that he thought he'd never see his family again. It was a terrible, soul crushing feeling. He imagined a lot of the men who died in Vietnam felt the same thing, only much, much more strongly, and that was disturbing to him. He hoped it was quick for him.

Before he got home, Mom called Luna. She said she cried.

Lincoln shifted his weight and tried to get comfortable, but couldn't. Ronnie Anne muttered, and he couldn't tell if she was semi-conscious and scolding him or talking in her sleep. He rolled onto his side and gazed at her sleeping face, his lips cracking into a small smile. Alex was going to look just like her when she got older...she was already a miniature carbon copy of her Mommy. Did that mean he had weak genes? Aren't children supposed to look more like their father? Well, come to think of it, neither he nor any of his siblings looked much like their own father. Lori and Leni clearly resembled Mom, Luna and Lynn kind of looked like Dad, Luan...neither, and him...he also didn't look like either. If he hadn't seen his birth certificate he would wonder if he was adopted. He imagined a man and a woman out there who both looked exactly like him (why they _both_ looked like him, he didn't know...maybe they were *shudder* brother and sister), and...wouldn't it be funny if they lived here in town, and they had always been prevented from seeing each through wacky circumstances? Like, he'd be in the grocery store and his _real_ mom would be too, but a couple guys carrying a big pane of glass got in between them.

Seriously, though, where did the white hair come from? The doctors said something about a hair follicle disorder having to do with pigmentation or something (he'd have to ask Mom again), but, you know, maybe he'd have to take a closer look at the milkman the next time he saw him.

With these and other idle thoughts, Lincoln Loud fell asleep.

As fate would have it, in the next room over, his sister Luan was just coming awake, her heart pounding and dread in her stomach like icy water.

She had the dream again. In it, she was outside, walking through a field in the cold light of the moon. She was afraid, but she didn't know why. Then, a cry would echo through the night, and when she turned, she saw him with an electric start: He was glowing white and standing on the edge of a deep, dark forest, his eyes and mouth black, ragged holes. Her mind would scream at her to run, but her legs always carried her forward, and just before she reached him, he turned and disappeared into the trees. She knew, though she didn't know _how_ , that he was luring her away from safety...and at some point, he would pounce. Most nights she woke before it happened, but tonight, she was too slow: He whipped around and came for her like a gust of wind.

Her body tingled eerily, and she hurriedly snapped the bedside lamp on, her eyes squeezed shut because he might be standing in the corner, watching her with dead eyes. She drew herself up and rested against the headboard, her arms crossing over her chest. "It was just a dream," she said more to herself than to the baby.

Only she didn't _know_ if it was just a dream.

"Just a dream," she repeated, and the harsh croak of her voice uneased her even more.

As bad as the dreams were, the anxiety was worse. All day, every day, she looked over her shoulder (figuratively _and_ literally), and when someone knocked on the door, her breath caught in her throat and her chest ached with dread expectation, certain that it would be a cop and he would be looking for _her_. She didn't leave the house very often because out there, she felt exposed: Even going to her doctor appointments was nerve-wracking, and when they were over, she scurried back to her hole like a field mouse with visions of hawks dancing in its head. If she was out too long, she started to feel panicky and couldn't breathe.

She liked to think she hid it well, but she knew she wasn't herself, and she knew that Lincoln and her parents had noticed. Every once in a while Mom would press her about 'what happened.' She thought Ted beat her and she was afraid he would come looking for her. Even though Luan told her that wasn't what happened, she wouldn't buy it. Lincoln did: Not long after she got home he sat her down and asked her about it. "If you're worried about this guy, don't," he said, "if he comes around here, I'll shoot him." She believed he would: She knew he kept a gun in his car, and the look in his eyes when he said it was genuine.

If only it _was_ Ted. She _wished_ it was something as simple as that. It would be a lot of worry off her shoulders.

And guilt.

She patted her stomach, and maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she felt the baby snuggle closer to her touch. She smiled. "It's gonna be alright, baby...I hope."

Two thousand miles away, Luna Loud sat cross-legged on her couch and stared at a black and white Polaroid picture in her hand: Her and Daggy with their arms around each other's shoulders and matching shit-eating grins. They were sitting on a park bench, and Luna could just make out the bottom half of the courthouse in the background. On the back was a date: September '62, a couple months before she moved in with him. She smiled fondly as memories washed over her: The pain was still there, but it was not as sharp as it was earlier (cocaine, you know). She did not feel the urge to cry, but she did feel sad...very, very sad. Those four years she spent with Daggy were probably the happiest of her life, happier by far than any of the years she'd spent in California. She was young, full of hope and dreams, and she was with a good guy. The world was laid out before her and the potential was endless.

She was only mildly surprised to realize that she'd trade this for that any day. Given the chance, she'd go back in time and stay in Royal Woods, and with Daggy. The music scene ain't all it's cracked up to be, kid. Hang tight. Yeah.

She sniffed and brought the picture to her lips, kissing Daggy's face. _I love you,_ she thought, and she did: She loved him then and she loved him now. When she was in Royal Woods last year, she hoped to see him. Just to catch up, she thought, but deep down she knew it was more than that...she wanted him to come back to California with her. She figured it wouldn't happen, but a girl can dream, can't she? Now he was gone.

In bed she laid awake and stared at the ceiling. There _had_ to be something else after this life. You can't just _stop_ being. Beautiful, good-hearted people like Daggy (and Sharon Tate) don't simply wink out like a candle in the wind, they live on...they have to. Maybe they go to heaven, maybe they roam the world as ghosts, and maybe there's something else, a third option that no one had ever imagined. She didn't know, she wasn't a religious expert, she was just sure that death wasn't the end. Daggy was still out there somewhere, and maybe he could hear her.

 _I'm sorry,_ she said into the ether, _I'm so sorry._

She reached out, took the picture from the nightstand, and laid it on the pillow next to her. She rolled onto her side and snuggled close to it the way she would to him when they were in bed together. How she longed to feel his arm around her and to hear the gentle, soothing sound of his breathing. In that moment, she missed him so much that the pain tore through the fuzzy coke cocoon surrounding her. She closed her eyes and cried silently into her pillow.

* * *

Ronnie Anne genuinely liked her job: She enjoyed teaching math, she enjoyed the students, and she even enjoyed chaperoning school dances (two since she started). It might sound kind of lame, but she felt fulfilled. She really, really dug what she was doing...which is why she was nearly in tears as she sat before Principal Wilson's desk. He watched her over steepled fingers, his brows knitted slightly. God, she was so stupid. Here she and Lincoln were moving into a new house and they _needed_ her income...and she fucked it up. _Way to go, you dumb bitch,_ she told herself.

What happened was this: A student named Kevin Masters – this blonde pretty boy type who strutted around like a cocksure rooster but looked more like a shaved baby doe – cut up in class, talking, laughing, telling jokes at the expense of other students. She gave him three warnings, and he ignored them all. When the bell rang, she told him to stay behind. She sat at her desk, he stood, and when she chastised him, he called her a word starting with 'S' and ending with 'pic." Spic, he called her a spic. Instead of handling it professionally, she lost her temper, jumped up, and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "You little _bastard_ ," she sneered. His face went white and fear pooled in his eyes.

Of course, Principal Wilson picked that very moment to walk in – for what reason she still didn't know. Good thing, too, because she might have gone farther and shoved him down or something.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Principal Wilson drew a deep breath. "Mrs. Loud...I, personally, believe in corporal punishment. Children are savages and sometimes they need a hard slap across the behind. The Royal County School Board, however, disagrees with me. They think it's 'cruel' and 'inhumane.' You cannot, therefore, lay your hands on a student the way you did this afternoon."

Ronnie Anne nodded. She couldn't meet his eyes.

"I heard what he said to you, and I think you had every right to knock him on his ass. If it were up to me, I would have let you. It is not. I do, however, have a certain amount of liberty in how I may address this situation. Consider this a warning, then: If you behave in such a manner again, you will be fired."

She looked up at him. I get to keep my job?

"Do you understand?"

She nodded contritely. "Yes, sir."

He nodded back. "Alright. I will speak to Mr. Masters about his obvious disrespect for authority, but I will not be punishing him as I will not be punishing you. If he gives you trouble in the future, come to me. Understood?"

She nodded.

"Good. You may go."

Relief washed through her, and she thanked Principal Wilson before getting up and leaving. _That was a close call; you could have lost your job today._ Thank God she didn't. In the teacher's lounge, she deposited a dime into the Coke machine, opened the little glass door, and pulled out a can of Tab. She sat at one of the tables and popped the soda open. She wasn't out of the woods yet: Masters could always cry to his parents and cause a stink; that sort of thing didn't happen often, but it _did_ happen.

Sigh. Why'd you do that, Ronnie?

Because I'm stupid, okay? I let my temper get the better of me.

At least you're honest.

Yeah, lot of good _that_ does once you've, you know, attacked a student. She took a tip of Tab and shook her head in self-disappointment. She could very well have let her family down today, and letting down her family was not something she wanted to do. In fact, the thought terrified her. She didn't typically wear her emotions on her sleeve so it might not be exactly obvious, but she was just as nervous about the move as Lincoln. They could afford the house, but things would be tight. Not water-soup-every-night tight, but you-can't-lose-your-job-and-not-work-for-even-a-little-while tight. It was a delicate balancing act when you got right down to it, and even the slightest misstep could send her – and her husband and her daughter – plummeting into the void.

No pressure.

She was so caught up in worried thought that she didn't notice Helen Carr until she sat across from her with a sigh. She, too, was holding a can of Tab. "Some days," she said.

"Tell me about it," Ronnie Anne replied.

Helen opened her soda and took a long drink, reminding Ronnie Anne of an alcoholic getting their first fix of the day. "The most frustrating thing about teaching, I think, is when you have a student who's very intelligent...but doesn't care."

No, the most frustrating thing is almost belting a student in the face and nearly losing your job. Oh, and then having to dread the possibility of it still happening. However, she had a few students like that too, and it _was_ frustrating. "I know what you mean," she said.

Helen shook her head. "It's sad, it really is. You try to get through to them, but they pull away and...that's that."

"You know what they say," Ronnie Anne said, "you can lead a horse to water..."

Helen nodded, "But you can't make him drink. I know, it just upsets me when I see someone with so much potential throwing it away."

After lunch, Ronnie Anne went back to her classroom and made it through her next class. She had already learned that when you're at the blackboard, you have to either leave your troubles locked in your desk, or find a way to functionally teach despite them. While talking, she was able to push her anxiety to the back of her mind, but once she handed out the day's test and took her seat, they came back. What would they do if she got fired? She could always go back to Flip's, but that meant less money, not that she planned to stay there long, just until she found another teaching job. Unless they stamped her record with a big red VIOLENT TOWARD STUDENTS, DON'T HIRE THIS BITCH seal, in which case all the time and money she spent on college was out the window.

When the bell rang, she leaned back in her chair and watched as her students lined up and laid their tests on the edge of her desk. It was busy work, really. Friday was the last day before summer break and it didn't count toward their grade, but they had to do _something_ , right? Some teachers might let their students do whatever they wanted, but not her; that's how you wind up with _Lord of the Flies_.

Luckily, she had the next period free, which meant she'd be able to finish what work she had and not bring any home. She was reaching for a stack of papers when a familiar voice spoke.

"Uh, Mrs. Loud?"

Her hand clawed in midair and she glanced at the door, doing her best not to give Kevin Masters a dirty look. He stood nervously in the threshold, his shoulders hunched defensively and his head slightly bowed. His penitent posture gave her pause.

"I-I apologize for what I said earlier," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Ronnie Anne blinked. Well... _this_ is unexpected. For a moment she didn't know what to say, then she nodded slightly. "I apologize for grabbing you the way I did. It was wrong."

He grinned edgily. "I thought you were gonna kick my ass."

"I wouldn't have done that," she said, though she probably would have. "Like I said, it was wrong and I'm sorry."

"Me too," he said, "about what _I_ did."

If nothing else, his apologizing served to lessen Ronnie Anne's apprehension, though she imagined she would be on guard for a while yet, waiting for the hammer to drop. Sigh. She wished she hadn't grabbed the little shit.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.


	68. June 1970: Part 3

**Lyrics to** _ **Lola**_ **by The Kinks (1970)**

* * *

Luan Loud spent most of the morning of June 14 dividing her attention between her niece and her older sister. Leni sat at the end of the couch with her knitting supplies and moved with painful slowness. Alex sat at her feet with a light up toy: Every time she slapped the button and the toy started to flash and sing, she would threw herself back in amazement, her eyes widening. Luan couldn't help mentally adding a shocked _Whoooooa!_ every time it happened. "That's a fun toy, huh?" she asked. Alex gave her a sidelong glance and grinned. _Yes it is!_

Leni sighed in frustration. Leni had been knitting as long as Luan could remember (okay, maybe not quite _that_ long, but a long time nonetheless) and over the years, she had gotten _fast_ : She could do three or four different things a day, provided they were small, like hats or gloves or scarves. Since she came home from California, she made Luan's baby twenty different outfits, some boy, some girl, others neutral. Summer clothes, winter clothes, fall clothes, spring clothes...she wouldn't have to go baby clothes shopping for a long time. Now that her hands were shaking, she wasn't able to go as quickly, and for her, that was maddening. Currently, she sat the yarn and needles in her lap and crossed her arms, her brow pinching and her lips arranging in a pout. Luan frowned and touched the girl's arm. "You can always use your sewing machine," she offered. It sounded lame to her own ears, but it's all she had: She couldn't bring herself to lie to Leni and say it would stop, because it would only get worse.

Leni nodded. "Yeah. I know."

Alex slapped the button and threw herself back: This time she lost her balance and tumbled over. "Bun- _ny_ ," Leni said with a smile, "you aren't supposed to _fall_." Alex rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up. Leni moved her things out of her lap, bent, and picked her niece up.

" _Uh! Ight!"_

"You can play with the light in a minute," Leni said and wrapped her arms around the baby. "It's time to visit auntie Leni...and auntie Luan."

" _Ahn!"_ Alex turned to Luan and smiled.

Luan's heart melted and she reached out to tickle the girl; she laughed and squirmed in Leni's lap. Pretty soon, she thought, she would have her own baby to tickle and play with, and instead of _"Ahn!"_ she'd be _"Ma!"_ The more she thought about it, the more she looked forward to it. Her anticipation was tinged with guilt, of course; she would never forget that day at the abortionist's, and she would never forgive herself.

Leni pressed her lips to Alex's ear. "Auntie Luan's gonna have a baby like you. You be a big cousin?"

Alex turned to Luan. _Is that true, auntie? Are you gonna have a baby?_

Luan nodded. "That's right." She patted her stomach. "The baby's in here right now, but pretty soon, it's gonna come out."

Alex blinked, her expression suddenly serious. Leni giggled. "She didn't _eat_ the baby, silly. The stork brought it to her." Leni looked up at Luan with a twinkle in her eye. _I know it wasn't really the stork,_ she mouthed, and Luan grinned.

"Lunch is ready," Mom called from the kitchen, and Luan's stomach growled. Really, baby? You just ate _lots_ of pancakes.

 _Rumble._

Okay.

At the table, Leni fed Alex bits of ham sandwich, and with every bite, the little girl let out a _mmmm_ of pleasure. "That's real yummy, huh?" Leni asked.

"Leni and I are going to the store after we eat," Mom said, "is there anything you need?"

Luan thought for a second. "No."

"Are you sure?"

Well, actually, some candy might be nice. "I don't want anything, but the baby wants a chocolate bar."

Mom chuckled. "Of course it does. You kids and your sweet teeth. Your children are just as bad."

After lunch, Luan went upstairs and put her shoes on: It was just after noon and she planned to be out the door by 12:15. For a minute, she sat on the edge of the bed and caught her breath. Boy, those stairs sure are a killer. After climbing them she was _tread_ tired.

She frowned. Puns didn't feel the way she once did. They felt...wrong. Look at the mess her life was and here she sat making jokes. Sudden guilt filled her and she drew a deep sigh. Downstairs, Leni and Mom were heading out the door, Alex in Leni's arms. Luan glanced at the clock on the wall, then figured she'd go out with them. If she got to her appointment a little early, she'd just read a magazine.

Outside, the day was hot and bright, a cool breeze stirring the trees along Franklin Avenue. Alex watched her over Leni's shoulder, and she made a funny face; the girl chuckled.

The Fairlane was parked at the curb. Luan started for it, her head down as it always was when she went out: She was just unlocking the driver side door when someone spoke behind her. "Luan Loud?"

In an instant, her blood ran cold. The voice was firm, authoritative, and even as she turned, she knew with dread certainly that she was caught.

Two men in black suits stood on the sidewalk, their faces hard, inscrutable masks. "You're under arrest for the murder of Harold Manning," one of them said, and grabbed her wrist. Pain snaked up her arm as he pushed her against the car.

"What's going on?" Mom demanded as she rushed over. "What are you doing with my daughter?"

"We're placing your daughter under arrest," one of them said, and in that moment, the stark realization that she was going to jail – probably forever – hit her like a semi...and she began to sob.

"For what?"

"Murder."

" _Murder?!"_

Cold, steely handcuffs closed over her wrists, and her knees gave out, nearly spilling her to the ground.

"Your daughter killed a federal judge in California," one of the agents said.

Luan wept harder.

"N-N-No, there must be some mistake, Luan would-she would _never_..."

Luan was yanked away from the Fairliane and led toward a black car waiting at the opposite curb. Her knees were shaky, her legs were watery, and she trembled all over like a small, frightened dog.

Mom followed. "Where are you taking her? I'd like to see some identification!" At the car, one of the agents opened the door and shoved Luan in: Pain burst across her stomach as her knees banged against it. He shut the door, and Luan bowed her head, tears falling onto her shirt.

Outside, Rita's hand fluttered to her mouth as the agents explained why Luan was being arrested: Something about a bomb and someone being killed. That made sense (bombs _do_ tend to kill people), but Luan being involved? That was madness! Luan was a good girl, she wouldn't hurt a fly! Just _imagining_ her...doing that...was impossible. She looked at her daughter through the back window. Her head was bowed, her eyes squeezed closed and lips slightly parted; her face was flushed and tears coursed down her cheeks. Rita wanted to go to her and hold her in her arms, but she couldn't, and she, too, started to cry.

* * *

"Say, how's old Flip doin'?"

Lincoln was sitting behind the register and counting the till when the man spoke. He was tall and aged with white hair and wrinkles so deep you could hide things in them. "He's doing good," Lincoln said, "enjoying his down time."

"Yeah," the old man said as he sat on a stool, "he sure earned it."

Part of Lincoln's job as manager was to know the customers. See, in a town like Royal Woods, you have a very small pool of clientele – the locals. Building a rapport with them is important: If you don't have a good relationship, they might not come back, and if they don't come back, you might not have a job, dig? Flip made it a point to know _everyone_ and to remember _everything_. Hey, Bill, how's your daughter out in Boston? Hiya, Margret, tell your mom I said happy 90th birthday; Winston, how's it going? How'd that knee replacement surgery come out? How he did it, Lincoln didn't know. He had a hell of a time keeping up. Take this guy, for instance: Lincoln could not for the life of him remember if his name was George or Gene. It was one of the two, he knew that, but which? Using your costumers' names was the cornerstone of building a relationship with them. It's intimate, personal, makes them feel good.

Lincoln closed the register. How could he get this guy's name without letting him know? Say, pal, let me see your license, uh, I need to make sure you're old enough to, uh, buy hamburgers. "He sure did. Running this place isn't the easiest thing I've ever done. It's also not the hardest."

"I used to run a gas station," Gene-or-George said and rasped laughter. "The worst part was waiting for someone to come by and fill up."

"You weren't busy?"

The old man shook his head. "Nah. This was _way_ out in Kentucky. Back during Prohibition, mind you." He waggled his eyebrows. "Lots of moonshiners in them parts. Them old boys were something else." He shook his head fondly.

Lincoln whipped out a notepad. "I bet. What'll you have?"

Gene-or-George scanned the menu and made a long, thoughtful sound. "Ahhh, give me a hotdog."

Lincoln jotted that down, ripped the sheet off, and passed it through the window. "You want a pop?"

"Yeah, I'll take Coke."

Lincoln filled a glass and sat it in front of the man. He glanced up at the nearly empty dining room and sought out his waitresses: Lilly and an older woman named Rhonda, like The Beach Boys song. Lilly was taking an order and Rhonda was wiping a table. He teased Flip about not doing anything all day, but he knew he worked. Until taking over, however, he had no idea _how much_ he worked. Keeping tabs on five to six people – more on the weekends when they were busier and needed extra help – was a task and a half. He had to make sure each one was doing their job and doing it right. They all did, for the most part, but Lincoln liked to make absolutely certain, because if something happened, it would come back on _him_.

He could do it, though. He fought in Vietnam. He could do _anything_. Except probably give birth. That sounded pretty painful.

When Gene-or-George's hotdog was ready, Lincoln sat it in front of him and looked around the dining room. It was pushing 6:30 and only two tables were occupied: Time to hang up the old jock and call it a day. He went back into the kitchen: Donald was elbows deep in the sink, and Robert was cleaning the grill. Lincoln figured Flip took him aside and told him to make sure he kept it looking nice. _You know Loud,_ he could hear the old man saying, _he'll blow a goddamn gasket if that grill isn't sparkling_.

"We need anything?" Lincoln asked. A company delivered food and other products once a week, but Lincoln – and Flip before him – bought certain things at the grocery store, mainly lettuce, tomatoes, and bread, you know, stuff that went over easy.

"I don't think so," Robert said, "I'll look and see."

Lincoln nodded and looked at Donald. "You have everything you need?"

"Yep," Donald replied.

Back in the dining room, Lincoln wiped down the counter, then swept behind it. Gene-or-George finished his meal and got up to leave. "Alright, Lincoln, take care. Tell old Flip Johnny said hi."

That's it, Johnny! He had the _jeh_ part right at least. "Will do. Take care."

"You too."

Lilly came around the counter and sat her notepad down. "Am I alright to leave?" she asked.

"Yeah, go ahead," Lincoln said.

"Thanks!" She took her apron off and hung it up.

"When's the last day of school?" he asked before she left.

She thought for a moment. "Friday."

"You want more hours?"

She nodded instantly. "Yes, please."

"Alright. I'll put you on."

"Thank you!"

When everything was clean and Flip would have no reason to complain (he would anyway – _Damn it, Loud, is that a speck of dirt on my floor?)_ , Lincoln stored the money from the register in a lockbox. He would give it to Flip in the morning...it was either that or drop it off at his house, and Lincoln didn't feel up to that right now; he just wanted to go home and be with his family.

After seeing Donald and Robert out, he locked up, climbed into his car, and headed home, the windows down and the radio on. It was a nice day for a cruise: Maybe he'd see if Ronnie Anne wanted to take a drive. He didn't even have to ask Alex, she _loved_ cruising. He drummed his fingers on the wheel and nodded to the music: The guitar sounded kind of...raw...but it was alright.

 _Well, we drank champagne and danced all night,_

 _Under electric candlelight,_

 _She picked me up and sat me on her knee,_

 _And said, "Little boy won't you come home with me?"_

He still preferred Little Richard and Chuck Berry, though. You didn't hear them too much on the radio anymore, though there was a low wattage station from Detroit he could pick up at night that played 'oldies' – late fifties, early sixties...his kind of stuff. When he and Ronnie Anne went to Woolworth's last, he browsed the records and found a display full of 8-track cartridges: Little Richard, Fats Domino, The Four Seasons...it was like Christmas morning. The only thing was he didn't have an 8-track player, and the only time he ever really needed one was in the car. He figured he could get the dealer to install one, but, eh, that was too much time and hassle.

Five minutes after setting off, he pulled into the driveway, got out, and started for the door, turning and heading back to the car when he realized he forgot the lockbox. Can't do that, people broke into cars all the time. With it in hand, he went inside...and instantly knew something was wrong. Mom was on the couch crying into her hands, and Leni rubbed her back. Ronnie Anne sat in Dad's chair with Alex in her lap, a leaden expression in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Mom sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Luan..."

Lincoln's heart turned to ice. "What about her? Is she okay?"

Mom started to speak, but broke down. "She's in jail," Ronnie Anne said, and for a moment Lincoln didn't think he heard her right. Jail?

"Why, what did she do?"

"They said she killed someone."

" _What?"_

She ran through the story. By the time she was done, Lincoln was sitting on the floor with his back against the chair, her legs to one side, his lungs deflated and his stomach sick. Yeah, there _had_ to be some kind of mix up, there's no way in hell Luan could have done something like that. It was probably that piece of shit hippie boyfriend of hers. "Your dad's at the police station now trying to see her."

Mom wiped her eyes and lifted her head. Leni's eyes were leaking, and Mom hugged her close.

"I've been looking up lawyers in the phonebook," Ronnie Anne said, "just in case she needs one."

Why would she? This was clearly a mistake; it wouldn't take much to clear it up, right? Luan did _not_ kill someone. Lincoln could not believe it and he _would_ not believe it. He knew his sister better than some asshole stuffed suits at the F.B.I: She was kind, good-hearted, and gentle...if anyone killed anyone, it was that loser idiot she was with or one of his loser hippie friends.

"I suppose I'd better start dinner," Mom said. Her voice was heavy and glum. She stood up and shuffled dazedly into the kitchen. Leni crossed her arms and bowed her head, curling in on herself like a small animal. Lincoln got up, crossed to the couch, and sat next to her.

"It's alright," he said, and awkwardly put his arm around her. "She didn't do anything. They're gonna figure that out and let her go."

Leni broke down, and Lincoln did his best to comfort her.

It was a mistake.

All a mistake.

* * *

Luan Loud sat in a cold concrete room with harsh lighting and a big mirror on one wall. Her hands were fisted in her lap, the cuffs digging into the flesh of her wrists. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she was again reminded of a mouse – this is how it must feel to be in a hawk's sharp talons: She was so terrified she could barely move, barely think. The baby kicked, and she started to cry. _I'm sorry,_ she thought, _I'm so sorry. Mommy fucked up...Mommy fucked up_ bad.

She had been here for what felt like an eternity but had probably only been twenty minutes. When she was booked, they fingerprinted her and took her picture three different ways: Straight on, facing left, and facing right. She cried the whole time. After that, they brought her in here and left, telling her someone would be in to 'interview' her shortly. She didn't know whether she wanted them to hurry up or take their time, because the longer they waited, the longer she wasn't in a cell, and as crazy as it might seem, to her being put in a cell was like the beginning of the process. Right now, she could still see the light of day...deep in a cell, though...

What should she say when they came? Should she tell the truth? Lie? Ask for a lawyer? She knew her Fifth Amendment rights: If someone who is accused of a crime asks for an attorney during custodial interrogation, all questioning must cease until such time as a lawyer can be present. The thing is...she did it, she killed that man. She was guilty and by all rights she should plead as such. Right now, though, handcuffed and alone, pregnant, afraid, and looking at a _long_ time in prison, 'all rights' didn't mean much: She just wanted to go home. The truth wasn't going to get her home. Lying might. _Might_. It might also get her deeper in trouble. She was scared and confused. She didn't know _what_ to do. She propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.

What good would lying do? They found her, which meant the others were probably already in jail _and_ cooperating, telling everything they knew, including the fact that she was the one who planted the bomb. If she lied, it would be her word against god knows how many other people. Who would the court realistically believe, one person...or five, ten, fifteen?

She didn't _want_ to lie...but she didn't want to be here either, and if she didn't lie...well...what did it matter? She was fucked either way. Just like she deserved to be. If only her baby didn't have to suffer with her.

God, what was going to happen to her baby? Would they let Mom take it? She couldn't stand the thought of it being put in an orphanage. _Please, God, don't let them take my baby away._

She was crying again when the door opened and two men walked in. One was tall with a graying crewcut and the other was short and plump with a balding head. "Luan?" the tall one asked, "I'm Agent Carson and this is Agent Porter." Porter wore a dark suit, Carson was jacketless, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms.

Luan sniffed and wiped her eyes as they sat across from her. "I assume you know what this is about," Carson said.

Unable to meet his gaze, she didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.

Carson waited a moment to see if she would reply, then continued. "In the early morning hours of April 13th, a bomb exploded outside the city courthouse in Oakland, California. A federal judge named Harold Manning was killed. We have reason to believe you're the one who did it."

Luan's heart squeezed, but she remained silent.

"It's our understanding that you didn't act alone, and that you may not have been the main instigator. Frankly, we really don't know _what's_ going on here. We're hoping you can set us straight."

Luan stared at her hands as she tried to decide what to do next. Confess? Lie? Ask for an attorney? Curl up in a ball on the floor and cry? She took a deep breath. "I want a lawyer."

Carson, his lips a tight slash, nodded begrudgingly. "Alright."

Outside in the squad room, Lynn Loud sat in a chair by the front desk, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. He had been trying for over an hour to see his daughter, and they kept giving him the run around. First it was _maybe_ then it was _no_ then it was _after she's interrogated_. The fat desk sergeant was clueless, and the F.B.I. agent he spoke to struck Lynn as pompous and full of himself. He was already in a bad mood when he showed up, and now, after stewing in worry for almost ninety minutes, he was seriously concerned he would hit someone if they so much as looked at him wrong. Presently, he watched as a uniformed officer lead a cuffed man in a denim jacket through the bullpen and shoved him into a chair flanking a desk. Did they really have to be so goddamn rough with people? If he saw any of them treating his daughter that way, he swore to God he'd break their nose: He might be in his fifties and flabby in the middle, but he remembered every hand-to-hand combat tactic he learned in boot camp, and he was not above using them on a cop.

He tapped his foot on the tiled floor and glared at the desk sergeant, who was currently bent over paperwork, or pretending to be bent over paperwork. He glanced over, and saw Agent Carson and his fat little sidekick Agent Porter coming toward him, Carson with a cigarette between his fingers. Lynn got to his feet as they walked up. "Can I see my daughter now?"

Carson shook his head. "I'm afraid we can't do that right now. Your daughter requested a lawyer be present during questioning which means we're going to have to wait, and given the nature of this case, I'd really like to talk to her before letting her have visitors."

Lynn took a deep breath through flaring nostrils and blew it over clenched teeth.

"I understand your frustration, Mr. Loud," Carson said, "but a man was killed and it's my job to find out why and by whom. There are six people out in California telling me your daughter was involved including the owner of that car she's been driving."

Lynn sighed. The rational part of him understood Carson's position, but this wasn't some goddamn criminal off the street, this was Luan! She made silly jokes and went out of her way to help her siblings, she...she wasn't a murderer.

"I promise you can see her once we've had a chance to question her," Carson said. "Do you plan to hire an attorney?"

"Yes," Lynn said without hesitation; there was no way in hell he was going to allow his daughter's case to be taken up by some apathetic, overworked public defender.

Carson nodded. "Alright."

On the drive home, Lynn tried to picture his daughter – whom he tucked into bed as a little girl, and who once sat on his knee – doing what they claimed she did. He couldn't. It was clear from the moment she came home, however, that something was bothering her, you could see it in her eyes and in the way she acted. He and Rita had talked several times about it, and concluded that it had to do with her boyfriend no matter _how_ strenuously she denied it. What if...what if _wasn't_ the boyfriend, but something else...

...like participating in a murder?

No. Not Luan. That was crazy.

But _was_ it? Good people were sucked into criminal acts all the time. Look at that Manson guy out in California. Most of the people in his gang were kids from good families – families much like Lynn's own – and many of them weren't even involved in the murders, or so they said. Maybe they knew something, but knowing something is a far goddamn cry from actually _killing_ someone. Carson said Luan was the one who planted the bomb. _It looks like it wasn't intended to hurt anyone – Judge Manning was an unintended casualty_. _Wrong place, wrong time_.

Was it so hard to believe that Luan could have done it? After all, she didn't think anyone would be hurt. Imagining his daughter purposely blowing up a building wasn't easy, but he could see that better than he could her purposely blowing up a person.

 _Why would she have done this?_ he asked Carson. He just didn't understand what would lead her to do it.

 _Politics. Radical antiwar stuff. You've seen the news over the past couple years, right? Your daughter and her boyfriend, Ted Harris, helped organize the DNC riots in Chicago and were involved with that Days of Rage business last year. They're both part of the Students for a Democratic Society – it's a communist front group._

Luan being involved with communists and riots didn't any make sense, then again _nothing_ made sense right now.

At home, he parked behind Lincoln's Impala and got out, his shoulders unconsciously slumped in defeat...in the back of his mind, he expected to come home with Luan in tow. Inside, Lincoln sat on the couch with his arm around Leni, Ronnie Anne sat next to him with Alex on her lap, and Rita was nowhere to be seen, though when she heard him come in she poked her head out of the kitchen, a hopeful expression on her face.

Lincoln, Leni, and Ronnie Anne all looked up at him with that same expectation.

He sighed, and their faces all fell.

"Did you see her?" Rita asked.

Lynn shook his head and crossed to his chair. "We can't see her until they question her and they can't question her until she has a lawyer."

Ronnie Anne reached for the phonebook and handed it to him. "I was looking at some," she explained, "I circled the ones that looked the best."

Lynn nodded his thanks and took it.

Lincoln sighed. "This is bullshit."

"I agree," Lynn said, although he couldn't say exactly what he meant by _this_ : Bullshit that his daughter was in jail...or bullshit that she may have actually killed someone.

 _God, Luan,_ he thought, _what did you get yourself into?_

Sighing sadly, he scanned the listings for attorneys. There were seven, two of which were circled. Ronnie Anne was right, they were the best: One had been in business since 1945 and the other was endorsed by the Michigan State Defender's Association – Lynn didn't know what that was, but it sounded important.

Being nearly 7:30, it was too late to make any calls tonight, so it would have to wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, his daughter languished in a jail cell, alone and afraid (and six months pregnant). It was almost enough to make him cry.

He sat the phonebook aside and crossed his arms. He felt restless. He wanted to _do_ something, but for right now, he could do nothing.

And that proved to be the hardest thing he had ever done.


	69. June 1970: Part 4

**Lyrics to** _ **Mississippi Queen**_ **by Mountain (1970)**

* * *

It was two days before Luan met with her lawyer, two long, stomach-churning days. Her cell was at the end of a holding block off the Royal County Police Department squad room. The walls were cinderblock and covered with graffiti and water stains, the floor was cracked and dirty, and her bed was a stone slab supporting a paper thin mattress. Though it was the middle of summer, she was cold, and spent most of her day sitting against the wall with a ratty wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She didn't think she believed in God, but over the course of those forty-eight hours she talked to him almost endlessly.

For the first day she was alone in the block, the only sound her own ragged breathing and the pounding of her heart. On the second day, someone else was brought in and stuck into one of the cells by the door. She heard moaning and slurred curse words – then loud snoring. A drunk, she figured. That night, they came back and let her new neighbor leave. Luan envied them so hard it hurt.

The food was bland and tasteless, though she figured anything she ate right now would be that way, even chocolate. The sound of the metal door to the squad room clanging open and closed grated on her nerves.

Nights were the worst. First she struggled to find a position comfortable enough to not keep her awake, then she struggled to drift off. Her sleep was thin and nightmare haunted; every hour or so she woke up sore and stiff, then changed positions and fought her way back to unconsciousness.

On the third day, she was sitting on the cot with her back against the wall and her legs crossed beneath her when the outer door opened and footsteps approached with a hollow _thwok-thwok-thwok_. She was staring into a shaft of golden sunshine falling through the barred window overlooking Spruce Street, and when the footsteps stopped, she turned to the cell door. A cop in a blue shirt and dark pants, the handle of a revolver sticking up from his holster, opened it with a keyring. A tall, solidly built man with black hair graying at the temples stood next to him, a briefcase in his hand. He wore a gray suit, a gray vest with a tight V neck, a white undershirt, and a pale blue tie. Big, brown-tinted glasses rested on his hard, beak-like nose. Luan could see his eyes through them, they looked set...determined.

The door opened and the cop gestured. The man brushed past him and came into the cell. "Miss Loud?" he asked.

Luan looked up at him. "Yes?"

"I'm Gerald Robbins, your family has hired me to represent you." He held out his hand and Luan took it. It was cool and dry, like old parchment. He sat on the bed next to her put his briefcase on the floor. "These mattresses are criminal," he said. "I'll see if I can't get you something better. How far along are you?"

"Six months," Luan said.

Robbins nodded. "Yeah, and they put you on a mattress like this." He laughed harshly and shook his head. "I'll make sure they hear about it." He rubbed his hands and glanced at her. When he spoke next, his voice was lower, more serious. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened. If you did it, if you didn't, who, what, when, where, everything. My job is to defend you and if I'm going to do my job right, I need to know it all front to back."

Luan sighed. Moment of truth. Tell him what happened...or lie. "I did it," she said.

Robbins nodded slowly.

She told him everything, from becoming involved with the antiwar movement to the night she planted the bomb. "It wasn't supposed to hurt anyone," she said and hugged herself, "I-I wouldn't have done it if it was." Tears sprang to her eyes and she fought them back.

As she spoke, Robbins jotted everything she said onto a notepad, his hand flying across the paper in a blur. "Who built the bomb?" he asked.

"I don't know. No one told me and I didn't ask. A lot of people...knew how to do it."

He nodded. "You and Ted were voted to do it. You didn't have the idea on your own and you didn't volunteer."

"No."

"That matches what he said, which looks good. Do you plan on pleading guilty?"

Luan blinked. "I-I don't know. Should I?"

Robbins took a deep breath. "Probably. You did it and there are a dozen eye witnesses who say you were the one who physically planted the bomb. By pleading guilty, you're showing you accept responsibility for your actions, which will most likely make the sentencing phase easier – of course we're going to argue for the lightest sentence possible _if_ we can't get a plea bargain. I will be looking into that. That means they'll give you a reduced sentence for a guilty plea."

Luan nodded as though she understood...which she only _kind_ of did.

"The F.B.I., as far as I can tell, is not interested in you so much as the ones who built the bomb. They may make you an offer during questioning, I don't know. They do want to talk to you as soon as possible."

"Can I see my family?"

"Your father was here the other day and they told him he could see you after questioning. I will hold them to that. You say you're six months along?"

She nodded.

"Alright, here's my plan: I want to fight extradition for California until you've had your baby. You parents and your brother both expressed willingness to take custody. I want to start that process as soon as possible so that it's all squared away when you deliver. It'll take some maneuvering, but I'm sure we can delay."

Luan wiped tears from her eyes and nodded.

"When we talk to the feds, I want you to tell them exactly what you told me. Make a full confession. Highlight as many times as you can that you were under the impression that the bomb would not hurt anyone. I'm going to open by feeling them out on a possible deal. Preferably, ten years with the possibly of parole after, say, six or seven."

 _Seven years?_ Luan's chest tightened. Seven years was a _long_ time. Though not as long as twenty-five to life.

"Are you ready to talk to them?"

Luan nodded and spoke through dry lips. "Yes."

"Alright," he said, "answer every question as honestly as you can. We're going for mercy here, not exoneration."

Luan sighed. She knew.

This was her best chance.

* * *

Your sister – the girl who had always been there for you, who had always been kind and sweet and loving and considerate – being arrested for murder is surreal, to say the least. Finding out through her attorney that she actually _did_ it, when you were sure it was all a big misunderstanding, is beyond surreal. As Lincoln sat between Leni and Ronnie Anne on the couch and listened to Gerry Robbins go through exactly what Luan said, he felt like a boy on a merry-go-round: His head spun and his stomach sloshed with bile. "If she aids the investigation, they're going to offer her ten to fifteen," Robbins said. He was perched on the edge of the coffee table with his briefcase balanced in his lap. His eyes were semi-visible through his tinted glasses, which for some reason Lincoln didn't like.

Mom pressed her hand to her forehead. She looked just as dizzy as Lincoln felt.

"Is that really the best they can do?" Dad asked. "She was obviously put up to it by someone else. They need to consider that."

Robbins nodded. "They are taking that into consideration. They are also taking into consideration that your daughter did not intend to kill anyone...which is why she is being charged with first-degree manslaughter rather than murder. That does not change the fact that she did participate, and played a fairly large role I might add. I realize that she's your little girl, but she's also a grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions and distinguishing right from wrong. This deal is actually quite reasonable. Surprisingly reasonable, even."

Ten to fifteen years. Lincoln shook his head slowly. God, that was a long time. He envisioned Luan sitting in a cell for nearly two decades, and his heart ached.

"I am going to delay extradition and file a motion for custody for her baby," Robbins said, "whose name and I filing it under?"

"Mine," Lincoln said. He and Ronnie Anne talked about it the night before. He didn't want his parents to be burdened with the baby. They were getting up there in years even if they didn't want to admit it, and he knew now from personal experience how much work a baby could be. He was willing to do it, however, and so was Ronnie Anne. He honestly didn't think it would come to this, though. He thought Luan would be out _long_ before she gave birth.

He tried to imagine how he would feel in her shoes, locked in a cell apart from his daughter for _years_ , and tears instantly came to his eyes. He was upset with his sister, disappointed in her even, but he couldn't be angry, because that punishment in of itself made up for what she did. It _was_ an accident after all.

Robbins nodded. "Alright. I'll need information from you and your wife. Jobs, income, past employment, character references, that sort of thing. I don't think the court will be very picky. They'd rather the child go to family than wind up in the system. They just want to make sure you're both upstanding people."

Lincoln nodded.

"Lynn and Rita, you're both cleared to see her. I can set something up for tomorrow afternoon if you like. The arraignment is Tuesday morning at ten. You can all come. Uh...I think that should be about it for now. Are there any messages you'd like me to pass to Luan?"

Mom nodded. "Tell her we love her."

"Will do," Robbins said.

When the lawyer was gone, Lincoln took a deep breath and shook his head. He still couldn't understand _why_ she did it. Robbins said something about radical antiwar stuff and trying to overthrow the government, which made no sense. Luan wasn't like that. Even if he boyfriend was and he dragged her into it, he still couldn't see her planting a fucking bomb, whether she thought it would hurt someone or not. Luan was...she was one of the most beautiful people he had even known, and people like her just don't _do_ things like that.

He rubbed his aching temples and sighed. Ronnie Anne squeezed his leg, and when he looked up at her, she offered him a strained smile. Last night, before he brought up the topic of taking custody of Luan's baby, he was nervous Ronnie Anne would fight him...needlessly nervous, as it turned out. _Of course,_ she said as though it should be painfully obvious that she agreed (it should have been, he supposed), _she's your sister and that baby's our niece or nephew_. He smiled back. Alex, who had been sitting on the floor and playing, got to her feet and toddled over to Leni.

" _Eee!"_

"Hi, Bunny," Leni said glumly. She picked Alex up and sat her on her lap. "I miss auntie Luan."

" _Ahn!"_

"Yeah, her," Leni confirmed and hugged the little girl to her chest. "I feel really bad for her."

Lincoln rubbed Leni's back. He didn't know what to say to comfort her, then something occurred to him. "Are you still making that outfit for her baby?"

Leni nodded heavily. "Yeah."

"Well...why don't you finish it? We can bring him or her home from the hospital in it."

The corners of Leni's mouth twitched up slightly.

* * *

Daggy's mother and stepfather opted for cremation; when Bobby talked to her on the phone, she said she wanted to put him on the mantle so he would 'always be home.' Maybe he was turning into a weak sister, but that brought a flood of tears to his eyes, you know, her wanting him always there.

They held a memorial service at the Jewish temple in Elk Park. Daggy wasn't really religious, so he never talked much about being a Jew. All Bobby knew was that instead of Christmas they did Hanukah and got one present every night for seven days straight, which he always thought was pretty cool. Sure, it was only one gift a day, but still, seven days instead of one. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne couldn't come because they were working, Luna couldn't make it, and Luan was...well...you know. Mr. and Mrs. Loud were there with Leni and Alex, though, and he, Lori, and Bobby Jr. sat with them, Bobby Jr. naturally gravitating to Leni. Blades and his family were there. Poppa Wheelie too, though he went by Tim now and worked at the junkyard. He moved away before Lori and Bobby got married, and Bobby was surprised at how different he looked. "Where's the rest of you?" Bobby asked as he shook his hand. He was tall and well-built and actually not a bad looking guy. He wore a suit and one of those little Jewish hats, what are they called?

"Gone and forgotten," Poppa said with a grin. "Where's your jacket?"

"Last I saw, it was in a box in the garage."

During the service, Bobby kept his head bowed in case he teared up. The rabbi, a big man with a graying beard, wore a dark suit and a white scarf with blue stripes over his shoulders. He stood behind a podium and read from a small leather book – mostly in English but sometimes in Hebrew. As he listened, memories washed over him, and the sense of loss retreated to a dull ache. He hadn't seen much of Daggy since he shipped off to Vietnam (though he came home on leave a few times, and Bobby made sure to always buy him a drink or ten), but he always thought there was time, you know? Death happens to other people, not to you. Yeah, he lost his mother, and while she was really young, she was older. Daggy wasn't even thirty yet.

Wow, thirty – Lori was turning thirty soon and he'd been thirty not long after. He never thought about it before, but now that he was, he felt a certain dread. Thirty's when you start getting old. In his mind he was still seventeen...Ronnie was still twelve or something (he stole a glance at Alex...wow, that's my little sister's _kid_ ), and the world was just the same as it was fifteen years ago.

Heh. That's a laugh. The world was _nothing_ like it was fifteen years ago. It was actually kind of scary when you sat down and thought about it. What would it look like in another fifteen?

After the service, there was a gathering at Daggy's parents' place where everyone talked and shared memories and ate weird Jewish food: There was this soup with big soggy bread shit in it. Leni and Bobby Jr. both poked it with their spoons, made yuck faces, and went off in search of chocolate.

"It was a shame Luna couldn't be here," Daggy's mom said to Mrs. Loud. She and Daggy's stepfather were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Loud by the stairs. Bobby wanted to go up and offer his condolences, but Daggy's stepfather, Gus, made him nervous, and always had: He was the sheriff of Royal Woods from 1957 to 1962, and Bobby spent a good portion of that time doing things a sheriff wouldn't exactly like. He was an upstanding citizen now, but being scared shitless of a guy for years kind of lingers with you.

"I was hoping she'd come," Mrs. Loud said, "but...she didn't think she could handle it. She felt very strongly for him."

Daggy's mother nodded. "He felt the same way. He was very upset when she moved away."

Moved away. That's putting it politely. She took off without telling anyone, and Daggy was crushed. Bobby tried real hard not to be angry with her, but it wasn't easy: She really hurt him, and he didn't deserve that shit.

When Mr. and Mrs. Loud went off to find Leni and Alex, Bobby took a deep breath and went up to Daggy's parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Ackerman, I'm really sorry about D – Alvin."

"Thank you, Bobby," Daggy's mother smiled, "you meant a lot to him."

Bobby nodded and swallowed what may have been some tears (tasted like it). "He meant a lot to me too. I was...I was pretty upset when I heard."

"How've you been?" Gus asked as he and Bobby shook.

"I-I've been okay. You?"

"Hanging in there."

As soon as he could extract himself, he went off in search of Lori and Bobby Jr. Lori was in the kitchen drinking coffee and talking to one of Daggy's cousins (or maybe she was a cousin's wife...Bobby didn't know). Bobby Jr. was playing with a bunch of kids in the backyard, while slightly apart from them, Leni sat splayed-legged in grass and held her arms out to Alex, who toddled over.

He jumped when Gus spoke behind him. "There's beer in the fridge if you want one."

"Sure," Bobby nodded, "that'd be great."

Gus went over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and took two bottles out, passing one to Bobby. "Thanks."

"You still working with Billy's father?" Gus asked as Bobby followed him out into the living room.

"Yeah, I'm a manager now."

"Ah, that's good. Make good money?"

"Pretty good. Decent enough. What are you doing these days?"

Gus led him through a door into the garage. Tools were neatly hung from a pegboard along one wall, while underneath sat a table that looked like it had never been used. Bobby felt a rush of something like fear. What, was this guy gonna hack him up for use in some weird Jewish dessert?

"Well," Gus said as he opened the rolltop door, "I was thinking of running for sheriff again."

Bobby nodded. "Hey, that's good. You were, uh, a good sheriff."

Gus crossed to a kitchen chair next to an end table and sat. Bobby sat in the other one. "I enjoyed it. It was a cake walk. Nothing much happens in Royal Woods, kids smoking a little dope or drinking beer, that's about it. There _was_ this asshole way back who'd race his Coupe up Route 29 at night. I had to give him a ticket."

Bobby forced a chuckle. "I didn't do that very much. I, uh, I didn't wanna wreck my car."

"Good. Racing's fun and all, but...bad things happen sometimes. Trust me, I've had to scrap someone's brains off the pavement."

A shudder went through Bobby.

Gus tipped his bottle back and took a long drink. "I don't know how it looks these days, though. The town. I see a lot of kids with long hair...and that thing with your sister-in-law. Makes you wonder what the hell the world's coming to."

Bobby nodded. "It sure does."

"I was surprised by that. She seemed like a good girl. Never heard a peep out of her. Well...there _was_ that thing with the McBride boy." He chuckled. "That hardly counts though."

Bobby vaguely remembered something about Clyde and Luan getting picked up by the cops and given a warning. "Everyone was surprised," Bobby said. He knew he was: Luan Loud was the last person he would _ever_ imagine killing someone, even if it really _was_ an 'accident.' She put a bomb in public. Come on. Anyone could have walked by and gotten it.

Gus sighed. "She had a cause, and there's nothing more determined – or, sometimes, dangerous – than someone with a cause. It's really easy for someone to do wrong thinking they're doing right. Look at Hitler. I'm a Jew so you can probably guess how I feel, but I'll say one thing about the guy: I don't think he was targeting Jews just because they were weak or anything, I think he really believed that shit he was peddling. His buddies too. They honestly thought they were doing the right thing, and once someone's convinced they're doing the right thing...whew...watch out."

"Like those kids on the news," Bobby said, "the ones rioting and stuff."

Gus nodded. "Yeah. Them, the KKK, all those other assholes – they all think they're right and that everyone else is perverting their gene pool or standing in the way of progress or some other damn thing. They convince themselves the other guy's the enemy and from there..." He shook his head.

The door to the house opened and Lori poked her head out. "You ready to go?" she asked.

"Yeah," Bobby said and got up. "It was good talking to you, Mr. Ackerman."

"You too, Bobby," Gus said, and they shook.

On the way home, Lori gazed out the window and thought about Luan. She hadn't seen her since the arrest, though Mom and Dad visited her on Friday and said she was really upset. Lori felt terrible for her little sister. It was just so _awful_ , especially with her being pregnant. She still couldn't understand how Luan got involved with people like that. Blowing up buildings? Jeez. It made her feel callous to think that way, but Luan really brought this on herself. That didn't make it any less terrible, but – she shook her head and drew a heavy sigh.

* * *

In California, Luna sat on her balcony and smoked a cigarette. The day was bright and hot with a faint breeze that did little to stir the stagnant air. A notebook was open on the patio table before her, a bright pink transistor radio next to it. She read what she had and dismissed it as not good enough. She looked at the Polaroid of her and Daggy and frowned. "I'll get it," she vowed. She had been out here since early morning trying – and failing – to write her emotions into a song. She felt loss, regret, grief, and, as strange as it may seem, happiness, because she had four far out years with him, years that she wouldn't trade for anything. A part of her regretted not going to his memorial, but, man, she couldn't. The thought of being there with it in her face DAGGY'S FUCKING _DEAD_! made her feel claustrophobic or something. She wanted her last memory of him to be him kissing her goodbye when he dropped her off at work the day she left, and not as him being a little pile of dust in a fucking urn. All that life, man, his hopes, his dreams, his love, the lips she used to kiss and the hand she used to hold...reduced to ash in a jar.

A spasm of pain clenched her chest, and she pressed her hand to her heart, her teeth clenching and her brow furrowing. It passed just as quickly as it came, and she was alone with the sound of seagulls. She stubbed her cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray and glanced at the picture again.

She lit another cigarette, sat back, and crossed her legs. Dude deserved a song, goddamn it.

On the radio, an announcer read the news. _"Congress today has voted to repeal The Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which was passed in 1964 and gave the President unilateral authorization to undertake military action in Southeast Asia. This continues the Nixon Administration's policy of 'Vietnamization' whereby the American troops will be gradually withdrawn."_

Good. Fuck Vietnam. Bunch of assholes.

After sports scores, the newscast ended and music started to play: Loud, bluesy, guitar heavy – cowbell, too:

 _Mississippi Queen_

 _You know what I mean_

 _Mississippi Queen_

 _She taught me everything._

Luna nodded. Yeah. Yeah, good stuff. No tambourines and handclaps, though. People love that shit.

 _Went down around Vicksburg_

 _Around Louisiana way_

 _Where lived the Cajun Lady_

 _Aboard the Mississippi Queen._

She finished her cigarette and stabbed it out. _I'm gonna write you something, Daggy, I promise._

She should probably write something for Luan, too. Man, that was a trip: Luan killed someone? That's another reason she didn't go to Royal Woods: She'd naturally see Luan, and she didn't know if she could take that either. Mom said the lawyer was going to try to keep her in Royal Woods until the baby was born. If so, she'd fly out for that. That would give her a few months to prepare herself.

She laughed humorlessly. Daggy's dead, Luan's in jail, fucking...crazy, just crazy. The whole world's fucking crazy.

One state over, Lynn Loud Jr. was thinking much the same thing. He was sitting at the showroom desk and going over insurance paperwork: His head ached and he felt like he was going to throw up. Of all the things he hated about the job, paperwork was at the very _top_ of the list. It didn't help that he couldn't stop thinking about Luan. He remembered hearing something about a bombing at a courthouse on the radio when it first happened, and to think, it was his sister the whole time. He never would have guessed...and he never would have guessed she was one of those protester types, either. She seemed so...normal. Seemed. Ha. That's a funny thing to say about a family member. _Seemed_. That's what you say about a neighbor or a classmate who loses his cool and shoots up a shopping mall, not someone you grew up with and were as close with as two people can be. But it was apt, wasn't it? She did seem normal...but she wasn't.

He couldn't help but think of that movie from when he was a kid...what was it called? Some dumb science fiction thing Lincoln dragged him to. It was about aliens kidnapping people and taking their form – it looked like grandma or your buddy Tommy, but it was actually a monster. He didn't think Luan was a monster (she was stupid for letting herself get caught up in that crazy commie bomb planting bullshit, but she wasn't a monster). Still...he thought he knew her and now it felt like he didn't, like she wasn't the _real_ Luan, but an alien pod person.

Sighing, he sat his pen aside and sat back in his chair. Through the big plate-glass window, he saw Big Bill trying to sell a white '65 Chevy Nova to a man so fat he'd probably spill over the sides. If Lynn remembered correctly, that car had a hole in the radiator.

He looked down at the sheaf of papers before him. The sooner he was done with this crap, the better. He picked the pen back up and went to work, trying really hard not to think of Luan.

And failing.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Luan appeared in federal court for the first time: She was led in by a female guard with bushy black hair and a severe expression on her pinched face. She was not in handcuffs, which she was thankful for...she didn't want her parents to see her that way. She was, however, in a blue prison dress with a series of numbers over her heart. When she entered the courtroom, she scanned the gallery, and spotted her parents sitting together several rows back from the defense table, where Gerry Robbins stood waiting for her.

The judge, a balding man with glasses, read her charges: One count of involuntary manslaughter of a federal officer, one count of conspiracy, and one count of destruction of government property.

She pled guilty.

Robbins officially filed a motion to delay extradition owing to her 'condition' while simultaneously filing a motion for temporary custody of 'the unborn child' on behalf of Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. The judge granted both under the condition that she be transferred to the county lock-up in Chippewa Falls, and that she be transported to California for sentencing immediately after giving birth.

It was then that it really and truly hit her: She wasn't going to be with her baby. It took everything she had to keep from breaking down.

After the arraignment, she was led out of the courtroom past her parents (she was too ashamed to even look at them), put in handcuffs, and loaded into a white police van. Her eyes leaked on the ride back to the police station, but she did not cry. Her baby was going to be taken care of, and that was the most important thing right now: Knowing that it would go to Lincoln and Ronnie rather than into foster care or to an orphanage was a relief.

In her cell, she stretched out on her side and struggled to get comfortable: She was given a thicker mattress, and while it was better than the other one, it was lumpy. When she was as comfortable as she could be, she laid her hand on her stomach. The baby moved, and she smiled wanly. "You're going to be staying with your aunt and uncle," she said, "and your big cousin. That'll be fun. You can play together and she can teach you things. You'll have your auntie Leni too. And grandma and grandpa. And aunt Lori and your cousin Bobby."

 _But not mommy._

No, not mommy. Mommy did something bad and she's being put in timeout. You're probably better off without mommy anyway. And daddy. Lincoln, Leni, Lori and everyone else is good...mommy and daddy are bad.

She took a deep, watery breath and rubbed her stomach. _But I still love you...and I'm going to miss you._

Now she did cry.


	70. September 1970: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Signed, Sealed, Delivered I'm Yours**_ **by Stevie Wonder (1970);** _ **Rockin' Robin**_ **by Bobby Day (1958).**

* * *

On the morning of September 12, Lincoln Loud woke from a nightmare, his heart pounding and his body covered in sweat. Thin, ghostly light filled the room, and the only sound was Ronnie Anne breathing gently beside him. He raked his hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. Despite just waking, he couldn't fully remember the dream. It had something to do with Luan.

He'd had a lot of those recently, and in most of them she was locked in a cage like he was in Vietnam, beaten and forced to eat maggots. In some, she was white faced and dead, a blanket swaddled bundle in her arms: Her head was down and she cooed soullessly to her baby, then, when she detected his presence, she would look up, and it wasn't a baby at all but a giant, squirming maggot. She would hold it out to him, and he would have no choice but to take it because she was his sister and he loved her, and the...thing...was her child.

It wasn't surprising that he should dream of Luan. He worried about her often...she was all alone in the county jail, pregnant and afraid, and sometimes he felt so badly for her that he cried. He visited her every Thursday, and while she looked alright physically, pain was evident in her eyes. If he could trade places with her he would do so in a second. Then again, he had Alex and Ronnie Anne to think about...would he _really?_

Presently, he swung his legs out from under the covers and got up. In the hall, he turned right toward the bathroom, then stopped.

The bathroom was off the bedroom.

Sigh. Every morning he did this: He was so used to his parents' place that even after three months of being in his own home he still automatically left the room. He turned, went through the bedroom, and closed the master bath door behind him. The phrase 'master bath' conjured images of vast, Roman bathing houses and brass fixtures and wide, fancy counters – not a cramped space where your knees were _thhhhhhiiiiisss_ close to touching the wall when you sat on the commode. Okay, they weren't _that_ close, but there really wasn't anything masterful about the master bath: When you walked in, the toilet was on the left, then a sink, then, the shower against the far wall. He wasn't complaining, remember, he was in the army and their bathrooms in Vietnam were fucking outhouses on a good day...on patrol it was a tree – he just didn't think it deserved the title Master. Apprentice bathroom?

When he was done, he flushed the toilet and went back into the bedroom. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a white polo shirt with a red collar. He just sitting to put his socks and shoes on when the alarm sounded, shattering the early morning stillness. Ronnie Anne stirred and slapped the OFF button.

"You remember get Luna airport today?" she muttered tiredly.

Lincoln yanked on his shoe. "I would, except I picked Luna up from the airport _yesterday_."

"Oh. Okay."

He pulled on his other shoe, tied it, and got up, crossing around the foot of the bed and kneeling next to Ronnie Anne. Her arm jutted out and her brow was pinched cutely. Her eyelids fluttered, and her breathing steadied as she sank back into sleep. She looked so peaceful...too bad she had school today. "Hey," he said and stroked her cheek, "you gotta get up."

She grunted.

He kissed her wrist. "You're going to be late."

Grunt.

"It's 6:25."

Her eyes flew open and she exploded to a sitting position. "Oh, shit." She glanced at the clock with blurry eyes and blinked. Squinting, she saw that it was only 6:05 and shot him a deadly look. "You're an asshole, you know that, Lincoln?"

"Yeah, and you know what?" he asked and stood. "Assholes get results." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "I'm about to leave and I needed to make sure you were up."

She craned her neck and watched him for a moment with dark eyes...then she pecked his lips. "Well, I'm up now."

He slipped his hand into her hair and kissed her deeply, the tip of his tongue grazing faintly across hers. "Good."

While she jumped in the shower, Lincoln went across the hall to Alex's room. It was small with windows on two walls and a closet on the third. It was painted a light blue and the trim was white, lending it the appearance of the summer sky. The crib was along the far wall flanked by a chest of drawers on one side and a changing table on the other. Alex was curled up on her side, her fists resting atop one another. Lincoln gripped the rail, leaned over, and watched his daughter for a long moment, his heart swelling with love. She looked just like her mother did at that age...except her hair was paler and she had a cowlick. Really, the cowlick? That's what she inherited from him? Is that even genetic? That'd be like inherited your dad's scar or something. It didn't make sense.

Alex took a deep breath and stirred.

Lincoln picked her up and carried her to the changing table: She arched her back and tried to scrunch her body in on itself like a little pillbug, her fists going to the sides of her head and her lips puffing out – her eyes remained firmly closed, though.

"I know, you're a tired bunny rabbit," Lincoln said, borrowing Leni's nickname which _was,_ admittedly, cute, "but we gotta get dressed so we can go play with auntie Leni."

She opened one eye and looked at him.

Lincoln grinned. "You wanna play with auntie Leni?"

" _Eee,"_ she said, her voice barely a croak.

"Yep. And grandma and grandpa too."

" _Mapa."_

He unzipped her onesie and changed her diaper, then put her in a short-sleeved purple dress with white fringe along the hem. She really looked like Ronnie Anne now. Hm. Kind of weird. Maybe he should change her.

Nah, it's fine.

He put a pair of purple shoes on her feet and buckled them, then sat her up. She blinked her sleepy eyes and looked at him questioningly. "You ready?"

" _Eh."_

He picked her up and kissed her cheek. "I'll take that as a yes."

In the bedroom, he poked his head through the bathroom door: Ronnie Anne brushed her wet hair in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around her body. Warm steam hung heavy in the air.

Alex squirmed in Lincoln's arms. _"Mah!"_

Ronnie Anne turned and put on her biggest grin. "Hi, baby! You give mama kiss?" She came forward, and Alex gave her a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. "That's my girl. You gonna see auntie Leni and auntie Luna?"

" _Eee!"_

"Say Luna?" Ronnie Anne asked.

" _Eee!"_

"Lu-na."

" _Ah."_

"There you go!"

Lincoln kissed Ronnie Anne's cheek. "We gotta go. We love you and we'll see you later."

"I love you too. Have a good day, Alex."

Outside, Lincoln shifted Alex to his left arm, unlocked the passenger door, and stuck her in her car seat – a simple chair surrounded by a metal frame that hooked over the seat. He fastened the lap strap then closed the door. Behind the wheel, he started the car, turned on the radio, and backed up: Alex enjoyed music during their daily commute more than he did, and presently she smiled and slapped the metal bar as the Stevie Wonder drifted from the speakers:

 _Then that time I went and said goodbye_

 _Now I'm back and not ashamed to cry_

 _Oo baby, here I am, signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours._

"You like that song?" Lincoln asked.

Alex kicked her feet and laughed.

"It's alright," he said as he turned onto Elm Street, "but daddy has some _real_ music for you." He slowed, reached over, and grabbed an 8-track cartridge from the glove box: It was a big, square tape with gold writing on a black label. GOLDEN OLDIES it said. Underneath was a picture of a gold record. He jammed it into the 8-track player he had installed in July (a birthday present from Lincoln – what a thoughtful guy): The top jutted out.

After a click and a hiss of static, music, _real_ music, started to play, and Lincoln tapped the steering wheel:

 _He rocks in the tree tops all day long_

 _Hoppin' and a-boppin' and singing his song_

 _All the little birdies on Jaybird Street_

 _Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet_

"How do you like _that_ , Al –?" he turned to his daughter and trailed off. Her eyes were big and watery and her bottom lip quivered. Uh-oh. "Hey, look, I'll..."

She threw her head back and started to cry, her little hands gripping the safety bar and her legs dangling limp. "Okay, okay, okay," Lincoln said, and turned off the 8-track player. The radio came back on with The Carpenters. She instantly stopped and perked up. "Oh, yuck," Lincoln said and crinkled his nose, "really?"

She giggled.

"Well, your mother _does_ like Pat Boone." He'd had to work on getting Alex to like _real_ music. Until then, they were pulling into the driveway of the Franklin Ave house. Lincoln cut the engine, got out, and grabbed Alex from her car seat. "Come on, kiddo, let's go see auntie Leni and auntie Luna."

" _Eeena!"_ Alex cried happily and thrashed in his arms.

"Yep. Eee and na."

At the door, he knocked and waited, Alex kicking and tossing her body excitedly. After a moment, it opened and Leni appeared, her face brightening. "Bunny!"

" _Eee!"_ Alex thrashed even harder, almost causing Lincoln to drop her. Leni held out her arms, and Alex pulled against Lincoln's grasp like a dog against a leash. _"Eee! Eee! Eee!"_

"Jeez," Lincoln muttered and handed the girl to his sister.

"Bunny doesn't want Daddy, Bunny wants auntie Leni," Leni said, and stuck out her tongue.

"Just don't play any good music, or she'll throw a _fit_."

Leni tilted her head in confusion. "We listen to good music all the time." She turned and pressed her forehead to Alex's. "Don't we, Bunny? Like The Carpenters."

Lincoln blinked. "So _that's_ why she went nuts for that stupid song."

"The Carpenters are _not_ a stupid song," Leni said haughtily. "They're really good. They're brother and sister, you know."

"Speaking of singing sisters, where's Luna?"

"Burning breakfast," Leni chirruped. For a moment Lincoln though she misspoke like she did when the called The Carpenters a song...then he smelled it: The scent of ruined bacon, broken dreams, and sadness. He brushed past Leni and found Luna frozen in the kitchen, her hands to her head in a stricken posture; she wore tan slacks and a short-sleeved orange shirt with a white collar and a white stripe along the buttons. A smoking cast iron skillet sat on the stove.

Lincoln grabbed a pot holder from the counter, picked the skillet up by the handle, and sat it in the sink. He turned the faucet on cold, and sizzling and steam filled the kitchen.

"T-Thanks, bro," Luna said after a moment, "I kinda seized up there."

Luna never was a very good cook; seeing her in the kitchen was strange and happened only once in a blue moon...usually with disastrous results. Lincoln turned the sink off and looked at the charred mess caked in the skillet. Sheesh. It would take all day to clean that off. Good thing it wasn't his responsibility. "Next time don't burn breakfast," he said, and patted her on the arm. She rolled her eyes.

"Wow, man, why didn't _I_ think of that?"

When he picked her up at the airport yesterday, he didn't know what to expect. He'd talked to her on the phone a few times since Alex was born, and she claimed to have laid off the coke. He didn't know whether or not to believe her, and a part of him expected a skeleton to come out of the terminal. Instead, she put _on_ weight. _It happened over the summer,_ she said, _guess I been piggin' out_. He was happy...but the more he studied her face, the more...off it looked. She was kind of...puffy. She seemed alright otherwise, and she wasn't all over the place like she was the last time, so that was enough to make _him_ happy.

"You want some bacon?" she asked. "I'm not having any."

Lincoln glanced at the skillet. "No thank you. Hey, you going to visit Luan today?"

Luna nodded slowly, a sad look flickering across her face. "Yeah."

On the ride home from the airport, she told him how hard it would be for her to see Luan 'like that.' He understood: Every time he went to visit her he had flashbacks to Vietnam. Not full-blown I'm-right-in-the-middle-of-the-action-god-please-help-me flashbacks, but as soon as he walked through the gate, his palms started to sweat and he began to feel paranoid, like someone was going to pop out and grab him. _Back in the cage, Loud._ God help anyone who innocently tapped him on the shoulder, he'd probably break their jaw and wind up in the cell next to Luan's.

"Tell her I said hi," he said.

"Will do, bro."

On his way out the door, he kissed Alex on the forehead. She was sitting on the floor in front of the couch with Leni. "I'll see you later. Bye."

She threw her head back and looked up at him, her lips puckering slightly which meant she wanted a kiss. He pecked her and stood straight. "Bye."

She blinked.

"Bye."

" _Bah,"_ she said.

Leni, stretched out on her stomach with her face in her hands, grinned mischievously. "Tell Daddy we're going to listen to The Carpenters."

Alex looked up at him. _"Terr."_

Lincoln crinkled his nose, and Alex laughed.

In the car, he backed into the street and drove to Flip's. The old man was sitting behind the counter eating an egg and cheese sandwich. "The hell are you doing here, Flip?" Lincoln asked.

"Inspection," Flip said around a mouthful, "and I'm not happy. Look, there's crumbs on my counter." He pointed.

Lincoln walked over and followed Flip's finger. There were indeed crumbs on the counter...but, incidentally, only around Flip's plate.

"Shut up, Flip, those came from you."

"Nope. It was like that when I got here."

"No, it wasn't. I wiped the counter down before I left...twice." He grabbed his apron and tied it around his waist.

Flip shrugged. "Musta come outta the ceiling vent or something. You got my money?"

Lincoln snapped his fingers. "Right back." He went outside, opened the driver side door, and reached under the seat. For a horrible moment he didn't feel the lockbox – oh, shit, he didn't grab it – but then his fingers brushed it. He, uh, _may_ have left it here overnight. Don't tell Flip. He'll flip.

Hey, maybe that's why they called him that.

Inside, he sat the box on the counter and patted it. Flip looked from it to Lincoln. "How much is in there?"

"258.03."

"Not bad for a weekday," Flip said. "How much did you steal?"

"15.36."

Flip nodded. "One of these days you're going to take the whole goddamn thing and run away to Mexico or something."

"Yeah, Flip, me and my family are going to spend the rest of our lives living on two hundred bucks."

Well...if they stretched it...

Now Lincoln was thinking.

* * *

"What are you going to name your baby?"

Luan was sitting at a metal table with three other women in the dayroom, which was really just a bunch of tables clustered together near the stairs to the upper tier. During the day, the cell doors were opened and inmates were allowed to come and go. Groups of women occupied the other tables, while some stood against the wall and talked or smoked cigarettes. Luan's gang (they weren't 'hers' or a 'gang'...if they guards heard _that_ they'd probably take it seriously and put her in solitary) consisted of three women not counting her: A fat woman with scraggly hair named Barbara who was in for prostitution (she claimed to be thirty-five, but looked fifty-five); a scrawny black woman named Lucinda – she was an in-home caregiver until she robbed the old man she worked for and beat him with a firepoker); and a white woman with glasses and white hair named Pam. Everyone called her grandma. She stabbed her husband in the head with a screwdriver. They were playing a no stakes game of gin rummy, and Luan was losing. Again.

Grandma was the one who asked. She watched Luan with curiosity. She asked about the baby often.

"I don't know yet," Luan sighed and laid a card on the table. Thinking of baby names – such a normal, wholesome thing – was hard when you spent every day in an agony of dread and terror. She had been in jail for three months and still did not know her ultimate fate. The waiting was the hardest part...a part of her wished they denied the motion to delay extradition so she could have gotten it over with already.

"You need to come up with something quick," Barbara said, "you're gonna go any day."

Didn't she know it. Her stomach was huge and hard and sometimes just keeping herself upright was nearly impossible. The baby had been very active lately, and from Lori (and Ronnie Anne, though she wasn't there) she knew that meant her little bundle of joy was coming soon. "I have a couple ideas," she offered, "but nothing in stone. I guess I'll just have to wait and see what it looks like. A Bill or a George or a Martha." None of those were names she would use. She was thinking Leonard for a boy (kind of a tribute to Leni, you know...Leonard = Lenny) and Jessica for a girl just because she liked it.

"I bet a pack of cigarettes it happens in twenty-four hours," Lucinda said.

Barbara stuck out her hand. "You're on."

Lucinda grinned and they shook.

"If I was a betting woman, I'd say Lucinda's right," Grandma said.

"Nah," Barbara said, "she's going to hold off." She glanced at Luan and winked. "Aren't you?"

Luan shrugged. "I can try."

"I wouldn't wanna have to...you know," she cracked her knuckles playfully.

Grandma shot her a dirty look. "Well, _I'd_ hate to have to...you know." She lifted her hand out of her lap, and in it was a sharpened piece of metal.

Luan's eyes widened and Lucinda laughed. "Damn, granny, what do you need _that_ for?"

"Stabbing people," Grandma said. "It's my favorite pastime after knitting. Don't tell the screws."

Barbara put up her hands. "Never mind. I won't hurt her."

"Good," Grandma said and smiled as she tucked the shiv away in the folds of her blue uniform dress. She turned to Luan. "I think April would be a lovely name for a girl. My granddaughter's name is May, but she was born in April."

"Why's her name May then?" Barbara asked as she slapped down a card.

"Because she was due on May third and her parents already decided to call her May. I thought April was prettier, but my son disagreed...so I stabbed him."

Barbara and Lucinda both laughed. Luan cracked a smile.

"I didn't really," Grandma said, "but, yes, I think April would a very nice name."

"It _is_ pretty," Luan said. "I was thinking Jessica. I don't know why, but I like that name."

"I have a cousin named Jessica," Barbara said, "she's a snooty little bitch."

"What about for a boy?" Lucinda asked.

"Leonard."

Grandma smiled. "That was my uncle's name. He died in World War I. I was a little girl then, but I remember him being a very kind man. Too kind for war, apparently."

"What about Jason?" Barbara asked, and everyone at the table, even Luan, groaned. Jason was one of the weekend guards, a big, fat thirty-some with three chins and beady little eyes. He made a habit of ogling every single one of the inmates and sometimes smacking his lips obscenely when they caught him. A woman named Sherry said he offered to bring her drugs in exchange for a blowjob. A couple times Luan turned to see him staring at her butt, and once, before she knew what a pervert he was, she asked him a question...and his eyes never left her breasts.

"No," she said, "I will _never_ name my baby Jason."

"Oh, come on," Barbara teased, "he's not _that_ bad...if you close your eyes and pinch your nose and get black out drunk."

Lucinda shook her head. "Uh-uh. I been with big guys before, but he's too much."

"It's been my experience that men that large can barely penetrate you," Grandma said, "there's so much fat their things are practically innies."

Lucinda covered her face in disgust and shook her head. Barbara nodded in agreement. "I've been _there_. As long as he has fun, I don't mind."

Luan shivered. She wasn't against the idea of a big man per se, but Jason was a total creep, and she _was_ against the idea of being with a sweaty, panting, leering creep. Not for the first time since leaving California, she wondered about Ted. In a way she still cared for him despite leaving the way she did. She didn't think she could ever be with him again, though, because even before she left, looking at him reminded of what happened, and she did not want to be reminded of it.

"Well, dear," Grandma said, "you get paid, so you _wouldn't_. Some of us would like to _enjoy_ our sexual escapades."

"I enjoy them," Barbara said, then grinned slyly, "only instead of cumming, I get paid."

Luan didn't want to be mean, she liked Barbara, but she wasn't exactly attractive – who would pay to have sex with _her_? In fact, now that she thought of it, none of the prostitutes she'd met in jail were attractive. She imagined women who sold themselves would look decent (you don't see restaurants trying to make money and looking like dumps), but she was apparently wrong.

Sighing, she glanced at the clock over the door to the office. Visiting hours started in half an hour. She was looking forward to seeing Mom and Leni and Alex and Luna, whom, Mom said last week, would be here.

"Ha," Grandma said, drawing Luan's attention, "I win again."

"I'm getting really tired of losing to you, old woman," Barbara said and threw her remaining cards onto the table.

"Well, dear," Grandma said, "you can always go spend time with Jason."

"Alright," Barbara said, "but I'm charging double."

* * *

Luna had never been inside of a jail before – funny, considering all the illegal stuff she'd been doing over the years – and as she walked down the long hall to the visiting room, she developed a mean case of the willies. All the doors she passed were heavy metal, the windows were wire mesh, and guards with guns and big keyrings on their belts passed her with steely expressions on their faces. She was nervous about coming here, so she loaded up on coke after breakfast, and one thing about coke: It makes you paranoid. She kept telling herself that no, the guards couldn't tell she was high, and no, they couldn't hear the pounding of her heart (the painful, painful pounding) but she couldn't help imagining that they could, and she did her best to keep her head down and her eyes on her boots. A tiny hand batted her arm, and she looked up. Alex grinned at her from Leni's arms. _"Na!"_

"Hey, little dude," Luna smiled, and pinched the baby's hand, "we're gonna see Luan. You excited?"

" _Ahn!"_

Luna's smile widened. Her niece was fucking adorable: Her little overbite, cowlick, pigtails, and big, shimmery eyes made her look just like the Bunny Leni called her. Either that or a cute little puppy dog. Some kind of animal. In a good way, though; not like she was a slob or a vicious maneater or anything like that. Nope. Just a cutesy-wootsy little woodland creature from a Disney movie. Luna pinched Alex's cheek and that apparently offended her, because she gave a loud _"Uh!"_ that echoed up and down the hall, then threw her face into the crook of Leni's neck.

"Luna, stop picking on Bunny," she said sternly.

"I wasn't picking on her," Luna said, then lidded eyes, "I was pinching those chubby cheeks." She reached out and rubbed the little girl's back. Leni swatted her with her free hand. "Not cool, dude," Luna said.

"Will all of you behave, please?" Mom asked. "This isn't the place for horseplay."

"Sorry," Luna said. She was right: This was _not_ the place for horseplay...or any other kind of happiness. It's kind of like laughing at a funeral, you know?

The visiting room was a large space off the main hall crammed with tables. At one end was a Coca-Cola machine and a snack machine. Luna scanned the room, and spotted Luan at a table. She wore a black button-up sweater over a blue dress. Her hair was in a ponytail and she sat with her face in her hands. She looked up, saw Luna, and smiled so brightly Luna was surprised her face didn't melt. "Hey, sis!" Luna called, and threaded her way through the room, leaving Mom, Leni, and Bunny in her dust.

Luan got up, and Luna was taken aback by her sister's bulging stomach. Sure, she knew she was pregnant, but...I dunno, I guess it's something you have to see to really get, you know? They embraced, Luna squeezing her sister tight against her breast. "I missed you," she said, because she wasn't exactly sure what else she _could_ say. _Hey, sis, so, uh, jail, huh?_

"I missed you too," Luan said.

Luna stepped back and looked her sister up and down. "I think you're bigger than Lori was," she said with a grin. "And Ronnie Anne."

"I feel like a planet," Luan said. "All the guards and the other girls orbit me."

Mom and Leni finally caught up. "Hi, Luan!" Leni said happily.

" _Ahn!"_ Alex cried.

"Hi!" Luan said to her niece. "I missed you too." She kissed her on the forehead, then did the same to Leni.

"Hi, honey," Mom said and they hugged, "how are you?"

"I'm okay," Luan said as they all sat. "My back hurts." She patted her stomach. "It's like carrying around a boulder."

"I remember," Mom said, a fond hilt to her voice, "Leni was the heaviest, believe it or not."

Leni's jaw dropped. "Mom!"

Mom rubbed Leni's bare arm. "It's true, honey. You were like two Loris. Or a Lynn and a half."

" _Ree!"_

"That's right," Mom said and touched Alex's nose, "aunt Lori was teeny tiny." She looked at Luan. "Do you have everything you need?"

Luan nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just waiting for D-day."

"How's it work?" Luna asked. "I mean, they're gonna take you to the hospital, right?"

Luan nodded. "First they're going to take me to the infirmary to make sure I'm actually in labor, then they're going to have an ambulance come."

"Can we be at the hospital?" Luna asked.

"You _can_ ," Luan said, "but I don't think they're going to call you guys until after."

Luna blinked. After? She didn't want to be notified after, she wanted to be notified _before_. "Why?"

"Rules," Luan said and sighed.

"Pretty fucking stupid rules, if you ask me."

"Luna," Mom said sharply, "there are little ears present."

"Yeah," Leni said, her brow angling down indignantly "and Alex is here too."

"Sorry," Luna said. "I just think it's dumb."

"So do I," Mom said.

"How is it?" Luna asked. "You know...this place." She couldn't bring herself to speak its name. J-A-I-L.

"Not as bad as I was afraid it was going to be," Luan said. "The other girls are nice and no one really bothers you. I hear prison's a lot different." Her face paled ever so slightly, and Luna's heart twisted. "I'm not looking forward to prison."

Once Luan went back to California, she would be all alone, two thousand miles from home. At least Luna would be there, and right then Luna vowed to visit her sister every week if they'd let her.

Mom nodded grimly. Luna knew she wasn't looking forward to it either. "I know, honey. Let's hope the judge takes it easy on you."

Luan nodded. "Yeah. I hope. I doubt it, though." She rubbed the back of her neck.

"Can I send you stuff?" Leni asked. "I can make you hats and gloves and stuff. I can send your – " she cut herself off. "Never mind."

"I don't know what they'll let you send," Luan said. "Probably not. They're so scared of drugs getting in they check _everything_."

Luna chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, God forbid someone gets high." If she was in a place like this, she'd stay high all the time. Time flies when you're having fun, and nothing's more fun than being so stoned you forget how miserable you are. Take it from her, she knew that first hand.

"It still gets in," Luan said lowly, as if she were afraid of someone overhearing, "I don't do it but a lot of the other girls do."

Mom shuddered.

"They make alcohol too."

Luna's brow shot up. Huh? "How do they do that?"

"I'm not sure, exactly," Luan said. "They mix bread and other stuff in a bag and let it ferment." Her nose crinkled. "It smells really bad."

"I hope you're not drinking that stuff," Mom said, "God only knows what's in it."

"I'm not drinking it, Mom," Luan said. "I'd rather drink toilet water than _that_ stuff."

Alex squirmed in Leni's lap and tried to get down. "No-no, Bunny, you have to stay here."

" _Uh!"_

"I'm sorry, Bunny, but –"

" _Uhhh!"_

"Do you want to sing The Carpenters with me?" Leni asked.

" _Terr."_

While Leni sang to Alex, Luna reached across the table and took her sister's hand. "We're gonna get to see each other a lot more, at least." She threaded her fingers through Luan's and squeezed.

Luan smiled wanly. "Always looking on the bright side."

Luna shrugged. "Hey, it's either that or always look on the dark side."

The visit lasted half an hour. When it was over, they each hugged Luan...except for Alex, she puckered her lips and stuck her head out for a kiss. Luna held her sister to her breast for a long time. "I love you, sis," she said.

"I love you too," Luan said.

"And I can't wait to meet the little dude or dudette." She rubbed her sister's stomach.

"Soon," Luan promised. "The way it's been moving, I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't happen by the end of the week."

On the trip back home, Luna gazed out the window and processed her thoughts. Seeing Luan wasn't as hard or soul-crushing as she thought it would be, and she felt kind of guilty for not coming out sooner. That didn't mean it was particularly easy. It wasn't. Leaving her there, in that cold, concrete fucking fortress, was the worst part. She would give up all her money just to get Luan out of there and back home where she belonged.

If only that judge took bribes...


	71. September 1970: Part 2

The next morning, Leni Loud woke in a daze. Her body was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but her mind was _totally_ was not. She lay in bed for a good ten minutes trying to get her bearings before sitting up, snapping on the lamp, and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She glanced at the clock and nodded to herself. She had enough time to get ready even though she spent longer waking up than she should have. _Bad_ Leni.

She stripped out of her night dress and frowned at Lori's bed. It was empty, that much was to be expected, but something didn't look right. In fact, her whole side of the room looked strange. Like...bare.

Hm.

Oh well. Lori could decorate however she wanted. It's, like, a complimentary country. No, free. Complimentary was another _word_ for free, but free for, like, money. Bet'cha didn't think she knew _that_. She pulled on her robe and went out into the hall as she tied the belt. She paused when she saw the open bathroom door. She expected Lori to be taking her shower, but apparently she was already downstairs...which meant no wait. Yay!

Humming and bobbing her head from side-to-side, she went into the bathroom, shut the door, and disrobed. She turned the water on, held her hand under the spray to make sure that it was _just_ right, then got in. Still humming, she lathered up, starting between her breasts and working her way out like she always did. It felt right to start in the very center, although when you're sweeping you should probably start at the edges, but this isn't sweeping, it's kind of like mopping, only you're mopping a Leni instead of a floor. She ran her hands along her arms, her fingertips massaging soap into her pores. She then rinsed, twirling slowly to make sure the water got all the suds. Next, she held her head under the water, wetted her hair, and shampooed.

Lastly, she held her head under the spray again, worked her fingers along her scalp, and wah-la, all clean.

She cut the spray, grabbed her towel, and dried off. She stepped out, shuddered at the chilly air, and threw her robe back on. It was only as she was leaving that she realized no one had knocked on the door, which was kind of weird: With five siblings, you _never_ get a moment's peace in the bathroom. Someone's always there needing to poop or pee or do something else. It got really annoying sometimes.

Hm. Must be my lucky day.

Holding her hands up in front of her, wrists bent, she went into her room, humming a song whose name she couldn't remember. She sat at her vanity, picked up her brush, and ran it through her hair. She used exactly fifty strokes because it made her hair _really_ silky and nice. As she did this, her mind wandered. She had a slight headache behind her right head – I mean eye – and it was making her sad. Did she have a test today? She thought she had a test. Did she study?

She paused.

Uh-oh.

She didn't study.

Darn it. Way to go, Leni. Are you _trying_ to fail high school?

She pouted at her reflection. No, she was _not_ trying to fail high school, she just forgot things sometimes. It wasn't her fault. She tried _really_ hard. Hard wasn't good enough, though. Sigh.

Well, she'd try harder. That's what Lynn told her to do: If you're all isn't enough, give more. With a determined nod, she resolved to give more. She was Leni Loud, after all, and though she could be kind of a ditz, she was _not_ stupid.

Hair all done and silky, she got up and went to her closet, already knowing what she wanted to wear: Her black dress with pink polka dots. It was cute. Oh, and maybe she'd put her hair up with a white ribbon and wear lipstick and be _beautiful_ like a movie star. She opened the closet door and scanned her clothes.

Uh...where's my dress?

She saw all sort of dresses, some of them she didn't remember buying and some she _kind_ of did...but no black dress with pink polka dots. Was it in the wash?

No, she didn't leave her clothes in the wash like _some_ people (coughLincolnandLynncough). She touched her finger to her chin. Where could it be? Did Lori take it? Gasp. She probably _did_. Leni balled her fists and stomped one bare foot in righteous indignation. Oh, I have a few words for _you_ , Miss Dress-Stealer, and some of them have four letters! She stomped out of the room, down the stairs, and through the living room, pausing by the end of the couch as she realized something: It was pitch black down here. And silent, too. Like the tomb. Gulp.

"L-Lori?" Leni asked, her hand unconsciously clinching the front of her robe in fear. "Are you down here?"

The fridge hummed. A clock ticked.

Uh...okay, maybe Lori already left.

Back in her room, Leni sighed. I guess I'll have to wear a _different_ dress. She grabbed one with a white collar and a strange brown pattern on it, slipped it on, then went in search of her shoes before it hit her. She forgot her underwear. Oh, great, dumb Leni strikes again. Your underwear is like brick and stuff. Wait...no, the foundation. The foundation of your outfit. Without it, your house will collapse. If she dropped something and bent over because she forgot, she would show herself to the _whole_ school, and she would _die_ of embarrassment. The other kids would probably call her No-Underwear-Leni for the rest of her life.

No. Absolutely _not_.

She pulled her dress off, tossed it onto the bed, and grabbed a bra from her drawer, followed by a pair of underwear, both of which she put on. She put her dress back on and then went into the hall.

It was dark and empty.

Really, no one's awake yet? She rolled her eyes and went to Luna and Luan's door. She opened it and snapped the light on.

The room was bare expect for two beds and two dressers. Luan wasn't in her bed, but Luna was in hers. Leni tilted her head in confusion. Did Luan leave too?

"Luna," Leni said in a singsong voice, "it's time to get _up_."

Luna stirred and muttered. Leni crossed to the bed and sat down. "Luuuu-naaaaa." She patted her sisters' shoulder.

"Huh?" Luna asked tiredly.

"You have to get _up_. We're going to be late for school."

"What are you talking about?" Luna murmured.

Leni held up her hand, palm facing up. "Only your education. Now come on."

Luna pushed herself up, and the cover fell away to reveal her bare breasts. Leni whipped her head in the opposite direction, a blush creeping across her face. She could still kind of see them from the corner of her eye, so she held up her hand to block it out. "Uh...get dressed, we have to go."

"Leni?"

Leni started to get up.

"Leni." More firmly.

Leni sat back down.

Luna covered her chest and crossed her arms. Since it was safe to look, Leni did, and frowned at the look of concern in her sister's eyes. "What's wrong?"

Luna licked her lips. "Uh...I think you're confused."

"A little," Leni admitted. "Like, where's all yours and Luan's stuff, and Lori's too? Kind of weird."

Luna sighed. "Lori and Luan moved out, remember?" Her voice was slow and gentle, like you'd use with a dumb person.

That offended Leni.

"No, I don't," she said sharply, "when?"

"A long time ago. Lincoln and Lynn too."

Okay, now Leni was _really_ confused. Luna didn't _look_ like she was lying, but she had to be, because Lori, Luan, Lynn, and Lincoln didn't move out. They were here just last night.

Luna's brow knitted in worry. She leaned forward and touched Leni's arm. "Remember Bunny?"

Of course she did! Bunny was...

...her niece.

Lincy's daughter.

Wait...

Confusion flooded her. If Lincy had a daughter, that meant he was grown up and not a little boy. Of course he was grown up, he...fought in the war. And got married. So did Lynn and Lori.

It all came back to her...and she felt _really_ dumb. So dumb she couldn't even bring herself to look at her sister, so she stared down at her hands. Luna shifted and squeezed her shoulder. "Hey, it happens, I wake up confused sometimes too. One time I thought it was morning but it was evening, even after the sun went down." She genuinely chuckled. "I was like 'Man, what the _hell_ is this?'"

"I guess I was sleepwalking or something," Leni lied. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Nah, you're fine. You wanna hang for a little?"

Leni shook her head. "I-I wanna go back to bed."

Luna nodded understandingly. "Alright." She leaned forward and hugged her sister. "Love you."

"I love you too, Luna," Leni said.

In her room, she got undressed and put her nightgown back on. She crawled into bed and looked at the alarm clock: 1:59am. Even if she _was_ still in school, it was _far_ too early to get up. What was she thinking?

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

So she did both.

* * *

Ronnie Anne was up at 5:45 that morning, not because she wanted to be, but because she had another nightmare about Lincoln. In it, she was walking through a dark jungle. Her heart raced in fear and dread sat heavy in the pit of her stomach. She heard the rattle of gunfire in the distance, and something exploded, making her jump. It seemed like she was wandering for a long time before she saw the glow of firelight through the trees. Her heart leapt because she was saved, and she hurried toward it, but stopped and shrank back. She was at the edge of a clearing, and in the middle, Lincoln was tied to a chair, his hands behind his back and his feet lashed to the legs. Instead of a man, he was a little boy again...just as he was when she met him.

Shadowy figures stood around him in a semi-circle and laughed darkly. Terror filled his eyes, and his lips quivered. The flickering light reflected off trails of tears on his cheek. One of the figures stepped forward, and did _something_ to him, though she didn't see what: He cried out in pain.

Her heart squeezed. She had to do something, she had to help him. When she tried to move, however, her limbs would not obey her brain's command. She gritted her teeth and willed her unyielding muscles to work, but they didn't. In the clearing, Lincoln screamed again, a long, high-pitched sound of misery. _"Please stop!"_ he wept. _"Stop hurting me!"_

A scream bubbled up in her chest, but only a puff of air came out. The figure moved, and Lincoln wailed again.

 _Stop!_ she tried to scream.

Lincoln was sobbing bitterly now, his head bowed and blood dripping onto his shirt. Tears came to Ronnie Anne's eyes and she struggled to move, but she couldn't. They were hurting him and she was totally, utterly, _completely_ powerless to stop it.

When she woke up, she was crying, and though her mind was instantly clear and she _knew_ it was a dream, she couldn't stop, so she rolled over, buried her face in her pillow, and wept. She remembered the look of pain on his sweet, boyish face, and she cried harder. She should have stopped it, she should have _done_ something.

But she couldn't...and that killed her.

Once the tears had passed, it was close to six, and the alarm was going to go off soon, so she turned over and watched Lincoln sleep, her wet cheeks lifting as a smile touched her lips. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, one hand resting on his chest. He looked peaceful, for which she was thankful. He still had nightmares on occasion, and she hated that. She wanted him to be happy and nightmare free...though realistically, he would probably have them for the rest of his life. They would grow more infrequent over time, but you don't go through what he did and come out unscathed.

She sighed and touched his hand. She wasn't complaining, it could have been worse (he could be shell-shocked or something), she just didn't like him being haunted, you know?

When the alarm went off, his eyelids fluttered open and he half-rolled and slapped the OFF button. He rolled back over, saw her watching him, and started. "You're up early," he muttered.

"I had a nightmare," she said. She wanted him to be honest and open with her, so she was open and honest with him.

"What about?" he asked worriedly.

She opened her mouth to speak, but didn't think she could talk about it – not right now. "Later," she said.

"Alright," he nodded.

She leaned forward and kissed him. It was only meant to be a peck, but his tongue slipped into her mouth and her hand – completely on its own and without _any_ input from her – drifted over the bulge between his legs: It was warm and rigid and felt good against her fingers. As she fondled him, their passion rose, their kisses deepening and becoming more urgent. She pushed the cover down, hooked her fingers into the waistband of his underwear, and yanked them: He sprang out and she wrapped her fingers around his warm, pulsing length.

"Good morning, lame-o," she said seductively as she shifted onto him, his head grazing the fabric of her nightdress.

"Good morning," he replied with a devilish grin.

She pushed her dress aside and aligned their sexes. "We really don't have time for this," she said playfully.

"Then get off."

She sank onto him, and they both gasped.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

She leaned forward, her lips brushing his, and rocked her hips into his; his member raked her inner walls and in return they squeezed around him. Her muscles clenched and her body burned with desire. Her breathing became shallower, quicker. Her heart thudded against his, strong, healthy, alive. She lifted her hips until he was almost out, then brought them back down slowly.

A moan escaped his lips, and his hands danced down her back, over her flexing shoulder blades, past the swell of her hips, pausing at her bare butt and gripping, his nails sinking into her flesh and making her purr. He lifted to meet her thrusts, and she sucked his bottom lip as her orgasm began to form deep in her loins.

He squeezed her butt tighter, and she panted heavily, her eyes closed and hot waves of sensation crashing over her. She could feel him striking the opening of her womb, and while it hurt, it also felt incredible.

"God, Lincoln, yes," she moaned, pressing her cheek to his and increasing her speed. Fire filled her stomach and she was beginning to lose control. It was welling now, faster, threatening to blast up from her depths like a geyser and shoot her into outer space. She bit her bottom lip against a cry and tried to hold back because she wanted this moment to last longer, but Lincoln kissed her neck and that was it: An atom bomb of pleasure detonated in her core and spread out, consuming her. Lincoln hissed and wrapped his arms around her. With one final upward thrust, he expanded against her insides and filled her, his molten seed rocketing into her and making her shake.

After, she lay limply atop him, her face buried in the crook of his neck and her body leaking their precious fluid (it wouldn't be so precious when she had to wash the sheets as soon as she got home). He kissed her neck and shoulder and threaded his fingers through her hair, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Keep that up and there's gonna be a round two," she said.

He grabbed her butt and squeezed, then bit her neck.

She shuddered and pushed herself up. "I'm warning you, Loud. You –" she looked at the clock and paled. It was almost 6:30. "Oh, shit." She jumped off of him and rushed to the closet, hers and Lincoln's mingled love dripping down her legs. Damn it. She didn't have time to shower, either.

"A kiss, Lincoln," she said as she pulled a dress off a hanger, "all I wanted was a kiss."

Lincoln sat up and stretched. "I gave you a kiss. You're the one who touched my penis."

"You're the one who was hard as a rock," she shot back.

"You're the one who _made_ me hard. It's your fault, really."

She threw her panties at him. Laughing, he caught them. "Give those back," she said.

He held them up and studied them. "Nah, I think I'll keep them," he said, "they're _just_ my size."

"Come on, Linc," she begged, "we don't have time for this."

He grinned and tossed them back, then got up to get Alex ready while she went into the bathroom and hurriedly wiped with a wad of toilet paper. Well, multiple wads of toilet paper: Lincoln had a _lot_ of love this morning. By the sixth pass, she was starting to get frustrated. Jeez, you'd think we _didn't_ have sex two nights ago. By the time she was ready, she had less than ten minutes to get to work.

It's a shame, really: Morning sex is _so_ wonderful...but, if you're like her, you're either too tired or in too much of a rush to have it often.

On the drive to work, she worried over her sticky thighs and the fact that she was _still fucking leaking_. The sheets weren't the _only_ thing that would need to be washed when she got home.

She sniffed. Was it her imagination, or could she _smell_ it, the scent of mingled passion? Oh, God.

No more morning sex.

Except maybe on weekends.

She liked sleeping in, but some things are worth getting up for. Like amazing, incredible, mind-blowing, life-affirming sex with your husband. Was it worth being sticky and wet and nasty all day?

Of _course_ it was!

* * *

Luan had never felt so alone in her life. She lay in a hospital bed with one hand cuffed to the rail and her socked heels dug deeply into the mattress. A stony-faced guard stood by her head, his hair arms crossed and his gaze fixed ahead. Nurses and doctors came and went. She wasn't _physically_ alone...she was spiritually alone. Her family wasn't here, no one paced in the waiting room, no one even knew she was in labor. She was entirely on her own, and right now, of all moments, she _really_ needed someone.

Another contraction wracked her body, and she gripped the cold, steely rail, the cuffs clinking against it forlornly. She bore down on her teeth and clinched her eyes closed as the pain tightened around her like a vise, her breath coming in short, hot gasps. The constriction suddenly released, and she went limp. "Seven centimeters," a nurse said from between her legs.

 _That's it?_

She had been here since just after midnight: She was lying in her cell when she shifted and felt a gush between her legs. She notified the guard, who took his sweet time getting back to her. After that, they took her to the infirmary, where she waited and waited and waited and waited, until the doctor finally took a look at her. "Yup," he said around the filter of his cigarette, "she's in labor."

They called an ambulance, and it took her to Sweeny General Hospital in Elk Park because it was closer than Royal Woods General. When she arrived, she was two centimeters dilated and almost totally free of pain. In fact, she slept a little throughout the night, never very deeply and never for very long, though she didn't sleep well in general anymore. At six that morning, she was four, and the pain started in earnest. She wasn't sure what time it was now, but she knew it had to be at least one or two in the afternoon. She should have known it would take forever.

Presently, another spasm hit her, and she gripped the railing so hard her knuckles turned white. A long, strained cry escaped through her teeth, and she worked to dig her heels even deeper into the mattress. The contractions were roughly a minute and a half apart now, and had been getting gradually closer together for hours. Clench. Release. Clench. Release.

It released, and she threw her head back against the pillow. She was sweating and her heart worked in overdrive. She licked her lips and took a deep breath. She wished her mother was here and holding her hand. That she wasn't made Luan's eyes water, and she lifted her right hand to wipe her tears away, but the cuff stopped her and she sighed with frustration. She was giving birth, did they really think she was going to run? She couldn't even _waddle_ away at this point.

She wiped her eyes with her other hand and sniffed wetly. Gerry Robbins said they would let her family see her after the baby was born, so at least she had that to look forward to. She called him at home last night before she left for the hospital, and he was here earlier, awkwardly holding her hand and giving her tips. "My wife says..." "well, what worked for my wife..." He said he would be back around five and would call her mom if she had delivered. At this point, she didn't think she would ever –

Oof. Contraction. She gripped the rail with both hands and took deep, rapid breaths, sucking in, blowing out, sucking in, blowing out. The pain deepened, and she moaned. It felt like her stomach, pelvis, and vagina were going to explode open in a shower of blood, bone, and gore, revealing the awful head of an alien creature. Her back ached too. She sucked her bottom lip in and shifted her weight, but that made it worse, and another moan was ripped from her lips.

Would this ever end?

* * *

Lori wore a scowl as she stalked through the halls of Royal Woods Elementary, the strap of her purse clutched tightly in her hand and her heels clicking on the tile floor, the sharp, hollow sound bouncing off the red lockers lining the walls. A girl in bell bottom jeans and a striped tank top was talking to a boy in red gym shorts and a white shirt; they both glanced at her and hurriedly away from her anger, the same thought running through their minds: _I'm glad that's not_ my _mom._

She reached the front office and crossed the threshold with flaring nostrils. A number of secretaries sat behind a long counter, one with the handset of a telephone cradled between her shoulder and the side of her head, and another pecking hesitantly at a typewriter. A black woman with glasses and a beehive stood to speak to a man in a pair of slacks and a white shirt. Lori fell in behind him and took a series of deep, calming breaths. She didn't believe in spanking, but Bobby Jr. was _really_ pushing his luck: She imagined bending him over her knee and slapping his bare butt as hard as she could, his arms and legs thrashing as he screamed in pain, and savage satisfaction filled her.

As she waited, she tapped her foot impatiently, her fingers tightening on her purse strap. This was the third time since school started – _the third time! –_ that she got a call in the middle of the day about Bobby Jr. cutting up in class. Last week he was making farting noises, and the week before that it was throwing paper airplanes at the teacher while her back was turned. The teacher was a large woman and apparently her dresses have a tenancy to get stuck between her butt cheeks. Bobby's plane did likewise. Lori had to admit, that _was_ kind of funny...if it was someone else's child.

She didn't understand. Bobby had always been such a good boy in school. He listened, he did his work, he didn't talk back or bother anyone. Then, this year, the kid goes crazy. His father wanted to take a belt to him, and Lori was _very_ opposed to that...but if this kept up, she'd do it personally.

Little shit.

The man in the slacks finally concluded his business and walked away. Lori stepped up to the counter and opened his mouth, but the black woman cut her off. "Hello again, Mrs. Santiago. You can go right in."

How embarrassing!

Nodding and muttering her thanks, Lori went around the counter and down a brief hall to the principal's office. It was a small room painted green, a potted plant next to a filing cabinet and shiny plaques and framed awards dotting the walls. Principal Strickland sat behind his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a black suit coat with white pinstripes and a black bowtie. The sun shone on his bald head. When Lori was in elementary school, he was the vice principal and a fat man with a mustache named Woolf was principal. Principal Woolf had a heart attack and died in 1955, and Strickland had been principal ever since. He was a hardcase.

She flicked to Bobby Jr., who sat in a leather chair, his neck craned to watch her. Their eyes met, and he hurriedly looked away with a gasp that said _uh-oh_.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Santiago," Principal Strickland said without looking at her.

"Good afternoon, Principal Strickland," she said as she sat and shifted her purse into her lap. At the edge in her voice, Bobby Jr. slouched down in his chair, his chin resting against his blue T-shirt. "What did he do this time?" She saw his little Adam's apple bob as he gulped.

Principal Strickland glared at him. "Go ahead, Roberto. Tell your mother what you did."

Bobby took a deep breath, but didn't speak.

"You were certainly proud of it when all of your classmates were laughing," Principal Strickland needled, "aren't you proud of it now?"

Bobby shook his head.

Lori turned to him. "What did you do?"

He dug his chin into his chest as if by trying hard enough he could turn into a turtle with a nice, hard, _safe_ shell to withdraw into.

"He put a dirty sock into his teacher's coffee."

Lori's brows angled down, and her palm itched. The only cure? Going upside Bobby Jr.'s head.

"The teacher did not consume any of the coffee, as the sock was clearly visible. I don't believe the point was to have the teacher drink dirty foot coffee, but was to shock them."

"I can't _believe_ this," Lori said to her said, her voice lowering dangerously. "What possessed you to do something so literally disgusting?"

Bobby blinked back tears of shame.

"The other kids were no doubt encouraging him," Principal Strickland said. "He's becoming something of a class clown, an attention-seeker. Attention-seeking class clowns are _not_ tolerated in my school."

Lori sighed and balled her hand into a fist. She could literally hit him right now.

"I am giving him after school detention for the rest of the week," Principal Strickland said, and turned to Lori. "The next infraction will incur an automatic one day suspension. The next will see him out for a week. After that, we will have to begin thinking about expulsion."

"There won't be any more incidents," Lori assured him. She then looked at her son. "Will there?"

Bobby shook his head vigorously.

"I had a similar problem with his aunt," Principal Strickland said. "She was something of a delinquent herself: She shoved the janitor down a flight of stairs."

Lori blinked. "She did?"

"He claimed she did. That man was drunk half the time, God rest his soul, so it's possible he fell, but I wouldn't put it past her. She teaches at the high school now, correct?"

"Yes."

Principal Strickland nodded curtly. "She'll get hers. High schoolers are savages." He looked at Bobby. "You can go back to class. One misstep today, young man, and you'll spend the entire rest of the week in detention."

"And I'll let your father use his belt," Lori added.

Bobby's face paled and he shook his head. "T-That won't be necessary."

"It _better_ not be."

He scurried away, and Lori shook her head. "I am _so_ sorry for this. I don't understand why he's doing this all of a sudden."

"The attention," Principal Strickland said. "I've seen it a thousand times. Some children like being the life of the party, and the easiest way to be the life of the party is to make everyone laugh. The easiest way to make everyone laugh is to be a pain in the ass."

Lori sighed and shook her head. If this is how it was going to be, he was going to have a _long_ childhood.


	72. September 1970: Part 3

**Sorry for the bullshit long chapter. PretzelSticks, sorry for not replying sooner: Yes, we're going to see Clyde again in just a couple years.**

* * *

Luna felt bloated. She _looked_ bloated too. She didn't know why, it just...happened. Overnight. She thought. Maybe it took a few nights. When you live an active lifestyle like hers, you sometimes lose track of likes...like whether or not your face and feet are swelling. At first she thought she was just gaining weight, which was a relief because it would get Tex off her back. _Here, Luna, have a sandwich, Luna, you look hungry, Luna._ Part of her thought it was nice that he gave a shit, but another part was annoyed. I'm fine, man, stop trying to force your food down my throat. After a while, though, she didn't think it was normal weight. It was like fluid retention or something.

On top of that, she felt really tired lately, even on coke: Sometimes she laid in bed literally all day (she got up to piss, but that was pretty much it). People kept inviting her to parties and she turned them down because just the _thought_ drained her. Exhausted as she was, though, she had trouble sleeping, so half the time she sat in front of the TV from sign on to sign off, then beyond, staring into the static like a gypsy into a crystal ball. She did a show in Vegas on August 18 and it was the hardest thing she'd ever done because she just wanted to go back to the hotel room and lie down. She got to see a nuclear test afterwards, which was pretty far out. She, Tex, Bobby Preston, and the others gathered with a group of people on the edge of the city and faced north into the night. Suddenly, there was a roar in the distance and light filled the horizon.

"Hol-ee shit," Bobby Preston said.

"Damn," Cliff muttered.

"That's pretty cool," Luna grinned. She kind of wished it happened during the day so she could actually see the mushroom cloud. That would be _really_ fucking groovy.

It wasn't long after that she started bloating. _I look like the goddamn_ _Michelin Man,_ she thought as she prodded her face with her finger. The reflection staring back at her wasn't _that_ bad, but it wasn't great either. _At least Tex will leave me alone._

On September 2, their third album (or was it their fourth? Fifth? Man, I really gotta keep up on this shit) hit the shelves. It was called _Sundown_ and had a pretty cool picture of them on the cover: They're in the desert and in the background the sun's setting...Luna liked it. It'd be better with a mushroom cloud, though. _Everything's_ better with a mushroom cloud. Hahahahaha. It didn't have the song she wrote for Daggy on it, that was going to be on the next one. It was called _Heart and Soul._ Yeah, sappy, whatever, file a lawsuit. He _was_ her heart and soul, though.

Today, September 13, she was feeling achy and tired and her chest hurt. She sat on the living room floor with her back against the couch and her legs splayed out in front of her. On TV, a soap opera started. _Love is a Many Splendored Thing._ She only knew what it was called because during her stay-in-bed days, she was oftentimes too lazy to get up and change the channel. This show is _booorrrriiiinnnggg._ She turned away from the screen, and started. Alex sat three feet away, watching her intently, her tiny hands in her lap. She wore a little purple dress and yellow socks with frills. Her eyes were big, dark, and curious. Her mouth was closed, her front teeth hanging over her bottom lip. Her quiet intensity was kind of creepy.

"Hey, Bunny," Luna said.

Alex blinked.

"How's it going?"

Blink.

Luna flashed a nervous smile.

Blink.

"Hey, uh, Leni?" Luna asked. She didn't take her eyes off Alex...you know, just in case...

"Yeah?" Leni asked. She was sitting on the couch with her knitting stuff, moving her trembling hands with agonizing slowness, the tip of her tongue plastered to her upper lip.

"I think Bunny's planning to kill me." It was meant as a joke, but suddenly she felt kind of paranoid. It _could_ have been the coke she blasted after breakfast...though Bunny was looking _pretty_ bloodthirsty.

Leni glanced up, her brow pinching in confusion. "No, she's not. She probably doesn't even know what killing someone is yet."

Alex blinked at Luna. _I'm coming for you, bitch,_ Luna imagined the little girl saying, then laughed uneasily. Leni was right. It's just the coke. When she tried to turn back to the TV, however, she couldn't, because she was sure that the moment she did, Alex would pounce like a small, vicious animal, and Luna would lose. Oh, man, she would lose _big_. She probably wouldn't even get a swing in. "Bunny is nice," Leni said. "Except when she hits auntie Leni."

Alex turned to Leni and blinked. _"Eee."_

"Yeah, auntie Leni."

" _Eee-eee."_

Leni smiled brightly. "You're getting better!" She sat her stuff aside, slipped off the couch, and sat next to Luna. She held her arms out, and Alex crawled over. Leni picked her up and sat her in her lap. Luna instinctively leaned away. "Here's your _nose_ ," Leni said, and touched a finger to the tip of Alex's nose, "and your _eyeball_." Leni touched just below Alex's eye. Alex blinked, and a sinister smile crossed Leni's face. "And this is...your _belly!_ " She dug her fingers into Alex's stomach, and the girl jumped with a shriek of laughter.

Luna grinned at her niece's delight, her paranoia forgotten. Alex squirmed in Leni's arms and her dress rode up over her diaper, revealing her side. Luna lidded her eyes. "I see _ribs_." She tickled Alex's flank, and the little girl _howled_.

"Attack of the aunties!" Leni cried; she and Luna fell on the poor, hapless bunny. Her face was so red she looked more like a baby lobster. She flopped helplessly and wailed laughter.

"How many times can we make her pee herself?" Luna asked.

"Hmmm," Leni said, "I don't know. Let's find out."

They tickled and tickled and tickled and tickled and had a wonderful time.

Until Alex's diaper seeped all over Leni's dress.

"Ew!" Leni cried. "Bunny peed on me!"

Luna slapped her knee and laughed.

"It's not funny!" She pouted at Alex. "Why, Bunny, why?"

Alex giggled.

Leni shoved the little girl into Luna's arms and got up. "Change her diaper, please, _I_ need to get dressed."

Luna gulped. "Her d-diaper?" Luna had never changed a diaper in her life. Well...she thought she _may_ have changed a few of Lincoln's, but, man, that was so long ago it might as well have never happened.

"Yup," Leni said, "you take it on – I mean off – and put a clean one on. Simple."

Luna glanced at the baby in her arms. She looked up at her with big, kitten eyes. _"Na."_ Luna's heart melted and she took a deep breath. Bunny needed auntie Luna to man up and change her. Hey, it's just pee, right?

"A-Alright."

"There's baby stuff in Lincy's and Lynn's old room."

While Leni went to change, Luna carried Alex to Lincoln's room, cradling her like one would an infant. The secret is holding their head so it didn't flop all over the place and fall off. Was Alex too old for that? Man, this was ridiculous, she had three younger siblings and she felt like she used to _know_ shit like this.

In Lincoln's room, she laid Alex on the bed and looked around for the baby stuff: It was on a dresser. Diapers. Wet wipes. Baby powder. Luna grabbed an armful and turned around just as Alex climbed off the bed and started toddling past. "Whoa, dude!" Luna cried. "Where you going?"

Out the door... _and toward the stairs!_

Heart in throat, Luna threw down the baby stuff and rushed after Alex. She was standing at the head of the stairs and looking curiously down. She stuck one foot out, wobbled, and began to pitch forward. Luna snatched the back of her dress just as she started to go and yanked her away, her feet leaving the floor.

" _Uh!"_

Luna's heart throbbed painfully and her breath was short. "No stairs," she panted.

" _Uhhhh!"_

Still holding Alex by the back of her dress the way a mama dog holds a puppy by the scruff of its neck, Luna went back into Lincoln's room and toed the door closed behind her. She dropped Alex onto the bed and picked up the diaper and wipes. "Alright, kid, auntie Luna's kind of new at this, so go easy on her, okay?"

Alex giggled.

Something told Luna she was going to do the complete opposite of going easy. Sighing, she pushed Alex's dress up and undid the tabs. She pulled the diaper away slowly, her teeth gritted in suspense. Just pee, right? You're not gonna make auntie Luna play with poop, are you?

To Luna's great relief, there was no poop. Whew. She stripped the diaper away, balled it up, and tossed it over her shoulder: It plopped wetly on the floor, and Alex giggled. "Yeah, that's funny, huh?" Luna asked, then made a silly face. "Plop!"

Alex kicked her feet.

"Alright," Luna said, opening the new diaper, "let's get this party on the road, huh?" She slipped it under Alex's butt...

...and that's when disaster struck. Close your eyes and imagine someone spitting chunky chocolate shake through a straw, and you'll kind of get what happened: It splattered the diaper, it splattered the bed, it splattered Luna. Luna screamed and jumped back, her shirt and hands covered in bunny poop. _"Alex, no!"_ she wailed.

Alex giggled. Her body clenched, and even more shot out, some of it landing on Luna's shoes. _"God, it's everywhere!"_ The smell hit her, and she gagged, bile rising in the back of her throat. She pressed her fist against her lips and swallowed it back down. Alex screamed maniacal laughter and kicked her legs. Luna had seen some messes in her day (mainly drunk people puke), but this took the fucking _cake_.

And the smell was horrendous.

Bunny was counting on auntie Luna, though, and auntie Luna was _not_ going to fail.

"You're testing me, aren't you?" Luna asked, her nose pinched between her thumb and forefinger. Her voice came out nasally, and Alex giggled. "You wanna see what I'm made of, huh? Well, you're gonna see, man. I'm _just_ as good an aunt as Leni." She grabbed another diaper from the dresser, carefully slid the poopy one out from underneath Alex's butt, and then took a mega fuckton of wet wipes from the container. She wiped, but her efforts served only to smear the peanut buttery mess across Alex's flesh. She grabbed another bunch, and did it again, this time actually getting some off. A third load and then a fourth, and Alex's butt was sparkly clean.

"Right on," Luna said, holding up a fist. She slipped the new diaper under, but stopped. Powder. Leni would use powder.

She grabbed the baby powder and shook it onto Alex's butt, only nothing happened. She squeezed, but nope, nada. She fiddled with the lid, twisting it this way and then, then tried again.

Still, no powder.

What the fuck?

She held it up to her face to look for obstructions in the little holes, but didn't see any. Alright, _now_ she was starting to get frustrated. She squeezed, and a geyser of powder shot out...into her eyes, her nose, even her mouth. She coughed and waved away a cloud of dust; oh, God, her eyes were _burning_.

Alex laughed at her.

"I'm used to having a _different_ kind of white dust all over my face," Luna said and blinked her eyes. "That dust is actually fun, though. Sometimes it burns the same."

She used a wipe to clean her face as best she could, then held the baby powder to Alex's butt. Alright, Lune, small, gentle squeeze. She squeezed...and the lid fell off. Baby powder spilled out and landed in the diaper, on Alex's little lady parts, her belly, the bed. On the bright side, Luna finally got her mushroom cloud. The room was filled with white haze, its cloying smell contrasting with the stench of shit: Luna didn't know if she wanted to gag or gag, so she did both, and coughed too.

Alex hacked in agreement.

"Okay, I'm not as good an auntie as Leni," Luna admitted. "I still love you, though...even if you purposely sabotaged me."

Using her hand, she swept as much of the powder out of the diaper as possible, which kicked more dust into the air. She did the tabs and pulled down Alex's dress. The little girl still coughed.

Luna sighed. "It's not perfect, but, hey, you're _kind_ of clean."

The door opened, and Luna and Alex both turned. Leni, her eyes closed and her hands limply up before her, bent at the wrists, entered. She was in a brown and orange dress with a funky zigzag pattern that made Luna dizzy. "How's it –?" her eyes opened and she froze, her gaze darting around the room. The air was thick with baby powder, Luna's face was caked white, dirty diapers and poopy wipes littered the floor, and there was gross liquidy poop _everywhere_.

Leni gasped.

"Hey, sis," Luna grinned sheepishly, "I, uh, changed Bunny."

Leni rubbed her eyes, but the mess didn't disappear.

Her jaw dropped. She went over to Alex, who coughed. "Luna...look at this _mess!_ "

Luna shrugged. "At least the diaper's on."

Leni bent, lifted Alex's dress, and sighed. "Yeah. Backwards."

Luna's shoulders slumped. She felt, like, two inches tall right now. "I'm no auntie Leni," she said sadly.

Leni undid the tabs of Alex's diaper. "Of course not," she said, "you're auntie Luna, and auntie Lunas are different from auntie Lenis. Like strawberry ice cream is different from chocolate ice cream. They aren't the same but both are still _really_ yummy."

A radiant smile broke across Luna's face. "You know what, Leni?"

"What?" Leni asked. She was wiping Alex's tummy and lady parts with a wipe.

"You're pretty good at giving pep talks."

Leni grinned. "Thank you. I try."

* * *

Luan grabbed the cold, lifeless railing and held on for dear life as pain enveloped her entire being, filling her head, her chest cavity, her stomach, her loins: She felt like she was being pushed apart. An image of a banana being peeled came to mind, and she would have laughed if one, she wasn't in agony and, two, it wasn't so apt: She literally felt like she was going to split down the middle, with one half of her falling limply this way and the other half falling limply _that_ way. Gee, was this a baby or a full grown truck driver? It felt like the latter: 350 pounds of adult man with broad shoulders and big, beefy arms struggling to get through a hole roughly an inch wide. She bared her teeth and whined: She was lightheaded and the room spun in a sickening rush of light and sound that made her dizzy and nauseous on top of everything else.

"Alright, relax," the doctor said from between her legs. She stopped pushing and took a deep, shuddery breath. Sweat coursed down her face and her bangs were plastered to her forehead. She _was_ wearing a ponytail when she got here, but the constant side-to-side motion of her head must have worked it loose, because her hair now spilled around her shoulders, at times getting pinned beneath them and yanking painfully. Her breathing was erratic, shallow, and panting, each inhalation causing a hot stitch in her side. Tears of pain stood in her eyes, blurring the world. Her propped, sheet covered legs, the nurses standing around, and the doctor were all shimmery, like a desert mirage. Another contraction seized her, and she closed them tightly, patterns and explosions of color flickering across the back of her eyelids.

"Push!"

She wrapped her fingers around the rail and pushed with all her might. _Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout!_ A grunt of exertion flew from her quivering lips, and she tightened her grip on the rail. She clenched her teeth and growled, spittle flying from her lips. She felt like she was going to poop but she didn't care: She wanted this baby out _now_. She leaned heavily on the rail, but her hand slipped: It was slick and coated with sweat.

"Keep pushing! I can see the head!"

Luan took a deep breath and pushed. She could feel _something_ happening, but it was very muted under layers and layers of pain. Her hand slipped again. She let go, and her fingers brushed something. She looked up, and through a blur of tears she saw the guard, closer now, his hand out, his eyes straight ahead and his face expressionless. She grabbed it and squeezed.

A contraction hit her like a bomb blast, and she pushed with it, clamping down so hard on the guard's hand he winced.

"Keep pushing!"

Luan clenched her teeth and _shoved,_ willing her muscles to ripple and her womanhood to open. Someone dabbed her brow with a wet cloth and she screamed at the horrible feeling of her pelvis _expanding_. She squeezed the guard's hand and threw her head back against the pillow. _"Get it out!"_ she yelled. _"Get it out!"_

The contraction released, and she suddenly felt _filled_. She wasn't a fast girl, but she'd had sex with two different men and she knew what it felt like to have something in her, straining against her walls, separating her. This was like that...only a thousand times over...and absolutely _not_ pleasurable. It hurt, but it was more uncomfortable – _extremely_ uncomfortable – than anything else. They say childbirth is the most natural thing in the world (well, that and death...and taxes), but it didn't _feel_ normal. It felt strange, alien, _un_ natural.

Another contraction started, and she moaned pitiably, her fingers curling over the guard's hand.

"Okay, honey," the doctor said, "give me a _big_ push."

 _Oh, God, please, no more!_

She pushed, and the weight in her birth canal shifted, seeming to drop ever so slightly like a boulder. She sucked a sharp intake of breath and redoubled her efforts. She could see the light of day, she was almost out of the woods, all she had to do was keep pushing...

The weight dropped even more, and she cried out. _"Shit!"_

"Rest," the doctor said.

She bowed her head and fought to catch her breath. She was covered in sweat and her thighs and butt felt sticky. She curled her socked toes into the mattress and shuddered as her baby moved inside her. A nurse with a little white hat poking out of her thick chestnut hair wiped her brow. "You're doing good. You're almost there."

"I hope," Luan croaked.

Her stomach spasmed again, and she pushed again. The baby wiggled, and she could _feel_ it crowing, its little head pushing her lips apart. It stung, and she hissed through her teeth.

"Alright, this is it," the doctor said, "big push!"

Luan took another deep breath and threw everything she had into one final push: She felt the shiver inducing sensation of something _slipping_ from her, and feeble cries filled the room. Luan fell back against the pillow and burst into inexplicable tears, her body trembling and her heart crazily pitter-pattering against her ribcage. The doctor handed the baby to a nurse, who wrapped it in a white blanket. Luan caught a glimpse of its pink little face, lips working as it wailed. She held out her arms, her heart yearning to have her son or daughter cradled against it, but the nurse rushed out of the room, and Luan cried even harder, her hand flying to her eyes.

Earlier, she thought she was the loneliest she had ever been, but now...now she really was. She curled up as much as the cuffs would allow, and wept bitterly. With each passing second she ached to hold her baby more and more, and inside of a minute, she was consumed with gnawing need: Need to look into its eyes, need to touch its cheeks, need to count its fingers and toes and cuddle it and coo tenderly to it.

She didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl.

She wrapped one arm around her hitching chest and sobbed harder still. She just wanted her baby. Was that so much to ask?

* * *

"Hey, Johnny, glad to see you back," Lincoln said with a smile; he felt a momentary rush of dread. That _was_ the guy's name, right? The one he thought was a Gene or a George? The old man smiled and nodded, which told Lincoln he got it right this time. Relief flooded through him, and on the inside he swiped his fingers across his brow. Whew.

"It's good to be back," Johnny said and settled onto a stool. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "Best burger joint in town."

Lincoln tilted his head. "Aren't we the _only_ burger joint in town?"

"That's why you're the best," Johnny said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "anyone else moves in and you boys automatically lose out." He laughed and pounded his fist against the counter. Lincoln forced a laugh and nodded. Come on, old timer, we're not _that_ bad, he thought, but didn't say. He figured he'd have to put in a good five to ten years before he could be a smartass like Flip.

Johnny leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "I hear they're putting up a McDonald's on Route 29 'cross from the roadhouse."

"Yeah?" Lincoln asked, genuinely interested. He ate there a few times. The food was pretty good, especially the Big Mac. Oh, man, that sauce! It was so big he couldn't finish it in one sitting, though, which was fine with him, because leftovers.

Johnny nodded. "Yep. That's not _in_ town, so you're safe. For now."

Lincoln bobbed his head from side-to-side in thought. "I don't know, I think our burgers are better."

Johnny shrugged. "Yeah, but their burgers come out twice as fast. There, I can get my food, eat, and get out the door in the time it takes you assholes to bring me my Coke." He rasped laughter.

Was it strange that Lincoln felt slightly offended? Because he did. He and Flip joked about the place being a toilet inside a dumpster at the landfill on a planet made of trash, but Lincoln, at least, took what he did pretty seriously. Sure, it was making and selling short order food mainly to teenagers and retirees with nothing better to do than sit in a booth all day and read the paper while waiting for the shuffleboard emporium to open or something, but he put pride into his work and always had. It wasn't much, making hamburgers (now managing a place that sold hamburgers) but it's what he had, and he gave it all he could (within reason).

He dug his nails into the counter and resisted the sudden urge to slap the old man out of his chair.

Johnny sighed. "Anyway, I'll take a burger and fries. Gimme a Coke, too."

Lincoln nodded, whipped out a pad, and jotted down the order, which he then stuck in the window. He grabbed a glass, filled it with Coke, and sat it down in front of the S.O.B. "Here you go," he said.

"Thanks," Johnny nodded.

Because he still felt kind of sore, Lincoln excused himself and went to the bathrooms for a quick check. The women's room was fine, but some asshole ripped up a bunch of paper towels in the men's room and scattered the pieces across the floor. "Goddamn it," Lincoln muttered. He picked them up one-by-one and threw them into the trash. The single toilet was also soaked with piss. Before he took over managing Flip's and found himself visiting both the men's _and_ women's room, he believed that women were naturally cleaner than men. He imagined the ladies' room would be fresh as a daisy and always smell good.

Boy, was he wrong. Women were just as dirty as men: And pissed all over the place only slightly less. How, he couldn't even _begin_ to know. He'd only been with woman one (and planned to keep it that way), but he was pretty sure that her equipment was standard issue, and...he just couldn't see how _that_ could make as much of a mess as a penis. What, did they squat over the seat?

Grabbing a paper towel and muttering angrily to himself, he wiped the piss off the best he could and threw the wad into the garbage. He stuck his hand into the metal dispenser, and his fingers brushed against a quarter stock. Well, while I'm here...

He grabbed a stack of towels from under the sink, opened the dispenser with a little key, and stacked them inside, closing and locking it when he was done. He came back to the counter just as Lilly sat Johnny's plate in front of him. Sorry you had to wait for your burger to be cooked, sir, here, take it free of charge. And look, I'm bending over, take my asshole too. Be as rough as you want. And don't feel like you have to pull out. Or even have the common goddamn courtesy to give me a reacharound.

Who said that?

He knew he heard someone use that phrase before. Sounded like something Sargent Hellman would say.

Lincoln grinned as he went behind the counter. Sargent goddamn Hellman. How _was_ that old sonofabitch, anyway? Probably still drilling fresh meat in the ass and causing shell-shock worse than the war itself.

That stray thought sent him down memory lane – and it looked a whole hell of a lot like a beaten jungle trail. He saw dozens of faces, some of them living, some dead, and others unknown. Where was McCain? Did he ever make it out? What about the girl who helped him? God, has it really only been two and a half _years?_ Sometimes it felt like it was decades ago, another life, even, _waaaay_ back beyond the rim of space and time, as Lovecraft might write. And, yes, other times it felt like it was only yesterday...sometimes it felt like it was still happening.

"How's that burger treating you?" he asked Johnny, whose elbows were propped on the counter.

The old man nodded. "Real good, Linc. I take back what I said."

"Good," Lincoln said, then leaned in, "I almost belted you for insulting me."

Johnny laughed. "Army, right?"

"Two years," he said. "Saw action in 'Nam."

"You'd probably whip me, then," Johnny said. "All I ever did was Boy Scouts. If I get lucky, though, I can tie your shoes in a knot you'll _never_ get undone." He laughed, and Lincoln laughed too, for real this time.

The phone rang, and he reached for it, but Lilly popped out of nowhere and grabbed it before he could. She liked answering the phone: She was young enough that it made her feel important. "Flip's, how can I help you?" she chirped, then waited a second as the other person spoke. "Yeah, he's right here." She held the phone out. "It's for you, Mr. Loud."

He always got a kick out of being called 'Mr.' "You should have let me get it," he said, and took it. "Hello?"

"Honey, it's Mom. Luan just had the baby and we're on the way to the hospital."

Lincoln blinked. Oh. Two days _ahead_ of schedule. He glanced at his watch. It was almost six. "Alright, uh, give me half an hour, forty-five minutes."

"Okay."

"She's at Sweeny in Elk Park. Third floor."

Lincoln didn't think he'd ever been to Sweeny. "Alright." He hung up and looked around the dining room. There were a few tables occupied, but no one was ordering. He didn't usually do this, but he crossed to the door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. He was actually really excited: Call him crazy, but he missed having a baby around, and he wanted a big family like his own, but because Ronnie Anne couldn't have anymore, _that_ was out the window. His excitement was tinged with a touch of shame – you know, his good fortune coming about because of his sister's _bad_ fortune – but that was nowhere near enough to shake the warm feeling in his chest.

Waiting for Johnny and the other customers to hurry the hell up and leave was torment of the highest order. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and gathered wool. Was it a boy? A girl? Who did it look like? What was his or her name? Did Luan stick with the 'L' name tradition? If so, that would make her and Lynn the only one. Gee, speaking of Lynn, he really needed to drive out to Arizona and see him. It had been _way_ too long. Neither one had even met their niece yet: If this kept up, little Lynn III would be a grown woman with kids of her own before he got to meet her.

Nope. That would _not_ do.

Johnny was the last one to leave: Lilly came to take his plate away, and God as Lincoln's witness, the old son of a bitch started flirting with her, which _really_ rubbed Lincoln the wrong way. She was, what, fifteen? Jesus H. Christ. She was a child! He watched as Lilly, who was obviously uncomfortable, tried to leave...every time Johnny started talking about something else. Finally Lincoln told her to go wipe tables, and she did with a sigh of relief.

When everything was spic and span, he doled out the day's pay, put the rest of the haul into the lockbox, and drove the ten miles to Elk Park. It was a warm evening, so he rolled the windows down and turned the radio on. He got a rare craving for a cigarette, but quashed it. He rarely smoked anymore, and most days that was fine, but others the hankering hit him like a fist wearing brass knuckles, so he kept a pack of Camels in the glovebox next to the gun.

Elk Park was a tranquil little village with tree-lined sidewalks, upper middle class houses, and a war memorial in the middle of a well-manicured park. Sweeny General Hospital sat on the edge of the town limits, its brick façade unchanged from the way it appeared when the place was built in 1900. Lincoln parked at the curb behind a powder blue pick-up truck and scanned the other cars along the street, spotting Dad's Packard and Ronnie Anne's Pinto. He got out, waited for an ambulance to pass, and crossed the street, climbing the stone stairs and going into the lobby, where he looked around. He spotted the elevators, went to them, and stabbed the 3 button.

When the elevator opened onto the third floor, he followed a long hall to a nurse's station. At one point a gurney was pushed against the wall, an old man strapped down and covered with a blanket. Lincoln slowed as he passed, not sure if the man was alive or dead and not wanting to find out. He asked for Luan Loud, and a nurse pointed him to a room farther on. Alright. Time to find out what the little, uh, baby was: He didn't insist on a gender the way he did with Lori. He learned his lesson _that_ time around.

On entering the room, the first thing he saw was Mom and Dad standing by the bed, Dad's arm around Mom's shoulders and Mom's hands clasped to her chest. Ronnie Anne and Leni (holding Alex) stood on the other side, Luna and Bobby Jr. between them. Lori sat half on the bed by Luan's head. Luan held a bundle in one arm (the other was handcuffed to the railing, and for some reason that greatly disturbed him). He started toward the bed, but a cop slapped a hand to his chest and stopped him. "ID," he said.

Really? Buddy, you're _lucky_ I wasn't thinking about Vietnam just now or I'd have broken your jaw. He pulled out his wallet and started to grab his license, but went for his army ID card instead. He handed it to the cop; the cop looked at it for a moment then gave it back.

"Nice of you to finally show up," Lori said playfully.

"Talk to Johnny," Lincoln said as he came over to the bed, "I almost knocked him out. Twice."

"Who's Johnny?"

"Guy who wouldn't leave my waitress alone," he said and put his hands on his hips. Luan stared steadily into her baby's eyes, a big, goofy grin on her face. Lincoln craned his neck to see its face, but couldn't. "What is it?" he asked.

"A baby," Luan said happily.

Lincoln nodded. "I can see that. What's between its legs?"

"Genitals," Lori said with a grin.

"What _kind_ of genitals?"

"Human genitals," Luna said.

Lincoln sighed and slumped his shoulders. Sometimes it was all he could do not to bust out a few army moves on them.

Luna nudged Bobby Jr.'s arm. "He's too easy sometimes."

Bobby Jr. nodded. "Yeah, he's a real lame-o."

Luna laughed and held up her hand; Bobby Jr. smacked it.

"Her name is Jessica Danielle Loud," Luan said, and looked up at him. "Do you want to hold her?"

Lincoln nodded. "Very much."

Luan passed Jessica to him and he took her in his arms. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved silently in her sleep. With babies, if you've seen one, you've seen them all. Lincoln knew that perfectly well, but in his eyes, she was beautiful. "Hi, Jessy," he said, speaking lowly so as not to wake her, "I'm your uncle Lincoln, and –"

" _Uhhh!"_

Lincoln turned his head. Alex was twisted in Leni's arms and reaching out, her little hand opening and closing.

"That's your cousin Alex," Lincoln explained, "I think she wants to say hi."

Lincoln walked over, and Alex's eyes got really big. _"Uh?"_

"That's baby Jessy," Ronnie Anne said, and ruffled Alex's hair, "she's going to be staying with us for a little while."

" _Uh? Uh!"_

Lincoln turned around and went back to Luan. Tears stood in her eyes and her lips, pressed tightly together, trembled slightly. "Here," he told the baby, "go back to Mommy."

Luan took her daughter and cradled her to her chest. Lori stroked her sister's hair and looked sadly down. In a day or two, at most, the baby would come home with Lincoln and Ronnie Anne, and Luan would go back to California to pay the piper. Lincoln could only imagine the pain, the emptiness, she would feel, and the dread she must be experiencing even now, knowing full well what lie ahead, but for the moment, her joy seemed to outweigh her sorrow. She touched Jessy's face with her finger and smiled. "I love you," she whispered.

Long after her family left, and long after the guard whose hand she held was relieved and replaced by another, Luan Loud held her daughter in her arms and smothered her with kisses. She was aware that their time together was short, and she intended to make the most of it. When it came time for them to part, she still wasn't ready, and as they wheeled her baby away, she watched with tearful eyes, her heart aching and her soul shattering. Two days later, she was put on a plane and shipped back to California...minus her heart.

That would remain forever in Royal Woods.

* * *

On September 15 – the date Jessica was due – Lincoln and Ronnie Anne brought her home: Ronnie Anne held her all the way from the hospital and smiled down at her. "She looks kind of like you, lame-o," she said.

"I swear I'm not the father," he said.

She snickered. "Your uncle thinks he's funny," she told the baby, "but he's not."

"Your aunt thinks she's tough," Lincoln said, "but she's not."

Ronnie Anne cocked an eyebrow in his direction.

"She's a pussycat, you'll see."

Ronnie Anne sighed. "Just to my family. I'm a grumpy bear to everyone else."

They spent the previous night preparing their bedroom for Jessy's arrival: Alex's old bassinet was set up at the foot of the bed where Lincoln and Ronnie Anne could both easily get to it in the night, the nightstands on either side of the bed were loaded with baby supplies, and they both got plenty of rest.

While Ronnie Anne sat on the couch and fed Jessy a bottle, Lincoln and Alex sat on the floor, Alex intently watching her mother and the strange, small, pink thing in her arms. "Baby," Lincoln explained.

" _Uh,"_ Alex said without turning.

"Baby," Lincoln repeated.

" _Eee."_

She got to her feet and toddled over, slapping her hands onto her mother's leg and looking up at her cousin with big, curious eyes. "You wanna say hi to the baby?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Alex's head bobbed up and down.

Ronnie Anne shifted and turned slightly so that Alex could get a better view of Jessy's face. Alex lifted her hand, held it an inch from the infant's nose, and wiggled her fingers. _Hi!_

For a week straight, their house was a hub of activity: Lori, Bobby, and Bobby Jr. came by, Luna and Leni. Mom and Dad. When they all happened to be in attendance, bloody, knockdown, drag out fights over who got to hold Jessy erupted. Okay, maybe they weren't bloody and maybe no one actually got knocked down or dragged out (actually, Leni was sitting on the arm of the couch and Luna shoved her off, but that happened _once_ ) still, it got pretty hectic. "I have to go back in a couple days," Luna said, "and all of you get to stay, so _I_ should hold her."

"Just don't try to change her diaper," Leni snorted. That's what earned her a push off the couch.

From the looks of pride and adoration on their faces, you would be forgiven for believing Lincoln and Ronnie Anne were Jessy's parents. Ronnie Anne was as open with Lincoln as she could possibly be, but she never told him how deeply being unable to have more children hurt her. Like him, she wanted a big family. Not as big as his, but two or three kids would be nice. And now, they had another. Of course it wasn't theirs, and of course she felt guilty for deriving happiness from Luan's predicament, but nevertheless, she _was_ happy. She most likely wouldn't be theirs forever, but she would be for a little while...and that was okay with her...until it came time to give her back, she imagined.

That would probably be difficult.

* * *

"All rise."

Luan got shakily to her feet, her hands trembling on the desk and her stomach twisting painfully. The entire courtroom stood as the judge entered from his chambers and made his way to the bench; someone coughed and elsewhere someone shushed someone else.

The judge sat with a regal flourish, and everyone else took their seats. Her lawyer laid his hand on top of hers, leaned over, and whispered, "Just relax. You're gonna get the possibility of parole. I doubt you'll do six years no matter _what_ the sentence is."

Six years...six years of her daughter's life she would miss, six birthdays, six Christmases, her first day of school...hell, her first steps, her first word, everything. Luan teared up and nodded, a single tear coursing down her cheek.

The trial – if trial it could be called – lasted barely a week. In recognition of her cooperation with authorities and in exchange for her promise to testify at the upcoming trial of the Oakland Eight, as they had come to be called in the press, the prosecution recommended she serve no more than fifteen years. Her lawyer, Marvin Belli, a celebrity attorney who represented Jack Ruby (a fact Luan found fascinating despite her overwhelming terror at what lie ahead), argued that she was a "Mixed up kid who thought she was blowing up an empty building. She never intended for anyone to get hurt, and she didn't do this on her own – she was drafted." He asked for eight years.

Presently, Luan stole a glance over her shoulder, and found Luna and her parents. Leni stayed behind in Royal Woods to babysit Alex during the day. She was staying with Lincoln and Ronnie Anne until Mom and Dad got back. Mom smiled encouragingly, and Luna nodded. She was the one who hired Belli. Her manager or someone kind of knew him or was represented by him, she wasn't entirely sure. She told Luna not to hire him, but she did anyway: She felt like a piece of shit for costing her sister money, and like an even bigger piece of shit for saddling Lincoln and Ronnie Anne with the responsibility of raising her daughter. During the long, sleepless nights in the Oakland jail, she thought about that and about Jessy, too: She felt the little girl's absence so keenly that she could barely draw breath. What she wouldn't give to hold her just one more time...five minutes, that's all she wanted, five minutes with her little girl.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm.

The judge gathered a stack of papers into his hands and tapped them against the bench. He cleared his throat, and looked up. "The court has carefully considered the arguments of both the prosecution and the defense. The court has considered the nature and circumstances of the offense, and its mitigating factors. I have taken into account Miss Loud's willingness to cooperate and also the serious nature of her actions. I do not believe that her intention was to harm anyone. That, however, does not change the fact that she planted a deadly and destructive device in a public place, and that does not change the fact that someone lost their life because of it."

Luan squeezed her eyes shut against a rush of tears.

"It also does not change the fact that her intent was to incite violent rebellion against the government of the United States. While I believe that she was put up to the task by others, she is a grown woman capable of ultimately making her own choices and of distinguishing between right and wrong." He glanced at the papers then back up at the gallery. "She was a willing participant and displayed no effort to thwart or remove herself from the situation, and afterward fled the state. Thus, it is after much contemplation and prayer that I hereby sentence you, Miss Loud, to serve the full fifteen year term as per the prosecution's request without the possibility of parole."

Luan broke down crying. Belli patted her on the back.

"You will serve your sentence at the United States Penitentiary at Blyth. You will be housed as a level three offender. At the end of your sentence, you will be placed on probation for a term of fifteen years."

Belli leaned in. "We'll appeal," he said.

Luan was still crying when the bailiffs carried her away; she was still crying that night when she laid down in bed; she was still crying the next day when Luna, Mom, and Dad visited her; and she was still crying a week later when she was packed onto a gray prison bus with a dozen other women. Through her tears, she watched as the lush greenery around San Francisco faded to the dull brown of Southern California. The prison was a three story concrete building in an isolated corner of the state on the border with Arizona. Parched farmland stretched away from both sides of the dusty highway; weathered power poles marched along the dirt shoulder. In the distance, rugged blue mountains stood brokenly against the pale blue sky. Razor wire fencing and tall guard towers surrounded the structure, which looked more like the ruins of an ancient castle in a gothic novel than a modern prison.

She began to hyperventilate when the bus turned off of the cracked blacktop and onto a dirt road leading to the fence. She couldn't do this, she couldn't survive in there, away from her family and her daughter and everything she had ever known. God help her, she couldn't do it. Tears burst from her eyes and she cried harder than she ever had before, her entire body shaking violently.

"Will you shut the fuck up?" someone spat.

A couple others murmured their agreement.

Luan couldn't. Miserable tears flowed from her in an endless stream, and she didn't think they would ever stop.

"Bitch, be quiet!"

"Hey!" the guard shouted. "Next person to talk gets three days in the hole."

 _This is it,_ she thought, _my life for the next fifteen years._

She would have hugged herself if her hands weren't shackled to her waist.

That first day passed in a blur. She and the others were led into the administrative wing where intake took place: Each woman was stripped naked, made to stand with their hands against a wall, and searched thoroughly for contraband by a fat female guard with bushy hair and rotting teeth. Luan shuddered as the woman's finger violated her on both ends: She noticed that she did not change gloves between inmates. Next, a doctor examined each one, a cigarette smoldering between his lips. He touched Luan's breasts and she had to endure it, her head turned and her face burning with shame and revulsion. After that, they were given uniforms – blue dresses much like the ones Luan was used to – and interviewed by an administrator. Luan sat in a chair with her arms crossed, her knees pressed together, and tears standing in her eyes as he asked question after question: Was she part of organized crime, did she do drugs, did she get angry often, how many sexual partners she'd had, on and on and on and on.

When it was finally over, she felt violated mentally as well as physically. She and five other new inmates were marched to a cell block off the main hall. Women called out to them from their cells, cussing, threatening, telling them what they wanted to do to their bodies. "Are you a lesbian? You will be when _I_ get done with you!" "Hey, ponytail, come see your big mama!" Luan quaked like a frightened animal.

She was put into a cell at the end of the block – alone, thank God. The door closed with grim finality, and her stomach turned.

She couldn't do this.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted her mother. And her daughter. And her brothers and her sisters. She wanted to be anywhere but here, in this tiny concrete closet.

But you know what they say: You can't always get what you want.

Luan Loud was learning that the hard way.

And she still had a _long_ way to go.


	73. December 1970: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Happy Holiday/The Holiday Season**_ **by Andy Williams (1963);** _ **Knock Three Times**_ **by Tony Orlando and Dawn (1970);** _ **Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree**_ **by Brenda Lee (1958).**

* * *

Red and green wreaths hung from the streetlights lining Main Street; paper Santas and snowmen and happy elves waved from shop windows; piped Christmas music played over loud speakers at Woolworth's, which today was a surging sea of humanity packed so tightly you could barely breathe. Lincoln shifted Alejandra in his arms and glanced behind him to make sure that Ronnie Anne was still there. She wasn't.

He paused and waited for her to duck around a fat woman in a pink dress. She held Jessy, who was swaddled in three different blankets and asleep. It was warm inside, but out there, in the streets of Royal Woods, it was practically Siberia: Heatless wind swept across snowy tundra, pushing clouds of white along like dancing phantoms. Every once in a while it whistled forlornly, and it was easy to imagine it being the voice of the dead fritulessly trying to contact their loved ones and wish them a Merry Christmas.

Wow, that's morbid.

Lincoln didn't make a habit of thinking that way, but when you have three nightmares back-to-back-to-back, you find yourself slipping into it like quicksand. _Oh, hey, look at that tree...reminds me of a burned, twisted body frozen in agony; it has no mouth but it must scream._ This of all seasons was _not_ the time for that (though telling ghost stories was once a Christmas tradition...heaven knows why) and he had been going out of his way lately to fill his heart and mind with Christmas cheer. Last night he, Ronnie Anne, and the kids watched _A Christmas Carol_ on CBS – or a version of it; that book's been adapted so many times it's sad. Tonight _It's A Wonderful Life_ was on NBC. That was Lincoln's favorite Christmas movie, but he didn't know if they'd get to see it because after they completed their mission here they were going to his parents' house.

"Whose genius idea was it to wait until Christmas Eve anyway?" she huffed. A strand of hair had come free from her ponytail and hung over her face, lending her a harried look. Lincoln cocked his eyebrow and fixed her with a gaze that said _Really?_ It was her idea. Well, she never said _Hey, let's wait until Christmas Eve_ , but every time Lincoln brought it up, she waved him off. _Oh, I'm so tired, lame-o, I can't move a_ muscle.

She stuck her nose in the air and pushed past him. "Wasn't _mine_."

"Uh-huh," he said, and followed her through the jostling crowd; the din of a thousand voices chattering all at once covered the music and Lincoln was able to catch only whiffs of it. Sounded like _Silver Bells_. The Dean Martin version. Or maybe it was Bing Crosby. Lincoln couldn't really tell the difference. They might as well be the same dude. In fact, they probably were.

Alex squirmed this way and that in Lincoln's arms, her eyes sparking as she took in the lights and decorations. In the middle of the store, a giant Christmas tree trimmed with garland and tinsel towered, its base heaped with dozens and dozens of wrapped boxes that were probably empty. "It's Christmastime," Lincoln told her. "You get presents?"

" _Uh?"_ soft, breathy, full of wonder. She was still a little too young to understand the concept of Santa Claus. He and Ronnie Anne had been telling her about him nonstop since before Thanksgiving, but she didn't quite get it. Jessy, of course, was three months old. She didn't get much of anything yet. She'd like the toys 'Santa' got her, though; they all lit up and played music. Those are _always_ a crowd pleaser.

"Next time I say I'm too tired, slap me around a little, okay?" Ronnie Anne huffed.

He reached out and flicked her ponytail. "I was already planning to."

She tossed her head. "I said slap me not play with my hair. You know that tur – never mind."

Lincoln chuckled. "After _this –_ " he glanced around at the packed department store – "you're not getting any for a _long_ time."

Ronnie Anne laughed. "Oh, you _think?_ "

Lincoln nodded. "Oh, yeah, you're cut off until _at least_ the new year."

She tossed a glance over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes seductively. "I can get some tonight if I wanted."

"Not from me."

"Yes, from you."

"Nope. You're being punished."

She nodded slowly and turned back around. "Alright. We'll see."

"Yes we will."

"Good."

"Good."

Santa's Village occupied a far corner: White padding standing in for snow covered the floor and a tiny house big enough to _maybe_ fit a couple kids Bobby Jr.'s age stood next to a large gold-painted throne in which sat jolly St. Nick himself, looking extra fat this year. Two elves in red and green tights flanked either side: Santa rang a hand bell and bellowed _"Ho! Ho! Ho!"_ his voice rolling over the crowd like yuletide thunder. The line snaked and zigzagged for miles, and Lincoln's shoulders slumped. Oh, God: He'd forgotten how many people wanted to see the big guy at any given time. A memory flashed back to him: The last time he himself visited Santa (what was he? Ten? Eleven?), he was a huge jerk. He wondered if it was the same guy.

Ronnie Anne moaned and tilted her head back in a gesture of surrender. 'I'm so tired, lame-o,'" Lincoln mocked, "'let's see Santa at the last minute.'"

"Close your flaps, square-for-brains," she said, "raising a baby and then teaching a bunch of babies is _not_ easy."

"Neither is managing a dumpster full of babies," Lincoln said. "I have one of your students working for me, by the way. She mentioned you."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Lilly Rawlins. She mentioned you too."

"I guess Loud isn't a very common surname," Lincoln said.

"Have _you_ ever met a Loud you weren't related to?"

"No," he said instantly.

"Have you ever _heard_ of one?"

He thought for the briefest of seconds. "No, no I haven't." He never really contemplated his last name before, but now that he was in the neighborhood, what the hell kind of name was Loud anyway? It wasn't obviously French like Du Lac or something, and it wasn't obviously Irish like O'McShannery. It was a word. Like table. _I'd like you to meet my friend, Jimmy Table_. Sounded like something from an old gangster movie. _We know you're in there, Tony Recliner, come out with your hands up!_ He'd have to ask Dad. He knew he had German, French, and Dutch heritage, but that was pretty much it. The only time Dad ever talked about it was to tell him that they were related to some werido named de Sade.

He kind of liked that name. _I am Lincoln de Sade, the grand marquee of the French Rivera. Come into my villa and drink cheese wine with me_. He chuckled, and Alex looked at him, her eyes wide. "Pretty lights, huh?"

Her head bobbed slowly up and down.

Ahead, Jessy yawned. "Uh- _oh_ ," Ronnie Anne cooed, "it's awake."

"Probably hungry too," Lincoln said.

"Well," Ronnie Anne said as she reached into her purse, "luckily, I brought food." She pulled out a bottle and corked Jessy's mouth with it.

"You have a cheeseburger in there?" Lincoln asked. "Me and Alex are hungry too."

Alex licked her lips.

"Sorry," Ronnie Anne said, "no burgers. I think I have breath mints."

Lincoln looked at his daughter. "You want a breath mint?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, we'll eat that."

As it turned out, she _didn't_ have breath mints.

* * *

Leni opened the oven, squatted down, and winced as a rush of heat washed over her face. Like, there go my eyeballs. I mean eyebrows. But it was totally worth it, because the cookies looked _yummy_...and done. More or less. She threw a suspicious glance over her shoulder, nodded to the empty kitchen as though it were a willing accomplice, and faced forward again. "Alright, little cookie," she said and lifted the spatula, "come to auntie Leni." They were shaped like Santa heads and Christmas trees, and for a moment she couldn't decide which she wanted, but then she reached in, carefully wedged the spatula under an edible Douglas fir, and slowly, ever so slowly...

"What'cha doing?"

Leni jumped and emitted a sharp _Eeep!_ She whipped her head around, and Bobby Jr. grinned. "Stealing cookies?"

Leni's jaw dropped. "I am _not_ stealing. I made them. Now I'm tasting them to make sure they're done."

Bobby Jr. leaned forward on his tippy toes, his hands clasped behind his back. "They're not."

"How would _you_ know? You're just a kid."

He shrugged. "I've made cookies before."

"So have I. It's, like, a very delicate...you know...science."

She turned back around and pulled the spatula out with painstaking slowness, a lumpy, scrumptious cookie on the flat scrapy part. She licked her lips like a hungry cat, closed the oven, and stood, dropping the cookie onto a saucer she sat on the stove for just this purpose. When it fell, it kind of plopped.

"I'm telling you, auntie, it's not done," Bobby Jr. warned.

Leni waved him off. He just turned nine the other day. She was _twenty_ -nine. That's, like, nine times two. Therefore, she knew better. She picked up the saucer, brought it to her lips, and blew. Good, sugary smells filled his nose, and her pupils dilated. This is going to be _so_ good. She went to pick it up, and her fingers sank into it. She gasped and wrenched them back. "It's all gooey!"

"Because it's not done. You have to wait."

Leni pouted. "I don't _wanna_ wait. I want my cookie now." She and Mom spent all afternoon in the kitchen baking and stuff, and being around yummy treats made her tummy _really_ grumbly for one.

An idea struck her, and she smiled. "I know!" She went to a drawer, opened it, and took out a spoon. Then, on second thought, she grabbed another. She picked up the saucer, carried it to the table, and sat. Bobby Jr.'s brow furrowed.

"Do you wanna eat cookie soup with me?" Leni asked.

Bobby Jr. opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then grinned. "Okay!" He came over, sat, and picked up his spoon. Leni dug in, gathering a little gloop and bringing it to her lips.

"Hmmmm," she said, "it's good." A little wad flew out of her mouth and landed on the table. Bobby Jr. laughed. She laughed. He got sprayed.

"Ew!" he cried. "I wanted the news, not the weather!"

Leni blinked in confusion. "Huh?"

"Kids in school say it. It means I wanted you to talk to me, not spit on me."

"Oh! Okay!" She spooned another glob into her mouth, her eyes rolling back into her head. It was like raw cookie dough, only warm and soft. She really liked it. Probably better than _real_ cookies.

In the living room, Bobby Sr. took a drink of eggnog and flinched. Made it a little too strong, he thought. Lori sat next to him, her legs crossed and her elbow on her knee. Her mother sat in the armchair with a glass of non-alcoholic eggnog in her hand. Mr. Loud was threading lights through the branches of the tree and softly cursing to himself as every movement littered the carpet with pine needles. The turntable played alone in the corner, some kinda crooner, big band and swing shit:

 _He'll have a big fat pack upon his back_

 _And lots of goodies for you and me_

 _So leave a peppermint stick for old St. Nick_

 _Hanging on the Christmas tree._

"You want some help, pops?" Bobby asked.

"No, I got it," Mr. Loud said, "thanks anyway."

Male pride, you know. He looked like he could really use a hand but he was too proud. Bobby wouldn't have asked for help either...though if he was struggling _that_ hard, he wouldn't turn it down if it was offered.

"I talked to her on the phone last night," Mrs. Loud said. "She's going to be on TV tonight and I told her we'd watch."

"Oh," Lori said, "what show?"

"Dick Cavett."

"That's on late," Lori said uncertainly, "we might be in bed."

"It's on later than I like to be up as well," Mrs. Loud said, "but I'd like to see her and that's the only way." She sighed sadly.

Luna had been busy over the past couple months: She had a tour or something and a new album at the beginning of the month. One of her songs was high on the charts...he thought. It was on the radio all the time. It made him wonder: Did she get paid _every single time_ one of her songs was played? Man, that meant she was set for life! And that meant that bigger guys, like Elvis and The Beatles, never had to work another day in their lives. Imagine that. You have a couple of really big songs and that's that, you can retire. Kind of made him jealous. It sure beat working in a goddamn warehouse.

"Did she see Luan?"

Mrs. Loud nodded. "She drove out the day before yesterday."

Luan wrote a letter and called each week; she called on Fridays, and Mrs. Loud would sit patiently by the phone from the moment she got up to the moment it rang.

As the women talked and Mr. Loud wrestled with the tree, Bobby took another sip of eggnog. "Where's Leni?" Mrs. Loud suddenly asked and glanced toward the kitchen.

Almost as if on cue, Bobby Jr. came out wiping his mouth. "We're right here." Leni was behind him, chewing.

Mrs. Loud flattened her brow. "I hope you weren't getting into those cookies."

Leni shook her head and swallowed: The _not_ cookie got stuck in her throat and she started to choke. Bobby Jr. slapped her on the back, and she gulped. "Nope! We were, uh, coloring."

Bobby Jr. nodded quickly. "Coloring," he repeated.

"Oh? And what's that on your chin?"

Bobby Jr. looked up...then sighed and slumped his shoulders. "You're not very good at this," he said.

"Brown Crayons are yummy."

Lori and Mrs. Loud looked at each other and smiled longsufferingly. "I've told you not to eat raw cookie dough," Mrs. Loud said, "you're going to give yourselves listeria or something."

"Come have some eggnog," Bobby Sr. said, "put some hair on that little chest of yours."

Bobby Jr. brightened. "Okay!"

Lori shot daggers. " _Non-_ alcoholic eggnog."

Bobby Jr. dropped between his parents and reached for his father's mug. Bobby Sr. pulled it back. "You heard your mom; she's a square and doesn't want you to celebrate the _right_ way."

"I don't want him parked on the couch and guzzling beer every night like his father," Lori said.

Bobby Sr. laughed. "I don't guzzle. I sip like the classy sophisticate I am."

Lori nodded. "Umhm. Okay."

Bobby put his arm around his son's shoulder. "You think I'm classy, right, kid?"

Bobby Jr. looked up at his father and grinned nervously. "Yeah, sure, Dad."

* * *

Santa took Jessy in one arm and cradled her. "She's cute," he said. "She looks just like Daddy."

Lincoln opened his mouth to correct him, but decided not to. He sat Alex on the big guy's lap, and her eyes went _huge_. "That's Santa Claus," Ronnie Anne said, "he's nice. He brings you toys."

Alex's entire body was stiff. She looked anxiously from her father to her mother. _Help me_ , her expression said, and Lincoln laughed. "Don't be scared, honey. Santa's not going to hurt you."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Santa said and snaked one big, red clad arm around her waist.

She shook like a leaf, her lips quivering and her nose twitching. Lincoln stepped back and one of Santa's elves hurriedly snapped a picture. The flash did it: Alex threw back her head and let loose an ear-piercing wail of misery. "Aw," Santa said, "I guess Santa isn't everyone's cup of tea."

Lincoln picked Alex up. She took a deep breath, her watery eyes narrowed to slits, and screamed again. Lincoln bounced her and rubbed her back. "Baby, it's just Santa. He's your friend."

She shook her head violently back and forth, her pigtails swishing.

"Come on, lame-o," Ronnie Anne chuckled, "let's get her out of here before she _really_ gets mad."

They fought their way through the crowd, Alex's wails tapering off to whimpers and sniffles as Lincoln kissed her forehead and rubbed her back. "It's okay," he whispered, "he's all gone. No more bad Santa Claus."

At the mention of his name, the little girl trembled in his arms, and his heart broke. She'd probably have a Santa phobia for the rest of her life now: Instead of visions of fairies and sugar plumbs dancing in her head, it would be visions of a vicious, fanged Santa slipping down the chimney and creeping through the hallway, his back flat against the walls and his teeth coated with paralyzing venom. Instead of 'ho ho ho' it would be a long, snake like hiss.

Morbid, Linc, you're being morbid again.

Outside, clouds of snow danced across the parking lot. Ronnie Anne shivered and held Jessy closer. The baby whined. "I know, honey," Ronnie Anne said, "it's just for a minute."

At the car, Lincoln unlocked the back door and got Alex into her seat while Ronnie Anne climbed into the passenger seat still holding Jessy. Lincoln slipped in behind the wheel, buckled his seatbelt, and started the ignition: The radio came on. _"..America's Top 40 with me, your host Casey Kasem. This next song, coming in at number 25 today, comes courtesy of_ _Michael Anthony Orlando Cassavitis, though you might know him as Tony Orlando."_

Lincoln backed out of the spot as music started, brassy with a Spanish flavor. Trumpets? Other wind instruments? Lincoln didn't know. He was a piano and guitar kind of guy.

 _Hey girl what ya doin' down there_

 _Dancin' alone every night while I live right above you_

 _I can hear your music playin'_

 _I can feel your body swayin'_

 _One floor below me you don't even know me_

 _I love you_

Some asshole whipped out of his spot and nearly crashed into them. Lincoln slammed the brakes. "Bastard!" he yelled over his shoulder.

Alex started crying.

"Oh, honey, not you," Lincoln said. "The bad man who almost hit us."

Alex kicked her legs and whipped her head back and forth.

Wow. He felt really bad now.

"Good going, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, "she thinks she's a bastard now."

"Daddy's sorry, Alex," he said, his brow pinching with sorrow, "I really didn't mean it."

She cried even louder. Ronnie Anne laid her hand on his knee and he looked at her. "She's just tired, though Daddy yelling didn't help matters."

Lincoln sighed.

On the drive to his parents', Alex felt silent, and when he looked in the rearview mirror, her head was slumped forward, her chin lolling against her chest and tiny snores rising from her. It was snowing by the time they reached Franklin Avenue; the sun had gone down, and houses up and down the block glowed with soft electric Christmas lights; candles flickered in windows, and a group of carolers moved along the sidewalk. He pulled into the driveway and parked behind Bobby's car. Blinking red and green lights were strung along the garage overhang, and electric candles bathed glass with warm, inviting illumination.

Lincoln killed the engine. It ticked as it began to cool. "Let's be merry," he said as he got out. He opened the door, unstrapped Alex, and picked her up; her head flopped to the side and she let out a snort. At the front door, he knocked and waited, Ronnie Anne coming up beside him. Jessy's eyes were open and she stared at Lincoln as though she had never seen him before.

Dad answered. "Hey!" he cried happily. He was wearing a green sweater with a reindeer across the chest. Off to one side was a cartoonish rendition of his face (disembodied head floating through the jungles of Vietnam, Lincoln thought and cracked a grin). Next to it was a disembodied Leni head. They both wore Santa hats and smiled, their eyes upside U's of delight.

"Hey," Lincoln said, "nice, uh, sweater."

Dad glanced down. "Isn't it, though? It's my present from Leni. She made you guys something too. Come on in."

The living room was warm and bright. Lori and Bobby sat on the couch, Mom in the armchair. Leni was sitting in the middle of the floor across from Bobby Jr, a checkers board set up between them. "You can't move like that!" Bobby Jr. cried.

"Yes I can. I'm Leni and Lenis get special moves."

"So do Bobby Jrs!" He picked up a red piece and proceeded to jump every black piece on the board with a maniacal laugh. Leni pouted and slumped her shoulders.

The tree stood in the corner, trimmed with lights but undecorated (that came after dinner). A sea of presents surrounded it, giving Lincoln pause. Wow. The smell of ham filled the air and mingled with music from the hi-fi.

 _Rockin' around the Christmas tree_

 _Let the Christmas spirit ring_

 _Later we'll have some pumpkin pie_

 _And we'll do some caroling_

Lori glanced over, and smiled when she saw them. "Hey, baby bro! Glad you could _finally_ make it."

Leni looked up and brightened. "Hi, Lincy! Hi, Ronnie! Hi, Bunny! Hi, Baby Jessy!" She took a deep breath. "That was a mouthful."

Bobby Jr. tossed a glance over his shoulder. "Hey, uncle lame-o and aunt dummy."

"Dummy?" Ronnie Anne asked, taken aback.

"Yup."

She looked at his father. A mug of eggnog was half-raised to his lips. "He didn't hear that from me."

"Umhm," she said. "Leni, can you hold Jessy for a minute? I need to get the presents from the car."

Leni smiled widely. "Okay!" She jumped to her feet and came over, taking the swaddled infant with the tender care of a loving expert. "Hi, Baby Jessy, it's me, your auntie Leni. Merry Christmas!"

From the couch, Lori held her arms out. "I'll take Alex."

Lincoln carried her over and passed the sleeping girl to his older sister. "She's cranky," he said. "She, uh, had a bad time with Santa."

A shadow of concern flickered across Mom's face. "Why? What happened?"

In her sleep, Alex snuggled against Lori's chest as if unconsciously seeking refuge from the horrible fat man. "She just didn't like him. The picture's in the car. We're going to have copies made at the drugstore. I _wanted_ that to be part of everyone's gift, but Ronnie Anne likes waiting until the last minute."

Lori nodded. "She gets that from her brother."

Bobby shrugged. "Why do today what you can put off 'til tomorrow?"

"What is today but yesterday's tomorrow?" Mom asked. Bobby opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again when he realized she had a point.

Outside, Ronnie Anne was leaning into the back seat and gathering the presents. There was one for everyone: A Black and Decker electric drill for Dad, a 'relaxing' bath set for Mom, design material for Leni from the craft store (she pointed this specific fabric out to Lincoln the last time they were there together), matching bathrobe and slippers for Lori, a golden oldies record for Bobby (that was a last minute buy...Lincoln had no idea what to get the guy, and neither did Ronnie Anne...tsk, tsk, tsk, her own brother), and a Nerf ball for Bobby Jr. The advertisement depicted a boy and a girl both reaching for a pink ball, while underneath the text read: _"SAFE! The Nerf Ball is made of incredibly soft and spongey synthetic foam. Throw it around indoors; you can't damage lamps or break windows. You can't hurt babies or old people."_ Huh. Now _that's_ what you get a rambunctious nine-year-old boy for Christmas. Lincoln kind of wanted to test it out first...you know, just to be sure...not because slamming it against a lamp or into the Christmas tree sounded like fun.

"Damn it," Ronnie Anne spat as Lincoln came up behind her.

He cupped her butt in his hand and leaned over. "You alright?" he asked.

"Oh, good, you're here," she said, "take some of these presents."

They divided them up equally and carried them to the door, but guess what: Neither one had a free hand because they were carrying the same amount of stuff. Lincoln kicked the door and shivered as a blast of wind washed over him.

No one answered.

He kicked again. "Come on!"

The door opened, and Bobby Jr. looked up at him. "Thank –"

"We don't want any," he said, and slammed the door.

Lincoln heard it lock.

"Little _shit_ ," Lincoln sneered.

It unlocked and Leni smiled. "Hi, Lincy, hi Ronnie. When did you guys get here?"

"Just now," Lincoln said.

Inside, he sat the presents with the others and stepped back, his hands flying to his hips. Wow. There were a _lot_ of gifts. He scanned them, and saw a few with FROM LUNA on them and a couple with FROM LYNN. Then there was one marked FROM LUNA + LUAN.

"Where's the present you got me?" Bobby Jr. asked from Lincoln's side. Lincoln didn't even hear the boy come up.

"I left it out in the snow," Lincoln said.

"Why?" Bobby Jr. asked, hurt creeping into his voice.

Lincoln shrugged. "You said you didn't want any."

"I do! I do!"

"Go grab it, then."

The boy rushed to the door and out into the night on a desperate search for a present that wasn't there. "Bobby!" Lori called after him. "What are you doing?"

Now was a good time to get a glass of eggnog and look as innocent as humanly possible, Lincoln thought. He went into the kitchen where Leni was sitting at the table with Jessy in her arms. When Lincoln entered, his older sister froze, her cheeks bulging.

"What're you doing there, Leni?" Lincoln asked, already knowing.

Leni shook her head.

He grabbed a pitcher of eggnog off the table and sniffed it. This was the one with alcohol in it. He didn't particularly like alcohol, but what the hell, it's Christmas. He poured some into a mug.

"You're not...eating cookies, are you?"

Leni shook her head.

"Good," he said and took a sip (hot fuck, this is strong!). "You'll spoil your dinner."

Leni forgot herself and said: "I know." Bits of cookie sprayed out and landed on Jessy's swaddle. The older girl swallowed. "I was just taste testing."

In the living room, Lincoln sat between the arm and Ronnie Anne, who was currently picking on her brother by poking him in the head.

"Cut it out," Bobby said and pulled away.

"No," Ronnie Anne replied and jabbed him again.

"Lincoln, call her off."

Lincoln opened his mouth to tell Bobby Ronnie Anne was her own woman and blah blah blah, but before he could, a snowball crashed into the side of his head. He whipped around, and Bobby Jr. stood in the doorway. "There was no present out there!"

"Bobby!" Lori called sharply. "You do _not_ throw snowballs in the house!"

"But he –"

"Get your ass in here and sit down," his father said.

Bobby Jr.'s shoulders sagged.

"Now."

He pulled the door closed behind him and came into the living room. Lincoln rubbed the side of his face: Kid really packed it tight. Bobby Jr. looked at him as he passed, his eyes narrowing. "This isn't over, lame-o."

Like a shot, Bobby Sr. surged forward and smacked the boy across his ass. Bobby Jr. cried out, his back bowing. "Show your uncle some respect."

"I'm sorry!"

Lori sighed. "Sometimes that kid drives me nuts."


	74. December 1970: Part 2

Luna crossed her arms defiantly. "I am _not_ wearing a Santa hat on national television." She was sitting on the couch in the green room backstage at _The Dick Cavett Show_. It was late afternoon and the taping started in twenty minutes (apparently they record these things now and show them later – kind of takes some of the magic out of it if you asked her). Tex was next to her, his legs crossed and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes darted from her to Bobby Preston, who stood before them.

"Come on," Bobby Preston said, "where's your Christmas spirit?"

"Bah humbug."

Bobby Preston bowed his head and shook it slowly.

"First you want me to sing Rudolph the fucking Red Nosed Reindeer, now you want me to dress up as Santa. No. Not gonna happen." Her voice rose on the last four words as her annoyance grew. It was Christmas Eve, she was tired and sore and bloated and all she wanted to do was lie down. Instead, she had to get up and go sing in front of hot lights. She _was_ going to cancel and fly home, but Bobby Preston talked her out of it, saying it wouldn't be fair to everyone else in the band. She relented, but told him she was spending next Christmas with them, and if he didn't like it he could take a hike.

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Pfft. And a Santa hat. Tacky as shit.

Bobby Preston threw up his hands. "Fine. I thought just it would be fun and festive. That's all."

Luna sniffed.

"What about this: Take off your shirt, your bra, have your boobies hanging out, and put some Christmas lights around your neck." His laughter started strong but slowly died as Luna's face set into a deadly glower. "I was joking. Goddamn. You're a Grinch."

Luna stared daggers at him.

He pointed at her. "You know, you keep this up and three ghosts are gonna visit you tonight."

"Go light a menorah."

Tex snickered and choked on his smoke.

Bobby Preston sighed. "Fine." He turned and stalked away, ducking left and disappearing. Luna reached for her Lucky Strikes and took one out. It trembled in her hand. Sheesh, she was as bad as Leni.

Tex leaned forward, stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, and sat back, his arms crossing over his chest. Luna was annoyed with him, too: Everywhere she went he followed. Guy was shoved so far up her ass he was wearing her brain as a hat. _You look sick,_ he said, _you really need to see a doctor._

 _Fuck you, man, I'm fine._

 _No you're not. You look like shit. You barely move. Something's wrong._

That's how their last tour started, and she spent most of it thereafter completely ignoring his ass. He was right, though, at least partly; she didn't move as much as she used to. She stood in one place and sang, and when she wasn't onstage she sat. She didn't know why, but she got winded real easy, and even a little bit of movement made her heart race like she just ran a mile. Coke made it ten times worse, so she cut back, which made her grumpy and lazy. And depressed. All she wanted to do was sleep, but when she laid down she couldn't.

She lit her cigarette and inhaled. It tasted like shit. _Everything_ tasted like shit. She propped her elbow on the arm of the couch and rested her face in her palm. She was _not_ looking forward to this performance.

"How you feeling?" Tex asked.

"Fine, mother," she muttered.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure tired. And down."

He nodded. "Cocaine withdrawal."

"No, dick, it's called not being with your family on Christmas," she shot back.

He shrugged. "Well, that too. I know you don't wanna hear it, but that stuff's really messing you up."

She sighed. She'd never tell him, because she was proud, but he was right. It _was_ fucking her up. Alright. And...yeah...maybe she _did_ have a little bit of a problem with it. She was working on it, though. She wasn't doing as much (a little sniff once a day) and already she was seeing results. She was still bloated, but not as much as before. Her face looked fine (though her eyes were still kind of puffy); it was mainly in her feet and legs. She already decided she was going to give up coke entirely. All she needed was a long stretch of time where she didn't have to do anything...no recording, no touring, just lying in bed and sobering up. Her January was clear, so that's when she'd do it. Oh, it wouldn't be easy, but you know what: She was Luna motherfucking Loud. She could do _anything_.

The one thing that worried her was what version of Luna Loud she would be when it was over. Would she be depressed? She was when she started, and she was every time she stopped. Of course, when she really got going with it, Lincoln was missing in Vietnam and deep down she thought he was dead. If that doesn't depress you, man, you don't have a heart. He was okay, though. As for her career...she'd been doing a lot of thinking over the past few months, and she came to a conclusion: She wanted to take a break. Her heart just wasn't in it. Of course that could be the coke, who knows? Still, she wanted to take a year off, and then see where things went from there. If after that break she was itching to get back to writing and performing, then, hey, all she needed was a vacation. If she wasn't, then...maybe it was time to pack it up and start the next chapter.

What would she do, though? Music is the only thing that ever really interested her. Maybe she could retire from recording and write for other people. Yeah, that might work. She still got enjoyment out of writing lyrics, though these days it took her a while to really get into the groove; whereas she could write a song in fifteen minutes before, now it took her a couple hours.

You know, I'll worry about that later. First thing's first: Cleaning out. Once she was over that hurdle, she'd take everything else on.

"I don't mean to nag you, Luna, I'm just worried about you."

Luna bit back a _fuck off_. She heard sincerity in his voice, and that was really nice, you know, that he cared. It didn't make him any less irritating, but it _did_ make it a little harder to get mad at him.

"I appreciate it," she said. "I'm going to give it up, okay?"

He didn't reply for a moment. "You've said that before."

"Yeah, but I mean it this time. Being high is fun and all, but I need to find myself, you know?"

"Self-discovery is a good thing," he said.

Luna nodded. "Yeah."

"You think you wanna...quit the band?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly, "I know I need some time off, though. Just to...step back and see."

He nodded. "I don't blame you. Truth be told, I'm getting kind of burned out myself. I don't like touring any more than you do, and being in the studio all the time with producers yapping at you and the record company pissing and moaning and making requests and complaints and...I don't know, it takes all the fun out of it."

"Exactly," she said.

"It didn't used to feel like work, now it does."

Luna yawned. "It's lame."

"Pretty much." He grinned. "I like that money, though."

"It's alright." Luna spent most of her money on coke. And rent. Otherwise, there wasn't much else it went toward. She put a thousand on Luan's books at the prison so she'd have money for the commissary, and each of her siblings (and both of her parents) got a thousand in the Christmas cards she sent (she tucked them inside the presents as a little surprise, heh). Overall, she just wasn't a big spender. Some people wanted things, she wanted accomplishment, happiness, and to make people feel the way Bill Haley and Chuck Berry and Elvis once made her feel. Fast cars, expensive jewelry, and big houses just weren't her thing. If they were, though, she'd totally indulge herself. She wasn't spendthrift because she was humble, she just didn't like anything.

Well...and this might sound crazy coming from Luna motherfucking Loud...but there's one thing she did kind of like, a thing that she always dug but never really wanted to own.

Kids.

She really liked hanging out with Alex, Jessy, Lynn, and Bobby Jr. Did she want kids of her own? Eh...she didn't know. Hanging with your nieces and nephew is a hell of a lot different than actually _having_ a child...you know, for keeps. You can have fun with kids that aren't yours then hand them back to their parents when it's time to _not_ have fun, you can't do that with your own kids.

She shook her head and realized she was clutching the cross that reminded her of Lincoln. She did that when she was deep in thought, her fingers either worrying the beads or tracing the little plastic Jesus. Sometimes she wondered about that guy: What would he say to her if he was standing right where Bobby Preston just stood? She was a good person. She didn't hurt anyone. Jesus couldn't be _too_ upset with her, right? Probably not, but the thought of him standing there, looking at her, made her a little uncomfortable...and kind of ashamed.

She yawned again. Maybe she'd take a nap before show time. She slouched down, crossed her arms, and closed her eyes. "Wake me when it's time to go on," she said.

"Alright," Tex said.

She didn't see the worried look he gave her.

* * *

Lynn Loud Jr. had lived in Arizona for going on ten years (Jesus, that long?), and while he liked to think he had grown accustomed to the place, there was one thing he would never for as long as he lived get used to: Bright, sunny, 65 degree Christmas Eves. In Michigan, December was a cold, dark, blustery month full of slush, snow, and ice, but here in Tucson, it was T-shirt weather. It was really the strangest, most _alien_ thing. Another really weird thing was seeing Christmas lights strung through palm trees, something people with palms in their yards often did out here. In his mind, the two were as far removed from each other as pizza and ice cream – both were great, but if you see a big scoop of ice cream on a slice of pizza, you're going to say _hey, that's pretty damn weird_. He read somewhere that in Australia, Christmas happens smack dab in the middle of summer and a lot of people go to the beach that day. Wild, huh?

Presently, Lynn grabbed a stack of papers from the desk, shoved them into his briefcase, and snapped it closed. He picked it up and went outside, where Big Bill was dressing down the new mechanic for taking so long with a Chevy he wanted on the lot _now_. Why the old man insisted on working Christmas Eve, Lynn would never know: Despite what you might think, December 24th is one of the used car game's slowest days. At least it was for _their_ used car game. A dozen people came in...if that. They spent more money staying open than they made, and while Lynn wasn't the smartest businessman in the world, he was pretty sure that defeated the purpose.

"I'm heading out," he said as he passed.

Big Bill stopped reaming the mechanic long enough to glance at him. "Alright. See you tomorrow."

Lynn got into his car and drove home through the weakening late afternoon sunlight. He was excited for Christmas this year unlike he had been any other year previously because this time around, Lynn III understood the concept of Santa Claus...kind of. Whenever he or Kathy mentioned Santa bringing her toys, her big brown eyes lit up and she would bounce with delight. Last week they took her to see Santa at Sears and Roebuck...she didn't particularly like him. She didn't cry or anything, but as she sat on his lap, she was stiff as a board and her face was the color of milk. She wasn't shy, but maybe a big three hundred pound man in red crying _"Ho! Ho! Ho!"_ isn't a two-year-old's idea of a good time. Come to think of it, wasn't there a point when _he_ was afraid of Santa? He seemed to think there was. Can you blame him? Guy can be pretty creepy.

At home, Lynn pulled into the driveway at the same time his neighbor George pulled into his. Lynn got out. George got out. They were both wearing short-sleeve button up shirts with black ties. Both carried briefcases.

Inside, Kathy was making dinner and Lynn was sitting in the middle of the floor wearing a onesie Leni made her: On the chest was a baseball wearing a Santa hat. Kathy got a red scarf and Lynn got a Santa hat, only the little white ball at the end was a baseball. It was kind of tacky, but kind of cute at the same time. Lynn looked up from her toys, saw him, and smiled. _"Dada!"_

"Hi, baby!"

Lynn got to her feet and toddled over, her arms out. _"Sana!"_

"That's right," he said and scooped her up, "Santa's coming tonight."

She clapped her chubby little hands to his cheeks, leaned in, and screamed, _"Sana!"_

"Santa!" Lynn screamed back.

" _Sana!"_

"Santa!"

She pressed her head against his face and squirmed energetically. He carried her over to the couch and dropped her on. She landed and looked up at him for a stunned second...then laughed.

"You and your daughter give me a headache," Kathy said, leaning out of the kitchen.

"Santa!" Lynn yelled, and tickled the little girl. She shrieked laughter, rolled over, and slipped off the couch.

Lynn went over and kissed Kathy on the cheek. "How was your day?" he asked.

"Busy," she said, "me and Mama went shopping. Yours?"

Lynn shrugged and went to the fridge. "Typical day," he replied as he opened it and took out a can of Coca-Cola. "Well...not really. We had, like, five people come in."

Kathy nodded. "Same every year. I don't know why Daddy stays open. It doesn't make any sense to me."

Lynn sat at the kitchen table, opened the soda, and took a long drink. Lynn III waddled in and crossed to him. She slapped his leg, stood on her tippy-toes, and let out a long grunt through little bared teeth. "You want some?" he asked, and she rocked back and forth. He chuckled, held the can to her lips, and tipped it up. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. "That's good stuff, huh?" Lynn asked.

She kept drinking. And drinking. And drinking. "Alright, alright," Lynn said and took the can away, "that's enough."

The little girl slapped his leg. _"Duh!"_

"No more soda, honey," Kathy said, "you're gonna ruin your dinner."

Dinner, as it turned out, was ready less than half an hour later: Pot roast, potatoes, carrots, onions, and rice on the side. Southern people loved their rice. You know what else they love? Tabasco sauce. Lynn liked it, too. You can put it on anything and make it edible. As they ate, Kathy fed little Lynn scraps of beef and bits of potatoes. After every bite she _mmmm_ 'ed and rocked back and forth.

"What'd you get today?" Lynn asked, breaking the silence.

Kathy cut a potato in half and sat it in front of her daughter. "Well, I can't say what I got you. I can say what I got Daddy, though."

Lynn swallowed a mouthful of rice drenched in Tabasco. "What'd you get him?"

"A belt buckle with his initials on it," Kathy said proudly.

Sounded loud, gaudy, and braggadocios. "He'll love it."

Kathy grinned. "I know. It took them a while to do the engraving but it's worth it." Lynn slapped the tray, and Kathy cut a piece of beef in half with her fork. "You would not believe how busy it was. It's kind of funny, no one likes waiting to the last moment but so many people do it."

"Like you and your mother?" Lynn asked archly.

Kathy grinned. "Like me and Mama."

After dinner, Lynn and Kathy did the dishes then went into the living room. Little Lynn was standing by the tree, looking up at it. They put it up two days ago, and the girl had made it her life's mission to harass it. The carpet with littered with needles from previous assaults, and yesterday she even managed to succeed in knocking it over. "Away from there, little girl," Kathy said. Lynn looked over her shoulder with a blank expression. _I wasn't doing anything wrong. I promise._ Kathy picked her up. "You wanna help Mama make cookies?"

Lynn's eyes lit up and she bounced in her mother's arms. _"Cookie! Cookie!"_

"What kind of cookies should we make?" Kathy asked as she and the little girl went into the kitchen.

" _Cookie! Cookie! COOKIE!"_

Lynn laughed to himself. When it came to sweets, she was just as bad as her aunt Leni.

While his girls made cookies (smelled like chocolate, ummm), he went into the attic and got the box of decorations, which he sat beside the tree. Next, he changed out of his work clothes and into a pair of tan slacks and a green polo shirt, then visited the bathroom for some alone time...Tabasco sauce was good, but it went right through him sometimes. When he was done, he came back out just as Kathy and Lynn came into the living room. "You ready?" Kathy asked.

They decorated the tree, Lynn holding his daughter and laughing when she slapped the branches. "No, you don't _hit_ the tree, you make it look pretty. See?" He hung a red ball from a high bough. She reached up to touch it...but swatted it instead. _"Baybah_."

"That's not a baseball," Lynn said, "it's a –"

" _Baybah!"_

"It's –"

" _BAY-BAH!"_

Okay. It was a baseball.

After decorating the tree, Lynn plugged it in, and soft white light filled the room. "That's pretty, huh?" Kathy asked.

Lynn bobbed her head up and down.

Kathy took the cookies out of the oven and sat them on the stove to cool, then they went into the living room and gathered in front of the TV to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_. With his arm around his wife and his daughter snuggled in his lap, it _was_ a pretty wonderful life.

* * *

After dinner, they gathered in the living room, their stomachs filled with ham, stuffing, green beans, and pumpkin pie. Leni sat on the floor with Alex between her legs and Bobby Jr. in front of her, all three of them happily munching cookies. Lincoln slipped his arm around Ronnie Anne's shoulders and she leaned her head against his; Bobby held Lori's hand; and Mom sat on the edge of Dad's knee, his arm around her waist. On TV, Jimmy Stewart ran elatedly through the streets, his depression forgotten as he realized he had a wonderful life after all.

"Who's ready for presents?" Dad asked.

"Me!" Bobby Jr. cried.

"Ooo, me too!" Leni pipped up.

Alex looked around quizzically.

Leni got up, went over to the tree, and rummaged around. "I'll be Santa," she said. She picked up two boxes and brought them into the living room; she handed one to Bobby Jr. and sat the other in front of Alex, who looked at it warily. Bobby Jr. turned the box over in his hands, held it to his ear, and shook it. "You can actually, like, open it, you know," Leni said.

"Okay!"

Bobby Jr. shredded the wrapping paper with his fingers, reminding Lincoln of a badger or something, and pulled out a box. "Oh, wow!"

"What is it?" Bobby Sr. asked.

Bobby Jr. proudly held up a slim red package. In yellow was HASBRO and below that in white was GI JOE. A drawing of a man with fuzzy hair and a beard took up the rest of the space. WITH LIFE LIKE HAIR AND BEARD blared black text in a yellow bubble. The boy ripped it open and pulled out an action figure in camouflage and combat boots.

"Come on," Lincoln said, throwing up a hand, "his CO would have his ass for breakfast for having hair like that."

Mom shot him a dirty look, and for a second he didn't know why...then he did. "I mean butt."

"It's a toy, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, "relax."

"His hair's _cool!"_ Bobby Jr. said.

"It's _totally_ fashionable," Leni said and knelt next to Alex. "You gonna open your present from auntie Leni?"

Alex looked up at her, then at the gift. _"Uh?"_

"Yeah," Leni said, "that's to Bunny from auntie Leni." She reached out and ripped the paper. Alex giggled and slapped it, her little fingers tearing even more. When it was open, Leni reached in and pulled out a doll in a pink dress: She had buttons for eyes and a red, frozen smile. "It's a dolly!"

"It's creepy," Bobby Jr. said.

Lori slapped his arm. "It's cute."

Leni handed the doll out to Alex, who looked at it with big eyes. Lincoln expected her to start crying; instead she broke out in a big smile and threw her arms around it.

"Aw," Ronnie Anne said, "she likes your gift, Leni."

"I like your gift too!" Bobby Jr. said. His GI Joe was now holding a little toy revolver in its hand. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome!"

She went back to the tree and filled her arms with presents, handing one to Mom, one to Dad, one to Lori, one to Bobby, and one to Ronnie Anne. Ronnie Anne handed hers to Lincoln. "Here, I have an arm full of baby. Open this."

Lincoln took it and ripped the paper and pulled out a picture frame. In it was a picture of him and Ronnie Anne about age twelve with their arms around each other, each one wearing a tiny, inscrutable grin. Across the bottom of the frame in white was: OOOO THEY LIKE EACH OTHER. Lincoln laughed, and Ronnie Anne looked over, her eyes slightly widening. "Oh, wow," she said. Lincoln handed it to her and she studied it with a hazy smile.

"I found the picture in the attic," Leni said as she handed a present to Lincoln. He took it and almost dropped it. It was small but heavy. "I made the frame myself."

"I love it," Ronnie Anne said sincerely; her eyes were misty with emotion.

"Good," Leni said. She leaned down and pecked Ronnie Anne on the forehead. "Merry Christmas."

Lincoln checked the nametag on his present. FROM LORI + BOBBY it said. "You're gonna like it," Bobby said. "I almost kept it for myself."

Oh, that good, huh? He ripped the paper off to reveal a white box. He lifted the lid, and his jaw dropped. "Holy...mother," he said, catching himself at the last minute. Ronnie Anne glanced over, saw it, and rolled her eyes.

"Like you need another one of _those_ ," she teased.

Lincoln reached in and pulled out a nickel plated 1911AI Colt with a white pearl handle. He carried a 1911 in Vietnam, though his was standard GI issue and nowhere _near_ as nice as this.

"Better than that little pawn shot .38 you got in your glovebox, huh?" Bobby asked.

"Whoa!" Bobby Jr. cried. "That's a cool gun!"

"How much did this cost?" Lincoln asked, aiming at the wall and staring down the sights. Perfectly aligned. It looked brand spanking new. It must have been expensive with a capital 'E'.

"Not as much as you think," Bobby said, "a guy at work has a brother who's a gun dealer and he gave me a good deal.

"He _literally_ wanted to keep it," Lori said, "but I told him no. Linc's a professional and he's an amateur. He'd probably shoot himself in the foot."

Lincoln studied the gun from grip to barrel. It was _beautiful_. "Thank you," he said, "I really like it." He'd been thinking of getting another gun for a while now, a rifle this time so he could take it to the range on Route 10 and one day teach the girls to shoot.

Leni handed a gift to Ronnie Anne. "That's for Baby Jessy," she said, "I hope she likes it."

Ronnie Anne opened it: A pink blanket with JESSICA DANIELLE LOUD 11/13/70 in a big red heart. "It's beautiful," Ronnie Anne said, "just like all your gifts."

The pile of gifts slowly widdled away. The gift to Jessy from Luna and Luan was a jumble of baby toys and clothes: Blocks, dolls, an activity mat, outfits from what Lincoln could only assume were high end shops. Also inside were a letter from Luan and a card from Luna. The former included a drawing Luan had apparently done of a heart with Jessy's name in it, and the latter included money. Lots of money. Lincoln slipped it into his shirt pocket without even counting it. He appreciated her sending money, but it always made him feel uncomfortable.

Bobby ripped open the album Lincoln got him. "After your gift, I feel bad for getting you _that_."

"Nah, man," Bobby grinned, "this is cool. I saw something like this on TV a while back and dropped a hint to your sister but she's clueless."

Lori slapped his arm and he laughed.

"These are the just materials I wanted!" Leni cried. "You, like, read my mind, Lincy!"

Lincoln didn't know if she was exaggerating or if she had simply forgotten their brother-sister excursion to the craft store, and he really didn't _want_ to know. She came over and threw her arms around him, and he hugged her tightly. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied, "I'm glad you like them."

Bobby Jr. opened his gift from Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. "Oh, wow, a ball I can throw at old people!" He aimed at his grandfather and cocked his arm.

Lynn put up his hands. "Go ahead and try."

Bobby threw it, and Lynn caught.

"You're pretty good!" Bobby said.

"I played ball in school," he said, "for a season." He tossed the ball back to his grandson.

"I wonder if it'll hurt the Christmas tree," Bobby Jr. said. Before anyone could stop him, he whipped his arm back and sent the ball flying: It smashed into the tree, sending ornaments and pine needles to the ground. He winced, and the tree toppled over, the cord ripping from the wall and the lights going dark.

Bobby Sr. sat forward, his hand raising. "I'm sorry!" the little boy yelled in holy terror.

Lori stayed her husband's hand. "Bobby, you're not stupid, you knew full well what would happen."

"It's alright," Mom said, "no harm done. Though I suggest you don't throw that ball at anyone or anything else."

"I'm sorry, Nana." Bobby Jr. said, "honest."

Dad got up with a grunt and went to right the tree. Alex watched him over her shoulder, her brow clinched in confusion. "Your cousin Bobby knocked over the tree," Leni said and picked her up. "Bobby's _bad_."

"It said it was safe for babies and old people!"

"Not Christmas trees," Lincoln said. He chuckled. He had the same thought, which just proved that there was still a little boy somewhere deep down, underneath the father, dumpster manager, and war veteran.

Bobby Jr. shrugged. "Some old people are as weak as Christmas trees."

Lincoln started to argue, but the kid had a point, so he shut up.

* * *

Luan Loud stood by her cell window, a faraway look in her eyes. Past the razor wire fence surrounding the prison, the thirsty landscape stretched for miles and miles east. Hazy mountains defined the horizon, and she wondered again if they were in Arizona or California. From what she had gathered, the border was only fifteen miles away, and those mountains could very well be that or more.

She looked out that window a lot. Freedom was achingly close, yet so far away; sometimes she imagined herself simply walking through those barren fields, the breeze in her hair and the sun warm on her shoulders...and other times she just watched because it was look outside or look at the walls. Or draw. She'd been doing a lot of drawing too. Kind of hard to focus on that when it's Christmas Eve, you're depressed, and you miss your daughter so much your stomach aches and you feel like you're going to die. She looked at the picture in her hand and smiled wanly: In it, Lincoln held Jessy in his arms. She was awake and her big, hazel eyes were staring at the camera. She blinked back tears and stared out the window again. A guard with a rifle in his hands and sunglasses on his face moved along the balcony wrapping around the top of one of the towers. He wore a brown short sleeved shirt and dark brown pants. Every fifteen minutes he'd do that: Walk around once or twice then go back inside.

Luan sighed and went to her bed, where she sat. A notepad was open to the beginnings of her latest drawing: A vast, open field of flowers with a bright, happy sun looking down like a pleased deity. She drew a lot of wide, expansive landscape scenes, because those represented freedom to her, and being free with what she wanted most of all.

Well...right now what she wanted above all was to spend Christmas with her daughter. She didn't have to be free; they could take her back just as long as she got a few hours with her little girl.

That wasn't going to happen, though, at least not for a while. Marvin Belli filed an appeal in October, and it was currently being processed through the system at glacial speeds. She figured she should hear back about it by the time she'd been out twenty years. At least she had Luna's visits to look forward to. She'd be back on the 27th. Three days. Only three days. 72 hours. 4,320 minutes. 259,200 seconds. No time at all.

She picked up the notepad and looked at her drawing. She didn't feel like finishing it. She didn't feel like starting another. She didn't feel like doing anything but curling up in a ball, which she presently did. She told herself it would be better once the holiday season passed, but she knew that it wouldn't. She would still be alone, she would still be separated from her daughter, she would still be sad and empty and suffering. Nothing would change that except for getting out and going back to her family. Until then, there would always be a hole in her heart, and a darkness in her soul.

How was she going to do this? She'd only been here two and a half months, and each day was an eternity. She tried to imagine another year, two, ten, or, oh God, the whole fifteen, but her mind rebelled. She wouldn't make it...she would wither up and die like a flower without water.

She blinked tears from her eyes and took a deep breath. Self-pity would get her nowhere...it would only make things more difficult. She knew that, but she couldn't help herself.

 _Merry Christmas, Luan Loud,_ she thought and sniffed, _and Happy New Year._

* * *

Luna Loud made it through her appearance on _The Dick Cavett Show_ – somehow. And barely. After it was over, she dragged herself back to the green room and plopped onto the couch like a piece of boneless chicken. Some dude with a bald head and big sunglasses was on the opposite end, his chin resting in his palm and his index finger tapping the side of his face as he presumably waited his turn to go on. Luna raked her hand through her hair and drew a deep breath. She had a hankering for a big blast of coke, but she already had her daily allotment...which most likely meant a long, sleepless night. Can't have _that_...Santa won't come.

Bobby Preston stuck his head in the door, saw her, and grinned. "There you are. You did great."

She gave him a half-hearted thumbs' up.

"There's gonna be a little after show get together, you know, since it's Christmas and all. You should go."

"I am going – home."

"Aw, come on, Scrooge. It's gonna be fun. Finger sandwiches...I think I saw some chicken...candy or cake. Gotta be candy or cake."

Luna shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you."

Bobby Preston sighed. "Alright. Go home. Be boring."

"I am."

Shaking his head, he disappeared, and she crossed her arms. _When I find the energy._ She felt like completely drained...like if she got up she'd collapse limply to the floor, and maybe turn into a puddle. The poor bastards would _never_ get her out of the carpet; she'd still be here in the year 2000. _Hey, nice space suit. Is that a guitar? They had less tubes and nuclear reactors in_ my _day._ Nuclear powered guitar. Heh. That'd be a cool name for an album. Hey! That could be the one with the mushroom cloud on the cover! See? Head tap, always thinking. That's how you make it in this business. You can't be a dumbass. Well, you _can_ be a dumbass, but you have to have someone around who isn't.

Yeah...she had to get up. Can't stay here all night. She did _not_ feel like it, though. She just wanted to not move. At all.

With a grunt, she got to her feet and swayed as a dizzy spell came over her. Oh, yeah, she needed to lie down.

It wasn't until she was half way home that she realized she probably shouldn't be driving. Eh. It's not like she'd never done anything dangerous before. At home, she turned on the TV and flopped onto the couch, stretching out and slipping one arm under her head. Ahhh, that's the stuff. Better than some dumb Christmas party with a bunch of lame people. And finger sandwiches. What was the point of those things, anyway? _Do you like eating but_ dislike _being full?_ Most horsderves are like that, you know, so small and unsatisfying. Shrimp was the same way, come to think of it. She loved shrimp but she never really ate it because you had to have fifty of the suckers just to make a meal. If you didn't have something else. Like crab legs. Cracking and breaking and fighting like a dog for little slivers of meat.

She drifted off at some point, and came awake when someone knocked on the door. On TV, what should be on but _The Dick Cavett Show_.

 _This better not be another Sharon Tate dream,_ she thought as she got up and staggered to the door. She made a fist with her right hand. If she opened it and Sharon Tate was there, she was going to knock her block off. _I don't have your baby_. She didn't have those dreams much anymore, but every once in a while one would get her. _I'm back, you fucking bitch!_

It wasn't Sharon Tate.

It was Tex.

"What the hell do _you_ want?" Luna asked, more surprised than annoyed.

"I was thinking maybe we could hang out for bit. Watch TV or something. You know...spend Christmas together. Hell, we're friends, aren't we?"

Luna started to tell him to get lost, but, you know, he was a nice dude (even if he did get on her nerves from time to time). "Alright, yeah," she said and stepped aside. He nodded and came in. She shut the door, locked it, and crossed to the sofa, where she sat and crossed her arms. It was cold in here.

For a moment he stood awkwardly by the door with his hands on his hips, then came into the living room and glanced at the TV. "You waiting for us to go on?"

"I was sleeping," she said.

He nodded. "Ah."

"Can you sit down? You're making me nervous standing there like that."

He chuckled, sat at the end of the sofa, and took his hat off; he dropped it onto the coffee table and leaned back. "Missed you at the party," he said.

Luna grabbed her pack of cigarettes off the coffee table, slipped one out, and lit it. "I bet it was a blast."

He shrugged one shoulder. "The food was good. I'd have brought you some, but I didn't want you to take it the wrong way."

Luna inhaled and grimaced. This cigarette tastes like shit. She stubbed it out. Whatever. "I got food. I'm fine."

Tex nodded. "I know." He was quiet for a moment. "Your family do anything special for Christmas? They make a turkey or something?"

"Sometimes," Luna said and drew her legs under her body, "sometimes it's a ham. We had duck one year."

On TV, Dick Cavett took a commercial break, and a voiceover artist spent the next thirty seconds going through the entire life story of this orphanage from its founding in 174someshit to its current renovations – then segued into pitching paint from Sears. Really? All that to sell paint? Why not just _fucking talk about the paint?_

"Duck's good eating," Tex said.

The paint commercial ended. Another started: Some blonde chick was smoking a cigarette, then an irritating jingle started. _Kent got it all together...Kent got it all together..._

"Yeah, it was pretty good," Luna said, even though she couldn't remember _how_ the fucking stuff tasted.

A guy took a drag of his Kent Menthol 100 ( _the new kind of menthol refreshment_ ) and smiled; a woman carrying a bag of groceries did the same. _Maybe I oughta try Kent,_ Luna thought, _look how happy it's making_ them.

Tex crossed his arms and shifted. "My granddaddy used to roast a whole pig for Christmas. We'd eat on that thing for a month." He chuckled. "By the time it was all said and done, you'd be so sick of pork you wouldn't eat it again 'til next Christmas."

"A whole pig?" Luna asked, and glanced at him. "Even the guts?"

"Well, no, not the _guts._ We'd eat the feet and the snout, though."

Luna gagged. "Man, that's gross."

"Pigs feet are good if you cook 'em right. The snout...snout's a little tough."

Luna nodded. "It's a snout. What do you expect?"

"Another thing that's good are chicken livers."

Luna's face crinkled in disgust. "Uhh."

"They're not much different than beef livers...just more chickeny."

That made Luna snicker, and that snicker turned into a laugh. She shook her head, and his quizzical expression made her laugh even harder. "Of course it's chickeny, man, it's chicken."

"I guess," he said.

On TV, Dick Cavett was back and talking to Luna Loud. Luna paused and watched intently, not because she was vain, but because, wow, seeing yourself on TV is uncanny...kind of like an out of body experience. She tilted her head and tried to remember if she had ever seen herself on television before, but couldn't. She didn't _think_ so. "There _I_ am," Tex said. He was in the background holding his guitar and looking impatient. "I had to piss. I didn't go before we went on."

"Why?"

"I was gonna, but Bobby grabbed me before I could and told me to go out. That man's gonna give himself a heart attack one day worrying so much."

Dick laughed at something Luna said, then stepped away. She grabbed the mic and started to sing. Was it bad that she had completely forgotten what song she did until she heard it? It was the third single off the new album. _Fool (To Let You Go)._ Blake and Charlie wrote it between lovers' spats.

" _I was a fool to let you go_

 _And I miss you more and more_

 _I'm cryin now_

' _Cause I'm findin out_

 _What it's like to be alone."_

It reminded her a lot of her and Daggy...which is why she already didn't like singing it. The one she wrote was nice and happy because when she was composing it, she was in a nice and happy headspace, surrounded by memories and good vibes and what the ever else. This song _wasn't_ happy.

The camera panned to Tex. "That's my pee-pee dance," he said, nodding toward the screen.

Luna studied her TV counterpart's face. His skin was sallow and dark bags hung under her puffy eyes. Her cheeks, so recently bloated, were hollow. She looked like _shit_.

When the song was over, the audience clapped, then it cut to commercial. Luna shook her head and massaged her temples. She had another urge to do a line or ten, but ignored it. "So, how's your sister? The one in prison?" Tex asked.

"She's in prison, how do you think she's doing?"

"Is she holding up?"

"Barely."

The last time Luna saw her, Luan was so depressed she could barely speak. Luna couldn't blame her. Christmas was coming up and she wasn't with her daughter. God, that has to be rough, especially considering it was Jessy's _very first_ Christmas.

"How's her little girl doing?"

"Good," Luna nodded. "My brother sent me a picture of her." She glanced around. "I got it here somewhere." She got to her feet and went into the kitchen: The photo was sitting next to the stove. She picked it up and started into the living room, but stopped. Where are my manners? I have a guest. "You want something to drink?" she called.

"You got something with some hair on its chest?"

Luna glanced at the fridge: A quarter bottle of Southern Comfort stood atop it. "Yeah."

"Alright, I'll take that."

She got the bottle and handed it to him. He took it with a lifted brown. "No glass?"

Luna dropped onto the sofa. "Real men drink straight from the bottle," she said. "Here."

He took the picture and looked at it, a grin touching his lips. "She's cute."

"Yeah," Luna smiled, "she's pretty awesome."

"This your niece and nephew?" he asked, nodding to Alex and Bobby Jr. In the photo, they flanked Ronnie Anne, who held Jessy.

"Yeah," Luna said. "The girl is Alex, my brother's kid, and the boy is Bobby Jr., my sister's."

"They're all pretty cute," he said and handed it back. "You ever gonna have one of your own?"

Luna took a deep breath. "Uhhh...I don't know. I don't think so. You?"

He thought for a moment. "One day, I guess. I kind of wanna be done with music first, you know? You can't really have a family and always be on the road. It isn't right. I might be done here soon though, I dunno. If you leave, I'll probably take that as a sign and go too."

"I don't know what I'm doing yet," Luna said. "I'm just going to wait and see."

"Yeah. Vacation."

She snickered. "Yeah, a nice, long vacation. We have, what, three albums worth of material recorded?"

He scrunched his brows thoughtfully. "I think about. Might even be closer to three and a half."

"We can live off that for a while."

"Yeah. We'd still have to tour, though."

Luna rolled her eyes. "Ugh."

"I agree."

Just _thinking_ about it made her tired.

They hung out and chatted for another hour before Luna tossed him out. She didn't really _toss him out_ – she told him she was tired and wanted to go to bed. If it makes a difference, she wasn't lying, she _was_ tired, and despite the fact that she hadn't done coke in nearly twelve hours, she dropped off almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	75. February 1971: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **I Think I Love You**_ **by The Partridge Family (1970);** _ **Tired of Being Alone**_ **by Al Green (1971)**

" _Ba, ba, ba, ba._

 _Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba."_

One bloodshot eye creaks slowly open and winces at the onslaught of bright white light filling the world. _Huh? What's happening?_

" _I was sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream_

 _Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain_

 _Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head_

 _And spring up in my bed screaming out the words I dread_

 _I think I love you"_

His mind slowly clears and he turns his head. Ronnie Anne shoots out her arm and her fingertips fumble along the top of the clock radio, questing left and right, up and down, for the off button.

" _This morning I woke up with this feeling_

 _I didn't know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself_

 _I'd hide it to myself and never talk about it_

 _And did not go and shout it when you walked into the room_

 _I think I love you."_

She finally found it and pressed it; blessed silence filled the room, and Lincoln rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. _You know, I'm getting pretty sick of waking up to that damn beep-beep-beep every morning_ , she said a couple months back. Alright, he thought the day he went Christmas shopping, how about we wake up to music instead? We both like music and we both hate that irritating beep. Win-win. He searched Sears high and low and finally found a GE clock radio that could be programmed to turn on at a set time. _There were go,_ he thought, _Santa's come to town and he is_ smooth.

Only...you know what? Lincoln was beginning to think he hated waking up to music almost as much as the beep, especially when it was The Brady Bunch or what the hell ever they called themselves. And when he says 'music' he doesn't just mean strictly music: A couple times the radio kicked on in the middle of a news report about Vietnam, and while it wasn't enough to wake him, it _did_ squirm into his brain and color his dreams: One minute he's tipptoing through the tulips and the next he's running through the jungle from the NVA while a disembodied voice recited football scores.

That was always fun.

Ronnie Anne sighed and sat up, her hands splayed on either side of her and her head bowed. Jessy's bassinet shook as she greeted the morning with a flurry of movement and a happy gurgle. She seemed to like waking up to music and the news just fine. "I like my job," Ronnie Anne said and got shakily to her feet. She repeated it like a mantra as she crossed to the bathroom. "I like my job, I like my job, I like my job." She shut the door, but he could still hear her chants, albeit muffled. He drew himself to a sitting position and absently reached out to the nightstand, his fingers brushing empty space. Oh, that's right, I don't smoke any more.

Damn.

Maybe Ronnie Anne had some breath mints in her purse. He needed _something_. He got up, went around the foot of the bed, and found her purse sitting on the floor. He sat on the edge of the mattress, picked it up, and went through it. Jessy let out a warbling cry. "In a minute, baby," he said, "Uncle Lincoln needs a breath mint or something." Wow, this thing's really full. Others' men's phone numbers, used condoms, whole, full-grown NVA soldiers _(hey, guys)._ No, none of that stuff was in there.

And neither were breath mints.

Double damn. Sigh. Apparently my wife likes walking around with stinky breath. He sat the purse down, stood, and crossed to the bassinet. Jessy was squirming like a worm, but froze when she saw him, her eyes getting big and a ghost of a smile touching the corners of her lips. Lincoln smiled back. "Good morning." He reached in and picked her up. "Do you have a pissy diaper?"

Triple damn. He had a _bad_ habit of cussing around the kids. Damn this, bastard that – once he called some hippie antiwar asshole on TV a son of a bitch. Ronnie Anne yanked his cowlick. _Lame-o! Really?_ Hurt like hell...so much so he cut it off so she couldn't do it again. _They don't call me the man with a plan for nothing._

He carried Jessy to his side of the bed, laid her down, and grabbed a handful of baby stuff from beside his nightstand. She watched him intently as he undressed her, changed her, then dressed her again in a onesie auntie Leni made her: It was much like the ones she made for Alex, practically a burlap sack with a head hole and a zipper. It had a little picture of a sheep's face over the heart.

"Alright," Lincoln said and picked the baby up, "time for Alex."

When Lincoln entered her room, Alex was standing up in her crib, her tiny hands fisted around the bars. Her eyes lit up and she bounced. _"Dada!"_

"Good morning, Alex! We're here to get you ready!"

He laid Jessy in the crib, and Alex looked down at her curiously. _"Baybeh,"_ she muttered. At first Alex didn't know what to think of Jessy: The first time Jessy had a crying fit, Alex's eyes got really big and she started to cry too. When Ronnie Anne tried to get her to come 'say hi to the baby' she locked up and looked as though her mother were holding a dangerous animal instead of a newborn. Over time she got used to the infant's presence, and let her guard down. Presently, Jessy turned her head and craned her next to look up at her big cousin. _"Baybeh,"_ Alex repeated and lightly slapped Jessy's forehead.

"You have to be _nice_ to the baby," Lincoln said and he plucked her up and laid her on the changing table.

" _Ni' baybeh."_

"Yep, nice to the baby. She's little and fragile."

Alex cocked her head cutely. _"Uh?"_

"You might hurt her," Lincoln explained, "and you don't want to hurt baby Jessy. She's your little cousin."

When Alex was changed and dressed, Lincoln let her down, and she toddled into the hallway presumably in search of mommy. He picked up Jessy and carried her into his bedroom, where Ronnie Anne was pulling on a purple dress while Alex watched from the sidelines. "Mommy likes her job," she explained softly, "Mommy likes her job, Mommy likes her job..."

"You'd like it a whole lot better if you didn't stay up late watching Johnny Carson," Lincoln said as he laid Jessy in her bassinet.

She shrugged. "I like him. He's funny."

Lincoln took a pair of underwear, a pair of jeans, and a white T-shirt from the dresser. "But the next morning you piss and moan about being tired." He slipped out of his pajama shorts, turned, and hurriedly pulled on his underwear.

" _Buhhh,"_ Alex said.

"Yeah, that's Daddy's butt," Ronnie Anne said _._ "Or is it his face? I can't tell the difference sometimes."

Lincoln put on his jeans and slipped into his shirt. "Actually, my ass is wearing a purple dress and running her mouth."

A sock hit him in the back of his head. "I'm gonna wash your mouth out with soap," she said.

"Oops," he said, "I did it again. Sorry."

"No you're not."

He shrugged into his denim jacket while Ronnie Anne pulled on her wool coat; she picked up Jessy and he picked up Alex. Outside, the wind was raw and the sky was milky white. A thin crust of hardened snow covered the front lawn, and dirty black ice lined the sides of the street. Lincoln put Alex into her seat while Ronnie Anne put Jessy into hers. They met at the front bumper, a gust tossing a strand of hair from her face. Her cheeks were red with cold and her lips trembled.

"I love you," Lincoln said, and they kissed.

"I love you too," she grinned, "have a good day."

"You too."

He cupped her heatless face in his hand and kissed her again. She smiled and took a deep breath. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too."

On the drive to his parents' house, Lincoln tried to play his oldies 8-track, but Alex started to whine, so he turned on the radio instead. "You really don't like good music, do you?" he asked her in the rearview mirror.

She laughed.

" _South Vietnamese forces today have invaded the nation of Laos from which Vietcong guerillas have been staging attacks..."_

Lincoln turned the dial and found a station playing a brassy soul song.

" _I'm so tired of being alone,_

 _I'm so tired of on my own,_

 _Won't you help me, girl,_

 _Soon as you can."_

Now it was Jessy's turn to whine. "Nope, this stays," Lincoln told the infant. "You girls have to compromise."

" _Baybeh kye,"_ Alex said.

"She's picky, just like her big cousin."

At his parents', he pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and got out. He took Alex out first, held her hand, and went around the back to Jessy's side. He momentarily let go of Alex's hand to get the baby, and the whole time Alex gazed longingly at the street. "Don't you dare, little girl," Lincoln said, "you'll get _bad_ boo boos in that street." He took her hand and the three of them went to the door, where he kicked it, not having a free hand. He did this every morning, and presently he saw at least a dozen scuff marks from past shoe-door powwows. Oops.

Leni opened the door. "Jessy and Baby Bunny!" She wore a brown blouse and a crème colored skirt with a zigzag pattern. Her eyes clouded. "I mean Baby Jessy and Bunny!"

Behind her, Mom sat on the couch. Her hair was down and she wore a house coat; a blanket lay across her lap and another was draped over her shoulders. "Hi, sweetie," she called.

"Hi, Mom."

" _Eni,"_ Alex said and pulled away from Lincoln's grasp. She threw her arms around Leni's leg and hugged her.

"Bunny!" Leni patted the top of the girl's head. She looked at Lincoln and frowned. "Lincy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have Jessy now?"

Lincoln blinked. "Uh, if you're ready for her."

"I totally am!"

"Okay." He kissed the infant's head and handed her to his sister. "You girls have fun with auntie Leni. And behave."

"Oh, they will," Leni said, "they're, like, gods. I mean angels."

Lincoln frowned. She was really mixing herself up this morning. He worried all the way to Flip's, and only stopped when he came through the door and found the dump's namesake sitting behind the register with a mug of coffee and the morning paper. Over the past couple months, Flip had lost weight. Close to fifty pounds, Lincoln reckoned. His cheeks were partially sunken, and his eyes stood prominently out. Sometimes a whole week would go by without him coming in, and when he did, he looked exhausted. Something was clearly wrong. Lincoln asked him about it and he waved him off. _It's nothing. Don't worry about it._ Lincoln didn't believe him.

"There goes my peaceful morning," the old man said without looking up. He lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip: It trembled in his clutch.

Lincoln took his jacket off, hung it up, and put his apron on. "Likewise. Why are you here?"

"Checking up on the place," Flip said. He carefully sat the mug down, but he was shaking so badly that he sloshed some of the coffee onto the counter. "Shit," he hissed.

Normally Lincoln would have made a joke about Flip making a mess. Instead, he grabbed a cloth from under the counter and wiped it up, the urge to corner the old man and drag an answer out of him so strong that it danced on the tip of his tongue. Don't tell anyone, but he liked Flip, and he worried about him.

"It's still standing, at least," Flip said. "You got my money?"

"It's at home." Since Flip rarely came in anymore, Lincoln had taken to keeping the cash in a safe in his bedroom closet. He dropped it off at Flip's house once a week.

"Alright," Flip said. "Bring it by today, will you?"

"Sure thing."

A few minutes later, Robert came in, closely followed by Donald. They had taken to paling around outside of work, and a couple times they both came in looking like Luna and Daggy – high off their asses, that is. Lincoln was fair, though. He waited to see if it affected their work, and if it didn't, he didn't bother them. If it did, he chewed them up and spat them out so savagely Sgt. Hellman would blush. "Hey, Flip," Robert said. He wore a pair of jeans and a yellow T-shirt that clung tightly to his lanky frame. "I saw you at the grocery store yesterday."

"I didn't see _you_ , but I smelled you," Flip replied. "How many times a week do you bathe?"

"Every Friday," Robert said, "whether I need it or not." He laughed and Lincoln rolled his eyes. He wasn't joking: He rarely bathed...from the smell of it. You ever get an oniony gas station chili dog? That's how this guy smelled on a daily basis. It was so bad that sometimes when Lincoln went back into the kitchen it slapped him across the face and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. _Jesus Christ, man,_ he said once, _I was around sweaty guys in the jungle that smelled better than you_. And the hippie fucking laughed. He thought it was _funny._

A few minutes later, the first customers of the day came in, and Lincoln took their orders since his waitress wasn't in yet. After he sent the tickets back to the kitchen, he leaned against the counter next to Flip. "So how are you doing?" he asked. "I don't see you too much." That was true...but he was more concerned with how the old man was _doing_ , not in how he was doing. Dig?

Flip lifted and lowered one shoulder. "Alright," he said. "My gout's acting up, but not as bad as usual."

"You're not using your cane."

"No, like I said, it's not that bad. I was sick last week. Throwing up. I think I had a bug."

Lincoln nodded. "Ronnie Anne had something like that. You know, schools are a cesspool. God knows what she brings home."

"Yeah," Flip said, "the army too."

"Uh-huh."

"When I was in, it was the Spanish Flu. You ever hear of that?"

Lincoln thought for a second. It sounded familiar. He didn't think he learned about it in school, though. "I think I heard something about it."

Flip snorted. "They don't teach you much these days, do they? That goddamn flu was like the end of the world. Killed 100 million people."

Lincoln flinched. "Damn."

Flip nodded. "Yep. Doctors were too sick to take care of patients, gravediggers were too sick to bury bodies. It was a _mess_."

Lincoln arched his brow. "How come I never heard of this flu? I mean, something like that's a pretty big deal. It wasn't in my history books."

"Because your history books are full of shit. When I got back from France, they had me wearing a mask and throwing bodies in a mass grave."

"Wow. Really?"

Flip nodded. "We'd go to the hospitals and the funeral homes and chuck 'em on a cart, then we'd carry them to the site, chuck 'em in, and when it was full, we covered 'em with dirt."

A shudder raced down Lincoln's spine. "Did _you_ get sick?"

"Nah, not me. Thank God. A couple guys I was on detail with got it. None of them died, but they were laid flat for two, three weeks straight."

"You're not messing with me, are you?" Lincoln asked.

Flip shook his head solemnly. "I swear to God. Go to the library once in a while and you'd know stuff like this."

Lincoln made a mental note to do just that. Flip seemed sincere, but how something that big could happen thirty years before he was born, right here in the U.S., and not have a spot in the schoolbooks was beyond him.

He still didn't know how Flip was _doing_ , though.

A few more customers came in, and with a sigh Lincoln pushed himself away from the counter. He laid his hand on Flip's shoulder in a fleeting show of affection. Flip returned the gesture by patting it.

* * *

Luna moaned and rolled over, a spike of pain driving into the center of her skull and spreading hot fire through her brain. Her stomach rolled, and bile rose in her throat. Her eyes shot open and she pressed her hand to her mouth even as she fought it back down: It burned.

"I'm never drinking again," she muttered and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 8:05am. Whoa. I _never_ wake up this early. Then again, she was passed out in bed by nine 'o'clock last night, so, what, eleven hours? Even _she_ couldn't sleep much more than that, at least not in a single stretch: She'd have to get up for a while _then_ go back to bed. From the way she felt, that's probably what she was going to wind up doing.

Another wave of nausea crashed over her, and she sighed. She'd get up in a minute, for now she was just going to curl up on her side and...

She came awake with the sun in her eyes. Her headache was largely gone but her stomach still felt icky. She glanced at the clock. 12:38pm. Oh. I guess I _can_ sleep more than eleven hours at a go.

Rubbing her fevered forehead, she sat up and nearly toppled over: The room spun and her heart crashed. I'm never drinking again, she told herself again...it had become part of her morning routine over the past month. She didn't particularly like being drunk, but you know what? She didn't like being sober more. When she was sober, everything was drab and gray and she was depressed. When she was rolling on something, everything was better, you know? She wasn't dumb, she realized that she had spent so long being jazzed that she didn't even know _how_ to be sober anymore, but that doesn't help when you're sitting on the couch in the middle of the day and nothing's on TV and you feel restless and just...blah. She'd _much_ rather be on coke, but the coke was messing her up. She did it here and there, but that was it. It wasn't easy, though. It fucking _called_ her. _Come here, Luna, let's get happy_. Sometimes she'd sit on the couch with her arms crossed and her leg shaking and keeping herself from going into her room and taking the blow from her dresser drawer was _hard_.

Drinking doesn't mess you up like coke does except for hangovers. Those are _wicked_ , man. A lot of the time she'd wake up and spend most of the day just lying there, her mind eventually starting to work and get all introspective and shit. _What happened to me?_ She didn't like entertaining those thoughts, so she pushed them away, but now and again, they wouldn't budge. She'd think back to the girl who came out to California on a Greyhound with a dream and a guitar, and...gee, where'd she go? Why wasn't she...happier? She blamed it on the shit with Lincoln, because she was happy before that, but, over many, many days abed, she started to think it _wasn't_ that. You know mountain climbers, right? Like that Hillary guy who climbed Mount Everest. The climb, man, that's where everything is. The joy. The suspense. The exciting sense that _things are happening!_ Then you get to the summit and you're like _Well, I'm here_ , and all you do is sit down and look out over the world. _Yep. I'm here. Oh, boy. It's a party_ now _._ Once you get there, you settle into _life_ , just like anyone else. It's not all sunshine and rainbows like it is when you build it up in your mind, it's...

Man, she didn't know. She wasn't a fucking psychologist. She just wasn't happy and she didn't think she would be...even if she went home. Sure, at first, great, I have my baby bro and two of my sisters and my nephew and two of my nieces...but slowly the veneer would wear off and she'd be the same old Luna, the Luna who started out happy and full of life but veered off the path somewhere and wound up in the dark.

It made her feel selfish to be in a funk like this. Life had been good to her. She got exactly what she wanted: She got to be a little rock star and make music and make people feel the way Little Richard and Elvis made _her_ feel (she thought). A lot of people don't get that. They dream and reach and try but life shoves them back down. She was lucky. She was also an ungrateful bitch. _Oh, boo-hoo, I'm sad! Oh, boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo._

Why did this always happen? When Lincoln came back, she thought everything was coming up Luna, you know? She was happy, she was back into what she was doing, it was great, but soon she got into that fucking _funk_ again. _Oh, boo-hoo._ Back and forth and round and round. Cry, bitch, cry.

She sighed, got up on shaky legs, and went into the bathroom, where she lifted her nightdress and settled on the cold toilet seat. She had no reason to be depressed and empty. She had everything she ever wanted. She was a fucking crybaby, that's all.

Yeah, okay, fine, stop crying. Be a grown woman for once, will you?

When she was done using the commode, she wiped, got up, and stumbled back into the bedroom. What do grown women do on days they don't have to work? Go out for lunch? She didn't _want_ to go out for lunch. She wasn't hungry, and the idea of sitting in a crowded restaurant made her shudder. Too noisy. Too bright. They don't snort coke, she knew that, but she _really_ fucking needed a boost. Did she even have any yesterday? She didn't think so. She rolled out of bed at three, started drinking, and went to bed at nine. No coke. No food, either, but that was fine, she wasn't up to holding anything down anyway.

She went to her dresser drawer and opened it. She caught a flash of herself in the mirror, and paused. Found that girl with the dream and the guitar – her ghost, at least.

Eh.

She took out a baggie filled with white powder and held it in her hands for a moment, her lips pursed. She glanced back up at the mirror. She _really_ didn't like what she saw. With a sigh, she shoved the coke back into the drawer and went into the living room. She'd eat something, she decided. What did she have? She checked the cabinets. Canned soup. Canned corn. Canned carrots. What kind of soup is that? Tomato? Yeah, that sounded good. It was light, you know?

She took it down, opened it with a can opener, and dumped it into a sauce pan, which she then sat on the stove. She turned the knob, which ignited the burner, then went into the living room. She turned the TV on and sat. _Can't forget the soup. Just...give it a minute to heat._ Okay. Yeah. Some stupid soap opera was on. Every time she saw one of these things she thought of Mom and Leni, and when she thought of them, she thought of home. Maybe she _would_ be happy if she went back. What would she do, though? She didn't really like touring or recording, but at times like this, when she didn't have that...she didn't have anything. She sat alone in a vacuum not knowing what to do with herself. Sleep. Snort coke. Yawn.

In the kitchen, she stirred the soup and waited until it was bubbling. She took it off, cut the gas, and poured some into a bowl. She grabbed a spoon and sat on the couch. The smell turned her stomach but she forced herself to eat.

I'm miserable, she thought honestly. It was the not knowing that really got her, you know? The not knowing what to do, what she _wanted_ to do, what she _didn't_ want to do. Sometimes she just wanted to scream and pull her hair out because she was stricken, man, fucking stricken, like she was in the middle of the ocean without a paddle and the walls were closing in.

She had seeing Luan to look forward to, though; that was the highlight of her week. When could she see her again? Hell, what _day_ was it? They all sort of melted together. She _thought_ it was Wednesday...so Friday. Day after tomorrow.

Luna felt a spark of life in her cold, dead heart. Alright, far out, I get to see my sis on Friday. Cool.

She choked down the rest of her soup and carried her bowl into the kitchen, where she sat it in the sink with all the other dishes she didn't have the energy to wash. She started to sit, but decided she'd rather listen to the radio than watch TV, so she crossed, turned it off, and switched the radio on: A commercial for a car dealership in San Fernando promised big savings this weekend. She dropped onto the couch, kicked her legs up, and closed her eyes. Before the first song even started, she was asleep.

Again.

* * *

It was a typical day at Royal County High. Ronnie Anne Loud dragged herself into the teachers' lounge, poured herself a cup of coffee, and let out a big yawn. Lincoln was right about not staying up to watch Johnny Carson (don't tell _him_ that, though). She drank her coffee, then glanced around and hurriedly made herself a second cup: There was no limit on how much of the stuff you could drink, but she didn't want to look like a coffee addict...or like she stayed up late watching Johnny Carson. Only dorks do that.

In the hall, the first batch of students was coming through the main door, all bell bottoms and acne. She walked to her classroom and tried to ignore all the goofy Valentine's Day decorations on the wall: Paper hearts, Cupids, yuck, bleh, and blah. Oh, she wasn't against love (she was in it, wasn't she?) but come on, this is too much.

When she reached her class, she crossed to the desk, sat, and set the mug down. She went to open the top drawer to retrieve the first period tests she'd graded the day before, and that's when she noticed the card in front of her. It was pink with a big red, glittery heart on it. She paused and frowned. What the hell is this?

She picked it up and opened it (no money inside...of course). _Have a very special Valentine's Day_ it read, and below that, in a sloppy hand, someone added: _You are the most beutiful woman I have ever seen I dreem of kissing you every night_.

Ronnie Anne lost it: She laughed so hard tears came to her eyes; she bowed her head and pressed her fist to her mouth to silence herself. Beutiful! Dreem! Oh, Jesus. She got hold of herself and read it again. Oh, wow. Someonehad the hots for her...she hoped it was a student, because if it was a teacher spelling like that...sheesh. Wait 'til Lincoln gets a load of this.

She opened the drawer, took the stack of tests out, and shoved the card in. She sipped coffee and prepared her lesson plan for the day. She was debating a pop quiz to see how well the kids were understanding the curriculum: Most were grasping it alright, but there were a few who struggled. One was Lilly Rawlins. She was a good student in that she was well-behaved and paid attention, but math just was _not_ her subject, which kind of surprised Ronnie Anne: Waitresses use math all the time. She was tempted to ask Lincoln if she screwed up people's change often. She'd prepared a quiz at the beginning of the week, but she didn't know yet if she was going to use it. Maybe, maybe not; she really wanted to finish chapter 8 today and move onto chapter 9 tomorrow, but the quiz wouldn't take _that_ long: There were no intricate equations on it.

After the first bell rang, students started to enter in dribs and drabs. One thing about teachers...they gossip, and Ronnie Anne had overheard gossip about almost every single one of her students. She tried to ignore it because what is this, high school? (...you know what I mean). Still, as they came in, she couldn't help thinking of some of the tidbits she'd picked up. Marci Hopewell, tall and pretty with straight blonde hair, was supposedly a whore (she certainly didn't wear bras, if that meant anything); Lester James, the class geek (probably not of _every_ class – there's always someone bigger, badder, or geekier than you) supposedly masturbated in the bathroom during lunch; Butch Farris allegedly smoked pot with Mr. Bilson, the shop teacher, which is why Mr. Bilson was suddenly fired last fall; and Ron Magin, the football team's tight end, was said to have run someone over with his car and killed them, but his father, who was an attorney, had it covered up. She outright didn't believe that last one.

Frankly, she didn't care or want to know what they did in their free time just as long as it didn't affect their classwork. Why some of the other teachers did care was beyond her...and, to be honest, it kind of bothered her. Geez, what did they say about her when _she_ was a student? _She and that Lincoln boy get drunk, have sex, and eat babies in the bathroom every day during lunch. I hear they're also communists._

The second bell rang, and class began; she decided on a whim to administer the pop quiz, and, as she expected, everyone groaned, slumped their shoulders, or sighed.

"I know, pop quizzes are just the worst," she said, "until you enter the work force and see half your paycheck go to taxes and bills. Trust me, that's _way_ worse."

Marci's hand shot up. Ronnie Anne didn't know if she was a 'whore' or not, but she _was_ a prissy, annoying little preppy type, and her high pitched voice gave her a headache if she listened to it too long. "Yes, Marci?"

"Will this, like, count toward our grade?"

"No," Ronnie Anne said and handed a stack of papers to the first students in each of the five rows. They took one sheet for themselves then passed the rest back. "I just want to see where you're at."

While the test was in progress, she took the opportunity to grade some papers from her third period bunch. Maybe it was because she was so familiar and comfortable with math, but some of the wrong answers really perplexed her. Like this one: The student (Mitch Daniels, the NAME column read) did everything right...carried all the numbers, placed the decimals...yet still got it wrong in the end. It was like mixing eggs, flour, and sugar to bake a cake, putting it all in the oven...then pulling out a pizza.

She gave her second period class a pop quiz too, and used the time to look over the batch from the first. When the lunch bell rang, she opened her drawer to shove the quizzes in, and caught a flash of pink. Huh? Oh, right, I have a secret admirer now. She picked it up and looked at it. Had she noticed any of her students giving her goo goo eyes? She didn't think so, but that's not something she specifically looked for. She was a happily married woman, and even if she wasn't, she didn't see herself cruising tenth and eleventh grade math classes for dates. She thought long and hard, but no, she couldn't come up with a single one. You know, having a crush on your teacher is one thing, but acting on it...even if it's just putting a card on their desk...is actually pretty inappropriate. She didn't want to get the little guy in trouble, so she wouldn't say anything, but this better be the end of it.

She put the card into her purse to show Lincoln, then went into the teacher's lounge. By the time she was done with lunch, she had completely forgotten about it.

* * *

"Auntie Leni's little wiggle worm," Leni said and tickled Jessy's back. She was lying on her stomach and moving her arms and legs around like she was swimming; the image of her swimming away on the carpet made Leni giggle. The little girl pushed herself up ever so briefly...then flopped back down.

" _Ahhhhgahhh!"_

Alex was sitting by Dad's chair and playing with a Matchbox car she found under the end table: She pushed it along the carpet and made engine noises with her mouth just like Leni showed her. Mom sat on the sofa with a blanket across her lap and another over her shoulders. _Dark Shadows_ was on. It was one of the few soaps Leni didn't like; it had a vampire, and vampires are scary. She never said anything because she was almost thirty and almost-thirty-year-olds aren't supposed to be afraid of vampires...but she totally was. Jessy kicked her legs and let out a long gurgle.

"Wiggle, wiggle," Leni said, and patted the baby's butt.

Jessy whined.

"Aw, none of that, now."

She whined again, louder this time. She was probably hungry. She had her last bottle...Leni didn't know, a while ago. "You want food?" Leni asked, laying her hand on the baby's back. "Auntie Leni make you food?"

Jessy turned her head and regarded Leni with an expression that said _Yes, please_. "Okay," Leni smiled brightly, "I'll make you food."

She got up, went into the kitchen, and made Jessy a bottle. Mom came in just as she was finishing up to get dinner ready. They were having spaghetti tonight. Leni liked spaghetti. Spaghetti was good.

In the living room, she squatted next to Alex and held the bottle out. "Here you go."

Alex looked over her shoulder, her eyes flicking curiously from Leni to the bottle. She reached out, took it, and lifted it to her lips. She took a drink, then pulled it away, her lips puckering in disgust. Leni frowned. "What's wrong, Bunny? Don't you like your bottle anymore?"

Alex threw the bottle to the floor and went back to playing with her car. It rolled across the carpet, and Jessy saw it, her eyes lighting up. Leni looked over as the baby reached for it...and that's when she realized her mistake. She gave Bunny Baby Jessy's formula bottle. No wonder she didn't like it, only babies can drink formula.

"I'm sorry, Bunny," Leni said earnestly and rubbed the girl's back. She felt really bad now. Her stupid head made her mess up and give Bunny yucky formula that almost one-year-olds – I mean two-year-olds – don't like. She was _always_ doing stupid stuff like this! Two days ago she forgot how to work her record player and couldn't listen to music (she _really_ wanted to listen to her records!), yesterday she called Lori Mom three times – three times! – before she caught herself, and now she gave Jessy Bunny's bottle. Tears filled her eyes. She _hated_ being sick. She looked dumb and she could barely knit anymore!

Jessy whined, and Leni looked over: She was reaching for the bottle. Leni walked over on her knees, picked her niece up, then grabbed the bottle. "Auntie Leni's sorry for being dumb, Jessy" she said, and held the nipple to the baby's mouth; she latched on and started to suck hungrily. Her eyes locked with Leni's, scanning and computing every minute detail. "I love you, though," she said, and pecked Jessy's forehead.

" _Cah,"_ Alex said breathily.

"That's your car?" Leni asked. Actually it was Lincy's. He left it here when he and Lori came over yesterday. She doubted he'd miss it. He had a _ton_ of cars.

Alex nodded. _"Cah,"_ she repeated, then blew a wet raspberry as she zoomed it back and forth on the carpet. Leni giggled. It was cute that she did that. Didn't Bobby Jr. do the same thing when he was little? She tried to remember, but of course, she couldn't: Everything after a certain point was all staticky like the TV after the anthem. Some things she _knew_ (like Bobby Jr. being born and Lincy being in the war and being lost for a while), but she couldn't actually _remember_ them. She remembered visiting Lincy in the hospital, but she couldn't remember him leaving to go to what's-it-called...where the war is. Oh, she _did_ remember when the Russians launched all their bombs at us and they had to sleep in a box in the basement because fall was out or something. Luan had a funny hat with a triangle on it. Oh, oh, oh, and she made Leni dig in the dirt. She got _so_ dirty.

She smiled because she was happy she remembered that, but frowned too because thinking of Luan made her sad. Luan was in jail because she killed someone, but it was an accident. Why didn't they let her go? She didn't kill that person on purpose. If you do something by mistake it's a whole lot different than doing it not by mistake. She missed Luan and wanted her to come home; she liked it when Luan lived here...they would sit up and talk at night and listen to the radio together and a couple times they snuck downstairs and ate food from the fridge because Luan's baby was hungry.

" _You're_ Luan's baby," Leni said to Jessy. She didn't forget Jessy was Luan's, she just wanted to confirm that fact to herself, out loud. If she forgot something so simple, like whose baby Baby Jessy was, she would look _really_ dumb and that would mean she was _really_ sick. She didn't like being sick, so she didn't think she'd like being _really_ sick a whole lot more.

Jessy's gaze never wavered. Leni touched the tip of the baby's nose and smiled. "You're Luan's baby and auntie Leni's wiggle worm." She cocked her head. "I don't think worm is a very good nickname, though. What should I call you?"

She had been trying to come up with a good nickname, but nothing sounded right. She wanted Jessy to have a special Leni name, and it made her sad that she didn't, though come to think of it, she didn't start calling Bunny Bunny until she was almost one, so there was time.

" _Baaaa cah!"_ Alex suddenly yelled and threw the car across the room: It hit the wall and fell to the floor.

"Bun- _ny_ ," Leni said, "why you do that?"

Alex pushed herself up and came over, where she stood over Leni. _"Baybeh."_

Leni grinned. "Yup. This is the baby." She poked Alex in the stomach. "And that's the big girl!"

Alex giggled and dropped to her butt.

"Oof," Leni said, "if auntie Leni did that she would get hurt."

Alex rolled over, crawled to her car, and picked it up. She came back over and held it out to Leni. "You keep it," she said, "I have my arms full. Show me how you zoom it."

Blowing a raspberry, Alex ran it along the carpet. "Vroom, vroom," Leni said.

" _Oom!"_


	76. February 1971: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Your Song**_ **by Elton John (1970)**

Ronnie Anne left work at ten to five that afternoon: The light was draining from the sky and a bitter wind blew from the west, making her shiver despite her heavy wool coat. Helen Carr said the weathermen were calling for snow tonight, and Ronnie Anne simply groaned. Snow was the _worst_. The Pinto didn't do well in it, the driveway had to be shoveled, the front steps got slick and icy, and the tile floors in the school stayed wet, dirty, and slippery the entire time. She didn't realize until she was alone during her free period that not all that long ago (less than ten years, really), she _loved_ snow. She would wish for it, hope for it, _pray_ for it...now look at her. When she was a kid and the adults would complain about snow, she would blink in confusion. What? Snow's _awesome_.

Boy, was she wrong.

 _Guess that means I'm an adult now._

About time. She was twenty-four-years-old. If you aren't an adult by now, you're probably _never_ going to be one.

She reached the Pinto, unlocked it, and slid in behind the wheel. She grabbed her keys from her purse, selected the correct one, and slipped it into the ignition, freezing when she saw the envelope under the windshield.

Oh, God, another one?

Sighing, she leaned out, stretched her arm around, and snagged the corner with her thumb and forefinger. With it in hand, she sat back against the seat, ripped it open, and peeked inside. Yep, another card.

She looked up and glanced suspiciously around. She didn't see anyone. She got half out of the car and scanned the parking lot: Mr. Jordan, the history teacher, exited a side door and started toward a red Dodge, a box in his arms. On the sidewalk, a woman in a kerchief and a long jacket huddled against the rising wind. To her left, Mr. Hanks, the janitor, appeared from around the building and wheeled a trash barrel heaped with garbage bags to the dumpster.

Hm.

Feeling very paranoid, she drew back into the Pinto and slammed the door. How did this little bastard know what car she drove? Was he spying on her? She shuddered...and looked into the back seat: Instead of a teenage boy with a mad grin and a dozen roses in his hand, she saw nothing.

As she drove through the sundown streets of Royal Woods, she thought it over and decided that _maybe_ she was overreacting a little. Kid kept his eyes open to see what she drove so he could stick a card under the windshield; it wasn't like he was peeking through her windows at night with his thing in his hand.

Or _was_ he?

No! Sheesh. It was a kid with a crush, not a mass murderer. She remembered how once in fifth grade she _kind of_ followed Lincoln home...hanging back...being quiet...looking for places to hide if he stopped and looked back. She didn't have the stones to follow him down Franklin, but she made it that far. Looking at it objectively, that was pretty fucking creepy.

She glanced into the rearview mirror.

No one was following her.

It was inevitable when you got down to it. Teenage boys are walking bags of hormones, and anything even remotely attractive is fair game. That was actually one of the things that worried her before she started; it didn't occur to her until Principal Wilson was giving her his tour of the school. If it had earlier, she _might_ have chickened out and followed a different career path. Where was she? Oh, yeah, anything attractive. She didn't go out of her way to be attractive (never had), and she wasn't vain, but she certainly didn't think she was ugly, and if one guy (AKA Lincoln) can think you're h-o-t hot, it stands to reason that other guys can think you're hot, especially if they're hormonal.

What if it _wasn't_ a student, though? That first card was on her desk before the first students even showed up. Now, a student very well could have come in earlier (the doors were unlocked promptly at six), but, now that she thought about it...it may very well be someone on the faculty.

And _that_ pissed her off. She could let a hormonal teenage boy slide, but a grown man who knew full well that she was married? That was _low_.

She took a deep breath and turned on the radio. Static. She usually left it on WBFK 95.9fm but every afternoon Alex reached over and played with the dial. She turned it and settled for the first station playing music...light, airy piano:

 _I hope you don't mind_

 _I hope you don't mind_

 _That I put down in words_

 _How wonderful life is while you're in the world_

I mind _very_ much. She turned the station and found a talk program discussing the invasion of Laos. Funny name. Every time she heard it she thought of louse...more popularly known as lice: You had your head lice, your body lice, and...uh...pubic lice. She felt herself blush. _Guess I'm not a grown woman after all...grown women don't blush at the mention of pubic lice._ Or shudder...which she did now.

She pulled into the driveway and parked next to Mr. Loud's Packard. She had no clue how that damn car was still running. It went to the mechanic's every couple months, but instead of finally giving up the ghost, it always came back...like the son in _The Monkey's Paw_. She shuddered again. They read that story in English class during Halloween one year...real fucking spooky; gave her nightmares for a week. She cut the engine, got out, and went to the front door, where she knocked.

After a moment, Leni answered. "Oh, hi Ronnie Anne! What are _you_ doing here?"

Ronnie Anne was so used to Leni's forgetfulness that she didn't even register it. "Picking up the girls."

"Oh, okay." She stepped aside and Ronnie Anne entered. Alex was sitting on the couch next to her grandmother, a cookie in her hand and her eyes glued to the TV. Jessy lay on her stomach, her little legs kicking and her head bowed. Mr. Loud was in his chair, watching the screen just as intently as his granddaughter.

Alex took a bite of cookie and looked over, her eyes lighting up when she saw Ronnie Anne. _"Mama!"_

"Hi, baby!"

Alex scooted off the couch and hurried over, her arms up. Ronnie Anne scooped her off the floor. "You're getting heavy," she huffed.

"Her aunt keeps feeding her cookies," Mrs. Loud said. "Where she's getting them, I don't know."

"Hm," Ronnie Anne said, "I don't know." That was a lie. See, Leni loved babysitting the girls and would gladly do it for free, but Ronnie Anne (and Lincoln) weren't comfortable with not paying her, so once a week, Ronnie Anne bought her sister-in-law snacks. When she first brought the idea up, Leni's eyes widened. _All chocolate_ , she said, her hands curling into fists and the corner of her lips turning up in a predatory grin, _cookies, cakes, candies..._ everythhhhhiiing. They kept it secret from her folks because Leni didn't think they'd like her constantly eating sweeties. On one hand Ronnie Anne felt a little guilty...one the other, Leni was almost thirty. She had her issue, but she wasn't a child.

"You ready to go home?" Ronnie Anne asked her daughter.

Cookie pressed to her lips, Alex shook her head.

"No?" Ronnie Anne laughed. "You wanna stay?"

She nodded...then shoved the cookie against Ronnie Anne's chin as if in bribe. Ronnie Anne turned her head. "No, Mommy doesn't want a cookie." She went over to where Jessy lay and squatted down, her back screaming in protest. She wasn't kidding, Alex really _was_ getting heavy. "Hi, Jessy!"

The baby turned her head and looked up, then kicked her legs even harder in silent greeting.

"They already ate," Mrs. Loud said. "Alex had spaghetti. Jessy..." she trailed off and looked at Leni. "When was Jessy's last bottle?"

"Four," Leni said instantly.

"So she should be due fairly soon."

Ronnie Anne carried Alex outside and put her in her seat while Leni carried Jessy. "Do you need anything?" Ronnie Anne asked as she strapped Alex in.

"Uh...oh! Candies with caramel inside." She opened the back door and put Jessy in. "I _like_ caramel."

Ronnie Anne grinned. "I know." She made sure Alex was secure...then noticed that damn envelope on the seat. She snatched it up and shut the door just as Leni finished with Jessy.

"What's that?" the girl asked.

"Someone," Ronnie Anne said, "has a crush on me...and they keep leaving me cards."

Leni's brow crinkled. "But you're married."

"Yes I am."

"Don't they, like..." she trailed off, her eyes clouding as she struggled to, presumably, figure out how it was possible to have a crush on someone who was married. She shook her head. "Who is it?"

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "I have no idea. I suspect it's a student."

Leni blinked. "Oh. Well...don't marry him. Lincy will be sad."

Ronnie Anne couldn't help laughing. "Don't worry. I won't."

Leni brightened. "Good!"

They hugged. "I'll get you some caramel chocolates tonight," Ronnie Anne said into Leni's ear, then pulled back and playfully swatted her arm. "You have to stop bringing that stuff out in front of your mom, though. You're gonna get us caught."

"Sorry," Leni said with a sheepish smile, "Bunny just _really_ looked like she wanted a cookie."

At home, Ronnie Anne took Alex in first, then came back for Jessy, who had fallen asleep on the ride. She carefully removed her from her seat, carried her inside, and laid her in her bassinet. She snorted and stirred, but didn't wake. Ronnie Anne stroked the girl's head then kissed her cheek. Back in the living room, Alex was holding the doll Leni got her for Christmas. She noticed something clutched in the little girl's fist, and knelt down to see what it was. A Matchbox car. Ah. Bobby Jr. must have left it at his grandparents' house. Well...finders keepers.

Making sure Alex was entertained for a few minutes, she went into hers and Lincoln's room and changed into a loose fitting pair of pants and one of Lincoln's shirts: It was big and sloppy looking, but it was comfortable. In the living room, she turned the TV on and sat down just as _The CBS Evening News_ went off.

" _Cah,"_ Alex said and ran the car along the floor while blowing a raspberry. Ronnie Anne laughed.

"Did auntie Leni show you that?"

Alex nodded.

Lincoln came through the door a half an hour later. _"Dada!"_ Alex cried and got to her feet.

"Alex!" he replied, and scooped her up. "How's my girl?"

She held up her car. _"Cah!"_

"You got a car?" he asked. "Where'd you get a car?"

" _Eni."_

"Leni gave you a car?"

Alex's head bobbed up and down.

"I think it's Bobby Jr.'s," Ronnie Anne said.

"Not anymore," Lincoln laughed, "Alex flinched it." He came over, sat, and kissed her on the cheek. "Where's Jessy?"

"Napping," she said, and kissed the tip of his nose.

"Uh-oh. We better wake her up or she's not going to go down easy later on."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. Jessy didn't go down easily any night...which, come to think of it, is how she came to kind of like Johnny Carson: Sitting up with a fussy baby in the living room and watching TV because it was either that or watch the wall. Jessy wasn't a _bad_ baby, she just didn't like going to sleep. Alex went through a phase like that when she was seven or eight months: Getting her to lie down and switch off was like pulling teeth.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Alright," he said, then sighed. "I'm really worried about Flip. He looks worse and worse every time I see him."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah," she said. She hadn't seen Flip in a couple months; he wasn't looking too swift then, so she could only imagine how he looked now. "You know him, though. Guy's a clam."

"I know," Lincoln said. "How was _your_ day?"

"Interesting," she said.

"Oh?"

She nodded. "Wait here."

She got up, went into the bedroom, and slipped the card from her purse. The second one was in the car somewhere. She came back into the living room, handed it to him, and sat as he began to read.

"One of my students, I think, has a crush on me."

He snickered. "Wow. Hey, it was bound to happen. You _are_ an incredibly beautiful woman."

She wasn't vain – but every time Lincoln called her beautiful she blushed. "You better watch out, lame-o, some sixteen-year-old boy's going to steal me away."

"Poor kid has _no_ idea what he's in for."

She playfully cocked her brow. "I thought I was beautiful?"

Lincoln nodded. "You are...but you're also a pain in the ass."

She slapped his arm.

"You see that?" Lincoln asked Alex. "Mommy hit me. She's bad."

Alex glared at Ronnie Anne. _"Mama bah!"_

* * *

Rita Loud had trouble sleeping, so, like her daughter-in-law, she watched _The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson_...usually in the dark and with the volume turned so low she could barely hear it. She didn't know why (the noise and light would affect neither Lynn nor Leni), only that it didn't feel _right_ to have a house full of sound and activity at such a late hour. When her sleeping troubles first began the previous autumn, she attempted a quiet activity such as reading or knitting, but she could never focus enough to accomplish either: She would find herself reading the same passage again and again and still not understanding what was going on. One such novel she started but couldn't finish was a dreadful thing called _The Exorcist_ that a woman she knew from the hairdressers' gave her. It was about a little girl who was possessed by a demon, and such awful things happened that she wouldn't have finished it even if it weren't for her wandering mind.

Presently, she hugged herself tighter against the ever present winter chill as Johnny Carson, behind his desk and smiling, chatted with Orson Welles, who reclined in a chair. Rita was surprised at how _old_ Welles was, his beard and hair shot through with gray and deep wrinkles on his broad forehead. She remembered him from _Citizen Kane_ as being young and not entirely unattractive. That was...thirty years ago.

As old as Leni.

Rita sighed and shifted uncomfortably. It was Leni who kept her awake at night, staring at the TV and trying not to worry. When Luna was here in September, she said that Leni came into her room so confused that she thought it was time for them to go to school. That frightened Rita so badly that she didn't sleep a wink for three whole nights; every ten minutes she got up to check on her daughter. She wasn't particularly surprised by Leni's confusion, but she didn't expect it to manifest itself in that manner, and now that it had, she was petrified that it would again, and that one morning she would wake to find that the girl had wandered away in the night and gotten hurt. She pointedly told her to never leave the house after dark, and while she agreed _(like, why would I do_ that _?),_ Rita didn't trust her to remember her warning in the midst of an episode.

So, here she sat, gazing at the TV and hugging herself against a cold that came largely from within. Johnny Carson went to commercial break; a woman's face appeared, and she began to sing:

 _I'd like to buy the world a home_

 _And furnish it with love_

 _Grow apple trees and honey bees_

 _And snow white turtle doves_

The camera pulled back, revealing dozens and dozens of people, all of them holding glass bottles of Coca-Cola.

 _I'd like to teach the world to sing_

 _In perfect harmony_

 _I'd like to buy the world a Coke_

 _And keep it company_

 _That's the real thing_

A floorboard creaked upstairs, and Rita glanced over her shoulder. No sounds followed, and after a moment she got up and went to the foot of the stairs: The hall light was off. She considered ignoring it and going back to the couch, but found herself climbing the steps anyway. At the head, she paused. A crack of light shone under the bathroom door. It was nothing, just Leni using the toilet. That was all.

Sighing to herself, she went back downstairs and retook her place on the couch. A commercial for Schlitz beer was on now. Men hurried around the deck of a fishing boat, one glancing out at the horizon and giving a hearty call of "Tuna!" as though one could actually spot tuna that way. Or maybe they could. What did tuna fishing have to do with beer? And why were they allowed to show beer commercials on television but not commercials for cigarettes anymore? In her estimation, beer was worse: She knew several children when she was growing up whose father would drink beer and get mean – she didn't know anyone to smoke a cigarette and get mean.

These commercials today were irritating. What happened to the days when the host would promote something themselves? It was as simple as stepping away, picking up a can or packet of something, and touting its virtues, now commercials were filled with noise and music and overly long and made your head ache. She was reminded of the interstate highway and all the billboards along it: You could scarcely go twenty feet without being told to eat here or buy there. You couldn't just drive down the highway or watch your program, oh no, someone had to _sell_ you something.

Upstairs, the floorboard creaked again, and she _thought_ she heard a door softly shut. She would wait until Johnny Carson was over then go to bed, where she would most likely lie awake for an hour or two. She should talk to Lynn about having special looks put on the insides of the doors and windows. They would have to have a key; Leni was not a stupid girl, and if she was determined to get outside, she would find a way unless the lock was secure. Then again, if something happened, God forbid, they wouldn't be able to leave without the key. They would have to do something, though, because Leni was only going to get worse.

She sighed deeply. That was not a prospect she liked to entertain. As time went on, however, she found it necessary to. They originally said that she would be demented within ten years – 1974, three short years away. Lately, however, they figured it could be longer – five years, _maybe_ ten. The depths of Leni's disease were rushing up to meet them the way pavement rushes up to meet a jumper, and with each passing day it got closer...and closer...and closer. She didn't know what it would look like once it got here, but she _did_ know that she was absolutely _not_ going to put Leni into a nursing home. She would stay at home and her parents would take care of her until the bitter end.

Rita blinked and wiped a tear from her eye. She prayed every night for a miracle, but she was coming to believe that none would present itself. She was going to watch her daughter die, her poor, sweet, beautiful Leni.

She breathed a watery sigh; Johnny Carson bowed his head and laughed at something Bob Hope said. At least she thought it was Bob Hope.

It was kind of hard to see through the tears.

* * *

Bobby Preston came by around five that afternoon. He wanted to book a few shows for April and May; there was a festival outside San Francisco on May 6 that he thought would be a big deal. "I don't know," Luna said noncommittally. She was sitting on the couch and smoking a cigarette that tasted like it should be put out. She was cold and jittery, too. When he knocked on the door, she was dazing on the edge of sleep and consciousness. _Allow me to sing you the song of my people,_ the coke said from the bedroom, _come...and snort me! Come...and SNORT me!_ Her body fucking _yearned_ for it, and just sitting there listening to him talk was a challenge: She almost popped up, ran into the bedroom, and shoved it up her nose, baggie and all.

"Alright," he said. He was wearing a light brown blazer over a blue shirt with white buttons. For some reason that stood out to Luna. The shirt was stretched tight across his gut. It was hypnotic. "We have time, so think about it. I say do it, but we're okay for right now. We're at number 15 on the album charts and number 12 on the singles', so we don't have to do _too_ much at the moment. We do need to get another tour going while we're still hot, and this time we need to go to other countries."

Luna crinkled her nose. She'd told this guy a million times she didn't like travelling...across the country was bad enough, but across the globe?

"I know you're not too crazy about it, but what are we gonna do? Play in our own little sandbox forever?"

"It works, doesn't it?"

He chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, but it'd work _better_ if we went to England. You guys have always done pretty well over there, and they haven't gotten a single show. West Germany too. West Germany loves you. There's a lot of money to be made in foreign tours. I know you said you don't wanna do it, but you really need to think it over."

Luna took a puff of her cigarette, grimaced, and wrapped one arm around her chest. She tapped her foot against the floor and chewed the insides of her mouth. She twitched and dropped ash on the floor. Stupid fucking cigarette. She jabbed it out, and her hand went to the cross around her neck, her fingers tracing it and turning it over and over. "Yeah, I'll think about it," she said. She didn't mean it...or maybe she did...she just wanted this guy out of her face. He wasn't wrong about there being money in going overseas...but did she _care_ to make that money? She already had a shit ton of money rotting in a bank account and she made a little more every day. Stay home and make a dollar or go do a fuck load of work and make five dollars. Which would you do? Remember now, you already have all the money you need.

Bobby Preston nodded. "That's all I ask. Give it some thought, see how you feel about it, and get back to me."

"Okay. Will do."

After he left, Luna got up, went into the kitchen, and took a half bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey off the top of the fridge. She realized she didn't have anything to mix it with, muttered a 'fuck' and said screw it. She took the cap off and took a long drink: It burned all the way down and detonated in her stomach like a bomb, but it blunted the edge of her coke craving. A little. In the living room, she sat on the couch and drew her legs up under herself. Cat Stevens was on the radio and Luna took a drink. She didn't like Cat Stevens: His stuff was all acoustic and soft and _lalalalalalalalalala._ Didn't he play the ukulele or some shit?

 _Come...and snort me!_

 _Put me...in yer nose!_

Shut up. Luna took another drink. She should eat something before it was too late. She didn't like what she had and she was _not_ going out, but there was a place around the corner that delivered. They had sandwiches and stuff. She had a paper menu around here somewhere. She'd get up in a minute and look for it. Right now she just wanted to sit and not move. She tipped the bottle back again and winced. Gah, this stuff is awful. Makes you wonder about the first guy to taste it and say "Hm, I'm not sure, let me take a few more swigs and – whoa, I feel funny." If you wanna know the priorities of humans, look at it this way: We were busy finding ways to get fucked up before we were looking for ways not fucking die at age thirty.

 _Come and snort me, Luna. I'm white and fluffy like a cloud!_

Luna licked her lips and took another drink. Her mind was starting to feel fuzzy. Her heartbeat was quickening and it felt like she had something heavy on her chest. The coke wasn't lying, man. It was like a cool, fluffy, refreshing cloud. When did she last have some? A couple days, right? That's pretty good. She was proud of herself. She'd be _really_ proud of herself if she could make it through the rest of the day without, ahem, partaking, but she didn't think she could; she was just putting it off, procrastinating, fighting a losing battle with herself. She couldn't hold the high ground forever, but she'd hold it as long as she could. No, I'm not snorting you right now. I'm Luna Loud, _I_ decide when I do coke, not you.

She nodded curtly. That's that. She took another drink. Right now I'm going to eat something. And I'm _not_ going to put it off any more.

Setting the bottle on the coffee table, she got up and went into the kitchen. The menu was on top of the fridge next to an empty pack of cigarettes. She opened it and leaned against the counter. Hmmmm. What sounds good?

Well...nothing sounded _good_. Okay...what sounds _decent_? Hm. Nothing hot, and nothing with any dressing or sauce or anything. A BLT? Sure. She picked up the phone, called, and placed her order with a harried sounding women, then went back into the living room. James Taylor was on the radio now. He was better than Cat Stevens but not by much. She considered turning it off and sitting in silence, but she didn't feel like getting back up. Instead, she propped her elbow on the arm of the couch, planted her cheek in her palm, and stared at her reflection in the TV set.

Is this what it would be life if she gave up music? Sitting on the couch and simply existing? Playing music was all she had ever wanted to do...the passion _filled_ her completely, leaving room for nothing else. Now the passion was gone and she was empty.

But why? Why was the passion gone? She searched her mind for an answer, but she couldn't come up with one: There was no moment where it fled her, and there was no one thing that caused it. She just...it didn't do for her what it used to.

It was the coke, she decided. It _had_ to be. She was happy and excited before it. After? Not fucking much. Lincoln going missing played a part in it, she thought; she was genuinely depressed during that period, and that's when she started really hitting the stuff hard. By the time he came home, she was like...frozen in that funk.

But _not_ doing coke is worse, because on coke she might be in a funk, but off coke she was...this: Looking at an empty TV screen, listening to music she didn't like, sapped of strength, energy, and totally apathetic. Dead. That's the word. Dead.

Someone knocked on the door, and she got up to answer it. Five bucks later, she was holding a BLT and frowning at it. Coke made her feel good when she felt down, now it made her feel down when she should be up. Kind of funny. Hahahaha. She took a bite of her sandwich and masticated it. Yum. Really good.

 _I'm still here, Luna...come and take a sniff._

After I'm done with my sandwich, dick.

In the old days she snorted coke to feel good, now she didn't snort it, and she felt like shit. Lincoln made her promise to cut back and she kept that promise...now look at her. All limp and ugh. It was _his_ fault.

No, no it wasn't. It was hers for going too far with it, for forgetting to eat and snorting more than she needed and...oh, whatever. She took another bite. Dry toast. Dry bacon. Swallowing was hard; she washed it down with alcohol. She hated the taste.

She was three quarters done with her sandwich when the craving got _really_ bad like a fist shooting out from the dark. She told herself she would finish the whole thing before she did any coke, and she intended to keep her word: She shoved the rest into her mouth, downed another blast of whiskey, and swallowed hard.

Trembling with need, she got up, went into the bedroom, and got her coke from the drawer. She also grabbed her address book; she'd call someone. Lynn. Mom. Lincoln. It didn't matter. Hell, maybe she'd call all of them.

She brought the book and the baggie back to the living room and sat with her back against the couch. She moved the whiskey out of the way, opened up the baggie with jittering fingers, and dumped a measure out onto the table. She used her thumbnail to make two crooked lines...then shook more out and made a third. Fuck it. She hadn't done any in _days_ and she deserved a splurge.

Pressing her finger against her left nostril, she bent over and took the first line, the familiar burn filling her nasal cavity like a warm hug. Something else filled her...and it was a moment before she realized what it was: Shame. She was ashamed of herself, for in that moment she knew she had no control over her life. The coke was her lord and master...she had given herself to it, and it decided her course, it decided if she was happy or sad or if she felt like playing music or not. As it hit her bloodstream and she began to feel alive again, her mind opened and she saw it as clear as she saw her own reflection in the TV screen, wide-eyed and shaking like a junkie: She put her life into the hands of cocaine and it _took over_ her life.

She bent over and blasted the second line.

But it made her feel good. She was warm now, her cold, dead nerve-endings crackling with life. Drugs are like an abusive lover. He hits you and brings you low...then kisses you and makes you high.

She bowed her head and took the final line, her head flopping back and her eyes closing. Her lips slightly parted and euphoria bubbled up in her chest. Her heart, so recently frozen, began to pound; blood pumped through icy veins, circulating throughout her body. She grinned. This is nice.

For a while she simply sat there, enjoying the high as it settled over her, her chest and stomach tingling and her heartbeat getting faster, then she got up and went into the kitchen for something to wash the taste of whiskey out of her mouth. She felt really good now, better than she had in a _long_ time. Bobby Preston was right. They needed to get their asses overseas. She wasn't crazy on the travel aspect, but seeing London would be pretty cool.

Her heart thundered against her ribcage as she opened the fridge and took out a can of Pepsi. The tingle in her chest increased. It was almost painful now, like a thousand tiny knives poking her. She closed the door and popped the tab; leaning against the counter, she took a drink. She could still taste the whiskey. Awful shit. She'd probably still taste it ten hours from now; stuff lingers worse than garlic.

In the living room, she dropped onto the couch and twisted her baggie of coke off. The tingle had consumed her entire chest and started moving into her arms: Her fingers were numb and cumbersome. She got started to get up, but she was suddenly lightheaded, so she sat back down. Her heart was throbbing and all at once she was short of breath: She tried to breathe in, but it felt like someone was standing on her chest. She snickered. Guess it's been longer than I –

That thought cut off as her heart squeezed. She gasped and her hand fluttered to her chest. Owwww. The lightheadedness strengthened, and all at once she felt like she was going to throw up. She got shakily to her feet, and her heart squeezed again, so hard this time that she cried out.

This wasn't right, she realized with a rush of panic, something was wrong. She massaged her chest and took a series of deep, even breaths. Her heart blasted once, twice, then clutched as if in a sadistic hand. Pain filled her chest, then streaked down her right arm. She clinched her teeth and fell to her knees.

 _Blast. Blast. Blast. Crush._

She cried out again as blood began to crash in her temples and her ears began to ring. Her heart spasmed wildly, and she fell against the couch. Fear filled her, and she pried her eyes open. The phone was on the end table feet away. She tried to reach for it, to call for help, but her arm was heavy, and the slight movement made the pain in her chest worse.

 _Blast. Blast. Blast. Blast._ It filled her head, echoed in the chambers of her brain. She didn't know what was happening, but she knew it wasn't good: Her chest was compressing, and it was getting harder to breathe.

Her heart clutched again, and her body seized, her back arching: She began to topple, and was powerless to stop herself as she fell back, her head striking the floor and her legs muscles screaming as her feet were pinned beneath her butt. A breathless cry escaped her trembling lips and darkness began to steal over her.

It was in that moment that she realized she was going to die.

Her panic turned to mad, clawing terror. She tried to move her arms as if to fight off her approaching death, but they refused her brain's commands. She tried to draw breath, but her lungs wouldn't inflate. Her heart jackhammered _Blastblastblastblastblastblastblastblast_. Her lungs burst.

 _Please, God, don't let me die! Please, help me!_

A spike pierced her chest, and when she screamed, it was a breathy, gurgling whisper. Her right arm jerked spasmodically, and her fingers clawed at the base of her throat as she gasped feebly, and fruitlessly, for air. Her hand jerked down, and her fingers closed claw-like on the cross; it dug painfully into the flesh of her palm as tears blurred her rapidly deteriorating vision.

 _Please, God, help me,_ she begged piteously. _Please, man, don't let me die._

Her heart clenched: The fist was closing, closing, squashing, tears fell faster, lungs aching for air. The light was fading, warm darkness taking its place. As she sank inexorably into her void, her prayer changed.

 _Please help me_ became _please forgive me_.


	77. February 1971: Part 3

**Lyrics to** _ **Just My Imagination (Running Away With Me)**_ **by The Temptations (1971);** _ **Do You Know What I Mean?**_ **By Lee Michaels (1971);** _ **She's A Lady**_ **by Tom Jones (1971)**

* * *

 _I'm late, I'm late for a very important date._

Called 'work.'

Isn't it funny how you can, say, leave early and still arrive behind schedule? She, Lincoln, and the kids were in bed by ten-thirty; she was even asleep soon after her head hit the pillow. But then, Miss Jessica Danielle Loud decided to wake up crying, and Miss Ronnie Anne Loud decided that since she was awake and Lincoln wasn't, why not grab the baby, make a bottle, and sneak into the living room for some alone time with Johnny Carson. She couldn't blame Jessy for oversleeping or being tired, because within five minutes the little girl was asleep in her arms, but she didn't go back to bed like a half way intelligent person, noooo, she stayed up for another forty-five minutes. An hour and a half later, Jessy was up again like babies are, and that's pretty much where it all fell apart. She didn't remember turning the alarm off when it sounded, but she must have, because when she opened her eyes sometime later, it was after six-thirty.

Nothing like realizing you're hideously late to get your blood pumping. She jumped up, slapped herself in the forehead, then blindly slapped Lincoln, accidentally hitting him in a very...ahem...tender spot. He came awake with a pained gasp. _"What the fuck?"_

"We're late," Ronnie Anne said and leapt out of bed. "Hurry up."

He drew himself to a sitting position, his eyes squeezed closed and his teeth clenched. He cradled his wounded testicles and rocked back and forth. "Why'd you hit me in the nuts?"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" She opened the closet door and yanked out the first dress she laid eyes on: Brown, short-sleeved, collar, hem-line that stopped just above the knees. "Now come on!"

Lincoln opened his eyes, saw the time, and jumped to his feet. "Holy shit!"

"I know!"

"Why?" he moaned as he ripped the dresser drawer open and ripped out a pair of jeans.

"That bastard Johnny Carson, that's why!" She started to pull on her dress, then remembered underwear. Damn it. Putting on underwear would take at _least_ a minute, a minute she didn't have. She should just go without.

Yeah, no. She grabbed a bra and a pair of panties from the dresser and hurriedly put them on.

"I'm going to throw that damn television set in the street," Lincoln grumbled. He slipped on a green polo shirt – the likes of which he _never_ wore to work because it would get ruined – and then snatched a handful of socks. He sat down on the edge of the bed, put them on, and then his shoes.

Ronnie Anne got her own shoes on, then grabbed Jessy from her bassinet. The little girl scrunched up and sighed. If this was a weekend, she would have been up promptly at six asking to be fed, but nooo, not today when it would have been welcome. "You get Alex dressed," she said, "I got Jessy."

While Lincoln rushed off to tend to Alex, Ronnie Anne changed and dressed Jessy in a pink dress. The infant was awake now and watching with wide eyes. "Mommy made a mistake," she said, then realized her error. " _Aunt Ronnie Anne_ made a mistake." Well...two mistakes now. She and Lincoln had agreed that the best way to approach the matter of them being Jessy's aunt and uncle rather than her parents was to be open about it and to consistently refer to themselves as such: _Uncle Lincoln loves you,_ for example, and _Aunt Ronnie Anne is a boob for staying up late...again._ They both slipped, though. The other day Lincoln called her 'Daddy's girl' and this was certainly not the first time Ronnie Anne used the 'M' word. She didn't want to confuse the girl...she also didn't want her to ever feel any less loved.

She didn't have time to dwell on that now, though; she was late as sin. Damn you, Johnny Carson. I hope they take you off the air. She scooped Jessy off the bed and went into the living room, where she shrugged into her coat, transferring the baby from one arm to the other. Lincoln came in with Alex. They were pushing it, but it looked like they were going to make it.

Outside, she carried Jessy to the Impala and buckled her into her seat while Lincoln did the same with Alex. "Is he good?" he asked as he tightened the strap across the one-year-old's lap.

"What?" Ronnie Anne asked, her brow crinkling in confusion. She smiled down at her niece, pecked her forehead, and closed the door.

"Johnny Carson. Does he give you what I can't?" He closed the door and looked at her over the roof of the car.

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "Yeah, totally. He really makes me c –" she cut herself off, her cheeks already burning.

Lincoln cocked his brow. "He makes you _what_?"

"Nothing," she said innocently. They met at the front and kissed.

"I bet I can make you cum better than he can."

Ronnie Anne was shocked into laughter. She pulled away from his embrace and slapped his arm. "You're dirty."

"I also don't cheat on my spouse with late night talk show hosts...and sixteen-year-old boys."

She grinned playfully. "You should try it some time."

"Well, there _is_ Lilly." He shivered as if even joking about being with her made him uneasy. Was it the fact that she was seventeen...or the fact that she wasn't his wife? Ronnie Anne couldn't tell, but she thought it was probably a little of both. _Awww...he's so loyal. Like a puppy._

She grinned and kissed his lips. "Don't worry, lame-o, I wouldn't trade you for all the boys and talk show hosts in the world."

Lincoln chuckled. "Well, now think I'm thinking about Lilly..."

She slapped him again. "Get outta my face, Loud."

"I love you," he said and kissed the tip of her nose, "have a good day."

"I love you too," she said.

"Say hi to your boyfriend for me."

This time she flipped him off.

"Later," he grinned.

On the drive to work, Ronnie Anne pressed the pedal to the meddle as much as she could, which, in the town of Royal Woods, wasn't much. The radio was on when she started the car, and she was so harried she didn't have the time to even turn it off (she needed to focus and music does _not_ help you focus). Presently, The Temptations were on. Ronnie Anne cut off a delivery truck and sped through a yellow light. Sorry!

 _But it was just my 'magination, once again_

 _Running away with me_

 _Tell you it was just my 'magination_

 _Running away with me_

Speaking of running, here comes a red light and should I run it or not oh god I'm going to be late but I don't wanna die. She jammed on the brakes, and the Pinto came to a halting stop, the tires screaming and kicking up smoke. She flew forward, the seatbelt locked, and pain radiated through her chest. Ow, goddamn it! She flashed and hit the wheel. This is stupid!

The light changed, and she punched the gas; the car surged forward and she hung a right. Three minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot and into a slot facing the building. She got out just as the first bell rang. Damn it! She had _two_ minutes. No coffee for me.

Inside, she rushed down the hall and got to her classroom ahead of the first students. Her butt touched the seat just as the bell rang. Ha! That's right, I _did_ it! You can't keep a good woman down, and man, I am _good_. She turned in her chair and her smile dropped.

Another card.

Sighing, she snatched it up and opened it. Some sappy little poem. Yeah, yeah, yeah...her eyes flicked to the bottom, where her secret admirer had written: _Will you be my Valintine?_

Her grip tightened, and the paper crinkled. _No, I will_ not. _Leave me alone._

Taking a deep breath, she got up and went to the board. She didn't know if her annoyance was evident or not, but everyone was on their _extra_ best behavior...so it probably was.

* * *

After leaving home, Lincoln drove directly to Flip's, his foot yearning to push harder on the pedal but his brain overriding it: _Your kids are in the car, dumbass; slow and steady._ As if to punctuate this, Alex leaned against the safety bar of her seat and slapped the dashboard. _"Uh!"_

When he started driving with Alex in the front seat, he took the .38 from the glovebox and shoved it under his seat. Even then it made him nervous, so he unloaded it and sat the bullets in the ashtray – after cleaning it out, of course. Michigan state law allows for unlicensed open carry, and Lincoln was seriously thinking about getting a holster and wearing the .38 on his hip. That might be a little much, though. He could also leave it at Flip's. Can you believe this guy's been in business for over thirty years with no gun under the counter? Sure, no one had ever robbed him (that Lincoln knew of), but there's a first time for everything. _But Linc,_ he could hear an imaginary audience of gun-hating hippies saying, _if you whip a gun out during a robbery, things are going to go bad._ Yeah, well, there was this thing in the news last month: Five people were in a restaurant after close, you know, cleaning up, when two guys in ski masks came in. They robbed the place, marched the employees into the walk-in, made them kneel...and shot them all in the back of the head. Just for the hell of it. Someone already made him kneel and put a gun to the back of his head once – they weren't going to do it again.

" _Uh!"_

"What's your problem?" Lincoln asked and glanced at his daughter.

She looked at him with big kitten eyes so much like her mother's it was creepy. _"Uh. Ick."_

Ick?

"D-Did you poop yourself?" he asked, confused.

" _Ick!"_

"I don't understand what –"

" _ICK!"_

She leaned over and swatted at the silent radio.

"Music?"

Her head bobbed up and down.

"Alright," he said with a chuckle – he didn't know she had a word for music. He pressed the on button; drum and organ filled the car.

 _She just left me yesterday_

 _She just left me, had nothing to say_

 _Do you know what I mean?_

 _Oh, do you know what I mean?_

Alex kicked her legs and bobbed her head from side-to-side. Lincoln smiled to himself. He didn't think he could handle this kind of cuteness on a daily basis. The first two years were rough, but the next however-many? His heart would probably melt. _"Uh, uh, uh!"_ Alex sang. In the back, Jessy added her voice to the chorus with a whine.

 _Been fourteen days since I don't know when_

 _I just saw her with my best friend_

 _Do you know what I mean?_

 _Lord, do you know what I mean?_

" _Uhhhh!"_

" _Wahhhh!"_

"Sheesh."

He spun the wheel and pulled into the parking lot. He didn't see Flip's car, because of course not. He did, however, see Robert, Donald, Rhonda, and the two new morning waitresses, Mary and Joan, clustered around the front door waiting. Robert was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was wearing his normal black pants and a shirt that looked like a rainbow threw up on it. What the fuck is this? This guy knows not to wear his hippie shit to work. He pulled into a spot and cut the engine. "You girls stay here," he said as he reached into the back and grabbed the lockbox.

" _Uh!"_ Alex cried in protest.

Lincoln turned the key, and the music came back on.

Late, late, late. He started to get out, but leaned over, opened the glovebox, and slipped a cigarette out of his emergency pack, then grabbed the lighter. He climbed out, lit it, and went to the front door.

"Sorry, sorry," he said as he felt for his keys, "I'm running late." They weren't there, and his heart dropped. What the –?

Then he remembered. He went back to the car, leaned in, and took the keys out of the ignition. Jessy was starting to cry, and as soon as the music stopped, Alex whipped her head around. _"Uh!"_

"Daddy needs his keys," he said.

At the door, he shifted the lockbox to her left hand and tucked it under his arm. "Aww," Rhonda said behind him, "who's that?"

"Alex," Lincoln said around the filter of his cigarette. It was stale and tasted terrible, but with the stress of the morning, he needed a boost.

"She's beautiful...and angry."

"Just like her mother," he said and pushed the door open. He glanced at Robert. "What's with that shirt? Looks like a unicorn wiped its ass on it."

"All my other shirts were dirty."

Lincoln snickered. Alright. Whatever. "Keep an eye on my kids for a second, will you? I need to put this in the register."

"Sure, man, I like kids."

Inside, Lincoln snapped on the lights and crossed to the register while everyone else spread out. He unlocked it, took the money out, and counted it. When he was done, he put it into the register so they'd have change until he came back. Outside, Robert squatted next to the passenger window, smiled, and tapped on it. From the way he recoiled, Alex must have yelled at him.

"Alright, I'll be _right_ back," he said, "think you can handle five minutes without me?"

"We'll manage," Donald said through the window to the kitchen. "We've got Robert."

Lincoln laughed all the way out the door. Robert looked up and came over. "I don't think your daughter likes me. She hit the window and yelled."

"She's mad because the music's not on." He clapped the hippie's arm. "You're in charge until I get back."

Robert's eyes lit up. "And if you fuck _anything_ up, so help me God I'll choke the flower power right out of you."

In the car, Jessy was screaming and Alex was thrashing in impotent anger. _"Uh! Ick! Ick! Nee ick!"_

 _Nee_ is how she said Bunny. _Bunny wants music._

"You're lucky you're so cute," Lincoln said and started the car. As soon as nee got her ick, she was happy. Jessy, on the other hand, cried all the way to Franklin Ave. He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out just as Alex started to complain. "We're gonna see auntie Leni," he said.

She was grinning when he opened the door. He unbuckled her, took her out, and held her hand as they walked to the other side of the car. _"Eni...eni...eni,"_ Alex sang, and Lincoln laughed. Wow. She was suddenly full of song.

He got Jessy out and cradled her in one arm: Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open as she wailed. "Honey," Lincoln said, "it's okay. We're here now. Auntie Leni can give you a baba. How does that sound?"

 _Wail! Wail! Wail!_

At the door, Lincoln let go of Alex's hand, knocked, and then grabbed the girl again before she could even think of running away. After a minute, it opened and Leni appeared. "There you are! I was, like, really confused. I thought it was the weekend or something."

"Nope, we're just running late," he said and held Jessy out.

Leni took her and smiled brightly. "Good _morning,_ Baby Jessy. Why are you crying?"

"I think she's hungry."

" _Ick!"_ Alex said with a bounce.

"We can listen to music," Leni said. Apparently _she_ knew Alex could say that word. She held out her hand. "Come on."

"Love you guys," Lincoln said.

"Aw, we love you too, Lincy!"

* * *

Ronnie Anne poured herself a cup of coffee and sat across from Helen Carr, who was working on a can of Tab while grading papers. She hummed as she did this, her red pen scribbling across the sheets and her eyes scanning the work thereon. When she saw something she particularly didn't like, she made _humph_ sound. Ronnie Anne lifted the mug to her lips, blew a curl of steam away, then sipped gingerly.

"Sometimes I just don't understand how my students arrive at the conclusions they do," Helen said.

Sitting the cup down, Ronnie Anne shifted. "I know how you feel."

The older woman made a flourishing mark on the paper she was currently savaging. Ronnie Anne opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. She wasn't the type of person who enjoyed talking about their problems (maybe it worked for some people, and that was great, but it never had for her – a problem's a problem and discussing its existence doesn't make it go away) but she found herself _really_ needing to talk about the card and the mystery sender. It was really getting under her skin. It shouldn't, she told herself, but for some reason it bothered her greatly.

She took a deep breath. "Has a student ever...had a crush on you?"

Helen paused and look up, her head tilting slightly to the side in contemplation. "Yes," she finally said, "there've been a few. I think. No one has ever come outright and said so, but you can tell. Why? Does someone have a crush on _you_?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yes." She told Helen about the cards she found on her desk, and the one on the windshield yesterday afternoon. "What bothers me is what you said about no one ever coming out and _saying_ it. It's like..." she tried to come up with the precise way to articulate her feelings. Having a crush on your teacher is fine – natural, even – but actually making a move on them is crossing a line. She said this, and Helen nodded. "I mean...should I be worried?"

Helen sighed. "I don't know," she said, "I doubt you should be. Approaching a teacher you have a crush on so directly isn't the done thing, but I'm sure for some people it is."

"What if...what if it isn't a student?"

Helen blinked. "Well...then...the _approach_ isn't as inappropriate..."

"But I'm married. Mrs. Loud. It's right there. M-R-S-dot. That means I'm taken."

"Some men don't respect that," Helen said bluntly.

"I just don't want it to cause a problem...no matter _who_ it is."

Helen shrugged. "You can take it to Principal Wilson...or you can find out who it is yourself."

"Myself?"

"Yes. There's been a card on your desk two mornings in a row, so it stands to reason that tomorrow – on Valentine's Day – there will be another."

Ronnie Anne started to ask what she meant, then it hit her, and a tiny grin touched her lips. "You mean a sting."

Helen nodded eagerly. "Just like in the police dramas."

Hm. Ronnie Anne couldn't lie...that _did_ sound kind of fun...but what would she do once she knew? She really didn't want tension with one of her coworkers if that's who was doing this...then again, she was happily married and while _some_ married women might be flattered when a man hits on them, she was not. She was actually...well, she was actually kind of offended. She was less offended at the prospect of it being a student, but just as worried that it might lead to some kind of tense environment: How uncomfortable would it be to teach someone you know had it _that_ bad for you? It'd be pretty awkward, she imagined, especially if the kid didn't take being turned down well.

She drew a deep breath. Despite the fact that she was twenty-four-years old, she had precious little experience with things like this. She had only ever really liked one boy in her life, and that was Lincoln, and they'd been together...how long now? Almost fourteen years? Wow! So...yeah, she was a little out of her element here and she didn't like it.

Whatever. She was Ronnie Anne Loud. She didn't roll over and take things lying down. She'd find out who it was, tell him politely to get lost, and if things went downhill...well...if it was a faculty member, she'd punch him in his face. If it was a student...maybe she'd punch him in the face too. She liked this job but when you got right down to it, it didn't mean _that_ much.

She jumped when Helen patted her hand. "You're overthinking it, honey. Find out who it is and talk to them."

"Alright," she nodded. "Thanks for listening."

"Any time."

* * *

The next morning, after spending the evening at home where absolutely nothing worth mentioning happened, Ronnie Anne woke at 5:05am to music:

 _Well, she's never in the way_

 _Always something nice to say, and what a blessin'_

 _I can leave her on her own_

 _Knowin' she's okay alone and there's no messin'_

Her arm shot out and she hit the OFF button with a long, tired groan. Okay...maybe I don't care that much about finding this asshole. She rolled over and curled up against Lincoln, who lay on his back with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. She laid her palm on his chest, snuggled her head to his arm, and tried to let herself drift off, but couldn't. Maybe she _was_ overreacting, but she wanted to find out who the hell this guy was and confront him.

 _It's always something with this damn job,_ she thought as she got out of bed and stumbled through the dark to the bathroom. She bumped into Jessy's bassinet and froze with a wince: The baby stirred and sighed, but didn't wake. In the bathroom, she pulled her hair back in a bun and brushed her teeth. Like she was saying, it was always something. First Kevin Masters calling her a spic and almost getting his teeth knocked out, now this. Jeez. Why didn't she study to teach kindergarten or something? It'd be a _lot_ less stressful.

She spat into the sink, ran the water, then put her toothbrush away. She left the light on, and used it to see in the bedroom. She took a blue dress from the closet, tossed it onto the bed, and stripped. Once her underwear was on, she slid into the dress and then pulled her shoes on. She leaned over the bed and kissed Lincoln's lips. His eyes cracked open. "I'm going in," she whispered.

He nodded.

She smiled. He was so _cute_ when he was three quarters asleep. "I love you."

"You too..."

She patted his naked chest, hurriedly reset the alarm for six, and left. Outside, dawn had not yet crested, and night still held sway over Royal Woods. She crossed to the Pinto, her shoes crunching snow, and fumbled out her keys. She slipped behind the wheel, tossed her purse into the passenger seat, and started the engine: Warm air blew out of the vents, and she angled them all at her because she was a Ronnie Annesicle. The older she got, the more she hated the cold. She had Latin blood, and Latin blood is _not_ meant to be exposed to temperatures this brutal.

No other cars were on the street as she threaded her way toward the high school. She had time to kill, so she stopped at the Chevron station, which was 'open early' per the sign in the window. It was a new building and offered only 'self-service,' which threw a lot of people in town for a loop: They had to get out and pump their own gas? Why? What sense does that make? Needless to say, it wasn't the most popular filling station around, but their coffee was pretty good.

She pulled into the school parking lot at 5:45, and finished her coffee while listening to a morning talk program full of inane banter – call her weird, but she liked shows like that, they made her laugh.

At six, she went to the side door just as Mr. Hanks the janitor opened it. He was looking down at the lock when she appeared, and when he glanced up at the little window, he jumped back with a tiny cry of fight.

"Sorry," she said as she slipped in.

"You gave me a scare," he said, holding his chest.

After nearly killing the janitor, she went into her classroom, without turning on the light, and leaned against the wall flanking the door. Alright, so...am I just going to stand here like a creep? Well, she couldn't very well sit at her desk, could she? She might scare him off. The point of Operation Find Out Who Is Leaving Me Valentine's Day Cards And Tell Them To Back Off Because I Am Happily Married And Also Think Of A Shorter Name For This Operation was to stay out of sight.

Sighing, she crossed her arms and drummed her fingers impatiently against her elbow. In the hall, Principal Wilson greeted Mr. Hanks, and Ronnie Anne froze. What if Principal Wilson came in? How would she explain _that? Hey, Principal Wilson, just...hanging out in the dark._

Ew, God, what if _he_ was the one leaving the cards?

First of all...the man had to be sixty...second, he was her boss, so that would be a _really_ bad scene, and third, he knew better than anyone else that she was married, so talk about a slap in the face. If it _was_ him...she'd probably lose her job today and maybe even go to jail: She just hoped the old guy could take a punch or two without croaking; she did _not_ want to wind up like Luan.

Wow. That thought made her feel guilty, like she was making fun of her...which she wasn't. She felt awful for Luan...in one more ways than one. Not only was she separated from her daughter – a fate Ronnie Anne couldn't and wouldn't imagine for herself – but she would have to live the rest of her life with the knowledge that she killed someone. As tough as Ronnie Anne liked to think she was, she didn't think she'd be able to handle doing that herself.

Sigh. She wouldn't punch Principal Wilson, she'd just shove him against the desk. Deal?

The murder of her boss became a moot point as his voice faded into the distance, leaving her alone with the eerie silence of desolation. Alright, loverboy, let's hurry this up, huh? I'd like another cup of coffee before class.

Her SA (that stands for secret admirer) didn't heed her call, and she started to tap her foot. Through the window, which overlooked the street, cold purple light was spreading across the sky. She slid down the wall until she was sitting, then wrapped her arms around her knees and yawned. She wasn't used to getting up this early anymore; since she stayed after school ended for the day and did most of her work then, she was able to come in at the last possible minute (well, kind of...she liked being here at least twenty minutes before class started). When she first started she'd get here an hour early and spend that time twiddling her thumbs in the teachers' lounge.

Presently, she sat her hands on her knees and twiddled her thumbs. La-de-dah, zippity-doo-dah-day. What was that from? A movie, right? Or was it a song? She tilted her head forward in thought. Hm. She didn't know...but speaking of movie, she should see if Leni would watch the kids on Saturday so she and Lincoln could go to the drive-in; she couldn't even _remember_ the last time they did that. Was it...?

Her thoughts trailed off as a shadow darted into the room and went to her desk. Her heart leapt and for a moment she was frozen in surprise. Then, she came alive and jumped to her feet. Oooh, I got you now!

She felt for the switch, found it, and threw it on.

The card-giver spun, startled, and Ronnie Anne gasped.

She didn't know who she was expecting – a random student? – but it sure as shit was not Lilly Rawlins. The girl, clad in bell bottoms and a white button-up shirt, paled. "Uhh...I can explain."

Ronnie Anne had no idea what to say. She was shocked, stunned, flabbergasted, agape, uh...and a bunch of other stuff. Lilly reached behind her and slipped the newest card of the desk, never taking her eyes off Ronnie Anne, as though she were afraid she would attack if she did. "H-Here," she said, coming forward and holding it out.

Still dumbstruck, astonished, astounded, stupefied, and other things, Ronnie Anne took it, and Lilly scuttled away like a frightened animal.

 _I wasn't expecting it to be a girl._

She looked down at the card and opened it. She skipped the sappy poem and went straight to the handwriting. _I luv you ronny an happy valintimes day – linkin._

She read it three more times before it sank in.

Lincoln.

She broke out in a big smile. That son of a _bitch_. A giggle escaped her lips. She couldn't believe this. Weirdo. Sap. Square. She shook her head as she crossed to the desk, a light spring in her step. He got her...he got her _good_. Hahahaha. She thought she was going to have to kill her boss, and BOOM, it was lame-o all along.

Now she was warm and tingly inside.

She sat and slapped the card down with a shake of the head. Seriously, how could that guy make her feel this way even after fourteen years? She didn't know; one of life's mysteries, she guessed. However he did it, she liked it, and she found herself thinking, for the billionth time since she fell in love with him: _If I wasn't head over heels before I am now._

She sighed contentedly. She was the luckiest woman in the world...a fact of which she had long been aware, of course. Sometimes – and she knew this was kind of strange – she'd look at other women (even Lori) and wonder how they could be happy with the man they were with: They weren't Lincoln. She didn't mean to make him sound like he was Jesus Christ, totally pure and without sin (he wasn't), but she was totally and completely in love with him, and the thought of being with anyone else left her feeling cold and empty. Sigh. She was in trouble if he died, because she would never be able to bring herself to even consider being with another man.

Wow. She was sappier than a Canadian maple. But only for Lincoln, though, and don't you forget it. She was prepared to murder her boss and possibly cannibalize his body in one bite to hide her crime, after all. She was like a lion, and Lincoln was her tamer...roar.

The image of Lincoln in a top hat and cutaway tails, a whip in one hand and a chair in the other – and her as a big, scary-looking-but-actually-soft-and-playful cat – made her laugh. The pinched look of determination on pretend-Lincy's face was really cute, and right then she decided that tonight, as soon as the kids were asleep, she was going to jump him. Meow, Wincoln.

Ummm. She must be ovulating because just thinking about it was making her hot. Alright, she needed to get her mind off of that topic and _now_. Hmmm...oh, yeah, coffee. Coffee is good. So hot...and wet...

Goddamn it. I'm turned on at work and it's all your fault, Lincoln Loud.


	78. February 1971: Part 4

**Lyrics to** _ **One Toke Over The Line**_ **by Brewer and Shipley (1970)**

* * *

Luan Loud thought of herself as a mouse, a self-image that went back to her flight from California when she visualized a little rodent scurrying through a field while a spread-winged hawk with razor sharp talons flew overhead. Her cell was her burrow, and in it, she felt safe – or at least as safe as one can feel in prison. When she left it, she didn't walk, she scurried, and if anyone made a sudden move or loud noise, she jumped. Some of the other women noticed and took it upon themselves to pick on her: At dinner yesterday, a fat woman with arms like a truck driver walked by, took Luan's bread off her tray, and shoved it into her mouth with an exaggerated _"Ummhmmm."_ In the line on the way to breakfast that Friday morning, another woman bumped into her. _"Watch yourself, bitch."_ Shower time was the worst: The shower room was a big, open space with shower heads side-by-side-by-side with no partition or privacy. Some women stared at her with hungry looks in their eyes, others made crude comments about what they wanted to do to her, and others insulted her body. She responded to these taunts and leers the only way she could – by quaking and furiously blushing.

None of them bothered her while she was in her cell, even though the doors were left open during the day and they were allowed to roam the block or watch TV in the dayroom. She wasn't worth going out of their way for – when she appeared, they had their fun, but they didn't seek her out, and for that, she was endlessly grateful.

The majority of the other women left her, and each other, alone. In prison, she had found, the object was to keep your head down, do your time, and leave. The troublemakers were the ones who _weren't_ leaving – the lifers – and the ones whose sentences were so long that they might as well not be leaving – twenty-five, forty, fifty years. The girls like Luan, the short-timers, actually had something to lose, so they generally didn't cause any problems. They were also often targets, because of jealousy.

All it takes to make things a living hell, though, are one or two people, and there were more than one or two here.

Living hells, however, always have a reprieve, and for Luan, her reprieve was her sister's weekly visits. She talked to Mom and Lincoln on the phone and got letters, which was great, but actually being able to see Luna – even if it was through a pane of glass – really made Luan happy. Visitations only lasted twenty minutes, but in that time they chatted like old friends who weren't so 'old' that they needed to catch up: Each visit was like a continuation of the last. Luan didn't talk about prison and Luna didn't talk about music – in that warm, comfortable space, they shared memories, laughs, and the occasional bit of gossip about famous people Luna knew. Luna wasn't the type to pay attention to rumors, and Luan suspected she only did it to give her, Luan, something interesting to think about, which Luan appreciated – there's not much to think about in prison except what you did and what you're missing.

That Friday afternoon, Luan sat in her cell waiting impatiently for a guard to fetch her and bring her to the visiting room, her legs drawn up and a yellow legal pad balanced on her knees. She had been trying to lose herself in a drawing all day, but couldn't focus, so she doodled: Bugs Bunny's girlfriend (what was her name?) in a prison dress like Luan's and looking sad, a ball and chain attached to her ankle; a blooming flower that Luan decided looked like a vagina (honestly, she didn't mean for it to look that way, she just wasn't very good); a cartoon J. Edgar Hoover sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up to his nose, his eyes filled with fright and a nightlight plugged into the wall; a vampire that was supposed to look like Richard Nixon grinning widely at a map of Vietnam with two puncture marks in it, blood dripping from his fangs. She sighed and glanced up at the door, hoping to see a guard waiting, but the threshold was empty.

She tapped her pencil against the notepad and tried to think of something else to draw to pass the time, but she didn't _want_ to draw right now, she wanted to spend time with her sister. And her daughter, of course, but doesn't that go without saying? Seeing Jessy, however, was not going to happen any time soon – Lincoln said he would bring her out to California when he could, but she knew he was busy, and when you're busy, travelling 2,500 miles so your jailbird sister could see her daughter – who you're raising – isn't easy.

If she didn't feel like the world's biggest piece of shit before, she did now. She started to sketch, and in ten minutes she was done. A curved turd with big eyes and a ponytail stared back at her. She didn't mean to fill its peeping orbs with so much sadness; it was like looking into a mirror, and it depressed her.

She glanced up at the door.

No guard.

What time was it, anyway? Visiting time had to be close, if not starting already. She sighed and looked down at the pad. She hoped Luna could make it. She would understand if she couldn't – but she really, really needed this.

She held the pencil against her chin and mulled over his next time-killing doodle. Since she was thinking of Luna, she attempted a guitar, but it came out looking raggedy and cheap – kind of like that guitar Luna made when she was a kid. Luan smiled as she remembered it: That thing looked worse than one of her jokes _sounded_ , but it played nice. Then Daggy brought her his guitar and that was really sweet of him. She was kind of jealous: She wanted a boy to do something like that for _her_.

Then there was Clyde. He was really sweet, even if he was –shudder – a Republican. He made love like a Democrat, though, wink-wink. That was a joke, because Republicans are stuffy and sexually repressed and wouldn't know what to do with a vagina. She didn't know _how_ Democrats made love, except for Ted. He and Clyde were the only two men she had ever been with. Ted wasn't really a Democrat, though; he was a lot closer to one than Clyde, however. She found herself missing him...missing both of them...Clyde probably more so than Ted, because when she thought about Clyde her mind didn't inevitably turn to...you know.

She turned to a fresh sheet and started to draw. She finally lost herself, and sometime later, she sat her pencil aside and examined what she had: A fairly accurate recreation of Clyde's face, complete with glasses. She wasn't happy with his lips and nose, but it would do. She glanced over her shoulder at the window, and that's when she realized that it was dark.

Visiting hours were over.

Luna didn't come.

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She understood – she was an inconvenience, really – but that didn't mean she wasn't sad. She was. She had been looking forward to seeing her sister for a week, and having the carpet ripped out from under her made her want to cry.

But she didn't.

Not until lights out and no one could see or hear.

* * *

Ronnie Anne parked next to the Impala, got out, and went inside. Lincoln was leaning against the counter and talking to an old man in a jacket and shaking his head, a boyish grin on his face. He reminded her so much of Flip in that moment that her step faltered. Even if he wound up _looking_ like Flip, she would still love him...though she really hoped it didn't come to that.

Speaking of Flip, was he here? Half the reason she came here (okay, maybe more like three quarters) was to see him. Lincoln said he thought something was wrong with him, and she just wanted to check in on him, you know...because he was her friend. She didn't see him, though, which meant he probably wasn't in. Sigh.

Lincoln glanced up, and he smiled almost ear-to-ear. He stepped away from the old man and to the edge of the counter. "Hey," he said, "my favorite customer."

Every time he smiled like that, her heart pitter-pattered and she was powerless to suppress her own smile. Fourteen years, Linc, you still get me fourteen years later. Well, thirteen technically, but, still.

"Hey," she said and sat on a stool. She slipped her purse from her shoulder and sat it at her feet.

He leaned against the counter and cocked his brow. "So...what brings you in today?" There was a knowing light in his eyes.

"I came to see Flip," she said, purposely _not_ giving him the answer he was expecting. "Is he here?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Nope. The old bastard was a no call, no show, so I fired his ass."

Ronnie Anne chuckled. She caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye, and turned to see Lilly coming out of the women's room. She saw Ronnie Anne, ducked her head, and hurried behind the counter, which made Ronnie Anne grin. Poor girl. She looked at Lincoln, and his grin widened.

Pitter-patter. "I found out who my secret admirer is today," she said. She propped her elbows on the counter and rested her face in her hands.

"Yeah?" he asked. "How'd you do that?"

"I found his waitress planting a card on my desk."

Lincoln leaned in closer. "How do you know it's him and not his waitress with the crush?"

Ronnie Anne leaned closer too. Their noses were almost touching. "Because," she said lowly, "he signed his name. Or tried to, but he's a really bad speller."

"Is he now?" Lincoln asked.

She nodded, her eyes shining and her lips sucked in to hide her big dumb smile.

"What's his name?"

"Lynn-Ken. L-I-N-K-I-N."

Lincoln nodded. "Did you kiss him?"

Ronnie Anne pecked him on his lips. "I just did. And later..."

"What about later?" Their noses were mashed together now and neither spoke above a faint breath.

"I'm going to put his thing in my mouth."

For a second, they looked at each other...then they started laughing, Ronnie Anne pressing her hand to her burning cheek and Lincoln bowing his head. A couple of people turned to look at them, but they didn't care – they never had and they probably never would.

"I'm serious, though," Ronnie Anne said.

She totally was.

"Until then," Lincoln said smugly, "you want anything?"

"Fries and a chocolate shake," she said, then, "and someone to share them with."

"I think I can make that happen," Lincoln said.

Ten minutes later, a basket of fries and a chocolate shake topped with whipped cream and a cherry sat between them. Ronnie Anne plucked a fry up and took a bite, then shoved the rest into Lincoln's mouth. "It's hot," Lincoln said, and took a sip of the shake.

"So are you," Ronnie Anne said playfully.

He picked up a fry, held it out, then snatched it away and tossed it into his mouth when she leaned in to bite it. "Hey," she said.

"Sorry," Lincoln said, "growing boy and all."

"I think you're fully grown, square-for-brains."

Lincoln shrugged. "I don't know. I think I read somewhere that your brain keeps growing until you're twenty-six."

"Uh-oh. You're in trouble then."

He picked up a fry and threw it at her. "Stop!" she laughed.

"I love you," he said seriously, and laid her hand on hers.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

"I love you too," she smiled hazily.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy _Valintimes_ Day, Lynn-Ken."

* * *

William "Tex" Rayburn stood just inside the kitchen of the house he rented on Loma Vista Drive in Beverly Hills, his back against the wall and a lime green telephone handset pressed to his ear. He tapped one snakeskin boot impatiently on the linoleum floor and stared sightlessly out the window over the sink: A Cadillac crept along the steep street, the sun reflecting harshly on its chrome bumper.

 _Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

He sighed and started to hang up, but decided to wait just a _little_ bit longer.

It was early Monday afternoon, and he hadn't seen Luna in nearly a week (or maybe it was more than a week – hell, he couldn't remember) and when he stopped by her place on Saturday, she didn't answer the door. He didn't think much of it at the time because someone can't be inside 24/7, but that night he called, and she didn't pick up the phone. Then yesterday. Now today.

He was starting to worry.

 _Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

Goddamn it.

He hung the phone up and put his hands on his hips, his toe still tapping. A part of him said not to go over there – Luna might get mad at him. Another part told him to man the hell up and do it, something might be wrong; if it's not and she does, oh well, it wouldn't be the first time. If it was Charlie or Cliff or anyone else, he'd listen to the little part saying not to, but this wasn't Charlie or Cliff or anyone else, this was Luna, and Luna had a problem, and when you got a problem, things can go wrong _real_ quick. He knew that first hand: His Daddy was a drunk and passed out with a cigarette in his mouth one night. He didn't die, but as he laid in the burn unit in a small Texas town in the early 1950s, he sure wished he had.

That's what decided him. He grabbed his black cowboy hat from the kitchen table and went into the living room. His girlfriend, Sheila, was sitting on the couch in a light robe, her legs drawn up and her arms crossed. A tall blonde with delicate features and vulnerable eyes, she starred in one of those daytime soap opera shows Tex could never stomach. Well, she wasn't the star, but she got more screen time than she didn't, so she might as well be as far as he was concerned.

"I'm going over there," he said, "she's still not answering."

"Alright," she said, "can you get me a pack of cigarettes while you're out?"

He grabbed his keys from the table by the door. "Yeah. You need anything else?"

Sheila shook her head. "No."

Outside, Tex put on his hat and slipped a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of his gray western jacket. When he first came to L.A. back in 1961, he dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He also went by Billy because what else would he be called but his name? People noticed his Texas drawl and, of course, started calling him Tex. He didn't like it at first, but after a while he sort of grew into it. He was proud to be from Texas and he figured why not wear it on his sleeve? His granddaddy was a hard drinker like his daddy, but gave it up long before Tex was born. He said 'even now' – now being thirty or forty years after quitting – 'even now I get a hankerin' for it once in a while.' Tex was the same: Every once in a while he felt like a complete jackass in his boots, hat, and bolo tie. Now was not one of those days. All he could think about was Luna.

Every once in a while, Blake or someone would josh him about 'liking' Luna, like they were a bunch of kids on the playground or some damn thing. Yes, he liked Luna, and yes, in a way, he kind of did love her, but the way a brother loves his sister. Well...in the way a _normal_ brother loves his sister. They do that incest stuff in West Virginia, not Texas. There was a fire in that gal – she reminded him a lot of his Mama. She was the easiest person in the world to get along with, but if you crossed her, it didn't matter if you were a three hundred pound oilman, you better watch out. There was also a touch of...he didn't know...scared little girl in her. She was fun to be around and talk to, but he found himself wanting to protect her.

That thing with her brother didn't help none; she was awful broken up about it. He never believed that people used drugs or hooch to medicate themselves (he figured they just liked it, and maybe weren't strong enough to get through the day sober), but Luna changed his mind. You could see the deep hurt in her eyes and you could hear it in her voice. Maybe she started off doing the coke for a good time, but after that mess with her brother, she did it to keep together. The thing is: Drugs and hooch don't keep you together, at least not long term. It's like using duct tape on a big ol' crack in a dam – it might work for a bit, but sooner or later that tape's gonna come loose. Actually, it's not like that. It's like this: Putting duct tape on a crack in a big ol dam...after soaking in dam dissolving acid.

He knew he got on her nerves sometimes, but that's what people do when they care: They bug the hell out of you. If they didn't care, they'd leave you the hell alone and worry about something else.

His car, a white 1970 Chevelle, was parked at the curb. He unlocked the door, climbed in, and buckled his seatbelt. For much of its length, Loma Vista winds through the lower Hollywood foothills, its flanks lined with small yet opulent hillside homes and well-manicured gardens. He navigated it and a number of side streets to Santa Monica Boulevard, a broad avenue boasting majestic palms, posh cafes, fashionable shops, and upscale night clubs. Tex always liked this area, and Southern California as a whole. Sometimes, when he and the band had an extended period of time off, he'd get into his car and just drive – often he made a mini vacation of it, staying the night in Tijuana or Barstow or Vegas, wherever the spirit of the road led him.

As he made his way southwest toward Luna's apartment, he chewed his thumbnail and listened to the radio, a balloon of dread inflating in his stomach. The upbeat, harmonic melody issuing from the speakers did little to sooth his nerves. In fact, it grated on them and made him even more anxious than he was before:

 _One toke over the line sweet Jesus_

 _One toke over the line_

 _Sittin' downtown in a railway station_

 _One toke over the line_

This wasn't like Luna. He didn't know what she did in her free time (aside from cocaine), but getting ahold of her never took him more than a day at most.

When he reached her building, he pulled in behind a pale yellow Ford sedan, cut the engine, and got out. The complex was a built in a Spanish flavored style prevalent across Southern California with white stucco walls and a red terra cotta roof. A sprawling California live oak pressed close to one side while a grove of palms grew along the other. A set of steps led to a walkway guarded by a wrought iron gate. Luna's apartment was on the second floor by the head of the stairs. Tex knocked and waited, a warm gust of wind sweeping along the open breezeway and rustling the boughs of the oak, making it hard to hear approaching footsteps from inside.

He knocked again, harder and longer this time.

No answer.

Tex took a deep breath. He was starting to really worry now. He tried the knob, but it was locked. Shit. Next, he pressed his face against the front window and put his hands up to cut the glare, but he couldn't see past the drapes. He looked along the sill to see if there was a way to open it, but there wasn't.

He put his hands on his hips and sighed in frustration; he briefly considered taking off his jacket, wrapping it around his fist, and smashing the pane, but decided against it. Instead, he went back down the stairs and walked along the first floor promenade looking for an office or the super's apartment, his anxiety rising and his heart starting to race. He turned a corner, and a fat man in a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up, backed out of a door, pulled it closed, and locked it with a key.

Tex glanced at the door; a placard reading KEEP OUT was posted to it.

"Excuse me," he said, and the man jumped. He was roughly sixty with glasses, thinning gray hair, and jowls. "Are you the manager?"

"Yes," the man replied guardedly, looking Tex up and down like he was some kind of motorcycle gang member, "can I help you?"

"I'm a friend of Luna Loud in apartment 3C. She hasn't been answering the phone or the door and I'm worried something's wrong. Can you open the door and let me in?"

The super blinked. "No, I can't do that, sorry. Safety reasons."

Tex sighed. "Look, I understand, but I'm really worried she's hurt in there. Can't you...go in yourself or something? I-I'm just trying to make sure she's okay."

The super scrunched his lips to the side and regarded him for a moment, then exhaled heavily. "Follow me."

Tex nodded gratefully and allowed the man to lead him to an apartment off a courtyard; shafts of sunshine fell through wavering branches. The super paused at the door. "Can I see your license?"

License? Tex didn't quite understand why the man wanted his license, but he took it out of his wallet and handed it over anyway. The super took it, nodded, then disappeared into the apartment. Tex crossed his arms and waited impatiently. When the man returned, he was holding the license in one hand and a .38 revolver in the other.

"I got your name and your address. You go in, you look around, you leave."

Tex nodded. "Deal."

Tex reached Luna's apartment first and waited for the super to catch up; he was huffing and sweating by the time he did, a ring of keys in his hand. He went through them with agonizing slowness before finally selecting one and inserting it into the lock. "I haven't seen much of her lately," he said, "not that I ever see much of her at all."

"She's private," Tex said. _Shut up and open the goddamn door._

The super turned the key and stepped. "In and out."

Ignoring him, Tex pushed the door open and started in, but recoiled as a nauseating stench bowled over him. It was unlike anything he had ever smelled before; rancid and rank with a hint of sickly sweetness. The super's face crinkled and he put his hand over his nose.

Something about that odor made Tex's heart clench. Holding his nose, he went in and looked around. When his eyes flicked to the coffee table, a chunk of ice dropped into her stomach: She was lying in front of the couch with her legs tucked under her at an impossible angle. He hurried over and dropped to one knee even as he realized it was too late.

He was not the smartest man in the world, and his knowledge of medical matters began and ended at aspirin and cough syrup, but he recognized death when he saw it.

And Luna Loud was dead.

Her hands were clutched to the chest of her robe and her eyes were open and staring. In life they were clear and brown, now they were filmed cloudy white. Her skin was a bruised, sallow shade of yellow and bloody foam was crusted to her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. Her face was frozen in a pained expression.

For a long moment, Tex stared at her, horror flooding his chest, then he sat back and put his shaking hands to his forehead. A strangled sob escaped his throat, and he squeezed his eyes closed against a rush of tears.

"She in there?" the super called through the door.

"Yeah," Tex replied, his voice cracking. His eyes fell on the telephone, and he reached for it mechanically. He dialed, pressed the handset to his ear, and waited. As he spoke, he stared at the body of his friend, sadness settling over him like a wet blanket. When he was done, he hung up and glanced at the coffee table.

A baggie of cocaine sat next to a small black book, which lay open. He leaned over and read a list of names and phone numbers. LINCOLN, LYNN, LORI. There was a heart around each one. The biggest heart of all was around a number and the word HOME.

He picked it up.


	79. February 1971: Part 5

**Lyrics to** _ **Kookie**_ **by Sandwich (1971)**

* * *

"You're going to look _so_ adorable in this hat, baby Jessy," Leni said from the couch; she was knitting a sweater. "I hope you're ready to be _beautiful!"_

Jessy was on her stomach, her legs kicking excitedly. She pushed herself up and smiled at her aunt. "Okay," Leni said, " _even more_ beautiful."

Alex was wandering the living room with her Matchbox car, driving it along the walls, over the end table, up the side of the TV, on the edge of the couch cushions, and across Rita's lap. Rita smiled at her granddaughter and stroked her hair. On TV, Dark Shadows was just beginning, and Rita saw Leni shiver from the corner of her eye. Rita had long suspected that the show's vampire, Barnabas Collins, frightened the girl; she hoped that seeing him on a daily basis would help her to overcome her fear. She was almost thirty, and being afraid of vampires was not something a thirty-year-old woman should be. Deep down, she knew that it was futile – Leni was sick and getting sicker all the time – but sometimes Rita couldn't let herself think about that, couldn't let herself dwell on the terminal nature of her daughter's situation. It was called denial, and it was not something she indulged in often, but occasionally it was all she had.

Leni glanced up as Alex skipped the car over her knee. "Hi, Bunny," she said, "am I your highway?"

Alex ran the car along the arm of the couch and made engine noises with her lips. On the floor, Jessy cried happily out, her eyes glued to Leni.

"Do you want auntie time?" Leni asked.

Jessy smacked the carpet as if to confirm that she did.

"Alright," Leni said and sat her knitting aside. She had been working on the sweater for nearly two weeks now. The tremors in her hands hadn't gotten worse, but they hadn't gotten better, either, and she was forced to work with the speed of turtle on its back. It frustrated her, but she kept at it, because it's what she loved to do. She slipped off the couch and sat cross-legged next to Jessy, who dug her hands into the carpet and turned herself to face her aunt.

Leni beamed. "You're giving auntie a _big_ smile!"

Alex passed between them, running the car over the top of Leni's head. Rita chuckled and held her hand out. "Can Nana see your car?"

The little girl held it out with a mousey expression. _As wong as I have it back, gwama._ Rita took it, and ran the wheels along Alex's cheek; she giggled and drew back. "Alex is the highway now," she said.

Alex held out both hands, and Rita retuned the car; grinning, she went over to Leni and leaned in. _"Ick!"_

"You wanna listen to music?" Leni asked.

Alex's head bobbed up and down. _"Ick."_

"Alright!" Leni scooped Jessy up and got to her feet. "Come on, Bunny. Hold my hand." Alex hurried over and allowed Leni to take her hand, then the three of them went up the stairs. "Big steps," Leni said, "don't fall down and go boom."

When they were gone, Rita crossed her arms and stared at the television set. How long until Leni wasn't able to take care of the kids any longer? Rita had never been comfortable leaving her daughter alone with them, though her being in the house was enough. As Leni's condition progressed, however, she surely wouldn't be able to properly mind them. Right now, she excelled at childcare – she was painstakingly responsible and overly-cautious – but no matter how much she loved it, or her nephew and nieces, she couldn't stop the inevitable.

Rita sighed.

She hated thinking about it, honestly and thoroughly hated it. Sometimes she wanted to rip out the part of her brain that held the horrible knowledge of Leni's disease and cast it away.

When the phone rang next to her, she jumped. From the time (4:00pm), it was Ronnie Anne calling to say she would be late. She often stayed after and graded her papers rather than bring them home. Rita couldn't blame her; she was in her fifties, but she had most certainly not forgotten how irritating it is to have homework. The phone rang again and she picked it up.

"Hello?"

Empty static filled the line. She started to repeat herself when a man spoke. His voice was twangy and halting. "Uh, is-is Mr. or Mrs. Loud there?"

Rita's brow furrowed. "This is Mrs. Loud."

"Oh," he said in a tone that said he'd rather speak to Lynn, "uh, well, my name is Will Rayburn. I'm in the band with your daughter, Luna."

Suddenly, Rita's heart wasn't beating and her grip on the handset was tightening. She knew from the sound of the man's voice that something was wrong. "I-Is she alright?" she asked.

Will Rayburn didn't immediately respond. "Well, uh, n –" he sighed. "She...she passed away."

It was as though someone kicked her in the stomach: The air rushed out of her lungs and she bent, her hand flying to her mouth.

"I f-I found her in her apartment a little while ago, she-she was already gone. I called the ambulance and they took her to the hospital. I have the number here so you can get in touch with someone. I'm really, really sorry. I just didn't want you to see it on the news or anything like that. I wanted to make sure you heard it f-from someone."

Rita was numb: Somewhere in her brain, a switchman decided the incoming news was too much and threw a lever marked STOP; now her mind was paralyzed, every thought frozen in place.

"Ma'am?"

"I'm here," Rita heard herself say. Her voice was a mumbling daze.

"I'm very sorry. She was...w-we all loved her like family and...I'm sorry you had to hear it this way. Let me get you that number. It's, uh, it's Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Yes," Rita said, though she didn't.

He read off a series of numbers that didn't make sense then followed it with words that didn't make sense either. Rita thanked him, hung up the phone, and crossed her arms. She was cold...colder than she had ever been in her entire life...so cold that her teeth chattered with an audible clicking sound.

All at once, her mind began working again. No. No, no, no, no. It couldn't be, It was some kind of joke – a sick joke – or-or a mistake. With a trembling hand she picked up the phone, hit 0, and asked the operator to patch her through to Cedar-Sinai. An official sounding woman answered.

"A-A friend of my daughter just called and said she d-died and she's there. Her name is Luna Loud. Do you know...do you know if that's true?" His voice broke and tears filled her eyes.

"I'll have to check, ma'am. Can you leave your number?"

Rita gave the woman her number and hung up.

She hugged herself.

Just a joke. A sick, cruel joke. Luna was famous, after all; someone must have found their number and decided to play a joke...that's what it was.

That's what it _had_ to be.

 _Please, God, let it be a joke._ She was crying now. _Don't let my baby be dead._

* * *

Leni sat her portable record player in the middle of her bed, opened the lid, and knelt in front of her nightstand. There was a hollow space underneath where she kept her records, mainly 45s: Why buy the whole album when you can get just the best song? She touched her index finger to her chin and _hmmmed_ as she scanned them. She was holding Jessy in her left arm, and the little girl – whether intentionally or not – copied Leni's hum. "What do you want to hear, Bunny?" Leni asked and glanced at Alex, who sat expectantly on the bed.

" _Ick."_

"Well, I _know_ that. What _kind_ of music?"

" _Ick!"_

Hm. She reached out and pulled out a record with her index finger. The Monkees? No, she wasn't in the mood for them. Next. The Archies? Hmmm...no. Next. Sandwich? She furrowed her brow as she pulled it out; she didn't remember this one. She looked at the cover, then it came back to her and she smiled. She picked this one from the dollar bin at Sears because the picture on the front made her giggle: The band stood and sat between two huge pieces of bread. Get it? Because they're the sandwich! She wondered where they got bread big enough to fit them all. Did they have a store somewhere that made it that big, or did they, like, make it special? She turned it over and looked at the tracklist: Two songs. The B side was _Someone to Understand._ She didn't remember that song. The A side was...

"Perrr-fect!" she said in a singsong voice. She got to her feet, sat Jessy on the bed, and slipped the album out of its sleeve. It was purple and yellow. Very pretty, probably the prettiest record she had.

" _Ick?"_ Alex asked, looking up at her.

"Uh-huh," Leni said. She put the record on, dropped the needle in the groove, and stepped back as happy music started to play.

" _Sha-la-la-la-la-lalala-laaah_

 _Sha-la-la-la-la-lalala-laaah"_

Alex looked happily from the record player to her aunt. Leni grinned. "This is a _very_ special song, Bunny," she said. She went over to her dresser drawer, opened it, and looked suspiciously around. She pulled something out and turned.

" _Kookie...I'm always thinkin' of kookie_

 _I'll never ever get over heeeerr_

 _I love my kookie."_

Leni held up a bag of chocolate chip cookies, and Alex's eyes widened. Jessy reached for the record player but couldn't make it far enough, so she contented herself with slapping the bed.

Leni bobbed her head as she went to the end of the bed; Alex crawled over, her little tongue hanging out of her mouth like a puppy about to receive a treat.

" _Kookie..._

 _I'm always dreamin' of kookie..."_

Leni knelt and rested the bag on the edge of the mattress. Alex was her hands and knees, her eyes sparkling. "Do you want a...coooookkkkiiieeee?" Leni grinned.

Alex nodded eagerly.

" _Today I am missin'_

 _The girl I was kissin'"_

Leni reached into the bag, pinched a cookie between her thumb and forefinger, and brought it slowly, teasingly out. Alex licked her lips. "Here you go," Leni said conspiratorially. "Don't tell Nana."

She held the cookie out, and Alex leaned forward, taking a big, crunchy, crumby bite, her big, dark eyes never leaving Leni's. "Is that good?" Leni asked, her grin growing wickedly. Alex made a _ummmmm_ noise which told auntie Leni that it _was_ good. She reached into the bag and took one out for herself. She held it to her lips and took a deep breath through her nose, the smell of cookie tantalizing her senses. She used her free hand to waft even more of the intoxicating aroma in the way one would with a fine wine, then slowly put it between her teeth and bit down: Her pupils dilated as a mess of crumbs and chocolate dropped onto her tongue. The corners of her mouth turned up in a grin.

" _Dat guh?"_ Alex asked.

Leni nodded. _"Very_ good."

" _Kookie_

 _I'm always dreamin' of kookie."_

"Want another one?" Leni asked.

Alex nodded.

Leni reached into the bag and held out a cookie. Alex took a bite and smacked her lips. "That good?"

" _Ree guh_."

" _Kookie I just can't forget y –"_ the record scratched and skipped. Leni craned to see Jessy smiling and slapping the record player.

"Baby Jessy!"

Poor Jessy jumped a foot and whipped her head around.

"No, no," Leni said and wagged her finger, "you don't hit the record player. If you break it, we can't listen to –"

A blood-curdling wail filled the house, and Leni froze in sudden fear. Alex's eyes widened and Jessy started to cry.

It sounded like Mom.

* * *

Blah-blah-blah suck the customer's ass so they keep coming back blah-blah-blah. Lincoln got it. He understood it. He _agreed_ with it. Monday afternoon, however, he may have forgotten all that. He was tired, his back hurt, and one of his regulars, who fought in Korea, insisted on talking war, so by the time he left, he was jittery and paranoid to boot. At five to close, the dining room was empty and he was counting the money in the register with a light whistle on his lips. It was almost quitting time, he was going to go home, sit down, play with his girls, kiss his wife, and have a grand old time.

Then someone pulled into the parking lot, and his heart dropped. Great. Now I have to stay here longer.

Wait a minute.

No I don't.

Lilly was by the door wiping a table. "Lilly!" he hissed, and the poor girl jumped. "Turn the sign!"

She stared blankly.

"The closed sign! Turn the goddamn closed sign!"

Understanding, she rushed to the door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED just as a man in a suit and tie got out of the car. Lincoln hurriedly glanced down at the cash in his hand and pretended not to see him come up. Sorry, buddy.

Get this: The guy started knocking.

Lincoln winced, his grip tightening on the bills. He made sure annoyance wasn't evident on his face, then looked up. The guy held his arms out as if to say _What gives?_ Lincoln gestured toward the sign. "We're closed."

The guy threw his arm up and let it slap back down against his leg. "Sorry," Lincoln said, even though he wasn't. Stalking like a sullen little girl, the guy got back into his car and peeled off. Lincoln thought he saw a middle finger. Come back here and do that again, he thought: The .38 sat under the counter next to a box of rounds. Lincoln wasn't the best shot in his platoon, but he was pretty sure he could take a middle finger off at thirty feet.

Aw, he wouldn't do that.

Maybe.

He grabbed the lockbox and stuffed the cash in. He snapped it closed as the phone rang. Lilly came over and picked it up.

"We're closed," Lincoln said.

Lilly ignored him. "Flip's, how can I help you?"

She listened for a moment, then held the phone out to Lincoln. "It's for you."

Lincoln reached out, took it, and pulled it to his ear: The cord didn't reach all the way, and he had to lean over. One wrong move and he'd fall off the stool and onto his ass. "Hello?"

"Hey," Ronnie Anne said. Lincoln might not be a very good shot, but he _was_ perceptive – at least when it came to the woman he loved. There was a certain gravity to her voice that told him something was wrong.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked. "Everything okay?"

She took a deep breath.

No, everything was _not_ okay.

Lincoln's heart twisted.

"I'm at your Mom's house. When you get off, come here. Okay?"

"What? A-Are the girls okay?" A sudden vision of Alex and or Jessy hurt burst across his mind, and his blood turned cold.

"They're fine. Just...just come here. Okay?"

Lincoln nodded. "Uh, okay, yeah, I'll be there in, like, ten minutes."

"Alright."

She hung up, and for a moment he didn't move, then he stood and sat the phone in its cradle. He stuck his head through the window to see how his kitchen looked. Robert was scraping the grill and Donald was wiping down the sink area. "Alright, I gotta go, come on."

Robert glanced at him. "Two minutes, man, I'm almost done."

Lincoln reached for the .38 but stayed himself. Okay, he didn't actually reach for it, but for the briefest of seconds he considered it. Instead, he waited impatiently for them to finish up, his fingers drumming on the counter and a million horrible things running through his fevered brain. They ranged from the minor (Ronnie Anne got into a car accident and was okay but the Pinto was toast) to the terrible (Leni's brain exploded and she was either dead or comatose). By the time Donald and Robert came out of the kitchen, he was in a near panic.

"Alright, everyone out," Lincoln said. He grabbed the lockbox and shooed his employees through the door. "Thank you for your work, see you tomorrow, bye." Rhonda and Lilly exchanged a quizzical glance.

In the car, Lincoln dropped the lockbox onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and backed out of his spot. He pulled into the street, cutting a pick-up truck off, and had to fight really hard to keep from pushing the Impala to its limit – he'd never driven it that fast but he would.

He reached his parents' house in five minutes. He parked in the driveway next to the Pinto and got out. This was his childhood home, but barging in didn't feel right anymore, so he always knocked.

Not today.

He went right in...and froze. His mother was holding Leni in her arms; neither was crying at the moment, but both of them had obviously _been_ crying: Their eyes were pink and puffy, their faces were red, and their cheeks were stained with tears. Ronnie Anne sat apart from them with Jessy on her lap; her features were dark and her gaze downcast. Alex stood in front of Leni with an affection hand on her aunt's bare knee. _"Eni kye."_ Her voice was soft and full of worry.

Ronnie Anne glanced up at him, and then away.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he came over and knelt next to Alex. The little girl turned, saw him, and her brow pinched.

" _Eni kye."_

Mom wiped her eyes and looked at him. Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but she started to cry again. Feeling lost, he looked to Ronnie Anne for an answer. She shifted Jessy to her other arm and took his hand. His heart was starting to pound. "What? What happened?"

"Luna," Ronnie Anne said. "She died."

Those three words struck Lincoln like a bullet...and he knew what a bullet felt like. "W-What?" he asked.

She nodded gravely. "She's gone."

Lincoln fell back onto his ass, his legs splayed out in front of him: He felt like someone had jammed a knife into his stomach and twisted. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he dazedly pinched the bridge of his nose. His mind worked to make sense of it, but it wasn't quite getting it: The engine was coughing and sputtering but not turning over. Luna. Dead. The basic concept, the prospect, registered, but...

Leni was crying now too, hers and Mom's foreheads pressed together. Lincoln tried to take a deep breath, but it was as though a great weight was pressing down on him, crushing him. Blood roared in his temples. He raked his hand through his hair and looked at Ronnie Anne. A single tear coursed down her cheek.

Alex laid her hand on Lincoln's shoulder and looked at him with big, serious eyes. _"Nana kye."_

Lincoln took her in his arms, held her tight, and started to cry as well.

* * *

Luan Loud was in a bad mood that Monday afternoon. She called Luna's apartment but she didn't answer, and that made her worry...first that something had happened to her, and second...that she no longer mattered to her.

She knew that that was selfish and wrongheaded, but sitting in an eight-by-eight cell surrounded by misery and woe, it's easy for dark thoughts to take hold. She tried to convince herself otherwise, but more often than not now she thought of herself as a burden to her family. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne were raising her daughter, Luna had to take time out of her busy life to drive way the fuck out here from L.A. every week, she hurt her parents and everyone she loved...she was a piece of shit. She didn't deserve visits from Luna...she didn't deserve Luna period, or Jessy, or Lynn, or Lincoln, or Leni, or anyone else. Her family was good and pure...and she was a self-centered murderer.

She deserved to be where she was...alone and afraid.

And she didn't deserve to cry. Harold Manning's family deserved to cry, and so did her own family, but she didn't.

For most of the day, she sat on her bunk with her knees drawn up and her back against the wall, her eyes staring straight ahead at the cracked and graffito covered wall, wide yet unseeing. Of course she still mattered to Luna and to everyone else. The thing is: They had their own lives, their own careers, their own families. Lynn was as close as Luna (give or take), but he was running a car dealership or something, and had a little girl to take care of. Luna had all of her stuff. Her parents couldn't afford to fly out on a whim. Lincoln had Alex and Jessy, of course, and Flip's. She knew it shouldn't hurt (after all, how often did she drop everything and visit her family before this?) but it still did – it cut her like a knife.

When she got tired of staring at the wall, she took out her notebook and started to draw, allowing her hand to dance across with page with no input from her brain. Lines and angles formed from the ether, and she watched curiously as the tip of her pencil swept, curled, and jagged. The end product was a chaotic and nonsensical jumble of dark swirls, scribble, and loops. It reminded her of her heart. She tore the page out, balled it up, and threw it into a corner. She put thought into her next drawing: It was a stick figure family, each one of them attached to a giant rock via a rope around their necks. She labeled each of the figures. LYNN. LINCOLN. LUNA. MOM. DAD and so on. She named the rock LUAN. Get it?

By now it was early evening, and she was starting to feel restless. She didn't like leaving the safety of her cell, but sometimes she needed to stretch her legs. She sat the notebook aside, got up, and went to the door, cautiously peering up and down the walk before scurrying out and down the stairs to the rec area. Groups of women sat at a cluster of tables, some playing cards, others playing chess, others still smoking and shooting the breeze.

"Look who's out of her cell!" someone called, and Luan's heart started to pound.

"Come to mama, sugar tits," someone else said, and cruel laughter erupted. Luan hurried past and headed toward the end of the block, where she could be away from the gathering of bitches. She went to the big steel door beyond which lie the main hall, and stopped; it was dimly lit here, like a cavern when you go just beyond the sun's reach. There was a narrow wire mesh window in the door, and every time she was here, she peered out of it just because. She saw nothing.

For a while she milled and paced, then she noticed two women necking in the shadows, and decided it would be prudent to leave. She figured she'd got back up the stairs and walk along the breezeway; it was boring and monotonous, but it was better than walking around down here where people called you names and made out. She passed the TV room and glanced in: Three women sat on a couch in front of the _CBS Evening News_. She saw Walter Cronkite...and a picture of Luna in a box in the upper left. \

She came to a halt and poked her head in.

" _...Hollywood apartment of an apparent drug overdose..."_

The television was black and white, so she didn't see what was under Luna's picture until she actually stepped into the room. When she did, her heart dropped.

1942-1971.

" _...the popular rock vocalist was twenty-eight. Fans and well-wishers have gathered in front of her apartment building tonight, turning it into a sort of shrine..."_

The women on the couch were all looking at her now, and it was clear from their expressions that they knew she was Luna's sister.

One of them, a big woman with gray hair, glanced at the TV, then at Luan. "Hey, uh...Luan, right? I'm real..."

Luan didn't hear the rest; she broke down and hurried out, her head bowed and sobs wracking her body. She didn't hear the taunts and jeers as she stumbled up the steps, didn't realize she was back in her cell until her face was buried in her pillow.

So _that's_ why she didn't come.

She was dead.

Luan wept harder, her tears soaked into her pillow and her hot breath came in shallow bursts. Greif gnashed at her like the snarled teeth of some hungry animal, and her heart ached. She was gone. Her sister, her best friend, one of the most beautiful people she had ever known...gone...and she would never, ever see her again...never look into her big, warm eyes, hear her voice, see her laugh, talk to her, hug her, ask her for advice.

A choking moan escaped Luan's lips, and her prostrated body shook.

When a hand fell on her leg, she jumped and drew herself to a sitting position, her arms crossing protectively over her chest and her heart crashing.

The woman with the gray hair was sitting on the edge of the bed, the others from the TV room clustered around the door. Their faces were soft with concern.

"I'm real sorry about your sister," the woman with the gray hair said and nervously rubbed the back of her neck. "I know that's rough. You were close, right? She was here a lot."

Luan sniffled and forced a nod. "Y-Yeah."

The woman nodded. "Yeah, my brother died way back and we were close. If you wanna talk about it or something, I don't mind listening. My name's Martha." She nodded toward the door. "That's Patty and Maryanne. If you need anything, we're all right down the hall."

Luan wiped her eyes and nodded. "Thank you."

She thought she was okay...then she started to cry again, her arms wrapping around her knees and her head flopping forward. When she felt Martha's arms around her, she stiffened...then buried her face in the woman's chest and wept bitterly.

In Arizona, Lynn Loud sat in front of the TV, his shoulders slumped and his hands resting limply in his lap. His daughter was snuggled up next to him fast asleep, her favorite blanket (made by Leni and boasting baseballs, baseball bats, baseball gloves, and the legend TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME) clutched in her arms. On his other side, Kathy rubbed lazy circles into the back of his neck. The lights were off, and the soft blue glow of the TV was the only illumination. The _ABC Monday Night Movie_ was on. It looked like something Lynn would like – police detectives, car chases, lots of action – but he couldn't have focused on it even if he wanted to.

Almost three years...that's how long it was since he last saw Luna.

Now he'd never see her again.

He took a deep, shuddery breath and glanced away from the TV as tears threatened to overwhelm him. All that time wasted...time he wouldn't get back.

"You alright?" Kathy asked softly.

Lynn squeezed his eyes closed and nodded slowly. He wouldn't cry – Luna wouldn't want him to anyway. She'd say something like _Be groovy, bro_ or _don't square out_ or some other fucking hippie expression. He chuckled fondly – only it came out as a miserable sob. "I'm fine," he said.

When Mom called and told him the news, he was in shock: He went numb and cold, but he didn't cry, and he didn't hurt. He felt like a dazed refuge wandering through the rubble-strewn streets of his former home, so overloaded on emotion that his brain hasn't quite computed the fact that his entire life is in shambles and his family is dead. It didn't really sink in until he saw it on the evening news – from the lips of Walter Cronkite himself, the most trusted man in America. For some reason _that_ made it real, and when they showed Luna's picture and her dates, he almost lost it: He jumped up and left the room because if he didn't, he would break down, and he didn't want Kathy to see that – didn't want _anyone_ to see it. He stayed in the bathroom for a long time, his fingers gripping the porcelain sinktop and his head bowed. He played football in high school, he played football in college...he was hit, tackled, knocked down, thrown through the air, and run into the ground a million times...and none of that hurt even a fraction as much as what he felt in that moment. You can put ice on a knee...you can't put it on a broken heart.

When he finally had himself under control, he went back in the living room and dropped onto the couch where he had been ever since. He didn't eat dinner, he didn't change out of his work clothes, he didn't even take his shoes off, he just sat there like a man in a trance. The only time he moved was to pick Lynn up and snuggle her. It was nearly ten now and he was feeling drowsy and drained, but he was afraid of going to sleep, because if he saw Luna's face, he would wake up crying, and he wouldn't be able to stop himself until he was spent.

 _I should have spent more time with her_.

A pang of grief rippled through his chest.

 _I should have been there for my sister._

The dam burst and Lynn started to hitch silently, his hand flying to his face. Kathy put her arm around his shoulders and rested her head against his arm.

In Royal Woods, Lori sat at the kitchen table, her face resting in her hands and tears drying on her cheeks. A cup of coffee sat untouched before her. She didn't remember how long ago she poured it, but it stopped steaming at least an hour ago. Bobby sat across from her, one hand resting on the table's edge and the other limp in his lap. Bobby Jr. was in bed. He didn't seem overly affected, but Lori couldn't blame him; he hardly knew Luna.

They spent most of the evening with her parents. Mom was taking it really hard, and so was Leni. Somehow, though, Dad sitting in his chair and staring blankly was worse than Mom's sobbing. She sat on the floor next to him, and when he laid his hand on her shoulder, she rested her head against it and tried to focus on that instead of Luna; as a parent herself, she could begin to understand the deep, soul-withering pain they must be feeling, and as the oldest, it fell to her to be strong for them and for her siblings.

She wasn't strong, though. She barely held it together, and right now, she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. One wrong move, one light breeze, and she would break into a million little pieces.

Bobby lifted a can of beer to his lips and drank silently; when he was done, he sat it on the table with a hollow sound. The fridge kicked on and started humming. The clock on the wall ticked, ticked, ticked. She drew a heavy breath, stagnant air half filling her lungs; the weight of Luna's death sat on her chest like a thousand bricks. She sat up and crossed her arms; if she didn't stop thinking about it, she was going to go crazy. "How's Blades?" she asked, her voice harsh to her own ears.

Bobby nodded. "He's good."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

"Anything happen at work today?"

Bobby shrugged. "Gary fell off the ladder again."

Lori nodded. Gary was a recent hire...very accident prone; every day Bobby regaled her with tales of his misadventures: He backed a forklift into one of the big shelves and knocked it over; he tripped off the loading dock and smashed his face on the fender of a truck on the way down; he slipped on a wet spot and landed on his ass; he got a paper cut handling an invoice; one time he even choked on his own lunch. _I keep him around for the entertainment_ , Bobby said. Usually his exploits made Lori laugh until she cried; now she just felt like crying: He was someone's son, brother, and friend, and here she was laughing because he hurt himself.

She rested her elbow on her arm and rubbed her forehead. "I'm ready for bed," she said. She felt completely sapped.

Bobby nodded. "Alright."

Fifteen minutes later, she lay on her side, Bobby's arms around her and her butt in the nook of his crotch. She stared at the readout of the digital clock on the nightstand. 12:00...12:01...12:05...12:15...

Soon, Bobby's breathing deepened and she was alone in the dark. She did not sleep well that night.

Across town, Rita, Lynn, and Leni sat together on the couch, Lynn in the middle and his arms around his wife and daughter. The living room was dark, the flicker of the TV screen providing a soft, ghostly glow: Johnny Carson chattered with Walter Matthau about his new movie, a comedy called _A New Leaf_. The audience laughed at their interaction, and the back of Lynn's neck prickled at how surreal the sheer _normalcy_ of the scene was: How can one family be this devastated and everyone else be alright? How can one man feel as though his world is coming to an end, and the next man over smile, or laugh? He understood the concept of personal tragedy, but the agony he felt was so great that it being contained only to him and his family just didn't make sense.

He glanced at Leni, whose head rested against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted, her breathing shallow and rhythmic. Rita's was too, but her tear-filled eyes were open and staring. He kissed the top of her head and drew her closer. Neither one of them spoke because words held no meaning right now; they simply existed, each one giving strength and drawing it.

They were there the entire night.


	80. February 1971: Part 6

Lincoln knocked on the door and waited for an answer, but none came, and he knocked again. A sound drew his attention, and he jerked to his right. The hall was empty, the carpet dirty and matted and the overhead lights flickering eerily. He was suddenly sure someone was watching him, and his skin began to crawl. He reached for the .38, but when he took it out, it fell apart and landed on the carpet with a soft thud.

Forget waiting.

He opened the door and walked into the apartment. The carpet in here was the same as it was in the hall. Grime coated the walls. Cockroaches scuttled across his shoes. His heart began to pound as he sensed danger nearby. His brain screamed at him to turn around and leave, but his body refused to obey his commands.

A flicker of movement in the kitchen drew his eye. Luna was leaning against the counter and looking at him with an inscrutable Mona Lisa grin. She wore jeans and a purple top; beads hung around her neck. In the harsh light, her skin was a sickly shade of blue. Dark bags nestled under her sunken eyes; her cheeks were hollow.

She didn't speak, didn't move, just stood there watching him with that knowing smile, her hands splayed on either side of her and her chest still because she was dead and the dead don't breathe. Lincoln's breath caught in his chest and his heart fluttered painfully. Slowly, Luna pushed away from the couch and started toward him. He was powerless to do anything but watch.

Her eyes never left his as she sat on the couch and pulled a baggie from her shirt. She twisted it open, dipped her pinky in, and then jammed it into her nose.

His mouth formed the word _Stop_ but nothing came out.

Luna scooped her pinky into the powder again and jammed it into the other nostril. Lincoln could feel tears forming in his eyes, but his vision did not blur – that would be too merciful. _Please stop._

His sister's grin widened as dark blood began to trickle from her nose, dripping down her lips and the landing in droplets on the front of her shirt. Something else – something solid – plopped out, and when Lincoln realized it was a piece of her brain, his knees buckled.

 _Luna, please stop!_

She smirked as more chunks of brain fell out of her nose. Then, slowly, she lifted something to her head.

A gun.

 _His_ gun.

She pulled the trigger, and the report is what woke him: He was covered in sweat and his heart knocked urgently against his chest. He panted for breath, and when a hand touched his face, he started and nearly screamed.

"It's just me," Ronnie Anne said. In the spill of moonlight falling through the window, her eyes were dark and her brow was pinched with worry.

Lincoln licked his lips.

"You were talking in your sleep."

Was he?

"...About Luna."

He blinked back tears and nodded. "Y-Yeah."

She scooted closer to him and laid her palm on his heart, her fingers curling slightly into his flesh in a possessive gesture. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"Please tell me," she implored. "Don't keep it bottled up."

He saw only love and understanding in her eyes, and for the first time in their relationship, he realized that she was too good for him; too beautiful, too tender, too wonderful. "I watched her kill herself," he said. "I just stood there."

"Lincoln..."

"It's my fault," he said. "I should have done something. I _knew_ she had a problem and I-I just let it go. I let my sister die." The last five words came out in a moan as tears welled in his eyes. He tried to fight them back, but he wasn't strong enough, and they came out in a rush. "I let it happen."

Ronnie Anne propped herself up on her elbow and stroked his cheek. "No you didn't, Lincoln," she said seriously.

"Yes, I did."

"No you didn't." Her voice was firm. "Luna was a grown woman. What could you have done, locked her up?"

"Yes."

She sighed.

"She'd still be alive..."

"Lincoln, you aren't to blame, so stop it. It wasn't your fault. You always do this. You bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, it's not healthy. Luna had a problem. You did what you could."

No, he didn't. He could have done something more, _anything_ more. He knew what she was dealing with, and what did he do? He let her go back to California to die...alone and afraid.

"You know what, Lincoln?" Ronnie Anne asked. "If Luna was here right now, she'd tell you to knock it off. The _last_ thing she would want is you blaming yourself for what happened. What's done is done, but if you want to do something for her _now_ , stop saying it's your fault. You're going to drive yourself crazy, and the girls need you... _I_ need you."

She was right...he needed to pull himself together, for her and for the girls. He failed Luna, and that was bad enough, but he couldn't fail them too. He _wouldn't_ fail them too.

"I'm sorry," he said, and put his hand on hers. "I just...it hurts."

"I know," she said. "I felt the same way when my mom died. It _still_ hurts. Sometimes I see something that reminds me of her, and all the pain comes rushing back. It's not easy to get over it, but you will. _We_ will."

He smiled wanly and kissed her hand.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

She nestled against him and laid her head on his chest; he slipped his arm around her shoulder and stroked his fingertips along the smooth flesh of her arm. Neither one of them spoke, and after a while, they both fell into deep, dreamless sleep.

In the morning, the pain was muted but still present. He got the girls ready, kissed Ronnie Anne goodbye, and drove to his parents' house, dread forming in his stomach. He didn't want to see the pain in their eyes – he got more than enough of that the day before.

When Leni answered the door, Lincoln was not surprised by her state: Dark, puffy eyes, messy hair, slumped shoulders. She genuinely smiled when she saw the kids, though.

" _Eni!"_ Alex cried happily. _"Ick!"_

"You wanna listen to music?" Leni asked

" _Ick! Ick! Ick!"_

"Well, come on then," she said and held out her hand. Lincoln released her, and she went to her aunt. She held out her other arm, and Lincoln passed Jessy to her.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm really sad," Leni said with such innocent honesty that a lump formed in Lincoln's throat.

"Me too."

"But having Bunny and Baby Jessy makes me happy. I'm kind of both now." She looked down.

Lincoln nodded. "You know what, though?"

"What?" she asked, looking back up.

"Luna wouldn't want you to be sad," he said. "She would want you to be happy."

"I know."

Lincoln leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "I want you to be happy too. And so does Bunny and Baby Jessy."

Leni smiled weakly. "I know. I'll try _really_ hard, okay?"

On the way to Flip's, he drove in silence. Leni would try _really_ hard to take his advice...and so would he. At the moment, though, he was struggling: For some reason, he kept flashing back to the day he asked Ronnie Anne out that first time. He was so nervous, so _scared_ , and Luna was there to give him advice. _Just be yourself,_ she said, _you're a cool guy_. That might not be much, but it _meant_ much to him. He remembered leaning against the hallway wall, his shoulders slumped. Luna stood next to him, looking down at him with warmth and sisterly love.

He wanted so badly to reach into that memory and touch her – hold her hand or hug her – that it made him wince.

By the time he reached Flip's, he was on the verge of tears again, and had to compose himself before going in. The old man was at the counter, punching numbers into a calculator. The bell over the door dinged, and he looked up. "43 cents, Loud," he said, "where is it?"

"Pissed it away," Lincoln croaked as he dragged himself to the counter. He took off his coat, hung it up, and took down his apron. He suddenly realized something: This place was chock full of Luna memories, the way she and Daggy would sit at a booth and giggle at each other like school girls, the way they would order hamburgers with French fries _on_ them, the day she brought him that album she was on, her eyes shining with excitement.

He took a deep breath. She wouldn't want him to cry again.

Flip glanced over his shoulder and started to speak, but stopped, his brow softening. "You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. He went into the kitchen even though he had no reason to be in there; he was acting on instinct, or memory. Whether Luna would want it or not, the tears were coming. He slapped his hands on the cold grill top and bit them back.

Behind him, the batwing doors creaked open. "Lincoln," Flip said, his voice edged with concern. "What's wrong?"

Lincoln willed himself to not cry. He turned to face his friend: The old man leaned heavily on his cane, his eyes pooled with worry. God, how he didn't want to go through this again.

"Luna," he said, "she's dead."

Flip's eyes widened. "What?"

Lincoln took a deep breath. "Yeah. They think it was a drug overdose."

"Aw, shit," he drew.

Lincoln nodded. He had control of himself. He wasn't going to break down.

"What the hell are you doing here, then? Go home. Be with your family."

"I'd rather be here," he said, "working...with my mind off it."

Flip sighed. "Jesus. When?"

"They found her yesterday. I don't know when it happened. She was alone."

Okay, he didn't have control of himself, and he did break down. He bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. That didn't stem the flow, or even slow it; his shoulders shook with the force of his sobs.

When Flip threw his arm around him and drew him into a hug, Lincoln leaned his forehead on the old man's shoulder and gave up any pretense of resisting his grief. His fault...not his fault...what did it really matter? Luna was dead.

"It's alright, Linc," Flip said, his voice thick with emotion, "she's with God now."

That made him cry even harder.

And Flip hugged him even harder.

When he was spent, he sniffed and took a shivering breath. "I'm sorry," he said and pulled back. Robert and Donald were at the door, watching them with puzzled expressions.

"You got nothing to be sorry for," Flip said and patted Lincoln's back. "I know how much she meant to you. The fact you even managed to drag yourself in here makes you one of the toughest sons of bitches I've ever met. If you wanna go, Linc, go. I'm getting sick of sitting home and watching soap operas all day like a woman anyway."

Lincoln chuckled despite himself. "I-I'm fine, really."

Flip affectionately squeezed the back of Lincoln's neck and nodded. "Alright. I'll stick around awhile, just in case." He let go, then poked Lincoln in the chest. "You still owe me my goddamn 43 cents."

Lincoln sniffed and forced a grin. "Do you take checks?"

* * *

Just before noon, the telephone rang. Rita did not register this at first: Her eyes were glued to the television set but her mind was far away. The blanket from hers and Lynn's bed was heaped around her, but she was still cold, and knew on some level that she would probably be for the rest of her life.

"Mom?" Leni asked, and the voice of her daughter brought her awake. She glanced at the girl. "The phone's ringing."

Yes, it was. Rita pulled her arm out from under the blanket, picked up the handset, and put it to her ear. "Hello?" Her voice was robotic, without emotion.

"Is this Mrs. Loud?" a man asked. She thought she detected a trace of an accent, but she didn't care enough to puzzle out what _kind_ of accent.

"Yes," she said.

The man didn't immediately reply; he seemed to expect something more. "Hi, uh, my name is Robert Preston, and I'm Luna's manager. I'm very sorry to bother you, I know how difficult this is, but I was wondering if you had a moment to discuss Luna's arrangements."

Rita blinked. She knew there were 'arrangements' to be made but she hadn't gotten around to even _beginning_ to think about them. She said as much.

"I understand," Preston said. "I just wanted you to know that if you'd like, I'll take care of everything. The county coroner is currently working to determine the cause of death. When they release her, I will arrange to have her flown out there. Is there a particular funeral home in the area you wish to use?"

The words _funeral home_ brought a fresh crop of tears to Rita's eyes. "No," she said.

"If you want, I can choose one. I don't want you to feel like I'm taking anything away from you, I just figured you and your family shouldn't have to worry about that. I'll handle it and you just focus on getting through this."

He left his number and promised to call with details once the coroner released Luna's body. Rita was grateful for the offer of assistance – the last thing she wanted to do was plan her daughter's funeral: She just wanted her home.

During the call, Alex had climbed onto the sofa and presently sat next to Rita, her little legs splayed out and her back against the padding. She stared at the TV and quietly munched a cookie. Rita couldn't help a tiny ghost of a smile: Every time she turned around the little girl mysteriously had something sweet in her hand. She looked at Leni, who was bouncing Jessy and cooing to her. The girl didn't know it, but Rita was well aware of her stash; several times when she checked on Leni at night, she was either asleep with packs and bags of confections strewn around her, or sitting Indian style and chewing, her pillow in her lap as if to hide something...

Leni thought if she found out she would be angry...she loved sweets so much how could Rita deny her...especially when she was dying too?

Rita's hand flew to her face and she squeezed her eyes closed against a sudden onslaught of misery. One day she would probably have to bury Leni too.

" _Nana kye?"_

Rita took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.

Alex put her hand on Rita's leg and leaned in, her face upturned and her big brown eyes filled with concern. _"Kay?"_

Rita smiled. "Nana's okay," she said, and cupped the little girl's cheek in her hand, "is Alex okay?"

Alex nodded enthusiastically.

"Good," Rita said.

* * *

On Thursday, February 21, the Los Angeles County Coroner concluded that Luna Loud died of a massive heart attack brought on by cocaine abuse. During the autopsy, it was found that Luna had something of an underlying heart condition that was not immediately serious in of itself (though it may have become serious down the road) but _very_ serious when exacerbated by drug use. It was ruled death by misadventure, a death that is primarily attributed to an accident that occurred due to a dangerous risk that was taken voluntarily. The body was released to Robert Preston, acting on behalf of the Loud family, and was drive by hearse to Fine and Howard Funeral Home in Beverly Hills; California law requires that a body be embalmed before leaving the state, and Luna Loud was embalmed on the morning of Friday, February 22.

Bobby Preston, who was always bemused by the fact that Luna referred to him by both his first _and_ last name, contacted Chase Funeral Home in Royal Woods on Thursday afternoon to make arrangements; coordination and obtaining paperwork took longer than anticipated, and it wasn't until Monday, February 25, that Luna's coffin was packed in a special shipping crate and loaded onto a Detroit bound cargo plane at Los Angeles International Airport. That morning, he got in touch with Rita Loud to discuss her wishes: The funeral was set for Thursday, February 28, with a viewing on Wednesday evening at 6: While Luna had already begun to decompose, Fine and Howard did a tremendous job of making her look presentable.

On Monday afternoon, Rita Loud got a telephone call from a man with a familiar Texas drawl. "Mrs. Loud, it's Will Rayburn again."

"Hello, Mr. Rayburn" she replied. She had seen Luna and her band perform on television several times, but she had no idea which one he was – the drummer? The guitarist? The _other_ guitarist?

"I was wondering if it would be okay with you if me and the other guys came out for the funeral. We'd understand if you want it to be family only, but we'd really like to pay our respects."

The gentle earnestness in his voice touched her. "That would be fine, we'd appreciate it." She gave him the details and directions to the funeral home – and somehow wound up talking with him about Luna for nearly an hour, a smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

That day, she also talked to Luan; the pain in her daughter's voice pierced her like an arrow, and the fact that she couldn't hold her and comfort her made her cry anew. She told Lynn that she wanted to visit Luan as soon as possible, and he readily agreed: He had vacation time accumulated, and he would put in for in the next day. She also spoke to Lynn Jr. He, Kathy, and little Lynn were flying out the following morning, and though it felt wrong and unnatural, Rita was excited to see them.

Each evening since the news broke that Luna had died, Lori, Bobby, Bobby Jr., Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, Alex, and Jessy gathered in the Loud house, filling it with much needed warmth and life. Lori, Ronnie Anne, and Leni handled meals (Leni being in charge mainly of desserts – her grief was evidenced by the fact that every cookie or cake that went into the oven was present and accounted for at the end). Bobby, Bobby Jr., and Lincoln volunteered to 'help' Lynn with whatever he needed done around the house – they often wound up doing domestic work – vacuuming, dishes, dusting, tidying up – even though Rita did that herself during the day. Idle hands do the devil's work, and idle minds entertain dark and painful thoughts.

It wasn't until Monday evening that Rita was able to bring herself to pull out the photo albums: They passed hours clustered together and looking at snapshots of memories past, happy images that made Rita smile and cry at the same time. Family outings to the beach and to state parks, barbeques, birthday parties, Christmases, Halloweens. Her eyes were always drawn to Luna in these pictures. She was always so happy, so vibrant, a big smile on her face and a light in her eyes. What went wrong? What happened to turn her into a drug addict?

Rita suspected she would never find out, and in a way she didn't want to. Call it denial, or whatever you will, but she preferred to remember Luna as the happy little girl she once was.

That night, before bed, she got down on her knees next to her bed, folded her hands, and prayed, seriously, honestly prayed, for the first time in nearly twenty years; she prayed for herself and for Lynn, for her children, she prayed for strength and guidance, and above all, she prayed for Luna. At the end of it, a warm, though shaky, peace filled her, and though it may have been wishful thinking, she felt as though Luna's presence was with her, her daughter's arms thrown around her shoulders and her lips pressed against her ear.

 _It's going to be alright, Mom; I love you._

Rita figured it would be. She had her family to get her through, and God.

* * *

Lincoln was a bubbling cauldron of emotions as he drove into Detroit on the newly completed Interstate 75: Sadness, guilt, regret...and excitement. He was going to see his brother for the first time in years and he was finally going to get to meet his niece. It made him feel bad to feel so good, but he couldn't help it; he didn't realize this until he learned that Lynn was coming to town, but he sorely missed his brother, and the prospect of seeing him – and girl Lynn, as Lincoln had come to think of her – helped him cope over the past few days. He kept it together because his wife and daughters needed him to...it wasn't easy, but he was committed. He hadn't cried since the day Flip hugged him, and the urge to faded just a little with every passing day, though he imagined he would at the funeral. The keen edge of grief had also dulled – deep sadness replaced the biting anguish.

Today, however, as he followed the flow of traffic south from Royal Woods, that sadness was tinged with happiness. Okay...maybe it was a little more than just a _tinge_. For some reason, he was also kind of nervous. It had been so _long_ since he saw his brother that they might as well be meeting for the first time: After all, he himself had changed greatly in the past five to six years; it stood to reason that Lynn had too.

When he got to the airport, he parked at the curb in front of the main doors and smoked a cigarette while he listened to the radio. It was his third since Luna died, and his emergency pack was getting low. He'd have to pick up a new one.

As he waited, he people watched: Teenage girls in short skirts and boots, old men in rumpled suits and hats, men his age with long hair, mustaches, and sideburns, an old colored woman in a wheelchair who didn't look a day over two hundred, harried businessmen in plaid blazers and brightly colored pants (at least Lincoln thought they were businessmen – maybe they were escapees from a circus). All of these people had their own lives, their own individual, self-contained universes. It's funny when you think about it. Our world is made up of a billion smaller worlds, the way the U.S. is made up of a thousand different races and nationalities. We can share similar experiences and events (the Cuban Missile Crisis or the Vietnam War, for example), but we are never truly _one_ because your world is not entirely mine, and my world is not entirely yours.

He took a drag and grinned sardonically to himself. Move over, Plato, there's a _new_ philosopher in town: Lincolnus Loudicus. His toga is white, his laurels are green, and his sandals are coated with the dust of mental planes not trod by other, lesser men. Bow before him in reverent worship, ye puny mortals.

"That's me," he said as he flicked his cigarette out and went back to person gazing. Look at this guy, the one with the T-shirt. It's barely in the thirties. Why? Was he trying to prove how manly he was? Compensating for a...ahem...little something? A rush of people came through the doors and spread out like a stain across a floor. A women in a heavy green coat that reminded him of the ones in 'Nam (the color, not the design) stepped out and paused, a little girl with brown hair in her arms. She glanced over her shoulder and a man with the makings of a paunch appeared, an overstuffed bag in either hand.

Lincoln knew him instantly.

Lynn.

A big, goofy smile shot across his face. He opened the door and got out as Lynn looked around. "Hey! Don't recognize my car?"

Their eyes locked, and the breadth of Lynn's smile matched Lincoln's...if not exceeded it. Lincoln slammed the door closed and came around the front end while Lynn sat the bags down and stalked forward. Lincoln started to hold out his hand, but his brother swept him into a rough hug, mildly surprising him. He hugged Lynn back harder.

Lynn squeezed.

Lincoln squeezed.

Lynn squeezed more. Lincoln could barely breathe. Oh, trying to establish dominance are we? Lincoln gave it his all, and Lynn grunted. "Let go of me," Lynn strangled, "I'll bodyslam you."

Taking that as a challenge, Lincoln threw his back into lifting Lynn off the ground. It hurt like a bastard, but his brother's frightened cry was worth it. "Let me down! Let me down!"

Lincoln released him, and he took a step back, his shoulders rolling. "You little shit," he grinned, "you almost broke my spine."

"I wanted you to know up front," Lincoln said and punched Lynn in the arm, "your training paid off."

"Goddamn, I'll say," Lynn hissed and rubbed his arm. They hugged again, for real this time. "It's good to see you."

"You too," Lincoln said and patted his brother's back. "Where's my niece? I wanna meet her."

Lynn stepped out of his brother's arms and glanced over his shoulder. His wife stood by the curb, watching them with a half-smile. "Right there. She got tired of walking so mama had to carry her."

The woman came forward. "This is Kathy," Lynn said, "and that little angel is Lynn."

"It's nice to meet you," Kathy said in a southern accent and held out her hand.

Lincoln took it. "You too." He looked at Lynn, and the little girl buried her face in her mother's chest, her ponytail swishing like...well...a tail.

"Don't be shy," Lynn said and rubbed her back, "this is your Uncle Lincoln. He's nice. A pantywaist, but nice."

Lincoln put his arm around his brother and dug his fingers into his shoulder. Lynn yelped and pulled away. "He's also feeling his oats and about to get beaten up."

"Say hi," Kathy said softly and nuzzled the top of her daughter's head. Girl Lynn turned slightly, one brown eye falling guardedly on Lincoln; her hand clasped the front of her mother's coat as though she were afraid Lincoln would rip her away and carry her off to make her into a pie.

Lincoln grinned and bent. "Hi," he said, and reached out to ruffle her hair. She didn't turn away, but she did cringe slightly. "I've been wanting to meet you for a long time. And so has your cousin Alex."

The little girl stared at him as though he were a white haired witch instead of a white haired, uh, restaurant manager.

Cutting his losses – for now – he stood up to his full height. "You can put her in Alex's car seat next to me. Let me grab your bags."

Lynn held up his hand. "No, I got it. You're my brother, not my bellhop."

Lincoln laughed. "Shew, you _have_ changed."

Lynn gave his wife a playful, sidelong glance. "What are you talking about? I've _always_ been a kind, loving, and considerate brother."

"You have?"

Lynn jammed his elbow into Lincoln's ribs. "I'm trying to impress my wife," he said through his teeth.

Lincoln nodded understandingly. "Ahhh. If you _really_ wanna impress her, tell her about that time you whipped my ass for drinking the last of the milk."

"Well...Lori _really_ wanted that milk and I guess I kind of went into protective brother mode."

"You put me in the hospital."

Lynn gaped. "That's a lie!"

"I was on life support for weeks. I almost died."

Lynn gestured sharply. "Shut up and go get our bags."

Grinning, Lincoln nodded. " _There's_ the Lynn I know."

While Kathy and Lynn put girl Lynn in the car, Lincoln grabbed their bags, went around to the trunk, and unlocked it. He moved aside the spare tire and his emergency road kit (blankets, flares, flashlight...a three year old pack of Lucky Strikes) and sat them in. They were pretty heavy; how long was Lynn planning on staying out here, a couple decades?

Of course not, but a guy could hope, right?

Lincoln climbed in behind the wheel and glanced at his niece in the passenger seat. She watched him warily, her tiny hands curled around the metal bar. She looked so much like her father that it was staggering: Same big eyes, same jawline, same brow. She wore a little pink dress that somehow looked out of place on her; a blue and white blanket with pictures of baseballs and baseball bats sat across her lap. "Looks like it's you and me, kid," Lincoln said. "You like music?" He reached for the radio, and her eyes followed him as though she were afraid he would strike if she took them off of him for even a minute.

"Is she always this shy?" Lincoln asked in the rearview mirror.

"Sometimes," Kathy said, "we're thinking of putting her in daycare so she can play with other kids."

"That'd probably be a good idea," he said as he found a station playing The Beach Boys. "Alex could probably benefit from daycare too. The only people she hangs out with are my mom and Leni."

"Something tells me Leni wouldn't like that," Lynn said as Lincoln pulled away from the curb.

Lincoln shook his head. "No. She wouldn't." Spending time with the kids was the highlight of Leni's day. Taking that away from her would be cruel.

"How is she?" Kathy asked. "With her disease?"

Lincoln bobbed his head side to side in thought. "She's doing okay for the most part. She's on medication for the headaches and she's...I don't know. In some ways she's not as bad as she was maybe before, but in other ways she's worse."

He glanced over at girl Lynn. She was still watching him. "You met auntie Leni, right?"

"When she was a baby," Lynn said.

A smile touched Lincoln's lips. "She's going to eat you up."

Girl Lynn's eyes widened and she drew away. Lincoln laughed nervously. "Poor choice of words. I mean you guys are going to have lots of fun together."

Lincoln followed a rising onramp and merged with traffic ahead of a rusted Peterbuilt truck with a vast assortment of license plates from different states on its front grill. Lincoln frowned. Was that even legal?

"You still at Flip's?" Lynn asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "I manage the place now. I'm kind of a big deal. You still working at that gas station?"

Lynn snickered. "It's a car lot, jerk, and yes. I manage _that_ place."

The Peterbuilt swung into the passing lane and roared by, the wind displaced by its passage rocking the Impala. Lincoln shot it a dirty look but bit his tongue against the curse rising in his throat. There were little ears present.

"That's nice," he said, "you like it?"

There was the briefest hesitation. "Yeah. It's great. How was the army?"

Lincoln shrugged one shoulder. "It was alright."

 _Please don't ask how Vietnam was._

"How was Vietnam?"

"It sucked."

When Lincoln pulled into the driveway of his parents' house, he glanced over at girl Lynn. Her fists were still wrapped around the bar, but she was no longer watching him: Her gazed darted left, right, and center, her head moving this way and that as she took in her new surroundings. "You keep that up and you're going to make yourself dizzy," Lincoln said. He got out and went around to the trunk while Lynn and Kathy collected girl Lynn and went inside. There's _gotta_ be a better nickname for this kid. Can't call her Lynnie because that sounds just like Leni, and when you have two people with the same name in the same location at the same time, chaos ensues: It'd be like having two Johnsons in a platoon.

That reminded Lincoln of a joke he heard in Vietnam. He couldn't remember it very well, but it had something to do with a CO asking a soldier his name. The soldier says "John." The CO loses it because calling someone by their first name isn't the done thing. "What's your last name?" he asks. "Darling," the soldier replies with a sigh, "John Darling." The CO responds with, "Well, John, I need you to do X..." See, it's funny because if the CO used the guy's last name... "Darling, come here." Get it?

 _He_ thought it was funny.

Grabbing the bags, he slammed the lid and went in: Mom was hugging Lynn and the two of them swayed side-to-side as if in a dance. Leni was bent in front of Kathy, her hands on her knees and her face inches from girl Lynn's: The child's eyes were huge and she clutched her mother's coat. "Hi, Lynn, I'm Leni au – auntie Leni. Remember me?"

Mom took Lynn's face in her hands and smiled broadly. "I'm so glad you're here."

"So am I."

Next she hugged Kathy, slipping one arm around her shoulder while Leni tried to get the little girl to stop being afraid of her. "It's good to see you, dear, how was the flight?"

"Tiring," Kathy said.

Lincoln carried the bags upstairs and sat them in his and Lynn's old room: He and Bobby put sheets, blankets, and pillows on Lynn's old bed the day before. Lincoln also brought up Alex's old bassinet from the garage. It looked like it would be a little small for Lynn, but it would do. The real concern was whether or not her parents would be able to fit...given Lynn's extra weight.

In the living room, Mom sat between Lynn and Kathy, talking and looking more animated than Lincoln had seen her in over a week. Girl Lynn sat in her mother's lap staring down at Leni, who knelt before her. Lincoln spotted Alex and Jessy by Dad's chair. Both of them watched the newcomers, Jessy with interest and Alex with trepidation, her hand resting on a musical light-up toy. He went over, and when she saw him, Alex grinned. "Hey," he said and sat, "you got your toy?"

" _Ick."_

"Yeah, it plays pretty music, huh?"

Feet away, Leni smiled. "Do you wanna meet Bunny and Baby Jessy? They're your cousins. They're little like you."

Lynn blinked.

"I know," Leni said lowly, her smile sharpening. She reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled something out. Lynn saw it, and her eyes widened.

Leni leaned in. "Do you want a cookie?"

Lynn's tongue swiped across her upper lip, and she leaned against her mother's arm.

"Got'cha," Leni said smugly. "Works every time."

Lynn struggled against her mother, who released her to Leni's arms. "Come on. Let's meet those cousins." Lynn reached for the cookie, and Leni allowed her to take it. She sat Lynn in front of Alex. Their eyes locked, and they both froze. Lincoln watched with a bemused expression. Leni took another cookie out of her dress and handed it to Alex, who reached up to take it; she never broke eye contact with Lynn.

"Do you always carry cookies in your pocket?" Lincoln asked as he craned his neck up to look at his big sister.

Leni nodded. "Umhm. You never know when you'll, like, need a pick me up." She brought another cookie out and took a bite. "What one?" she asked, spraying crumbs.

Lincoln shook his head. "No, thanks." He looked at Lynn and Alex; they watched each other warily.

Something hit him in the chest, and his head whipped around. His brother was grinning. "Lynn's favorite ball." Lincoln glanced down to see a soft foam baseball on the carpet. He picked it up and held it out to his niece.

"I think this belongs to you."

She pulled her gaze away from Alex, saw it, and smiled. _"Beybah."_

"Yeah, baseball," Lincoln said and handed it to her. She took it and looked at it as though it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, her eyes shining with love. _"Beybah,"_ she said, holding the ball up so Alex could see it.

" _Ick,"_ Alex said and slapped the toy.

" _Beybah."_

" _Ick."_

Lynn leaned in, her brow darkening. _"Bey. Bah."_

Alex's lips became an angry slash. _"Ick."_

Lynn leaned in. _"BEYBAH!"_

Alex slapped her in the face, and Lynn responded by lunging forward and pulling her cousin's hair. Lincoln's jaw dropped and for a moment he was speechless, then he shook his head. "Hey! Ladies!"

"Lynn the third!" Lynn called.

Each girl had a handful of the other's hair, and each one screamed. Lynn got up and pulled his daughter away while Lincoln took his. Jessy watched from her stomach with a comical expression of surprise. "You've known your cousin two seconds and you're pulling her hair?" Lynn asked.

"That was bad," Lincoln said sharply as he turned Alex to face him. Her cheeks were red and she huffed for air. "You do _not_ hit."

" _Uh!"_

"Don't talk back to me."

" _Uhhh!"_

On the couch, girl Lynn slapped her father's shoulder and he shook his head. He looked up, and his eyes met Lincoln's. They couldn't help sharing a smile. They were both embarrassed.

"Well," Mom said, "that was exciting."

* * *

Ronnie Anne pulled into the driveway at half past five and parked behind Lincoln's Impala. Dusk hung heavy in the air, and her eyes ached: She had a shit load of papers to grade before leaving...so many, in fact, that she considered bringing some home but didn't because she, Lincoln, and the kids would probably spend most of the evening here, at his parents', as they had done every day for the past week.

Rubbing her tired orbs, she got out, stretched, and shut the door behind her. It had been fairly warm that day, but now, with the sky cooling from fiery pink to cold purple, it was chilly, and as she went up the walkway, she crossed her arms and huddled her shoulders. When she yawned, her breath puffed out in front of her in a cloud of vapor. If it weren't for their family, she would try and convince Lincoln to move somewhere that wasn't a frozen tundra four months out of the year. California, maybe, or Florida.

Inside, she shrugged her coat off and hung it from the rack by the door. Mr. Loud was sitting in his chair with a little girl she had never seen in his lap. Ah, that must be...

The world went dark as someone clamped their hand over her eyes from behind. "Guess who."

"You have a death wish," she said and laughed. She pulled away and turned.

Lynn cocked his brow. "Come on, you wouldn't kill your favorite brother-in-law, would you?"

Ronnie Anne tilted her head. "Hmmm...no, I wouldn't kill you. I'd just put you in a wheelchair."

She hugged him and he hugged her back. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm happy and sad at the same time," he admitted as she released him. "Happy to be here...sad because of the reason I'm here."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah. Well, if it makes you feel any better, we're happy you're here too." She jabbed her finger into his chest. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

He grinned and pretended to zip his lips closed.

In the kitchen, Lincoln sat at the table with Jessy in his lap. Leni sat across from him with Alex in _her_ lap. Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes when she saw what her daughter was doing: Munching on a cookie; auntie Leni spoiled the hell out of that little girl. "Hi, Ronnie!" Leni said.

Alex looked up and grinned, her teeth coated with mashed cookie. _"Mah!"_

"Hi, Alex," Ronnie Anne said and went over, kissing her daughter on the cheek. She kissed Leni on the forehead. "Hi, Leni." Next she went to Lincoln, kissed him on the lips, then Jessy on the top of her head. "Hi, Lincoln, hi, Jessy."

"Hi, Ronnie Anne," Lincoln said archly. "How was your day?"

Ronnie Anne into a chair and slumped her shoulders. "Exhausting. Yours?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Alright. You just missed your brother. He and Lori have something at Bobby Jr.'s school so they dropped by early. Did you see Lynn?"

She nodded and yawned again. "Yeah. He was out there. I didn't see his wife. She came, right?"

"She's lying down," Lincoln said.

Ronnie Anne nodded. Lying down sounded _really_ good right about now. "I saw Lynn 3," she said. "She looks just like him. Jeez."

Lincoln chuckled. "Yeah. It's nice to know _one_ of the men in my family has strong genes."

"She has your cowlick, doesn't she? She also has your mouth." She glanced over at Alex to see what other features she and Lincoln shared in common, but that was about it. Her daughter _did_ resemble her more.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "the cowlick really surprises me. I didn't know it was hereditary."

Mom, who was at the stove, spoke up. "Your grandfather had a cowlick." She opened the oven, bent down, and checked the roast.

"But how is it genetic?" he asked. "It's hair. That's like if someone's kid is born with a ponytail or something."

Mom closed the oven; it wasn't done quite yet. "I don't know," she said, "it _doesn't_ make much sense when you get right down to it."

When dinner was ready, they gathered around the table: There were so many people that Lincoln had to stand (he volunteered because of course he did). Ronnie Anne couldn't get over how much Lynn 3 looked like Lynn 2. Odd...neither one of them looked very much like Lynn 1. Lynn 3 looked nothing like her mother; she reminded Ronnie Anne of the goody two shoes preppy girls she went to school with (Kathy, not Lynn 3). She seemed nice enough, though, and Ronnie Anne was fascinated by her accent: It wasn't until now that she realized she had never in her life heard a real Southern accent in person. Isn't it funny how natives of one country can have such disparate dialects, cultures, and customs? They say America's a melting pot, but that's not true: You can't melt entirely when you're a country composed of people from a thousand other countries.

Speaking of melt, this roast is _really_ tender.

Yum.


	81. February 1971: Part 7

**I was going to combine this with the previous chapter, but I'm on my mobile and it wouldn't let me, so here's a double update. You guys must be getting sick of seeing my name in your inbox. Poor AberrantScript is behind...yet again. I feel like I'm an excited dog yanking the leash and dragging Abby down the street. Sorry, dude, but I move at the speed of Flagg. A quick note on Luna while I'm here: She was originally going to die in September 1970, but I decided to push it back a little. I did not model her on Janis Joplin, but that's certainly who I had in mind when I started to write this story. We see her and Daggy again in an upcoming chapter. Are they phantoms? A hallucination? I honestly don't know, so I'll leave it up to you. It's actually in the next chapter, I think, or the one after.**

* * *

Ceremonies – birthdays, weddings, Thanksgiving – benefit the living and the living only: Funerals are no different. Life, they say, is a story, and every story must have a satisfying and definite end: The protagonist you've followed for 350,000 words doesn't just wander off in the last chapter, his tale reaches a conclusion, be it a happy one, a sad one, or something in between. For Luna Loud, it ended in a white clapboard church on the corner of two streets named after trees, her casket floating on a sea of flowers and a minister she had never met praising her love and devotion to her family, who sat in a gallery of pews before her. She was clad in a simple blue dress, her hands folded over her chest and her eyes closed. Lincoln had heard people in movies and on TV say of a body at a funeral "Oh, she looks like she's asleep." He couldn't remember how the bodies at past funerals he had attended looked, but Luna really _did_ look like she was asleep: Her cheeks were rosy and a look of peace touched her delicate features. At the viewing, Lincoln stood over her, so sure that she would open her eyes, turn her head, and smile at him that he tingled in anticipation. She didn't, though, and when he reached out to touch her hand, her flesh was cold – colder than marble, colder than ice – and he resisted the urge to yank away. Instead, her threaded his fingers through hers, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. _"I'm sorry,"_ he whispered.

When Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and the kids arrived at the church, he found his mother sitting in the first pew, a white handkerchief pressed to her eyes. Dad sat on one side of her, her hand in his, and Leni sat on the other, resting heavily against Lori for support with a shell-shocked look in her staring eyes. Lynn was in the next row back, leaning forward and rubbing Mom's shoulder. The stench of flowers hung heavy in the air, and he flashed back to Mrs. Santiago's funeral six years before.

He slipped into the pew next to his brother and put one hand on his mother's other shoulder and the other on his father's. Dad half-turned, a tight, washed out smile of appreciation on his lips. Ronnie Anne led Alex into the pew and sat next to him. _"Dah,"_ the little girl said softly and slapped his leg with both hands. Lincoln picked her up and sat her in his lap; she snuggled against him.

In the second pew, Bobby put his arm around his son; the boy's eyes leaked down his wan cheeks. He didn't know Luna very well, but when he came in, he started to remember her visit last year, and suddenly he was sad: She was really cool and he liked her. Down from them, Lynn 3 squirmed in her mother's lap. She was uncomfortable; she didn't know what was happening, but she could sense everyone's melancholy, and it scared her. She wanted to leave and go somewhere happy, somewhere with baseball.

For Rita, the service and the events that bookended it were a blur of people, words, and pain. Alvin's mother came by, leaned over, and hugged her. "I'm so sorry, Rita," she said and rubbed her back. She had recently lost her own child – her only child – and that made Rita cry even harder.

After that – seconds, maybe, or centuries – she became aware of someone else standing over her, a thin man with thinning black hair, a black mustache, and watery hound dog eyes. His hands were in his trouser pockets and he looked uncomfortable. She looked up, and he nodded slightly. "Mrs. Loud," he said, and she knew him instantly, "I'm Will Rayburn. I just wanted to come over and express my condolences."

Rita dabbed her eyes. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"She was a wonderful woman, ma'am, and I count myself fortunate to have known her. Everyone else feels the same."

Leni stared unblinkingly at her sister's coffin, unaware that Lori was still stroking her arm, unaware that her eyes still leaked, unaware of everything save for the profile of Luna's face. She knew what death was (she wasn't stupid), but she was certain that Luna wasn't really dead; her body might be, but not _her_. Someone so beautiful and full of life can't just, like, blow out like a candle in the wind. It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_. She drew a wet sigh and blinked. She missed Luna so much her tummy hurt...she missed her so much that she would happily never eat another cookie ever again as long as she could have her back.

When the service was over, they proceeded to Heaven's Gate Cemetery on the outskirts of town. It was a cold, sunny day, and the ground was soggy from rainfall the previous night. Lincoln stood with slumped shoulders by the graveside, Ronnie Anne behind him and rubbing his shoulders and Alex's hand swallowed up in his own. Next to Alex, Leni hugged Jessy as though the baby were an anchor keeping her from floating away. The coffin was closed now, and as the realization that he would never see Luna again sank in, he swallowed a lump in his throat and willed the tears away.

He was so caught up in his own grief that he didn't realize someone had appeared beside him until they spoke in a sleepy Texas drawl. "You must be Lincoln."

Lincoln glanced up to see a thin man with a mustache. His shoulders were slumped similarly to Lincoln's, and his focus was on the coffin before them. For a second Lincoln didn't recognize him, then it dawned on him. He played with Luna. He nodded and looked back at the casket. "I don't know your name," he said, "but I know who you are. You usually have a hat."

"Yeah, usually," the man said. "I wanted to say I'm sorry about your sister. I know ya'll were close. She talked about you and everyone else _all_ the time."

Another lump welled in Lincoln's throat, but he swallowed that one too. It tasted like mourning.

The man started to speak again, but when his word turned into a sob, he stopped and pursed his lips tightly together as he struggled to keep himself from falling apart. "It was my fault. I should have done something more." He wiped his eyes. "I just let it happen."

Lincoln nodded. He knew the feeling. "Me too. I knew but...I let it go."

"No," the man said and shook his head, "you weren't there. _I_ was. I could have...I don't know...I could have done something."

For a long time they stood in tense silence that made Lincoln chafe. To lighten the mood, he said, "Hey...instead of blaming ourselves, you blame me and I'll blame you."

The man chuckled softly. "It's worth a shot, I guess."

"Luna wouldn't want anyone to blame themselves...or each other," Lincoln said. She wouldn't. He knew that as surely as he knew his own name. Something told him, however, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself. His part in her death would be a stain on his heart until the day he died.

"No," the man said, "she wouldn't. She was good like that. A spitfire, too." He grinned fondly. "She punched our old manager right in his face the day she heard you were in the states."

Lincoln glanced at him. "She did?" He vaguely remembered her having cut knuckles and saying she hit her manager because he was bitching or something.

The man nodded. "We were gonna do Sullivan and she called ya'll's mama backstage. She told her you were found and in California, and she went to leave but he tried to stop her, so she popped him one." He laughed. "Oh, he was _hot_. Came to the dressing room with toilet paper up his nose screaming about how we needed to kick her out of the band and she screwed us. I asked him where she went and he said, 'To see her brother.' 'You mean the one that's been missing in Vietnam forever?' 'Yeah.' 'Oh. Well...that's okay.'"

Wow. She ditched Ed Sullivan for him?

He sighed.

"See loved you, is what I mean," the man said, "and no, she wouldn't want you beating yourself up."

Lincoln knew.

But he was still going to do it.

After the minister spoke his final words and committed Luna Loud's remains to the earth – and her soul to God – the mourners slowly drifted away, and when they were gone, the casket was lowered into the ground. Luna was home, and would stay forevermore.

* * *

Friday evening, Lynn's last day in town, Lincoln left Flip's early and drove through the first faint strains of twilight. The day before, his family and Lynn's had dinner at a pizza parlor in Elk Park: Despite the events of the past week, it was a warm, happy occasion. The only ones not thrilled to be there were Lynn 3 and Alex. Though neither would say, both Lincoln and Lynn were upset that their daughters hadn't gotten along. Family is the most important thing in the world – a fact that was clearer to them now more than ever – and it hurt that the two girls weren't great friends. Of course, neither was overly sociable and neither had much experience around children their own age. It wasn't personal.

When Lincoln got to his parents' house, he parked behind Ronnie Anne's Pinto and went inside. Lynn, Kathy, and Mom were sitting on the couch, Lynn 3 in Mom's lap. Alex was at Dad's feet playing with her favorite light-up toy, and Jessy was in Leni's arms, her mouth plugged with a bottle. Ronnie Anne was nowhere to be seen.

"There he is," Lynn said happily.

"Hey, bro," Lincoln said with a grin as he slipped his jacket off. He really was _not_ looking forward to driving his brother to the airport tomorrow morning.

Lynn got up with a grunt and nodded toward the kitchen. "You wanna go out back and train? For old time sake?"

Lincoln cocked his brow. "Uh...I don't know."

"Come on," Lynn said and smiled slyly, "chicken."

Lincoln looked his brother up and down. He was out of shape, flabby...and Lincoln was going to kick his ass. "Sure," Lincoln said, "let's go."

He followed Lynn through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the yard, where dusk was settling. They stood a dozen apart from one another, Lynn squatting and rolling his neck. "Alright, geek," Lynn said, "give it all you got. No holding back."

A chuckle escaped Lincoln's lips. "Lynn, if I did that I'd kill you. Literally. I was in the army and I could kill you twenty different ways with my bare hands."

Malicious light danced in Lynn's eyes. "Oooo," he jeered, "I'm so _scared_. Lincy the little comic book nerd is going to beat me up." He threw his hands up in a mock gesture of fright.

Lincoln crossed his arms. "Insults don't work on me, Lynn." The corners of his lips turned up as something occurred to him. "I bet they work on you, though."

Lynn snickered. "You? Insult _me_? Please."

"I could do it," Lincoln cautioned.

"Go ahead."

Lincoln opened his mouth, then sighed. "No. I don't want to hurt your feelings."

"Come on," Lynn said, "you little white-haired pansy."

Lincoln chuckled.

"Can't do it, huh? Figures. I'm _still_ better than you."

Lincoln took a deep breath. Should he do it?

The memory of all the times Lynn picked on him when they were kids came back to him, and he figured what the hell? It was _his_ time now. "Lynn," he said, "you're a fat used car salesman who peaked in high school. You aren't better than me. You're a joke."

Hitherto Lynn was bouncing from one foot to the other, a savage smile on his face. Now, he froze, his face scrunching up in an angry expression.

 _Got'cha_ , Lincoln thought.

"Yeah, that's right, fatso. Can you even find your Johnson under all that blubber?"

Lynn's teeth bared and the vein in his forehead started to throb as red color spread across his face.

Lincoln threw his hands up and bent them limply at the wrist. "I'm Lynn Loud," he said in a high pitched falsetto, "I scored a game winning touchdown in tenth grade forty years ago. I'm a hero. Now buy this Chevy. It was only driven by a little old lady to chur –"

Lynn might have been a little overweight, but he was as fast as ever: Before Lincoln knew it, his brother's shoulder slammed into his stomach and knocked the wind out of him. Together, they flew back, their feet leaving the ground. When they landed, two hundred pounds of used car salesman crashed down on Lincoln like a ton of bricks. Lynn caged Lincoln between his knees, drew back, and cocked his fist. Panicking, Lincoln shot his arm out and dug his fingers into the pressure point in the crook of Lynn's neck and squeezed. Lynn cried out and went limp; Lincoln shifted his weight and rolled, scrambling on top of his brother and shoving his palm into his forehead, pinning him to the ground. His heart was racing and his mind whirled; adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he felt _alive_.

Alive, that is, until Lynn's fist slammed into his kidneys. Pain filled Lincoln's stomach, and he doubled over. Lynn capitalized, roughly throwing Lincoln off. Working on pure instinct now, Lincoln shot to his feet. Lynn was on his knees and getting up; Lincoln threw out his elbow and caught his brother in the temple, knocking him onto his ass. Like a striking snake, he reached out, grabbed Lincoln's ankle, and pulled: Lincoln cried out and fell to the ground. Lynn climbed onto him and slapped him hard across the face. Lincoln balled his hand and threw it at Lynn's solar plexus. A gasp rushed through Lynn's teeth, and he toppled over; he curled into a ball and rocked back and forth as he hissed in pain. Lincoln stayed on his back, his breath coming in short bursts and his face stinging.

For a long time, neither moved or spoke. Lynn fell silent, and Lincoln began to worry that he killed him.

Then he started to laugh, soft and hitching and first but steadily rising in volume until he shook. Lincoln laughed too, laughed until tears rolled down his face and he could barely breathe.

"You're a little shit," Lynn said and got to his knees. He tried to get up, but fell over and laughed even harder.

Lincoln rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his knees. He was shaky and light-headed. "I warned you."

"I took it easy on you because you're my brother," Lynn said and stood. He came over and held out his hand. Lincoln took it and got to his feet. "And I love you."

A smile touched Lincoln's lips. "I love you too." He hugged his brother and his brother hugged him back. "I didn't mean that stuff about you being a peaked in high school used car salesman."

"Eh, that's okay," Lynn said, "coming from a buck-toothed short order cook, it didn't mean much."

On the back porch, Kathy shook her head. "Boys," she said.

"Umhm," Ronnie Anne agreed. "They never grow up."

"Nope," Kathy said, "but they're awful cute."

Ronnie Anne grinned. Yes, they were. She crossed her arms and watched her husband and his brother embracing each other in the gathering gloom, each one pressing tighter and tighter.

"My spine!" Lynn strangled.

"I can't breathe!"

"Let go, then."

" _You_ let go."

In its own way, it was really sweet, probably the sweetest thing Ronnie Anne had ever seen. She felt a lump of emotion in her throat and swallowed it down. Sigh. Lincoln did it...he turned her completely and irrevocably into a gushy sap. But that was okay, being a sap wasn't _so_ bad.

"Now," she said and turned to Kathy, "that tuna casserole recipe you were telling me about..."


	82. November and December 1971

**Guest: Actually yes, that was a reference to Duel. I'm surprised someone actually picked up on that. If I remember correctly it was stated in the short story it was based on that the truck had a bunch of plates on it from different states that probably came from other cars he ran off the road. Maybe it was in the movie. I can't really remember.**

 **Lyrics to** _ **Splish Splash**_ **by Bobby Darin (1958)**

* * *

Lincoln left Flip's at half past six on a Friday afternoon and drove through the dreary, rain-swept streets of Royal Woods at a crawl, the windshield wipers beating a steady tempo that drowned out the music filtering softly from the speakers. At first he thought it was The Beatles, but when he realized it was Paul McCartney on his own, he frowned: He thought John Lennon was the singer, but every song of theirs he knew was apparently sung by Paul. Just goes to show how much he knew about them. Not that it mattered, they'd been broken up a year and the fab four went in four different directions. Ronnie Anne was overjoyed when 'those losers' called it quits, but her happiness turned to horror when instead of the radio playing songs from _one_ band she didn't she did like, it played songs from _four musicians_ she didn't like. Heh.

By the time he reached Royal Woods General Hospital, the rain had picked up, and he was forced to dash; when he reached the lobby, his head and shoulders were soaked with icy November rain. He went to check in at the reception desk, but the security guard waved him on. "You're fine."

Lincoln nodded. "Thanks, Burt."

He waited at the elevators, then got onto the first one that opened. It was the one he didn't like: It creaked and groaned on the way up, and he was certain that one day, the probably-frayed cables would snap and send it plummeting to the basement. With his luck, he'd be inside when it happened, holding onto the rails and crying like a woman. For some morbid reason, the image of him throwing his head back and screaming as his doom rushed up to meet him brought a grin to his lips. At least his family wouldn't have to spend money on a coffin; they could just bury the elevator whole.

The car reached the fourth floor safely (this time) and the doors slid open to reveal a long hall. In the middle was a nurse's station, and as he passed the head nurse looked up, her lips lifting in a warm smile. "Hi, Linc," she said.

"Hey, Jenny," he said, "how're the kids?"

"The next time one of them gets detention I'm going to scream."

Lincoln chuckled. "Glad I don't have to worry about _that_."

"Not yet."

Gulp. I sure _hope_ not.

When he entered the room, Ronnie Anne looked up. She was sitting in a chair next to the bed, Alex sitting in her lap. Jessy was with Leni; handling two kids in a hospital was hard, and Leni jumped at the chance for some "us time" with the one-year-old.

He smiled at his wife, then turned to the bed, his heart growing leaden as it did every afternoon when he came to visit. The shape under the blankets looked even thinner than it had yesterday, and the skin even more yellow. It struck him how strange it was. He was sick for months and got along fine...then, all of a sudden, he tumbled down the hill. It was like the Titanic, that ship that sank: Sucker sat there for two hours, lights blazing and music playing...then in twenty minutes it was gone and everyone was in the water wondering where the fuck the deck just went.

 _I am not ready to do this again,_ he thought as he crossed to the bed.

Flip looked up at him, his eyes narrow, moist pools of semi-medicated confusion. A flicker of recognition danced through them, and the corners of his mouth twitched weakly in an attempt at a smile. His cheeks were sunken and loose skin hung around his neck. "You're just in time for dinner," he rasped. " _I_ don't want it."

A tray sat on the nightstand. Lincoln glanced at it. Mashed potatoes, green beans, a sickly looking piece of chicken, and a plastic cup full of red Jell-O. "Looks worse than the stuff from _your_ place," he said and smiled wanly. "How you feeling?"

Taking a deep breath that turned into a dry cough, Flip lifted one hand and tried to wave it, but he wasn't strong enough, so he let it drop back to the bed. "Like shit," he said. "Tired. Sick."

"Pain?" Lincoln asked worriedly.

"Nah. No pain. They upped my dosage today so I'm alright." He cackled, perhaps at the absurdity of what he just said. _I'm alright_. No, he wasn't alright. He was dying – in fact, the doctor was mildly shocked he wasn't dead already.

Cancer.

The Big C.

It started in his liver and moved to his stomach. The doctor told Lincoln it was like a flower being pollinated: The malignant cells floated through his body like white wisps of dandelion on the wind, depositing cancer here, there, and everywhere in a grotesque parody of Johnny Appleseed. They didn't expect him to last to Thanksgiving, and here it was the end of November, and he was still hanging on. It made him feel guilty as hell, but Lincoln couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. He didn't want Flip to die – but he also didn't want to see him this way...frail, emaciated, his body slowly rotting from the inside out. Flip was...Flip was like family, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was bury another family member...or see a family member suffer.

At least they were giving him more pain medication now; the dosage they had him on wasn't enough, and he was in agony, his teeth clenched and his eyes squeezed closed, tears streaming down his face and his hands fisting the blankets. Three days he was like that – three whole fucking days. When Lincoln saw the doctor the day before, he almost grabbed him by the front of his jacket and ripped his head off. _"Can't you see he's in fucking pain?"_ The doctor's face went white and he sputteringly promised a higher dose. Lincoln didn't think he was a scary guy, but he must have been yesterday.

"That's good," he said now. "Has Bobby been in?"

Flip shook his head. "Nah, I haven't seen him."

Lincoln sighed in frustration and glanced at Ronnie Anne, who shrugged her shoulders as if to say _what do you want_ me _to do?_ Flip had been in the hospital nearly a month, and Bobby had come to see him _once_. One time. That's it. It really pissed Lincoln off, because when he sat with Flip in the evenings, Flip talked seriously, more seriously than he ever had in all the time Lincoln had known him, and one of the things he said again and again was that he wanted to see Bobby and it hurt that he wasn't visiting.

"I'll check in on him," Lincoln promised, "make sure he didn't get his dick caught in something and now he's trapped."

Flip chuckled and Lincoln could feel Ronnie Anne's chastising gaze on him. Yeah, little ears, sorry. Flip's eyelids were drooping now. "Yeah. Make sure he comes down. Stupid greaser." His eyes closed, and his breathing became shallow and rhythmic. Lincoln looked up at Ronnie Anne; her eyes were soft with worry. He took a deep breath and went over, dropping into the chair next to her. Alex looked up and smiled at him. _"Daddee,"_ she said.

He smiled. "Hey, honey." He ruffled her hair and kissed her forehead. "Did you have a good day with auntie Leni?"

She nodded. _"Yeah."_

He looked up at Ronnie Anne. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour," she said. "The nurse just gave him his meds ten minutes ago. Before that he was more alert."

Lincoln glanced at the bed. Flip's chest gently rose and fell. "Was he in pain?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "A little. Not like yesterday, though." From the inflection in her voice, Lincoln could tell that the memory of Flip weeping and writhing in pain haunted her just as much as it haunted him.

Shortly, Ronnie Anne and Alex left to pick up Jessy and go home. Lincoln elected to stay a little while longer. He didn't expect Flip to wake back up before visiting hours were over, but he wanted to spend a little time with him nonetheless. Alone, he dragged the chair over to the head of the bed and sat with his arms crossed on the metal railing. He watched Flip as he slept, a dull ache in his chest and a tight ball of dread in his stomach. Flip was a fighter, but he couldn't hang on forever. Soon (very soon, Lincoln suspected), he wouldn't be able to hang on any longer.

Then he'd be gone.

He drew a deep breath and sat back, his arms crossing over his chest. Flip was one of those constants, something that's been so ingrained in life you can't help but take it for granted, like the sunrise. You know it's going to be there in the morning, and if it isn't...talk about being thrown for a loop. Of course, nothing in this life is constant: Not people, not places, not things; change always comes eventually. It might take a thousand years...or a million...but it _always comes_.

It would be weird not having the old guy around.

And sad. Very sad.

At seven, Jenny the nurse poked her head in to tell him visiting hours were over. Lincoln nodded grimly, got up, and took one of Flip's hands in his own. "You better last the night," he said around a lump in my throat, "I wanna see you again."

"Screw you, Loud," Flip muttered so softly Lincoln could barely hear it, "I'll die when I want."

Lincoln smiled. Stubborn to the end.

On the drive to Lori and Bobby's house, Lincoln smoked a cigarette and absently listened to the radio as the wipers squeaked across the glass.

" _One of the largest manhunts in U.S. history continues today for the man who hijacked a Northwest Orient Airlines flight and made off with 200,000 dollars in ransom money by parachuting from it. Authorities have released a composite sketch of the skyjacker who appears on the flight manifest as Dan Cooper and ask that anyone with information contact the FBI."_

The rain had tapered off by the time he reached his destination; it was dark now, and warm light shone through the front windows. He parked behind Lori's Coronet and got out. At the door, he knocked and waited, his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket. The door opened, and Bobby Jr. looked up at him. "Hey, Uncle lame-o!"

"Hey, Nephew loser, can I come in?"

"Wipe your feet."

Inside, Bobby was sitting on the couch with a can of beer between his legs and watching TV. Bobby Jr. dropped down next to him, and he glanced up as Lincoln came in. "Hey, Linc," he said.

Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, but Lori cut him off from the kitchen. "Lincoln's here?" A moment later she appeared, wiping her hands with a dish towel. "Hey, Linc," she said, "what's up?"

"I need to talk to Bobby," he said, and looked at his brother-in-law.

"Sure," Bobby said. He held the beer out to his son. "Hold this for me, will you?"

Bobby Jr.'s eyes lit up. "Sure!"

Bobby snatched it away and got up. "Get outta here." To Lincoln. "In private?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said.

"Alright, come on."

Bobby led him into the garage where a chair was set up next to a folding table. Bobby sat his beer down, and Lincoln closed the door behind him. "Why haven't you gone to see Flip?" he asked and crossed his arms.

Bobby froze, half bent, and a shadow of something (guilt?) flickering across his face. "I haven't gotten around to it," he said lamely, "I've been busy."

Lincoln's brow knitted. "Busy? Bobby, he's _dying_. Alright? He's not in there hanging out...he's there to die. You can't put him off like that."

Drawing a deep breath, Bobby sank into the chair and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead in a posture bespeaking dejection. "I know," he said, "I just..." he shook his hand and clasped his hands before him. For a moment he gazed off to his right, then he looked up at Lincoln; his eyes were filled with misery. "I don't want to see him like that." There was a trembling, dolorous quality to his voice that instantly extinguished Lincoln's anger. Bobby looked away and threaded his fingers together. "I wanna see him, but...not dying, you know?"

Lincoln sighed. "I know," he said, his tone softening, "neither do I, but this is it. He's not coming back from this. It's now or never...and he really wants to see you; it hurts his feelings that you haven't been there."

Bobby nodded, and Lincoln thought he saw a stray tear drip down his brother-in-law's face. "Alright. Y-You're right."

"You need to see him as soon as possible. Like, tomorrow."

"Okay," Bobby said.

Lincoln came over and squeezed Bobby's shoulder. Bobby patted Lincoln's hand. "It sucks," Lincoln admitted.

"Yeah," Bobby said and sniffed, "it does. He's been like a...kinda like an uncle or something to me, you know?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I know." Flip was kind of like an uncle to him, too...a salty curmudgeon of an uncle, but an uncle nonetheless. He thought back to Flip comforting him after Luna's death, and he started to tear up. He was getting really sick of crying and watching people he loved die.

"I'll go tomorrow," Bobby vowed and looked up at him.

"We'll be there too," Lincoln said, then forced a grin. "You don't get him _all_ to yourself."

* * *

Flip was in and out of consciousness through the night. Sometimes he was alone, and sometimes he wasn't. Shortly after midnight, he came awake in a spill of light falling in from the hall, his mind fuzzy with morphine. He caught a flicker of something from the corner of his eye, and exerted great effort to turn his head.

His mother, dead from typhoid fever in 1914, stood in the shadows. She wore a black high neck dress and looked sick, as she always did in his memories. Her presence did not frighten him, nor did it seem particularly strange. He smiled at her and blanked out. Later, Luna Loud and Daggy Goldberg were sitting at his bedside. Neither spoke, neither moved, neither so much as blinked. There was only one reason for them to be here. "Loud," Flip rasped, "your sister and her boyfriend want a hamburger." Lincoln didn't answer. Probably making goo goo eyes at Santiago again. He smiled fondly. They were cute, both good kids. He'd just make it himself. "You want fries on it?" He chuckled and tried to get up, but couldn't.

For a while he slept, then Ernie was there. "Hey, ya old black bastard," Flip said happily, only it came out as a sigh, "what are you doing here?"

Ernie shrugged. _I was in the neighborhood._

"It's good to see you again. I gave Loud your job."

Ernie nodded. _I know_.

"Goddamn no call, no show."

Ernie shrugged again. _What do you want, Flip? I died._

Flip laughed, but it turned into a coughing fit that hurt his stomach. When it was over, Ernie was gone and for a long time he was alone with the soft beeps of the heart monitor. Someone came to take his vital signs, and when he saw her face, he smiled. "Your daughter keeps distracting my cook."

"Is that so?" Mrs. Santiago asked as she checked him over.

"Yeah," he said, then something occurred to him, and for a moment he was so confused that the back of his neck tingled. "They got married, didn't they?"

Mrs. Santiago didn't reply for a moment. "Maybe," she said.

Flip nodded slowly. The Santiagos were good people. She was raising those kids alone. Husband was a no good drunk. Flip helped them where he could: He paid Bobby more than he had any right paying a cook, gave him a car, and a few Christmases he brought presents to their house. He liked them a lot. Don't tell anyone, though, he had a reputation to uphold.

Toward dawn, he swam up from the depths once more, and when he saw her, his breath caught in his throat. She sat in a chair with a baby in her arms, her long red hair spilling over her shoulders and her clear green eyes pooled with concern. Flip blinked, but she remained, and tears blurred his vision. Her name was Clara, and Flip loved her entirely; she was sixteen when they met, and he was eighteen. He was taken with her beauty, and with the sadness in her eyes. In fact, she looked as sad as he felt. But together they were happy, and in 1921 they married.

Two years later, she died in child birth.

And their son died with her. He would be 48 now.

His eyes flicked down to the bundle in her arms. He couldn't see the boy's skin. It was blue when he came out, and cold.

Flip's lips quivered. "C-Can I hold him? Please?" He tried to lift his hand. He was too weak...too weak to hold his own son.

Clara watched him with silent sorrow...and hope.

 _You can let go now,_ she seemed to say, _you can come to us._

"Not yet. Soon. I want to say goodbye first...then I'll come."

Clara smiled.

He slept, and when his eyes opened next, it was daylight, and Bobby Santiago stood over him, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the railing that his knuckles were white. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were misty. "Hey, Flip," he said huskily.

Flip smiled. He felt warm and loopy. "Bobby," he said, the word drawing breathily out, "...greaser...how you been?"

Bobby smiled tightly. "I'm alright, Flip. You?"

Flip attempted a nod, but his head weighed a thousand pounds. "...Going home later. With my wife and son."

Bobby pressed his lips together as tears spilled from his eyes. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Flip smiled. "Yeah. How's your boy?"

"He's a pain in the ass," Bobby said and laughed through his tears.

"Just like his father," Flip said. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The light was different, as if an hour or more had passed instead of a few seconds. Bobby was still there, and so were Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. Flip couldn't feel whether he was smiling or not, but he wanted to.

"Hey," Lincoln said, "how're you feeling?"

"Good," Flip said. "I'm glad you're here."

Ronnie Anne took his hand and squeezed it.

"You too," Flip said, "even though you distract my cook."

She smiled wanly. "He distracts me too."

"You're cute. Should get married."

"Someday," she said.

Flip closed his eyes and felt himself sinking, but pulled away. "I love you guys," he said.

"We love you too, Flip," Ronnie Anne said.

"I'm going to let go now."

Ronnie Anne sniffed. "Okay," she said wetly.

Someone took his other hand, and someone else squeezed his shoulder. He opened his eyes one final time. The faces over him were tearful and sad, but he couldn't help feeling happy. He felt himself beginning to sink again, and this time he didn't fight: The darkness was warm and inviting, like a blanket.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but didn't take another.

" _Flip."_

Flip opened his eyes. Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and Bobby were gone. Clara stood over him, their baby in one arm and her hand held out. He took it and got out of bed. She smiled up at him.

" _I missed you,"_ she said.

" _I missed you too,"_ he replied.

His son laughed and held out his arms. Flip took him, and after forty-eight years, he finally got to hold him. _"And I missed_ you."

Together, they walked out of the room and into forever.

* * *

The funeral was on Monday, December 6 at Mt. Zion Baptist Church in Elk Park – the same church where Ernie's funeral was held nine years before. Lincoln didn't know why Flip chose a black church, but the reverend seemed to know and respect Flip, so that was that. Not many people were there, but the ones who mattered were, and that's all that really counts, isn't it?

He was buried in Parkview Cemetery two miles south of town next to a woman with the same last name. Her first name was Clara. 1905-1923. The word BABY 1923 was etched beneath. "He said something about his wife and son," Bobby said.

"I didn't know he was married," Lincoln said.

"Neither did I, but from the looks of it, it's not really something he'd wanna talk about."

No, Lincoln supposed, it wasn't. Flip didn't talk much about his past or even his present. His father was either abusive or very strict, he joined the army to get away from him, he buried bodies during the Spanish Influenza outbreak (Lincoln looked it up – Flip wasn't kidding, it was basically the apocalypse), and that was it. The fact that his wife and child died in the same year told Lincoln it probably happened during birth, and if that happened to him, losing Ronnie Anne and Alex, he wouldn't talk about it either...if he managed to avoid blowing the top of his head off, which he probably wouldn't.

He couldn't help but pity his friend; he had no idea that he was carrying something so awful around in his heart. He wished he had so he could have done something or said something. Just as well, he guessed: No words...no actions...can heal a wound so deep.

In the car, he drove with one hand and held Ronnie Anne's with the other; he relished her warmth and her vitality. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

"If I didn't have you, or the girls, I don't know what I'd do." He looked at her. "Probably something crazy."

"Me too," she said honestly.

"When you were having Alex," he said and stopped, wondering if he should tell her or not, "I told myself that if you guys...didn't make it...I was going to shoot myself."

She squeezed his hand. "When you were missing," she said, "I almost crashed this car into a tree, a telephone pole, a support column, and an oncoming truck...on purpose."

They looked at each other, and a warm smile passed between them. "We're terrible," he said, but for some odd reason, he felt good.

"Total lame-os," she agreed. She felt good too.

Lincoln looked up into the rearview mirror. Jessy was asleep with her chin against her chest and her lips parted. Her reddish brown hair was in a ponytail and she resembled her mother as strongly as Alex – who was awake and looking out the window – resembled hers. If it weren't for Lynn 3 being nearly identical to her father, he'd say the Loud men had weak genes and the Loud women had strong genes.

" _Car,"_ Alex said as a red Chevy passed in the opposite lane.

"You see a car?" Lincoln asked.

" _Reeeeeddd caaaarrr."_

"That's right," Ronnie Anne said, "a red car."

Over the summer, Leni started working with Alex on shapes, colors, numbers, and body parts. She could point out her nose, her eyes, her ears, her hair, and a bunch of other stuff. She could also count to three. Lincoln was extremely proud of her, and couldn't wait for her to start school, because she was going to excel.

At home, he carried her inside while Ronnie Anne handled Jessy. The little girl woke up and started to cry, but fell back asleep once Ronnie Anne laid her in her crib with a bottle. "You know," Lincoln said later as they snuggled on the couch, "I'm thinking...in honor of Flip, I'm going to raise the prices of everything for a week. He'd love that."

The place was closed today, and would be tomorrow was well: He and Bobby were meeting with Flip's lawyer for the will reading as they were both named. Lincoln already figured one or both of them would get the restaurant. If he or they did, he decided, he'd take it. If not, he'd move on to something else...maybe use the G.I. Bill to go to college: He honestly enjoyed management work, so he'd take a course in something related to that.

"I don't know," Ronnie Anne said, "he'd probably yell at you for driving away all his customers."

Lincoln scoffed. "Come on, you really think a twenty cent increase will drive away our customers?"

"Yes. I do. They can get a hamburger at McDonald's for that."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

* * *

Tuesday, December 7 dawned cloudy and cold. Lincoln spent the morning with the girls after Ronnie Anne left for work: First he fed them breakfast, then, after, they snuggled on the couch, one on either side of him, and read a Dr. Seuss book. One of the drawings had a marching band in it, and Alex got excited. _"Ick!"_ she cried and slapped the page. _"Ick!"_

Lincoln chuckled. "Yeah, that's music. Something tells me those cat creatures or whatever they're supposed to be aren't playing it very well."

Jessy was mesmerized by a picture of a tree with eyes and a mouth. Maybe it was Lincoln's imagination, but she seemed bemused. _What's going on here, trees don't have faces!_ Lincoln leaned in, "That tree wants to be your friend."

She looked up at him with wide eyes and shook her head, which made him laugh. "Why not? It's a _nice_ tree."

" _Tee,"_ Alex said.

"Tree," Lincoln corrected.

When it was time to leave, he loaded them into the car and drove to his parents' house. At a red light, he stuck his oldies 8-track into the player to see if Alex had come around:

 _Splish, splash, I was takin' a bath_

 _Long about a Saturday night, yeah_

 _A rub dub, just relaxin' in the tub_

 _Thinkin' everythin' was alright_

He turned to Alex, and his smile fell. The little girl gripped the bar, leaned over as far as she could, and yelled at him. _"Uhhhh!"_

Damn it.

In the back, Jessy kicked her legs and bobbed her head back and forth. Ha! "Look, Jessy likes it."

" _Uhhhh-hhh-hhh!"_

Fine. He popped the 8-track out and tossed it onto the dashboard. "I don't get what you have against my music," he said, "it's literally the _only_ type of music you don't like." He turned onto Franklin Ave just as flurries of snow began to drift from the leaden sky. In the driveway, he killed the engine, collected the kids, and went to the door. When Leni answered, she fisted her hands in excitement. "Bunny! Baby Jessy! You're _here_. I got a new record for us to listen to. It's Christmas music." She bent and tickled Alex's chin. "Falalalala-lalalalalalalaaaaa!"

"God help you if it's oldies Christmas music," Lincoln said.

Leni stood and tilted her head in confusion. "Why?"

"Alex _hates_ oldies."

Leni frowned at her niece. "Why do you hate oldies, Bunny?"

Alex scuffed her foot.

"Well, we'll work on that," Leni said.

"Please do."

After leaving, Lincoln drove to the lawyer's office, making a pass through the parking lot of Flip's just to make sure the place was alright. A sheet of paper was taped to the door from the inside. He posted it on Saturday. CLOSED DEC. 6 & 7\. R.I.P. FLIP.

The lawyer's office was in a Victorian house on River Street with gingerbread trim, spires, and a steepled tower rising from the center of the roof. Light shone in narrow first story windows. It was funny; he'd lived in this town his entire life and must have passed this place a thousand times, but despite the big sign out front, he had no idea this was a law office. He parked in a side lot and checked the time: He was ten minutes early. Good. On time is actually late, you know.

Speaking of on time, he was getting out to go inside when Bobby pulled up and slipped into a spot across from Lincoln's. He got out and slammed the door: He wore a pair of black pants and a black zip up jacket with his name over the breast. His hands were shoved into his pockets and his head was bent against the wind. "Hey, you're late," Lincoln said.

"The hell I am," Bobby said, coming up.

Together, they went inside and checked in with a receptionist at a big desk by the foot of an ornate staircase. The woodwork gleamed in the soft glow of lamplight, and the blue and pink floral wallpaper boasted a dozen framed paintings, all of landscape scenes save for a portrait of an old man sitting in a chair. The waiting room was in the parlor, Bobby sat on a Victorian style couch while Lincoln sat in a leather armchair. He picked up a copy of _Time_ from August. A drawing of President Nixon's face adorned the cover. _Nixon's economic gamble_. Speaking of Nixon, Lincoln wasn't too happy with his ass: He heard that Nixon wanted to establish ties with China...you know, _Communist China_ AKA the assholes helping North Vietnam. Nixon might as well just come to Royal Woods, knock on Lincoln's door, and spit in his face when he opened it.

Lincoln slapped the magazine onto the end table and crossed his arms. Every time he saw Richard Nixon, he started thinking of Clyde. How was he? Lincoln tried calling him once after he got home from Vietnam, but the number didn't work anymore. Did he wind up going to Vietnam too? And was he happy that his beloved Nixon was kissing commie ass?

The receptionist stuck her head in and told them to go in. The lawyer's office was at the back of the house, a tastefully appointed space with potted plants, antique furniture, and French doors that opened onto a patio that was presently cold and empty. The lawyer himself was a short, rotund man with rosy cheeks and small glasses. He said his name was Kessler, but Lincoln wondered if wasn't really Claus.

"I've been left instructions to be as quick as possible because, as Flip said, no one wants to hang around my fat ass all day." Lincoln was shocked into a chuckle. Kessler smiled, which told him he understood Flip's personality. Not everyone did.

First, Kessler handed them each an envelope, then collected a sheaf of papers. "There will be paperwork that will need to be signed and filled out at the end," he said. "I will handle that. Flip paid a special fee to keep me on retainer for both of you for a period of six months." He scanned the papers. "Most of this is in his own...colorful...words. We'll start with Bobby." Kessler looked at Bobby then at the paper. "This is him speaking. 'Santiago can have my truck and my house. It's not a great house, but it's paid off. Sell it, live in it, use it for firewood, I really don't care.'"

Lincoln chuckled. That was Flip alright.

"'To Loud, I leave my raging dumpster fire of a restaurant. I know it's a drag of a place, but it gave me a decent living, and it can do the same for you if you don't'...uh...'fuck it up.'" Kessler's blushing hesitancy was amusing. The lawyer sat the top sheet aside. "Mr. Loud, you will need to sign transferal paperwork as soon as possible, and there's the matter of the business license and other such – we can discuss that afterward."

Lincoln nodded.

"Both of you are also to receive 25,000 dollars."

Bobby's jaw dropped.

Lincoln's brows raised. Did he hear that right?

"Jeez," Bobby muttered, "Flip was loaded."

"He was cheap," Kessler corrected. "He spent 40 cents of every dollar he made for fifty years. He also...well..." Kessler trailed off.

"What?" Bobby asked.

Kessler sighed. "I don't know if it's true or not, he only hinted at it, but during Prohibition he _may_ have sold illegal homemade alcohol."

Lincoln and Bobby looked at each other. Wow. You think you know a guy.

Bobby signed the paperwork for the house and the truck. He wasn't sure if he wanted to keep them or sell them and told Kessler he would think about it. Lincoln signed the paperwork for the restaurant, and listened as Kessler told him what he needed to do to get the business license in his name. When Lincoln left, it was pushing four 'o'clock and snowing heavily; the world was coated in a thin layer of white.

25,000 dollars and a restaurant. Lincoln kind of anticipated the latter, but certainly not the former. That was a mind-boggling amount of money, even _after_ Uncle Sam took his inevitable cut. He needed to invest some of it – and some of it needed to go away for Alex and Jessy's education.

 _Thank you, Flip,_ he thought. _Thank you._

* * *

Leni sat cross-legged across from Alex, who knelt. Jessy sat with her back against the couch and thoroughly examined a plastic block fixed with little metal cymbals. Leni held up her index finger.

" _One!"_ Alex said.

"That's right, Bunny!"

Next, she held up her index finger _and_ her middle finger. It looked kind of like a peace sign, which kind of reminded her of Luna and made her sad.

" _Two!"_

 _That_ made her happy. "Yeah, two. You're, like, _really_ smart."

Alex beamed.

Okay. Now...index finger, middle finger, _and_ ring finger.

" _Free!"_

Leni smiled. "Three, that's right."

Everyone but the thumb.

" _Five!"_

Leni tilted her head. "No, four."

" _Five!"_

"It's four, Bunny" She ticked off each finger. "One, two, three, _four_."

Alex stared blankly. Leni touched the tip of the little girl's nose, and she recoiled with a giggle. "What's _that?_ "

" _Nose!"_

"Uh-huh, that's your bunny nose. It goes twitch-twitch-twitch." Leni crinkled her face and tried as hard as she could to twitch her nose, but wound up scrunching her lips from side-to-side instead. Oh well. She was a Leni, not a bunny. She pressed her finger to Alex's lips. "What's _this?"_

" _Mouf!"_

Leni giggled. "Yeah, that's your bunny mouf. It eats carrots."

Alex shook her head, her little ponytail slapping each side of her face and her little cowlick shaking like a leaf on a tree. Leni frowned. "Oh? What _does_ it eat then?"

" _Cookie!"_

Jessy's head whipped up. _"Kee?"_

Alex nodded deeply. _"Cookie."_

"I'll give you both a cookie, but you have to, like, finish your lesson first," Leni said.

Jessy got clumsily to her feet, swayed, and nearly fell. Alex grinned sharply and stood. _"Cookie."_

" _Kee,"_ Jessy said and started to toddle over.

"In a _minute,"_ Leni pouted, "first..."

Both girls advanced on her.

" _Cookie."_

" _Kee."_

Leni gulped. "Uh, guys?" She looked from one girl to the other, her heart starting to race. They ambled closer, their hands out. Leni screamed, reached into her pocket, and tossed the last remaining cookie onto the floor. The toddlers fell on it, Jessy whining as Alex took it from her grasp. She dropped to her butt, held it in her hands with a satisfied smile...and broke it in two. She handed one piece to Jessy and shoved the other into her mouth. Awwww. Leni's heart melted. "That was so _sweet,_ Bunny."

Alex looked at her and laughed; cookie crumbs sprayed Leni's face. Leni wiped her eyes and pouted. "I, like, wanted the weather, not the news."

Jessy gnawed on her cookie half while Alex crawled off in search of her light up toy. "Alright," Leni said, "school's out." Teaching bunnies and Baby Jessys is hard work; at the end of a day, Leni needed a pick-me-up. She patted her pocket, but there was no cookie. She pouted. Oh, wait a minute! She got onto her hands and knees, crawled over to the couch, and reached under, her lip plastered to her upper lip in determination. Her fingers closed on something, and she pulled it out. Aha! She _knew_ a cookie rolled under here a few days or a week ago.

She picked the lint off and ate it with a happy moan.

 **Did Flip actually see spirits and go off to heaven...or was he delusional? Your old pal Flagg doesn't know. You decide.**


	83. November 1972: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **30 Days in the Hole**_ **by Humble Pie (1972)**

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. woke on the morning of November 8 from a dream that left him feeling conflicted. On one hand, it was kind of nice, on the other hand, it was kind of dirty, and he felt kind of ashamed of himself. It was about pretty, brown-haired, big-eyed Cristina Harker, who Bobby had had a crush on since the beginning of the year. He'd known her since kindergarten, but up until September, he kind of didn't realize she was a girl – and a good looking one at that. Sometimes in class he paid more attention to her than to the teacher, and that got him in trouble, because how can you pass a test when all you can think about are pink lips, a button nose, and a soft face smattered with freckles?

She was _really_ cute.

And she had no idea he existed.

Why? He made jokes in class (and got in trouble for his, uh, troubles) to impress her, but she didn't notice; he balled pieces of paper and chucked them at the back of her head, and she always wound up thinking it was someone else (she was cute when she was mad); he even flicked a spoonful of peas at her hair during lunch once, and nothing. It was like he was invisible or something.

Something had to change, because he was getting _really_ tired of his achy, fluttery feeling in his stomach.

 _Tell her you like her._

Uh...let's not get ahead of ourselves, now.

 _Shoot spitballs at her._

Bobby grinned. _Now_ you're speaking my language.

He swung his legs out of bed and got up. He was a slight boy with a pigeon chest and lank black hair. He wore white boxer shorts and socks – he didn't usually wear those to bed, but his feet got cold in the winter. He went to his dresser, took out a pair of jeans, and pulled them on. Next, he rooted through the drawers for a shirt, finally settling on a blue T with two thin white stripes around the arms. He didn't like wearing long-sleeve shirts because it got _really_ hot in school, and that made focusing even harder.

Speaking of focus, he had a bigger problem than Cristina right now – his report card. Royal Woods Elementary sent one out every couple months. _Look how your son's doing_ now, _Mrs. Santiago!_ He'd been waiting with bated breath for it to come in for a week – see, he was pretty sure it was full of D's, and his mom would _not_ be happy. Tommy Hillard, his best friend, said you could turn a D into a B easy, and because Tommy was almost a whole year older than him, Bobby trusted him completely – even though he was completely wrong that one time when he said Bobby could sign his mom's name on a detention slip and no one would notice. Of course, that probably wasn't Tommy's fault...Bobby _did_ misspell 'Lori'; he thought there was at least _one_ E involved. Could you blame him?

After putting on his shoes, he crossed the hall to the bathroom, peed, then went into the kitchen. Dad left for work at five-thirty and Mom left at six, so he was alone as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. Could he ditch? No, probably not, he already ditched once this semester; if he did it too much, Principal Strickland would bring it up to Mom, and Mom would be really mad. God forbid a boy of ten (almost eleven) take a day off every now and then; school was hard work and he could really use it.

When he was done, he sat his bowl in the sink, shrugged into his denim jacket, and went back to his room for his books – every morning he had to make a special trip for these stupid things. He _hated_ books. How could someone sit still and read a _book?_

Outside, it was cool and windy, Next door, old Mr. Grouse was raking his front yard: Every time he got leaves into a pile, the wind scattered them. "Goddamn it," he muttered. Bobby locked the front door and stared down the walk. Shaking his head, Mr. Grouse turned and started toward his house, but slipped on a carpet of leaves and went down. _"GODDAMN IT!"_

Bobby almost peed himself laughing.

"Real funny, Santiago," the old man said as he got to his feet and dusted himself off, "laugh it up."

Oh, Bobby did. In fact, he was still laughing when he got to Tommy Hillard's house. Right on schedule, Tommy came down the front walk: Fat with pale brown hair and glasses, Tommy wore jeans and a brown leather jacket with red and green stripes along the cuffs, hem, and collar. His brow furrowed when he walked up. "What's funny?"

"Mr. Grouse busted his ass again," Bobby said.

"Oh." Tommy said as they started walking. "Did you help him up?"

"Pfft. No. He's a jerk."

Mr. Grouse had a rule: Anything that landed in his yard belonged to him. One time Bobby and Tommy were playing catch with a baseball, and Bobby tripped. The ball literally flew out of his hand, landed in his yard, and rolled, like, two inches into Mr. Grouse's. The old man appeared out of nowhere, snatched it up, and grinned savagely. "You know the rules, Santiago, this belongs to _me_ now." He told his parents but they didn't believe him.

"True," Tommy said, "still, he's, like, eighty isn't he?"

Bobby shrugged. He didn't know and he didn't really care. "He was fine."

Tommy lifted one shoulder. "Eh." They turned onto Washington Avenue and followed its length to the elementary school. Gangs of kids drifted in the same direction. He saw Carol Pingrey on the opposite end of the street with her friend Becky; Carol wore a brown skirt that stopped well above her knees and a blue long-sleeved shirt. Her straight blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her bangs pushed back with a blue headband. She was kind of tall for a girl – like, almost freakishly tall. She had really nice legs, though.

"Oh, mama," Tommy said huskily.

"Go talk to her," Bobby said with a sardonic grin.

"Why don't you go talk to Cristina?"

Bobby paled. "I don't like her. I told you that."

Tommy pursed his lips. "Yeah? That's why you're always looking at her." Tommy clasped his hands in front of him, batted his eyelashes, and said, in a high falsetto, "Oh, Cristina, I love you _so_ much."

Bobby flashed and punched him in the arm. "I do _not_."

"You're just afraid if you ask her out she'll say no."

Bobby opened his mouth, but closed it again. Well...yeah, he was. He also didn't want to look like a dork. Only dorks ask girls out and get turned down, and if Cristina turned him down, everyone would think he was a loser. He didn't want people to think he was a loser. He wanted people to think he was cool...which is why he cut up in class. Everyone laughed, so therefore they thought he was cool. Right?

"Why don't you ask Carol out then?"

"I don't wanna," Tommy said. "She's like the jolly green giant."

"That's kind of perfect," Bobby said, "because you're like the Michelin Man."

"Screw you," Tommy said seriously.

At school, Bobby went to his locker and shoved his books in. His first class was math, and he hated math. He hated history and science and everything else too. He liked lunch, though; he got straight As in lunch. He closed his locker and started to turn away, but froze when he saw Cristina walking down the hall, her books hugged to her chest. His heart bounced and the fluttering in his stomach got even worse. She wore a black sweater and a pale yellow skirt that fluttered with every step she took. Her legs were smooth and looked like they would feel like silk if you touched them.

Was he gaping? He felt like he was gaping. If so, he was powerless to stop himself: He was completely in her thrall, and he _liked_ it.

As she passed, she glanced at him then away, and Bobby's head turned to trail her, his heart racing. Oh, man, she was hot!

" _Someone's_ got a crush," a voice said behind him, and he spun with a start. Jason Harper smirked at him. Jason was, like, thirteen and should have been at junior high, but he kept getting held back because he was dumb or something. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, his dirty blonde hair shaggy around his ears and his bangs lying at an angle across his forehead. He smacked a piece of gum. "You like her, don't you, Santiago?"

Bobby shook his head. Jason was cool, and he did _not_ want to look like a dork in front of Jason. "Nah, I was...I was just thinking about how dumb she looks."

Jason leaned one shoulder against the locker and crossed his arms. "No you weren't. You were checking her out."

Bobby opened his mouth to protest further, but Jason clapped his arm. "Hey, it's alright, nothing wrong with checking out a cute girl. You wanna date her?"

Uhh...well, if Jason said it was okay, it was okay. But he had to play it cool. "Maybe. If I don't have anything else going on that night."

Jason snickered. "Alright, well, you know how to get a girl to like you?"

"I never really thought about it," Bobby allowed, still playing it cool.

Leaning in, Jason looked around to make sure no one was listening, then, in a whisper, he said, "Show her your wee-wee."

Bobby sputtered. "W-What?"

Jason nodded and drew back. "Yeah, man, whip it out and shake it at her. Girls _love_ it."

The thought of showing his, uh, thing to a girl made Bobby blush furiously.

"Come on," Jason said, "think about it. If a girl came up to you and showed you _her_ thing, you'd like it, right?"

Uh...well...Bobby didn't know, actually. He'd never seen what a girl had between her legs and he'd never really thought about it. He knew what they had under their shirts (he and Tommy raided his older brother's stash of _Playboy_ magazines once). Boobs were _nice_.

Stands to reason that their _other_ parts would be nice too, right?

"Y-Yeah," Bobby said and rubbed the back of his neck, "that'd be, uh, really cool."

Jason nodded. "There you go. You do that, my friend, and she'll be your girlfriend in _no_ time."

"A-Are you sure?" Bobby asked.

"God's honest truth. Works every time."

Hm. Bobby wasn't entirely sold on the idea, but it was certainly something to think about. If it got Cristina to notice him and be his girlfriend, he might just try it...

* * *

Leni opened the door and smiled. "Bunny and Baby Jessy!"

"Auntie!" Alex said and threw her arms around Leni's leg. Jessy bounced excitedly, pulled away from Lincoln's grasp, and slammed into Leni's other leg. Leni laughed and rubbed her nieces' backs. "I love you guys too!"

"Auntie Daddy has ick," Alex said looking up at Leni.

Leni looked up at her brother. "Be right back," he said.

A big smile formed on Leni's face. The previous day when he dropped the girls off, she told him they needed new music to listen to: They'd listened to her albums a million times and they were both sick of them. Leni didn't know why: The Archies are, like, the best band _ever_. _No oldies,_ she told Lincoln with a shake of the head. She tried because Lincy really liked oldies, but Alex would _not_ listen to it.

When Lincoln returned, he handed her a record. "This sounds like your kind of band," he said. Leni took it and looked at it: The cover was black with red writing. "Humble Pie," Leni said, " _Smokin'."_

Lincoln nodded. "Well...pie's in the title, right?"

Leni nodded. "Yep." Most of the songs and bands she liked had sweet things in the titles. _Sugar Sugar, Kookie,1910 Fruitgum Company, The Banana Splits_. Humble Pie would fit right in! "Thanks, Lincy."

"No problem." He got down on one knee and held his arms out. "Give Daddy kisses?"

Alex and Jessy went to him, and he hugged both of them. "I love you," he said.

"Love you, Daddy!" Alex said.

" _Laaa ew,"_ Jessy said.

Lincoln kissed both of them and stood. "Have fun with auntie Leni."

When he was gone, Leni shut the door. "Ick!" Alex cried.

"Don't you want breakfast first?" Leni asked.

"No, I want ick!"

Leni sighed exaggeratedly. "Okay. Let's go."

In her room, she sat her record player on the bed and ripped the plastic shrink wrap off the album. She slipped it out, laid it on the turntable, and turned the sleeve over in her hands. Hmmm. What kind of songs does Humble Pie have? She read the track listing, a slight frown forming at the corner of her lips.

SIDE ONE:

1\. Hot 'n' Nasty

2\. The Fixer

3\. You're So Good For Me

4\. C'mon Everybody

5\. Old Time Feelin

SIDE TWO

6\. 30 Days in the Hole

7\. Road Runner/Road Runner's 'G' Jam

8\. I Wonder

9\. Sweet Peace and Time

Hm. Strange...she expected at least _one_ song to have 'sweet', 'candy,' or 'yummy' in the title. Oh well.

Alex climbed onto the bed and sat on her knees next to the record player, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Ick."

"Okay, okay," Leni laughed. She scooped Jessy up, sat on the edge of the bed, dropped the needle into a random groove, and turned the volume up. For a moment, there was only the click and pop of white noise...then loud guitar and crashing drums filled the room, startling Leni into a yelp.

 _Chicago Green, talkin' 'bout Red Lebanese_

 _A dirty room and a silver coke spoon_

 _Give me my release, come on_

Alex's jaw _dropped_.

 _Black Nepalese, it's got you weak in your knees_

 _Seeds and dust that you got bust on_

 _You know it's hard to believe_

Jessy pressed her hands to her ears and furrowed her brows. The music was so loud and, like, _not_ bubblegum, that Leni was stricken for a moment. _This isn't what I expected at all!_

 _30 days in the hole_

 _30 days in the hole  
_

 _30 days in the hole  
_

 _That's what they give you  
_

 _30 days in the hole_

Leni got hold of herself and jumped up. She went to take the needle out, but she was still holding Jessy, and she was so overwhelmed that she didn't know _what_ to do.

 _Newcastle Brown, I'm tellin' you, it can sure smack you down_

 _Take a greasy whore and a rollin' dance floor_

 _It's got your head spinnin' round_

 _If you live on the road, well there's a new highway code_

 _You take the urban noise with some Durban poison_

 _It's gonna lessen your load_

Panicking, Leni tossed Jessy onto the bed and pulled the needle out: Silence crashed down around them, so deafening after the skull-splitting...whatever you call it (it wasn't music) that Leni's ears rang. She panted to catch her breath and pushed her hair behind her ears. "That was _not_ our kind of music."

Alex was frozen in place, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. Then, slowly, she turned to Leni. "Ick!"

"I'll get another..."

" _That_ ick!"

Leni blinked. "But –"

"Ick! Ick! Ick! Bunny wants ick!"

Leni looked at Jessy, who still lay on the bed. The little girl's brow was scrunched tightly and her eyes were heavily-lidded. She didn't like it any more than Leni did. "Bunny, the pie band isn't –"

" _Pie! Pie! Pie!"_ she slapped both hands onto the bed. _"Bunny wants pie!"_

Leni sighed. If Bunny liked the pie band, fine. Like, not everyone likes the same thing. She reached out, lowered the volume, and dropped the needle back into the groove. When it started again, Leni winced and Jessy's brow furrowed even more.

 _Black Nepalese, it got you weak in your knees_

 _Only seeds and dust that you got bust on_

 _You know it's so hard to please_

 _Newcastle Brown can sure smack you down_

 _You take a greasy whore and a rollin' dance floor_

 _You know you're jailhouse-bound_

Alex sat mesmerized until the song was over, the corners of her lips curled up in a devious smile and a bright twinkle in her eyes. Leni and Jessy looked at each other, then at Alex.

"Again!" the three-year-old cried.

* * *

Tommy's eyes widened. "I don't think that's a very good idea."

They were sitting at the end of a table in the cafeteria, a gulf of empty seats separating them from a group of fourth graders. Principal Strickland stood unmoving at the head of the room with his hands behind his back, reminding Bobby of a prison guard or something; every time Bobby glanced over, Strickland was watching him as though he expected him to foul up somehow. _I'm watching you, Santiago,_ Bobby could hear him say. All I'm trying to do is eat my lunch!

"Jason said it works every time," Bobby pointed out.

"He was probably messing with you," Tommy replied and opened his milk.

Bobby sighed. Yeah, he was kind of thinking the same thing, but what if he wasn't? What if girls really liked it when you showed them your thing? But what if they _didn't_ like it? He might ruin his chances with Cristina and he did _not_ want to do that.

Why is love so hard?

Bobby glanced over his shoulder and found Cristina sitting at a table with Carol and Becky. A dreamy smile touched his lips and he took a long breath through his nose. She laughed at something Carol said, and he imagined he could hear it – beautiful and like music – above the chattering din. He should throw his roll at her face. One look at Strickland warned him off, though; the old man watched him the way a hungry hawk might watch a mouse. _Try me, Santiago._

"If you really like her, you should just tell her."

Bobby opened his mouth to say that he _didn't,_ but who was he kidding? It sure wasn't Tommy. "I don't know," Bobby said, and turned to his friend, "what if she doesn't like me back?"

Tommy shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. I guess she doesn't like you back. It's not like you're gonna die or anything."

Bobby tried to imagine how he'd feel if Cristina rejected him, and while he didn't have much experience in matters of the heart, he figured it'd probably hurt, and hurting was not something Robert Santiago Jr. considered fun. "Eh, I dunno. I'll think about it. Until then, I have other problems."

"What?"

"My report card."

Tommy nodded understandingly. "Ah. I'm telling you, changing a D to a B is easy."

"What can I change an F to?"

Tommy blinked. "Uh...maybe an A."

"Do you think my parents would buy me getting an A?"

Tommy scrunched his lips in thought. "Yeah, you're right. What do you have an F in?"

Bobby shrugged. "I don't know what I have, but I like to think ahead." That was a lie. He actually kind of struggled with thinking ahead sometimes. He'd do something and think _later_. He picked up his roll and took a bite. It was stale and so hard it hurt his teeth. The food wasn't the best here, but Bobby wasn't picky; it sure beat his grandpa's beans and franks.

Across the room, Strickland spotted something he didn't like and stalked over to a table where two sixth graders were laughing. Bobby glanced at Cristina. Should he do it? Part of him wanted her to catch him in the act, but another part didn't, and since she was facing him (but not paying attention) she might see him.

He hesitated too long, and Strickland returned, straightening his tie.

"If you thought ahead in class you wouldn't have to worry about getting Fs," Tommy said.

"I don't like thinking ahead in class. School's boring."

"Yeah, but it beats getting yelled at by your mom."

Bobby and Tommy had been friends long enough that Tommy had seen Bobby's mother yell at him on more than one occasion; it wasn't pretty. Lori Santiago was an angel (don't tell Bobby I like his mom, please), but she could be really scary when she was angry.

"True," Bobby said, then, "are you sure you can change a D to a B?"

Tommy nodded. "Yeah, it's real easy. You just have to do it right."

After lunch, Bobby had history, which was the most boring part of his day; at least math got his heart racing, history put him to sleep. Cristina sat ahead of him, so at least he had the pretty back of a pretty head to look at. Alright, so maybe showing her his wiener wasn't the best way to get her to notice him; what _was?_

He was still trying to figure that out at the end of the day when he met Tommy by the front door. "You wanna go to Flip's?" Tommy asked as they started down the sidewalk. Like Bobby, Tommy was a latchkey kid; his parents didn't get home until six. Bobby's mother got home around five, and if he wasn't home, she'd get mad. It was three now, so they had time.

"Alright," he said, "I gotta stop by my house first." They paused at an intersection so a school bus could turn. On the opposite side of the street, Carol Pingrey walked with Becky, both of them giggling about something. Bobby glanced at his friend; Tommy watched her like his name was Strickland and hers was Santiago.

When they reached Bobby's house ten minutes later, he checked the mailbox, and his stomach twinged. His report card was here. He took it out and held it in his hands. Alright, let's see the damage; being as careful as he could so as not to rip the envelope (he had to seal it back up, after all), he opened it and slipped the paper out.

All Ds.

Tommy laughed. "Your grades are worse than mine."

"Shut up," Bobby said sullenly. Great. Just perfect; he was hoping for at least _one_ C. Getting caught changing one or two Ds to a Bs would be bad enough, but four? Sheesh. He returned the sheet to the envelope and stuck it into the back pocket of his jeans. He was worried now; he stuck his thumb into his mouth and chewed his thumbnail.

"Don't sweat it," Tommy said, "I do it all the time."


	84. November 1972: Part 2

**Lyrics to _Brandy, You're a Fine Girl_ by The Looking Glass (1972) **_**30 Days in the Hole**_ **by Humble Pie (1972);** _ **Freakin' at the Freakers Ball**_ **by Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show (1972)**

* * *

Lincoln folded the morning paper and read the headline. _**NIXON DEFEATS MCGOVERN IN LANDSLIDE.**_ Is that what they're calling it? A landslide? More like a fucking massacre. There are fifty states in the U.S...and George McGovern carried one...one state...and it wasn't even his _home_ state. He lost that to Nixon too! Lincoln had never paid much attention to politics, but he didn't think anyone had _ever_ been so resoundingly defeated in a presidential run. Maybe they were...but wow, he couldn't get over it. One state. Jeez. That's embarrassing. He knew McGovern was going to get his ass kicked – he _was_ the amnesty, abortion, and acid candidate...fucking hippie – but wow.

"I actually feel sorry for the guy," Lincoln said.

Across the counter, Blades shrugged. "That's what he gets for being a fucking liberal."

Blades started working for the company Lincoln got his orders from about six months ago. Every Friday he dropped by with a delivery and Lincoln fed him because, hey, he was an old friend. Maybe not a _close_ one (his real name was Bob, right? Just kidding, Lincoln knew what his name was) but a friend nonetheless. Over the past few months, he'd learned a lot about Blades...like that he was almost as big a Nixon supporter as Clyde.

"It didn't help that he had that nutcase running with him," Blades added. The 'nutcase' was Thomas Eagleton, a senator from Missouri with a long history of depression and receiving shock therapy treatments. The press made a big stink out of it and McGovern wound up replacing him. Lincoln wouldn't make fun of a man with a mental illness, but he would say this: Good thing McGovern got rid of him, because after a trouncing _this_ bad, the poor guy probably would have hung himself.

Lincoln laid the paper down on the counter. "Eh, I don't think he had anything to do with it. McGovern was just a shit candidate."

McGovern ran for the Democratic nomination in 1968, and was part of the cavalcade of assholes who called to 'welcome' him home when he got back from Vietnam. Another was George Wallace, the former Governor of Alabama who gave that "Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever" speech. In '68 he was an independent, but this time he ran in the primaries as a Democrat until someone shot his ass. He didn't die, though...well, from the waist up. Can you believe that guy carried Michigan in the primaries? Lincoln knew racist assholes still existed even in his own backyard, but George Wallace? Really? He supposed it was one of those 'rock and a hard place' situations. Vote for this asshole named George or _that_ asshole named George.

Politics. What a crock of shit.

"You're right there," Blades said. He picked up his burger and took a bite. "How's the family?"

"Good," Lincoln said, "we finally got Jessy out of our room and in with Alex."

"Yeah? How's she taking it?"

Lincoln missed a beat. "Not as well as we hoped." Last month, he and Ronnie Anne bought Jessy a toddler bed and set it up in Alex's room. They tried it out a few times, but she absolutely would _not_ go to sleep and wound back with them. For a while, Lincoln would transfer her to her bed after she fell asleep, but she'd wake up during the night and cry. Now, he could get her to fall asleep in her own bed, but she'd wake up twice like clockwork: Once an hour or so after dropping off, then again at two or three. He and Ronnie Anne also noticed that she was extra clingy during the day. It broke his heart, but she was two now, she needed to start sleeping in her own room like a big girl.

Growing up is hard. He knew that all too well.

"Lil' Blades was like that," Blade said with a grin, "put some whiskey in her baba and out like a _light_."

Lincoln blinked. "Uhhh...yeah, we're probably not going to do that."

Blades shrugged. "Eh. She'll come around."

"Yeah, at some point," Lincoln agreed. An old woman came up to the register, and Lincoln went to take care of her. He was just handing her her change when Bobby Jr. and his friend Tommy came through the door and grabbed a booth by the jukebox. Speaking of jukebox, did he place that order for new records? He thought he did, but he wasn't sure, and suddenly that bothered him. Nodding to the old lady, he went into the office and checked his paperwork. Yep, he placed it on October 28. Good. He didn't like forgetting to do things.

Back in the dining room, Lilly was taking Bobby and Tommy's order; both boys ogled her breasts, and Lincoln grinned. Kids.

Shaking his head, he went into the kitchen. Scott, his new cook, was flipping patties while Donald scrubbed a pan. Robert left for California in March (Lincoln was surprised he didn't do it five years ago), and for a while Lincoln had to cover for him – wearing two hats, so to speak, and getting fucked with two dicks. He hired Scott out of desperation: He was thin with light red hair, cloudy blue eyes, and a criminal record longer than a baby's arm. It was petty stuff, but Lincoln still hesitated to bring him in. He proved to be a good worker, though; he was here the same time as Lincoln, did his job with minimal screw-ups, and specifically asked for as little time off as possible.

"We need anything?" he asked.

Scott slipped a patty off the grill. "Uh, I don't think so...actually, we're kind of low of tomatoes. I have enough for today and _probably_ tomorrow, but if you're going to the store anyway..."

Lincoln whipped a notepad and a pencil from his apron and jotted down TOMATOES. "Donald? You got everything you need?"

"I need soap."

Lincoln wrote that down too. "That's it?"

"Yup," Scott said.

.Back in the dining room, he sat on his stool and watched Bobby and Tommy; Bobby was bent over a sheet of paper, a pen in his hand. The tip of his tongue was plastered to his upper lip in concentration. It was good to see him doing his homework; Lori wasn't happy with his grades, and half the problem was him blowing his homework off to go play.

Bobby finished what he was doing, and passed the paper to Tommy, who looked at it and nodded. Grinning, Bobby folded it and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He glanced over, saw Lincoln watching him, and looked guilty, which made Lincoln's brow furrow. That's not the look of a boy doing his homework. "What are you doing?" Lincoln asked across the counter.

"Nothing," Bobby said quickly.

Lincoln pursed his lips. It didn't look like nothing.

A rush of customers came up to the register, and he had to put Bobby Jr. and his shenanigans on the backburner. By the time he was done, he'd forgotten completely about it. It was starting to get late, and the dining room was nearly empty. He sat, grabbed the radio he and Ernie bought from under the counter, and sat it next to the register. Next, he took out a screwdriver.

A few months back, Scott (or was it Robert?) dropped it onto the floor and it stopped working: If you shook it, you could hear stuff rattling around inside. Every evening he fiddled with it for a while just so he had something to do. He took the back off and stared down at the mess of tubes and wires, a frown on his face. If he pushed the blue wire in, the radio would play, but the moment he let go it stopped. He couldn't tape it, that didn't work, and he couldn't kink it. Hm. He reached in, took the blue wire between his thumb and forefinger, and jammed it against the inner plastic casing: The crinkle of static filtered from the speakers, followed by faint, tinny music:

 _And there's a girl in this harbor town_

 _And she works layin' whiskey down_

 _They say, Brandy, fetch another round_

 _She serves them whiskey and wine_

Crack. Sizzle. He yelped and yanked his hand back. "Son of a bitch!" he cried and jammed his burning fingers into his mouth.

"You alright there, Linc?" someone asked from his booth. His name was Ted or Tad or something.

"I'm fine," Lincoln said.

"Looks like it's time for a new radio."

Lincoln slammed the back onto the radio and screwed it back together. "Yeah, I think you're right." He put it back under the counter. He'd keep it around whether it worked or not; it reminded him of Ernie.

An hour later, he drove home through the cold November twilight. Something was wrong with the Impala – it rattled and coughed. He took it to the mechanic and it was fine for a while, running like new...then last week it started acting up again. He figured it was time for a new car anyway. Like a station wagon. It had more room for kids...and trips to the store.

At home, he pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. He grabbed the lockbox, got out, and went to the door. As soon as he opened it, loud, bluesy music socked him in the nose and knocked him back a step.

 _Black Nepalese, it's got you weak in your knees_

 _Seeds and dust that you got bust on_

 _You know it's hard to believe_

Jesus, melt my face off, why don't you? Since when did Ronnie Anne listen to this kind of stuff? He went in, closed the door, and sat the lockbox on the end table. He took off his coat, hung it up, and went into the living room. Alex knelt before the turntable, a big, square album cover in her hands; she prattled happily to it like it was her best friend.

Lincoln's brow knitted. Huh. In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. Jessy sat in her lap with her hands clamped over ears and an annoyed look on her face. Ronnie Anne glanced up. "What's this?" Lincoln asked, confused, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Your daughter has a new favorite band," she said with thinly-veiled contempt, "and a new favorite song."

Lincoln tilted his head to one side. Where the hell did she hear _this_?

Ronnie Anne could see the question in his eyes. "Humble Pie," she said.

 _This_ was Humble Pie? He thought they were one of those bubblegum groups Leni liked so much.

 _Newcastle Brown, I'm tellin' you, it can sure smack you down_

 _Take a greasy whore and a rollin' dance floor_

 _It's got your head spinnin' round_

Lincoln blinked. "What did he just say?"

"I think it's 'greasy whore,'" Ronnie Anne said.

" _What?"_

She nodded.

Oh, hell no. He turned, went into the living room, and yanked the needle out of the groove. Silence filled the room. Alex looked up from the album sleeve, her face darkening. "Ick."

"We're going to take a rest from music for right now, okay?"

" _Ick! Ick! Ick!"  
_

"Alex, we..."

The little girl threw herself to the floor and started to cry and thrash, her fists and feet thumping muffedly against the carpet. _"Pie! Pie!"_

"Alex –"

She flopped onto her back and whipped her head from side-to-side, her face red and streaked with tears. Lincoln was surprised...he'd never seen her act this way before. She got cranky and threw little fits here and there, but this was a virtual grand mal seizure. Naturally, it hurt to see her so upset – but he had to be an adult, and adults don't let their three-year-old daughters listen to songs that use foul language.

He glanced up. Ronnie Anne stood in the threshold, Jessy next to her. "And that's what happens when you take it away. Trust me, I tried. She did this for over an hour."

Lincoln frowned at his daughter as she wailed and kicked her legs. His immediate reaction was to give in – but that's not the parently thing to do. He went over, knelt down, and laid his head on her shoulder: Her big brown eyes shimmered with tears. "How about this: Daddy will get you a _new_ album. One that doesn't have bad words."

" _Uh!"_ She flopped onto her side.

"What about those records Robert gave you?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Lincoln snapped his fingers. That's right. Before Robert left he gave Lincoln a milk crate full of records that he couldn't take with him. It was mostly hippie stuff, but there were a few good ones: Chuck Berry, Frankie Valli, The Beach Boys. Maybe, just maybe, there would be something in there that Alex would like...and wouldn't call people whores. "Let Daddy go see if there's something else you can listen to, okay?"

Alex slapped the floor. _"Uh!"_

He got up and went into the garage. The crate was on a shelf between a box of Christmas decorations and a box marked FLIP: Bobby decided to hang onto Flip's house but not to move in. He and Lincoln cleaned it out after New Year's – some stuff they threw away, some stuff they kept, mainly pictures and personal stuff. Flip's old doughboy uniform was in there along with a framed photo of a _very_ young him with a waif-like woman Lincoln took to be his wife. He grabbed the crate, sat it on the floor, and knelt. He carefully flipped through the selection: The only thing that stood out to him was one called _Sloppy Seconds_ by a band called Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show. Hm. It depicted seven smiling hippie faces, beards and long hair abounding. _Medicine Show? That sounds innocuous_. _Wonder which one's Dr. Hook – probably the one with the eyepatch_.

He slipped it out and carried it back inside. Ronnie Anne was sitting on the couch with Jessy. Alex lay prostrated on the floor, weeping softly into her hands. "Daddy's got ick," he said as he crossed to the turntable. He slipped the record out, laid it on the platform, and dropped the needle. Alex looked up, her eyes watery.

 _Well all the fags and the dykes they're boogie-in' together_

 _The leather freaks are dressed in all kinds of leather_

 _The greatest of the sadists and the masochists too_

 _Screaming please hit me and I'll hit you_

" _Ahhhh! That's even worse!"_ he slapped the needle away and the music sputtered to a stop. Behind him, Ronnie Anne snickered into her hand.

" _I want ick!"_

Lincoln sighed.

"She's three, Linc, she doesn't know what they're saying," Ronnie Anne said, "she just likes the way it sounds."

" _Please Bunny want ick!"_

Goddamn it, he could feel himself caving. "Alright," he said, "but I'm moving the turntable into her room."

Ronnie Anne nodded. Jessy, seeming to understand that the bad music was going to go away, beamed. Lincoln unplugged it and wheeled it into Alex's room; Alex watched him from the floor with curiosity, then got up and followed him, her steps tentative and her hands balled to her chest. He pushed it against the wall next to Alex's bed, knelt, and plugged it into the outlet. Good job, Linc, this was _your_ doing.

Alex watched him from the doorway, her eyes brimming with hope. "Go get your ick."

A sunny smile spread across her face, and she disappeared, only to come back a minute later with the record in her hand. "Ick!" she said and handed it to him. "Bunny ick daddy!"

"Yeah, Bunny's music," he said. He couldn't help but smile at how cute she was. He sat the record onto the platform and dropped the needle into the groove.

 _If you live on the road, well there's a new highway code  
_

 _You take the urban noise with some Durban poison  
_

 _It's gonna lessen your load_

Alex jumped for joy. "Bunny happy!"

Lincoln rubbed her head. "I love you."

"Uve you too, Daddy!"

* * *

Mom's eyes were hard over the top of the report card. Bobby gulped. Tommy was wrong...so wrong.

Instead of screaming like he excepted her to, she heaved a tired sigh. "Bobby," she said, "these aren't B's. They're D's."

Bobby's head shook. "No, that's just how the school does B's."

"No, it's not," she said firmly, and he knew there was no point in arguing. She knew, he knew, and they both knew that the other knew.

Bobby's shoulders slumped. They were standing in the kitchen, Mom having just gotten home from work; she was still in her skirt and blouse, sans only her shoes. She sank into a chair and propped her elbow on the table, her fingers worrying through her blonde hair. "Bobby," she said soberly, "this is serious. You need to bring your grades up. I'm not harping you for fun, if you fail they will hold you back. Do you want to be in the fifth grade forever?"

Bobby shook his head. He hated when his mother talked to him like this...her voice full of disappointment. He'd rather she yell at him.

"I don't know why you're making D's. You're smart. You could make all A's easy. Instead, you bring _this_ home. It's _literally_ the most frustrating thing in the world because you can do so much better."

"I'm sorry," Bobby said seriously. He didn't _mean_ to make bad grades – he just didn't like school, and when he was in class, it was _really_ hard to pay attention. Sure, there was Cristina, but even before her he had trouble paying attention: He'd look out the window and start thinking about something else and then he'd derail like a train. That's what he hated most about school – the other kids made it look so easy, and it made him feel stupid.

"Can you please try to do better?" Mom asked. "Please?"

Bobby nodded. The quivering edge in her voice made him want to cry. "I will. I promise."

She held out her arms, and Bobby hugged her. "Getting good grades is really important. If you don't get good grades, you're going to wind up being a janitor or something."

Bobby stiffened slightly. He did _not_ want to be a janitor when he grew up; everyone made fun of the janitor at school. They called him "Trash" and threw things at him when he wasn't looking. Janitors are _not_ cool...they're gross, smelly, have no friends, and girls don't like them.

Mom kissed his cheek. "One B," she said, "one B on the next report card and we'll go to Dairyland or something."

 _Dairyland?_

Bobby smiled broadly and pulled away from his mother's embrace. "Okay! I'll start studying _right_ now!"

Yeah...that didn't exactly happen. He _meant_ for it to, but the moment he sat down at the desk in his room with his books, his mind began to wander: How could he get Cristina to like him? He decided that Jason was messing with him about showing her his wiener, though he continued turning it over in the back of his mind because it _might_ work – as a last resort. Being new to the world of not thinking girls were icky, Bobby had no idea what to do, and a part of his adolescent brain realized that. He didn't want to admit it, but he needed help, and not from Tommy or Jason, because they probably didn't know what they were doing either.

Who could he go to, though? Not his mom – that would be embarrassing. Dad? Maybe. He _did_ get mom to like him, right? It's not like they were _born_ married. Yeah, he'd ask his Dad. Right now, he needed to focus so he could go to Dairyland. He opened his history book to chapter ten and started to read. Blah-blah-blah western expansion blah-blah-blah manifest destiny. He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and looked up at the window. Mr. Grouse was in his backyard with a rake. Why did people even worry about raking leaves? It was stupid. He had a pretty big pile, though, real nice for jumping.

Suddenly, he really wanted to jump into those leaves.

Slipping out of his chair, he crouched down and scuttled to the window, lifting his head over the sill and watching as Mr. Grouse dragged the metal prongs across the grass. That pile _had_ to be three feet deep at least; he could already feel himself dropping into it, like a cloud.

Shortly, Mr. Grouse stopped what he was doing, looked around at his leafless yard (leafless but for the pile, of course), and nodded to himself. _Well done, Grouse,_ Bobby could hear him say. He turned and started for his shed. Bobby's heart leapt: Here was his chance!

Being as quiet as possible, he lifted the sash, then the screen, then climbed out. Mr. Grouse was walking away, still in sight, limping and using the handle of the rake as a makeshift cane. An idea struck Bobby, and he grinned savagely. Drawing a big gulp of air, he screamed, "Cannonball!" and started running for the pile. Mr. Grouse turned just as Bobby leapt, tucked his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around. He landed in the soft, fluffy pile, and leaves scattered everywhere.

" _GODDAMN IT!"_ Mr. Grouse yelled furiously, his body trembling with ire. Bobby scrambled up and started to flee, but slipped and went down hard on his butt. He threw a panicked glance over his shoulder and cried out: Mr. Grouse was coming and fast. Heart blasting, Bobby got to his feet, darted back into his yard, and climbed through his window, dropping onto the floor in a heap, leaves plastered to his shirt and stuck in his hair. He was winded, shaking, and smiling.

"You little bastard!" Mr. Grouse cried. "That took me all day to rake!"

Bobby got to his knees, pulled the window down, and drew the curtains. He sat with his back against the wall and laughed. That was _fun_. He pulled a leaf out of his hair, looked at it, and flung it away. What was he doing? Oh, yeah, homework. He got to his feet, but his attention was drawn to the window: Through the crack in the curtains, Mr. Grouse stood over the decimated pile with slumped shoulders, his head bowed as if in grief.

Suddenly, Bobby felt kind of bad. Sure, Mr. Grouse was a jerk, but like Tommy said, he was an old man. A twinge of guilt pinched Bobby's chest, and he sighed, his eyes darting from his homework to the window.

Alright, fine.

He drew the curtains back, opened the window, and climbed out. Leaves crunched underfoot as he approached, and Mr. Grouse spun, his brow darkening. "Back for more, you little shit?" he rasped.

Bobby blushed self-consciously. "Actually, uh, I feel kind of bad about that, so...I wanna help."

Mr. Grouse's lips tightened. "Oh?" He imbued that single word with enough sarcasm to drown an entire nation.

Bobby nodded. "Honest."

Mr. Grouse studied him for a long moment as if trying to detect a lie – or the truth – in Bobby's eyes. "There's another rake in the shed," he finally said, and turned back to his work.

Five minutes later, Bobby stood next to Mr. Grouse, raking leaves. The metal prongs scraped the grass and dug into the soft earth. Bobby panted with exertion. "You're doing it wrong," Mr. Grouse said. "Here. Watch me."

Bobby stopped, leaned on his rake, and watched as Mr. Grouse made light strokes across the ground. "You want the leaves, not the whole goddamn yard."

Bobby tried to do it just like Mr. Grouse showed him, but it was _really_ hard: His arms quivered and his lower back burned. "L-Like this?"

Mr. Grouse glanced at him. "Eh, good enough."

Fifteen minutes later, they were done: Bobby was sore and sweaty despite the persistent November chill. He leaned heavily on the rake to catch his breath while Mr. Grouse examined the pile, his hands on his hips. Wow, that was a lot harder than it looked. Again: Why do people rake leaves?

He didn't realize he spoke aloud until Mr. Grouse chuffed. "Because some people take pride in their yard."

Bobby shrugged. "But they're leaves. Outside stuff. They're _supposed_ to be on the ground."

"No, they're not," Mr. Grouse said, "they're supposed to be in the trees."

"But it's fall. That's what happens. They fall down."

"Yeah, and trees fall down too. Would you leave a dead tree lying in your yard?"

Well...no. "That's different."

Mr. Grouse rolled his eyes. "Look at your yard," he said and pointed. Drifts of leaves were piled here and there; they were brown, dry, and kind of ugly. "Now look at mine." Aside from the big pile of leaves, Mr. Grouse's yard was clean as a whistle. Bobby looked from one to the other and back again. He kind of understood where the old man was coming from; it _did_ look neater over here. Still, that's a lot of work just for a yard with no leaves in it.

Bobby lifted one shoulder. "I guess."

Mr. Grouse nodded. "Now gimme my rake and scram."


	85. November 1972: Part 3

**Why is everyone suddenly writing homoerotic fan fiction about me? I hate to disappoint anyone, but your old pal Flagg is completely straight (and yes, ladies, I'm available...don't line up all at once). I guess men want to be me and to be with me. By the way, this is one of my favorite chapters, so enjoy.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Burning Love**_ **by Elvis Presley (1972)**

* * *

 **Falling in love is such an easy thing to do  
**

 **And there's no guarantee that the one you love  
**

 **Is gonna love you**

 **\- The Main Ingredient (** _ **Everybody Plays the Fool;**_ **1972)**

On the way to Lincoln's parents' house, Alex held the Humble Pie album in her hand and talked to it; she was good with words, but her conversation with the sleeve was almost entirely in gibberish, though he caught 'bunny' 'pie' and 'uve'. The night before, she wouldn't go to sleep at her normal time because she wanted to listen to that damn song; Lincoln and Ronnie Anne left her to it. At nine, he went into the room to check on her...she was asleep with her face pressed into the carpet and her butt thrust into the air. She woke briefly when he laid her in bed and started to fuss. The cure? Slipping the record back into the sleeve and giving it to her. She cuddled it like a teddy bear and zonked out. This morning, she listened to it as they got ready, and threw a mini tantrum when Lincoln turned it off. "We have to leave," he told her, "you can listen to it at Nana's house."

He remembered being attached to a stuffed rabbit named Bun-Bun when he was her age, but a toy's a lot different than a hard rock album. To each her own. He just wished he'd had the good sense to fuck up and mistakenly pick up a record that _didn't_ talk about coke and whores...and black neboleese...he didn't know what the hell that was, but something told him it probably wasn't legal.

When Leni answered the door, she smiled broadly at Alex. "Baby Jessy! Bunny! You're back!" Her eyes fell on the album clutched in Alex's hand, and her face fell just a tick. "And you brought your friend."

"Ick," Alex said and held the record up, "Bunny pie!"

Leni looked up at Lincoln. The look in her eyes said _Help me._ Lincoln spread his arms. "She really likes it."

Leni sighed. "If Bunny likes it, then auntie Leni will have to like it too."

Lincoln kissed Alex and Jessy and drove to Flip's. At a red light, the Impala coughed and rattled. Yeah, this is ridiculous. He sighed and shook his head. It's a sad fact of life that many of the things we become attached to – and people and places, for that matter

\- don't last forever. It might seem like they'll always be around, but one day they suddenly aren't. Like...well, like Luna.

His mood darkened as his thoughts turned to his lost sister; not a day went by that he didn't feel her loss like a knife wound in his chest. Sometimes it was a dull sort of pain, and others it was fiery and fresh. Her birthday was the hardest, because birthdays are supposed to be a celebration of life, and Luna wasn't alive. She was dead.

And so was Flip. Flip's death didn't hurt as much as Luna's, but it still hurt, and some days he missed the old man so much he felt like he was suffocating. See...Luna was his sister...they grew up together, they loved one another, and they formed a special bond from birth. His bond with Flip wasn't quite as strong, but unlike Luna, he saw Flip nearly every single day. He was _always_ there, like Walter Cronkite. Every day, year after year, same time, same channel...he might as well be a mountain, unchanging, unmovable, not going anywhere.

Only mountains _do_ eventually go somewhere: They erode over time, getting lower and lower until one day there's a field where a range once stood. Luna was like that, Flip was like that...and so was the Impala. He'd had it for nearly ten years, and it held a lot of memories. He was fine with getting another car and driving that instead of this; he was _not_ fine with getting rid of it, though, at least not entirely. He didn't want to be the kind of guy who never let go of anything, but come on...it was his first car...and he and his best-girl-now-wife spent a _lot_ of time in it, if ya know what I'm saying.

They had premarital sex in the backseat. That's what I'm saying.

How could he kick this thing to the curb? It wasn't a part of the family...but it was a friend, and Lincoln Loud was _not_ the kind of guy who used his friends and then threw them away. Nope. Not him.

As he pulled into the parking lot, Elvis came on the radio and he turned it up:

 _Lord Almighty,  
_

 _I feel my temperature rising  
_

 _Higher higher  
_

 _It's burning through to my soul_

 _Girl, girl, girl  
_

 _You gonna set me on fire  
_

 _My brain is flaming  
_

 _I don't know which way to go_

Lincoln tapped the steering wheel and nodded along to the music...then caught himself. You know, once upon a time he hated Elvis – not because he was a bad singer but because he was _everywhere_ , ugh – now he here he was sitting in the car in front of Flip's and waiting for one of his songs to end before getting out.

 _It's coming closer_

 _The flames are reaching my body_

 _Please won't you help me_

 _I feel like I'm slipping away_

 _It's hard to breathe_

 _And my chest is a-heaving_

Speaking of Elvis, Lincoln saw a story in the paper a while back about Elvis meeting Nixon in the Oval Office...something about Elvis wanting a federal badge or some damn thing. There was a picture of them shaking hands and looking at the camera, and they both looked _really_ uncomfortable.

Lincoln chuckled as he imagined both of them rushing to wash their hands afterwards.

When the song was over, Lincoln got out and went to the front door, the keys in his hands. He was just inserting it into the lock when someone spoke next to him, and he jumped, his fists balling and his nerves tensing for battle. _I'm gonna kick your ass back to Vietnam, you fucking gook!_

Only it wasn't the Vietcong (heh, not that he expected it to be), it was Scott. "Did I scare you?" he asked with a smile.

"No, you almost got your jaw broken, though." Lincoln turned the key and opened the door. "Do you live in the dumpster out back or something? You beat me here every morning."

Scott shrugged. "Just ready to work and make that money."

"Alright," Lincoln said and gestured to the kitchen, "well, get to it."

While Scott went back into the kitchen and started getting ready for the day, Lincoln grabbed the lockbox from the car, brought it in, and put the money in the register. He'd owned this place for almost a year, and he still did this every single day. He needed a safe so he didn't have to...only safes can be cracked, and he didn't like the idea of someone cracking his safe and stealing his money while he sat at home watching Sanford and Son.

Donald came in roughly twenty minutes later, followed by Rhonda and Lilly. Lilly was taking a business course at Royal Woods Community College and was thinking of going to a four year university for her master's or bachelor's or something. Lincoln would hate to see her go – she was a good worker, always on time and always with a smile on her face – but that went back to his earlier train of thought: Nothing lasts forever.

The breakfast rush started soon after, and before he knew it, it was past noon and instead of eggs and pancakes flying out the window, it was hamburgers. When he finally got a little time to pull himself away, he went back into the kitchen and did a quick inventory: They were good on everything, so at least he wouldn't have to run to the store after work.

He sat at the counter and watched people eat. He was just beginning to think of tinkering with the radio again when the phone rang. He leaned over, picked it up, and pressed it to his ear – he needed to remember to get a longer cord. "Flip's," he said.

"Um...is Lincy there?"

Leni?

Oh, God, something's wrong.

"It's me. What's up?"

"Oh, hi, Lincy! Uh...I, like, have a question."

Lincoln blinked. "Are the girls okay?"

"Huh? Of course. They're with auntie Leni. Duh."

Whew. Call him a pessimist, but every time Ronnie Anne, Mom, or Leni called him during the day (which was not often at all), he got a little worried. "Okay. What's going on?"

"Can you _please_ get more Bunny music? She's been listening to this pie song all day and it's giving my ears owies."

"Uh...she really likes that song."

"Tell me about it. But she might like other songs _like_ it. I just, like, want variety."

Lincoln couldn't blame her. He was so sick of hearing 30 Days in the Hole he could rip out his intestines and strangle himself with them. "Alright. I'll stop by Sears on the way home."

"Thanks, Lincy!"

"Love you," he said.

"You too. Have fun at work."

"I'll try."

He hung up and glanced at the radio. _If I weren't sentimental I'd throw you in the trash._

Instead, he took it out and starting tinkering with it.

It shocked him.

* * *

" _Dad?"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _Dad was sitting on the couch with a can of beer between his legs. His blue work shirt was open to reveal his white wife beater beneath. On TV, Archie Bunker sat in his armchair and railed against Jews and Democrats while the studio audience laughed._

 _Bobby Jr. rubbed the back of his neck, his face beginning to blush. "I, uh, I have a question."_

 _Dad looked at him. "What?"_

 _He thought this would be easier, but everything pertaining to Cristina had been hard, so why should this be any different? "How did you...get Mom to like you?"_

 _Dad chuckled and took a sip from his beer. "I smashed your uncle in the knee with a rock and acted like he wrecked his bike."_

 _For a minute Bobby had no idea how to respond to that. "How did that make her like you?"_

" _Because I carried him home and looked sweet and caring." Dad chuckled again. "Girls love it when you're sweet and caring." He finished his beer and sat it on the end table with the other three he'd finished since getting home from work._

 _Bobby processed that for a minute. "I don't think she has a little brother I can hit with a rock." Honestly, he didn't know, maybe she did. He'd have to look into that._

" _Well, you don't_ have _to hit her little brother," Dad said, "you can do something else...just as long as you look sweet."_

 _Bobby meditated on that the rest of the evening, and then as he lay in bed waiting to fall asleep. Just as he started to drift off, an idea came to him, and he smiled._

Tommy looked at him like he had lobsters crawling out of his ears. "No, I am _not_ doing that."

"Please?" Bobby begged. They were walking along the sidewalk on their way to school the next morning. It was bright and breezy, the needling wind slipping through the trees and rustling their branches. A man in a sweater stood over a burning piles of leaves in his front yard, the crisp, woodsy tang of smoke finding Bobby's nostrils.

"No," Tommy said firmly.

"Come on! I _really_ need you to do this!"

They stopped at an intersection so that a Plymouth could pass. "I thought you didn't even like her."

"I lied," Bobby confessed, "okay? I _do_ like her. And I know you like Carol, so don't even say anything."

Tommy started to speak, but stopped and sighed. "Alright. I like Carol...but I'm still not doing it."

Bobby threw his head back and punched the air with a long moan. "You're my best friend, you're supposed to help me."

"Not like _that_ ," Tommy said.

The school was in view now. A line of yellow buses sat at the curb, groups of kids spilling off and spreading out like milk on a floor. From here, he could see Principal Strickland standing by the front door with his hands behind his back and a dour look on his face.

Bobby turned to his friend. "Please," he said and balled his hands, "I _really_ need you to do this. I-I'll do _anything_."

Tommy looked at him. "Anything, huh?" he asked, intrigued. Bobby had a _bad_ feeling all of a sudden, but nodded anyway. "Alright," Tommy said, "twenty bucks."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "Twenty bucks? I don't have that kind of money! How about ten?"

For a moment, Tommy considered, then shook his head. "You're asking a _lot_ from me. I think twenty bucks is fair."

Bobby sighed.

"Then again..."

An ember of hope sparked in Bobby's chest. "What?"

Tommy stroked his chin, the light of the morning sun reflecting on the lens of his glasses like quicksilver. "Ten bucks...and you help _me_ ask Carol out."

Relief flooded through Bobby. "Deal!"

All that day, Bobby plotted his next move, examining it from every angle like a chess player; planning wasn't his strong suit, but it was _sure_ to work. His old man said girls love it when you're sweet and kind, and he was about to look so sweet and kind Cristina would ask him out on the spot.

In gym class, Bobby met up with Tommy on the basketball court. They were both wearing green gym shorts and yellow T-shirts. Cristina stood next to Becky, her arms crossed demurely over her chest, as Mr. Horace, the gym teacher, scanned the kids clustered before him. "Well, it's Friday and you know what that means."

Bobby grinned. He sure did: Free day.

Mr. Horace gestured to a jumble of balls, bats, jump ropes, and other debris on the floor. "Jump rope, pelt each other with dodgeballs, I really don't care. I have a crap load of paperwork to catch up on so as long as you don't kill or maim each other, go crazy."

While Mr. Horace went into his office off the gym and the other kids spread out to do whatever, Bobby bent down, picked up a red ball, and looked at Tommy. Tommy sighed deeply. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he said.

"You're a good guy, Hillard," Bobby said. He looked around and saw Cristina walking with Becky and another girl around the sidelines. "Alright...walk back."

Tommy heaved a breath and shuffled backwards until Bobby told him to stop. Cristina was coming along the wall, laughing at something Becky said. Bobby smiled dreamily: Every expression he had ever seen on her face was beautiful...anger, happiness, puzzlement, shock...sigh. Tommy glanced at her and then at Bobby. "Alright," he said heavily.

Bobby waited a few more seconds until she was closer...then he chucked the ball as hard as he could at Tommy's nuts. It struck him and he cried out; his knees buckled and his hands flew to his wounded crotch as he fell back. Cristina, Becky, and the other girl all turned toward Tommy and stopped, Cristina's hand going to her mouth.

Alright. Now was his time to shine: He would go over, kneel down, and kiss Tommy's forehead or stroke his hair or something sweet. Grinning, he started in that direction, but stopped when Cristina broke from her friends and hurried to Tommy's side. "Oh my God, are you okay?" she asked and knelt, her voice full of concern.

No! No! No! This isn't how it was supposed to go!

Tommy was curled up on his side. "My nuts," he moaned.

Cristina laid her hand on his shoulder and rubbed...then she shot a dirty look at Bobby – it was _not_ beautiful. "Be more careful, jerk!"

Bobby's heart sank down to his feet. Jerk? He was powerless to do anything but stand and gape as Cristina helped Tommy to his feet. "Let's get you to the nurse," she said softly and wrapped one arm around Tommy's waist.

"It hurts so bad," Tommy said and began to limp. "I'm going to die."

"Shhh," Cristina said, "you won't die. I promise."

Anger burst in Bobby's chest and he threw his hands up. Damn it! That wasn't supposed to happen! He was supposed to look sweet and caring, not like some kind of careless jerk who didn't watch where he was throwing balls. If that look she gave him was any indication, she hated him now, and his chances with her were zero. He lashed out and kicked the floor; pain streaked up his leg, and he hissed.

Neither Cristina nor Tommy came back to class, and by the time the lunch bell rang, Bobby was a nervous wreck. In the cafeteria, he sat at his usual table and waited for Tommy to show. When he did, Bobby glared at him. "Nice going, she thinks I'm a jerk now."

" _Me?"_ Tommy asked, his hand slapping against his chest, "it was _your_ idea, genius. My nuts are _still_ sore. I almost puked."

Bobby sighed and balled his fists. Great. Perfect. There goes _that_ idea. Back to square freaking one. He ripped open his milk and took a long drink. Okay, it wasn't _so_ bad. Maybe he could contrive to 'hurt' himself in front of Cristina and get the same treatment she gave to Tommy. She was probably still mad at him, so he'd have to give her a few days to cool off. Sigh. He didn't _want_ to wait a few days, damn it.

Tommy shook his head and picked up his fork. "That's the _last_ time I help you."

Bobby opened his mouth to tell his friend to piss off, but the words died on his lips when Cristina walked up and tapped Tommy on the shoulder. Tommy turned, and recoiled a little. Cristina smiled. "Hey, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Uh, yeah, I'm great, thanks, you were right about the, uh...not dying thing."

She giggled. "I _told_ you. My mom's a nurse so I know a thing or two about medicine and stuff."

Tommy's eyes darted to the side, meeting Bobby's. He looked uncomfortable, like he was a rabbit and Cristina was a hungry fox. "Oh, that's, uh, that's real cool."

"Yup. I kind of wanna be a nurse too...or maybe even a doctor." She sat in the empty seat next to Tommy, propped her elbow on the table, and threaded her fingers through her hair. This is _not_ freaking happening. "I'd _love_ working with kids."

"That's awesome," Tommy said, and turned forward again, his head bowing over his lunch. "You'd make a great nurse."

"Thanks," she smiled, "it just comes naturally, I guess. What do you like to do?"

Bobby was flushed and shaking now. He didn't have much experience with girls, but he wasn't stupid: She liked Tommy. Tommy! It was all over her face. Grinding his teeth, he got up and walked away as, behind him, Cristina giggled at something Tommy said. His mind spun and his heart slammed in his chest. He wanted to hit something, kick something, tear something to shreds...then, all at once, it was gone, and he was so depressed he could cry. He dropped into the nearest empty seat, put his elbows on the table, and held his face in his hands. He blew it...instead of making Cristina like _him_ he made her like Tommy. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He looked up, and from across the table, Carol Pingrey watched him with a frown.

"Are you okay?" she asked tenderly, "you look _really_ sad."

"I _am_ really sad," Bobby said sullenly.

"Oh," Carol said, "I'm sorry. Why are you sad?"

Normally Bobby wouldn't be so forward, but right now he was hopeless and so full of sorrow it was practically coming out of his nose. "I like Cristina, but she thinks I'm a jerk and now she likes Tommy."

"You like Cristina?" she asked, a note of surprise in her voice. "And she likes _Tommy?"_ They both glanced across the lunch room at the same time: Cristina twirled her finger in her hair and prattled on and on while Tommy looked awkwardly down at his tray. "Oh, yeah, she likes him."

Bobby sighed deeply.

"What did you do to make her think you're a jerk?"

"I accidentally hit Tommy in the nuts with a dodgeball."

Carol slapped her hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh. "I mean...wow...ouch."

It probably hurt a whole lot less than what Bobby was feeling now: It was like a knife twisting in his heart at the same time his guts were being dug out with a spoon. He folded his arms on the table and buried his face. Wake me when my heart _isn't_ broken.

"There's only one thing to do now," Carol said.

"What?" Bobby asked miserably.

"Tell her how you feel."

Bobby's head whipped up, his face paling and his eyes expanding as if in the beams of onrushing headlights. "I-I can't do that," he stammered, "I-I don't know how."

Carol shrugged. "Just tell her." She giggled. "It's really not that hard."

"Yes it is," Bobby replied, "I don't know the first thing about talking to girls. I'll wind up looking like a doofus or something and she'll hate me even more."

"Well, you're talking to me. Just...talk to her like a normal person."

Bobby bowed his head. She _wasn't_ a normal person, though, she was Cristina...beautiful, sweet, girl-I-totally-have-a-crush-on Cristina. If he tried to talk to her, he'd probably freeze up and look like a loser.

Sensing his distress, Carol folded her arms on the table and leaned in. "How about I help you?"

"Help me?" Bobby asked, unsure.

"Yeah," she replied, "I'm a girl and I know what girls like and stuff, so...I'll help you."

Hm. Her logic made a great deal of sense: Who better to have in his corner than an actual girl? After all, girls know girls a lot better than boys know girls. "How?" he asked, leaning toward her and lowering his voice.

"Well," she said, "by –"

The bell rang, signifying the end of lunch. She rolled her eyes. "Meet me at the library after school," she said. Before he could reply, she grabbed her tray and got up. He watched her as she crossed the room, his eyes drifting to Tommy and Cristina: Tommy stood with his head bowed while Cristina smiled and said something. _See you later, stud muffin,_ Bobby could hear her saying. His fingers curled and his lips tightened into a sour, bloodless slash. Enjoy it while you can, Tommy.

At his locker, he grabbed his books, slammed the door, and turned to leave, but fell back a step when he came face-to-face with Tommy. "Hey," he said, "uh, I..."

"Can it, Hillard," Bobby growled.

"Dude, I'm not into her," he said, "honest. I like Carol. I tried to get her to leave me along but she wouldn't. You saw her."

Bobby searched his friend's eyes for any traces of deception or dishonesty, but saw none. He sighed. "It's my fault, but I'm gonna fix it."

Tommy nodded. "Good. I don't want Carol to think I like Cristina or anything and –" Tommy cut off and looked over Bobby's shoulder, his eyes widening. "God, here she comes." Without a further word, he turned tail and ran, moving as quickly down the hall as his legs would carry him. Cristina passed a moment later, a little smile playing at the corner of her lips as she watched Tommy speed away.

This was _not_ going to be easy.

 _This girl is more trouble than she's worth...almost._

* * *

After school, Bobby walked the six blocks to the town library, a one story brick building with a slate roof and narrow windows catercorner from the courthouse. It was drizzling by the time he got there, and he could kick himself for doing this: It was a long walk home, and if the rain got worse, he'd be soaked when he got there.

Inside the door, he looked around; he'd never been inside a library before, and the deep, sleepy silence was a little unnerving. Ahead was a long counter behind which a fat woman sporting a beehive stood with her back to him. He walked up to it and looked around again. Rows of shelves crammed with books stood on either side of the counter. Where was Carol?

Sighing, he went left just because and walked along one of the rows. At the end he glanced in either direction, but didn't see anyone save for an old man in a suit paging through a dusty hardback. He crossed to the other side of the room, and found her sitting at a long table, her head bowed over a notebook and a pencil flying over a page, her long blonde hair veiling the side of her face. She wore bell bottoms and a light blue sweater; her jacket was draped over the back of the chair.

Bobby cleared his throat and she looked up. "Hi," she said with a smile.

"Hi," he said and glanced around again. "Do you hang out here a lot?"

"Uh...sometimes," she said and turned sideways in her chair. "It's a nice place to do homework."

Bobby opened his mouth to tell her that it was _home_ work, not _library_ work, but shrugged instead. Whatever. He wasn't here to split hairs with her, he was here to learn how to make Cristina like him.

"You can sit down if you want," she said and nodded to an empty chair next to her, "this is going to take a little while."

"How long?" Bobby asked as he took off his jacket and sat, half facing her, "I have to be home before five."

She scrunched her lips. "Uhhh...not _that_ long, but long enough that you probably don't want to spend the whole time standing up."

Bobby nodded. "Alright...so...what do we do?"

Carol laid her pencil down and looked at him with a serious expression, her blue eyes clouded with thought. She sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap; he couldn't help but notice the way her breasts lifted under her shirt. "Well, first, you need to actually be able to _talk_ to her. You _could_ just jump right to asking her out, but it's better if you get to know a girl first. If you lead off with asking her out, you might look desperate or something, and that is _not_ attractive."

"S-Should I take notes?"

Carol smiled warmly, her pink lips turning up. "No, silly; you have a brain, don't you?"

"I forget stuff sometimes," he said truthfully. His mom said he was almost as bad as auntie Leni when it came to forgetting things – especially school things. He tried really hard to keep it in, but it had a way of escaping like steam through a vent.

"Well, this is really important, so you shouldn't have too much trouble. Now, pretend I'm Cristina." She turned to the table, picked up her pencil, and started to write again. Okay. She was Cristina.

"What do I do?" he asked.

"Talk to me," she said without looking up.

Right. Bobby searched his head for something to say. "Uhh...hey, Cristina, I didn't see you there."

Carol looked up and smiled prettily. "Oh, hi, Bobby," she said. She tucked her hair behind her ear and batted her eyelashes.

Bobby's heartbeat sped up. What should he say next? _Nice weather we're having?_ That's something you say to that creepy guy from accounting when you're unlucky enough to meet him at the water cooler. Carol watched him expectantly, her brows wiggling. A blush spread across Bobby's face and he glanced away. "Uh...nice rain we're having."

Carol giggled and bowed her head. "This is going to take longer than I thought," she said.

"I'm sorry," Bobby said quickly. "I'll do better next time. I swear."

"Alright," she said, then flicked her eyes to the side as she presumably thought up what to do next. She flicked them back to Bobby. "You're nervous. Right?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Kind of."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yeah, why?"

Bobby thought for a minute. "Because I really like Cristina and I want to go out with her and I'm scared she'll say no and hurt my feelings." Those last four words slipped out before he knew he was speaking them, and as soon as they left his lips, he blushed. Wow, he didn't mean to be so...honest with how he felt.

Carol's eyes softened and she tilted her head, her hair caressing her slender throat and spilling over her shoulder like honey. "Well, that's going to happen. In life, I mean, but you have to take a chance sometimes, especially if it's for something you really want."

"I know," Bobby said, "but I'm...I'm kind of scared and I...I just don't know what I'm doing. I feel dumb and like a loser."

"You're not a loser," Carol assured him, "you just need to have more confidence in yourself."

"It's not me I'm worried about," Bobby said, "it's Cristina."

"You shouldn't worry at all," Carol said. "That's the point. When you're worried, you're, like, all tense and bunched up. You need to relax. Let's try it again. I'm Cristina. You like me. You want to get to know me better. How do you do that?"

Bobby thought for a moment. "Ask questions?"

Carol nodded. "Yeah, that's a pretty good place to start."

Okay. What should he ask her? "What's your favorite color?"

"Blue."

"What do you...uh...like to do?"

"Read, listen to music, bake. You?"

Being put on the spot like that made Bobby's mind blank. What _did_ he like to do? "Play football sometimes, ride my bike, you know, things like that."

Carol smiled. "See? That's not so hard, is it?"

"I guess," Bobby said with a shrug. "It feels, like, kind of..." he grasped for the word but couldn't find it, because he and words weren't on the best of terms. Shallow? Yeah, that one sort of fit. Carol tilted her head forward and waited for him to continue. "Shouldn't talking to the girl you like _feel_ different than talking to a normal person?"

She scrunched her lips again, and Bobby's attention was drawn to them, his heart skipping a beat. "Yes and no," she said slowly, "yes, because if you want to be with someone you have to have things in common and be able to talk to them and hang out with them like normal, and no because they're supposed to be _more_ than a normal person."

Alright, Bobby was getting confused. "Is she a normal person or not?"

"Both," Carol said. "She's, like..." she trailed off and looked up at the ceiling. Bobby traced the curve of her jaw with his eyes, the pit of his stomach stirring in a funny but not unfamiliar manner. He shoved that away. Focus. She looked at him and smiled as she presumably found what she wanted to say. "It's like how your mom is your mom but a regular woman too."

His mom was a regular woman? She – she was mom, though.

"Cristina is a normal person, but deeper than that, she's the girl you like."

Bobby scratched his head. This girl was running his mind in circles and he was starting to get a headache. It made a little sense, though; he liked Cristina, but she was still a normal girl – a normal person.

"When you like someone, it helps to be their friend first because that's, like, the most important part of a relationship. If you and Cristina can't be friends, you can't be more. Here, let's roleplay again. I'll be Cristina and you be you." She shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. "Hi, Bobby."

"Hi."

"I hear you like playing football."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Well, I _hate_ football. And I hate anything else you like."

"Okay..."

Carol waited for him to say something, and when he didn't she sighed. "My point is what good is it being with someone if you can't be friends with them. There has to be more to a relationship than thinking someone's cute."

"It's not _just_ that," Bobby said defensively.

"What is it, then? Do you even _know_ Cristina? Do you know what she likes?"

No, he didn't. He sighed. "I just want her to be my girlfriend."

Carol nodded. "Alright. Fine. How would you ask her to be your girlfriend?"

"I don't know," Bobby said and threw up his hands, "that's why I'm _here_."

Carol blew a puff of breath. "How about this: Be straightforward."

Bobby's heart twinged. "I don't –"

"That's the easiest and most direct way."

She was right. He knew that. Still, the thought of actually bearing himself to Cristina like that – exposing his feelings – made him feel a rush of panic. He said as much, and Carol's face softened. "You're really afraid of being hurt, aren't you?"

Bobby shrugged and looked away from her caring gaze.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted.

She laid her hand on his knee, and his heart blasted against his chest. "Bobby," she breathed, "like I said, you're going to get hurt in life. I know it's not fun, but it happens. You need to tell her how you feel and get it over with. If she says no, yeah, it'll hurt, but keeping it inside and torturing yourself day after day hurts even worse."

Bobby met her crystalline eyes, and she smiled faintly, which made his stomach flutter furiously. "You can do it," she said, "I believe in you."

That made Bobby feel strangely...good.

"Now here's what I want you to do," she said, "pretend I'm Cristina and tell me how you feel, straight from the heart."

Before Bobby could reply, she turned away in a warm swish of sweet smelling air and bent over her notebook, her flaxen hair hiding her face. Suddenly, Bobby wondered what it would feel like as it slipped through his fingers. Warm and silky, he imagined, and a ripple went through his stomach.

"Come on," she said without looking up.

Bobby was so confused in that moment that he didn't know what to do or think.

"Straightforward and direct."

Bobby swallowed. His mouth was dry and there was a lump in the middle of his throat. She was right, he supposed; being direct was the only way...even if he wound up getting hurt.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "H-Hey, can I talk to you?"

Carol looked up and smiled. "Hi, Bobby." She turned in her seat to face him, her hands resting on her legs. "What do you want to talk about?"

He took her hand in his, and her eyes widened slightly; it was warm and soft and felt somehow _right_. "I know we're not really...friends or anything, but...I think you're really beautiful and when I look at you my heart starts to race."

Carol's eyes shimmered, and she leaned closer, her thumb brushing across his knuckles.

"I like the sound of your laughter, I like the way your eyes s-sparkle, and I really like how sweet you are."

Her pink lips quivered as she fought back a smile. He sloped forward, his eyes locked with hers.

"I like you...Carol."

They met halfway; their lips touched fleetingly and their breaths mingled together. Blood crashed in Bobby's temples, and for a moment he didn't know what to do, then he slipped his fingers through her hair and kissed her deeply, his tongue dancing into her mouth and caressing hers. Her breath caught with a tiny gasp, then she kissed him back, their tongues moving sensually over one another, gingerly tasting and clumsily exploring; Bobby slipped his fingers through hers, and she gently squeezed his hand.

When they pulled apart, both were panting; a deep, beautiful blush spread across Carol's cheeks and her eyes shone brilliantly. She giggled and ducked her head. Their hands were still entwined, and she gave another soft squeeze.

She looked up again, a big smile on her flushed face. "And _that_ is how you get a girl to like you."


	86. November 1972: Part 4

**Lyrics to** _ **High Time We Went**_ **by Joe Cocker (1972);** _ **Black Dog**_ **by Led Zeppelin (1971);** _ **How Do You Do**_ **by Mouth and MacNeal (1972)**

* * *

Lincoln left Flip's at 6:30 that evening; the day that started off bright and clear turned rainy about three, and as he made his way across town to the Sears on Route 29, a steady drizzle fell from the dark sky. He listened to the radio because his oldies 8-track pulled a Lincoln Loud and went MIA; even though he knew it wasn't possible, he kind of suspected Alex had a hand in it. She always hated that tape. Casey Kasem was counting down America's top 40 and giving out interesting tidbits about the artists like candy. For the longest time, Lincoln couldn't figure out why Kasem's voice was so familiar. Then, one day while watching Saturday morning cartoons with the girls, he heard it on _Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!_ He played a stoner named Shaggy who reminded him so much of Daggy it was uncanny. Almost the same name, too. Talk about fucking weird. Every time he saw it, he expected a white-haired asshole with buck teeth to pop up. If he did, Lincoln would _shit_.

" _This next group's far out name comes from Alaskan sledders who have their dogs sleep next to them for extra warmth. When's it's really cold, it's a three dog night."_

Lincoln pulled into the Sears parking lot as the song started, something about being born in Oklahoma and not remembering it.

Lincoln knew this song; these guys were one of those acts that are _everywhere_ like Elvis was fifteen years ago. He slid into a slot near the door, killed the engine, and got out. He hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he crossed the parking lot.

Inside, the place was busy: People pushed shopping carts full of junk they didn't need and scanned shelves for even more junk they didn't need: A thousand different kinds of appliances, cheaply made clothes from some commie sweatshop overseas, candies and cakes and cookies and trashy romance paperbacks. That reminded him, what happened to his copy of _The Exorcist?_ He didn't plan on finishing it (he made it three chapters in before losing interest), but goddamn it, he spent money on that thing. Did he leave it at his parents' house?

He was in the back of the store now, surrounded by long, free-standing waist-high shelves stacked with records. God, he didn't even know where to start. Alex liked Humble Pie, so he'd look for something _like_ Humble Pie. The only thing was – what the hell exactly _was_ Humble Pie and who the hell sounded like them? He heard hard rock on the radio from time to time, but he didn't pay it much attention, and he sure as hell didn't catch band names or song titles. He went over to one of the shelves and flipped through records, starting with the letter F and working his way through G and H. At J he found one with a picture of a bearded hippie on the cover surrounded by colorful zigzag patterns. JOE COCKER the lettering read – was that the dude's name or the album's name?

Or was it _both_?

Shaking his head, he turned it over in his hands and read the track listing: The first song was called _Pardon Me, Sir_. Hm. At least he's polite. Was it Bunny music, though? A teenage boy with long brown hair walked up next to Lincoln and started going through a stack of looked like _he_ might know. "Excuse me," Lincoln said, and the boy glanced at him, "do you know the band Humble Pie?"

A grin spread across the boy's face. "Yeah, man, they're cool."

Lincoln held up Joe Cocker, "Is this dude...in the same category?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, yeah, if you like Humble Pie, you'll like him too."

Good.

"Are, uh...are there any other good albums like this?"

The boy chuckled. "Man, you came to the right place."

For the next half hour, the boy took Lincoln on a virtual tour of modern hard rock, pulling out one album after another and carefully explaining every minute detail about each: What the songs were about, how they sounded, how they stacked up to the band's previous stuff. Lincoln's head spun, but he nodded and pretended to follow along. By the end of it, he walked out of the store with five albums: _School's Out_ by Alice Cooper (what better musical role model for Alex than a woman?), _Joe Cocker, Machine Head_ by Deep Purple, _Paranoid_ by Black Sabbath, and an untitled album by Led Zeppelin (the only one of the bands Lincoln had heard of). That last one was strange: There was no track listing on the sleeve, no title, and the band's name didn't appear anywhere. The cover was stupid, too: A painting of an old man hanging on a wall. Nothing screams _Hey, we're a hard rock band, buy our album_ like an oil painting of someone's great grandfather. The boy said it was 'killer' though.

He hoped Alex liked this stuff; he spent a lot of money on it.

At the car, he opened the door, sat the records on the passenger seat, and got in. Fifteen minutes later, he walked through the front door; Humble Pie drifted from Alex's room. Ronnie Anne was sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, Jessy at her feet, toys spread out around her. She looked at him and furrowed her brow. "Where were you?" she demanded. "Dinner's been ready for almost an hour."

Jessy's head whipped up and she smiled. Lincoln smiled back and waved.

"Sorry," he said, "I made a stop at Sears for Bunny music." He held up the records. "Leni wants variety. She said the pie song was giving her ears owies."

Ronnie Anne nodded slowly. "She _did_ mention something like that. You should have called, though."

Lincoln came over to the couch and sat down. "I'm sorry," he said again and pecked her cheek, "I didn't expect it to take that long. I wound up getting a crash course in hard rock from some teenager." He leaned over and kissed Jessy on the top of her head. "Uncle Lincoln learned _all_ about this crap today."

" _Cap!"_

"That's right, cap," Lincoln said, and flicked his niece's ponytail.

"Let's see what you got," Ronnie Anne said and held out her hand. Lincoln gave her the records and she flipped through them. "You think she'll like them?"

"Only one way to find out," Lincoln replied. He plucked one of the records away, got up, and went into Alex's room: The little girl was kneeling in front of the turntable in a pink dress and pigtails. "Alex..." he said, and she looked over her shoulder with a big grin.

"Daddy!"

"Hi," he said and came into the room. "I have new ick for you."

"Ick?"

He nodded. "Ick." At the turntable, he took the needle out of the groove and picked the Humble Pie album up. Alex started to breathe heavily as she geared up for a tantrum. "Calm down," he said, "you're going to like this too. It's –" he glanced at the cover, "Joe Cocker."

He ripped off the shrink wrap, slipped the record out of the sleeve, and laid it on the turntable. Alex's eyes shimmered with tears and her lips quivered. "Ahh, honey, just listen," Lincoln said. He dropped the needle into the groove: Immediately, fuzzy, guitar-and-piano driven blues rock blasted from the speaker:

 _Well, it's five o'clock in the morning  
_

 _Feel just like the end of a mule  
_

 _Somebody's been yawning  
_

 _Trying to break out the rules_

 _Yes, it's high time we went  
_

 _Ain't it high time we went?_

Alex opened her mouth in a perfect O of surprise and leaned forward, her watery eyes growing to five times their normal size. Lincoln smiled at his daughter's reaction. _Ha, she_ does _like it!_

She looked from the stereo to him and back again as if to say _Do you hear what I'm hearing?_

"Is that good ick?"

Her head bobbed up, then down.

Lincoln smirked. "Told you so. I have more in the living room."

Alex turned to him, her eyes big and bright. "More?"

"Yes, ma'am, and it's all like this."

"More ick?"

"More ick."

Alex got to her feet and toddled over to Lincoln, wrapping her arms around his leg and craning her head to look up at him. He cupped the back of her neck in his hand and kissed her forehead. "Bunny want more ick."

Lincoln went into the living room, where Jessy was snuggled on the couch next to Ronnie Anne, and grabbed the other records. "Did she like it?" Ronnie Anne asked without looking away from the TV. _All in the Family_ was on – a show about an old bigot and his liberal son-in-law. Lincoln didn't know who he liked less, the racist or the meathead leftie.

"Yep," he grinned, "Daddy did good."

Ronnie Anne grinned. "You always do good."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Jessy looked up at him with big questioning green eyes. He kissed the tip of her nose, and she squirmed away with a giggle. In her room, Alex was standing in front of the record player and looking up at it, her hands fisted against her chest. Lincoln took Joe Cocker off and opened the Led Zeppelin album; if they were the band he was thinking of, they would be right up his daughter's alley.

Alex watched intently as he slipped it from the sleeve and put it on the platform. He dropped the needle and stepped away. A high, lonely rose issued forth.

 _Hey, hey mama said the way you move_

 _Gon' make you sweat, gon' make you groove_

Then the guitar kicked in like a sudden bombardment of artillery fire and Lincoln jumped a little.

 _Ah ah child way ya shake that thing_

 _Gon' make you burn, gon' make you sting_

Alex's resultant smile was one of delighted shock, her brows angled down and her mouth open. Lincoln laid his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I kind of know how my parents felt about Chuck Berry and Little Richard now." Cymbals crashed and electric thunder rolled as the singer's voice got higher and higher. It wasn't so bad when you got right down to it; as long as it didn't cuss or openly promote using cocaine, he could live with it. A shiver went through Alex's body as the guitar and drums reached a warbling crescendo. She pulled away from Lincoln's grasp, walked slowly to the turntable the way a blind beggar would Jesus Christ...then hugged it, her eyes closing and her lips turning up in a warm, affection smile. "Bunny uve ick," she said.

* * *

It was a beautiful morning: The sun shone, the sky was a clear, piercing blue, and light, happy birdsong flittered from a thousand bough-perched throats, forming an airy, soul-stirring symphony. Bobby Jr. whistled as he pulled on his jeans and shirt, a tune he knew from somewhere but couldn't really place; probably heard it in the car. He wasn't big on music, but today, for some reason, he felt like singing from the rooftops like Fred Astaire in one of those gay movies from the forties.

Well...it wasn't for 'some' reason. That kind of meant you didn't know why. He knew why: She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and her name started with a C...and ended with an Arol.

He sat on the bed, hurriedly tied his shoes, and got up, still whistling.

 _How do you do_

 _Mm Mm_

 _I thought_

 _Wa-na Na-na Na-na_

He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the back of the door, slipped it on, and went into the sun washed kitchen. Why, how do you do, black and white tile floor? Lovely day, isn't it? And Frigidaire, you're looking marvelous today. He opened the door, took out the milk, and sat it on the table. Next he got a bowl and a box of cereal. Sitting down, he combined it all and boom, breakfast.

 _Just me and you_

 _And then we can_

 _Na-na Na-na_

As he ate, he thought of Carol. Of course, he'd been thinking of her nonstop since they reluctantly pulled their hands apart and went their separate ways yesterday afternoon: He thought of her while he ate dinner, he thought of her while he watched TV with his parents, he thought of her while he pooped, and he especially thought about her when he was trying to fall asleep. He felt so _good_ the whole evening, like...he didn't know, he couldn't compare it to anything. Warm and happy and achy because he wanted to see her but excited because he would see her tomorrow.

That joy was tinged with gray because of Tommy. Tommy liked Carol and Bobby knew that going in. He didn't _mean_ for it to happen, it just did, so it's not like he stole her. Regardless, he felt guilty, and was he not looking forward to telling Tommy about it. Hey, at least he had Cristina, right? She liked him.

 _And you will say_

 _Na-na Na-na_

 _Please give me more_

He finished his cereal, got up, and took his bowl over to the sink. Through the window, he saw Mr. Grouse patrolling his yard for...something. Leaves? The old man shuffled along with his head bowed and his eyes sweeping the ground. Bobby shrugged. Must be a geezer thing.

On the walk to Tommy's house, his hands in his pockets, he thought of how to tell Tommy about him and Carol; there were a thousand different ways, but only two reactions he could envision: Hurt and anger. He messed with Tommy about being fat and stuff, but he really liked him, and he didn't want to hurt his feelings or make him mad. At the same time...he liked Carol just a _little_ more.

When he got there, Tommy was waiting by the curb, the November wind ruffling his hair. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," Bobby said.

For an awkward moment, neither boy moved or said anything else. "Where'd you go yesterday?" Tommy asked. "I waited."

"I had something to do," Bobby said. He was going to mention Carol...you know...ease into it, but he chickened out.

Tommy nodded. They were drifting along the sidewalk now, their steps small and slow. "I, uh, wound up walking home with Cristina. I mean, she walked me home." He looked at Bobby. "Nothing happened, though. She just kind of followed me."

Bobby nodded. "That's cool," he said, "she, uh, really likes you."

Tommy sighed. "I know. I feel bad. It's still your fault though."

"Well...sometimes things work out for the best." He laughed nervously.

Tommy looked at him. "The _best?_ "

They waited for a car before crossing a side street – the same street where, nearly fifteen years before, Lincoln Loud was almost run over by Bobby Santiago while lost in his own girl problems. "Yeah," Bobby said, "uh...I was thinking...maybe you should date Cristina."

Tommy halted and turned to him, his brows knitting in confusion. "What?"

Drawing a deep breath, Bobby nodded. "Yeah. Go out with her."

"Why? I thought you liked her."

Bobby smiled sheepishly. "Uh...I'm kind of going out with Carol Pingrey now."

Tommy's face fell. _"You're what?"_

"It just happened." Bobby said defensively. "She was going to help me with Cristina, and we kissed."

Tommy's shoulders sagged and the color drained from his face. He pressed his hand to his forehead in an I-can't-believe-this gesture. "I'm sorry," Bobby said earnestly, "I didn't mean to."

"You stole my girl," Tommy accused.

"You stole _mine_."

" _No I didn't!"_ Tommy's knees bowed and his back bent. He threw an arm out. "You gift wrapped her and threw her into my lap!"

"That's not what I was _trying_ to do," Bobby said, fighting down a flush of anger. "And I wasn't trying to kiss Carol Pingrey, but I did. She likes me and I like her. Cristina doesn't like me, she likes _you_."

Shaking his head, Tommy started walking again, leaving Bobby behind; for a moment Bobby looked after him, then hurried to catch up. "Really, I didn't mean for it to happen, I'm sorry."

Tommy took a deep, huffing breath but didn't reply. Bobby looked away, and jerked when he saw Cristina coming up from a side street. She wore a purple skirt and a jacket over a black sweater. She hugged her books to her chest and her gaze was downcast; a yellow headband pushed her hair back from her face. "Look," he said and slapped Tommy on the arm, "there she is."

Tommy glanced over and came to a shuffling halt.

"Carol took one look at you guys at lunch yesterday and she said really liked you. Girls know that kind of thing. You should ask her out or something."

Cristina reached the end of her street and started to turn, then glanced up: Her freckled face lit up and she smiled. "See?" Bobby asked.

A line of cars passed, then she started across the street, her back slightly arched as if she meant business...which she probably did. Bobby looked at Tommy; Tommy's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "She _is_ kind of cute," he said sulkily.

Bobby grinned. If he could get Tommy to go for Cristina, it'd be, like, a guilt free win-win. "I bet she'll let you kiss her if you play your cards right."

Presently, she reached them and smiled. "Hi, Tommy." She made absolutely no acknowledgement of Bobby whatsoever. She must like bigger guys. Oh well.

"H-Hey, Cristina," Tommy said, "how's it going?"

"Okay," she said, "you wanna walk together?"

Tommy laughed nervously. "Yeah. Sure."

Taking that as his cue, Bobby hurried ahead while Tommy and Cristina moseyed behind, him talking and her laughing. Bobby made a fist with his right hand and nodded. Yes. I _love_ it when a plan comes together.

He started to pat himself on the back, but then he saw Carol on the opposite side of the street in a pair of bell bottoms and a coat. She ambled along, her golden hair dancing in the chilly breeze. A hazy smile spread across his face and his heart pitter-pattered in his chest.

 _How do you do_

 _Uh huh_

 _I thought_

 _Wa-na Na-na_

She turned her head, and her lips lifted in a radiant smile filled her eyes with light. Bobby's heart pounded even faster.

 _Just me and you_

 _And then we can_

 _Na-na Na-na_

She brushed her hair behind her ear and bowed her head demurely. Bobby glanced left and right along the street, then went to her, each breathless step in time with his thumping heart. She giggled to herself and his stomach fluttered.

 _Just like before_

 _And you will say_

 _Na-na Na-na_

 _Please give me more_

He stopped when he reached her and took a deep breath. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she replied.

 _And you will think  
_

 _Na-na Na-na_

"Do you want to walk together?"

Her smile widened. "Sure. I'd love that."

He held out his hand, and she took it; he weaved his fingers through hers and they started to walk.

 _Hey that's what I'm living for._

* * *

Bunny music _totally_ gave Leni a headache. Or _was_ it Bunny music? She, like, didn't know, but for _days_ now she had a dull throbbing pain behind her eyes and it was starting to get annoying. She _thought_ she remembered having pain like this before, but she wasn't really sure. Even on the best of days, thinking too hard hurt, and when she tried to remember things that happened a long time ago, she couldn't. She knew she was dumb and sick and took medication for it, but it was all, like, a blur. She did her best not to focus on it, because when she realized she couldn't remember Bobby Jr. as a baby or what Luna was like when she was a kid, she started to cry.

Then there were the blank outs. She didn't know when she had her first one, but lately she would somehow lose two or three minutes. The other day she was sitting on the couch and a whole hour passed in what should have only been a few minutes. Thinking was getting harder, too, like her brain was bogged down in mud. If she knitted (which wasn't easy because her hands shook even more now) and came across a problem that she knew how to fix, good, but if you gave her a problem she _wasn't_ familiar with, she'd try to think and it just wouldn't work.

Sometimes, she woke up confused, thinking she was still in school and that everyone still lived here. Her Mom took her hand once and practically begged her not to leave the house after dark, and most times when she woke up like that, she kind of remembered that on some level, because she would go downstairs and wait for sunrise, only by then her mind usually cleared up and she realized she was being stupid again. Other times she woke up and for a little while she couldn't remember much of anything. The last time she went to the doctor he said she would be confused when she got up sometimes because, like, her brain was taking longer to adjust or something than other people's brains. _You're doing much better than we expected, though. The disease isn't moving as rapidly as it was at first._

She didn't say it out loud, but she was scared, so scared that sometimes she sat on her bed, hugged her knees, and cried. She didn't want to get worse and die, she wanted to be auntie Leni and eat cookies and listen to music with Alex and Jessy forever.

What scared her even more than the thought of dying was the knowledge that at some point, she would forget them. All of the precious memories she had of Bobby and Alex and Jessy and Lynn would be taken away from her, and it would be like they never existed. She didn't want that; she loved her memories, like eating chocolate balls with Alex at her birthday party and eating cookie soup with Bobby at...Thanksgiving? Christmas?

Presently, she sat at her vanity with Jessy in her lap, her fingers threading slowly through the little girl's reddish hair. It was like Luan's, Leni thought, only more...blonder. She bunched it and slipped a hair tie over, putting it in a perfect little ponytail. "You're _such_ a pretty little girl," Leni said.

Over the past few days Leni had been doing girly stuff with Jessy, like putting lipstick on her and playing with her hair. She tried doing that with Alex once, but she cried. She didn't like it. Pout. Jessy did, though, yay.

Jessy's eyes met Leni's in the mirror, and she smiled. Leni hugged her and kissed the side of her face. "Auntie Leni loves you. And she always will."

Behind them on the bed, Alex slapped the mattress as _Stairway to Heaven_ started. Of all the new Bunny music, Leni liked that one the best. It was kind of pretty. In the mirror, Jessy smiled, and Leni smiled too.

Later, after Ronnie Anne picked the girls up, Leni sat alone on the couch, missing them and watching the evening news. Her hands trembled and the dull ache continued unabated. "Leni?" Mom asked.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay, dear?"

"Yeah, Mom, why?"

"You've been sitting here a long time."

A long time? No she hadn't.

It was only then that she realized the news was over and it was almost ten 'o'clock. "I'm fine," she said quickly, "just thinking is all."

She sat up in bed and hugged her pillow, her tummy filled with dread. What if she blanked out when she was watching Bunny and Baby Jessy and one of them got hurt? Mom was here as back-up, but for the most part, Leni was alone with them. She did _not_ want them to get hurt because her bed was dumb and she winked out. She felt really bad, so she got up and got a bag of cookies from her dresser. She sat, opened it, and started to cry. She hugged herself and bowed her head; tears fell from her eyes and splashed into her lap. She was so sad and she didn't know why. She slipped a cookie out, pressed it to her lips, and took a bite. A sob wracked her, and she sprayed crumbs onto the bed. She didn't want to die, because if she did, she wouldn't have her Bunny and Baby Jessy and she couldn't live without them.

Flashing in uncharacteristic anger, she grabbed the bag and threw it across the room: It struck the wall and fell to the floor, spilling cookies across the carpet. She _hated_ being sick. She couldn't knit, she couldn't be a mommy, she couldn't even take care of her nieces right.

Sighing sadly, she curled up on the bed and brought her knees to her chest.

Down the hall, unbeknownst to her, her mother lie awake in the dark, as she did most nights. She worried incessantly about her daughter, and spent hours sometimes praying for her. When she was diagnosed in 1964, the doctors gave her ten years. Now, they didn't know _how_ long she had, only that the disease had slowed, which sometimes happens. In the last eight years, a few studies on Rentschler's had been conducted, and the consensus was that it worked differently in each case – not by much, but by enough. It marched rapidly through one brain, while taking its time in another. A few cases had come up recently where some had it for up to twenty years before it was discovered. One man got to the point where he could no longer walk...then slowly came back from the brink. If she remembered, he was currently in a nursing home and confined to bed, but the way the disease receded, at least momentarily, gave the medical community – and Rita Loud – hope. She thanked God every day that it had slowed in Leni, because every moment was a moment closer to the development of a treatment.

Even so, she was beginning to suffer blackouts. She didn't like to talk about it and Rita had to drag it from her; sometimes she would stare blankly at the TV or even the wall for an hour or more...and the poor dear didn't know it. She thought only a few seconds had passed.

Rita shifted uncomfortably to her side. All she could do was pray...and trust in God.

* * *

 _Sob._

A brow pinches and a nose twitches.

 _Sob._

One brown eye creaks slowly open. It's dark save for the warm glow of a nightlight. Alex blinks sleepily and turns in her bed, the covers making a soft rustling sound. Her lids are heavy, and begin to close, but spring open when the sob comes again. Her mind clears. Baby Jessy is crying because she is scared of her big girl bed; she doesn't like sleeping in it. Alex was scared of her big girl bed too at first, but she got used to it. She closes her eyes and starts to drift off, but Jessy whimpers lowly and pitifully. Usually Mommy or Daddy comes to get her, and Alex waits for the door to open...but it doesn't.

 _Whimper._

Alex pushes herself up and looks around.

 _Whimper._

Jessy is her little cousin and she has to protect her; Mommy and Daddy said so. Since Mommy and Daddy weren't here, it fell to her to make Baby Jessy stop crying.

She gets up and pads across the room. Baby Jessy is on her side facing the wall, her body trembling. Alex stops and looks at her. She doesn't know what to do: Pick her up and take her to Mommy and Daddy? She can't pick Baby Jessy up – she tried. She frowns as her cousin starts to really cry, a high, miserable sound that makes Alex sad.

Drawing back the cover, she slips into the bed, and Baby Jessy turns, her eyes big and tearful. She is scared at first, but she sees it's her cousin, and relaxes a little.

Alex lays her hand on her cousin's face. Baby Jessy sniffles, her bottom lip sticking out.

"It okay, baby, don't kye."

Baby Jessy blinks. Alex hugs her, and the younger girl's trembling slowly stops. Their breathing gradually becomes slower and shallower, and soon, both of them are asleep, snuggled warm and safe together.

Afterwards, Jessy was never afraid to sleep in her big girl bed again, because her big cousin was there, and she wouldn't let anything bad happen to her.


	87. April 1973

**Lyrics to** _ **Woman From Tokyo**_ **by Deep Purple (1973)**

* * *

It was over.

After eight years, 58,000 lives, a thousand protests, and a temporary case of nationwide insanity, the war in Vietnam closed with the withdrawal of the last U.S. combat troops from South Vietnam – some advisers stayed behind.

The beginning of the end came in January, when representatives of the United States, North and South Vietnam, and the Vietcong signed a peace agreement in Paris, ending the direct U.S. military involvement in the Vietnam War. Its key provisions included a cease-fire throughout Vietnam, the withdrawal of U.S. forces, the release of prisoners of war, and the reunification of North and South Vietnam through peaceful means. The South Vietnamese government was to remain in place until new elections were held, and North Vietnamese forces in the South were not to advance further nor be reinforced.

Before the U.S. was even out, the commie bastards violated the ceasefire and started snapping up land.

Lincoln didn't know how to feel about it. On the one hand, while he wasn't a military expert, he knew the war was unwinnable, and continuing to throw American boys into it was stupid. On the other...every single man who fought over there, every single man who _died_...fought and died for nothing. Obviously, the North was going to continue fighting the South – they wouldn't be happy until they had every last inch of Vietnamese soil – and the South, without our men, would lose. Uncle Sam might as well have taken all those men who died, knelt them down, and shot them in the backs of their heads for all the good their sacrifice did. Vietnam was a fucking nightmare all around, but at least it was over.

And a new nightmare was just beginning.

Working nine to ten hours a day six days a week and raising a family is busy work. When Lincoln was a kid and had nothing but time on his hands, he was pretty hip to the world around him. Now, he didn't know shit. He worked, got home, ate, played with the girls, and went to bed. The only news he heard came second hand or from the radio. For a while he _kind_ of knew there was a scandal involving Nixon breaking into a hotel called The Watergate or something, but he didn't pay much attention to it. See, the funny thing about politics is this: Unless you're balls deep in it, it doesn't really affect your daily life. Oh, the president said this, the president did that, Republicans, Democrats, wah-wah-wah. Now, escalating a war like Lyndon Johnson did (God rest his soul – dead three months now), sure, but the little stuff? Pfft. Our politicians are scumbags? GASP!

Over the past couple months, however, Watergate had come to dominate the headlines, and Lincoln made it a point to find out exactly what happened: Five men associated with the Nixon Administration broke into the office of the DNC headquarters at the Watergate Complex in Washington, DC, and got caught red-handed planting listen devices. Nixon and his people were supposedly trying to cover it up, and in February a Senate select committee was established to investigate and...a lot of it went over Lincoln's head. Suffice it to say, Nixon was accused of ordering break-ins, buggings, and burglaries of multiple people and organizations; he denied it all. A lot of people wanted to impeach him. _That'd_ be interesting to see.

"If he did it, sure," Lincoln said and slapped the morning paper on the counter, "but the thing is, he's not the only one. You think Johnson didn't do stuff like that? They _all_ do. Put them all in jail."

Blades took a bite of his hamburger and chewed as fast as he could. "It's a crock of shit, though," he said and sat it down. "Those guys that broke in are lying through their teeth, trying to save their own asses."

"Well, someone had to send them, didn't they?" Lincoln asked. "An who the hell else wants to bug the office of a political party but the other party?"

"I don't know," Blades said, "but I smell a rat."

It was early in the afternoon of April 3, and Flip's bustled with activity. Blades sat next to the register, and Johnny, the guy who liked ogling the waitresses, occupied a stool slightly down. The conversation started when Johnny asked Lincoln what he thought of 'that lying bastard.' Before Lincoln could reply, Blades jumped in _I'll tell you what_ I _think._ They went back and forth for a good five minutes before Lincoln broke them up; the last thing he needed in his place was a couple of guys getting into a fistfight over Richard fucking Nixon. It'd be like Clyde and Luan all over again.

Speaking of Luan, he really needed to answer her last letter; she really wanted to see Jessy, and Lincoln felt bad. With the money Flip left him and what he had in his bank account, he figured he could stand to close Flip's down for a week and drive out to see her. To be honest, he was kind of afraid (maybe irrationally so) that if he did that, he'd come back, open up...and none of his customers would return.

"Maybe," Lincoln allowed, "I don't know. They're all corrupt. Nixon's no different."

"That's politics, though" Blades said, "you have to be dirty. I don't think Nixon did everything they're saying he did. Jesus, they're making out like he's the goddamn antichrist."

"That's the media for you," Lincoln said and watched as a man at a table pitifully tried to flirt with Lilly. "All they care about is ratings and being first, whether the information they have is right or not doesn't matter to them."

Blades nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."

Lilly turned away from the guy at the table, annoyance written across her face, and he reached out and pinched her butt. She jumped forward and uttered a shocked cry. For a second Lincoln couldn't believe what he was seeing. Shaking her head, Lilly sulked to the window and put his ticket in. The guy leered and nodded appreciatively at her butt.

"...jackals, all of them," Blades was saying.

Lincoln's teeth ground together and his hand balled into a fist. Hot rage filled him and he started to get up, but stopped himself. He had two daughters, and seeing someone treating a woman like that made him mad, and right now he was so mad he'd probably smash the motherfucker's face in...which would be _really_ bad for business.

He took a deep breath and sat. He would calm down then go over; that son of a bitch was lucky Lincoln wasn't impulsive.

"Why you think they showed footage from Vietnam every night?" Blades asked and took a bite of his burger. "We didn't have to see that, but they knew people would tune in. Pretty fucking sick if you ask me."

Lincoln nodded and took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said. He flashed back to the jungle of South Vietnam and shook his head.

Blades finished his burger, tried to pay like he did every week, and then left when Lincoln told him to take his 'dirty greaser money' and stick it up his ass. Lilly grabbed a plate from the window and started around the counter, but Lincoln stopped her. "Is that the creep's food?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yep. He grabbed me."

"I saw. Let me take it over." He got up from the stool, took the plate, and went over to the perv's table; the asshole was looking through the front window, a slight man with brown hair and a gap in his teeth. Lincoln sat the plate before him, and he looked up with a nod and a 'thanks.'

"Enjoy," Lincoln said, then, "and keep your hands off my fucking waitresses."

The guy blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but Lincoln walked away, satisfied that his point had been made. He sat on his stool and watched the guy nervously eye his burger, a chastised expression on his face.

Fucking creep.

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. had discovered the joys of reading, but only notes from Carol Pingrey.

Carol was pretty serious about doing well in school and stuff, so she paid attention in class, but at least once a day she'd hand a note to someone, who would hand it to someone else, who would hand it to someone else, who would hand it to Bobby. He looked forward daily to getting a neatly folded piece of paper with a heart on the face, opening it, and reading her flowery script: He never thought handwriting could be beautiful, but hers was, and sometimes after he actually read the note, he would just stare at it and smile dreamily. He kept each one and stored them in a shoebox under his bed: After nearly five months, it was half full.

At lunch, they sat together and talked and held hands. Most days, Tommy and Cristina sat with them and did the same; they looked like a couple of dweebs...then he realized that he and Carol looked the same. After school, they walked to the library and did their homework together; Carol had made it her mission to help him bring his grades up. Her tutoring him made him feel kind of self-conscious at first, and he was afraid she would think he was dumb and a loser, but over time he came to really enjoy it, and sometimes he would pretend to struggle just so she would sit close to him, her body pressed against his and her soft, gentle voice in his ear. He would plant random kisses on her cheek, and she would blush and giggle.

On Saturdays, they went to the park together and then to Flip's or the ice cream parlor. The first time they went to Flip's, Uncle Lincoln cocked his brow at them and nodded to Bobby as if to say _right on_. Bobby blushed and looked away. _Please don't embarrass me_ , he thought silently. When Uncle Lincoln came around the counter and started toward their table, horror filled him. "Hi there," Uncle Lincoln said with a mischievous grin, "can I get you kids something to drink?"

"Can I have a Coke please?" Carol asked and threaded her fingers together on the table.

"Coke," Lincoln said, then looked at Bobby. "Bobby-bear?"

Bobby flushed. "Coke."

When Uncle Lincoln was gone, Carol tilted her head. "Bobby-bear?"

Darn it, Uncle Lincoln. "Yeah," Bobby said and nervously rubbed the back of his neck, "that's my uncle, and my aunt used to call me that when I was little."

"Oh, he's your uncle? That's cool. Does he own the place now?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah. His wife – my other aunt – teaches at the high school, so we're probably going to wind up having her. I hope she takes it easy on me."

Carol laughed. "I doubt she will...if she's a good teacher."

"I guess she is," he said with a shrug.

"What does she teach?"

"Math."

Carol grinned. "Your favorite."

"No," he said, "history's my favorite. It puts me to sleep."

Uncle Lincoln brought their drinks and took their order: Two hamburgers and an order of fries. "I remember when it was me and your aunt sitting there." His brow furrowed. "At this exact table, I think. Eh, we sat at them all."

 _Go away._

When he was gone again, Carol turned to Bobby. "Why is his hair white?"

"I don't know. Because he's a dork."

Carol laughed. "That's not a very nice thing to say about your uncle."

"He is. Look at him. He's a goofball."

Carol studied Bobby's face for a minute, then smirked. "I can see the family resemblance."

Today, April 3, Bobby got dressed, grabbed his books, and went out the door; he didn't eat breakfast at home anymore...he ate it at school with Carol. Mr. Grouse was watering his flower bed, his shoulders stooped and his hand resting in the small of his back, lending him the appearance of a pregnant woman. "Hi, Mr. Grouse," Bobby said as he passed on the sidewalk. Mr. Grouse flapped his hand in a curt greeting. Over the winter, Bobby shoveled Mr. Grouse's sidewalk and driveway; one snowy December morning he saw the old man struggling and felt sorry for him. Helping him felt kind of...good.

Three blocks from his house, he spotted Carol standing by a stop sign at the end of her street, her books tucked under one arm. She wore white bell bottoms and a black button up shirt with tiny polka dots. A warm breeze stirred her hair and she ran her fingers through it and tucked it behind her ear. Bobby sighed happily and crossed the street; she turned and smiled as he walked up. "Hi!"

"Hey," he said, and kissed her on the cheek, "good morning."

"Ummm...good morning to you, too," she said, and they began to walk. "Did you get your report card?"

"No," he said, "not yet."

Report cards went out on the last day of March. Tommy got his on the first and Carol got hers yesterday. He didn't know why his wasn't in yet; maybe aliens abducted the mailman, stole it, and wiped his brain so he wouldn't remember.

"I'm really excited to see how you did," she said and preened.

So was he. He knew he was doing better on tests and stuff; he didn't see as many big red D's as he used to, though he still did every once in a while. Mainly he made C's and even the occasional B. All their after school study dates were really paying off. "I think I did good," he said, "you make learning fun."

She laughed. "Teaching you is fun. I really like spending time with you."

"I like spending time with you too," he said, and took her hand.

"You wanna go to Flip's after school?"

"Sure," he said.

At school, they got their trays and sat across from Tommy and Cristina, who faced each other and held hands. "You think your mom was being serious about taking you to Dairyland?" Carol asked.

"Probably not," he said jokingly, "I doubt she expected me to actually do better."

"She wasn't counting on _me_ ," Carol said and stuck her nose up in a playfully haughty way, "the best teacher Royal Woods Elementary doesn't have."

Bobby opened his milk. "You should be a teacher when you grow up."

She made a thoughtful humming noise. "Maybe. I can be best friends with your aunt and she can tell me all the embarrassing stories from when you were little."

"Oh, no," Bobby groaned, "she'd like that."

For a while they were silent as they ate. "If my mom _is_ serious about Dairyland," Bobby said, "I want to see if you can come with me."

"That'd be fun," she said.

"Lots of fun," Bobby said. "You make everything better."

She blushed. "I try my very best."

"And I appreciate it," Bobby said. He was surprised – a little unnerved – by how close he came to adding _I love you._

* * *

Leni crossed her legs and leaned forward. "You're gonna be three in a few weeks, Bunny." She tapped the little girl on the tip of her nose. "Are you excited?"

Alex giggled. "I be _four_ , auntie."

"No, you're going to be _three_ ," Leni said. Silly little girl didn't even know, like, how old she was.

They were sitting across from each other on Leni's bed, the record player between them. Jessy walked around the room with a doll clutched between her arm and body and happily babbled to it. She wore a cute little spring dress and her hair was in pigtails. Leni _wanted_ to French braid it, but two things stopped her – one, she totally forgot how even though she'd done Jessy's hair that way a thousand times, and two...her hand tremors were too bad, so bad that she could no longer knit no matter _how_ slow and easy she went. The last time she tried, she jabbed herself a _whole_ lot and couldn't, like... _do_ it. That made her heart really sad. She felt, like, you know, when you have to poop but can't? What's the word? She huffed in frustration because she felt like she knew it but couldn't think of it. Anyway, that's kind of how she felt. She had a lot of designs inside and she couldn't get them out. Just as well, she kept messing up anyway. She made a nice sweater for Mom for Christmas, and she totally forgot hand holes. It wouldn't have been so bad if she caught it before Mom opened it; she was so embarrassed she spent the night crying into her pillow.

Alex leaned forward and giggled again. "I. Be. Four."

Leni booped Alex's nose again. "Okay, Bunny," she said to humor the girl, "you be four. Are you excited?"

She nodded enthusiastically, her cowlick waving like a happy hand. She insisted on wearing her hair down now. She let Leni brush it and make it pretty, so that was okay.

"What do you want?"

"Music!"

"What _kind_ of music?"

"Wock!"

Leni laughed. She _loved_ the way she said 'rock.'

Jessy came over to the bed, threw her doll on, and then climbed up; she started to struggle and slide back, so Leni cupped her butt and heaved. _"Tanks."_

"You're welcome!"

Jessy crawled into Leni's lap and threw her head back against Leni's chest. "Oof," Leni said, and slipped her arm around the girl's tummy.

"What do you want?" Leni asked, forgetting that she had already asked.

"Music!"

"What _kind_ of music?"

"Wock!"

Leni laughed. She loved the way she said 'rock.' "What bands do you like?"

"Back Sabbif, Hummel Pie, Led Zeppin."

Jessy groaned. She liked Leni music, so now it was Leni _and_ Jessy music.

"And who's your favorite auntie?"

"Leni!"

Leni smiled. She loved being Bunny's favorite aunt. "Who's _your_ favorite auntie?" Leni asked, hugging Jessy to her bosom.

" _Eni!"_

Heh, take that Luna and Luan, _I'm_ Jessy's favorite auntie. Speaking of Luna and Luan, she really needed to call them. She asked Mom for Luna's number the other day because she couldn't find her address book, and Mom acted really weird about it. She said she would look for it, but her eyes got really misty. She said the same thing about Luan's number. She'd have to ask again.

Setting Jessy aside, Leni swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Who wants cookies?"

" _Me!"_ both girls cried.

She, like, had to award her two favorite nieces for answering her question right. She went over to the drawer, opened it, and took out a bag of ginger snaps. When she turned, Alex and Jessy were at the foot of the bed on their hands and knees, their eyes wide and their mouths open. They looked like cute little puppy dogs. Leni's smile took on a sharp, devious quality. She reached into the bag and took out a cookie. She held it up. Both girls followed it with their eyes. Leni giggled. "Who wants it?"

" _Me!"_

She sauntered over to the bed. "Can you, like, do tricks?"

Alex and Jessy cocked their heads to the side in an almost identical expression of puzzlement. Leni held out her hand. "Shake."

Alex grabbed Leni's hand and pumped it. Satisfied, Leni bent over and pressed the cookie into Alex's waiting mouth. She brought out another and held it over Jessy. "Can you roll over?"

Jessy blinked.

"Roll over, girl."

Jessy slowly got down on her stomach, her eyes never leaving Leni's. _I can't believe I'm doing this for a cookie, but okay._ She rolled onto her back.

"Yay! Good job!" She held the cookie out, and Jessy took it. "Cutest little puppy dogs _ever_."

Alex munched her cookie and made small sounds of delight. When she was done, she turned to the record player, put the needle in the groove, and spun the volume knob: She was, like, a pro at operating that thing now. Warbling guitar, pounding drum, and electric organ filled the room. Leni actually liked this song; sitting on the bed, she bobbed her head from side-to-side and slapped her knee with a trembling hand.

 _Fly into the rising sun,  
_

 _Faces, smiling everyone  
_

 _Yeah, she is a whole new tradition  
_

 _I feel it in my heart_

 _My woman from Tokyo  
_

 _She makes me see  
_

 _My woman from Tokyo  
_

 _She's so good to me_

Hey, not _all_ Bunny music is bad.

On her knees, Alex rocked excitedly back and forth, his hands fisting the cover. Jessy's brow angled down and she ate her cookie sullenly as she glared at her sister. Leni patted her little girl's back. "We can listen to Jessy-Leni music in a little while. How does that sound?"

" _Eee-eee ick?"_

Leni nodded. "Yep!" An idea occurred to her. "When Bunny goes to school, you and I can listen to Jessy-Leni music all day long."

Jessy's jaw dropped, a bit of mashed up cookie falling into her lap. Leni giggled, put her fingers against Jessy's chin, and closed her mouth. "All. Day. Long."

" _Dae ong?"_ her voice was low and filled with wonder

"From sunset to sundown," Leni confirmed.

Jessy smiled brightly.

* * *

After school, Bobby waited for Carol by the flagpole with Tommy. The day had grown overcast and the constant breeze assumed a slight edge. Bobby sat his books on the ground and buttoned his denim jacket against the chill. Tommy, wearing an olive green T-shirt with a pocket over the right breast, didn't seem affected; he scanned the crowd of kids streaming through the main doors looking for Cristina. Bobby found it funny: Tommy didn't want her at first, but now he was head-over-heels like a woman. Whenever he talked about her – which was pretty much nonstop – a hazy look crept into his eyes and a dreamy little smile slid along his lips.

"Did you see that fight earlier?" Bobby asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

Tommy shook his head. "I heard about it."

Two sixth graders got into a fistfight in the hall during the last class change of the day. Bobby didn't know what over; he walked up just as one punched the other, and then the first came back and speared him into the lockers. Everyone gathered around and started chanting. _"Fight! Fight! Fight!"_ He had to admit, it was pretty cool, kind of like a boxing match.

"You missed out," Bobby said absently. Cristina came through the door with her books in her arms, and Bobby slapped Tommy's chest. "There's your girl."

"I see her," Tommy said with a grin. She looked up, saw them, and waved. As she approached, Bobby couldn't help shaking his head: He really wanted to be with her, but he wound up with Carol...who was _so_ much better; Cristina was nice and all – since she was dating his best friend he had been spending a lot of time around her – but Carol was...he didn't know. He couldn't describe it because he and words didn't get along. Better was the one that came instantly to mind, so he went with that.

"Hey," Cristina smiled as she walked up.

"Hey," Tommy replied and kissed her on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"Good," she replied and took his hand. Before Bobby knew it, they were drifting toward the sidewalk, leaving him in their dust. Okay, then, bye. He turned back to the door just as Carol appeared, and suddenly Tommy dropped to the bottom of the list of people he cared about right now. She saw him, smiled, and hurried down the stairs.

"Hey," Bobby said.

"Hi," Carol chirruped. The wind blew her hair in her face and she shook her head like a wet dog getting out of the water. She held out her hand and Bobby took it. "We still on for Flip's?" she asked as they began walking.

"Of course," Bobby said, "I just wanna stop by my house first and see if my report card came in."

"Me too! I can't _wait_ to see how good you did."

Bobby blushed and scuffed his foot across the ground. "Aw, I didn't do _that_ good. Remember, I'm dumb."

Carol laughed. "You are _not_ dumb, you just need to get better at focusing."

"I know," Bobby sighed, "it's really hard sometimes. My mind just kind of...wanders and it's difficult to get back on track."

"Well, now you have incentive: Me."

Bobby grinned. "Yeah, you _do_ motivate me."

"I enjoy it," she said with great pride, "hanging out with you is great."

"Hanging out with _you_ is pretty great too," Bobby said. They were on the sidewalk now. A sleek, light brown 1973 Chevy Nova crept by and pulled into a driveway. Bobby glanced over and watched as a man in a suit got out with a paper bag full of groceries. He wondered what was in there. Beef? Bobby liked beef. He also liked fresh baked bread. Ummm. Was there fresh baked bread in there? And how much did that car cost? Did it have an 8-track player like Uncle Lincoln's car? Speaking of, he needed to return that tape he borrowed – without his uncle's knowledge. He liked the cover and he wanted to see what was on it, but he didn't like it. It was old people music.

"...too," Carol was saying.

Oh, great, he zoned out again. Not wanting to offend her, he squeezed her hand. "Yeah."

"You could be anything and do anything if you set your mind to it," she said. "Like my dad says, you have to keep your eye on the prize."

Carol's father was full of sayings, but wasn't every father? Bobby was really nervous when he first met him; he was a big, tall man with arms the size of tree trunks, and Bobby could imagine all too well how easily he could snap the head off an eleven-year-old boy. He was gruff and Bobby got the impression that he didn't like him. Her mom was nice, though, and just as petite as her father was large. She looked a lot like an older version of Carol.

"That's easy for _you_ to say," Bobby said, "everyone else can do it like _that_ , but for me it's like..." he stopped and tried to think of an analogy, but couldn't, though he _did_ find himself thinking about that stupid tape, and his dad's record which was the same stuff. Speaking of record, did you know the record for flagpole sitting is 217 days? Yeah, people way back used to sit on flagpoles for fun, he saw it on some stupid TV program his Mom was watching. Someone literally sat on a flagpole for 217 days. Sheesh.

"Like what?" Carol asked. They were almost to his house.

Bobby blinked. Huh?

Oh, he lost focus again. What was he talking about? "It's just hard sometimes," he said. At his mailbox, he opened it and pulled out a stack of mail. Junk, junk, junk, hey, my report card's in! Carol stood over his shoulder and brushed her hair behind her ear as he tore the envelope open and pulled the paper out.

Three C's and one B.

Bobby's jaw dropped.

"Yay," Carol said, her body brushing against his as she trembled with excitement, "not a D in sight!"

Bobby blinked. Wow. He couldn't believe this! A grin spread across his face and he felt really, really happy. "My mom's gonna freak when she sees this!"

"I'm proud of you," Carol said and kissed his cheek. He turned his head, and his lips brushed against hers. She smiled against him, then their tongues touched gingerly. She leaned in closer, and the kiss deepened.

When it broke, she was smiling brightly. "I knew you could do it."

"Working with you is paying off," he said.

She preened. "You're welcome."

They held hands the rest of the way to Flip's. When they got there, he went ahead and held the door open.

She smiled. "Such a gentleman." She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Inside, the dining room was relatively empty. Uncle Lincoln sat behind the counter with a little radio in front of him and a screwdriver in his hand. A man sitting on a stool shook his head. "You're gonna zap yourself again, Linc."

"Not this time, Herb," Uncle Lincoln said. "Me and her have an understanding."

"Yeah?"

Uncle Lincoln nodded. "I told her if she shocks me again, I'm taking the kids and leaving."

Herb laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, and Bobby groaned. His uncle was such a dork. He and Carol grabbed a table by the jukebox, and a waitress came over to take their drink order: Two Cokes.

"I think I've earned a reward," Carol said. She rested her elbows on the table, laced her fingers, and tilted forward, "like a trip to Dairyland with my boyfriend."

Bobby grinned. "I have to ask my mom. And you have to ask your dad. He might not like it."

"It shouldn't be a problem," she said, "your mom or someone's going to be there. It's not like we're going to be alone or anything like that." A mischievous light that Bobby hadn't seen before flickered across her eyes.

"Yeah. I just have to see if my mom will go for it."

Carol shrugged. "If not, I won't make a fuss."

"I'll see," he said, then, honestly, "I really want you to come. You make everything better."

Her cheeks turned a beautiful crimson color and she ducked her head. "Thanks," she said through a smile, "I try my very best."

Someone sat their drinks down, and both of them looked up. Uncle Lincoln nodded. He looked at the report card lying on the table, then at Bobby. "You're not doctoring that up like the last one, are you?" he asked, and Bobby blushed. Why did Mom have to go and tell him?

"Nope," Carol said, and picked it up. "He made three C's and a B."

She handed it to Uncle Lincoln, who took it and studied it with a thoughtful hum. He handed it back. "Good job," he said to Bobby, "keep this up and you might be worthy of taking this place over one day."

Bobby paled and shook his head, which made Uncle Lincoln laugh. "Gee, just spit in my face why don't you. What do you want to eat?"

* * *

Saturday morning, dawn. Two little girls stood in their parents' bedroom doorway. The older of the two, with pale black hair and a cowlick, grinned as she watched her mommy and daddy sleeping. Her younger cousin, who was more timid, fisted her hands and rested her chin atop them; she watched Auntie Ronnie and Uncle Lincoln with big, anxious hazel eyes. She looked at her cousin, and Alex's grin widened. "'Mon," she said, "Mommy and Daddy get up."

Alex crept forward, as silent as a cat, and for a moment, Jessy didn't move, then she hurried after, not wanting to be left behind. Alex grabbed two handfuls of the blanket and pulled herself up. Jessy paused. She could climb onto auntie Leni's bed, but this bed was taller. Alex held out her hand. "It okay, baby."

Jessy gulped. She was afraid of falling. Regardless, she took Alex's hand, and allowed her cousin to pull her up. They were both on the bed now, their hands and knees digging into the mattress. Alex got to her feet, swayed upon the springy surface, and picked her way through the gap between her parents' bodies. Jessy rose up to her knees and watched. _"Uh!"_

Alex stopped and turned. "Mommy Daddy _up."_

Jessy got slowly to her feet and nearly fell over. Her heart rocketed into her throat and she almost started to cry. She was afraid of falling down and she was afraid that auntie and uncle might be mad, but Alex urged her on, so she followed. When she reached her cousin, Alex took her hand. "Otay. One, two, _free!"_ Alex started to jump. For a moment Jessy stayed still, but the delighted giggles of her big cousin made her smile, so she started to jump too.

"Wake _up!"_ Alex cried, "Wake _up!"_

Uncle Lincoln's eyelids flew open and he sat up, his shoulders tensing. Jessy's little heart stopped. He looked like he was going to be mad...but then he smiled. Auntie Ronnie groaned and stirred. "What's happening?"

"We're being woken up," Uncle Lincoln said. He swept both girls into his arms, and they giggled happily. "By two monkeys!" He tickled their sides, Alex's with one hand and Jessy's with the other. They both thrashed.

"Daddy, stop!" Alex cried.

Jessy squealed wordlessly. Suddenly, she was being pulled away. "I want one," Auntie Ronnie said, and started to dig her fingers into Jessy's stomach. She went still and wailed with laughter even as her little bladder released and she filled her diaper.

Later, after they were up, Lincoln took the girls into the living room for his favorite part of the week – eating cereal and watching cartoons. Alex sat on one side and Jessy on the other, bowls in front of each of them. He liked _Scooby-Doo_ because every time he heard that damn pothead Shaggy speak he thought of _American Top 40_. Alex and Jessy both liked _Josie and the Pussycats_. He looked up when Ronnie Anne leaned against the threshold to the kitchen. She was wearing a pink robe and clutching a mug of coffee in her hand. She smiled affectionately. "Ah, the life of a single mother with three kids."

Lincoln grinned and leaned close to Jessy. "You're aunt's a square."

Alex's head whipped around and she studied her mother. "Mommy not a square, she a circle!"

Ronnie Anne's jaw dropped and Lincoln laughed so hard he almost pissed himself. "I am _not_ a circle," she said with mock indignation. Lincoln waved his hand in front of his face. _I can't take it! I can't take it!_

"Shut up, square-for-brains."

Ah, Lincoln loved Saturday mornings.

Then the toilet in the hall backed up and flooded the bathroom with shit water. "Lame-o!" Ronnie Anne called down the hall, "I got a chore for you."

When Lincoln saw the mess – beginning to seep out and spread across the carpet – he moaned. Little pieces of poop and wads of wet toilet paper littered the floor. Ronnie Anne grinned evilly and squeezed his shoulder. "Who's laughing _now?"_

"Did you do this?" Lincoln asked, only half-kidding.

"Nope, but I bet'cha I know who _did_."

They looked at each other. "Alex," they said in unison.

Being almost four, Alex was smack-dab in the middle of being potty-trained. Okay, maybe not in the middle, closer to the end. She had the occasional accident at night still, but during the day she used the commode like a pro...a pro who used a _lot_ of toilet paper. Lincoln sighed. "I'll get Big Bertha."

Ten minutes later, he was standing over the toilet in a half inch of shit water and snaking the hell out of it. Ronnie Anne stood by the door, away from the sodden portion of carpet: She laid towels down and they managed to soak up _some_ of the mess. Lincoln shook his head, sweat beginning to course down his face. "Why did we have kids again?" he asked.

"Because I wanted to trap you," Ronnie Anne said, and smiled, "I couldn't let a guy like _you_ get away, could I?"

Lincoln swiped the back of his hand across his brow. "Good point. I might have wound up with Flip or something."

"Might?" Ronnie Anne playfully asked. "He told me _all_ about those little rendezvous you guys had behind the dumpster. 'Faster, Loud, faster.'" She hitched laughter as Lincoln shook his head. "That was you sucking him off, by the way."

Lincoln held up his hand. "I-I-W-We're good, we don't need to know what's going on in that sick little head of yours. Shoo-shoo. The man of the house has work to do."

"Does he now?" Ronnie Anne asked and crossed her arms.

"That's right," Lincoln said. He felt the snake snag something. "In fact, I think I just found the clog." He stepped forward and bent over the toilet moments before a brown geyser reputed from the depths and splattered his face. Ronnie Anne jumped back with a cry, her hand flying to her mouth. Bits of shit and toilet paper hit Lincoln's face. He stood there, eyes and mouth closed, and took it, because he was already soaked, why fight? When it was done, he angrily wiped the gunk from his eyes and turned to the doorway. Ronnie Anne was bent over laughing; Alex and Jessy stood side-by-side, matching expressions of open-mouthed shock on their faces. "Daddy has poop!" Alex cried and pointed. "Daddy poop! Daddy poop!"

Ronnie Anne sank to her knees and screamed in malicious delight. Lincoln's brow angled down, and he started toward her; Alex jumped out of the way and pulled Jessy with her. "Daddy stink!"

Ronnie Anne looked up, saw him coming, and paled. She screamed and struggled to her feet. "Lincoln! Don't you fucking _dare!"_ She started to run, but Lincoln's arm shot out and he snatched a handful of her robe. "No!"

He spun her, and terror – and anger – was written across her face. "Stop it! I will beat the shit out of you!"

"I fixed the clog," Lincoln said, "can I have a victory hug?"

Her eyes widened. "Stop!"

He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, making sure to squeeze extra tight so that her body melted into his. She thrashed and fought, her fists pummeling his back. She caught his gunshot wound, and he hissed, but didn't let go. She moaned miserably as he started to stroke her hair. "There, there," he said and kissed her cheek, smearing shitty water across her flesh.

"You _bastard!"  
_

Jessy and Alex both laughed, Alex covering her mouth and Jessy bouncing excitedly. _"Auntie poo-poo!"_ she sang.

"If I didn't love you I'd ask for a divorce," Ronnie Anne said...then brought her foot down on Lincoln's toes as hard as she could. Lincoln yelped, and she ripped away from his embrace.

"If I didn't love _you_ I'd show you why they called me Killer in Vietnam."

She laughed. "Oh, yeah? What did you kill, your platoon buddy's dicks between your lips?"

Lincoln sighed. "Little ears."

She blinked. "Oops."

Alex knew well enough that the phrase 'little ears' meant the preceding word was bad and shouldn't be said, so what did she do? She smiled. _"Dick! Dick! Dick!"_

Lincoln glanced at his daughter, then at his wife, his hands going to his hips. "Nice work, Ronnie Anne, real nice work."

" _Dick! Dick! Dick!"_

Jessy joined in. _"Di! Di! Di!"_

"Alright, knock it off," Lincoln said firmly, and both girls came to a screeching halt. "For _that,_ Mommy has to clean the bathroom."

Ronnie Anne paled and shook her head.

Fifteen minutes later, Lincoln kicked back on the couch with his girls on either side. His woman was nowhere to be seen. "How's it coming, honey?" he called.

In the bathroom, Ronnie Anne threw the mop aside and kicked it. "Fu – I mean, forget you!"

"Mommy said bad word?" Alex asked.

"Nope, that's not a bad word."

Alex grinned. "I say it?"

Lincoln smiled. "Go ahead."

Alex leaned over the arm of the couch and faced the hall. "Forget Mommy!" Lincoln whispered something in Alex's ear. "Mommy circle!"

Ronnie Anne blew a puff of air. Sometimes she could send those bums _right_ to the moon...but she didn't because she would miss them too much.

What could she say? She loved her family.

"When you're done, we'd like sandwiches!" Lincoln called.

Well...


	88. August 1973: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **My Maria**_ **by B.W. Stevenson (1973);** _ **My Old School**_ **by Steely Dan (1973)**

* * *

They crammed into the car – a brownish-yellow 1973 Chevrolet Impala station wagon – and left Royal Woods before dawn on the morning of August 19. Ronnie Anne wore a light pink sun dress and Lincoln wore black slacks and a white polo shirt, his eyes hidden behind Aviator sunglasses that were as new as the car. In the back, Alex and Jessy were strapped into their seats, Jessy's eyes closed and her chin lolling against her chest; Alex looked excitedly out the window, her eyes wide. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne had been pumping her up for the road trip all summer so she'd be excited; they were hoping that excitement would carry her at least halfway to California before she started to get tired of being in the car.

"Are you excited?' Ronnie Anne asked over her shoulder, and Alex nodded enthusiastically. She then looked at Lincoln and slapped his leg. "Our first family road trip, lame-o."

"I know," Lincoln said, "I'm pretty excited myself." He wound up selling the Impala – the _other_ Impala – to a guy who wanted it for his teenage son. He considered keeping it for Alex and or Jessy, but the damn thing was falling apart.

From Royal Woods, they drove west to Chicago, where they picked up Route 66. Many stretches of it were being replaced by the interstate, and Lincoln wanted to see if before it was gone; he remembered seeing pictures of it in a magazine when he was a kid, and falling in love with it. It had sort of a mythical quality – they called it America's Main Street, after all – and not only did he want to see it, he wanted the girls to see it too...before it was gone.

Traffic in the city set them back a bit (more than a bit, actually): The heat was miserable, too. Ronnie Anne's face was red, and she spent most of the time with her elbow propped on the door and her face in her hand. They turned on the A/C for short bursts, but didn't let it run long: Gas was 38 cents a gallon. 38 cents! Once they hit the open road, they stopped at a McDonald's drive-in for lunch, sitting at a stone picnic table and eating hamburgers, French fries, and vanilla ice cream. Alex swung her legs back and forth as she licked her treat. Like her mother, she wore a light dress, only hers was white with a blue flower pattern. Jessy sat next to Lincoln, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun and her face beet red. She was groggy and dropped her ice cream, so Lincoln had to buy another. He held this one, and every once in a while she'd lean over and lick it, getting some on the tip of her nose like sunblock.

A warm wind blew, and Ronnie Anne's hair, which she had taken down in the car, fluttered. "I'm ready for a nap," she yawned.

"It's barely noon," Lincoln said teasingly. Jessy's ice cream was starting to melt and dribble over his fingers.

"It's the heat," she said, "it's like a fu – vampire."

"Mommy almost say fuck," Alex said happily.

" _Alejandra Carmen Loud!"_ Ronnie Anne spat, and Alex's face went as white as her ice cream.

Lincoln's brow lowered. "You do _not_ use that word," he said.

She nodded quickly. "O-Okay."

" _Bad,"_ Jessy said grumpily.

"I not bad."

Jessy leaned forward, her face darkening. _"Bad Bunny."_

" _I not bad Bunny!"_

Lincoln snickered. "Alright, girls, knock it off. Are you done with your ice cream, Jess?"

Jessy nodded.

Back in the car, Lincoln pulled onto the highway and turned south, a long, narrow ribbon of concrete unfurling before them. Kind of cool that he was going to be seeing some of the country. He saw the Deep South on his way to basic, a little bit of California when he came home, and Hawaii. "My family was too big for road trips," he said with a glance at Ronnie Anne. "We took one once and they strapped me and Lynn to the roof like a couple of Christmas trees."

Ronnie Anne laughed. "I highly doubt that happened."

"Oh, it did. We both gained ten pounds from eating bugs."

She shook her head. "You're a doofus."

"I know."

In addition to visiting Luan, they were going to stop and see Lynn. He was excited to see both of them, but he was nervous too, mainly about Luan. He really didn't want to see her like that, and he also didn't want it to have a negative impact on Jessy: For all intents and purposes, Luan was a stranger (in a strange land) and, hey, kids are perceptive, especially Jessy. The atmosphere might bother her...it sure as hell was going to bother him.

By three 'o'clock, they were sailing through Missouri toward Oklahoma, where 66 bends and goes through the panhandle of Texas...or was it a panhandle? The little square piece on top. The kids were starting to get tired of being in the car (so much for Alex's excitement holding), and the heat only got worse as they approached the Southwest. "Will you turn the goddamn A/C on and leave it on?" Ronnie Anne asked. "The girls are roasting." Lincoln glanced into the rearview mirror: Jessy and Alex were both red-faced and miserable looking. He leaned forward and turned the A/C on. "We should think about stopping for the night soon," she added.

Lincoln frowned. "It's a little early for that."

"No it's not. We've been on the road almost twelve hours."

"Nine hours," Lincoln corrected.

She furrowed her brow dangerously. "We'll stop in a little while," Lincoln said, "we're making great time."

"Daddy I hate the car," Alex said.

Lincoln looked up at the mirror. "We'll get out of the car in a little while. Maybe we'll find a motel with a pool."

Alex's eyes lit up. "Pool! Pool! Pool! _POOOOOOOOOL!"_

"Nice going, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, "now she's going to sing the pool song until we stop."

Lincoln shrugged, leaned forward, and turned on the radio. "That's why God invented this little baby." Paul Simon filled the car with _Loves Me Like A Rock_. "This groovy cat was one half of Simon and Garfunkel and started his career singing in a cabaret in Milwaukie in the fifties," Lincoln said in his best Casey Kasem.

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "Is that true?"

"I don't know. Could be."

At five, they crossed into Oklahoma, and Lincoln started looking for a motel...with a pool, of course. After twenty miles, he spotted one on the right hand side of the road, a little brick L-shaped deal with a green slate roof and red doors. The pool was off the parking lot, surrounded by a white iron fence. Lincoln changed lanes and pulled in. "Pool!" Alex cried.

"Yep," Lincoln said, "a pool for the Louds. Paradise for four."

He parked, went into the office, and paid eight dollars for a room with two beds, a radio, and a color TV. He got back into the car and moved it to a spot in slightly down from their door. "We go to the pool?" Alex asked.

"As soon as we get situated," Lincoln said and got out. He and Ronnie Anne took the bags in, then came back and grabbed the girls. The room was nice as far as roadside rooms go: The walls were wood paneled, the carpet was thick, and the beds were neatly made. A little table sat by the window, and Lincoln sat with a sigh.

"Didn't you get enough of that in the car?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"Relaxing?" he asked.

"No, sitting down."

He shook his head. "Nope."

Ronnie Anne dug the girls' swimsuits out of a suitcase, and dressed Jessy while he dressed Alex. "I love pool," she said as he pulled her bathing suit up.

"The pool loves _you_." He wrapped his arms around her and dug his fingers into her stomach, making her jump and laugh. "And so does Daddy."

Ronnie Anne dressed in a black one piece that showcased her long, brown legs, and Lincoln nodded appreciatively. It fit snugly around her butt and breasts, too. She caught him ogling her and lifted her brow. "You're a real pervert sometimes," she teased.

"If only you knew what I was thinking right now," he said.

"What's that?"

He was thinking of laying her down on the bed, slowly slipping the bikini from her body, and then kissing every square inch of it, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes...then turning her onto her stomach and doing it again.

"Little ears," he said, and held his hands against the sides of Alex's head.

Before they went out, he pulled on a blue pair of shorts. The pool area was surprisingly empty, and they had it all to themselves, which suited Lincoln fine: They splashed, played, and had a wonderful time...especially when he dragged Ronnie Anne into the pool against her will. She thought she was just going to sit there with her feet in. Ha. She fought against him and called him bad names (and she wondered why Alex used cuss words), but she wound up melting into him and kissing him, so he doubted she really minded. Gotta keep up appearances.

Don't want the family thinking she's gone soft.

* * *

Bobby Jr. sat in the big back seat of his mom's new Chevy and watched the flat, hardscrabble plains of northern Indiana flash by in a dust shrouded blur. The sky was a hazy shade of blue and the farmland rolling away from the highway was a thirsty brown. The weatherman on TV said this was the hottest summer in the upper Midwest in twenty years, and Bobby could kind of believe it. He hadn't been around that long, but he couldn't _ever_ remember it being this hot.

He stole a glance at Carol, who sat against the opposite door, her hands in her lap, a huge gulf of leather seat between them. She wore a pair of jean shorts and a light blue tank top with wide holes, and if Bobby craned his neck, he could see the straps of her pink bra; looking at them made him feel funny inside. She sensed him looking at her and turned her head, a smile creeping across her face. In the front seat, Mom drove while Dad sat in the passenger seat with a can of beer between his legs. On the radio, President Nixon was giving an address to the nation:

" _Now that most of the major witnesses in the Watergate phase of the Senate committee hearings on campaign practices have been heard, the time has come for me to speak out about the charges made and to provide a perspective on the issue for the American people._

 _For over 4 months, Watergate has dominated the news media. During the past 3 months, the three major networks have devoted an average of over 22 hours of television time each week to this subject. The Senate committee has heard over 2 million words of testimony._

 _This investigation began as an effort to discover the facts about the break-in and bugging of the Democratic National Headquarters and other campaign abuses._

 _But as the weeks have gone by, it has become clear that both the hearings themselves and some of the commentaries on them have become increasingly absorbed in an effort to implicate the President personally in the illegal activities that took place."_

Bobby was sick of hearing about Watergate; everyone was talking about it and the Senate hearings were on TV and Carol was interested in it so he kind of pretended to be too, so he watched a bunch of them but couldn't really focus because it was boring. All he could really understand was that Nixon had tapes of conversations and congress wanted them but he told them to take a hike.

" _To most of us, Watergate has come to mean not just a burglary and bugging of party headquarters but a whole series of acts that either represent or appear to represent an abuse of trust. It has come to stand for excessive partisanship, for "enemy lists" for efforts to use the great institutions of government for partisan political purposes._

 _For many Americans, the term "Watergate" also has come to include a number of national security matters that have been brought into the investigation, such as those involved in my efforts to stop massive leaks of vital diplomatic and military secrets, and to counter the wave of bombings and burnings and other violent assaults of just a few years ago."_

Carol scooted closer and laid her hand on the seat, her palm facing up. Bobby glanced at it – so warm and inviting – then to the rearview mirror. His mother's eyes were focused on the road ahead. "Sounds like excuses to me," Dad said and took a drink of beer.

"I don't know," Mom said, "he kind of has a point."

Mom was really impressed with his grades, but not too crazy on the idea of him bringing a girl to Dairyland with him. When he told her she was the one who helped get his grades up, she got interested and wanted to meet her; she wound up really liking Carol, which Bobby thought was awesome. Carol was great. Mom didn't like her enough to let them hold hands in front of her, though. If only she knew that they held tongues a couple times...

Bobby laid his hand on top of Carol's and slipped his fingers through hers. She grinned happily and hummed. He leaned over, intending to bring her hand to his lips so that he could kiss her knuckles, but his mother cleared her throat, and his heart dropped. He looked up, and her eyes were narrow slits in the mirror. Carol blushed and looked away as Bobby pulled his hand back.

Dad smirked over his shoulder. "You know, holding hands is how babies are made."

"No it's not," Bobby said.

Dad nodded. "Yes it is. Your mom fell down, I stuck my hand out to help her up like the nice guy I am, and you've been hanging around ever since."

"Stuck _something_ , alright," Mom said under her breath, and Carol's blush deepened. Bobby didn't know why. It's not like Mom said something dirty or anything.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a vast parking lot spread out before a cluster of rides, booths, and concession stands. A giant rollercoaster jutted up into the sky, and as Bobby watched, a line of cars reached the top, then shot down. "Oh, wow," Carol said and pressed her face against the window. "That big one must be new." She glanced over her shoulder with half-lidded eyes. "We should totally ride it."

Bobby gulped. "Looks scary," he admitted.

"That's what makes it fun," she said.

Mom pulled into a spot near the main gate and killed the engine, cutting the president off in the middle of a sentence. "Alright, kiddos," she said into the mirror. They all got out. The sun burned against Bobby's skin, and the stifling breeze washed over him like a furnace blast. Sweat sprang instantly to his brow, and he wiped it away. Carol came around the rear of the car and stood next to Bobby, her hands slipping into her back pockets. She wore open-toed sandals, and Bobby couldn't help but glance down at her feet: Her toenails were painted pink, and even though it was kind of girly to say, it was kind of pretty.

Dad left his beer in the car and stretched. "Alright," he said, "I'm ready for some fun, how about you guys?"

"I am," Bobby said.

"Me too," Carol added.

They started walking toward the ticket booth, Carol and Bobby Jr. pulling ahead and talking. Lori raised her hand and started to call them back, but Bobby slipped his arm around her waist and drew her tight. "Don't bust the kids' balls," he said.

"I'm not busting their balls," Lori said, "I'm responsible for them – both of them – and I assured Mr. Pingrey nothing would happen."

"What's gonna happen?" he asked, "they hold hands or something? I was just playing back there, that's not _really_ how babies are made."

Lori sighed. Sometimes he really got on her nerves. "It's not hand holding I'm worried about, Bobby. What if they get lost? What if some sex pervert kidnaps them? Anything could happen. I'm not going to stand over their shoulders and wag my finger, but I also don't like the thought of two eleven-year-olds wandering around an amusement park by themselves."

"You worry too much," Bobby said.

At the booth, they bought the tickets then went in: Booths and food stands lined a broad fairway. Carol pointed excitedly to a ring toss game, and she and Bobby Jr. went over. Bobby got three hoops from a bored looking carnie type with a smoldering cigarette between his lips, and threw them at a platform floating in a tank of water. He missed all three times, poor kid. Carol tried next, and she managed to get _one_ at least. They were both laughing and having fun, so it didn't matter in the end.

Lori liked Carol. She had a buoyant, upbeat personality that managed to not be _overly_ buoyant. She was very bright, too, and even helped Bobby Jr. improve his grades. When he got his report card back in April, she was surprised at how well he did. She was even more surprised when he told her his girlfriend was 'tutoring' him. Wait a minute, girlfriend? You're eleven! Even Lincoln and Ronnie Anne waited until they were twelve (well, Lincoln was twelve, but Ronnie Anne was only two months behind). They were adorable together, though, and Carol seemed like a positive influence, so Lori was happy. She always suspected her son would go for the bad girl type, not the teacher's pet, and just this once, she was glad to be wrong.

At a booth down the fairway from the ring toss game, Bobby got three balls, and handed two to Carol. The object was to knock down a stack of milk bottles. Bobby rolled his shoulders and made a show of limbering up to impress Carol. She giggled. "Don't hurt yourself, Willie Mays."

Bobby stretched his neck. "See that pink teddy bear?" he asked and nodded to a stuffed bear siting on a shelf next to other stuff animals. It had a white belly with a red heart on it.

"Yeah, it's cute."

"I'm going to win it for you."

She smiled. "You're really full of yourself, huh?"

Bobby shrugged. "How can I not be when I have you believing in me?"

"True," she beamed.

Bobby stepped back, wound up, and threw the ball.

It missed.

"Two more, babe," she said and handed one of the remaining balls to him. He took it, drew a deep breath, and zeroed in on the stack. He pitched...and missed again.

The carnie winced. "Oooh. You're going to embarrass yourself in front of your girlfriend. Rough."

"Shut up," Bobby said with a blush. He held out his hand, and Carol gave him the final ball.

"Last one," she said.

Alright, Bobby, you can do this. For Carol. She's a really great girlfriend and she deserves that stuffed bear. If you can't get it for her, you're a loser and you're going to look stupid and weak and like a wuss.

Bobby focused as hard as he could on the stack, lining up his shot perfectly. He had the perfect motivation: Carol. He wound up, drew back, and pitched. The ball hit the stack dead on and scattered bottles left, right, center. Carol cheered, and the carnie nodded appreciatively. "You came _real_ close, kid," he said. He reached up, grabbed the bear, and handed it to him. "Enjoy."

Bobby took it with a smile, then held it out to Carol. "This is for you."

She beamed. "Thank you." She took it and held it up in front of her face. "It's really cute." She cuddled it to her chest and rocked it back and forth like a baby. "I'm going to call it Bobby-bear."

Bobby blushed. "Uh...okay."

Behind them, Lori playfully slapped Bobby's chest. "You never won _me_ a stuffed animal."

He put his arm around her shoulder. "I went one better: A kid."

Carol cuddled Bobby-bear all throughout the rest of the day...except when she and the real Bobby rode the rollercoaster. She had Lori babysit. After that, they ordered lunch and sat at a picnic table to eat, Bobby Jr. and Carol sitting close, Bobby-bear in-between them like a baby. "What do you wanna do next?" Bobby asked as he tore a piece of funnel cake off and stuck it in his mouth; powdered sugar stained his lips.

"Hmmm," Carol said thoughtfully, "I don't know. Bumper cars?"

Bobby's eyes lit up. "That sounds _fun!_ "

Fun until he got rear ended and flew over the front and crashed to the floor because he didn't put his seatbelt on like a doofus. He was okay, though, the only thing wounded was his pride, though he enjoyed the way Carol babied him.

He was able to look down the front of her shirt and catch a flash of her bra.

Nice.

* * *

The girls slept in one bed while Ronnie Anne and Lincoln slept in the other. Before showering, before changing out of their clothes, they made love, Ronnie Anne on bottom and her dress pushed up around her hips; she wrapped her legs around Lincoln and dug her heels into his butt, pulling him deeper, closer, needing to be filled with him in every sense of the word. When the end came and his heat shot deep into her center, she cried out in a silent orgasm, the way he kissed her neck and nibbled her shoulder making it very hard to keep from screaming.

After they bathed each other and toweled one another off, they climbed into bed and cuddled until sleep took them, the heat and activity of the day – and night, wink-wink – having drained them. The girls were up bright and early, and after breakfast at a diner next to the motel, they were on the road again, following the fabled Route 66 through the flat, hot Oklahoma flatlands. Alex wanted to listen to music, so Lincoln put the radio on and found a station playing a country song with high, trembling vocals and acoustic guitar:

 _There were some blue and sorrow times_

 _Just my thoughts about you bring back my peace of mind_

 _Gypsy lady_

 _You're a miracle worker for me_

 _You set my soul free like a ship sailing on the sea_

 _She is the sunlight when the skies are grey_

 _She treats me so right, lady, take me away_

Lincoln smiled at Ronnie Anne and took her hand. The windows were open, and the wind played in her hair. "This is our song now."

She laughed. "You think?"

He nodded. "I'm choosing it without your input."

She laughed.

In the back, Alex listened to the music, her head cocked and an uncertain expression on her face. She couldn't tell if she liked it or not. It was okay, but it wasn't wock.

After the song, a newsbreak came on and Alex started to complain.

" _Authorities in south Texas today are continuing their search of an isolated farmhouse near the town of Newt where four youths were brutally murdered over the weekend and a fifth was held captive."_

"I want wock!" Alex cried.

Lincoln let go of Ronnie Anne's hand and touched her bare knee. She cocked her brow. "What are you doing?"

"Touching you."

" _...murdered with a chainsaw..."_

"Daddy, I want wock!"

Jessy shook her head violently and covered her ears. _"No, Bunny, I don't wike it."_

" _...came to light when one of the victims was able to escape and flag down a passing motorist. So far, police have recovered the remains of nine people from the Sawyer property. Bone County sheriff David Weston calls this the most grizzly and bizarre crime he has ever seen."_

His hand crept up her leg and brushed the hem of her dress. "Well stop, or you're going to turn me on."

Lincoln grinned. "That's the point."

" _...amidst calls from some in his own party to step down. Nixon continues to refuse to hand over the tapes."_

She laughed and brushed him away. "Not right now, lame-o."

"Wock! Wock! Wock!"

" _No wock peez!"_

Lincoln sighed, leaned forward, and turned the knob, searching for and finally finding a station playing something approaching Bunny music. "That's the best you're gonna get, kid."

"Tank you!"

Once in Texas, the landscape surrounding 66 became dry and arid. They stopped at a Shell station, used the bathroom, and bought glass bottles of Coca-Cola and snacks, and just past the New Mexico state line, they stopped for lunch at a road side burger joint that reminded Lincoln of Flip's, shuddered and closed back in Royal Woods with a sign in the window reading OPEN AUG. 29. An overhead fan stirred the hot air, and a radio on the counter played the high, lonesome sound of country/western. A tired looking woman in her fifties brought Coca-Cola for Lincoln and Ronnie Anne, and chocolate milk for the girls. They all ordered hamburgers and French fries, though as he waited for his food, Lincoln kind of wished he ordered something else. A steak, maybe, or chicken. He was hamburgered out.

He was thinking of adding things to the menu at Flip's; they didn't have a very big selection and Lincoln was getting tired of it. Ooo, liver and onions would be nice, and maybe fried chicken. Yum.

After lunch, they got back on the road. The desert landscape fell away from the highway and the traffic slacked; the sky opened up and stretched forever, its hazy blue face dotted with ragged white clouds. The occasional motel, filling station, restaurant, and tourist attraction cropped up from the hardpan, but for the most part, the world was big and empty.

 _Bad place for a flat tire,_ he thought. Well, they had a spare, so...bad place for a break down. "Not much to see," Ronnie Anne said, staring out the window.

"Sure there is," Lincoln said. "Look, there's a cactus."

She nodded. "Because it looks nothing like the forty million other cacti we've passed."

"Each one's a special snowflake," he said, "none entirely the same."

The girls fussed through most of the afternoon until they stopped for dinner at a café on the outskirts of a small town fifteen miles past the Arizona border. Lincoln ordered liver and onions; he'd been fantasizing about it since lunch.

Ronnie Anne's brow pinched. "Oh, yuck."

"What?"

"Liver? Really? What are you, someone's great-grandfather?"

"It's good," he said defensively.

She crinkled her nose and turned to the girls. "He's icky."

"No he not!" Alex said, her eyes filling with shock that her mother would say that. "Daddy pretty."

Lincoln laughed and laid his hand on Ronnie Anne's back. "Hear that? _She's_ on my side."

" _Piddy,"_ Jessy piped up, and Lincoln's grin grew even wider. Ronnie Anne shook her head and rolled her eyes.

After dinner, they drove into the setting sun, the sky a burning orange, its light bathing Ronnie Anne's face. "Are we driving through the night?" she asked and ran her hand through her hair.

"I'd like to," Lincoln said, "it's only a couple hundred more miles."

She nodded slowly. Jessy was drinking her bottle and dazing, her head swaying back and forth and her eyelids drooping...only to snap back open. She reminded Ronnie Anne of Leni on the drive out to see Lincoln in the hospital. Come to think of it, they happened to be driving through the desert then too. That was a different desert, though. The Mojave. This was...she didn't know what it was called, but just by looking at it you could tell it wasn't the same.

Lincoln glanced in the rearview mirror at his girls. He had a habit of thinking of them that way even though Jessy wasn't _technically_ his. He loved her like she was though.

He turned up the radio and passed an ancient pick-up truck putzing along. Alex listened intently and began to nod her head even though the brass and piano coming through the static wasn't her normal fare.

 _California tumbles into the sea_

 _That'll be the day I go_

 _Back to Annandale_

 _Tried to warn you_

 _About Chino and Daddy Gee_

 _But I can't seem to get to you_

 _Through the U.S. Mail_

 _Well I hear the whistle but I can't go_

 _I'm gonna take her down to Mexico_

 _She said oh no_

 _Guadalajara won't do_

Jessy's eyes were closed and her head lulled against the window. She was still awake, though, holding her bottle up.

Night fell like a curtain, and pure blackness pressed against the windows. Much like Luan had three years before, he imagined that there was nothing out there, that he and his family were the only survivors of some catastrophic event, God taking an eraser to the sorry mess that was humanity and somehow missing four people on a trek through the desert. For a long time, Ronnie Anne was awake, and they talked, but then she leaned her head against the window and fell asleep. Lincoln divided his attention between her and the road, his eyes lingering on the soft curve of her neck, and on the smooth flesh of her bare arms. He felt a little something happening downstairs, and smiled to himself. Sheesh. I must be ovulating.

He played cat and mouse with the idea for fifty miles, telling himself that he wouldn't, that he shouldn't, but he was a weak man who still had Vietnam nightmares and still sometimes dug through his food before he ate it; he laid his hand on her knee and squeezed. She shifted and crossed her arms, a sleepy mutter issuing from her lips. He couldn't tell in the green dashboard glow, but it looked like her eyes were still closed. He should really let her sleep.

Instead, he ran his hand up her leg and along the flesh of her inner thigh, his fingers basking in her heat. "Doing?" she asked tiredly, her brow pinching.

"Touching you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm bored...and you look touchable."

His fingers brushed the crotch of her underwear. Beneath it, she was soft and warm.

"I'm tired," she said.

"I know," he replied, "you don't _have_ to stay awake."

He rubbed her slit through the fabric, and she slammed her thighs closed. "I mean it, lame-o, get lost."

He shrugged. "Alright."

Ten miles later, he felt her hand on his leg. He turned and she was looking at him with a strange mixture of lust and annoyance in her eyes. "You woke me up and turned me on, jackass."

He snickered. "Go back to sleep."

"I can't. I'm horny."

Lincoln shrugged. "Well...you know...we haven't broken this bad boy in yet."

There was a big storage compartment in the back. Their bags didn't take up much room. She grinned. "Let's do it, then."

He glanced into the rearview mirror, saw that the kids were still asleep, and pulled to the gravel shoulder. They got out and went around back, Ronnie Anne hugging herself and rubbing her arms against the desert chill. "Damn, it's cold out here," she said, her breath misting before her face.

"I know," Lincoln said and opened the hatch. He quickly rearranged the bags to make room. "Let's get warmed up."

Ronnie Anne flashed an evil smile and crawled in, Lincoln following and closing the hatch behind him. There wasn't much room, but when you're horny for your beautiful wife – whom you are deeply in love with – there's a way. Ronnie Anne laid on her stomach, lifted her hips, and pulled her underwear down, letting Lincoln take over and slip it past her ankles. She glanced over her shoulder. "Can you be quick?"

Lincoln snorted. "Can I be quick."

"You're right," she said and turned away, "what was I thinking. I'm talking to Mr. Minute Man himself."

Lincoln unzipped his pants and pulled out his hot, throbbing member. Kind of a funny thing to call it, huh? Always made Lincoln felt like an exclusive club. Ronnie Anne spread her legs and Lincoln pushed her dress up then mounted her, his tip raking down along her cleft. "I seem to remember _you_ cumming mighty quick a few times."

He guided himself to her moist opening and thrusted down, her body squeezing him in an excited embrace.

"I can keep going though," she said, beginning to breathe heavy, "you usually have to stop."

Lincoln leaned over and pressed his lips to her ear as he began to rock steadily into her. "For five minutes."

Her breath hitched and she arched her back, bringing her hips up and giving him easier access. They were both grunting and the car was beginning to rock from side-to-side. "W-W-We gotta be – uh – quiet so we d-d-don't w-wake the girls..." Ronnie Anne jerked.

Lincoln kissed her ear and ran his hand along her arm, reaching her fingers and threading his through them. He slammed harder and she shivered. "F-Faster!"

He thrusted deep and hard, and when her body clenched around him, he swelled and burst, shooting his seed into her womb. For a while, he lay limply on top of her as they caught their breaths. "Minute Man strikes again," she taunted.

That was okay, though, he already got her back, something she didn't fully realize until later. "I'm leaking like crazy," she said, "my thighs are sticky and I itch."

Lincoln chuckled. "Minute Man strikes again."


	89. August 1973: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Dream On**_ **by Aerosmith (1973)**

* * *

Leni Loud was _mad_. So mad she couldn't see straight, so mad she could barely breathe, so mad that when she stalked into her room, she lashed out at the dresser and nearly toppled it over. She stood in the doorway, her shoulders stooped and her back rising and falling with her rapid inhalations, her nostrils flaring and her teeth bared.

The reason?

She didn't know.

And that made her _even_ madder. She ripped open her top drawer, snatched a bag of cookies, and flung them against the wall, then went over and stomped it with her bare foot.

For one thing, she was mad that she couldn't knit anymore. No matter how careful she was, no matter how slowly she worked, she just couldn't. And she was right in the middle of a fucking blanket for Jessy, too! She'd been trying for a month to get back to it, but she couldn't because her stupid shit fuck bitch asshole cunt retarded bastard hands _kept shaking!_ Just holding a glass of water was almost impossible: She spilled it and looked like a goddamn fool! And buttoning her dresses was hard too; she wound up getting them in the wrong holes and not noticing until she went to take it off hours later. And why did she keep forgetting simple things?

She looked at the broken cookies at her feet...and suddenly her rage was gone, replaced with sadness. She dropped onto the bed and curled up into a tight ball. She didn't like being angry Leni. She didn't like being sad Leni, either. She wanted to be just Leni.

A tentative knock came at the door, and she held her head up. "Yeah?"

It opened just a crack, and her mother poked her head in, her eyes filled with concern. They flickered from the cookies on the floor to Leni's face. "Are you alright, dear?"

The current angry Leni episode (the second this week) started when she got her knitting stuff and sat down on the couch next to Mom. _All in the Family_ was on, and Leni was vaguely aware of the audience laughing at something Archie said to Meathead. She liked Archie. He was, like, a grandfather or something, even if he _could_ be kind of mean. She didn't know why he called the guy Meathead, though. His head wasn't, like, meat.

Somewhere deep down, she knew that trying was _not_ going to work, but she wanted to anyway, and she _really_ hoped she could do it.

But she couldn't.

She tried and tried and tried until her eyes were wide with frustration and her lips were pulled back over her teeth in a sneer. Her frustration set off her new angry Leni like a fuse sets off a powder keg, and with a scream she threw the needles and yard across the room and jumped up, startling her parents. _"Fuck this!"_

Then she stormed up the stairs and...she broke something. She couldn't remember.

"I'm fine," Leni moaned, even though she wasn't. She was anything _but_ fine. Sometimes she was really sad then really happy then really mad then really nothing all in the span of a few minutes.

"Can I come in?"

"Go ahead," Leni said and wrapped her arms around her chest. Mom came over, sat on the edge of the bed, and laid her hand on Leni's arm.

"I'm so tired of being sick," Leni huffed. "I just want to be normal."

"I know, honey," Mom said tenderly. "But we all love you just the way you are."

 _"I_ don't. I hate being dumb and angry and sad. I just want to be a regular person."

Mom sighed and rubbed Leni's arm. "Leni, honey, you're not a regular person. You're you, and we're happy you are who you are."

Leni sniffled wetly. She was sick of it all.

Not for the first time, she thought of drawing a bath, getting into it, and slashing her wrists. She would gently fade away and she wouldn't have to be sick and dumb and sad anymore, she could go to heaven, with Luna.

The only thing stopping her was her family. She didn't want _them_ to be sad too. They were all really sad when Luna died, and Leni could kind of remember the pain she felt – like being stabbed by a thousand little baby knives in her heart. She remembered Mom crying a lot and being so miserable she couldn't get out of bed sometimes. Leni did _not_ want to do that to her mother or to her father or to Lincy or to anyone else. They loved her and were, like, always there for her. That would not be a good way to pay them back.

She wanted this over, though. She couldn't be a Mommy, she couldn't knit, she was getting headaches again, thinking was really hard, and her memory was getting bad. She hated it. It made her heart sad.

And pissed her the fuck off.

"I know," she said, "I'm sorry. I just really want to knit and finish Jessy's thing. It unbuttoned me. I mean upset."

"I know," Mom said. "How about we have ice cream and forget all about it?"

Leni's eyes lit up. "We have ice cream?"

Mom smiled wanly and nodded. "I bought some at the supermarket today. It's chocolate. Your favorite."

Leni beamed. Now she was really happy. At the kitchen table, Rita sat across from her daughter and watched her with sadness. Mood swings were to be expected, the doctors said; not standard in every case, but certainly not rare. She had hoped that Leni would be spared those, but she wasn't, unfortunately.

When Leni was done with her ice cream, her mouth and cheeks were smeared with chocolate, and Rita smiled to herself. She took Leni's bowl to the sink and returned with a dish towel. Leni stuck her head out and allowed Rita to wipe the mess off. Rita touched the tip of the girl's nose, and she giggled happily. "That was _really_ good," she said. "Thank you!"

Rita hugged Leni's head to her chest. "You're welcome," she said, and in the overhead light, a single tear sparkled on her cheek.

* * *

Luan was a tightly formed ball of nerves on the day she met her daughter. Met, Heh. She made it sound like she _didn't_ carry her for nine months and then hold her in her arms after delivery. She might as well be meeting her for the first time, though: She was almost three, a little lady and not the infant she was when Luan last saw her.

That made her sad. Very, very sad.

But her sadness was eclipsed by the elation she felt over _finally_ getting to see her daughter; the past three years had gone slow, and sometimes she thought she wouldn't make it through, but Jessy kept her going. One day, she would get out and be a mother to her daughter. Can't be a mother if you give up, curl into a ball, and cry.

Marvin Belli's appeals were struck down and her sentence upheld. Her current projected release date was September 25, 1985...twelve years away. Jessy would be fifteen – practically grown – and Luan would have missed her entire childhood.

That was a thought for another day, though; today was supposed to be happy. When she woke that morning, it was after a long, restless night; her excitement kept her awake, and she was tired when the guards woke her for breakfast, but she was smiling. In a few short hours, she would get to see Jessy. She was bummed that it wouldn't be a contact visit, meaning she wouldn't be able to actually hold or kiss her daughter (only talk to her through glass), but it was better than nothing, and one day they might let her have contact visits.

After breakfast, she sat impatiently on the top bunk, her knees drawn to her chest and her body roiling with different emotions – excitement, sadness, longing, and fear. What if Jessy didn't like her? What if her daughter was scared? Though Lincoln assured her in his letters that he and Ronnie Anne were raising Jessy to understand that they were her aunt and uncle, they were the only parents she knew. Ronnie Anne was there to tuck her in and kiss her boo boos and rock her, not Luan. Right now, she was just another person to Jessy.

"You seeing your daughter today?" her cellmate asked, even though she knew she was; Luan had talked about nothing but since Lincoln wrote back in July to say they were coming out. Sometimes, you either make conversation or sit in silence and stare at the walls, though.

"Yep," Luan said happily.

Below her, the mattress rustled as Maggie changed positions. "That's really cool. I really wanna see my son but his grandparents won't bring him out."

Maggie and her boyfriend, Derrick, along with three other people, robbed a bank in San Francisco in May 1971. She plead guilty and got fifteen years, her boyfriend went to trial and got twenty-five, and the other people got something like ten apiece. Hers and Derrick's two-year-old son wound up with Derrick's parents in Kansas.

Luan never wanted a cellmate, and when the screws – that's what you call the guards – brought her in, Luan was _not_ happy. Maggie wound up being really neat, though; she was a tall, sulky woman with long black hair and dark eyes. She sounded depressed when she spoke, but that was just how she was. She and Luan didn't have a whole lot in common, but enough that they got along well.

"I'm surprised my brother actually closed down his restaurant," Luan said guiltily. "I mean, that's kind of a lot to ask."

"Kind of," Maggie said. "With as close as you say you are, he's probably pretty excited to see you. How strong is his marriage again?"

Luan chuckled. "Pretty strong."

Maggie sighed.

One thing Luan had learned about her cellmate was this: She liked men. Like _really_ liked them. Since Luan liked Maggie, she would never use the word 'slut' to describe her, but other people would. She talked frequently about needing a man, and how she'd even do one of the guards if they'd let her. "I have needs," she deadpanned once shortly after she moved in, and Luan was a _little_ unnerved. "Needs that only a man can satisfy," Maggie clarified, noticing Luan's anxiety. "Sorry." Sometimes, Maggie got _really_ dirty, talking about the men she'd been with in the past and what she did with them. She liked fat men, skinny men, black men, white men, well-endowed men, not so well-endowed men, old men, young men. "I'd like to make it with a gay guy once," she told Luan, "and turn him straight."

Shortly past three, a guard appeared at the cell. "Alright, Loud, your family's here."

Luan's heart jumped for joy in her chest, and she hopped off the bunk. Maggie was lying on her bed with one leg propped up and a cigarette between her lips. She was reading a book from the library cart that came around once a week. _Fear of Flying_ by Erica Jong. Luan read that one a few weeks ago. There was a _lot_ of sex in it, so it was right up Maggie's alley.

Luan followed the guard out through the pod door and into a long hallway. The visitor area was up ahead on the left. The last time she was here, it was Mom, Dad, and Leni on the other side of the glass...shortly after Luna died.

That made Luan's mood momentarily darken, but she pushed it away because her sister's death was the last thing she wanted to think of, especially now, with her baby girl practically feet away. She grinned and a spring entered her step as she went into the room. A long counter flanked a glass wall, a series of partitions allowing each inmate a little privacy. The guard pointed her to the end, and she hurried to the last chair, glancing up as she approached. Lincoln sat on the other side of the glass with a little girl – oh, my God, it's Jessy! – in his lap. Luan's step faltered when she saw the girl, her eyes wide and inquisitive. She wore a little summer dress and her hair was in pigtails. She saw Luan, and their eyes locked. Luan put her hand to her mouth and sat in the chair, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Lincoln smiled and picked up the phone on his end. Luan did the same; her hands were trembling.

"Hey," he said, his voice tinny.

"Hi," she said, and the tears came. She couldn't take her eyes off her daughter; she was the most beautiful, precious thing she had ever seen. She watched Luan with her finger in her mouth, her brow slightly furrowed. "H-How are you?"

Lincoln nodded. "Good. We enjoyed the drive out. Made it into a road trip. What about you?"

Luan nodded and sniffed. "I'm okay." A laugh bubbled up from her throat. "I'm...I'm really happy you're here."

"It's good to see you again," he said, then, to Jessy, "do you wanna say hi to Mommy?"

Jessy chewed her finger, her eyes uncertain. She glanced up at Lincoln as if in confusion. "Mommy _really_ wants to talk to you. Show her how good you can talk now." Jessy looked back at Luan as Lincoln held the phone to the side of her head. "Say hi."

" _Hi."_

Luan blinked back even more tears. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. "Hi. You're so pretty."

" _Tanks."_

Luan giggled girlishly. "Mommy misses you _so_ much, Jessy. I miss you every single day, and soon, Mommy's going to come out and we can...we can be together." Soon. Heh.

Jessy kicked her legs and chewed her finger. "Doesn't that sound nice?" Lincoln asked. Jessy nodded.

"She talks more," Lincoln said, "she's just a little shy is all. Her and Alex have already established a dynamic: Alex is the bold one and Jessy usually gets dragged along – reluctantly and against her better judgement."

Luan smiled. "She sounds like you."

Lincoln shrugged. "I guess I did get dragged along a lot. Jessy and I have something in common: We're both the baby of the family." He looked at Jessy. "You sing Mommy your ABC's?"

Jessy shook her head, a mischievous smile on her face.

"Please?"

Nope.

"For Uncle Lincoln?"

Still no.

Lincoln leaned in and whispered in her ear. "I'll give you chocolate."

Jessy's eyes widened. When Lincoln held the phone up, she sang: _"A, B, C, G, F, D, H, I, 3."_

Luan laughed merrily, her chest flooding with pride and love. "Leni works with them," Lincoln said. "She's pretty good too. She'd make a great kindergarten teacher."

She would, Luan figured, and she would probably love every minute of it: She could see Leni sitting in a chair before a group of children sitting crisscross-apple-sauce on the floor, an open book held up to show the illustrations within. Leni would be one to do each character's silly voice and make faces. An emotion that Luan couldn't quite name touched her, and she felt like crying. "How is she?"

Lincoln nodded. "Alright. She can't knit anymore because of the tremors, and she's getting clumsier. Her balance isn't the best and she...she's been having mood swings. Otherwise, she's fine."

Otherwise? Fine? It didn't _sound_ like she was fine. Luan wiped her tears away with the heel of her palm. She wished she could be there for her sister; Leni needed her right now and here she was, stuck in prison like the bitch she was.

"Jessy," Lincoln said, "what kind of music does Bunny listen to?"

Jessy's brow pinched and she crossed her arms. _"Wock."_

Oh, she was so _cute_. "I take it you don't like rock, Jessy?" she asked.

Jessy shook her head. _"Wock bad."_

"What kind of music do you like?"

" _Eni ick."_

Luan tilted her head. "Leni music," Lincoln translated.

"Ahh," Luan said with a nod. To Lincoln: "When is Alex starting kindergarten?"

"Next year," Lincoln said, "then after her, it's _this_ one's turn." He squeezed Jessy close, and she squirmed, a little smile touching her lips. His love for her was evident in his eyes, and it made Luan feel warm inside. _If only he_ were _her father._ As in, he and Ronnie Anne had her, not he and Luan had her. That's disgusting.

"Where _is_ Alex? And Ronnie?"

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Alex was _very_ interested in the guard who brought us in, so she's out there talking his ear off. 'My daddy has a gun too. Are you a polwice man?"

Luan snickered. "I'd like to see them."

Lincoln held the phone away and leaned back. She heard him call Ronnie Anne, then a moment later she and Alex appeared, Ronnie Anne in a thin pink dress with no sleeves and Alex in a purple dress. Luan was bowled over by how big Alex had gotten. Her long black hair hung over her shoulders and her little cowlick poked up from behind the crown of her head. Her cheeks were smattered with freckles and her widdle wabbit teef stood out against her bottom lip. She definitely favored Ronnie Anne, though Luan could see her brother in the girl's face, especially her eyes and nose.

Lincoln handed the phone to Ronnie Anne, who stooped down. "Hey," she said, "how's it going on the inside?"

"It stinks," Luan admitted. "My cellmate wants to steal Lincoln from you."

Ronnie Anne chuckled. "That bitch better bring her A game."

"How's the teaching?"

"I haven't killed one of the little bastards yet, so it's going good." Ronnie Anne's eyes twinkled playfully. "Did I ever tell you about the kid who called me a spic?"

Luan thought for a moment. "I don't think so," she said uncertainly.

"I grabbed him by the front of his shirt and Principal Wilson walked in."

Luan's jaw dropped. "Oh, no."

Ronnie Anne nodded slowly, then a smug smile shot across her lips. "I got away with it, though. You wanna talk to Alex?"

Through the brief conversation, Alex stood next to her father, watching Luan with a guarded expression. She looked up and spoke to her father, but Luan didn't hear what she said. "Of course," she said, "I miss Bunny."

Alex's eyes widened. Ronnie Anne handed her the phone, and she put it hesitantly to her ear. "How you know my name?" she asked.

"Because I'm your auntie Luan," Luan said with a smile. "I used to live with you when you were a baby."

"Why you in there?"

Luan started to reply, but stopped because she had no idea what to tell the girl. "Auntie Luan's in timeout."

Alex's brows lowered as she processed that information. "Oh. You Jessy's mommy?"

Luan nodded. "Yep. I'm Jessy's mommy."

"Jessy hit me in the car."

Lincoln snickered behind his hand. Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "Tattletale."

"You tell Jessy Mommy said no hitting," Luan said and wagged her finger.

Alex turned away, put her hand on Jessy's shoulder, and leaned in. "Your Mommy say no hit. Hit _bad_."

Jessy shoved her finger in her mouth and regarded her big cousin with narrowed eyes.

Alex passed the phone back to Lincoln, and he and Luan talked for a little while. As they did, Luan watched her daughter with a dreamy look in her eyes. What she wouldn't give to hold her just for a few minutes, to kiss her on her cheek and pretend for one moment that she was a normal mother there for her little girl.

When the guard came to tell her that her time was up, she nodded glumly. "I love you, Jessy," she said, "with all my heart. Come back and see Mommy again?"

Jessy nodded. _"Kay, Mommy."_

Hearing her daughter call her 'Mommy' made her laugh and smile and cry all at once. When she got back to her cell, she climbed onto the bunk, curled up on her side, and fought really hard not to cry. Her chest ached with loss and ripples of pain went through her stomach.

"How'd it go?" Maggie asked.

Luan sighed. "I feel even worse now."

"I'm sorry," Maggie said. She was quiet for a while. "What was your brother wearing?"

That made Luan chuckle despite herself; she suspected Maggie did it on purpose.

"A wedding band."

"And nothing else? Hot damn."

Luan shook her head and wiped her eyes. "You're a pervert."

"You know what they say: Good girls go to heaven...bad girls go _everywhere_."

* * *

Blyth, California, where Luan's prison was located, is separated from Tucson, Arizona, by a distance of 275 miles. Lincoln was exhausted when they left, but he was not going to stop when Lynn's house was practically within walking distance. He bought a bottle of Coca-Cola from a gas station, rubbed his grainy eyes with piss warm water from a bathroom sink, and thought of what happened to him in Vietnam – makes being a little tired look like nothing. His head was throbbing before they hit the state line, and halfway to Phoenix, his eyes started to _ache._ The road was flat and straight, the sun shimmering on the cracked, brown hardpan so brightly that it stung even through his glasses. It was a shame that they came all this way only to see Luan for half an hour; if it weren't for Flip's and Ronnie Anne needing to be back for the first day of school on August 28, he would have gotten a room and stayed a week so they could see her again.

"Wanna play a game?" Ronnie Anne asked the girls over her shoulder.

"Yeah!" Alex cried.

Ronnie Anne slapped Lincoln's leg. "Alright, square-for-brains; I spy, with my little eye, something brown."

Alex looked thoughtfully out the window and made a humming noise. Lincoln scanned his surroundings. The ground, the rocks, even the dust covered highway were brown. "The world?" Lincoln asked.

"Poop!" Alex cried.

"Nope," Ronnie Anne said. She poked Lincoln's arm. "The stain on Daddy's shirt."

Lincoln glanced at his shirt: There was indeed a small brown stain. Hm. He had no idea where it came from.

"I see someting boo!" Alex said.

Ronnie Anne scrunched her lips contemplatively, even though Lincoln thought she knew damn well what it was: There was only one blue thing in a thousand miles. "I don't know," she finally said, "what is it?"

"The sky!"

"Oh," Ronnie Anne said, "I had no idea."

"I see someting gween!"

This time Ronnie Anne scrunched her lips for real. She looked out the window. "The scrub brush?"

"No!"

"The cactus?"

"No!"

Ronnie Anne turned and scanned the back seat, then faced forward. "I dunno. What is it, lame-o?"

Lincoln yawned and shook his head. "I don't know." He looked into the rearview mirror. "What is it, Alex?"

"Jessy _eyes!"_

Ronnie Anne laughed. "Her eyes _are_ green."

They reached Tucson at five that afternoon. It was hot, bright, and Lincoln felt like he was going to pass out. Heh. Made it, though. He pulled into the parking lot of a filling station on a corner, got out, and stepped into a phone booth. He deposited his dime, dialed Lynn's number, and waited. When he answered, Lincoln grinned. "Hey, asshole, we're here. I have no idea where the hell I am or where you are."

"Where are you calling from, dickwad?" Lynn asked.

Lincoln glanced at the sign out front. "Gas station called Wilson's. It's across from a bank and a Burger King."

"Oh, I know where you are," Lynn said, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Lincoln hung up and got back into the car. "He's coming to get us," he said to Ronnie Anne. Jessy was napping and Alex was eating crackers and nodding her head to the radio.

"I hope he has a shower," she said. "I'm grimy and sticky."

"No, he and his family bathe in the rain," Lincoln said sarcastically, and she slapped his arm. "Ow."

"Smartass."

" _President Nixon is facing calls from his own party to step down this afternoon..."_

"Wock!"

Lincoln changed the station and found a song that wasn't particularly Bunny's style (too slow), but beggars can't be choosers, can they? The singer's voice made Lincoln's headache worse:

 _Half my life_

 _Is books, written pages_

 _Live and learn from fools and_

 _From sages._

"Are you excited to see your cousin Lynn?" Ronnie Anne asked in the mirror.

"Yes," Alex said absently. Her head was cocked and she looked as though she were trying to decide whether she liked the song or not. The last time Lynn and Alex got together, they didn't exactly get along, and Lincoln and Ronnie Anne had been trying to get her excited for the meeting.

Lincoln watched for Lynn (he drove a white 1972 Ford Torino four-door, bought almost new) and rubbed his achy temples. He was excited to see his brother and his niece, but he was maybe just a _little_ more excited to see a bed.

"I hope Kathy made some of that tuna casserole," Ronnie Anne said, "that stuff's good."

"Oh, yuck." When Lynn came out for Luna's funeral, Kathy made her mother's 'famous' tuna casserole one night. Everyone loved it except Lincoln, Leni, and Bobby Jr. Ronnie Anne, in fact, liked it so much that she got the recipe and tried to duplicate it: If Kathy's was gross, Ronnie Anne's was _terrible_. Lincoln loved her, and she was usually a good cook, but Jesus God; he gagged just thinking about it.

" _I_ like it, and so do the girls," she said and crossed her arms.

"The girls will eat anything, so that's not much of an endorsement."

In the rearview, Lincoln saw a white Ford pull in. That must be him. It slowed hesitantly, then swung in their direction and pulled alongside. Girl Lynn's face peered out of the passenger window, her brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her face was covered in freckles and her thick chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The window rolled down, and the other Lynn smiled. "Hey!"

Lincoln blinked. In the two years since he had last seen him, Lynn had gained even more weight. His cheeks were puffy and he looked like he was a couple dozen pounds from developing a double chin.

"Hey," Lincoln said, happy to see his brother regardless of his weight.

"Nice station wagon," Lynn smirked.

"Lots of room," Lincoln said, and, to himself, _especially in the back._

Lynn leaned even further over. "I see you brought your wife with you."

Ronnie Anne flipped him off.

He laughed and patted his daughter on the head. "You say hi to your uncle Lincoln?"

Girl Lynn looked at her father, then to Lincoln. "Hi," she piped.

"Hi, honey," Lincoln said, "how're you doing?"

"Okay."

"Alright," Lynn said, "follow me. It's not far."

Lincoln followed his brother down a series of wide, palm lined streets. He saw plenty of the Spanish inspired architecture that defined the Southwest, and he had to admit, it was really nice. He preferred the Midwest, though; it wasn't as oppressively hot, though this past summer was pretty bad. One of the hottest in twenty or twenty-five years, they said.

Lynn's house was a one story ranch much like Lincoln's in a big subdivision. Kids rode bikes, skipped rope, and chased each other up and down the sidewalks. A man in a white shirt and brown shorts that reached his knees (diamond patterned socks pulled _way_ up his calves – you cold there, buddy?) stood in his front lawn and held a green garden hose over parched grass; two houses down, a fat woman in a pink muumuu carried a paper bag of groceries from a green station wagon. American flags hung limply in the airless day.

"Nice place," Ronnie Anne said absently as, ahead, Lynn turned down a street.

"Lots of kids," Lincoln said. There weren't many kids in their neighborhood, at least not their section. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, lived in the house across from them, and a boy about Bobby Jr.'s age lived next door. Other than that, nothing, nada. Lynn pulled into a driveway, and Lincoln parked next to him, then got out.

Girl Lynn opened her door and jumped out. She wore a little pair of overall shorts over a red T-shirt and little red All-Stars. She looked up and Lincoln just a _tad_ apprehensively. "Do you like baseball?" she asked.

"Yeah, I do," Lincoln lied. Well...it wasn't _really_ a lie; he didn't mind tossing the old...can't say pigskin, that's a football...thing around. In basic, one of the things they taught you was how to throw a grenade, and after two weeks of Sargent Hellman screaming in his ear that if he didn't really chuck it he'd wind up killing everyone in his platoon, he developed a mighty arm. A baseball isn't much different from a grenade, only there's less chance of someone catching shrapnel to the face.

The little girl grinned broadly. "I love baseball. I play it all the time."

Lynn came over and clapped Lincoln on the back. Lincoln's eyes were instantly drawn to the gut spilling over his waistband. He started to say something in jest, but decided not to. It might offend him. "Get the kids and come on in," Lynn said, "we're having tuna casserole."

"Oh, _sweet,_ " Ronnie Anne said as she came up with Jessy in tow.

Lincoln rolled his eyes.

"Hey, I know how you feel," Lynn said, "but it grows on you."

Ronnie Anne opened the door and helped Alex out. She and Girl Lynn locked eyes, and they stared warily at each other. "That's your cousin," Ronnie Anne said to her daughter, "her name is Lynn."

Alex looked up at her mother, then back to her cousin.

"Say hi?"

"Hi," Alex said.

"Hi," Lynn repeated.

"Do you like baseball?" Lynn asked.

"No."

"What do you like?"

"Wock."

Lynn's brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"Music."

"Oh," Lynn said with a note of disappointment.

Inside, the warm smell of tuna permeated the house; it grabbed Lincoln by the front of his shirt and shoved its tongue down his throat. _Welcome to Arizona, Linc._ Kathy came out of the kitchen with a frilly white apron around her waist. "Hi," she said happily, "how are you?"

"I'm good," Lincoln said, "you?"

"Same as ever," she said with a laugh. Her eyes flicked to the bags in Lincoln's hands. "Here, let me show you your room."

The guest room was down a short hall and across from the bathroom. The bed was neatly made: At its foot was a crib and on one side was a cot with a pillow and folded blankets sitting on top. "The cot's for Alex," Kathy said, "and the crib is for Jessy. I don't know if it'll work, though. Lynn brought it in the other day and set it up. Wasn't too long ago we took it down."

"It should be fine," Lincoln said, and sat the bags down just as Ronnie Anne, the girls, and Lynn came in.

"Oh, look at you two!" Kathy squealed. "You're so _big_. And beautiful too."

Alex looked uncomfortable; Jessy just stared, her finger in her mouth. Kathy dropped to one knee and held Jessy at arm's length. Jessy glanced at Ronnie Anne. _Who is she and why is she touching me, auntie? Is she dangerous?_ "I like your dress," Kathy said, "it's _very_ cute."

 _"Tanks,"_ Jessy said.

While Ronnie Anne and the girls got settled, Lincoln and Lynn sat on the couch, Lincoln so weary he could fall asleep right there. "How was the trip?" Lynn asked.

"Good," Lincoln said, "we took Route 66 – we're probably going to take it back, too."

"Not much to see out there," Lynn said, "I mean, from here to Texas, at least. Desert...mountains...sky."

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, it gets kind of one note after a while, but...it's alright."

Girl Lynn came in from the kitchen with a baseball in her hand and dropped onto the floor in front of them. She rolled it across the floor, then got on her knees and scurried after it, her ponytail swishing across the back of her neck. "She's serious about that baseball," Lincoln said.

"Yeah," Lynn said with a proud grin, "we play catch in the backyard every day when I get home. I haven't really started with batting yet. I figure that can wait. We'll just work on her throw."

"Is she good?"

Lynn snickered. "Pfft, is she good? She's my daughter, of _course_ she's good." He scooted to the edge of the couch and held up his hands. "Lynn, throw me the ball."

Girl Lynn grabbed the ball, got to her feet, and threw it underhand with a shit-eating grin. Her father caught it and laughed. "For now I'm having her throw that way," he explained, "it's easier, but when she gets a little older, we're going to switch to overhand."

"Daddy, throw _me_ the ball!" Girl Lynn cried with a happy bounce. Lynn leaned as far forward as he could and tossed it gently underhand. She snatched it out of the air with both hands and hugged it to her chest like a favorite dolly.

Wow, Lincoln was actually impressed. "That's pretty good," he said.

"Told ya," Lynn said and slapped Lincoln's stomach with the back of his hand.

At dinner, they crowded around the tiny kitchen table: Girl Lynn and Alex sat side-by-side on folding chairs Lynn brought in from the garage and Jessy sat in Ronnie Anne's lap. Kathy said grace, then everyone fell enthusiastically in...except for Lincoln. Slow and steady wins the race, you know. Too bad these people didn't have a dog; he could feed it some of his casserole.

Or all of it.

But because they didn't, he had to eat it all by himself. Not doing so would be impolite. He scraped through it with his fork before taking that first, big, tuna-y bite. "What are you looking for?" Lynn asked around a mouthful, "drop your wedding ring?"

"No, just...looking for those tuna chunks," Lincoln said, "umm-hmm."

No he wasn't. He was looking for maggots. Well, not really looking for them. Old habits die hard and he was in the habit of digging through his food. He found a hunk of tuna, stabbed it with his fork, and brought it to his lips. You know, come to think of it, he'd almost rather _eat_ a maggot. Not cooked, though, he'd never had a cooked maggot before. God only knows how _that_ tasted.

He started to gag, but forced it out as a cough. "Damn smoking's gonna get me yet," he grinned nervously.

"I thought you quit," Lynn said.

"I did, but it's gonna get me anyway."

After dinner, Lynn volunteered him and Lincoln for dish duty (gee, thanks, bro) while the womenfolk went into the living room. "Why don't you girls go play?" Lincoln heard Kathy ask.

"How's the restaurant doing?" Lynn asked.

"It's doing good," Lincoln said as he took a wet plate from his brother and wiped it down with a dish cloth. "Taxes are killing me, though."

Lynn picked up a glass and scrubbed the inside with a sponge. "They raping you?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Not really, it's just a pain in the ass. I'm thinking of asking Lori if she wants to be my tax girl. Let her worry about it." He didn't know if she would want to. It wasn't a huge year-round job, but it was a headache when it did come around. He'd pay her well, though; any price to get it out of his hair.

"Yeah, I'm not looking forward to that aspect of the dealership," Lynn said. "I take care of most of that right now anyway, but...I don't know. Being responsible for _everything_ is a little intimidating." He handed Lincoln the glass, and Lincoln dried it.

"I imagine," Lincoln said. "I think you'll get it, though."

"I'm looking forward to making more money," Lynn said.

"That's always a plus."

By the time they were done, it was evening, and Lynn was disappointed because he wanted to play baseball with Lincoln and his daughter. In the living room, Ronnie Anne and Kathy chatted while Alex and Jessy played with a light up toy and Lynn sat to herself with her ball, laughing as it rolled away. Lincoln frowned. He was really hoping his girls would play with their cousin and vice versa. Lynn bent, scooped up his daughter's ball, and carried it to the couch. The girl whipped her head around. "Hey!"

"Why don't you play with your cousins?" Lynn asked.

"Don't wanna," she said, "want my ball." She got to her feet and came over, her brow darkening. Lincoln grinned. Uh-oh.

Lynn held it up, and his daughter jumped for it. "My ball!"

"Lynn, give her the ball," Kathy said.

Sighing, Lynn handed her the ball; she snatched it from his hand and went back to her solitary play. Lynn shook his head and sighed. On TV, a reporter in a brown suit stood in front of a white farmhouse with a green roof; a broken window was visible to one side, and police officers in brown uniforms and cowboy hats were carrying a long black bag down the porch steps. Hm. Wonder what's in _there_ , Lincoln thought, even though he could guess.

" _You can see the house here behind me,"_ the reporter said into a slim microphone, _"lawmen obviously still bringing out remains. We are told that some of these body parts_ may _have come from local cemeteries and were used as...macabre decorations."_

"That's so _awful,_ " Kathy said with a sad shake of the head. "It's been all over the news for days now."

Lincoln furrowed his brow. Body parts as decorations? Jesus, how sick can you get?

" _Three suspects_ are _in custody this evening; they were apprehended following a brief stand-off with police. We will bring you the latest from Texas at eleven."_

Lincoln shook his head. When he first came home from Vietnam, he felt like the world had gone crazy in his absence. Instead of dissipating, that feeling grew with every passing year: Riots, protests, lying, crooked presidents, people decorating their homes with body parts, Luna dying...sometimes it was too much.

That night, despite being exhausted, he had trouble falling asleep. Ronnie Anne lay humped beside him, and the girls snored gently in their respective beds. Crazy, crazy, crazy world. He was already planning on teaching the girls how to shoot, but now he was going to speed things up, teach them gun safety first (long before he ever actually let them _touch_ a gun). He was going to teach Ronnie Anne too. In this day and age, you can't be too careful; with your _family,_ you can't be too careful.

He had nightmares that night, but on waking, he thankfully could not remember them. After a languid breakfast of bacon, eggs, coffee, toast, and chatter, Lynn insisted Lincoln come out back before they leave for a game of catch. Lincoln stood across from his brother, and Girl Lynn stood off to Lincoln's left; he tried to get Alex to come out, but she didn't want to.

For nearly an hour they tossed the ball between them. Girl Lynn was even better than she let on; Lincoln dropped the ball (heh) two times, she dropped it zero times. By the time they were done, the pounding Arizona heat had taken its toll, and they were all red-faced and sweating.

Lynn and his family saw Lincoln and his off in the driveway, Lincoln and his brother embracing warmly. "I'm glad you made it out," Lynn said, "you should do it again."

"We will," Lincoln promised, "we're going to bring Jessy to see Luan again at some point, so we'll probably be in the area. Unless we fly."

Lynn shrugged. "That might be the way to go, honestly. You wouldn't catch _me_ driving 2,500 miles."

Girl Lynn stood next to her mother's leg, a baseball clutched in her hands. Alex and Jessy stood on either side of Ronnie Anne. "You say goodbye to Lynn?" Ronnie Anne asked her daughter.

"Bye," Alex said simply.

"Bye," Lynn replied.

"Bye-bye," Jessy piped.

In the car, Lincoln waved one final time, and backed out into the street; Lynn gave him directions to the interstate, and he kept repeating them to himself as he left the subdivision.

"That was fun," Ronnie Anne said into the rearview mirror. "Did you have a good time?"

"Yeah," Alex said, "I want wock now."

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes and turned on the radio.

In the back, Alex grinned.


	90. March 1974: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Sundown**_ **by Gordon Lightfoot (1974);** _ **The Night Chicago Died**_ **by Paper Lace (1974).**

Lincoln Loud gripped the wheel as tightly as he could and took a deep breath.

It didn't calm him.

It was currently one 'o 'clock in the afternoon, and he had been sitting in line waiting to buy gas for over an hour...that after an hour of searching for a gas station that _had_ gas. Finally he found a Texaco in Elk Park, but, hey, guess what, so did everyone else. There were cars ahead, and even more behind. He was already pissed because the price was double what it was this time last year...throw in a long, frustrating wait, and you had a recipe for an angry Lincoln casserole.

No, really, he was pissed.

Fucking towelheads.

America is rich in natural resources...including oil, but somewhere down the line, some dumbass had a brain fart and said 'hey, let's start buying all of our oil from the Middle East.' Fabulous. Then they said 'Let's be Israel's best friend too and piss off the people who supply us with oil.' Lincoln wasn't an expert on world affairs, but Israel and its Muslim neighbors (you know, our oil guys) are always going to war with each other, always talking bad about each other, always at each other's throats. America, for whatever reason, thought it could help Israel out while not incurring the wrath of the OPEC nations. Well, guess what: After the Yom Kippur War last fall, they did. The Middle Eastern nations put an embargo on oil shipments to the U.S. and other western nations, prices skyrocketed, and supply...well...the supply wasn't there. Lovely.

Then the fun began. Rationing. Long lines, a national 55 mile per hour speed limit to converse fuel, year-round daylights savings time to conserve energy...shoot me. Please, shoot me. The rationing system worked on an odd-even basis: If the last digit of your license plate was an even number, you could get gas on day X, if it was an odd number, you could get it on day Y. That meant everyone and his fucking brother was out on gas patrol on any given day, and every gas station was swamped. Most of them put little flags out front: Red if they had no gas, green if they did, and yellow if they had gas only for cops and ambulances and shit. Sometimes you'd wait two hours in line just for the station to run out. It happened more than once to him: The attendant changing the green flag to red _just_ as he was about to pull up to the pump.

It was enough to make you want to kill someone.

And he almost had. In February, he was sitting in line like he was now, and some asshole pulled _around_ his car and tried to cut him off. Lincoln beeped his horn, the other guy gestured wildly. Lincoln got out, the other guy got out; Lincoln got back into his car, the other guy _crawled_ back into his. He didn't hurt him, though, not really. Just a swift jab to the cheek. It could have been worse, but Lincoln pulled back at the last second.

Presently, he slumped over the wheel and drew a deep breath. There were five cars ahead of him in a crooked, pitiful excuse for a line ('This line is a goddamn disgrace to every car to ever set tire on the highway' he could hear Sargent Hellman saying), and he was starting to worry that the green flag was going to be yanked away and replaced with a red one before he got his fill. Sorry, Mack, all outta gas, try somewhere else. In the passenger seat, Alex sullenly crossed her arms and stared out the window. Gee, take Alex with you, Lincoln, you guys can bond, Lincoln. One, he and Alex did plenty of bonding, and two...what almost five-year-old wants to sit in line at the gas station? She would have been _much_ happier at home listening to her records and playing with her toys. "Can we go home now?" she asked.

"Not yet," Lincoln said, "we need gas."

"Why?"

"Because the car won't work without gas."

"Why?"

"Because cars are stupid, and so is OPEC."

Alex's brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"The people making up wait in line."

Her face darkened. "They _are_ stupid."

The car currently at the pump pulled away, and the line moved. Lincoln toed the gas pedal, and they crept two feet forward before stopping again. He watched the attendant, a beefy man in gray overalls, open the gas tank and shove the nozzle in. You know how Nixon should address this bullshit? Horses. Bring horses back and kick cars off the highway. Hell, you can breed a horse to be like a station wagon, can't you? Extra-long body with a wide ass for storage.

On the radio, a weatherman was calling for rain overnight and even mentioned the 'S' word: Snow. It might very well snow this week. Lincoln hated snow. It was pretty to look at, but he didn't get to just look at it like he did when he was a kid, he had to drive in it, he had clean up after it, shovel, salt, his house _and_ Flip's, and if it was snowing too bad, business was slow and he lost money. Oh, and not to mention the salt on the highways slowly eating away at his car. Yeah, snow blew.

Alex leaned forward and turned the knob, searching once more for the hard wock that didn't play every single minute of every day despite her wanting it to. She flicked through news, country, pop, oldies (hey, that's a good song), soul, then back again. She finally gave up and left it on a station playing folksy acoustic singer/songwriter stuff:

 _I can see her lyin' back in her satin dress_

 _In a room where ya do what ya don't confess_

 _Sundown you better take care_

 _If I find you been creepin' 'round my back stairs._

Lincoln actually kind of liked stuff like that. James Taylor was okay, Cat Stevens...eh, he was a little much...he glanced at Alex and discerned from the pinched look on her face that she was _not_ enjoying the song. "You have to expand your musical horizons," he said, "you can't live on hard rock alone."

She deepened her frown and wrapped her arms more tightly around her tiny frame. Sometimes Lincoln could kick himself for buying that stupid Humble Pie record.

The car at the pump drove off, and the line moved again. The most frustrating part about this was not really waiting in line in of itself, it was that just a few short months ago (prior to October), getting gas was as simple as pulling up to the pump, paying the attendant, and watching him do your light work. Gas flowed like wine back in them days, now it was a trickle of piss warm water leaking from a broken bathroom faucet.

Finally, glory be to God, it was Lincoln's turn, and he half expected to be red flagged like a football player who had done something wrong. _Penalty on the field, being a lame-o._ He rolled down the window as the attendant came up. "I was waiting so long my hair turned white," Lincoln said and pointed to his head.

The attendant chuckled. "Sorry about that."

"It's not your fault. Unleaded."

Alex watched the man through the window. "We're getting gas?"

"Yup," Lincoln said, "finally."

"Good," Alex said, "I wanna go home."

"Me too."

Lincoln paid and pulled away from the pump, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror: The attendant switched the green flag to red. Lincoln laughed. Suckers! I got the last of it! Horns beeped and people yelled out their windows in frustration. Oh, boy, my luck is never _this_ good.

When he got home, he parked in the driveway and Alex hopped out. Lincoln followed, and inside Ronnie Anne was stretched out on the couch, her feet in Jessy's lap. They were both asleep, Jessy's head resting against her upturned palm. How do you like that? He and Alex have to brave long lines and near anarchy to get gas while these two chowderheads take a nap.

Alex went into her room and Lincoln knelt next to Ronnie Anne. How should he wake her? Nicely or not so nicely? He leaned in, his face hovering inches above hers, and watched her for a moment. She was beautiful. He should touch her brea –

Loud rock music shattered the silence.

Ronnie Anne jerked forward in surprise, and her forehead smashed into Lincoln's. Lincoln screamed and fell back onto his ass as red agony filled his vision; Ronnie Anne cried out and flopped back against the couch, her hands flying to her face. During his stay at that luxury spa back in Vietnam, Lincoln was spoiled by his captors, er, hosts, with many, many hits to the head, often with lengths of bamboo. Someway, somehow, his wife's skull hurt ten times worse. Thank God those assholes never beat him with a severed head.

"What the fuck?" she moaned.

Lincoln was curled up on the floor, his hands clutching his head and tears of pain oozing from his eyes. "You asshole!"

"What were you _doing?"_

"I was going to kiss you!"

Jessy sat on the couch, her eyes wide and her lips quivering. She started to cry, and Lincoln pushed through the pain to get to her; he got up on his knees and flopped against the couch, his face kissing the cushion. Ronnie Anne's legs were drawn up in an M and she rubbed her head. "Turn that music down!" she yelled.

Suddenly, silence filled the house.

"It's okay," Lincoln said and propped himself up on his elbows. His niece watched him with tearful, fear filled eyes. "Uncle Lincoln and Aunt Ronnie Anne are fine."

" _You scareded me,"_ Jessy wept.

Lincoln's heart twisted. "I'm sorry, baby; it was an accident." He picked the little girl up and held her; she buried her face in the crook of his neck and sobbed as he rubbed her back. He looked at Ronnie Anne; her hand was pressed to her forehead and her eyes were squinted in pain. "Did you get gas at least?" she asked.

"Yes, I got gas."

"Good...you almost broke my head."

"You're the one who went to sit up all of a sudden."

"Talk to your daughter."

"You can't control what happens in life," Lincoln said, "but you can control how you react. You reacted poorly."

"Oh, bite me."

Lincoln clicked his teeth and leaned toward her. She pulled away, trying her best to keep her face mean but failing; the corners of her mouth turned up and light danced in her eyes. "It was a figure of speech, lame-o."

Jessy had stopped crying, but remained limp against Lincoln's shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. "All better?"

She nodded.

"Good. I love you."

 _"I wuv you too."_

* * *

Monday afternoon. Carol Pingrey sat before a microfilm reader in the basement of the town library, a notebook off to one side and a pencil poised at the ready. She turned the slide, and on the screen, an image of the front page of the _Royal Woods Republican_ from March 1968 appeared. She scanned it, didn't see what she was looking for, and went to the next issue. Behind her, Bobby restlessly paced back and forth along a wide shelf crammed with historical records, reference material, and other historical documents. He would stop occasionally, pull something out, look at it, then put it back and continue on. He had a habit of being fidgety when he was bored; it was really cute.

She bowed her head and scanned the screen, then sighed with frustration. "You almost done?" Bobby asked.

"No," Carol said sharply, then regretted her tone. "No," she repeated more softly, "I can't find it _anywhere_." Bobby came over, bent behind her, and rested his arm against the edge of the table. He wore a light green windbreaker and a black pair of jeans that Carol bought him for Christmas. Black looked really good on him.

"Are you sure you're looking in the right place?"

Carol threw up her hands. "I don't know. I _thought_ it was in March."

They were in seventh grade now, the big time, junior high, and one thing the teachers in junior high love to do it assign reports. Carol didn't mind reports, in fact, she liked doing them, but this recent one had her stumped. It was a simple enough premise: Interview a local 'figure,' meaning someone who did something newsworthy...and including details about when that newsworthy thing occurred, how, where, etc, counted for half of the grade. Half! That was _totally_ insane. Her cousin, Bradly, was a volunteer fireman, and in March 1968 he rescued a woman from a car after it slid on ice, flipped over, and landed upside down in the river. He was off duty, driving home with his wife from a restaurant, when he saw the crash. He jumped out, dove into the water, and saved her. He didn't remember exactly when it happened, but he was sure it was in the paper, and it certainly sounded like the type of thing that would be in the paper: Royal Woods was a small town, and a hero fireman was apt to be the year's biggest story.

Yet...nothing. She'd gone through all of March (almost) and zip, zilch, nada. It was _quite_ irritating.

"Just keep looking," Bobby said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into his lips, humming contentedly. Bobby had a reputation for being a low-level delinquent (cutting up in class and giving the teachers a hard time, not drinking or mugging people or anything), but he was the sweetest boy. Carol liked him. A lot. In fact, a couple times since they'd been 'together' she almost slipped up and said she loved him. Didn't wanna do that; it might scare him. She kind of did, though, or at least she _thought_ she did. She'd never felt this way about a boy before, so she wasn't exactly what you'd call experienced. When they weren't together, she thought about him, wondering what he was doing, where he was, and counting down the minutes until she could see him again. And sometimes, even though she knew it wasn't proper or ladylike, she had...ahem...dirty thoughts about him. She blamed it on puberty. Totally _not_ her fault.

Presently, she turned and smiled up at him. He leaned forward, and they kissed, their tongues quickly flicking one another. "That's the pick-me-up I needed," she said and turned back to the screen. "You're lucky you don't have Mrs. Preston for English or you'd be doing this too."

Bobby chuckled. "I'd rather have her than Mr. Dempsey; I'd get to be with you."

She smiled dreamily and turned the knob. Another issue popped up. There was a picture of –

She blinked in surprise.

Lincoln, Bobby's uncle and the owner of Flip's, stood ramrod straight in a military dress uniform while another man in a uniform (Carol _thought_ the markings on his coat meant he was a general) placed a medal around his neck. The photo was fuzzy and black-and-white, so she couldn't be sure, but it looked like a purple heart.

"Bobby," she said, "look at this."

Bobby came over and bent. "Hey, it's my uncle lameass."

Carol read the caption below the picture: _Corporal Loud (right) receives the Purple Heart and the Distinguished Service Cross from General Yancy (left)._ Her eyes flicked to the accompanying story, and she read it with drawing interest. "I didn't know your uncle was in the war," she said.

"Yeah," Bobby said matter-of-factly, "I _kind_ of remember him coming back and it being a big deal or something." He leaned in closer. "I didn't know he got medals, though."

"It says here he was a POW and led an escape."

"I didn't know that," Bobby said thoughtfully. "He doesn't really talk about it and my mom said not to bring it up."

Carol's eyes lingered over several passages. _"...wounded in battle..." "...held at a Vietcong prisoner-of-war camp for eight months..." "...displayed valor in action..."_

Her lips lifted in a tiny grin. She knew who she wanted to do her report on, and it wasn't her cousin Bradly. She hurriedly jotted down the information from the article, snapped her notebook closed, and got up. "All done," she said.

She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on as Bobby watched her quizzically. "Wait," he said, "I thought you had to find that thing."

"I changed my mind," she said, "I'm doing my report on your uncle Lincoln." She was excited because there was no bigger or more interesting 'local figure' than a certified war hero. She had to be quick, though; if she wasn't, one of her classmates might swoop in and take him right out from under her nose. She clutched her books to her chest and started away, but Bobby grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Whoa! Hey, my mom said not to bring it up. It's a touchy subject or something."

"Well, talking about touchy subjects is the perfect way to make them _less_ touchy," she said. "Now are you coming or not?"

Bobby sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket; he bowed his head and looked nervous. He was cute when he was nervous. "Fine," he said sullenly.

Carol grinned. "Good. Come on. You can be my assistant." She turned and hurried across the basement and up the stairs to the main floor, her steps quick and resolute, her back straight and her shoulders squared. Bobby trudged along behind, his shoulders slumped. His mom would be mad if Uncle Lincoln told her he and Carol were bothering him about Vietnam.

Outside, the sky was cloudy and a cool breeze swept across the town, making Bobby shiver. How Carol could stand to wear skirts in this kind of weather was a mystery to him, but he didn't mind, because he liked looking at her legs, but not for too long, because if he did, he'd get a boner. She rushed along the sidewalk in that deliberate way of hers that said _I mean business,_ and Bobby had to run to keep up. "Are you sure you don't want to do it on your cousin? He rescued someone from a crashed car. That's pretty cool."

"I'm sure," Carol said.

"Really?"

"Yep."

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "Really, really sure?"

"Really, really sure."

Damn it. When Carol made up her mind about something, you couldn't shake her off; she was like a force of nature or something. Part of him wanted to split and head home so he wouldn't get in trouble, but Carol was his girlfriend, so he kind of _had_ to go with her. What kind of boyfriend ditches his girlfriend because he's afraid of his mom? A real chickenshit, that's what kind.

Sigh. You're lucky I lov – like you.

* * *

Leni looked at the record in her hand and frowned. The words on the label didn't make any sense; they were, like, a jumble. She blinked, but they didn't get normal, and her head started to ache as her mind worked in overdrive to decipher them. That one _kind_ of looked like a purple, but she really couldn't tell. Someone tugged on her dress, and she glanced down to see Alex looking up at her. "Can you put it on, pwease?" Leni smiled. Bunny talked _really_ good, but some words she, like, was still a baby. She looked at the record again, then dropped it onto the turntable, making sure the little pokey part went through the little hole in the center.

Nothing happened, and Leni frowned again. _We don't have until the cows come home, Mister Record Man. Play Bunny music._

Still, nothing happened.

Alex looked curiously up at her. "Put the needle in the gwoove."

Leni's brow furrowed. That didn't sound right, but okay. She went to her vanity, opened a drawer, and took out one of her knitting needles. She went back over to the record player and started to bring the needle down, but Alex shoved her. "No, you'll scwatch it!"

"But you told me to –"

"Nevermind," Alex sighed. She lifted the record player's little arm and dropped it onto the record.

When music began to play, Leni smiled. "Good job, Bunny. You made it work."

At the foot of the bed, Luan was on her stomach coloring, her hair in pigtails and her little tongue touching her little upper lip. As the guitar started, her brow furrowed. _"I don't wike this."_

"We can listen to our music later, Luan," Leni said, "just let Bunny listen to hers first."

Alex glanced up at Leni, her brow pinched. Leni looked down at her. Both looked slightly confused. "What?" Leni asked.

"Nothing."

Leni shrugged and went over to her vanity, where she sat. She took out her brush; it trembled in her hand. She looked at it; you are getting _verrrry_ sleepy. She giggled. What was she going to do again? She was holding her brush so brush her hair, but she already brushed her hair today. She sat it back down. You know what she was in the mood for? Painting her room. She'd have to find paint, though. She'd wait until Alex and Luan left.

She blinked.

Jessy. Luan's _baby._ Right. Got mixed up there for a second. It happens. She looked at herself in the mirror. She should do her make-up. She reached into her drawer, rummaged around, and came back with a tube of lipstick. Oh, perfect. She took the cap off, leaned as close to the glass as she could, and opened her eyes wide. She held the tip to her eyelashes and applied gentle strokes. It was really, like, clumpy, and when she accidentally blinked, her eyes started to _really_ burn. Ow. She dropped the tube and pressed her fingers to her eyes, but that only made it worse. Damn it.

"Auntie Leni be _right_ back," she said and got up. On the way out the door, she bumped into the wall because she couldn't see. In the bathroom, she rinsed her eyes out and looked at herself in the mirror. Hm. That lipstick must have been spoiled. She went back into her room; Alex was sitting by the record player and nodding her head and Luan was still coloring. Leni sat at her vanity. She felt strange. Like, restless. She was always in this house, always watching these kids. She needed a walk...or maybe a day at the town. Someone ought to make a place for Lenis to go.

Sudden anger tore through her chest. But they didn't. Lenis had _nowhere_ to go, not even a pot to piss in! She made a fist with her hand and brought it up, meaning to slam it as hard as she could on the table, but she caught sight of Luan – no, Jessy – in the mirror. She didn't want to scare her. She didn't want to scare Bunny either. They didn't deserve to see their sister – I mean niece – angry like that.

Leni sighed and blinked back tears. It was just irritating that there was no more Brady Bunch. She liked that show, why did they stop playing it? Everything she liked got tooken away from her. Luna, the Brady Bunch, her _knitting_. Next was Bunny. Bunny was going to school next April or something and Leni wouldn't have her. It was like Bobby Jr. all over again. She remembered being sad when he went to school...she thought. It was so _long_ ago. He was married and living in Arizona now and she never got to see him.

Pout.

At least she still had Jessy, but it was, like, only a matter of time before she went to school too.

Something in the back of her mind said that was a good thing...some small, hidden part of her brain knew she couldn't babysit much longer. She, like, had headaches a lot, and she got mad then sad then fell over because her feet, like, tangled. She might fall over on Jessy and squish her. Lincoln and his wife would _not_ be happy.

Ronnie Anne. That was her name. She knew that, it just slipped her mind. She lived here for a little while when Lincoln was in China and she was really nice.

Her dress tugged, and she turned. Jessy was looking up at her, a piece of paper held up for Leni's inspection. Leni smiled. "Did you make me something?"

Jessy nodded.

Leni took it and looked at it: A picture of a blonde stick figure holding hands with a small stick figure with brown pigtails. A cutely smiling sun looked down on them like it was happy they got along. Leni studied it for a moment, her mind working. "Is that us?"

Jessy nodded.

Leni's heart brimmed with joy. "It's beautiful. I'm going to put it up right now." She reached into the drawer, pulled out a thumbtack, and pressed the drawing flat to the mirror. She tried to shove the tack through, but it wouldn't go, and Leni flashed, but didn't yell or anything because she might hurt Jessy's feelings. "I'll put it up later," she said, and sat the drawing down. She pulled Jessy into her lap and hugged her from behind. "I love you," she said.

" _You too."_

* * *

Lincoln turned the radio over in his hands and smiled. He finally did it...he fixed the motherfucker. After years of tinkering and jacking around like a blind man in a whorehouse, he did something somehow, someway, and it worked like it did when he and Ernie first bought it. "Told you assholes," he said. Dick Cooper and Steve Thompson, two of his regulars, sat on the other side of the counter. Dick had a burger, Steve had fried chicken; Lincoln added fried chicken to the menu at the end of last year but not many people ordered it. Too bad; it was really good.

"I stand corrected," Dick said and took a sip of Coke. He and Steve worked at a paper factory near Elk Park; why they started coming down here for lunch every day was beyond Lincoln, but whatever. Their money was just as green as anyone else's.

 _God, I sound like Flip._

He grinned.

"How many times did that thing shock the hell out of you, Linc?" Steve asked. "Ten? Twenty?"

"Fifty-eight and a half," Lincoln said.

Dick and Steve both furrowed their brows. "How the hell did it _half_ shock you?" Steve asked.

"'Cause when it started I snatched one of my waitresses and passed the current to her."

Steve snickered and Dick shook his head. "How old is that thing?" Dick asked. "Not too old, right?"

Lincoln thought for a minute. "Uhh...eleven, twelve years." He sat it on the counter and turned the knob; after a click, staticky music started to play.

 _And the sound of the battle rang_

 _Through the streets of the old East Side_

 _Till the last of the hoodlum gang_

 _Had surrendered up or died._

Lincoln nodded smugly and turned it so that its front faced the customers. "Hear that? That's the sound of victory."

 _Pop. Crackle. Sizzle._

The music cut out.

Lincoln grabbed the radio and spun it around, his teeth clenching. Damn it, he thought he _had_ it this time!

Dick and Steve both laughed.

"You can take your food and get out," Lincoln muttered as he reached under the counter for the screwdriver, his fingers dancing over the .38. Damn, that's right; he wanted to teach his girls how to shoot. In the rush and whirl of everyday life, he kept forgetting. He _did_ teach Alex a little gun safety – just a couple talks on guns and how to use them. _A gun is not a toy. You never point it at anybody and you always treat it as though it's loaded._ She rolled her eyes and went off to play or something. He'd start with Ronnie Anne.

When he had the screwdriver, he undid the screws holding the case together, and the stench of burnt wiring drifting to his nostrils. Dick waved his hand in front of his face and crinkled his nose. "Damn, Linc. I say it's time for a new radio."

Lincoln sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I'll put this on display with Flip." A photo of Flip hung on the wall behind him. It was one he and Bobby found when they cleaned out Flip's house. It was of him in the late forties, sitting behind the register and glowering at a man in a suit. Who took it and why, Lincoln didn't know. He really liked it, though.

"You do that," Dick said, and paid for him and Steve. Aw, they're a couple. How sweet. You may now kiss the groom.

After they left, Lincoln put the casing back on the radio and screwed it together, barely registering the ring of the bell over the door. He bent sideways on the stool to make sure he didn't knock the gun off the shelf, sat the radio next to it, and looked up.

A grinning face greeted him, and he jerked with a cry of alarm; suddenly, it was dinnertime in Vietnam, and his rice had a little something _extra_ in it.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Carol Pingrey said. She sat on a stool and Bobby Jr. sat on the one next to her; the boy looked nervous.

"You're fine," Lincoln said, "all I saw was blonde hair and I flashed back to when his mother used to beat me every day before school."

Carol's glowing smile faltered a little. "She did?"

Lincoln snickered. "No. What do you kids want?"

Carol rested her arms on the counter and laced her hands together, her back straightening and her head tilting slightly forward. She looked like she was on serious business, and it made Lincoln nervous. He reached for the .38.

Not really, but, yeah, the intensity in her eyes was a little unnerving.

"To talk to you," she said.

Lincoln's brow arched. To talk to _me_ , huh? "What about?"

Bobby Jr. sighed and Carol glanced at him, then back at Lincoln. "Well," she started, "I need to interview a local newsmaker for a class assignment. I was hoping I could talk to you. About Vietnam."

A ghost of a flush colored the back of Lincoln's neck, and his heart did a little somersault. No, no, no, he did _not_ want to talk about Vietnam. "I don't really like to go into that," he said evenly, "it's kind of a..." he searched for the right word... "touchy subject."

"Told you," Bobby breathed.

Carol would not be dissuaded, though. "Please? I saw you in the paper and what you did was really fascinating. You don't have to tell me _everything_ if you don't want, but I would like to hear about the escape. After all, it was the only time in the whole war anyone did that."

Lincoln sighed. Her smile widened, her eyes danced with light, her posture was prim and proper and gee, she was a cute kid. Lincoln had a lot of things in him – like shoving a gun into a man's side and pulling the trigger and punching another one over gasoline – but telling a cute kid to go get fucked and breaking their heart wasn't one of them. All he had to do was talk a little bit. Hell, it wasn't _that_ bad. He'd been talking to himself and Ronnie Anne about it for years. Easy.

He wouldn't mention the maggots, though.

"Fine," Lincoln relented, "I'll do it."

"Thank you!"

Lincoln nodded. "When?"

Carol shrugged. "Why not right now?"

"Right now? I'm busy."

Carol looked left, then right, then at Lincoln with an expression that said _see? no you're not._

You ever hear the expression 'saved by the bell'? That day, Lincoln was saved by the Blades, because just as he opened his mouth, Blades came down the back hallway with a handcart stacked with boxes. "Hey, Linc," he said and went into the kitchen. Metal scraped against the floor as Scott moved the prep table to give Blades room.

"Look, I just got an order in, I have to go, uh, look at it. Why don't you come over to my house Saturday or something? Bobby knows where it is."

Before she could protest, he jumped up and rushed into the kitchen.

It was just talking about Vietnam, sure, but he did _not_ want to do it right now...and truth be told, he did not want to do it in public, because bugging out in front of some kid would be bad enough (he wouldn't...he just wanted to make sure), but in front of all his customers?

He sighed.

 _I should have told her to fuck off._

* * *

 ** _Random question: Who's your favorite character so far? I think mine was Flip._**


	91. March 1974: Part 2

Lynn Loud III was wearing a dress – and she didn't like it. Dresses felt weird; she'd much rather be in her overalls or a pair of jeans. Mama said she had to wear a dress so she'd look pretty because sometimes you have to. Lynn didn't understand why. No one was even paying attention to her: They were all too busy looking at their laps or blowing their noses to notice she was wearing a dress.

She shifted her butt. It was starting to get sore. Why was this seat so hard? It was like the seats at school and Lynn didn't like the seats at school. She looked up at her father; he was staring forward and paying close attention to the man talking. She reached out, grabbed a handful of his coat, and tugged. He looked down at her. "Can we go home now?" she asked. She really wanted to leave; it was hot and smelled funny in here.

"In a little while," her father said softly and swallowed her hand in his. She threw back her head and sighed. It was a nice day, not too hot and not too cold – perfect baseball weather – and here she was stuck inside. She didn't like being inside...she wanted to run and play and jump, not listen to someone talk. Talk is cheap; her father said so, and he was the biggest, strongest, and smartest person ever, so it _had_ to be true. He squeezed her hand and smiled at her. She smiled back. If he wanted her to sit still, she'd sit still.

The man kept talking and talking and talking. Would he _ever_ shut up? Why did they even have to be here? It didn't make sense.

Finally, after forever, the man stopped and everyone stood up and started walking up front. Her father held her hand and she got excited because it was time to leave, but instead of leaving, he led her to the back of the line and stopped. She bowed her head. _I wanna go home!_

"Daddy?" she asked, looking up at her father.

"Yeah?"

"Can we play baseball when we get home?"

"Of course," he said with a smile.

That lifted her spirits a little; she loved playing baseball with him because that was their special time together. Watching baseball on TV too. Daddy really liked baseball so Lynn really liked it too, and it made her feel really good when he said she was doing well and getting better. That made her want to get _even better_.

The line moved slowly, and Lynn got really bored, so she balanced herself on one foot, then the other; she wobbled and almost fell, but her Daddy was holding her hand so she didn't. Where was Mama? She and Grandma were around here somewhere, but she hadn't seen them in a while. She tossed her head left and right, but all she saw was a forest of unfamiliar legs. When she craned her neck, she saw lots and lots of faces she didn't know. They made her feel a little nervous, but she didn't show it, because big strong baseball players like her didn't show nerves. Daddy said when you give in to nerves, you choke, and choking is very bad. She saw someone on TV choke and they turned blue like a Smurf.

A giggle bubbled up in her throat, but she didn't let it out.

When they got closer to the front of the room, Daddy picked her up; she put her arms around his neck and rested her butt on his arm. Now she could see better. Mama and Grandma were up ahead, their backs to Lynn. They both cried a lot lately which made Lynn sad.

Finally, they were there. Lynn looked down and furrowed her brow in confusion. Of all the things she didn't understand – which was kind of a lot – this was the biggest. Daddy said Grandpa went to live with God, but he was right in front of her, sleeping in a weird looking bed, his hands folded on his chest like a vampire in a really scary movie she saw once. She felt a faint stirring of fear in her stomach, but pushed it down because baseball players don't get scared. Plus, it was Grandpa, not a vampire. Vampires wear capes; Grandpa was wearing a suit.

She turned to look at her father. "Why is he sleeping in there?"

"Because that's where you sleep when you live with God."

"Why?"

Daddy was quiet for a moment. "Because if you sleep somewhere else, God won't be able to find you."

"Why?"

"He has bad eyesight."

Oh. Grandma had bad eyesight and had to wear glasses. Why couldn't God wear glasses too?

Outside, Daddy put her in the car and buckled her seatbelt. Mama sat in the front seat and wiped her eyes with a hankie. Daddy got behind the wheel, put his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. Lynn looked out the window at the sky and thought of all the baseball she was going to play when she got home because baseball made her happy, and she wanted to think of something happy and not something sad like her Mama crying.

Daddy started the car and they started to drive. The sun sparkled through the trees as they pulled out of the church parking lot and went down the street. She was starting to get excited because soon she could take her dress off, put on her overalls, and play baseball with Daddy, but her excitement died when they turned into a cemetery and parked behind a long black car. "I thought we were going _home_ ," she said.

"In a few minutes, honey," Dad said.

She sighed but allowed him to lead her to where everyone else was gathered. Grandpa's special bed was suspended over a hole, the lid closed and a bunch of flowers on top of it. Daddy told her the bed had to go inside the ground so Grandpa could live with God. That was strange. Why couldn't Grandpa drive or take the school bus like she did?

More talking, more boring stuff. She balanced on one foot again, then the other, her eyes trained on her black shoes. They were dress shoes – that meant you wear them when you wear your dress – and they hurt her feet. She liked her All-Stars better. They were comfy.

Finally, it was over and they went home. She was happy but sad at the same time because Mama was still crying. She wanted to make it better, so she leaned forward. "It's okay, Mama," she said, "Grandpa will come back and visit."

That made her cry even harder, and Lynn was even sadder.

She got to play baseball with Daddy for a whole hour, though, and that made her happy again.

* * *

Saturday morning, Lincoln sat on the couch with his girls and watched cartoons, one leg propped on the other and one arm draped over the back. _Scooby-Doo_ was on and Shag and Scoob were walking through a spooky dungeon, passing the same suit of armor and coat of arms again and again and again. They're so stoned they don't even realize they're walking in circles! Hahahahaha! Screw-ups. Speaking of screw, how come Fred and Daphne always wound up together when the gang split? _Shag, you and Scoob go look in that cemetery with all the walking corpses, Velma, you check out the mad scientist's lab, me and Daph are going to check the bedroom._ Lincoln didn't like Velma very much – call him crazy, but she looked like Luna, and every time he saw her, he started thinking about his sister.

He should drive out to the cemetery and see her. It had been a few months; he would sit next to her headstone and catch her up as though she were alive and sitting beside him. He was well aware that anyone who saw him might think he was crazy, but he didn't really care. It brought him comfort. Another thing that brought him comfort was the fact that every time he went out there, he found things on her grave. Flowers, stuff animals, cards and letters from fans. It was like – and this might sound _really_ crazy – like she was never alone. She wasn't rotting away in some isolated corner of an ancient burial ground, people cared enough to visit her. That was nice.

What wasn't so nice was that guy who called him the day before, the one who was writing a book on rock and roll or something and wanted to talk to him about Luna. He seemed polite enough, but Lincoln just was not up to talking about her, not in the kind of detail the author of a book would want. The wound was still too fresh, too painful. Maybe in ten years, or fifteen, but not now.

Speaking of things he didn't particularly want to talk about, Bobby and Carol would be over at some point this afternoon. He was nervous because talking about Vietnam always made him a little jumpy, and being jumpy isn't something Lincoln dug. At all. Still, he'd rather talk about that than Luna.

"That ghost is scawy," Jessy said and hid her eyes behind her hands. On TV, Shag and Scoob were running from an apparition and throwing frightened glances over their shoulders. He ran like that once from a group of VC. Unlike the ghost, they were packing heat.

"It's not a _weal_ ghost," Alex said, "it's a person."

"How do you know _that?"_ Lincoln asked.

"It's _always_ a person."

"Maybe this time it's not," Lincoln said. He put his arm around Jessy and drew her close; she was trembling. "Honey, it's only make-believe."

"I still scareded."

Aw. He ran his fingers through her hair and rubbed her scalp. "Don't be. I'm right here and I won't let anything happen to you. If that ghost tries to get you, I'll shoot it."

"That doesn't work," Alex said.

"Yes it does. I have a special ghost gun."

Shortly, _Scooby Doo_ went off and _Josie and the Pussycats_ came on; Jessy sat up, took her hands away from her face, and smiled. She started to dance in her seat to the theme song, and Lincoln grinned. Ah, he loved Saturday mornings. It'd be a whole lot better if Ronnie Anne was here, but it was _her_ turn to go sit in a long gas line; the station wagon was full, now it was the Pinto's day. Odd number, even number, you know.

About an hour later, Ronnie Anne came through the door and sighed. "Get gas?" he asked.

"No, I didn't," she said angrily, "they ran out."

"Why didn't you go somewhere else?" he asked.

"I tried," she huffed and dropped onto the couch next to Alex, "everyone's out. The manager at the Texaco said the fuel truck should be there this afternoon, so I'm going to have to go back."

"How much do you have?"

"Quarter tank."

Oh. "You can make that last, can't you?"

She shook her head. "Probably not."

Goddamn Arabs. Why the hell couldn't everyone stop going to war with each other? _Oh, our land! The Jews are on our land!_ That land is a strip of fucking desert and rock. Get over it. You have _everything_ else. Egypt. Jordan. Fucking Saudi Arabia...God forbid someone wearing a yarmulke set up a tent on a goddamn rock-strewn hillside overlooking a shark infested, fucking giant octopus-having stretch of the Mediterranean. What was that Greek story about the guy who got lost and spent, like, thirty years trying to get home? If Lincoln remembered correctly, he sailed all over that goddamn sea and fell victim to giants, witches, and God knows what else. Fuck that. If he was the Arab nations, he'd gladly put Israel between him and that spooky ass ocean. Here, _you_ deal with the cyclops.

Idiots. All of them. Everybody. Bastards.

At lunch, he made the girls toasted cheese sandwiches; he ate one while he cooked and decided against another. He brought them into the living room and jabbed Ronnie Anne in the forehead with his finger. "No messes."

She laughed and swatted his hand. "Give me my food and get out of here."

They were just finishing up when someone knocked on the door. Wonder who that could be.

"I'll get it," Lincoln said.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Ronnie Anne asked as he crossed the living room. He told her about Carol Pingrey's assignment, and she said _Talking's good, lame-o, but if you don't wanna, I'll kick their asses_. No, dear, I can whip two twelve-year-olds myself. Thank you.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Lincoln said as he opened the door. She was right that talking was good, and hell, that's all it was. If he couldn't talk about it, it controlled him, you know?

Carol and Bobby Jr. stood on the front step, Bobby in brown pants and a matching brown button-up shirt with pockets on the chest, and Carol in a fuzzy green sweater and blue and white plaid pants, her bangs head back by a green headband, her straight hair falling over her shoulders. "Hi, Mr. Loud," she chirped. She held a notebook in one hand and a compact rectangular machine in the other: It had woodgrain, buttons, and a little microphone. A tape recorder? Jesus, this girl doesn't screw around.

"Hi," he said, then nodded to Bobby. "Since when do you dress like a model in a Sears catalog?"

"I bought it for him," Carol said, "he looks handsome in it."

Bobby blushed, and Lincoln grinned. "Yes, he does," Lincoln said and pinched his nephew's cheek. "Uncle Lincy's handsome little man."

Bobby pulled away and swatted Lincoln's hand. "Stop," he said in an embarrassed tone.

"Well, come on in," Lincoln said and stepped aside. Bobby came in first, and Carol followed.

Lincoln closed the door as Ronnie Anne _awwwwed_ at her nephew's little outfit. "I already heard it from lame-o, I don't need it from you too." Lincoln came over and pushed Bobby Jr. along before Ronnie Anne could rip out his throat and drink his blood.

"Kitchen," he said.

He sat at the table and Carol and Bobby sat across from him. Carol set the tape recorder up, then moved it slightly aside and laid her notebook down. She looked at her work station, frowned, then lined the notebook up perfectly with the recorder. Lincoln watched with a raised brow. It was cute – she was anal retentive. Good luck, Bobby, you're gonna need it. "You kids want something to drink?" Lincoln asked. "We have Coke, Tang..."

"No, thank you," Carol said. She pressed a button on the tape recorder, picked up the little microphone, and held it up, her arm resting against the table's edge. "So, tell me about Vietnam."

For some reason, the uber serious expression on her face made him laugh. His laughter slowly died: She watched him unwaveringly, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes. Alright, now he was starting to get creeped out. "Uh," he said and rubbed the back of his neck, "well...I was infantry, stationed first in Saigon then in Que Son."

"Were you drafted?"

"Yes. May 1966. I went through basic training at Camp Beauregard in Louisiana and I shipped off to Vietnam in August."

"What was basic training like?"

Lincoln thought of Sargent Hellman and couldn't help laugh. It wasn't funny then, but it was now. "There was a lot of yelling, and a lot of early mornings. A lot of exercise, too."

Carol picked up a pencil and made a few notes. Bobby sat quietly in his chair, looking slightly uncomfortable. When she was done, she looked up. "Did you have any specialized training after basic?"

"No," Lincoln said, "just garden variety foot soldier stuff."

"What did you do in Vietnam?"

"First, I guarded a government building in Saigon, then I went to the front in early 1967."

She jotted something down. "How did you get captured?"

Alright, here's where the fun _really_ begins. Everything up until now was normal, routine, untraumatic chit-chat. Lincoln drew a deep breath and felt his heartbeat quicken just a little. "We were on a search and destroy mission and –"

"What's that?"

He got the idea that she knew what it was, she was just asking to be thorough. Watch out, Walter Cronkite, there's a new reporter in town. "Exactly what it sounds like. You search for something...and you destroy it."

"What were you searching for?"

In the living room, Alex and Jessy erupted in laughter at something on TV, a sweet, normal, _safe_ sound that made him jump nonetheless.

"There was a VC trail – a road used by the Vietcong – and a base of operations. We set up an ambush on the road, then moved onto the base." Images flashed to mind: Sitting against a tree and raking the trail with fire; bodies littering the road; the smell of smoke and burning flesh; Merlino putting bullets into the heads of wounded VC. That last one made him shiver. Fuck the VC, but it still bothered him. "W-We were on a path and we were ambushed." He remembered the initial burst of gunfire, ducking against a tree, Merlino crumpling wounded to the ground.

Carol watched him steadily, the microphone thrust out. She was really making him nervous now, all kidding aside. He suddenly wanted this to be over with. "Then I was caught, I spent eight months in a camp, and I escaped."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "How did you escape?"

"By shooting a bunch of people," he said quickly. "I came home, I was bumped up in rank, and I got a couple medals."

Nodding slowly, Carol wrote in her notebook. Was she judging him? She looked like she was judging him. What did that little bitch know? She wasn't there, she had no fucking clue.

Lincoln blinked.

He was bugging out.

Goddamn it.

He took a deep, calming breath. She's not judging you, Vietnam's over, you're a grown man and you've moved on, relax, there's no reason to be a spaz. Right.

Right.

It doesn't control you, you control _it_.

Prove it.

He sighed. "We were being transported to another camp," he said. "There was a firefight nearby and Americans were coming. The Cong loaded up onto a flatbed truck and drove us away. There were six other men, I think, besides me." He went back to that day, sitting next to the guard and working his hands free from the loosely bound rope. He could feel the anxiety in his stomach, a clawing, panicking thing. _God help me, god help me._ Carol was looking at him; her expression had changed, and he detected a faint trace of sympathy. He didn't know whether he appreciated it or not.

Bobby was sitting forward, interested now.

"I got my hands loose, and I...I got the attention of the guy across from me. I showed him, and nodded to the guard next to him, telling him to take care of him when I went. There was a guard next to me, and I..." he remembered slowly dancing his fingers up the guard's holster... "I reached for the gun on his hip with my left hand and smashed him in the nose with my right." He held out his left hand, balled his right, and brought it around, his arm stiff, in demonstration. For a moment he was back there, the same feelings and thoughts racing through him. "The other guard started to lift his gun but Henderson headbutted him. I brought it up and shot him." He unconsciously made a gun with the thumb, index finger, and ring finger of his left hand and pointed it at Carol. She flinched. His heart was slamming, adrenaline coursed through his veins. "Then I jammed it into the other guy's kidneys and shot him too."

Bobby's eyes were wide, and Carol leaned just slightly in his direction as if for protection. Lincoln didn't notice. He wouldn't have cared if he did. He was in the back of that truck again, and only one thing mattered to him: Getting the hell out and going home to Ronnie Anne. "I shot the driver in the back of the head," he said savagely, "and we went off the road. The guy in the passenger seat jumped out and ran, but I chased him. He got away, though I think I pegged him one." He laughed, malicious glee creeping into him. _Tell your friends...tell 'em fuck you!_

He didn't realize that he shouted this; Bobby and Carol both jumped.

Eight months of eating maggots and being beaten and left in a cage and thinking he'd never see the woman he loved again...he'd shoot the bastard right now if he could.

When Ronnie Anne spoke from the doorway to the living room, he started. "Alright, kids, I think it's time you went home." He looked at her; her eyes were pooled with something between worry and anger. That brought him back, and he realized that he bugged out.

"That's all of it anyway," he said, hot shame creeping across the back of his neck. "We got picked up, came home, and lived happily ever after. The end."

" _Now,"_ Ronnie Anne said.

Carol jabbed the button on the tape recorder and picked it and her notebook up. "Thank you for your time," she said quickly and stood, the legs of her chair scraping the floor. "I really appreciate it, you did great, I'm sure I'll get an A."

Bobby got up too, and they scurried past Ronnie Anne, whose hard eyes followed them. When the front door closed, she looked at Lincoln with softness. He sighed. "I'm fine," he said, "I just got too into the story, that's all." He chuckled nervously. "Probably scared the shit out of them."

"Yeah, and me too."

Lincoln bowed his head. Ronnie Anne came over and took his head. "Are you okay? _Really_ okay?"

He nodded. He was. His heart was still racing and he still felt the pressing, primal fear, but he was okay. He was home with his beautiful wife and his two beautiful little girls. Everything was fine.

She touched his face and he looked up at her. She smiled wanly, and his smile was just as pale. "Really," he said, "I'm fine. Don't worry. Although your worried face is kind of cute."

She snickered and sat in his lap. "Cute, huh?"

"Cute," he confirmed.

Ronnie Anne kissed the tip of his nose. "I love you."

"I love you too."

A block away, Bobby and Carol followed the sidewalk toward Carol's street. "That's why my mom said not to bring it up."

Carol, who had been quiet since they left the house, nodded. "I feel bad now. It was obviously a traumatic experience."

Bobby remembered the weird, faraway look in his uncle's eyes, and shivered. He had no idea that Lincoln did all that in the war. He thought he was a goofball, but instead he was...not a goofball. He was...well...he was kind of scary.

* * *

Well, that time had come at last: Lynn Loud Jr. signed the paperwork at the lawyer's office and officially took over Big Bill's Car Emporium. He was nervous as hell because it was all up to him now. As he drove home through the sundown streets of Tucson, he chewed his thumbnail and listened absently to the radio: The OPEC nations were lifting the oil embargo. That was nice. Since the shortage started, people were after small, compact cars that did well on gas, and most of the cars that rolled onto Bill's –er, his – lot were big, boat-like gas guzzlers: He had those coming out of his ears and he had no idea what to do.

For the first time ever, Lynn wished Big Bill was around.

 _Never take a day off,_ the old man said before his fatal aneurysm, _'cuz when you stop jugglin', it all comes down on your head._ That was all fine and well, but what good was not taking days off when suddenly no one wanted half your stock?

He sighed. It was okay. The embargo was over, supply would increase, gas prices would come down, and people would go back to sailing down the highways and byways in land ships like they did before this mess started.

He hoped.

* * *

Leni _hated_ Saturdays. And Sundays too. On Saturdays and Sundays she didn't have her Bunny or her Jessy and she didn't know what to do. The Brady Bunch wasn't on and she couldn't knit and her records all sounded like boring. Someone ought to make a place for Lenis, a place full of stuff Lenis like.

This Sunday was especially hard because her mom yelled at her last night, or at least she thought she did. Maybe it was a dream. She couldn't really tell and that's what made it even worse. Mom said you're dumb, Leni, you make me mad, and then she took all of Leni's cookies away and she cried. When she woke up this morning her cookies were back even though she saw Mom crush them up, so it had to be a dream but maybe they were new cookies, or Mom was sorry and put them back together. No, it was a dream. She wasn't stupid. She could tell. That's why she didn't say anything.

Ugh, Sundays are so dull. There's nothing on TV and no Bunny and no Jessy. She could bake, though, and that kind of make her happy. She baked cookies with Mom. "You're really quiet today," Mom said.

"I'm just tired," Leni said. That was a lie. She was still kind of walking on chickens around Mom because of the dream-or-whatever-it-was. Mom looked worried, but Leni smiled, and she smiled back. Later Leni went to the bathroom but the toilet was covered and she looked at it with a puzzled frown. It must be broken. Feeling _really_ embarrassed, she climbed into the shower, squatted, and peed. Someone should _really_ fix the commode. Lenis do _not_ like peeing in the shower; only babies pee in the shower.

Lori and Bobby Jr. and Bobby Jr.'s father came over for dinner, and that made her heart happy, because she had a playmate. Bobby Jr. was getting really big. He was, like, ten or something. "Do you want to play a board game?" she asked as Mom and Lori made dinner. They were sitting on the living room floor and Dad was sitting in his chair. He looked so old. Sometimes Leni didn't even recognize him. Mom too. She was plump and wore glasses and...well...she _thought_ they looked different than they used to, but she couldn't really remember them looking anyway else.

Bobby Jr. frowned. "What?" she asked.

"I said yes, what do you want to play?"

Leni tilted her head. Oh, right, she asked to play a board game. "I don't know, pick one."

Bobby Jr. shrugged and got up. A few minutes later he came back with a box. Leni studied the front. The words were a jumble, but after a few seconds, they, like, unjumbled. Risk. She knew this game...she thought. "Have we played this?" she asked.

"A couple times," Bobby said as he set up the board. It looked like a map. She stared at it while Bobby set up his pieces. They were little men or something. She started to hum because it was taking forever and she had to pee now. She got up, went to the bathroom, and the toilet was uncovered. Yay. They fixed it. She was in a _really_ good mood now because she didn't have to pee in the shower anymore.

When she was done, she went downstairs; Bobby Jr. was sitting in the middle of the floor with a board game. Oh, that's right, he and Lori and the other Bobby were going to come over for dinner. He looked over his shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Guess he wants to play a board game.

"Yep."

She sat down.

"I set your pieces up for you," Bobby said.

"Aw, thank you. How do you play?"

Bobby explained how, three times, and Leni finally understood. They rolled the dice, she won, and her little men kicked his little men out of Mexico. "Ha," she said, "I win."

"The battle," Bobby snorted, "but the war is _mine_."

That made her think of Lincy. He was in the war. She scanned the board, picked out one of her little men, and named him Lincy, just like the real Lincy. They rolled, and she kicked Bobby out of eastern America. "Ha!"

Bobby sighed and pursed his lips.

They had a _huge_ battle in, like, Brazil; he sent all of his men there, and she sent all of her men there too. Lincy got taken prisoner, and Leni almost cried, but it was just a game, and only babies cry over games. The real Lincy lived with his wife and their daughters, Jessy and Bunny.

Bobby looked sadly at the board. His once proud army was decimated. "How about a peace treaty?"

"Okay," Leni said.

"Withdraw your troops from Brazil and I'll withdraw mine from Africa."

"Okay," she said, "just give me back Lincy."

"Who?"

"Lincy. Your brother. I mean cousin."

Bobby frowned. " _Uncle_ Lincoln?"

"Yep." She rocked forward and pointed to one of her men lying next to Bobby. "That one."

"I don't know about prisoner exchanges," Bobby said uncertainly, "he kind of killed a bunch of my men."

"No Lincy, no peace," Leni said serenely.

Bobby drew a heavy breath and stared at the board, trying to decide whether he could continue the war or not. "Alright," he finally said, and handed Lincy back. Leni beamed, took him, and put him to her lips.

"It's okay, Lincy, you're home now."

Bobby smiled bemusedly.

At dinner, Leni sat Lincy next to her plate and happily ate. "How are you feeling?" Lori asked.

"Good," Leni said, "I rescued Lincy."

Lori's brows furrowed.

"We played Risk," Bobby Jr. explained. "She named one of her guys Lincoln."

Lori chuckled. "Who won?"

"We signed a treaty," Bobby said.

"Whose idea was _that?"_

"Bobby-bear's," Leni said.

Lori nodded. "So you were beating him."

"Yep."

Bobby flushed. "No, she wasn't beating me. I just decided I had better things to do than fight a stupid war. Like build hospitals and stuff."

"Hospitals for all the soldiers I wounded," Leni said, and everyone laughed except Bobby; his blush deepened.

After dinner, she and Lori had girl time; that was nice. She missed Lori; sometimes she still got confused and thought Lori lived here, and was sad when she remembered that she didn't. None of her siblings lived here anymore. After _that_ , Leni went upstairs and started getting ready for bed; the sooner she went to sleep, the sooner she could see Bunny and Luan-I-mean-Jessy. In the bathroom, she took her hair brush, put toothpaste on it, and put it to her lips. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realized her mistake. Silly Leni. She brushed her hair instead, humming happily as she smeared toothpaste through her golden locks.


	92. August 1974

**Lyrics to** _ **Rock Your Baby**_ **by George McCrae (1974)**

* * *

He was a man awake in his own nightmare. At night he sat awake in bed, his face in his hands and his chest tight enough to snap; his world was crumbling around him and he could do little more than watch it happen. No one could look him in the eye, and the respect he once commanded was given now only grudgingly. The atmosphere around him was dark and tense, and all of his support had been worn away. Sitting now at his desk across from Senators Goldwater and Scott and Representative Rhodes, he clenched one fist as they told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would be impeached in the House and face removal from office in the Senate. This was it; he didn't even have the backing of his own party anymore. When it came time, they would throw him to the wolves. Backstabbing bastards.

During this whole mess, he fought with dogged determination to persevere. The Senate committee wanted full tapes, he gave them transcripts – national security reasons, of course. They drafted articles of impeachment and held hearings starting in May – he appealed to the people and kept his head high. The Senate subpoenaed his tapes; he took it to the Supreme Court. Executive privilege, he pled.

It did no good.

They ruled against him.

In compliance, on August 5, two days ago, he figuratively put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He released a tape that proved he knew about Watergate and tried to cover it up – that's called conspiracy and obstruction of justice. His popular support was gone and his political support collapsed like a house of cards. The impeachment trial was tentatively set to begin in November and would most likely run into January. After that, removal from office and possible jail time.

He was angry...but he was also ashamed: He was caught with his pants down in front of the entire world. And ultimately, what was it for? Bugging the DNC – ha, he won the election in a goddamn blowout. He should have been satisfied, but Richard Nixon, the thirty-seventh president of the United States, was never satisfied...he wanted more, more, more. _You won't have Nixon to kick around anymore,_ he told the media after he lost to Kennedy – then he came back and they got him. They got him _good_. Bunch of goddamn bloodthirsty sharks.

He drew a shaky sigh and slouched in his chair; he drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk – it sounded like a funeral dirge. He thanked the representatives for their time and sent them on their way, glaring at their backs and wishing, briefly, that he was Chairman Mao; Chairman Mao was free to take care of his problems, Richard Nixon was not.

Alone, he looked around, his eyes creeping over every surface, every painting staring back at him with accusatory expressions: George Washington looked down on him as though he were a bug, and Abraham Lincoln's eyes were filled with disappointment. He sighed and glanced away. Later, he sent for Kissinger, his Secretary of State and one of his closest advisors. They talked, they weighed their options, they reached a decision. Next, Nixon summoned his speechwriter and told him what he wanted. It was dark now, and for a long time, Nixon stood by the window overlooking the lawn, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze hard.

At eight that evening, his vice president came in. Agnew was out, replaced last year because he had his own scandals the media wouldn't let lie. The new one was Gerald Ford, a tall man with a broad forehead and a receding hairline; he wore a gray suit with a blood red tie tucked into his vest. He and Nixon conferred for a long time. Ford looked nervous but resolute.

Long after Ford left, Nixon sat at his desk, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The media. The stinking, goddamn, no good media; those jackals wouldn't rest until he was dead.

And right now, he might as well be.

* * *

Lynn Loud III grabbed her bat and her ball and got out of the car. It was a hot summer day and she was at one of her favorite places in the world – the park. Kids pushed each other on the swings and climbed over the equipment like tree monkeys; with a spring in her step, she walked right past them and headed toward the baseball field beyond. "I'll be right here," her mother called. Lynn looked over her shoulder and saw Mama sitting down on a bench. "Don't go far."

"Okay!"

She rested her bat against her shoulder and skipped past the dugout. She was kind of sad because her Daddy was at work and she didn't have anyone to play with, but that was okay, because there were always kids playing baseball at the park; she saw them when she and Daddy came here.

On the field, she glanced down and saw that one of her high tops had come untied. She knelt, the denim of her overall shorts riding up, and planted her knee in the dirt. She took one dirty white lace in either hand, and moved very carefully, her lips moving silently: Cross, over, under, bow, around, through. There. She nodded and got to her feet. She took her red baseball cap off, being very careful to slide her ponytail through the little slot in back without undoing it. She didn't like her hair down. It got in the way. She tossed it away, and picked up her ball. Now, to find some kids to play with. She looked around and saw two groups of boys, one off to her right, and another straight ahead. The ones straight ahead were Spanish and kicking a soccer ball; the ones to her right were playing – gasp – baseball. One was winding up to pitch while another held his bat at the ready. The first threw, and the second swung.

 _Crack!_

The ball flew into the heavens, and Lynn trailed it with wide eyes. Wow, that was a homer for _sure_. Another boy ran after it, turned, jumped up, and caught it, then threw it back just as yet another boy slid into third, a cloud of dust rising around him.

When a shark tastes blood in the water, it goes to the source; when a Lynn smells baseball, she goes to _its_ source. Holding her bat against her shoulder, she walked up, her ponytail bobbing determinedly back and forth. One of the boys saw her and furrowed his brow. He was scrawny with freckles, buck teeth, and curly red hair poking from under his cap. He wore a light green shirt with TUCSON ELEMENTARY across the front in faded writing and dirty jeans. Lynn felt a touch of trepidation, but the promise of _baseball_ moved her on.

The boys' friends noticed her too, and gravitated to him, forming a big group. "What do _you_ want?" Redhead asked.

Lynn's step faltered. He sounded mean. She decided she didn't care, though; she wanted to play. "C-Can I play with you?"

He laughed evilly, and his friends snickered, chuckled, and grinned. "You're a girl," Redhead snorted.

"So?" Lynn asked, her heart starting to race.

"Girls can't play baseball."

A hot blush spread across the back of Lynn's neck. "Yes, they can," she said, her voice a mixture of anger, hope, and pleading. She could too play baseball; she played it every single day, and her Daddy said she was good.

Redhead laughed even harder, pressing his hands to his stomach and bending over. His friends threw back their heads, waved her dismissively off, or stared directly at her and sniggered. She was starting to get really mad. "How old are you, anyway?" Redhead asked. "Two?"

"I'm _five_."

They laughed _even harder_ , and Lynn's grip tightened on the bat.

"Why don't you test her out?" a fat boy in a striped shirt asked. "See if she can swing."

Redhead brushed a mock tear away from his eye. "Alright. Let's see." He stepped aside and pointed to home plate. "Stand here."

Lynn stalked over, her lips a tight slash and her ponytail bobbing back and forth violently now, and not happily like before. She stood on the plate and held the bat up while a black boy in a white T-shirt squatted behind her, his mitt lifted and ready to catch the ball if she missed. Which she wasn't going to.

Redhead went over to the pitcher's mound while his friends watched from the sidelines. Lynn could feel their eyes heavy upon her, and she swallowed hard, her dry throat clicking. She tightened her grip even more and tensed as he wound up for the throw, his body half turning and one leg leaving the ground. He pitched, and she swung; the ball made a muffled thump sound as it hit the mitt. "Strike one!" Redhead yelled. The black boy tossed it back, and Lynn took a deep breath. She couldn't be nervous because when you're nervous you choke and she didn't want to choke; still...she was nervous.

He wound up again, windmilling his arm with a taunting flourish, and then let rip. She swung the bat, but missed.

"Steeeee-rike two!" he yelled.

Lynn was starting to shake now. One more strike and she was out. Hot tears started to well in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Only babies cry.

 _This is it, your last chance to show them you_ can _play baseball._ She sniffed and held her bat at the ready; it trembled slightly in her hands. The black boy tossed the ball back, and Redhead caught it with a braggadocios spin. He spat and assumed the position. "You ready, little girl?" he called.

Eyes watched over smug smirks, making Lynn blush furiously. She was quivering and her stomach felt empty and fluttery. She pressed her lips together and sucked hot, dry air through flaring nostrils. She had to hit this ball, she had to prove to them that she was as good as her Daddy said she was...she had to give it her all.

Redhead threw the ball, and Lynn swung as hard as she could; the ball sailed past her and into the mitt as the force of her swing turned her around and threw her to her knees, the bat flying from her hand and landing in the dust. Cruel laughter erupted from a half dozen throats. Pain radiated from her knees and the tears returned, hotter this time, stinging. She bit the insides of her lips to keep from sobbing; she felt even more embarrassed than she did when she ripped her pants at school and everyone saw her underwear.

The sun blotted out as the boys gathered around her, their downturned faces filled with mocking glee. "Why don't you go home and play with your dolly?" a Hispanic boy in a white baseball jersey asked.

Lynn snatched her bat and got to her feet; her knees were scraped and bloody and her tears made tracks through the grime coating her face. "I don't play with dolls!" she screamed, leaning forward and clutching her free hand into a fist at her side.

"You should," another boy said, "because you suck at baseball."

"I've seen kids with no arms play better than you!"

"Hey, guys, let's have a tea party next."

They were all laughing like lunatics, and Lynn's anger swelled until it popped like a balloon. She started to cry in earnest; pressing the heel of her palm to one eye she pushed through the crowd and fled, her shoulders shaking and her body hitching.

All she wanted to do was play baseball, why did they have to be so mean to her?

She was still sobbing when she reached her mother. "Honey, what's wrong?" Mama asked, her voice filled with concern. She got up, came over, and knelt in front of her, one hand flying to Lynn's flushed face.

"T-They were mean to me," Lynn wept, "they wouldn't let me play baseball!"

Mama hugged her. "Oh, honey."

Lynn buried her face in her mother's chest and cried.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but sometimes people are just plain mean. You can't let it bother you; you have to keep your head high and move on."

As Lynn's tears tapered off, she sniffed, her eyes big and shimmering with unspilled misery. Mama was right. She was going to show them. She was going to be the best baseball player ever, and then they'd beg her to play with them.

That night, when her father got home from work, she was standing by the door with her bat in her hand. "Hi, honey," he said and bent to kiss her forehead.

"I wanna get better at swinging," she said, steely resolve in her voice.

"I think we should wait –"

"Please, Daddy?"

Her father looked at her for a few seconds, then smiled. "Alright. Let me change."

She grinned. She was going to get better. Her Daddy would help her, and he was the best baseball player in the whole world. She would be better than anyone in _no_ time.

* * *

Bobby Jr. slipped into a pair of sneakers, picked up his gym bag, and threw it over his shoulder. The smell of sunscreen hung heavy around him as he went out into the living room; he was dark enough as it was, he didn't need to get any darker. In the living room, his mother was watching _All My Children,_ and Bobby grimaced. Mom, Grandma, and auntie Leni _loved_ those stupid shows.

As he passed through, Mom glanced over. "Have fun," she said.

"I will, love you."

"Love you too."

Outside, the day was hot and bright. A big Chrysler Imperial painted dirty toilet paper brown passed in the street, loud rock music drifting from the open windows. Bobby gripped the strap of his gym bag and hurried down the steps to the sidewalk.

He told his mother he was going to the park to play baseball with Tommy, but that wasn't true; he was going to the river with Carol. He was wearing jeans and a lime green shirt with a big white 01 across the front now, but after a quick change in the Texaco bathroom, he would be wearing shorts and nothing else. He was looking forward to the water – and to Carol.

Three blocks later, he reached the gas station. The bathrooms were around back; you needed a key, but the men's room didn't lock. As he went through the parking lot, a Ford pulled up to the pump. It was kind of strange not seeing a huge line; all that ended back in April, but he still hadn't gotten used to it.

In the bathroom, he kicked out of his shoes, pulled off his jeans, underwear, and shirt, and took a pair of blue shorts from his bag, where he'd hidden his towel, sunscreen, a couple of Cokes, and a bunch of other beach stuff he couldn't remember off the top of his head: If he saw it and it looked like it might come in handy, he grabbed it and tossed it in.

Dressed, he sat on the edge of the commode and put his shoes back on, then went outside. On his way to the library, where he and Carol were meeting, he passed the park, and turned his head to watch a group of high schoolers playing football. Like him, they wore shoes, shorts, and nothing else, sunlight glistening on sweaty brows and chests.

At the library, he didn't see Carol, so he sat on the bottom step, opened his bag, and took out one of the Cokes. It was sweating just as badly as him, and wasn't as crisp as he liked, but it was still cool and good. He _loved_ Coke. It made him really hyper if he drank too much, so his mom was always standing over his shoulder and griping at him not to have too many. Sheesh. Moms, right?"

While he waited, he sipped and watched as cars passed in the street and people passed on the sidewalk, his mind absently wandering. He hoped his mom didn't happen to drive by on her way to the grocery store or something; she wouldn't like that he lied to her. What could he have done, though? If he told her the truth, she probably would have said no. The same goes for Carol's dad. She told him she was going to the park with Becky and Cristina. He didn't know where Becky was, but Cristina was off with Tommy somewhere. At Flip's or antiquing or something. He didn't know. All he cared about was –

"Hey," Carol drew, startling Bobby. He jumped to his feet and turned. She was wearing a pair of short jeans shorts (he couldn't help but ogle the smooth, creamy flesh of her legs) and a loose fitting blue shirt that fluttered in the breeze; the neckline dipped just low enough that he could see the outline of her collarbone...her kissable collarbone.

A tote bag was slung over her shoulder like a giant purse. Her bangs were held back by a blue headband, and her blue eyes twinkled in the light of the sun, making Bobby's breath catch and his heartbeat speed up. "H-Hey," he said, and smiled nervously. "You look great."

She smiled, her eyes flicking to his chest. "So do you."

He blushed, suddenly self-conscious or something. Maybe he should have worn a shirt; he wasn't thinking of Carol when did decided not to, just the water and the sun. "You ready?" he asked.

"Yep."

He grabbed his bag, shouldered it, and stuck out his hand. Carol took it and laced her fingers through his. "What'cha got in there?" she asked.

"Uh, towel, my clothes, sunblock, uh...Coke. You want a Coke?"

"Sure," she said, and plucked his from his hand. She smiled as she took a drink, a little bit dribbling down the corner of her mouth. "Here," she said and handed it back.

"What's funny?" he asked.

"You."

"Me?"

She nodded. "Yes, you."

He didn't think he did anything funny, but okay. Being funny was good, especially if it was a _good_ kind of funny and not a bad kind. "What do you have in _your_ bag?" Bobby asked because he didn't know what else to say.

She turned and rummaged through it. "I have my towel, I have sunglasses, I have...oh, I have this." She pulled something out. A transistor radio.

"Cool," Bobby said.

The Royal River skirts the eastern border of town before curling around to the north. Most of it is built up with houses and businesses, but there is a stretch of it that it surrounded by forest on the western bank and farmland on the eastern. A network of pathways ford through the woods from different points along River Road (which runs along the river for some of its length but not all). Bobby and Carol took one that ran between a house and an abandoned building. The grass was tall, and the woods were alive with the sounds of summer; sunlight filtered through the treetops and dappled the ground with golden coins of illumination. The land dipped as it approached the river, and the trees fell away. The bank was grassy until you got close to the water's edge, then it was rocky. Across the way, a slight rise topped with a thin line of trees stood between the river and the pasture beyond. The smell of fresh cut grass tickled Bobby's nose, and the sound of splashing and children's laughter found his ears, but because the river bent to his left, he couldn't see anybody.

"Looks like we have it to ourselves," Carol said. She sat her bag down, squatted, and felt around inside before bringing her towel out. Bobby got his, and they stretched both of them out side-by-side. So...right to the water? He watched Carol for a cue; she crossed her arms, took the hem of her shirt in her hands, and lifted. Bobby's face burned as she stripped it off and tossed it away. She wore a blue bikini top with little white polka dots that clung tightly to her budding breasts; his eyes crawled down the gentle plain of her stomach, and caressed the swell of her hips. She turned, and he swept his gaze over her back, from the nape of her neck down to her shoulder blades and along her spine to the dimples just above the waistband of her shorts.

He felt himself stirring, and dropped to his towel, his hands flying to his crotch. She smiled over her shoulder, her cheeks blushing – from him or the heat, he couldn't say. "You alright?" she asked, a playful hilt to her voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said quickly, "my feet just hurt from the walk, that's all." He kicked out of his shoes. "Ahh, that's better."

Carol giggled and sat cross-legged. "Maybe you should get better shoes."

"Maybe," he agreed shakily. His boner was still there, getting harder by the second. Damn it, go down.

She reached into the tote bag, pulled out the radio, and turned it on. "You can go in if you want," she said, "I just want to hang out for a little while."

Bobby looked longingly at the cool, blessed water, then back to Carol as she fiddled with the dial. There was a teeny tiny little mole on her shoulder, and one on her side...right where her breast began.

Screw the river.

"Nah, I'm fine."

"Cool," she said. She found a station playing music, sat the radio aside, and laid back, the sun kissing her supple flesh and making it glow. Bobby swallowed and laid back too, his eyes trained at the sky and his legs in an M because if he laid flat, she'd see his erection and that would be really awkward. She probably didn't have sex thoughts the way he did; most girls don't, he guessed.

Carol drew a deep breath. "This is nice."

"Yeah," Bobby croaked and glanced over. Her stomach quivered, and he had the urge to touch it, to slowly run his hand up and down, from the bottom of her bikini top to the top of her shorts.

She shifted onto her side, and Bobby's eyes darted shamefully away from her body and to her face. She propped her elbow on the ground and slid her fingers through her hair, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. "Take a picture," she said, "it lasts longer."

"I wasn't looking," he said, 'I swear."

She giggled. "It's okay to look, silly. I'm your girlfriend. You're allowed to look at me. In fact, I'd be kind of offended if you didn't."

Bobby blinked. Oh. Well...in that case.

He rolled onto his side, faced her, and allowed his gaze to drift down over her breasts, her flat stomach, her shorts, her legs, her toes, then back up, his heart beating quicker now, and his lungs constricted. "Y-You're pretty."

She laughed. "You're not usually this nervous around me."

No, he wasn't, but she usually wasn't, like, half naked either.

She reached out and touched his arm; his heart skipped a beat, and he looked deep into her sapphire eyes. He laid his hand tentatively on her hip, but she didn't protest or try to move away; instead, she scooted closer.

" _This is WKBBL on a Thursday afternoon and you're listening to today's biggest tracks. The time is 1:45pm and the temperature is a toasty 91. This next song should bring you some relief, though; it's funky and_ cool."

Carol's stomach was pressed against his, his erection prodding her leg. She felt it and smiled as soft, dreamlike soul music with piano and a smooth bassline drifted from the radio.

 _Woooo-man, take me in your arms  
_

 _Rock your baby  
_

 _Woooo-man, take me in your arms  
_

 _Rock your baby_

She touched his face and they slowly leaned into one another, their breaths puffing hotly against one another. Their lips met, and their tongues danced together; Bobby ran his hand up her flank, and her soft flesh shivered under his touch.

 _There's nothing to it  
_

 _Just say you wanna do it  
_

 _Open up your heart  
_

 _And let the loving staaaaaaart_

Their tongues moved more urgently as their passion rose; Bobby squeezed her breast through her top and she ran her hand down his chest, her fingers leaving trails of tingling electricity in their wake.

 _Yeah, hold me tight_

 _With all-lll your might_

 _Now, let your loving flow_

 _Real sweet and sllllloooow_

She cupped him in her hand and rubbed; he gasped into her mouth, his body overloading on sensation. He jerked against her, and slipped his hand under her top: She was warm and soft, her nipple rigid against his palm. His mind rolled away as lust consumed him. He kissed her mouth, the side of her face, her jaw, and her velvety throat. She moaned delightedly and snaked her hand into his shorts, his body tensing when her fingers closed around him. A shudder raced through him as she began to stroke slowly. He pulled his hand from her top, moved it down her stomach, and slipped past her waistband, his fingertips scraping against her silky flesh, the wet heat radiating from between her legs making him hitch; when his finger sank between her folds, she sighed and increased her speed.

Neither one of them lasted long after that; Bobby went first, his lips pressed to the underside of her chin and his body trembling with the power of his climax. Carol followed moments later, closing her mouth and purring softly as a spasm wracked her lithe frame.

For a long time, they held each other, their tacky flesh sticking together and their breaths coming in hot gasps. Finally, Carol turned in his arms and pecked his lips. "Ready for that swim?"

In his lingering shock, Bobby could only nod.

* * *

Before heading home for the day, Lincoln stopped at Heaven's Gate Cemetery and visited his sister. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky, and shadows were creeping along the ground like ink across paper. As always, Luna's headstone was surrounded by flowers, candles, teddy bears, and other tokens of respect. Lincoln had never seen anybody leaving anything, and sometimes he was here for over an hour at a stretch. In fact, the only person he'd ever seen at Luna's grave was the caretaker, an old man with longish white hair and one eye that was bigger than the other, lending him the appearance of Igor or Renfield or what the hell ever that monster's toady's name was. "Got a whole shed full of this stuff," he said, "they haven't left any money yet. I've checked."

Lincoln sat next to the tombstone and drew his legs up, his forearms resting on his knees. From here, you could see the forested edge of the park and the river beyond, the town's blue water tower rising up from the trees; look to your left, and you could see the spire of the church where Luna's funeral was held.

"They're impeaching the president," he said as he gazed straight ahead, then chuckled. "Pretty crazy. There's going to be a trial and everything. I'm actually kind of excited." He meditated for a moment, and realized how morbid that sounded. "I mean, it's never happened before, not in _my_ lifetime. It's new and interesting." He shook his head as he imagined Nixon testifying before Congress in shackles. God, he could go to _prison_. As Robert would say, that's trippy; the leader of the free world sitting in a cell. "Wonder how long 'til someone sticks a shiv in his guts." He laughed again. God, the world _had_ gone crazy over the past eight years. Someone, somewhere, at some point opened up Pandora's Box, and boom, here we are, a nation of nutcases, one big, happy, fifty state asylum.

It was depressing. The world he knew, the one he grew up in, was gone, and he wasn't even thirty. Hell, just ten years ago he was living _Leave it to Beaver_ now he was living...he didn't even know. Not _All in the Family,_ or _Sanford and Son_. Those were the only shows he knew by name.

He sighed and leaned into the rough stone. "I miss you," he said. "I know we didn't see too much of each other at the end, but I do, and I wish you were here."

Later, as the shadow grew long, he drove home and parked in the driveway. Inside, the window A/C rattled and made the TV hard to hear. Ronnie Anne was sitting on the couch with her legs drawn under her and a stack of papers in her lap. Uh-oh. "Someone has homework," he said in a taunting singsong voice.

"Can it," she said without looking up. Ronnie Anne, in her endless wisdom, decided to teach summer school this year.

He sat, kissed her cheek, and patted her leg. "Where are the girls?"

As if in answer, Alex streaked in from the hallway, giggling. Jessy came running after. "Can't get me!" Alex cried. She darted past the couch, but Lincoln grabbed her and pulled her into his lap. She screamed laughter. Jessy came over, slapped her cousin in the back, and smiled.

" _Got you!"_

Alex thrashed in Lincoln's embrace, her head flopping back and forth. "No! Let me go!"

"You gotta give me a kiss first," he grinned.

"No!"

He tickled her, and she howled.

"Give me a kiss."

"Okay!" She lifted her head and pecked his lips. "I get down now?"

Lincoln sighed. "Alright." He sat her feet on the ground, and Jessy was all too happy to fill the void she left, her arms going up. _"Me!"_

Lincoln picked her up, spun her around, and kissed her cheek. "How was your day?"

" _Otay."_

"Did you have fun with auntie Leni?"

Jessy nodded.

In a few short weeks, Alex would be starting kindergarten, and auntie Leni would have only one munchkin on her hands. She was already stressed out by the prospect of not having Bunny around during the day. Lincoln felt bad, but hey, kid's gotta go to school. Alex was nervous. "I don't _wanna_ go," she said, "I wanna stay home with Jessy and Leni."

Sorry, kid, you gotta go to school.

Yeah, he said that now, but he knew damn well that on the first day he'd cry like a little girl. Jeez, starting _school_. That's crazy. She was practically just born!

" _Down!"_ Jessy cried, and Lincoln let her down. Alex screamed laughter and ran; Jessy gave chase, two little sets of feet pounding on the carpet.

Lincoln sighed contentedly and crossed his arms. On TV, Dan Rather stood in front of the White House. Lincoln leaned forward, but with the damn air conditioner and the low volume, he caught two words out of every twenty. _"...saying I'll believe it when I hear it...remain in office and fight through a Senate trial..."_

" _DADDDDEEEE!"_

Lincoln jumped a foot.

" _JESSY'S DRAWING ON THE WALL!"_

Oh, no, not again. Lincoln got up and went down the hall. Alex and Jessy's room was strewn with toys and clothes, taking him aback. Jessy stood on her bed with her hands behind her back and a hangdog expression on her face. Alex was pointing. "She did it."

Lincoln turned to the wall: Green and purple and orange zigzags greeted him. Eh, crayon wasn't _so_ bad. The last time it was permanent marker. Now _that_ was a headache. Lincoln put his hands on his hips and tilted his head forward in a faux stern posture. Jessy's eyes brimmed with tears, and she bowed her head. Lincoln's heart twinged, and he picked her up. "It's okay, honey," he said, "I'm not mad at you."

" _I sorrwy. Bunny said it otay."_

Lincoln looked at Alex; her eyes were huge. "No!"

He cocked his head.

She looked at her feet. "Maybe."

"You know drawing on the wall is bad," Lincoln said, "why did you tell her to?"

Alex shrugged.

"Alex?" he pressed.

"To get her in twouble for hitting me."

Lincoln sighed. "That was not very nice." He looked at Jessy. "And hitting isn't very nice either. You guys need to be nice to each other."

Jessy nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

"Why don't we play in the living room for a while? Where's your Lite Brite?"

"Here!" Alex went over to her bed, knelt down, and reached underneath, bringing out the toy.

In the living room, he sank onto the couch while his girls sat on either side of the Lite Brite and made pictures with pegs. Ronnie Anne sighed, slipped a sheet of paper off her stack, and laid it face down next to her. "I was thinking of ordering a pizza for dinner."

Lincoln nodded. "Sounds good to me." Then: "You girls want pizza?"

"Yeah!" Alex and Jessy cried in unison.

Lincoln called the new pizza parlor down the street (Pissy's...strange and off-putting name, but Lori said they were good), and half an hour later, he and his family were sitting at the kitchen table, Ronnie Anne cutting Jessy's slice into tiny bite sized pieces while the little girl watched with wide, hungry eyes.

"Mommy?" Alex asked. "You cut _my_ pizza up?"

Ronnie Anne chuckled. "Why?"

"I wanna be little. Like Jessy."

She and Lincoln glanced at each other. Since finding out about going to school, Alex had been making half-hearted attempts to 'be little.' Sometimes she pointed and grunted instead of talking, and others she asked for bottles and diapers. She hadn't had an 'accident' yet, but Lincoln could see it happening.

"But you're not little," Ronnie Anne said, pulling Alex's plate over and cutting her pizza up, "you're a _big_ girl."

"Don't wanna be."

"Little girls don't get to listen to hard rock," Lincoln pointed out.

Alex started. "I'm not little!" She grabbed the plate and snatched it from Ronnie Anne.

"Jeez," Ronnie Anne said, "don't threaten the kid's hard rock."

After dinner, Ronnie Anne went back to work and Lincoln gave the girls a bath, then played in their room with them until it was time for bed. He tucked each girl in, kissed them on the forehead, and read them a bedtime story. By the time he was done, they were both fast asleep. In the living room, Ronnie Anne was cross-legged and finishing up, only a few sheets remaining. On TV, President Nixon sat at a desk in front of a blue background, looking old, tired, and washed out: Two flags flanked him, and he read from a sheaf of papers. Hm. What's _this_ crook up to? _I didn't do it, guys, honest; you_ gotta _believe me._ Lincoln went over to the TV, turned the volume up, and dropped onto the couch next to Ronnie Anne.

" _...both the President and the Congress in a period when our entire focus should be on the great issues of peace abroad and prosperity without inflation at home."_ He glanced nervously from the papers to the camera and back again. _"Therefore...I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow. Vice President Ford will be sworn in as President at that hour in this office."_

Ronnie Anne looked up while Lincoln sat forward. "He's resigning?"

"No shit," Lincoln muttered in surprise, then chuckled. Wow. He was kind of looking forward to seeing a real live impeachment, but, hey, this was new and interesting too. He sat back against the sofa and crossed his arms.

"Huh," Ronnie Anne said, then looked down at her papers, her lips pursing.

"Which one's Ford?" Lincoln asked.

"The vice president, square-for-brains."

Lincoln sighed. "I know _who_ he is; I don't know what he looks like."

"A white ape."

Lincoln blinked. A white ape? He thought back to all the news reports he'd seen over the past year – when Agnew got tossed on his ass – but couldn't for the life of him remember ever seeing his country's second-in-command. If she said he looked like an ape, though, she was probably serious. Ronnie Anne Loud (he loved that she had his last name...dreamy sigh) was not one to exaggerate.

"This means we've seen one president assassinated and another resign," she said. "Wonder what's next."

Lincoln thought for a moment. "What if one snaps and starts shooting up a shopping mall?"

She snickered.

"Think about it," he said, "the Secret Service is supposed to protect the president, right? So when the cops show up and try to take him out, there'd be a huge firefight. It'd make Vietnam look like a joke."

Ronnie Anne shook her head and looked at him. " _You're_ a joke."

He leaned in and kissed her lips.

"I still love you, though."

"I love you too."

She looked down at the papers in her lap. "Screw it, wanna have sex?"

Lincoln reached up and squeezed her breast. That was his way of saying yes.

* * *

" _...but in turning over direction of the government to Vice President Ford, I know, as I told the nation when I nominated him for that office 10 months ago, that the leadership of America will be in good hands_. _"_

Luan sighed deeply. Every time she played cards, she got a bad hand. It never failed. She looked up at the other women at the table, Martha, Patty, Maryanne, and Maggie. Martha's lips were tight and she shook her head slowly as she looked at her own cards. Patty nodded slightly to herself. Maryanne was expressionless. Maggie brought a cigarette to her lips, puffed, and blew, the smoke flowing from her nostrils and combining with her perpetual scowl to make her look like an angry demon.

"They're gonna put his ass in jail," Martha said, and drew a card from the deck on the table.

Luan liked the thought of Richard Nixon sitting in a jail cell; she was not entirely the same woman she was five years ago, but a crooked warmonger is still a crooked warmonger. She killed one person and she knew she was where she belonged; he killed thousands...and thought he belonged in the White House.

Maggie took another puff. "I hope they put him in here," she said, "so I can fuck him."

Luan bowed her head and shuddered as she imagined him in action. "Gross."

" _As he assumes that responsibility, he will deserve the help and the support of all of us. As we look to the future, the first essential is to begin healing the wounds of this nation, to put the bitterness and divisions of the recent past behind us, and to rediscover those shared ideals that lie at the heart of our strength and unity as a great and as a free people."_

A devious grin crept across Maggie's face. "I'd lay him on the bed, crawl on top of him..."

Martha shook her head. "You got problems."

"...and let him squeeze my tits as I ride him like a _fucking_ bronco."

Luan threw up in her mouth...just a _little_ bit. Maggie noticed, and her smile widened. She was doing it on purpose, but that didn't make it any better; the vision of her bouncing up and down on the sweaty, naked, wrinkled Richard Nixon had roosted in her head and it wasn't going anywhere for a _long_ time.

Maryanne sighed and laid a card down. "Can we listen to music or something?"

"This is it, honey," Martha said. Up until ten minutes ago, the little transistor radio was tuned to the only station they could pick up: A top hits station out of Arizona. Late at night it picked up border blasters from Mexico; little good that did them now.

Laying a card down, Maggie tilted her head back in contemplation. "Wonder if he'd wanna fuck my ass..."

Patty snickered and shook her head. Maryanne rolled her eyes. Martha shot the nymphomaniac a dangerous look over the tops of her cards.

That was Maggie for you; gotta love her. In June, Luan got a letter from Ted; he was doing twenty years at the Rock Creek Federal Pen near Death Valley and wanted to know about Jessy. At first Luan was pissed; he waited this long to get in touch. Surely he could have found out where she was easy and written earlier. She _was_ going to ignore him, but after a lot of thought, she wrote him back. For better or worse, he was Jessy's father and he deserved to know about her. Where was she? Oh, yeah, Maggie: _If you're done with this Ted guy, I'll take him. It's been a while since he's been with a woman, right? He'll probably cum in two seconds. That's hot. I love it when a guy's so into it he blows his load early...just as long as he rubs me off or something._ Half the time she was kidding around, but the other half...

She sighed and laid a card down even though she knew she'd lose.

And she did.


	93. September 1974

**We had joy, we had fun**

 **We had seasons in the sun**

 **But the hills that we climbed**

 **Were just seasons out of time**

 **\- Terry Jacks (** _ **Seasons in the Sun,**_ **1974)**

 **Lyrics to** _ **Same Old Song and Dance**_ **by Aerosmith (1974)**

Alex Loud fisted her hands in her lap and stared down at her shoes. They were black with silver buckles. Next to her, Jessy was looking out the window as houses flashed by. In the front seat, her Daddy tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Next to him, Mommy stared straight ahead, her hands wringing the strap of her purse. Usually Mommy was at work right now, but she wasn't today, because today was a special day.

It was Alex's first day of school.

Alex was _very_ nervous. She didn't want to be away from her family; Mommy said there would be other kids, but Alex didn't like other kids, just Jessy, even though Jessy got on her nerves sometimes. She wanted to stay with Auntie Leni and Jessy and listen to her records and play; she didn't want to go to school.

She drew a heavy sigh and looked up at Jessy. "Where we going?" Jessy asked and turned to the back of Daddy's seat.

"We're taking Alex to school."

Jessy looked at her. "You go school?"

Alex crossed her arms. "No."

"Honey, you have to go," Mommy said, "you'll have fun. They have toys and snacks and coloring."

Alex didn't _like_ toys and snacks and coloring, and she most certainly would _not_ have fun. She hugged herself even tighter. "I no want Bunny go school," Jessy said, "I want Bunny play with me." Her voice trembled slightly. She reached out and put her hand on Alex's shoulder. Alex felt really bad for Jessy because Jessy would be alone and Alex wouldn't be there to protect her from scary monsters and stuff, like the one who lived in their closet. He was indivisible, which means you can't see him; you could hear him, though. Alex was really scared of him, but Jessy needed her to be brave, and it made her mad that the monster was scaring her little cousin, so the other night she marched right up to the closet door, pulled it open, and was going to beat him up, but he wasn't in there. Without her around, who would protect Jessy? Jessy _needed_ her.

Daddy looked in the mirror. "Alex _has_ to go to school. In a few years _you're_ going to school too, so you and Alex will _both_ be in school."

Jessy's eyes widened and she started to hyperventilate. Alex took her hand and held it. "I scared of school," Jessy said.

"Why?" Mommy asked.

"School is scawy."

Alex squeezed her cousin's hand tighter.

"No, it's not," Daddy said, "I went to school, so did Mommy. We had lots of fun."

"Yeah," Mommy said, "with our friends Billy Mason and that janitor."

Daddy looked at her with a funny smile. "Shut up," he said.

Alex looked at Jessy; tears brimmed in the younger girl's eyes, and her lips quivered pitifully. Alex wanted to comfort her, but she couldn't, because she was really anxious herself. "School isn't scary," she said, "it's just stupid."

"Give it a chance," Daddy said as he turned the wheel. Alex looked out the window, and her stomach dropped when she saw the school building: It was big and brick and had dark windows. Okay, maybe it was a _little_ scary.

And they were going to leave her here.

Her heart started to race and she couldn't breathe. Jessy was watching her, though, and she couldn't let Jessy see how upset she was, so she kept it inside. Daddy parked the car and he and Mommy looked at each other. "First day of school, lame-o."

"I know," Daddy said seriously.

"Can you handle it?"

"I don't know. You?"

Mommy was quiet for a moment. "I don't know. It's a big step."

"Crazy, right?"

Alex took a deep breath; she was going to be all alone with strange people she didn't know and Leni and Jessy and Mommy and Daddy weren't going to _be_ there. This was awful!

Mommy and Daddy got out of the car. Daddy got Jessy out, and Mommy opened Alex's door. "Come on," Mommy said, "you'll have fun, I promise."

For a moment Alex was frozen. She could see lots of kids going toward the front doors, many of them practically grown-ups. Mommy frowned slightly and knelt. "Don't be scared," she said softly, and stroked Alex's hair, her touch warm and reassuring. "Be a big brave girl."

"But I _am_ scared," Alex moaned.

"How about this," Mommy said, "if you go to school, I'll buy you a new record."

Alex blinked. A new record?

That gave her pause. She wanted a new record _very_ badly, but she also didn't want to go to school very badly. "What record do you want?" Mommy asked, and caressed her cheek.

Alex thought for a minute. "The song and dance song."

Mommy nodded. "If you be big and brave for Mommy, I'll get you the song and dance record."

Well...she _did_ really like the song and dance song. She looked up at the school, and then back at Mommy. "O-Okay."

Mommy smiled and held out her hand. "Come on."

Alex took it and got out. Daddy was waiting by the front of the car, Jessy's hand in his. Jessy looked scared like _she_ was the one who was going to get left with a bunch of strangers. Poor Jessy. Alex held her hand and the four of them went inside in a big line. The hallway was really long and bright. People were everywhere, as tall as trees, as tall as buildings. Alex started to get scared, but she thought of the song and dance song record. "Mommy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have the song and dance song record tonight?"

Mommy nodded. "Sure."

Alex smiled.

Her classroom was at the end of the hallway by the doors leading out to the playground. Toys were strewn across the floor and happy pictures decorated the walls. As they approached, Alex could hear the laughter of a dozen or more kids, and her heart started to pound. She didn't like other kids...but she liked the song and dance song, and if this is what she had to do to get it...okay.

Inside, her teacher was waiting; she was a tall woman with shoulder-length blonde hair named Ms. Winston. She talked in a really soft, sweet voice; it made Alex nervous. "Hi, Alex," she said, "are you ready to have fun?"

Alex swallowed and looked around at all the other kids. Yes, she was ready to have fun – but it didn't include being left here all alone. "I-I guess."

Ms. Winston knelt in front of Alex. "The first day is always the hardest, but trust me, you're going to like it."

Before Mommy and Daddy left, they both hugged and kissed her; she hugged them back...tightly. She did not want to let go.

Tears trickled down Jessy's face. "I no want Bunny stay," she said.

"It's okay," Alex said, and hugged her little cousin. "I be alright."

Then they were gone, and Alex was all alone in a sea of confusion.

In the car, Lincoln started the engine and backed into the street ahead of a school bus. His eyes were just a _little_ misty, but that was alright, so were Ronnie Anne's. "She's so nervous."

"I know," Lincoln said glumly. "We should have put her in daycare so she'd be used to other kids."

They took her and Jessy to the park when the weather was nice and encouraged them to play with other kids, but they always wound up playing together, though Jessy was a _tad_ more social than Alex once she got over the initial shyness.

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne said. "Too late for that." She sighed. She'd left her daughter a million times before – with Daddy, with auntie Leni, with Grandma – but this was different; she was on her own out in the world. "I promised her a new record."

Lincoln turned onto Hillcrest Avenue. His plan was to drive to Flip's, let Ronnie Anne keep the station wagon for the day (she took it off), then have her come get him at the end of the day...or he'd just kick them out and make them walk back home. _Shoulda brought the Pinto too._

He wouldn't do that, of course.

"What record?"

"The one with that song and dance song on it."

Lincoln frowned. "The what?"

"You know," Ronnie Anne said and gestured with her hand, "the one she goes nuts for."

Well, there were a lot of songs Alex went nuts for, but now that he thought about it, he did remember there being one that had 'song and dance' in the chorus. As he recalled, it also mentioned cocaine.

 _Sure, I'm totally fine with my five-year-old daughter listening to music that promotes the same drug that killed my sister._

He wasn't, but the damage was done, so what the hell? He should really write to some of these hard rock groups and ask them to tone it down. _My little girl loves you guys, so...can you sing about apple juice instead of coke?_

"Do you even know the name of the band or the song?" Lincoln asked.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "I have no clue. I'm going to have to do a little sleuthing at Sears today."

Lincoln chuckled. "Good luck."

At Flip's, he leaned over and kissed her. "I love you."

She smiled. "I love you too. Have a good day."

"You too." He looked in the back seat; tears still stood in Jessy's eyes. She and Alex fought like dogs sometimes, but Alex was her rock; sometimes in the morning he found Alex in Jessy's bed, both girls clinging fiercely to each other. Being older, Alex was kind of the ringleader, always dragging Jessy along for the ride. Just the other day, she convinced Jessy to help her look for cookies in the pantry. When Lincoln walked into the kitchen, they were standing on a chair with boxes, cans, and packages heaped on the floor. "Look faster," Alex urged.

Presently, Lincoln smiled at his niece. "I love you."

"You too," she quivered.

He hated to see her so sad, but like Alex's teacher said, the first day is always the hardest. She would get used to not having Alex around 24/7. It would just take time.

A whole lot of patience and time.

Bobby Jr. was conflicted. On one hand, he didn't like school, but on the other, he liked seeing Carol. They spent time together during the summer, yeah, but not like they did during the rest of the year; instead of every day, it was every other day, or even every, uh, other _other_ day. After their...day at the river...he didn't see her for a whole week because her parents took her to see her aunt or something, and that was torture. He was really hyper and restless, and he _ached_ to see her.

One day he was kicking a rock around the backyard (because what else was there to do?) when Mr. Grouse called him over. The old man was sitting on his back step, his hands folded on his cane, which was jabbed against the ground. "You look like you need something to do," he said.

Bobby shrugged. See Carol, that's about it.

"I got a job for you."

Twenty minutes later, Bobby was cutting Mr. Grouse's grass with an old push mower that didn't even have a motor: The blades were giant teeth that spun as you pushed it. Is _this_ how people did it in the 1910s? It was hard work: By the time he had a quarter of it done, his arms were shaking and sweat rolled down his face and back. He didn't mind helping Mr. Grouse out, but jeez, this is ridiculous. He was taking a break when Mr. Grouse brought him a glass of lemonade. "Here," he said, "drink this. I can't have you dying on my property." Bobby took it with a thanks and drained it at a draught. Mr. Grouse leaned heavily on his cane and looked down at him with a quizzical expression that made Bobby nervous. "You been moping around lately. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Bobby said, "I just haven't seen my girlfriend in a while."

Mr. Grouse chuckled. "The blonde? How the hell old are you, anyway? In _my_ day, kids your age didn't have girlfriends."

"Twelve," Bobby said.

"Too damn young, in other words."

Bobby shrugged again.

"Well, Santiago," Mr. Grouse said, "when you miss a girl, you know what helps?"

"What?" Bobby asked, genuinely curious. Mr. Grouse was old as dirt, if anyone had secret tips, tricks, and knowledge, it would be him.

The old man leaned forward as if to impart great wisdom. "Hard physical labor."

And boy, was he right. After finishing the backyard, the only thing Bobby could think about was bedtime. He put the mower away and started home, but Mr. Grouse called out to him. "Here," he said and handed Bobby a two dollar bill, "don't spend it all in one place."

Mr. Grouse had other work for him to do, and Bobby didn't mind it because it kept him busy, though chopping firewood wasn't fun. "Are you sure I should be doing this?" Bobby asked, an ax heavy in his hands. Mr. Grouse sat in a lawn chair and watched him over the rim of his glasses. "It's kind of dangerous."

"I was chopping wood when I was eight-years-old. You're fine."

At the end of every day, Mr. Grouse gave him a two dollar bill. It was strange: Did he have them coming off an assembly line or something? Bobby kind of liked working for the old guy. Sometimes they'd talk; Mr. Grouse told him about how he fought in the war. "You think mending that fence is hard, you should try ducking in a goddamn trench while the Germans try to bomb you out." He cackled. "Then it stops, you pop your head up, and here comes a big yellow cloud of goddamn gas."

"Gas?" Bobby asked. He knew gas could be, like, a vapor or something, but he automatically thought of gasoline.

Mr. Grouse nodded. "Mustard Gas. Burns your skin, melts your eyes out, rots your wee-wee off."

Bobby winced, his legs unconsciously closing.

"I saw a man cough his lung up into the dirt, pick them back up, and swallow them again like raw chicken."

Oh my God!

Mr. Grouse rasped laughter. "And the gas masks...Lord God, you had to shit on them for them to work."

"Really?"

Mr. Grouse nodded. "You either breathed that or you breathed the mustard gas. And the trench foot, Jesus. Feet were falling off left and right, big piles everywhere. Back in those days they didn't send you home for not having feet; when everyone went over the top, you had to crawl."

Bobby imagined footless men crawling through the mud on their stomachs, and shivered.

For some reason, Mr. Grouse laughed so hard he wept. "I saw a man," he hitched, "get shot in half by machine gun fire...his upper half got a purple heart and so did his lower half!" He bowed his head and shook it back and forth, his shoulders shaking. Bobby was starting to get scared: If someone's laughing about lungs coming out and people getting cut in half, they're probably crazy...maybe even dangerous. "They promoted his torso to Captain and his legs to Sargent."

Wait a minute...

"Are you sure that really happened?"

"God as my witness," Mr. Grouse said and lifted his right hand. "Lotta strange things happened in WWI. I saw a man get flattened when a battleship fell on him. He looked like a pancake. Last I heard of him, he got blown away by a gust of wind."

Alright, Mr. Grouse was messing with him. It _was_ kind of funny, though.

Where was he? Oh, Carol. He liked seeing her, so on the first day of school, he was really excited. He woke up early, took a shower so he'd smell good, got dressed, and left the house a few minutes after his mom. At Carol's street, he stopped and leaned against a stop sign, his mind wandering and going back to what happened at the river; every time he thought about it, he started to get a boner – and not just a boner, but a super boner. He crossed his legs and hunched over so no one would see it.

"Hey!"

He jerked. Carol was standing behind him in a sleeveless blue dress, a big smile on her face. Bobby grinned like a goofball. "Hey."

"I didn't expect to see you here so early," she said.

Usually, she was here first waiting for _him_.

"I was excited to see you," he said honestly.

"Aw, I was excited too. Still am." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, the soft brush of her lips making the back of his neck tingle. "You ready for another incredibly fun year of school?"

Bobby took her hand. "Never been more ready in my life."

Ronnie Anne pushed a cart through the record section of Sears and scrunched her lips to the side. Jessy, seated before her, looked dejected, and had all morning. Bribing kids isn't really the best way to go, but Ronnie Anne saw herself getting her niece a special prize in the near future.

Just as soon as she found this damn album.

Like Lincoln, Ronnie Anne didn't know shit about hard rock; if you asked her, Little Richard was hard rock. God, when she first heard _Keep a Knockin',_ her face melted down the front of her shirt and her hair caught fire. She knew that the 'song and dance' song was fairly new because they said so once when they played it on the radio, and that the chorus said 'it's the same old song and dance, my friend.' That told her the title must be Same Old Song and Dance, or Song and Dance, or Same Old, or some combination thereof.

She paused, picked up a record at random, and read the track listing on the back. Nope. She picked up another, then another.

Nothing.

Goddamn it.

"Miss Bunny," Jessy said heavily.

"I know, sweetie," Ronnie Anne said as she backed the cart up to the very beginning of the shelf, "but Bunny's in school and I bet she's having lots of fun coloring and playing and learning things. Soon you can go to school too."

Jessy looked up at her. "And be with Bunny?"

Ronnie Anne started to say _not exactly_ (Jessy would be behind Alex so they wouldn't be in the same class), but nodded instead. "Yeah, you'll get to be with Bunny."

The corners of Jessy's mouth twitched up a wan smile.

Starting at the very top and working her way down, Ronnie Anne went through every single record in the R-V category, but found nothing. In the next aisle over, she went through everything from D through R, and zilch: She bent, stretched, squatted, and got down on her knees, giving herself such a workout that she was almost sweating by the time she reached the A-D section. Anymore of this and she'd look like Mr. Universe. Heh. Wonder how Lincoln would like _that_ , all bulging muscles and ripped washboard abs. _Hey, Lincy, wanna wrestle?_

"I wanna go," Jessy said, "I hungry."

"We'll go in a minute," Ronnie Anne said, "and we'll go to Flip's and see Uncle Lincoln."

Jessy nodded excitedly. "Otay."

Alright, last chance; this damn song better be here. She started with D and went left, flipping through everything from pop to rock to country, her desperation rising. _Come on, I got a little girl who really wants this stupid song, help me out_. She checked everything...except the _Blues Station_ albums. She knew it wasn't on there, and she didn't particularly want to see her dead sister-in-law's smiling face.

Finally, she found a promising contender under the letter A: The cover was black and white and depicted five effeminate guys with long hair. A giant yellow A with a circle around it (and bat wings) hovered over them like the Angel of Death or something. The word AEROSMITH was underneath, and off to one side in red GET YOUR WINGS. The very first song was SAME OLD SONG AND DANCE.

Hm. This _had_ to be it.

"My belly hungry," Jessy complained.

Ronnie Anne sat the record in the cart with her other purchases. We'll just have to hope and see. "Okay, we're going right now."

After paying, Ronnie Anne loaded Jessy and the bags into the car, and drove to Flip's. Lincoln was sitting in front of the register when they walked in, frowning down at the cash drawer. He slowly pushed it in, but it popped back out. He shook his head, looked up, and smiled. "Two of my favorite people."

"Hi!" Jessy cried as Ronnie Anne sat her in one of the booths. "We got Bunny ick!"

Lincoln came around the counter as Ronnie Anne sat. "You found it?" he asked.

"I think so," Ronnie Anne said, "I looked through _everything_. It was in the very last place I looked, too: The A section."

Lincoln blinked. "That should have been the first place you looked."

"I went backwards, okay?"

He chuckled. "Because that makes all the sense in the world. What do you want?"

Ronnie Anne thought for a moment, then glanced around to make sure no one would overhear. "You," she grinned, "in bed."

"Unfortunately we can't do that right now," he smirked, "but maybe later..."

When Mommy picked her up from school, Alex was really happy to see her. "How was your day?"

"Okay."

That wasn't a lie: Alex didn't have a whole lot of fun, but she didn't suffer, either. She liked all the toys and stuff, but she didn't like how she couldn't just do what she wanted. At home, her time was hers, but at school, the teacher told her what to do. Play here, look at that, listen to this. It wasn't _so_ bad because a lot of that stuff was kind of fun, but less fun because she didn't decide to do it on her own. Mommy and Daddy said she was hard-headed sometimes, and she _thought_ that that's what it meant, doing things your way...not actually having a really hard head. She didn't really play with the other kids; Ms. Winston said she should make friends, but she had friends and their names were Jessy, Auntie Leni, Grandma, Grandpa, Mommy, Daddy, and Auntie Lori.

In the car, Jessy looked at her with worry in her eyes. "Otay?" she asked.

"I'm okay," Alex said, "it wasn't bad."

"We got you ick." 

Alex blinked. That's right! In all the excitement (if excitement it can be called), she totally forgot. "You got the song and dance song?" she asked her mother.

"Yep," she said, "it took me forever to find it."

Alex smiled widely. She liked the song and dance song. Rock made her happy because it sounded pretty. At home, Mommy handed her the record and she looked at it. The cover had people on it and a big letter A. A makes an Ahhh sound. Ms. Winston said so, and so did Auntie Leni. She ripped the wrapper off, went over to the turn table, took the disc out, and put it on the platform. She had to stretch to set the needle in the groove. She should ask Santa for a record player like Auntie Leni's: It was in a little suitcase and you could sit it in front of you and not have to get up and down to change it.

When the music started, Alex jumped with excitement. It _was_ the song and dance song! She spun, threw her arms around her Mommy's leg, and hugged tightly. "Thank you, Mommy!"

"You're welcome," Mommy laughed and rubbed her back. Alex pulled away, and dropped to her butt to listen, her hands fisted excitedly.

 _Got'cha with the cocaine they found with your gun_

 _No smoothy face lawyer to get'cha undone_

 _Say love ain't the same on the south side of town_

 _You could look, but you ain't gonna find it around_

 _It's the same old story, same old song and dance, my friend_

Ah. Music makes even the stressful days better.

At the end of the day, Bobby met Carol by the flagpole, and together they walked hand-in-hand through the golden September sunshine. Bobby had a lot on his mind, and as they made their way toward Carol's street, his stomach rolled with nerves. When they got to school that morning, they kissed and parted ways, and Bobby came so close to saying _I love you_ that his lips literally vibrated with the words. Had someone bumped into him or something, they probably would have been knocked from his mouth like a piece of chewing gum.

Telling a girl you love her is a big deal – it's like...there's no coming back from it. Bobby _thought_ he loved Carol, but he didn't know. He'd never felt love before, at least not for someone other than his family. What if what he was feeling wasn't _really_ love? What if love was stronger, or different, or something? He knew he liked her – really, really, really liked her – but this was all new to him. He stole a look at her, and listed all of the things he liked about her: She was pretty, she was nice, she was really smart, she was determined, and...he just liked being with her.

"You alright?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said with a sigh, "I just have a lot to think about."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "Just stuff."

Carol nodded understandingly. "Well, if you tell me what's on your mind, maybe I can help you."

That was another thing he liked about her: She was always helping him when he needed it. She never complained, she never asked for anything in return, she just did it. They were closing in on the end of her street now; she had a dentist appointment so they couldn't go to Flip's or the library like they usually did, which made Bobby really sad because he wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

The aching sense of loss in his stomach is what decided him. He stopped, squeezed Carol's hand, and looked into her eyes. "Carol...I love you."

For a moment she looked shocked, and Bobby thought she was going to get weird. Instead, she smiled. "I love you too, Bobby." She leaned in and they kissed slowly and passionately.

"I was really nervous about telling you because I don't really know what love is," he admitted when the kiss broke. "I mean..." he trailed off as he grasped for words.

She nodded and took his hands in hers. "I understand. I feel the same way. Love is...when you love someone, they're like your oxygen. You don't want them, you _need_ them on the most fundamental level."

Bobby grinned. "Then yeah, I love you. In fact...I almost slipped and said it a couple times already."

"So have I," she said. "I was kind of afraid of scaring you off."

"Me too. Kind of."

"Looks like we were worried for nothing," she said, and kissed his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright. I love you."

She giggled. "I love you too."

As he watched her go, Bobby realized something: He enjoyed saying those three words to Carol Pingrey very much.


	94. April 1975

**Lyrics to** _ **Jive Talkin'**_ **by The Bee Gees (1975);** _ **Houses of the Holy**_ **by Led Zeppelin (1975);** _ **Get Down Tonight**_ **by KC and the Sunshine Band (1975);** _ **The Hustle**_ **by Van McCoy (1975)**

* * *

Betrayed. That's how the man felt as he navigated the chopper over the war-torn streets of Saigon. In the north, South Vietnamese troops were massed on a bridge and engaging approaching NVA; over the whir of the rotor, you could hear the _tat-tat-tat_ of small arms fire and the explosion of artillery shells. The maze like thoroughfares were all but empty as the majority of the city's denizens took cover. Here and there, though, small groups hurried toward the American embassy in a desperate attempt to get a seat on one of the many helicopters ferrying people to waiting aircraft carriers off shore...an attempt that would most likely end in them being turned away.

At the embassy itself, a massive crowd of people clambered at the front gate, begging and pleading to be let in. Marines stood guard on the other side, none of them exactly sure what to do. Saigon was falling, the communists surrounded it, and here were terrified civilians who wanted only to get away: Dealing with a hostile was easy, you just shot them, but how do you deal with frightened families trying to escape the shadow of death?

The man uttered a harsh, barking chuckle as he banked over the embassy and started to set down behind the big stone walls. You either laugh or you cry, and he wasn't in the mood to cry.

Two years ago, when the U.S. withdrew, he told himself they had accomplished something: There would be free and fair elections, and the people of Vietnam would be able to decide their fate, be it communism, democracy, or some third option.

He was wrong. The communists broke the treaty and continued the fight; now South Vietnam was on the verge of collapse. In January, President Ford asked Congress for additional aid to the south, but they turned him down: It wasn't them or their children hoping and praying to be airlifted out, so what did it matter to them? Maybe if they saw the same white-faced fear he saw they'd change their tune...or maybe they'd turn their backs.

It really was all for nothing. The communists won in the end.

As soon as the skids touched the ground, a crewman in the back threw open the rear door, and a group of people were rushed over by armed Marines, their heads ducking against the wind kicked up by the blades. The helicopter, a U.S. Navy Boeing CH-47 Chinook painted flat gray, could hold up to twenty-five refugees at a time – not very many, the man thought. There were other choppers, of course, many American, and some South Vietnamese, but not enough to evacuate everyone, and certainly not enough room on the carriers: Before he took off the last time, he watched a group of South Vietnamese pushing their helicopters into the water because there wasn't enough room to store them. That told him Operation Frequent Wind was wrapping up. Hell, this might even be his last flight. The commies were closing in, and already a few SVA choppers had been shot down; by the time he came back, the city could very well be overrun.

He turned to look over his shoulder; roughly two dozen people were crammed into the hold, their faces pale and their eyes pooled with terror. Still more were being waved on by a Marine. "No more! We can't take the weight!"

One of his crewmen glanced at him, nodded, then relayed the message, his hand cupped to his mouth. He made his way through the crowd and pulled the door closed.

At the signal, the pilot set off, the chopper lifting shakily and laboriously from the ground. Shit. Too much weight. They could make it, he thought, but just barely. He pulled back on the controls, and the helicopter banked slightly to the right. "Even the weight!" he cried. The crewmen hurriedly distributed a roughly equal number of refugees along either side, and that was enough to put them back on balance.

 _God, if you're there, please help me out, huh?_

The carriers were roughly forty nautical miles off shore. Not a great distance by helicopter, but when you're so packed that you have to fight the controls to stay airborne, it might as well be forty thousand miles. U.S. Navy helicopters are made of strong stuff, but everything has a tipping point, and as the ships came into view, the Chinook reached it: A shudder ran through the bird, and the controls started to lock. The stress of keeping in the air with such a heavy load was taking its toll on the mechanizations. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep steady and aloft, but the chopper was wobbling and beginning to sink: Fifty feet over the surface of the water, then thirty-five, now thirty.

They were going to crash.

He spoke into the radio, then the chopper jerked and dropped a few feet. Screams ran through the crowd. He turned. "Get everyone out now!" he cried to one of the other crewman; the man's eyes were wide with fear. "Open the door and jump; if they don't jump, push them!"

If they went down with everyone on board, there would be little chance of survival. These people would be trapped as the copter sank to the bottom.

The crewman nodded and rushed toward the back.

Fighting to stay in the air, the man communicated with the USS Ohio, yelling to hear over screams and weeping as people were forced to either jump into the ocean or thrown by force. He stole glances over his shoulder: One of his men pulled a woman by the arm, and she pulled back, shaking her head and pleading in Vietnamese. The controls jerked in his hands, and he wrestled them, still losing altitude. The surface was ten feet now, practically lapping the hull. His heart raced and his bowels quivered. He would have to be quick when the time came to bail or else he'd be crushed.

He glanced over his shoulder again as two of his men picked the woman up; she kicked and screamed. They tossed her out, then followed, one calling out to him that they were clear. The hold was empty; through the door he could see a trail of heads bobbing in the swell.

After the last of his men abandoned ship, the man took a deep breath. With one hand, he unfastened his safety harness then opened the door. Here goes.

Tensing, he sprang out, and for a few seconds he was falling: Then he hit the water and disappeared below the surface, breaking in time to see the chopper tilt backwards and land on one side, the rotors snapping and breaking against the water. In seconds, the bird rolled over like a dead bug and sank.

Within two minutes, a platoon of boats were racing for their position. The man stripped off his helmet, tossed it aside, and swam for one as it slowed. Three sailors pulled him aboard. He was wet, trembling from cold and nerves, but alive, and when the others were fished out of the drink, they were alive too, each and every one of them, something his commanding officers found impressive.

"You earned yourself a goddamn medal today, McBride," one of them said. They were standing on the deck of the Ohio and watching other choppers coming in from the west. They were the last: The NVA broke through the SVA lines, and though there were still pockets of resistance, Saigon had, for all intents and purposes, fallen. Later, Vietnam would be reunited – under communist rule.

Clyde, still in his wet flight suit, sighed. "I don't feel like I did anything." His eyes were fixed on the horizon, beyond which thousands of peace loving South Vietnamese were coming under communist domination. He wondered if the people at the embassy gates made it out...and what would happen to them if they didn't.

"That's how you're supposed to feel, son."

Huh.

He couldn't say he liked it.

* * *

Thursday morning. Lincoln was up early because...well...he didn't really want to talk about it...and brewed a pot of coffee in the kitchen, the small of his back pressed against the counter and his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were closed and he was seriously thinking about calling in sick to work. Oh wait, he couldn't _do_ that because he kind of _was_ work. _Hey, Linc, it's Linc, look, I need a personal day. Can you call someone to cover for me? Sure, I'll get Linc to come in._ Hahahaha. He opened his eyes and looked at the radio on the kitchen table. A large part of him wanted to turn it on and hear the latest from Saigon, another, equally large part of him did not. _Didn't get enough Vietnam last night in your sleep, Loud?_

He got _more_ than enough. He –

A loud, sudden sound filled the house, and Lincoln threw himself to the ground, his arms flying protectively over the back of his head and his heart blasting into his throat. He didn't do it consciously, he just reacted. Some people might call it a bad thing, but it proved he still had it. Heh.

He lifted his head and listened. Hand claps? Cowbells? Funk bassline? God, it was worse than the VC: Jessy was listening to the Bee Gees again. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 5:50am. Waaaay too early for music.

Picking himself up and dusting himself off, he closed his robe and went into Jessy's room: The little girl sat in the middle of her bed in a spill of lamplight, her portable turntable in front of her. Her eyes were closed and she swayed back and forth, a tiny grin on her face.

 _Oh, my child_

 _You'll never know_

 _Just what you mean to me_

 _Oh, my child_

 _You got so much_

 _You're gonna take away my energy_

In her bed, Alex stirred, moaned, and pressed her pillow over her head. My, how the tables have turned!

"Jess...honey?"

She didn't hear him; a look of rapture was upon her face and she moved back and forth as though she were a tiny boat on a sea of music. It was Leni's fault when you got right down to it; she's the one who got Jessy hooked on this song...then lent her the goddamn record! Oh, Christ, she played it again and again and again and again, and she would _not_ let you even try to put another record on. Alex at least was open to new stuff and introducing variety wasn't much of a hassle. Jessy? Uh-uh. Nope. It had been like this for...two weeks? He not only had to buy Leni another copy of the album, he also had to buy Jessy her own record player because she was hogging Alex's, and fights broke out several times over who was going to listen to what.

"Jessy?"

 _Oh, my love  
_

 _You're so good  
_

 _Treating me so cruel  
_

 _There you go  
_

 _With your fancy lies  
_

 _Leavin' me lookin'  
_

 _Like a dumbstruck fool._

"Make it stop," Alex moaned. Lincoln didn't know if he hated The Bee Gees, but Alex sure did. _That's a bad song, turn it off!_ She yelled yesterday.

 _Nuh-uh. It Auntie Leni song. It pwetty._

Lincoln crossed the room and knelt next to Jessy's bed. Back and forth like a pendulum. She was going to hypnotize him if she kept it up.

 _Jive talkin'_

 _You're telling me lies, yeah_

 _Jive talkin'_

 _You wear a disguise_

 _Jive talkin'_

 _So misunderstood, yeah_

 _Jive talkin'_

 _You just ain't no good_

Lincoln sighed, reached over, and took the needle out of the groove. Jessy froze, her body tilted to the right. Her eyes opened and she furrowed her brow. "Jessy, it's _way_ too early to be listening to records. Mommy and Alex are sleeping."

"I _was_ sleeping," Alex said, "but the dumb Bee Gees woke me up."

"They not dumb!" Jessy called, shooting her cousin a dirty look.

"Yes they _are!"_

"Girls! Knock it off. Jessy, you can't listen to your records right now. You have to wait."

She sucked a deep breath and started to pant, her bottom lip sucking in and her eyes filling with tears. Aw, jeez. Technically, it was almost time for everyone to be awake and getting ready anyway, so it wouldn't hurt if she put it back on now. Then again, he was the parent and he had to set parameters and stuff. Sigh. "Five minutes," he said, "can you wait five minutes?"

Jessy nodded. "I trwy."

Lincoln smiled and cupped her cheek in his hand. "Thank you."

In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne was yawning and pouring herself a cup of coffee; she wore her pink robe, and her hair stuck out at funny angles. Lincoln put his hands on her hips and kissed the side of her neck. "Good morning," he said, "did The Bee Gees wake you?"

"Yes," she grunted, reached for the sugar, and dumped enough in to feed a family of five. She usually took her coffee black, but on days when you wake up to disco, you need all the help you can get. "I don't know which is worse, Jessy's music or Alex's."

Lincoln shrugged. "At least The Bee Gees don't talk about sniffing coke."

She turned and lifted her mug to her lips, her eyes dark and hazy with sleep over the rim. "I could use some coke. Wake me up."

"And lose you your job," Lincoln pointed out.

"Eh, I can always go back to Flip's."

Lincoln chuckled. "No you can't. I won't hire you."

She lifted a brow. "Oh?"

He nodded.

"Not even if I...persuaded you?" She undid the belt of her robe and it fell open just enough to reveal the front of her white panties. Lincoln brushed his teeth across his bottom lip, tilted his head, and seriously considered his reply.

"No," he finally said, "I still won't hire you."

She slapped his arm and pulled her robe closed. "Fine. You're cut off."

"Oh? You –"

" _JIVE TALKIN'_

 _YOU'RE TELLING ME LIES, YEAH_

 _JIVE TALKIN'_

 _YOU WEAR A DISGUISE!"_

Lincoln winced and Ronnie Anne bowed her head. Had it been five minutes? He didn't think it had. _Maybe_ three and a half. "I can't take anymore," Ronnie Anne moaned.

In the girls' room, Jessy swayed back and forth to the music. Alex sighed, sat up, and looked at her cousin. "You need better music."

Jessy ignored her.

Alex started to say something, then stopped. It was no use. Jessy liked yucky songs and that was that. Well, fine; Alex would show _her_. She slipped out of bed, knelt, and reached underneath, pulling out a red plastic milk crate crammed with records. Alex flipped through them until she found her current favorite. Grinning deviously, she pulled it out and grabbed her turntable from the shelf under the nightstand. She sat it on the bed in front of her, opened the lid, and shook the record out of the sleeve, being very careful not to scratch it because if you scratched your records they wouldn't work right. She laid it carefully on the platform, moved the needle arm, and dropped it.

Tinny guitar blasted from the speaker, and Alex turned it up, giving her cousin a challenging look.

 _Let me take you to the movies_

 _Can I take you to the show?_

 _Let me be yours ever truly_

 _Can I make your garden grow?_

Jessy's eyes flew open, and she whipped her head angrily around, her ponytail slapping her in the cheek. Alex crossed her arms. _There_. Jessy's eyes hardened, and she turned her volume up even farther.

 _With all your jive talkin'_

 _You're telling me lies, yeah_

 _Good lovin'_

 _Still gets in my eyes_

 _Nobody believes what you say_

 _It's just your jive talkin'_

 _That gets in the way_

Jessy cocked her head and smirked. _There_. Alex retaliated by turning her volume all the way up; music crashed against the speaker and made it jump.

 _So the world is spinning faster. Are you dizzy when you're stoned?_

 _Let the music be your master. Will you heed the master's call?_

In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne buried her face in Lincoln's chest. A meaningless confusion of music filled Lincoln's skull, and he rubbed his temple, his teeth on edge and his ear drums pounding painfully.

He pulled away from Ronnie Anne and stalked to Jessy and Alex's doorway, ready to take both of their record players and put them on a high shelf forever. Each girl sat on her bed making faces at the other. "Enough!" he cried, and they both jumped. "Turn it off! No more music!"

Jessy and Alex both turned their players down. "Uncle Lincoln," Jessy plead.

"No. No more. Not right now."

Jessy bowed her head and started to cry. Alex looked at her with a stricken expression, then to Lincoln. "It's not her fault," she said, "it's mine."

Lincoln held up his hand. "I had jive in one ear and dizzy and stoned in the other, so it was both of you. Now get ready for school. We can listen to music later."

When he was gone, Jessy drew her knees to her chest and buried her face. "You made Uncle Lincoln mad at me." She cried harder.

Alex felt really bad. Jessy might like yucky music, but Alex still loved her and she didn't mean to make Daddy yell. She got up, crossed to her cousin's bed, and sat down. "I'm sorry," she said, and put her arm around her. "I didn't mean to." Jessy leaned into her, and Alex comforted her the best she could. Jessy didn't like it when Mommy or Daddy was mad at her. She was sense-e-tive; that's the word Mommy used. _Your cousin is very sense-e-tive, don't pick on her._ Alex didn't pick on her...most of the time...

"It's okay," Alex said, "at least you get to listen to your song with Auntie Leni."

Jessy sniffed. "I guess."

* * *

Bobby Jr. shrugged on his blue suit coat and looked himself in the mirror. His hair was shaggy around his forehead and ears, and his face looked good – except for the zit on his cheek. He poked it with his finger and winced. Ouch!

Sighing, he went over to his bed, dropped, and pulled his black dress shoes on. Under the coat, he wore a white shirt with ruffles and a black bow tie. His pants, also blue, had wide cuffs that swished when he walked and felt funny. He thought he looked like a big dork, but his mom said he was handsome, which...yeah, meant he looked like a dork. That didn't matter, though, because something told him Carol would like it, and as long as she liked it, he was fine.

In the living room, Mom and Dad were watching _Chico and the Man_. "Does East Los Angeles really look like that?" Mom asked.

Dad lifted a can of beer to his lips. "I remember it being less of a dump."

When he entered, they both turned, and Mom's hand went to her mouth. "Oh, look at you," she said, "you're so handsome."

Bobby tried really hard not to roll his eyes. _I feel like a dweeb_.

She got up, came over, and held him at arm's length, a tiny little smile on her lips. "Your first dance, oh, you're growing up." She looked over her shoulder at Dad. "Get the camera."

Dad sat his beer on the end table and got up with a grunt, then went into the bedroom. A few seconds later, he came out with a Polaroid Supercolor 1000: A clunky, crème colored device with a rainbow strip down the front. Mom took it and turned to Bobby. "Over by the Afghan," she said, waving. Bobby stepped over to the afghan and sighed. He was really hoping Mom wouldn't make a big deal out of this.

She held the camera up, pressed her eye to the viewfinder, and smiled. "Alright, say cheese."

"Cheese," Bobby said dully.

The flash blinded him, and a picture shot of the dispenser. Mom took it and started to shake it. "You really should have gotten your hair cut," she said, "you look so much better with it short."

Well...Bobby didn't really care _what_ his hair looked like. It's hair. It doesn't mean anything. But Carol liked it longer, and he liked it when she ran her fingers through it, so long it was. He shrugged. "Can I go now?"

Mom chuckled. "Yes, you can go. The dance ends at ten, so I expect you home at 10:15."

Yeah, yeah, he knew.

Outside, he slipped his hands into his coat pockets and started toward Tommy's house. As he walked, he hummed that night's theme song; it was one that Carol liked, and he kind of liked it too.

 _Do a little dance_

 _Make a little love_

 _Get down tonight_

He grinned at the thought of, uh, getting down with Carol. Too bad he wouldn't have a chance tonight; his aunt Ronnie Anne was one of the chaperones, and she'd be on top of him like white on rice. Apparently you don't have to teach at the junior high to chaperone...just be a teacher in general. He wondered if his mom asked her to do it just to keep an eye on him. He certainly wouldn't put it past her.

At Tommy's house, he knocked on the door and waited. After a minute, it opened and Tommy came out wearing a suit much like Bobby's own, only his was light pink and he wore a blue flower in his buttonhole. "Hey," Tommy said and pulled the door closed behind him.

"Pink's really your color," Bobby teased as they started down the walk.

"Cristina says it makes me look good," Tommy replied.

They were two blocks away from the school when someone called out from behind. They turned as Lamont Higgins walked up. A tall, gangly black guy with the beginnings of an afro and clad in a lime green suit with wide lapels and a black undershirt, Lamont was fairly new in town, his family having moved from Ann Arbor at the beginning of the school year. "Hey, how's it going?" Tommy asked.

"Alright," Lamont said, "ready to get my boogie on. You boys ready to party?"

"Sure am," Bobby said. His idea of partying involved him and Carol with no clothes. Hmmm.

Lamont reached into his jacket, pulled out a flask, and opened it. He took a drink, sighed, and handed it out to Tommy. "What is it?" Tommy asked.

"Mad Dog 20/20," Lamont grinned, "but some hair on those tits."

Tommy took it, looked at it with a slight frown, then took a tentative drink. He choked, and held it out to Bobby. "Ugh. It tastes like battery acid." Bobby took it and held it up. Uh...did he really want to drink something that tasted like acid?

Of course he did! Drinking alcohol makes you cool. Bobby lifted the flask to his lips, and when the liquid splashed down his throat, his mouth puckered and his eyes started to water. It was hot and foul and sugary and he wanted to spit it out, but instead he swallowed and handed it back.

"Nasty, huh?" Lamont asked as he closed it and stuck it back in his jacket. "My old man drinks it so that's all I can get."

Bobby shook his head. "No, it's great. Very, uh, flavorful."

Lamont laughed. "Wait 'til it starts coming back up."

At the school, Bobby entered the gym and looked around. Kids danced in the middle of the basketball court to music coming from big speakers while adults stood by the tables, taking and holding punch glasses in their hands. He saw Mr. Dean, the guidance counselor; he wore a plaid blazer over a turtleneck sweater. He saw the Principal, Mr. Wythe, wearing red pants. He saw...well, he saw a lot of people, but he _didn't_ see Aunt Ronnie Anne. Hm. That worried him; she was probably crouching behind a table or in an air duct, watching, waiting for him to look like he was doing something wrong, then...

"Awww, you're so cute."

He spun, and there she was, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a long purple dress and her hair was held back in a bun. "I could just eat you up." She reached for his cheek, but he jumped back, looking around to make sure none of his classmates had seen. Why did his aunt and uncle have to be so embarrassing?

"Have you seen Carol?" he asked.

Aunt Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Nope."

"Okay, uh, thanks."

Before she could embarrass him even more, he turned and hurried away, losing himself in the crowd. When he came out the other side, he was by the punch bowl. Might as well get a drink. He grabbed a glass, and that's when he saw her across the room. She wore a long blue dress, and her hair was curled. She stood against the wall and looked around. She was just as beautiful as he imagined.

Suddenly forgetting that he wanted punch, he sat the glass down and went over. She turned, saw him, and smiled. "There you are," she said happily.

"Here I am," he said, then added, "you look really beautiful."

"Thank you. You look really handsome."

He blushed. "D-Do you wanna dance?"

"I'd love to."

She held out her hand and he took it. Together, they went onto the dance floor, her arms slipping around his neck and his hands fluttering to her hips. "I saw your aunt," she said.

"Yeah," Bobby sighed, "she's here."

Carol laughed. "Why do you sound so glum about it?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. I just feel like she's standing over my shoulder." He looked around, and saw her standing by the punch bowl talking to Mrs. Freeman, the science teacher.

"Did you have something planned?" Carol teased. "Something you shouldn't be doing?"

He shook his head. No, no plans...just a glimmer of hope, wink-wink.

She leaned in and pressed her cheek to his; her breath was hot on his ear. "I do." She drew back, grabbed his hand, and dragged him through other dancing couples before his mind could even register the fact that she _probably_ just said something dirty.

At the edge of the dance floor, she looked over her shoulder and Bobby followed her gaze. None of the teachers were paying attention to them. "Come on," she said, and led him into the hall, away from the lights and music.

Bobby's heart started to slam. "Where are we going?" he asked, finding his voice.

"Hmmm. Nowhere."

She pushed open the boys room door. The overhead light was bright and stung his eyes. At the last stall, she shoved him in, followed, and closed the door behind her, locking it. Her eyes never left his; there was a predatory quality that shocked and excited him. She had a reputation as a goody two shoes, but Bobby was quickly coming to realize that the old saying about looks being deceiving might be true after all.

Grinning seductively, she stepped into his arms and pressed her body against his. He slipped his hands around her hips and grabbed her butt because hey, he had to do _something_ , right? She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Do you know how much I love you?" she asked. It was hard to hear her over the pounding of his heart.

"H-How much?"

She smiled and slowly sank to her knees before him. His mouth went suddenly dry and his dick started to twitch in anticipation. She pulled down his zipper, unbuttoned his pants, and yanked them down. Next she reached into his underwear, wrapped her fingers around his length, and took it out. Bobby watched in shock.

"Very much," she said huskily. Her warm breath caressed his member, and he let out a tiny moan. "Very, _very_ much."

With that, she took him in her mouth, and he gasped at the explosion of sensation. He laid his hands on the top of her head because he didn't know what else to do with them, and she went faster, her tongue flicking against his cord and making him pant.

In the gym, Ronnie Anne Loud snatched a handful of lime green material and dragged a black boy away from the punch bowl. He held a metal flask that dully refracted the light. "I-I-I wasn't doing anything. Honest."

She looked pointedly at the flask, then at him. "Bullshit," she said; he was too terrified to notice the smile in her voice. She took the flask out of his hand and let him go. "Get lost."

Nodding, the boy turned tail and fled, throwing a frightened glance over his shoulder. Payback, Loud, she told herself as she looked at the flask with a dreamy grin. Almost eighteen years ago she did the exact same thing, which is why she decided to watch the punch like a hawk. No one was spiking it under _her_ nose. No sir.

Bobby threaded his fingers through Carol's hair and threw his head back, a series of hissing grunts trembling from his lips. She bobbed her head back and forth, her lips squelching as they slid along his throbbing dick. It felt so good it hurt, the way something can be so hot it feels cold, and he could feel his climax approaching.

Ronnie Anne opened the flask and sniffed. Hm. She wasn't one for alcohol, but whatever was in there smelled nice and fruity like a...she didn't know, a Caribbean cocktail or something. Looking around, she lifted it to her lips and took a nip.

Big mistake.

It tasted like stomach acid mixed with baby vomit. She forced it down and let out a pained moan. Oh, yuck. What is this stuff? She did that kid a real favor taking this away.

Bobby crawled his hands over Carol's head and the sides of her face as she furiously worked his shaft. His knees shook and his hips jerked forward; his tip touched the back of her throat, and that was all he could take. He swelled and spurted, his seed filling her mouth. She made muffled noises of contentment as she swallowed it. She pulled away and looked up at him with a naughty smile. " _That's_ how much I love you."

Seriously, what the hell is this stuff? Was it that homemade crap from the twenties that killed everybody? Was she going to swell up like a balloon and die an excruciating death? She tucked the flask into the pocket of her dress and crossed her arms. The taste filled her mouth. Bleh. She grabbed a glass, scooped some punch in, and took a drink.

Carol sat on the very edge of the toilet, her legs spread and her dress bunched up around her waist. Bobby knelt before her, his eyes wide; her panties were forgotten in his hand and her dank heat softly caressed his face. She was pink, moist, and bare. He looked up at her; scarlet crept across her cheeks and her eyes were hazy with lust. He wouldn't lie, he was kind of intimidated, but she showed how much she loved him, and now it was his turn. He puts his hands on her knees and leaned in, her musky scent filling his nose.

Ronnie Anne grimaced. Oh, God, she could still taste it. She oughta find that kid and pour the rest of this awful shit down his throat; that'd teach him. She poured herself another cup of punch as an energetic dance song that was all music and no lyrics came on.

 _Do the Hustle!_

 _Do the Hustle!_

 _Do the Hustle!_

Carol gasped and ran her fingers through Bobby's hair as hot pleasure bubbled up from her depths. She pressed her thighs against his head and bucked her hips. He danced his fingers along the outsides of her legs as he raked his tongue along her trembling core; her fluid filled his mouth and coursed down his chin.

"God, yes," she moaned, pressing his face deeper, "don't stop, please don't stop."

 _Do the Hustle!_

Music.

 _Do the Hustle!_

Jesus, is there anything _else_ to this song? _Hey, guys, look at this new song I wrote, it has five words! What? Five? That's way too long. Drop two and you got yourself a record deal._ Ronnie Anne took another sip of punch, her eyes scanning the dancefloor. Soft, muted light lit the gym, casting most of it in shadows. Did that boy just slap that girl's ass? She didn't know. It was hard to see. She squinted and leaned forward.

Carol's fevered body clinched as her orgasm hit her. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from screaming as a shudder raced through her, and her hips spasmed against Bobby's face. She giggled deviously and licked her dry lips. Bobby rocked back on his knees. "And that's how much I love _you_."

Slow music now; couples danced close together, their hormone filled bodies rubbing and their hands drifting. How old were these kids again? Thirteen? Fourteen? Eh, that's not too bad, she guessed. She was fourteen the first time she let Lincoln touch her breast. Heh. She also _may_ have touched something of his. Through his pants, of course. It wasn't until she was fifteen that she touched it without something covering it. Or was she sixteen? No, fifteen. Or...was she still fourteen? She furrowed her brow in thought. No, she _was_ fourteen. Hm. She made herself another glass of punch, and as she drank it, she saw Bobby and Carol come in from the hall, their hands clasped and smiles on their faces. Hm. What were _you_ two doing? Necking? She oughta go over there and bust their balls about it, embarrass him a little. If she did that, though, who would guard the –?

A boy was standing by the punch and unscrewing a glass bottle. Another one? "Hey!" she called. He jerked, saw her, and ran away. She stalked after him. "Spike that punch and you're dead!"

He looked worriedly over his shoulder, then disappeared in the crowd. Little shits.

Heh.

* * *

Leni got up, took a shower, got dressed, and sat at her vanity. Lori was already gone, and the house was silent, which meant everyone else was gone too. Late, late, late, she was running late. She hurriedly brushed her hair and studied her face in the mirror. A little lipstick would look really nice, but she didn't have time for that. She barely had time for this. Her teachers were all going to be mad at her and give her bad grades if she didn't hurry.

When her hair was done, she pulled her socks and shoes on and looked around for her schoolbooks, but couldn't find them. Great. She went out into the hall, closed her door, and went down the stairs. It was really dark, and while she realized this, she didn't really give it much thought. She, like, _knew_ she was late. The sky could be rainbow colored and she'd know that. Duh. In the living room, she opened the front door, stepped onto the porch, and closed it behind her. Gee, it was kind of chilly. She should go back and get her coat.

Oh well. Too late for that now.

She hurried down the walk, crossed the street, and turned left. She was three blocks down when it occurred to her that she went in the wrong direction. Or did she? School was _this_ way, right? Or was it _that_ way? She didn't know, and now she was really confused. She stopped, tilted her head, and thought until her head ached and she felt dizzy. It _is_ this way. That's what I thought. Shivering against a chilly breeze, she picked up her pace. You know, this wouldn't happen if she had a drivey thingie. She could, like, get to work in a minute flat. But no, Lenis don't get licenses in this place. The conductor yells that you're going too fast and to watch out for the cones, then you...

Leni's step faltered.

Where was she?

She scrunched her lips and looked around. On either side of the street, houses stood shuddered against the night. Lamps cast pools of illumination on the pavement, and a stray cat darted from behind a trashcan, crossed a lawn, and disappeared under a porch. Oh, school, that's right, she had to...well, she couldn't remember what she had to do, but it involved school. She started to walk again, and as she did she hummed, her head bobbing happily from side-to-side. School, school, school, I am late to school; school, school, school, I am late to _schhhhhhhoooooolllll._ She turned onto a side street, and moved away from the lights. A shudder of fear went through her, but she held her head high and continued. I am a thirty-four-year-old woman, I am _not_ afraid of the dark.

Leni came to a halt.

Wait.

Thirty-four-year-old women don't go to school.

Hm.

Unless they're teachers.

That's right, duh; they have to have jobs and she had a job at the school. They would _not_ be happy that she was late. She started to walk, but she tripped over her own feet and went down, landing hard on her hands and knees. Owwww! She got up, shook herself off, then kicked out of her shoes. Stupid things.

Five blocks later, she started to cross the street but stopped. Nothing made sense. None of it. The sky, the trees, the houses. Where was she? And why was she outside? Lenis aren't allowed to be out after dark because something to do with...things. She didn't know. Her feet hurt. She lifted one foot, then the other. They were both cut and scraped. Why didn't she put on shoes? Gee, of all the dumb stuff you've ever done, Leni, this takes the first place.

Where was she, though? This didn't look like Royal Woods. Did she walk somewhere else? She spun slowly around, but she couldn't tell. She could be in Timbuktu for all she knew.

She wanted to cry, but thirty-four-year-old women don't cry, they do things the right way. She turned around and started back the way she came, but took a wrong turn and somehow wound up by Flip's. That was a relief because she knew where she was now. School was up ahead. Yay, I _did_ it.

Only...when she got there the doors were locked and they wouldn't let her in. She knocked and looked through the windows, and all the lights were off. She tried the handle. "Hello?" she called. She went around to all the windows and knocked; no one came to let her in. They must be _really_ mad that she was late.

Sitting on the front steps, she buried her face in her hands and wept. My life is over. They kicked me out and now I'll never find another job.

"Ma'am?"

She had mouths to pay and bills to feed, she _couldn't_ lose her job. She had to find a way in.

"Ma'am?"

She looked up. A policeman stood in front of her, backlit against the headlights of his car. The red lights on the roof spun in lazy circles.

"They won't let me in," Leni wept.

"Who won't let you in?"

"The school people. I came all this way." She threw her hands up.

The cop was silent for a minute. "Where'd you come from?"

"Royal Woods," she said.

"Where in Royal Woods?"

"My house!"

Five minutes later, Leni was sitting in the back of the car with a blanket around her shoulders. The cop knelt next to her and asked her a bunch of really hard questions, like what her address was. She didn't remember what her address was. "This is the first time I've ever left my house," she said dully, "I don't know what all this even is."

"Do you remember what street you live on?"

She thought. "I think it's Franklin."

As the cop drove, she gazed out the window, her mind working and slowly clearing. She remembered that she didn't go to school or have a job, though if she didn't, why was she out? She had _something_ to do, didn't she? Otherwise she wouldn't have left the house.

On Franklin, the cop pointed out one house after another, asking her if that's where she lived. She shook her head. "Um, no. Not there." Finally she saw a house that was _kind_ of familiar, but it was nighttime, and Lenis don't have very good night vision. "I think that's it."

The cop pulled to the curb, got out, and helped her to the front door. He knocked, and for a long time they waited; then the lights came on and the door opened. A man with thin gray hair and a bald spot in the middle filled the frame. He was kind of wrinkly too.

Leni recognized him.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Dad's brow furrowed. "Leni?"

Mom came up next to him, and when she saw Leni, the color drained from her face. "Leni!"

"I found her trying to get into the high school," the cop said, "she was distraught and confused."

"I thought I lost my job but then I remembered I don't have a job," Leni said and laughed. Wow. She could be _really_ dumb sometimes.

"She's sick," Mom said, "and sometimes she gets confused. Leni, what have I told you about leaving the house at night?"

Leni thought. "Ummmm. Not to."

After the cop left, Leni went back to bed. Luan would be here in the morning and she had to wake up to take care of her. Down the hall, her parents sat up in bed. Rita hugged herself and trembled slightly. Lynn stared at his hands. "We'll install a security system," he said. "If she opens the door, it'll go off and wake us."

Rita nodded, having barely heard him. She could have been seriously hurt or even killed.

And she wouldn't have known until someone found her.

Just like with Luna.

She shivered.


	95. December 1975: Part 1

**Accidentally mislabeled this as part two when first posted but it is part one. Ignore my dumb fuck mistake.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _Boogie Shoes_ by KC and the Sunshine Band (1975)**

* * *

"Uncle Lincoln?"

Lincoln looked up from the newspaper. Jessy was standing there with a sheepishly little grin on her face. She wore a nightdress with a festive red and green checker pattern that Auntie Leni bought her and her ponytail laid limp across one shoulder. She clutched a piece of paper in one hand; she held it out. "You send this to Santa for me?"

It was December 10, and Lincoln was sitting in his armchair – the one Ronnie Anne bought him for his birthday – the soft glow of lamplight falling across him. Ronnie Anne was on the couch, her head lulling against her shoulder and her eyes closed. On TV, _Little House on the Prairie_ went unwatched. Lincoln told her to go to bed, but she scoffed. _Who goes to bed at 8:30 in the evening? What am I, a lame-o?_ Two minutes later she was snoring. Hey, it wasn't _his_ neck that was going to be sore.

He took the letter and looked at it: Childish scrawl (red and green Crayon because it was Christmas, of course) covered the page. Despite being nervous her whole first week, Alex had taken well enough to school, even making friends with a little Asian girl, and her reading and writing levels were on a second grade level, the teacher said. Alex never struck Lincoln as a reader, but she loved a good book; guess all those bedtime stories paid off. All that's to say, the list was obviously written by Alex, while the illustrations accompanying each point were probably Jessy's work, making it a team effort. Awww. "I want all that stuff," Jessy piped. Her hands were clasped behind her back now and she twisted left, right, left, right, her ponytail swishing.

"I'll mail it to Santa in the morning," he promised.

"Tank you!" she spun and skipped away.

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne had done most of their shopping already, but it never hurt to pick up a few last minute items. He read the list, stumbling here and there because Alex's handwriting was, well, the handwriting of a six-year-old. Mr. Men dolls, tea set, Cher doll (huh?), and...

Lincoln frowned.

Pet rock.

The drawing next to it was a lumpy gray mass with wide, staring eyes – like it had seen too much in Vietnam and now had the occasion nightmare and jumped at sudden sounds. It _looked_ like a rock. That didn't make any sense, though. Rocks aren't pets. He made a thoughtful hum, and Ronnie Anne spoke, startling him. "What's that?" She rested her head in her hand and looked at him with sleepy eyes.

"Jessy's Santa letter," he said. "She wants a pet rock."

"Ah," Ronnie Anne said and nodded, "those are big."

Lincoln glanced at her. "What is it?"

She snorted. "It's a pet rock, lame-o."

His brain was having trouble computing the concept. "So...it's a rock but it's a pet?"

"Yes. A rock. That's basically all it is."

Lincoln frowned again. He knew the world had gone crazy, but people kept rocks for pets now? Jeez Louise. Then again, people keep plants around their house, so why not rocks too? At least you don't have to water a rock, or worry about it not getting enough sunlight. And hey, if someone breaks into your house and you're a gun-hating hippie who doesn't own a firearm, you can always sick your pet rock on them. If you have a good arm, that thing might even do more damage than a bullet.

He sat the letter in his lap. "I wonder who came up with the idea of selling rocks as pets."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "I dunno. Guy's making a killing, though."

He bet. Go grab some rocks from the garden and boom, merry Christmas. In fact, he could go outside right now, pick one up off the ground, and there you go. He said as much, and Ronnie Anne shook her head. "No. It comes with a little booklet and a pet carrier, you can't just go get a rock and pass it off as the real thing. She wants a pet rock, lame-o; it's only a couple bucks, man up and buy it."

Lincoln chuckled. "Fine, fine. I'll get her a pet rock."

"Good," Ronnie Anne muttered. She closed her eyes and shifted into a comfortable position. "And that record Alex wanted."

"Which one?"

"It's called _Toys in the Attic_ ," she said, her voice thick with approaching sleep, "by those Aerosmith people."

Lincoln nodded. They're the ones who did Same Old Song and Dance. Alex loved that song; she listened to it every morning before school. Jessy's current favorite record – again, thanks to Leni – was _KC and the Sunshine Band_. Goddamn thing had more brass than the Pentagon, gave him a headache. Speaking of which, they were going to be on _American Bandstand_ tomorrow; Ronnie Anne somehow found out and told Jessy instead of keeping it to herself, which meant he'd get to finally see the assholes who sang _Boogie Shoes_. His temple started to throb just thinking about it.

When Ronnie Anne started to snore, Lincoln fondly rolled his eyes. "Hey," he said, and she jumped. "Go to bed."

"It's not even nine," she muttered, "who goes to bed this early?"

A few minute later: _Snore._

God, she was so stubborn...but he loved her.

Down the hall, Alex was listening to her record player and writing in a notebook with a red Crayon; a pair of clunky headphones covered her ears and surrounded her in a warm, blissful cocoon of music. She stopped, read over what she had, and nodded. That was everything she wanted. She thought. Or was it? The Toys record, a Barbie jeep (she wasn't girly or anything, but it looked _really_ neat), a pet rock so Jessy's would have someone to play with (giggle, she knew rocks weren't alive, but still, she didn't want her cousin's to be lonely), the Rock and Roll All Nite record (the cover had guys with make-up wearing suits – it was funny). That's all she wanted. Yep. She glanced at Jessy; she was in the middle of her bed with her own headphones on. She was playing with a Barbie and bobbing her head from side-to-side.

She looked down at her notebook again and flicked her eyes to the ceiling. Was there _anything_ else she wanted? She had to think fast, because once this baby went to Santa, that was that. Hmmm. She couldn't think of anything else, so she shrugged, took her headphones off, and went into the living room. Mommy was asleep on the couch and Daddy was reading the newspaper. She stood beside him and he looked up. "Here," she said and handed him her letter. He took it and glanced at it. "I'll mail this tomorrow," he said.

"Thank you!"

Daddy smiled and rubbed her head.

* * *

Every day over the past couple months, Carol Pingrey would come over after dinner and she and Bobby would sit at the kitchen table and do their homework together. Most evenings, Lori would sit in the living room and pretend to focus on the television while really focusing on them. She wasn't listening to be a snoop...she listened because it was literally the cutest thing in the world how she helped him. Lori took her aside once and asked her, out of curiosity (she _was_ her son's girlfriend, after all) what she wanted to be when she grew up. She instantly responded with, "Either a teacher or a journalist. I haven't really decided yet." Lori was very impressed, and found herself hoping that she and Bobby wound up staying together.

She realized that that was unlikely – not many people wind up marrying the boy or girl they like when they're eleven – but a woman can hope, can't she?

On December 10, she was upstairs when Carol arrived. She came down, heard them in the kitchen, and that was that. Typical day, you know. She sat on the couch and reached for the TV remote, but stopped when her eyes fell across an unfamiliar hardcover book sitting on the coffee table. Carol was an avid reader and often brought books over: Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, and others. Curious, Lori picked it up and looked at it. The dust jacket with black and the title was white: 'SALEM'S LOT. Below, the author's name was in orange: STEPHEN KING. In the hollow of the title's O was an illustration of a small town. She opened the cover and read the inside flap:

 _Salem's Lot is a small New England town with white clapboard houses, tree-lined streets, and solid church steeples. That summer in 'Salem's Lot was a summer of homecoming and return; spring burned out and the land lying dry, crackling underfoot. Late that summer, Ben Mears returned to 'Salem's Lot hoping to cast out his own devils and found instead a new, unspeakable horror._

 _A stranger had also come to the Lot, a stranger with a secret as old as evil, a secret that would wreak irreparable harm on those he touched and in turn on those they loved._

 _All would be changed forever-Susan, whose love for Ben could not protect her; Father Callahan, the bad priest who put his eroded faith to one last test; and Mark, a young boy who sees his fantasy world become reality and ironically proves the best equipped to handle the relentless nightmare of 'Salem's Lot._

 _This is a rare novel, almost hypnotic in its unyielding suspense, which builds to a climax of classic terror. You will not forget the town of 'Salem's Lot nor any of the people who used to live there._

Huh, doesn't really sound like Carol's normal fare. Wonder what this 'secret old as evil' is. She flipped to the first page and started to read. Before she knew it, she was almost a hundred pages in and had to pee, but couldn't put it down, the story dragging her by the front of her shirt and whispering foreboding promises into her ear.

"I'm going home now," Carol said at one point.

"That's nice," Lori muttered as she turned a page.

The girl didn't speak for a moment. "I, uh..."

Lori hummed.

"Mom, give her back her book," Bobby said.

Lori shot him a dangerous look over the top. "That's okay," Carol said quickly, "you can keep it. Just return it to the library when you're done."

While the kids scurried away, Lori went back to reading. She still had no idea what this evil was supposed to be; she would stop once she found out.

Bobby Sr. came home about an hour later, went into the kitchen, then came back in and sat next to her. "Hey, babe."

Lori grunted.

"What'cha got there?"

"Book."

Bobby nodded. "What's it about?"

"A woman who killed her husband because he wouldn't shut up and let her read."

"Ah," Bobby said and cracked his beer, "I'll wait for the movie."

"You do that."

Bobby Jr. came home at some point, then sometime later, someone knocked on the door, and Bobby Sr. answered it. The good, hot smells of pizza found Lori's nostrils, and her stomach rumbled. She looked up as Bobby Sr. crossed the living room, a pizza box in his hands. "I'll have some," she said.

"Figured you would," he retorted.

It was 1am when Lori _finally_ found out what the evil was: Vampires. She was never one for horror, but, well...she'd already put _this_ much energy into the book, so why not finish it?

Great.

In the morning. Her eyes were grainy and she was tired. Lying in bed, it occurred to her that she basically stole a fourteen-year-old girl's book. Wow. That made her feel like literally the world's biggest jerk. She'd give it back, though.

When she was done.

* * *

Leni didn't often get angry with her mother, but she was angry now, oh yes she was. It wasn't just anger though, it was, like, hurt too. When Jessy started coming over again in September (she didn't during the summer because Lincoln's wife didn't have summer school), Mom asked Leni to stay in the living room and not to take Jessy upstairs. Uh, okay, fine. She didn't give it much thought. Like, why would she?

Today, however, Leni wanted to take Jessy upstairs and do her hair; it was easier when she sat at her vanity and did it. When she tried, Mom asked her what she was doing, and when Leni told her, she said no. "Why?" Leni asked.

"Because I want you two to stay here."

Leni was not stupid; there was a slight tremor in her mother's voice that said she wasn't being honest.

"Why?" Leni pressed.

Mom sighed. "Just stay here."

"Why?"

"Because I want to keep an eye on you and Jessy."

In other words, she thought Leni was stupid and she was going to, like, hurt Jessy or something. That made her mad and hurt her feelings...and what made her even madder was that Mom had a point. She still blanked out here and there, and her mind wandered so much that she would totally forget what she was doing and walk away. A week ago she was baking cookies, started to drift, and didn't remember until the smoke alarm started to go off.

But she _never_ did stuff like that when Jessy was here. Never. She might be sick and dumb, but she made extra sure she kept it together when her sister was here. Leni sighed and curled her fingers against the banister, her nails digging into the soft wood. Did Mom _really_ think she would let herself be _that_ stupid when she was watching Jessy? She was always responsible and caring and kind when her sisters were here. She would never walk away and leave them.

Stupid fucking bitch!

"Fine," Leni said tightly, "we'll stay under the stairs and not be unheard of." She took Jessy's hand, led her over to the couch, and together they sat in front of it. "I can't make your head like I promised but we can have other things."

Jessy's brow crinkled ever so slightly, and Leni could feel her mother's eyes on her. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. "What's this?" she asked and touched Jessy's nose.

"Nose!"

Leni genuinely smiled. Her sister-I-mean-cousin was so cute. "And what's this?" she asked and touched Jessy's lip.

"Mouf!"

"That's right. It's your mouth. Somethings times that come out..." Leni trailed off and furrowed her brow. Suddenly she felt strangely, like lightheaded and dizzy.

"Honey, are you alright?" Mom asked.

She was trying to say something about mouths and words coming out, but she thought she got mixed up, like a tongue twister.

"Leni?" Mom asked firmly.

"I'm fine," Leni said tightly. "I just got jumbled up. That's the only thing."

What was she trying to say again? She couldn't remember. It had to do with mouths and how sometimes they say things that make you feel bad the way Mom's mouth made Leni feel bad by not letting her take the upstairs and forcing her to stay in the basement. Saying mean things to people is mean and she didn't want Jessy to grow up to say mean things to someone like they ought not do.

Mom and Jessy were both watching her, Mom with concern and Jessy with trepidation, like she was a big scary Leni with fang eyes and evil stuff. She smiled. "Your mouth can't say bad things because you might hurt someone's feelings."

"O-Otay," Jessy said.

Leni giggled. "What's this?" she touched Jessy's chin.

"Chin!"

"That's right!"

After that, she started to feel normal again. Mom asked her what's the matter and Leni told her nothing. I just got confused. Duh. It happens to Lenis all the time. Mom didn't like that so she called the doctor and made Leni another stupid appointment. That made Leni angry because she was sick of appointments for nothing. All around it was _not_ a friendly day.

But that was okay. Leni was a grown woman and she could deal with times like this. She played with Jessy, she made Jessy lunch, she and Jessy watched TV. "You're going to go to school sometimes," Leni said.

Jessy nodded somberly. "I don't wanna."

"I know, sweetie," Leni said. "I don't want you too either. I'm going to miss you lots."

Jessy turned in Leni's lap and looked up at her. "You come school _with_ me?"

Leni started to say something, but stopped. That was a good idea. Why couldn't she? Leni loved her programs and her house but it all went down the drain when compared to losing Bunny and now Jessy. Hanging out with them in that kind of setting was such an easy fix that it slipped through the fingers of her brain or something.

Before she could answer, Mom said, "Honey, Auntie Leni already went to school."

"I didn't go to school," Leni said, even though she kind of remembered that she did. Or remembered that she remembered.

"Yes you did, dear," Mom said, "a long time ago."

Jessy blinked and sighed sadly.

Leni hugged her and kissed her forehead. Poor baby. Maybe they would let her go back to school. You can go to places more than once, right? There was no writey thingie saying not to. She didn't want to give up her sister because if she had her she didn't have nothing. No knitting, no cookies, no...

No nothing. That's all. It would be a very boring way to do things.

If only she could drive a TV, maybe that would lessen the load. She could go to the craft store and never have to leave! That'd be _totally_ fun. Maybe she could also take in a thing, you know, the kinds they show on TV every, like, Monday night. She couldn't remember the last time she went to something like that. She saw one the other day where an old woman was sitting in a rocking chair and she didn't have a face and it was really creepy. She had a spider eye. Shiver.

"Auntie?" Jessy asked.

"Yeah?"

"Was school fun?"

Leni couldn't remember, but she was not stupid, she recognized her sister's fear, so she nodded. "Yep, school was _really_ fun and everyone was really nice."

When Lincoln's wife came to pick Jessy up, she asked how Leni was doing. "Great. Me and Jessy talked about school. She doesn't want to go."

"No," Lincoln's wife said, "she doesn't. Neither did Alex and Alex wound up liking it."

Leni nodded. Who's A –?

Bunny. Alex was Bunny. She didn't forget who Bunny was, she just, like, never used her straight name so she blanked sometimes. The wife's name was...Leni knew it, it was on the tip of her tongue...Rachel? That didn't sound right, but what's the matter? She'd have time to get it. Rome wasn't a day, so neither was her. They hadn't been married long. I can't get a name _that_ obviously! She was only human and everyone seemed to slip their minds.

After Jessy left, Leni went upstairs even though her mother told her earlier not to. She expected Mom to fight her but she didn't, and that was a relief, because all she wanted to do was eat a record and listen to cookies. Jesus, can't a Leni have _anything_ nice?

Oh! At least it was almost summertime. She loved summer: The lights, the sleigh bells, the summer presents. At least she had _that_ to look forward to if nothing else.

Sitting on her bed, she opened her turntable, took a cookie out of the bag, and sat it on, but nothing happened. Hm. That's right. Both discs and you forget somethings. She misspoke and then made it a reality. Hahahaha. She picked the cookie up, stuffed it into her mouth, then put a record on the turntable. There. Imagine if she actually tried to eat a record. That would _not_ have come out well in the end of the matter. You know, it's like capitalism, because the little bands in the record and you eat them because they're people and that's really yuck. Good thing she ate a cookie instead. She would cry if she ate a pop band.

Lenis do _not_ like animalism.

* * *

After leaving work, Lincoln drove over to Sears, Royal Woods' one stop shop for everything from car batteries to women's underwear. Woolworth's was still hanging around, but by the looks of it, they were probably going to go out of business soon: The location, not the chain. Hell, maybe the chain too. Who knew? Not Lincoln, that was for sure: He didn't go to school for department store research science after all...his secondary education consisted of being yelled at, shooting rifles, and running until he puked. Speaking of firing weapons, he should really look into getting a shotgun or something. Did they sell shotguns in Sears? He didn't know. A few times over the summer he got Ronnie Anne on the gun range and...he hated to admit it, but she was a terrible shot. Seriously, she couldn't hit the broad side of a barn at point blank range. She needed the scatter effect of a shotgun if she wanted to stop a burglar or a Jehovah's Witness. The way she looked as she held the .45, though...arms out, legs spread, gun hand cupped in her left palm, head straight, eyes forward, determination on her face...almost all of their sessions ended with them having sex. Is that weird?

Anyhoo, Lincoln parked, hopped out, and went inside. He didn't have a list but he didn't need one. Toys in the Attic, pet rocks, Mr. Men dolls, a tea set, and...

He turned around, went back to the car, and found the girls' letters to Santa. Of _course_ he needed a list. Duh.

Inside, the aisles were crowded and cheery Christmas music filtered through speakers in the ceiling. He started toward the back, where the records were, but stopped when some blonde bitch in a long wool coat shot out in front of him; she was leaning against her cart and her face was buried in a book.

"Watch yourself, bitch," Lincoln said.

Lori looked up, and her angry scowl softened when she saw it was him. "Hey, Linc. You were _literally_ this close to getting punched."

"I was also _literally_ this close to being run down by a shopping cart. What'cha reading?"

"Oh, nothing; just a book Bobby's girlfriend let me borrow." She laughed nervously. She had a bad habit of doing that when she lied, and Lincoln inferred that Carol did _not_ let her borrow the book at all. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Lori was once a wholesome, all-American girl...now she was stealing books.

"Well, keep your eyes on the road, huh?"

"It's a _really_ good book."

Lincoln snickered.

"Christmas shopping?" she asked. They began to walk aimlessly together toward the back, Lori pushing her cart and Lincoln clutching Jessy and Alex's letters in his hand.

"Yeah, I'm picking up a few last minute things." He glanced down at the letters. "You know people keep rocks as pets now?"

She chuckled and nodded. "Yes, I do. Bobby and Carol have one."

Lincoln's brow lifted. "Oh? Sounds like things are getting serious."

Lori laughed. "Yep. They treat it like a baby. Well, it's mainly Carol who treats it like a baby. Bobby does his impression of his father: He sits there with a soda can and threatens to beat it with his belt when it misbehaves."

They reached the records; Lori was back to reading and not paying attention: She bumped into a display and jumped. "You really need to put that thing away while you're shopping," Lincoln said, "you're going to kill someone."

"But Susan and Mark just went into the Marsten house."

"Susan and Mark aren't going anywhere; they'll be right where you left them." He plucked the book out of her hands and snapped it closed, then tossed it into the cart. Lori looked lost, like she was an alcoholic and he had just taken away her hooch.

She nodded. "Okay, yeah. I need to hurry up and get this shopping done."

"Same here," he said, and patted her on the back, "keep your nose outta that book, alright?"

Lori laughed. "I will. Promise."

After she was gone, Lincoln went over to the record shelf and glanced at Alex's letter. Toys album. What was that band's name again? Aerosmith, that's it. Where the hell do these people come up with their names anyway? Like that Tommy James guy: What the fuck is a 'shondell'? Black Sabbath...well, that made sense because they worshipped Satan. The Doors...okay, that was a little odd, but okay, a door's a door. Aerosmith? No clue. He scanned the A section and found the album. _Toys in the Attic_. Yep. Those are toys on the cover. That teddy bear looks pissed, almost like he can't get over the fact he was held POW in Vietnam and forced to eat maggots.

Lincoln laughed heartily.

Next, he stopped by the toy section. Pet rocks came in little straw lined cardboard pet carriers with breathing holes because, gee, wouldn't want the rocks to suffocate or anything. He should have gotten a cart. Why didn't he get a cart?

By the end of it all, his arms were loaded down with stuff. He carried it up front and dropped it onto a checkout lane conveyer belt. He looked up, and Lori was in the next lane over, her head bowed over that damn book again. _Oh, but Mark and Susan just went into the house; so exciting! It has carpets, Linc, real, live carpets! And a television set too!_ Oh, boy, I hope there aren't any credenzas; I might pass out from the excitement.

Outside, Lincoln heaped all the gifts into the trunk and drove home, getting there just in time for _American Bandstand_ to start. Aw, jeez, I was kind of hoping I'd miss it. Ronnie Anne was grading papers on the couch while Jessy and Alex sat side-by-side in Lincoln's chair, Jessy looking excited and Alex looking bored.

"Hey, lame-o," Ronnie Anne, "find everything okay?"

"Yep," Lincoln said as he sank onto the couch next to her, "I'll bring it all in later."

She nodded.

On TV, Dick Clark sat in the audience and talked into a microphone; he wore a light brown suit and had a part in his hair. Hahaha, look at him, he looks old. _... "This is what it's going to look like."_ He unfolded a poster with KC AND THE SUNSHINE BAND in gold flourish. He shouted their name, and everyone started to clap and cheer. Wahoo. Yippee.

The camera cut to the stage where the aforementioned assholes were gathered: Jesus, there were a lot of them, all loud colorful suits and sequins and God knows what else. The brass section struck up, dancing with their trumpets or trombones or whatever, and Lincoln recognized it instantly. Oh, and they're playing my favorite song. Jessy's face lit up.

Some white dude stood behind a keyboard in a blue vest over a yellow shirt, the collar of the latter flipped over the former. Uh, where's KC?

Then he started to sing and _holy shit he's white._

Lincoln thought he was black.

 _Girl, to be with you is my favorite thing  
_

 _Yeah, uh huh, yeah  
_

 _I can't wait till I see you again  
_

 _Yeah, yeah, uh huh, uh huh_

To be fair, everyone else in the band was. The rhythm section, the female back-up singers. The drummer and guitarist looked white, but they only showed flashes of them, so he couldn't really tell.

 _Just to boogie with you, yeah_

 _I want to put on my my my my my_

 _Boogie shoes just to boogie with you, uh huh_

 _I want to do it 'til the sun comes up_

 _Uh huh, and I want to do it 'til_

 _I can't get enough, yeah, yeah_

 _I want to put on my my my my my_

 _Boogie shoes_

The audience was clapping and dancing, and the Sunshine Band was moving and grooving this way and that. Jessy swayed back and forth with a big smile on her face; Alex rolled her eyes but she was grinning.

There was one black dude in the front row who was particularly enjoying the music: He thrusted his hips and pumped his fist in the air. The saxophonists ducked and spun, KC played the keyboard with one hand like a show off, and the back-up singers snapped their fingers. The picture quality on this TV wasn't the best, but from where Lincoln was sitting, it looked like KC had big ole coke eyes like Luna. _I haven't slept in twenty-five days, oh yeah, I can't wait 'til I can snort again, uh huh, I wanna put on my my my my my my my my my my my my my my my my boogie shoes._

"I'm getting a headache," Ronnie Anne said as she finished a paper and set it aside. The brass parts were like icepicks in Lincoln's ears, so he felt her pain, but hey, Jessy liked it. As he recalled, his parents put up with Fats Domino and Bill Haley in the fifties, so he could put up with KC and the Sun Fun Bunch in the seventies.

Lincoln turned and poked her ear. She whipped around and furrowed her brow. "You had a little blood."

She snickered. "More than a little."

The music stopped and Dick Clark rushed across the stage to interview KC before he could boogie away.

"Am I bleeding too?" Lincoln asked.

Ronnie Anne leaned in and examined his ear. "No, but I can see clear through to the other side." Lincoln sighed, and she kissed his cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said.

"Again!" Jessy cried and threw her hands up.


	96. December 1975: Part 2

After school, Bobby did something he never thought he'd do: He told Carol he was busy and couldn't hang out. She nodded understandingly and kissed him, but he still got the impression that she was a little...hurt? Upset?

When he got home, Mr. Grouse was scattering salt along his walkway: It rained in the night, then the temperature dipped down and it froze. Bobby's own walkway was a sheet of ice, and he had to walk very carefully or he'd fall.

He grabbed his bike from the shed, and rode it through the rapidly drawing dusk, the cold air washing over him and making his cheeks blush. On Main Street, the streetlamps were festooned with wreaths and ribbons, and a few of the shops flanking the sidewalk had lights in the windows. Outside the hardware store, a man in a plaid shirt stood next to a red kettle and rang a bell.

At the jewelry store, he hopped off his bike and leaned it against the wall, then went inside. Low lamplight filled the shop with soft electric glow, its illumination touching the rings, pendants, and necklaces in the glass display cases and making them sparkle. The jeweler, Mr. Bonanno, a tall man with thick glasses, a mustache, and graying hair, stood over the counter with one of those little magnifying glasses to his eye, studying a ruby or a sapphire or something; Bobby didn't know much about precious stones.

For a long time, Bobby waited for the man to finish what he was doing; when he looked up and noticed him, he smiled curtly. "Back again?"

"Yes, sir," Bobby said.

"Good timing, I just finished it this morning." He sat the jewel and the glass onto the counter and went into the back. While he waited, he looked around and wondered how much money you could make robbing a place like this. Probably a lot. Plus, while bills had serial numbers and stuff, there wasn't a way to track diamonds and emeralds, at least not that he knew of.

Shortly, Mr. Bonanno returned with a small, palm-sized box and sat it in front of Bobby. He removed the lid, and inside was a silver necklace with a heart shaped pendant on the end. Mr. Bonanno opened it. "That's what you wanted, right?"

Bobby bent over and read.

TO CAROL FROM BOBBY. I LOVE YOU.

He nodded. Short and simple, maybe, but this guy charged by the word; he was half tempted to abbreviate everything.

"Yeah, that's it," Bobby said.

Mr. Bonanno nodded, replaced the lid, and pushed the box across the counter. Bobby dug into his pocket, took out a twenty dollar bill, and handed it over. Mr. Bonanno took it. "Well, there you go. Merry Christmas."

"You too," Bobby said, taking the box and shoving it into his jacket pocket. Outside, he got onto his bike just as it began to flurry. Carol was going to _love_ this; he was really proud of himself for thinking of it. For a long time he was stuck for what to get her, then one day while he was admiring her throat, he thought _you know what would look pretty there? A silver necklace_. The image of her wearing that and nothing else _may_ have crossed his mind a time or two, but it wasn't like that: He just thought it would look nice and that she would really like it. He could see himself giving it to her now: _This is, uh, my heart, and I'm, like, giving it, you know, to you._

He'd say it better than that (he and words weren't on the best of terms, but they weren't mortal enemies), but that kind of represented how he felt: Stumbling and stammering and nervous, because he loved Carol, and if the girl you love doesn't make you feel like a jibbering dork...do you even love her?

When he got home, the lights were still off and the driveway was empty. Mom must have gone to the store, because she didn't work today and where _else_ would a Mom be? He let himself in, went to his room, and tucked the box carefully into his nightstand. He should find one of those stick-on bows...make it look nice. When should he give it to her? She was obviously going to spend Christmas with her family and he was going to spend it with his, so it couldn't be then. The 23rd was the last day of school before break, so...probably the 23rd. That was forever away, though, and he was really excited and impatient to give it to her.

Mom got home a half an hour later, and when Bobby went into the living room, he found her reading that dumb Stephen King book again. It kind of made him mad how she took it away from Carol, and he was tempted to take it back when she put it down. The only thing was: She never put it down. She probably even read it when she pooped. Shudder.

He sat down next to her and picked up the remote. "You do your homework?" she asked and flipped a page.

"Yes," he lied. He'd do it later.

"Where's Carol?"

"She's not here. I needed her away for the afternoon."

"Why's that?"

"Because I had to pick her gift up."

Mom nodded. "That's nice."

"Are you making dinner tonight?"

Mom looked up and furrowed her brow angrily. "Of course I am."

She wasn't lying. She made dinner...but burned the fuck out of it because she wasn't paying attention. Whatever, pizza two nights in a row was fine with him.

* * *

Rita Loud crossed her arms and swallowed hard. Leni sat on the examine table, her hands in her lap and her knees pressed demurely together; she was wearing a thin hospital johnny and her eyes darted around the room with the inquisitive curiosity of a child. It was approaching late afternoon, December 15, and they had been at Royal Woods General for most of the day; first there were CAT scans and MRIs, then a full work-up: Blood, heartrate, urine samples, everything. Rita had only been watching and she was exhausted; she could only imagine how her daughter must feel.

"How are you feeling?" Rita asked for perhaps the thousandth time that day.

"Fine," Leni said absently. Since the other day, she had been acting normally, or what passes for normally when your mind is being slowly worn away: When she spoke, she made sense and didn't sound like she was a crazyperson. "I'm ready to leave now."

Rita nodded. "I know, honey, but we have to wait for your results."

Leni sighed. "It always takes so long."

Yes, it did, but it was worth it in the end. Her episode the other day was out of the ordinary, even for her, and God only knows what caused it. Rita suspected a mini stroke...only with Rentschler's it wasn't called a stroke and didn't behave quite the same as a normal stroke...unless it was major. The doctors had been saying for years that she was likely to suffer at least a couple of them at some point, and that she might even have a major one and die or wind up with extensive brain damage; thus each day was an exercise in dread suspense as Rita waited for her daughter to be struck down.

Leni started to hum a tune that Rita didn't recognize; it was probably one of her own design. She drummed her fingers on her knees and swept the room with her gaze as though she were looking for something in particular, her brow furrowing slightly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Leni said. "I'm ready to leave now."

"In a little while."

Leni nodded. "Okay."

Shortly, the doctor came in. He was a tall man with a balding hair and black glasses. He wore brown tweed trousers and a white lab coat over a blue shirt. He clutched Leni's X-rays in his hand. "Did you find anything?" Rita asked.

"Maybe," he allowed with a nod. He held up the scan of Leni's brain and pointed at it with a pen. "This dark patch here...it suggests that Leni may have suffered an extremely minor Rentschler's related stroke. A hiccup, they call it." Rita leaned forward and squinted at the scan. She did indeed notice a very small black spot against the white snapshot of brain. It was as small as a pinprick, really.

"As you can tell, it left a mark, but there're no lasting effects. As the term suggests, her brain hiccupped. The more this happens, however, the more stress it will put on the cortex and eventually there _will_ be lasting effects. She is also at increased risk now for a major RRS."

Rita's heart tightened. "W-What can we do?"

"Well, if you notice her acting particularly strangely, bring her in."

"What about the blank outs? Those are fairly new. Are they related?"

The doctor took a deep breath and bobbed his head from side to side in thought. "It's a possibility, but those are more than likely a symptom of the disease itself rather than an RRS." He turned to Leni. "How are you feeling, Ms. Loud?"

Leni nodded. "Fine."

"How was your day?"

Leni blew a puff of air. "Boring. I had, like, all sorts of bloodwork and stuff done and I had to go in the picture tubey thing, then I had to sit here and wait and wait and wait. I'm sleepy and my tummy is grumbly."

The doctor nodded. "Do you have any plans for the holiday?"

Leni nodded eagerly. "I'm going to see Jessy and Bunny and Lincy and Lincy's wife and Bobby Jr. and we're going to open presents and eat cookies." She fisted her hands in excitement. "I'm, like, really looking forward to it."

The doctor smiled warmly. "Have you gone Christmas shopping?"

"A little. I got Jessy a little Christmas nightgown but I already gave it to her because I was _really_ excited, so that doesn't really count. I got Lincy a coffee mug that looks like a hamburger because he sells hamburgers." She giggled.

"That's very nice." The doctor turned to Rita, who had been watching the exchange with misty eyes. "She seems lucid enough overall. That's my primary concern at the moment. If she gets like she was the other day, don't hesitate to bring her back."

After the doctor left, Rita handed Leni her clothes. "We can go now?" the girl asked hopefully.

Rita nodded. "Yes, baby, we can go."

* * *

Bobby looked up from his history book and stole a glance at Carol. She was bent over a notebook and writing, the top of her ear poking through the silky veil of her hair. They were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table on the evening of December 22. Tomorrow was the last day of school, but instead of getting into the spirit of the season and leaving them alone, the teachers _still_ assigned homework. Sigh.

His plan was to give her the necklace tomorrow, but he really wanted to give it to her now. She wasn't going to get it on Christmas anyway, so what difference did it make if she got it on the 22nd rather than the 23rd? It would make a difference if she got it _after_ Christmas, like on the 28th or something, but before, well, no, it really didn't matter, right? He picked up his Coke and took a sip as he mulled the matter over. Yeah, right now, sure. He sat his bottle down and pushed away from the table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. "I'll be right back," he said and stood.

"Okay," Carol said.

Bobby went through the living room on nervous feet; his mother sat on the couch with her legs crossed and that stupid book in her hands. The TV played unwatched; she had done literally nothing but read for days.

What a dork.

It's okay when Carol reads, though.

Snapping on the overhead light, he crossed to his nightstand, sank onto the edge of his bed, and opened the drawer. The box was sitting next to an 8-track tape with a gold record on the label. Oh, shit, that's right, he had to give this back to Uncle Lincoln. He grabbed the box, closed the drawer, and promptly forgot about the tape. He never found a stick on bow, but that was okay, he had a plan and it kind of involved _not_ handing Carol the box.

He went into the living room and paused. In the few seconds he'd been in his room, Dad came home. He was sitting on the couch next to Mom, a can of beer shoved between his legs. Mom turned a page with a crisp sound.

In the kitchen, Carol was still bent over her notebook, her pencil flying furiously. She had another English essay or something; this time she had to write a story using certain words and things chosen by the teacher. It sounded really lame, but he knew she'd write a good story, because she was Carol, and he couldn't wait to read it.

Presently, he opened the box and took the necklace out, holding the chain in one hands; the heart swung back and forth like a pendulum and shimmered in the light. It was beautiful...just like her.

Being quiet, he crept up behind her and leaned over. She sensed his presence and turned her head. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"I got you something," he said. He unclasped the necklace and threaded it around her neck. She tilted her head back and lifted her hair out of the way with a happy hum. "I was going to give it to you tomorrow, but I wanted you to have it now." He clasped it and kissed her cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said. She picked the heart up and looked at it with bright eyes.

"It opens up," Bobby said.

She opened it with lithe fingers and smiled widely at the message. Bobby cupped the back of her neck in his hand and she looked up at him. "Bobby, this is beautiful."

"So are you."

He leaned in and they kissed softly, their tongues making slow, sensuous love to each other. Bobby ran his fingers through her hair and she smiled against his lips. "I love you," she said seriously.

"I love you too."

In the threshold, Lori's hand fluttered to her chest. Awwww, that was so sweet! They were maybe a little young for 'I love yous," but it made her tear up nevertheless. Bobby sat in his chair and took Carol's hands; they gazed lovingly into each other's eyes. Lori sighed dreamily; young love is such a beautiful thing. She didn't come for that, though; she had business. She crossed to the table and laid the book next to Carol, who barely registered her presence. "Here," she said, "I'm, uh, sorry I took this from you."

"That's okay," Carol said and looked up at her, "it's a really good book."

"Yes, it is," Lori said. "Where did you stop?"

"Ben was in the embalming room waiting for Mrs. Glick to come back."

Lori shuddered. Of all the scenes in _'Salem's Lot,_ that one bothered her the most: Ben Mears sitting in a funeral home embalming room and making crosses out of wooden tongue depressors as he waited for a dead woman under a sheet to return as a vampire. Then said sheet begins to twitch... "That was very spooky," Lori allowed.

"I _know_ ," Carol said, "I almost peed myself."

Lori laughed, and Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Wait until things _really_ get going," Lori said.

"Oh, don't spoil it," Carol laughed and waved her hand.

"You'll have nightmares for _weeks_."

Bobby bowed his head as his mother and girlfriend talked about some dumb book. Being out of the loop almost made _him_ want to read it.

Almost.

* * *

Two days before Christmas, Mommy and Daddy were watching the news and not paying attention to her. Good. She crept down the hallway to her room, tiptoing because she had to be _very_ quiet. Jessy was sitting on her bed and coloring a picture. Alex stood in the doorway, threw a glance down the hall, then called to her cousin in a low voice. "Hey."

Jessy looked up, and her brow furrowed. "What?"

Alex motioned her to come over.

Looking puzzled, Jessy climbed off the bed and came over. "What?" she asked again, and Alex shushed her. Jessy jumped a little because she didn't like doing something wrong. "Come on," Alex whispered, then went out into the hall without waiting for a response.

For a moment Jessy didn't move, then she followed grudgingly. "Bunny," she whispered, "what we doing?"

Alex, at her parents' bedroom door now, turned and put her finger to her lips. Jessy closed her mouth and looked over her shoulder. They were doing something they were supposed to be doing, and suddenly her little heart was racing. Alex wrapped her fingers around the knob, slowly turned it, and winced as the hinges creaked. Jessy fisted her hands against her chest and closed her eyes, certain that they were founded out.

When nothing happened, Alex gently pushed the door open and motioned for Jessy to follow. Jessy started to protest, but her cousin disappeared into the darkness past the threshold. She didn't even turn the light on! Jessy didn't like the dark, even _if_ Bunny was there.

What should she do?

Alex poked her head out and gestured. "Come on."

Jessy took a deep breath and followed, slipping into the room with a nervous, fluttery stomach. "What we _doing?"_ she pressed.

"We're looking for our gifts," Alex whispered.

Jessy blinked. "But Santa –"

"Not the ones from Santa," Alex explained, "the ones from Mommy and Daddy."

Oh, no, this was _not_ good. Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne would be mad if they did that, and Jessy did not like to make them mad. She wanted to be a good girl. "No, Bunny," she said, "we get in twouble."

"No we won't," Alex said patiently, "they'll never know. We'll just look and leave."

Jessy anxiously chewed her lower lip. Alex said they wouldn't get in trouble, and Alex was her big cousin, so her word was almost as good as gold. Almost. Jessy _really_ didn't want to get in trouble and the possibility that they might scared her.

Alex laid her hands on Jessy's shoulders. "We won't get in trouble. I promise."

"I scared."

"Don't be scared, Jessy. I need you."

Alex didn't really _need_ Jessy...she could look at her gifts without her...but she needed her there because she was her little cousin and she loved her; everything was more funner when they did it together.

Jessy nodded determinedly. Alex said she needed her so she wouldn't chicken out. "Otay. Let's do it."

Alex grinned. "Okay. You look in the closet, I'll look under the bed."

"But we don't have wight," Jessy said, "how will I see?"

Reaching into a pocket of her dress, Alex pulled out a plastic toy star that lit up blue and red and green when you hit it. She tapped it and faint light filled the darkness. "Here."

Jessy took it and looked at it. It wasn't much, but, sigh, Bunny needed her help. "Otay." She clutched it to her chest like a talisman and went toward the closet, the darkness swallowing her up. Her little body trembled and her heart pounded like a small, frightened animal. She twitched a glance over her shoulder, and saw the rhythmic flashing of blue light under the bed as Alex checked there. Jessy swallowed hard, her feet shuffling against the carpet.

She found the closet door by bumping into it. She jumped and let out a tiny "Eeek."

"What?" Alex asked from under the bed, her voice muffled.

"Noting. I otay."

Jessy reached for the knob, but it was really high, and she had to stretch on her tippy toes. Suddenly, her light went dark and threatening blackness closed around her. Her heart leapt and she sucked a mouthful of air. She slapped the star, and it lit up again. Whew. She reached for the knob, got it, and turned it; she pulled it open and held the star out before her. Light bathed the walls and revealed dangerous shapes. Did this closet have a monster too?

No, they were only shoes and bags and stuff. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked around. "I don't see any pwesents," she called over her shoulder. In fact, she didn't see much of anything.

"Keep looking," Alex called back.

Jessy sighed, turned back to the scary closet, and held the star out so she could see better. It went dark, and she hit it again. "Stupid toy." She took a step in and tripped over a shoe, landing hard on her knees; the star flew out of her hand and hit the wall. It went dark, and so did Jessy's world.

Her heart started to pound and the back of her neck tingled.

"B-B-Bunny!"

"What?"

"I droppeded my wight!"

"Pick it up!"

"I-I-I-I can't! It broked!"

She began to hyperventilate. She couldn't see anything...and anything could be there, waiting to spring out and grab her; monsters loved to eat bad little girls who went looking for their Christmas presents. Tears filled her eyes. "B-Bunny! I need you! Pwease!"

"Alright," Alex said, "I'm coming."

Jessy wrapped her arms around her tiny frame and hugged herself. She sucked her quivering bottom lip into her mouth and squeezed her eyes closed as tears began to spill down her cheeks.

"I'm coming, Jessy," Alex said. Her voice wasn't muffled anymore. She sounded like she was close.

"Pwease hurry!"

Jessy bowed her head and trembled. Then Alex was there, and hugging her. "It's okay," Alex said, "there are no monsters."

"The dark is scawy."

"I know, but there's nothing to be scared of. I won't let anything happen to you."

"I don't wike the dark."

As if the universe had heard and decided to take pity on her, the room filled with bright, blinding light.

Gasp.

"Alejandra Carman Loud!" Auntie Ronnie Anne cried.

Jessy's heart dropped to her feet.

"Jessica Danielle Loud!"

Jessy started to cry harder, hugging herself and bowing her head as far as it would go to make herself a smaller target for her aunt's disappointment.

"It was me," Alex said, "I made her do it."

Aunt Ronnie Anne sighed, then snickered. "You two are something else. Go to your room."

Alex helped Jessy up and walked her past Auntie Ronnie Anne and into the hall. Jessy's tears had stopped. "I sorwy," Jessy sniffed.

"It's okay," Alex said, then grinned, "I saw a tea party set under the bed."

Jessy stopped and whipped her head around, her tearful eyes suddenly burning with excitement. "You did?"

Alex nodded. "Yeah. It was all pink and girly." She shuddered.

Jessy flashed a big, toothy smile and jittered with excitement. She _weally, weally_ wanted that tea party set.


	97. July 1976

**Lyrics to** _ **Afternoon Delight**_ **by Starland Vocal Band (1976);** _ **Philadelphia Freedom**_ **by Elton John (1975);** _ **High Voltage**_ **by AC/DC (1975);** _ **Sweet Emotion**_ **by Aerosmith (1975)**

Lincoln Loud sat by the register and watched as, in a booth by the window, some teenage girl broke up with some teenage boy. She wore bright red bell bottoms and a purple tank top that clung so tightly to her breasts it looked like it would rip with one wrong move; he wore jeans and a faded black Led Zeppelin band T. Alex liked Led Zeppelin. They had that one song he really _didn't_ like; the singer spends two minutes moaning and groaning like he's about to shoot a big, English load all over the listener. He honestly tried not to be too uptight, but let's just say that record disappeared like its name was Lincoln Loud. Hahahaha.

The girl got up, shook her head, and left, slamming through the door and stalking across the parking lot. _She's lucky she didn't break the glass,_ Lincoln thought and he glanced over at the boy. His face rested in his hands, his long dirty blonde hair reminding Lincoln of used toilet paper.

"Your birthday's coming up," Bobby Santiago Sr. said, "the big 3-0." He sat across from the counter working on a hotdog.

Thirty-years-old. Crazy, right? He never thought he'd see the day. In fact, back in Vietnam, he didn't think he'd see the big 2-4. "Yeah," he said, "lots of milestones this year." 1976 marked Lincoln's thirtieth year on earth, his tenth year in holy matrimony with Ronnie Anne Santiago, his fifth year as owner of Flip's, and the two hundredth birthday of the good ole USofA. The bicentennial. God bless America.

Of those dates, the only one he really cared about was his wedding anniversary, and it was everything he could have hoped for: He, Ronnie Anne, and the girls went out to eat and saw _The Bad News Bears_ at the drive-in. It was really nice: They backed into the spot, heaped the station wagon's cargo compartment with blankets, and snuggled together. He couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

"I hear that," Bobby said, "fifteen years you've had the honor of having me in your family."

Lincoln snickered, and Bobby angled his brows down. "Screw you, Loud." He took a big bite of his hotdog and chewed it.

Shaking his head, Lincoln picked up the paper and scanned the headlines. "How's junior? I haven't seen him in a while." The last time he could remember Bobby Jr. coming in was just before school let out; he was with Carol, but wasn't he always? They were cute...reminded him of him and Ronnie Anne at that age.

Bobby shrugged. "Eh, he's fine. Hanging around Carol and his other little friends, I guess."

"When's the wedding?" Lincoln asked.

"Don't worry, you're not invited...not after laughing at me."

"Come to think of it, weren't you and Lori supposed to have a big wedding?"

"Now you sound like her," Bobby laughed. "What about you and Ronnie? You guys ever going to do anything big?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Nah. We're not exactly the white-dress-make-a-big-fucking-deal-about-it kind of people." He brought up the idea once, just because he figured she _might_ want a fancy ceremony, but she shot it down. _We're already married, lame-o. Can't be even_ more _married._ No, you can't.

The boy got up, came over to the counter, and paid. Lincoln, because he was a nice guy, gave him a fifty percent broken heart discount. "You going to see the fireworks tomorrow?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "we'll be there."

Every year on the Fourth of July, the town had a big fireworks display in the park. Before Alex and Jessy, he and Ronnie Anne never went because come on, if you've seen it once, you've seen it a thousand times. Oooh, awwww, pretty. The first time they took Alex she cried, then the first time they took Jessy _she_ cried. The past two years, though, they loved it. Lincoln didn't; the explosions put him on edge. Not much – he didn't throw himself to the ground (he only did that when Jessy played her Bee Gees records) – but it definitely got his heart racing.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, we might be there too. You should bring the kids over. We can have a cookout."

"Yeah, that might be nice."

Bobby finished his hotdog and dusted his hands. He glanced to his left as someone went into the bathroom, then looked at Lincoln. "What'cha got in the jukebox these days?"

"Shit."

Bobby grinned and shook his head. "You're turning into Flip, you know that?"

"Piss off, Santiago."

Bobby laughed. "You ever hear of reincarnation?"

"Recycling souls," Lincoln said.

"Pretty much. I think Flip came back as you."

"That's not how it works, dumbass."

Bobby snickered again. "Yeah, he'd be real proud of you."

After Bobby left, Lincoln sat his plate in the window; Scott grabbed it and passed it to Chris, the new dishwasher: Donald quit last year to work at some factory or something. '75 also saw Lilly leave for an office job in Chippewa Falls. Her replacement was a blonde named Tina. She was a little on the bigger side, but a pretty girl nonetheless. She kind of reminded him of Lori for some reason.

Being the summer, he had a lot of extra waitresses hanging around. One of them was a girl named Cristina who was apparently dating Bobby's friend Tommy. Lincoln didn't know that until Tommy came in one day and Cristina gave him a side of tongue with his burger. He inferred they were together after watching her for a while and finding that she didn't give every customer the same treatment. She was a pretty girl too, curly brown hair, freckles. God, he needed to hire some dogs so people didn't think he was some kind of pervert. _He has all those pretty girls working for him so he can look at them all day,_ he could hear some prudish old biddy saying, _he probably jacks his dick under that counter._ Yeah, baby, serve those fries.

At the end of the day, he swept, mopped, and doled out pay, then put the rest of the money in the lockbox and locked the door. In the car, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot; he had to stop at the supermarket before going home. He needed lettuce, tomatoes, and bread for Flip's and...he couldn't remember what he needed at home. Ronnie Anne wrote him a list. At a red light, he checked the glovebox, the visor, and the floor, but didn't see it. Goddamn it, where was that list?

" _This is WKBBL, 105.2 FM, Royal Woods. The time is 6:48 and the temp is 85. It's the 4_ _th_ _of July weekend and lots of festivities are planned for the area. Fireworks will be at Ridgeway Park from 7 to 7:30. The annual fireman's parade will be from 4 to 5. A dramatic reading of the Declaration of Independence will take place from the steps of the Royal Woods Public Library at 6, and as always, we'll be right here letting freedom ring one hit at a time."_

Seriously, where the fuck was this list? He patted his pockets, felt between the seats...then saw it on the dashboard. Ha. Got'cha. The light changed, and he went through as the annoying deejay shut his trap and played a record.

 _Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight_

 _Gonna grab some afternoon delight_

 _My motto's always been 'when it's right, it's right'_

 _Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night?_

He glanced to his right, and saw Carol and Bobby Jr. walking down the street, holding hands like a couple of lovestruck kids. Awww. She was wearing a pair of red hip huggers and a light blue shirt, he was dressed in brown pants and a dark blue T with white writing across the front. His hair was shaggy and looked greasy. They're so cute...I should drive up onto the sidewalk and run them over.

Instead, he beeped the horn and waved. They saw him and waved back.

At the supermarket, he parked along the side and went in, unfolding the list and scanning it. Milk, eggs, bread...he froze midstep. Tampons? He broke out in hives and a cold sweat. People are going to think I have a vagina!

No, but seriously, shopping for tampons was a pain in the ass because there were so many different types and he could never remember which brand she preferred. Funny, he could remember everything else pertaining to his beautiful wife, from what she was wearing the first time he noticed _holy shit, she's hot_ to every mole, freckle, and blemish on her bronze skin...but he couldn't remember what kind of tampon she used.

Oh well, I guess I'll wing it.

He wound up getting the wrong kind.

Again.

"Every time, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said sadly when he got home, "every time."

All Lincoln could do was shrug. Never send a man to do a woman's job.

* * *

Lynn Loud III opened the car door and stepped out into the arid Arizona day, one red high top slapping against the dirt and kicking up a cloud, then the other. She was dressed in a pair long-legged overalls over a white T-shirt. Her red baseball cap was perched on her head, her ponytail dangling from the little slot in back; her mitt was threaded through one of her belt loops, and her bat rested casually against her shoulder. She paused, reached into her pocket, and brought out a package of Big League Chew; a picture of a baseball player adorned the front, his bat cocked and his teeth gritted in determination. She took out a pinch of gum, tossed it into her mouth, and began to chew. Big League was her favorite, because as the jingle said: You're in the big leagues when you're into Big League Chew!

Her father got out from behind the wheel and stretched his back. He wore a white polo shirt and plaid shorts. The smell of sizzling hotdogs and hamburgers filled the air and mingled with the sounds of children playing and music drifting from a radio somewhere:

 _'Cause I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom  
_

 _From the day that I was born I've waved the flag  
_

 _Philadelphia freedom took me knee high to a man, yeah  
_

 _Gave me a piece of mama, daddy never had_

Mama came around the front of the car, a covered dish in her hands. She wore a blue dress and big sunglasses; her dirty blonde hair was held back in a ponytail. She looked around. "I knew we should have gotten here earlier."

Off to their left, a dozen picnic tables were scattered along a line of shady trees. Each one was occupied: Kids tossed a football, dads manned grills, mothers sat and prepared side dishes. A little girl in a white dress and a red, white, and blue striped hat held a sparkler out and giggled delightedly. Lynn glanced expectantly at the baseball field: Gangs of kids played soccer, football, and, yes, there it is – baseball. The corners of her lips turned up in a grin.

"We'll find a spot," Dad said, "and if not, we'll tailgate."

Sudden brass and wind music struck up from speakers Lynn could not see. _Stars and Stripes Forever_.

"Oh, Lynn, I do _not_ feel like sitting in the hot sun," Mama said.

Lynn's fingers tightened on the grip of the bat as she watched a group of boys, all about eleven or twelve, indulging in America's Favorite Pastime, their faces sweaty and their clothes caked with dust. Two years ago, at this very park, a group of boys much like that were mean to her and wouldn't let her play baseball. They laughed and made fun of her because she couldn't swing.

That was then...and this was now. She had been working really hard on her swing over the past twenty-three months, and today, the 4th of July, 1976, she was finally ready for the big leagues.

Dad put his arm around Mama's shoulder. "We'll find a spot. Relax. Look, that colored family is leaving. I think." Dad held his hand up to his face to block out the sun. "Yeah, hurry over and claim it."

Mama sighed and shook her head, then crossed the dusty lot to the picnic area, where a large black family was indeed leaving, clearing up not one but two tables. Lynn looked back at the field with a shiver of anticipation as a boy in a white T shirt with green sleeves and a blue cap jumped up and caught the ball in his mitt. Though she knew it was impossible, she imagined she could _hear_ the muffled thump it made, and much like her Auntie Leni in Michigan when she sees chocolate, her pupils dilated.

Dad passed behind her and went to the station wagon's tailgate; he opened it and lowered it. "Dad?" Lynn asked, turning, "can I go play?"

"In a minute," Dad said and pulled a cooler out with a grunt, "I need your help bringing this stuff over to the table."

Lynn sighed. Nevertheless, she leaned her bat against the car, went to the tailgate, and grabbed a paper bag full of buns, potato chips, and hotdog packages. She waited for a blue pick-up to pass, then hurried after her father, her scurrying feet kicking up puffs of dull brown dust. Dad sat the cooler on the ground next to the table, where Mama sat in front of the dish. "Don't move," Dad said and pointed at her, "or we'll lose our spot."

"I'm not going anywhere," she laughed.

Lynn sat the bag down and started to turn, but Mama stopped her. "Did you put on sunscreen, honey?"

"Yes," Lynn lied, itching to hurry back to the car; the sooner it was unloaded, the sooner she could play baseball.

"Alright, I don't want you getting a sunburn."

Lynn was a baseball player, and baseball players don't wear sunscreen; sunscreen is for dorks who can't hack it.

At the car, she grabbed a shallow metal pan filled with utensils and followed her father, who wheeled the grill behind him. She sat it on the table. "Can I go play now?" she asked.

"Yes, you can go."

"Thanks!"

"Be careful!" her mother called after her.

Lynn lifted a hand. "I will!"

Back at the car, she shut the door, grabbed her bat, and rushed around the rear end, absently slamming the tailgate closed as she passed. Her body thrummed with energy, and every second she wasted getting to the baseball was a second she spent not _playing_ baseball. She went through a gate in the fence and then around the dugout. The boy with the green sleeves was currently at bat, a boy with shaggy blonde hair standing on the pitcher's mound and winding up. Lynn slowed as he threw a perfect curveball; Green Sleeves swung and missed. The ump, a pasty boy with lank black hair, caught it. "Strike two!" he cried.

"I know how many strikes it is, Kaufman," Green Sleeves said frustratedly.

The pitcher tittered. "Ritchie's getting _nervous."_

"Hey, screw you, Slater."

Ritchie glanced over and saw Lynn, his brow slightly furrowing. Lynn felt a twinge of apprehension, but she steeled her resolve and marched right up to him; Kaufman jerked around in surprise and fell on his butt.

"I wanna play," Lynn said.

Ritchie blinked. "Uh, but you're a girl."

There was no malice in his voice, only confusion, which is the only reason Lynn didn't reply harshly. "So?"

A very fat boy standing at first, his eyes lost in the flushed folds of his face, scratched his head. "Can girls even _play_ baseball?"

"Wanna find out?" Lynn asked, her head tilting and her brows lifting in defiance.

Ritchie looked down at Kaufman, who watched from the dirt, then at Lynn. "Alright," he said with a shrug, "let's see what you got."

He moved away, and Lynn stalked to the plate. Slater looked from her to Ritchie and back again in confusion, then shrugged: Just another day at the office, he figured, but it wasn't: He was dealing with Lynn Loud now.

Behind her, Kaufman got off his butt and squatted, his mitt held up to catch the ball. Lynn remembered her gum and tossed it around with her tongue, working up enough salvia to spit into the dirt. "You think she'll hit it?" Fatboy asked in a low whisper. Ritchie, his arms crossed, simply shrugged.

Lynn held her bat at the ready; it jittered in her hands, not from nerves, but because she wanted it to. Slater wound up and threw: The ball sailed past her and hit Kaufman's mitt. Lynn made no attempt to hit it, she didn't blink, she didn't twitch; her face was placid and devoid of emotion. "Strike one," Kaufman called and threw the ball back to Slater. He stretched his arm, faked a throw, and stretched again. _Get on with it,_ Lynn thought.

He threw, and again, the ball flew past her, landing in the mitt with a thud. "Strike two," Kaufman said, "you get one mo –"

"I know how many strikes I get, Kaufman," Lynn spat over her shoulder, and the boy paled. Ritchie snickered and Fatboy crossed his arms, probably because his mama wasn't there to hug him.

Kaufman threw the ball back to Slater, who reached up and caught it with ease. "Want me to go easy this time?" he asked, a mocking inflection in his voice.

"I want one of those curves you threw when I walked up," Lynn shot back.

Slater shrugged. "Alright. It's _your_ funeral."

Lynn chuckled mirthlessly around her gum: She smacked it between her teeth and trained her eyes on the ball, the entire world shrinking until nothing existed except for a white circle with red stitching. Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat slacked, the only sound was her own soft inhalations and her even softer exhalations. Slater drew back, one foot leaving the ground, and then surged forward: The ball left his hand and spun through the air like a cannonball, the rapid twirl of red on white hypnotic, transfixing, moving in slow motion as it came closer, and closer, and closer...

Now.

Lynn swung, and the bat connected with a violent crack; pleasant vibrations thrummed up her arms and into her heart. The ball shot into the air, speeding into the dusty summer sky like a burning meteorite in reverse. Slater spun to watch it, and nearly tripped over his own feet. Kaufman popped to his feet and held his hand up to shield his eyes. Ritchie took of his hat as if in respect and watched with wide-eyed shock as the ball, now a little black speck against pale azul sky, went over the fence, over the trees, and still kept going.

A Cheshire grin spread across Lynn's face.

"Holy shit!" Ritchie cried. "She's on _my_ team!"

"Screw you, Haveman," a black boy on second called, "she's on _mine!_ "

* * *

Lincoln pulled into a slot facing an expanse of forest and killed the engine, cutting _Cats in the Cradle_ off at the end. Sad song when you listen to the lyrics. With all the depressing shit in the world, why in the hell would someone want to put something like _that_ on top forty radio?

Next to him, Ronnie Anne bent and shoved her purse under the seat. He told her to leave it at home, but she was a stubborn one. _I gotta have my purse, lame-o._ Right. Silly me. She glanced up at him and cocked her brow. "What?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Nothing. I was just admiring your chest through that silky pink dress." That was a goddamn lie...was as in past tense, because he sure was now. The fabric clung lovingly to the swell of her breasts, and Lincoln had a front row seat to the outline of her bra. You know, he wasn't into immodesty (Jesus, put some clothes on and respect yourself), but he wouldn't mind if she went without the ole brassiere. And the ole, uh, panties.

She snickered. "Nineteen years and you still look at me like a horny schoolboy."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Lincoln retorted and opened the door.

She shook her head, her warm black hair rustling across her throat. "Nope. I _like_ it."

Lincoln puckered his lips, and she puckered hers.

"We get out now?" Alex asked impatiently.

"Yes," Lincoln sighed, "we can get out."

Alex opened her door, unbuckled her seatbelt, and climbed down, her feet landing on gravel. Lincoln followed and shut the door. Behind them, Ridgewood Park opened up like a green table cloth, a stand of trees on its western flank and River Road on its eastern. If you walked through the forest a bit, you would come to the Royal River, which was good swimming this time of year. In the center was a wide field, and presently it was packed with families barbequing, kids playing tag and football, hotdog and ice cream vendors, and a group of people dressed in colonial period clothing. Hm. The Founders have returned...and they are _not_ happy with what we've done to their country. Run for your lives.

Alex stood before him, drinking in the sights. She wore a dark blue dress with red and white stripes down the hem. Jessy came over and stood next to her cousin with an excited bounce; she was wearing a white skirt/shirt one piece (Lincoln didn't know what the fuck it was called) with red, white, and blue stripes similar to Alex's; the collar and sleeves were also outlined in patriotic colors. Her hair was held back in a ponytail by festive red, white, and blue ribbons. His little girls were as sweet and American as apple pie; he doubted they would taste like pie if he cooked them in the oven, though. He laid one hand on Alex's shoulder and one of Jessie's. "You ladies excited?"

"Yes!" Alex said. "I wanna see the fireworks!"

"I want ice cweam, pwease," Jessy said, her little hazel eyes zeroed in on a cart decorated with pictures of ice cream cones, popsicles, and cookie sandwiches.

"Alright, we'll get ice cream as soon as me and Auntie Ronnie Anne get the grill set up." He brushed between the girls and went to the tailgate, which he opened. Ronnie Anne appeared beside him, her hands fluttering to her hips. The cargo compartment was crammed with stuff: A grill, lawn chairs, bags of food and snacks and condiments, a cooler full of Coca-Cola, hamburger meat, and hot dogs, a little awning to protect them from the sun (it was overcast, so that thing was about as useful as one legged partner in an ass kicking contest). "Okay, short round, outta the way," Lincoln said and pushed Ronnie Anne aside.

"Short round?" she asked dangerously.

"Yep," he said and reached for the grill, "this is man's work."

She uttered harsh laughter. "You think?"

"Yep."

"It's 1976, lame-o; gender roles have changed."

Lincoln looked at her; her arms were crossed and one brow was lifted defiantly. "You wanna grab the heavy ass grill?"

"Yes, I do," she said.

Lincoln stepped back and held out his arm. "Have at it."

"Dick," she said and reached into the car.

Alex looked excitedly around at all the activity. She would wind up staying with Jessy because other than her friend Meagan, Jessy was the only kid she liked, but still, it was fun to take in. Kids were playing, adults were cooking and drinking grown up pop, a man was selling ice cream...it was magical.

"That ice cweam looks weally yummy," Jessy said.

"I bet it tastes even _more_ yummier."

Jessy hummed.

Alex started to say something, but froze as something drifted to her ears. Her little bunny nose twitched, and her eyes slightly widened. Rock. She glanced around, but didn't see where it was coming from. She could hear it, though; guitar and drums and all kinds of good stuff. "I hear music," she said.

Jessy intently watched the ice cream cart, her tongue swiping across her upper lip. Alex cocked her head and listened. It sounded like it was coming from her right. Before she knew it, her feet were moving; like her cousin Lynn, she was a shark with the scent of blood...or a cartoon character being drawn forward by finger shaped smell clouds. Jessy looked away from the ice cream just in time to see Alex disappear around the front end of the car next to them. Her eyes widened. "B-Bunny!" Alex didn't stop, she didn't come back, and she didn't reply.

Heart beginning to race, Jessy looked over her shoulder. Auntie Ronnie Anne was struggling to get the grill out of the car and Uncle Lincoln was laughing at her with his arms crossed. Jessy opened her mouth to tell, but snapped it closed again. She didn't want to get Bunny in trouble. She turned back to the car her cousin went around, a stricken expression on her face and her fists fluttering to her chest. She was beginning to hyperventilate. What should she do?

Three cars over, Alex was drawing close to the source of the sweet, energetic music; her stomach panged pleasantly and her heart danced in her chest. She could make out words now, the singer's voice high pitched and strained with the power of the song.

 _Well you ask me why I like to dance  
_

 _And you ask me why I like to sing  
_

 _And you ask me why I like to play  
_

 _I got to get my kicks some way_

Alex shivered with delight as the music wound its way through her and tantalized her senses. She liked rock very much, and from what she could hear, this was _good_ rock. She ducked around the front bumper of a Pinto, and there, before her, was that from whence the heavenly sound came. A bird faced man with shaggy blonde hair, brown lensed glasses, a beaked nose, and a white T-shirt stood against the side of a white 1975 Trans Am, his arm hooked around a redhead in bell bottoms and a button up shirt. In his free hand he held a can of adult pop. On his other side was a stout, dogfaced black man in a gold colored button up shirt, unbuttoned to the top of his navel and tucked into brown pants. He, too, had adult pop.

The windows of the Trans Am were down, and the music came from inside.

 _High voltage rock 'n' roll  
_

 _High voltage rock 'n' roll  
_

 _High voltage, high voltage  
_

 _High voltage rock 'n' roll_

Alex didn't realize she was moving until she was standing in front of the man with the beak. He turned, saw her, and started slightly.

"Who's that music?" Alex asked, craning up to look at him.

The woman gasped. "Oh, you're so _cute!"_

"That's AC/DC, little mama," the bird man said, "you like them?"

Alex nodded. "I like rock."

"Oh, Walt, we should have a baby," the woman said.

Ignoring her, Walt grinned at Alex. "Who's your favorite band?"

"Aerosmith," Alex replied instantly. Her favorite band could change at any minute, but right now it was Aerosmith and had been for a _long_ time.

Walt tittered. "She said Aerosmith's her favorite band. Right on. Can you sing one of their songs?"

Alex nodded eagerly. Yes, she could; she sang their songs all the time at home...sometimes she even used a brush and pretended it was a microphone. Which song should she sing? One came to her, and she smirked evilly. She was in the mood to show off. She jumped back, threw her fist forward, and yelled: "Standin' in front just shakin' your ass!"

Walt lost it; he bent forward and laughed so hard he spilled some of his adult pop. The black man snickered and the redhead held her fists to her chest as if Alex was just the most adorable thing ever.

"I take you backstage you can drink from my glass! I talk about something you can sure understand! 'Cause a month on the road and I'll be eatin' from your hand!"

Walt dropped his adult pop onto the ground and nearly fell to his knees; he clamped his hands to his knees and screamed laughter. Alex grinned.

"Bunny!"

Alex turned, and saw Jessy standing nervously by the front end of the Pinto, her arms crossed over her stomach. She stole a furtive glance over her shoulder, then scurried forward.

"Oh, there's another one!" the redhead cried, and Jessy jumped a little. "She's so _cute!"_

"Bunny," Jessy said lowly, her head tilting forward, "what you tink you doing? We get in _big_ twouble."

Alex sighed deeply and rolled her eyes. "I talking shop with other fans."

"Well no talk shop and come on befoe we get in twouble," Jessy trembled, her fists balling and her brow furrowing.

Behind them, Walt stood up and brushed a tear from his cheek. "Oh, that was good, that was good. Hey, Charles, grab me another beer, will you? The kid made me drop mine." The black man bent, reached into a cooler, and tossed Walt another can. He cracked it open. "You girls want some of this?" he asked.

Jessy looked past Alex. "Well...I _am_ tirsty."

"Shut up, Walt," the redhead said and slapped his arm. "They can't have any of that."

Jessy looked at Alex again. "I no want get in twouble, so –"

" _ALEX! JESSY!"_

Jessy jumped a foot, her eyes filling with fear. Alex was the bolder of the two, and always had been...but the roar of her father's voice made her heart shrivel up in her chest. She sucked a lungful of air and her eyes went wide. If she and Jessy were _really_ quick, maybe they could get away and live in a rabbit hole somewhere...

Walt held up a hand. "Hey, man, they're over here!"

Jessy paled and Alex trembled. "Some fwiend _he_ is," Jessy said. She looked over her shoulder, and let out a frightened _eep_ when Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne appeared, both of their faces set in angry scowls; they stalked forward like they were _really_ mad. "This is _weally_ bad!" Jessy moaned. She and Alex threw their arms around each other and prepared for the end.

"Oh, man, they look _pissed,_ " Walt snickered.

Uncle Lincoln reached them first, air hissing up his nose. Tears filled Jessy's eyes and she buried her face in the crook of her cousin's neck. "Alejandra Carmen and Jessica Danielle," he said tightly, and that was enough to make Alex tear up too...just a little.

"You scared us to death," Auntie Ronnie Anne said. "What were you thinking walking off like that?"

"Hey, it's alright," Walt said and held up his hand, "they just wanted to hang. Don't be too hard on 'em."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both ignored him. "We have told you again and again not to wander off; it's dangerous."

"I'm sorry," Alex shook, "I heard rock and I wanted to listen to it."

"And I wanted find Bunny," Jessy sniffed. "I _weally_ sorwy."

Lincoln sighed. He was mad as hell...because when he turned and saw that they weren't there, his heart almost (and literally) gave out. Even now it pounded painfully against the inside of his ribcage, and his stomach rolled sickly. Ronnie Anne was similarly affected: Her hands trembled and she panted heavily.

"Don't _ever_ do that again," Ronnie Anne said.

"We won't," Alex said quickly, "we promise."

Ronnie Anne held out her hand, and both girls went to her cautiously.

"Man, your kids are a trip," Walt said to Lincoln and shook his head.

Lincoln nodded. Yeah. A trip...a trip to the heart attack center at Royal Woods General. "Thank you for...calling me over."

"No problem, man," Walt laughed, "go easy on 'em, huh?"

"I will," Lincoln said, "I just wish they'd go easy on _me_."

* * *

Bursts of red and green colored the hot evening sky, hollow claps rolling across the park like cannon fire. Lynn Loud III craned her neck and watched placidly as she worked on her third rocket pop of the day, her face stained a patriotic shade of red, white, and blue. Around her, her new friends oowed and ahhhed, Ritchie Haveman telling Ben Potter (the fat one), "I blew like that with your mom last night."

"Shut up, no you didn't!"

Lynn didn't know what that meant, but it made Ben mad, and it was kind of funny. She bit off a piece of her popsicle and chewed the cold slush between her teeth. Someone laid their hands on her shoulder, and she twisted her neck around to see her father, his eyes trained on the exploding sky, his sweaty face bathed in soft red glow. "You ready to go?" he asked, and she shook her head. Part of her was – she was pleasantly weary and sore, and her skin was gritty with dirt and sweat – but she had had so much fun playing hours and hours of baseball that the prospect of the day ending was not a happy one, even though it was kind of dark and you can't really play baseball in the dark unless you have big floodlights on.

Dad squeezed affectionately and chuckled. "We have to go soon, it's getting really late."

Lynn sighed. She knew.

Her stomach rumbled.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," she admitted. The rocket pops were the only thing she'd eaten (that and Big League Chew). When Dad came over to tell her that dinner was ready, she begged him to let her sit it out; it was the bottom of the ninth, the bases were loaded, and if she didn't make this next hit a homer, her team would lose, and Lynn Loud was _not_ about to let her team lose. Somehow, one game lead to another and before she knew it, the sun was setting, the fireworks were starting, and she was starving.

"Why don't you come on?" Dad asked. "You can see your friends later."

"Alright," she said and finished her pop. She threw the stick to the ground and turned to Ritchie, who was staring up at the display with his hand shielding his eyes from the glare. She poked him in the arm, and he looked down. "I have to go home."

"Okay," he said, "are you coming back tomorrow?"

Lynn looked hopefully at her father, and he nodded. "Yeah, I'll be here."

"Cool. See ya, Lynn."

"Bye," Ben said.

"Later," Kaufman added.

"Take it easy," Slater said.

"Bye, guys," Lynn chirruped, and followed her father back toward the dugout. He put his arm around her and drew her close.

"Have fun?"

"Yeah! I had a _lot_ of fun!"

"Good," Dad said, "I'm glad."

* * *

 **Cliff, the dude from Luna's band, from not named after the cat but it occurred to me that since Cliff basically had as a person, why not the other pets? Geo appears much later.**


	98. April 1978: Part 1

**No, no mistake: I skipped 1977 entirely. First year I haven't done since 1959. I also didn't do '83.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Christine Sixteen**_ **by Kiss (1977);** _ **Emotion**_ **by Samantha Sang (1978);** _ **Boogie Wonderland**_ **by Earth, Wind, and Fire** **(1979 – I cheated again, I'm terrible, I know);** _ **Born to be Alive**_ **by Patrick Hernandez (1978)**

* * *

Lincoln stood in the middle of Flip's on a Friday evening, alone save for the boy before him. He crossed his arms and grinned smugly. "I knew I'd get your ass eventually."

Bobby Jr. bowed his head and put his hands on his hips. He wore a black button-up shirt, open at the throat and tucked into black, high-waist pants. A golden cross hung around his neck even though Lincoln suspected he didn't know the first thing about God...little heathen. "Uh-huh, yeah, you got me. Can I have the job or what?" He looked up, and the overhead light shone on his slicked back hair.

Twenty years ago, Bobby Sr. tried his hardest to look like James Dean in _Rebel Without a Cause_. Today, his son tried his hardest to look like John Travolta in _Saturday Night Fever_. The change was sudden: One day he was a normal kid, the next he was...this: Collared shirts, sequin pants, high-heeled platform shoes. He looked like a fucking dork, and every time Lincoln saw him, he had to fight hard to suppress a grin; it made him wonder if Bobby Sr. looked like that big a dweeb to the adults back in the fifties.

Speaking of Bobby Sr., Bobby Jr. reminded Lincoln so much of him it was uncanny. They weren't physically identical (the kid was his son, not his twin), but they had the same attitude: Strutting around like cocksure roosters in a hen house, perfectly coiffed, every move calculated to achieve maximum cool, not a strand of hair out of place. You know what this kid needed? Eight months in a bamboo cage.

Lincoln sighed and made a show of thinking it over, his nephew watching him. "Well...I don't know...yeah, I guess."

Bobby Jr. grinned. "Really?"

"Yeah, sure," Lincoln said. He sounded grudging, but he wasn't: As soon as Bobby Jr. asked, the job was his. "Just leave your glittery pants at home."

Bobby looked down at himself, then at Lincoln. "You think I'm gonna wear this in here? You're outta your mind."

"Yeah, I'm the one outta his mind, not the guy in heels," Lincoln said, "when do you wanna start?"

Bobby shrugged. "Whenever. I really want this car."

"I know the feeling," Lincoln said with a nostalgic smile. Seventeen years ago, he too came into Flip's looking for a car-financing job. The major difference was: His uncle didn't own the place, some asshole with a bushy mustache and a sour attitude did. "I'll put you on for tomorrow. How about that?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, that'd be great."

"Okay," Lincoln said, "you wanna come in tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Alright. Be here at seven. Wear something you don't mind getting ruined."

"Okay. I'll do that."

Lincoln nodded. "That all? I'd like to go home to my family sometime tonight."

Bobby grinned. "Yeah, that should be it. I got what _I_ wanted."

After Bobby left, Lincoln transferred the money from the register into the lockbox, snapped it closed, and went out into the chilly April evening; the sky was a smear of orange and purple, and the trees along the sidewalk were beginning to bud. The cool air was redolent of flowers and honeysuckle; Lincoln took a deep whiff and let out a contented sigh. In the car, he sat the lockbox on the passenger seat, started the engine, and backed out of the spot. He should stop by Lori's and see if she filed the taxes like she was supposed to. She hadn't let him down yet in the three years she'd been doing it for him, but, hey, there's a first time for everything, right?

Eh, he'd do it tomorrow, right now he just wanted to go home, kick his feet up, and spend time with his girls. Oh, come to think of it, report cards were due any time. He was pretty excited for Jessy's – she did really well academically. Alex, on the other hand...she wasn't much for school. Oh, she was smart and she could knock every assignment out of the park if she put her mind to it, but...she didn't like to apply herself. She was more interested in listening to music and reading those damn books Lori kept lending her. From Jessy he expected A's, from Alex C's. Sigh. Hey, she was passing, at least...he just wished she'd do a little better.

At home, he parked in the driveway next to Ronnie Anne's Mazda GLC hatchback – she sold the Pinto last year. He grabbed the lockbox, got out, and went inside. Jessy and Alex sat side-by-side on the couch, Jessy with her arms crossed and her focus on the TV, and Alex staring down at a thick hardback book in her lap. Neither one of them looked up as he came in, and for a minute he stood there with his hands on his hips, waiting. When it became apparent they were so absorbed they didn't even know he was there, he cleared his throat.

Still, nothing.

"Welcome home, Dad," Lincoln said, "Hi, Uncle Lincoln. Hi, girls, how was your day?"

"Hi, Uncle Dad," Alex said absently and turned a page.

Jessy glanced over and smiled. "Hi."

He crossed to the couch, kissed Alex on the top of her head, then kissed Jessy on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"Good," Jessy said, "I got my report card." She preened.

"Oh?" Lincoln asked, "how many F's did you get?"

Jessy gasped. "None! I got A's and B's."

Lincoln turned to Alex. "How many A's did you get?"

"Some, I think, maybe," Alex said, her voice faraway.

"Do you have homework?"

"Umhm."

"Is it done?"

"No."

Sighing, Lincoln snatched the book from her hand, and she whipped her head up, her eyes flashing. "Hey!"

"Go do your homework," he said and held the book up (it weighed a goddamn ton), "and you can have this back."

Alex drew a heavy sigh, but instead of arguing, she slipped off the couch and went to her room. "Aren't you going to ask if _my_ homework is done?" Jessy asked.

"Is _your_ homework done?" Lincoln asked.

"Yep!"

He grinned and rubbed her head. "Good girl." In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne was standing over the stove, where a pan of water boiled, and read the instructions on the back of a box. Lincoln dropped the book onto the table, went over, put his hands on her hips, and kissed the side of her neck. She hummed and leaned back into him.

"Hi."

"Hi," he said, "how was your day?"

"Alright," she said, "yours?"

Lincoln nodded. "Bobby Jr. finally came in looking for a job."

Ronnie Anne snickered. "I saw that coming. Did you give it to him?"

"No," Lincoln said, stepping away and going to the fridge, "I told him to fuck off; I don't value family." He opened it, reached in, and took out a Coke.

Ronnie Anne nodded slowly and started to open the box. "When does he start?"

"Tomorrow."

In her room, Alex sat cross-legged on her bed and glared down at the worksheet before her. Stupid stuff; she didn't _feel_ like doing this, she wanted to read her book. It was really creepy and cool and all kinds of interesting things were happening, like the Dark Man. The Dark Man was _awesome_. She sighed, picked up her pencil, and wrote her name on top. ALEX LOUD. Had she earned a break yet? Hmmm...probably not. Homework was dumb but it _was_ kind of important. Ugh. I know! Music. Music makes _everything_ better. She leaned over, grabbed her turntable from the shelf under her nightstand, and sat it on the bed before her. She slipped off the bed, reached under the box spring, and blindly pulled out one of the three milk crates where she kept her records. She flipped through them, humming as she considered and rejected one after another before finally settling for _Love Gun_. It had one of her favorite covers ever: Kiss stood proudly between two marble columns like people in a Rennesaince painting while a bunch of girls dressed like Kiss lounged around on the floor in front of them. She took it out of the sleeve, laid it on the platform, and dropped the needle into the groove. Music started to play, and it gave her the boost she needed to get to work.

 _She's got me dizzy, she sees me through to the end_

 _She's got me in her hands and there's no use in pretending._

NAME THREE SIGNERS OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Oh, yeah, because that's _so_ much more important than finding out if Larry made it through the Lincoln Tunnel without going insane. _John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, Richard Henry Lee_.

 _She drives me crazy, I want to give her all I've got  
_

 _And she's hot every day and night, there is no doubt about it_

WHAT WAS THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR?

She wondered if Harold and Fran were going to get together. She felt kind of bad for Harold because he was kind of a geek and people made fun of him – people made fun of Jessy for being a geek too. She got good grades and was, like, the teacher's pet. It was kind of lame but it made her mad when kids said things about her. She overheard a boy call her a nerd at lunch a few weeks ago and slapped him in the back of the head. She got detention and Mommy and Daddy yelled at her. What was I _supposed_ to do, let him say that stuff?

 _Lexington and Concord_ , she wrote.

She liked Harold. He was alright no matter _what_ his classmates said about him. Said, past tense; they all died in the Superflu. Hahahahaha.

Was she done yet? She wanted to read her book! She didn't understand a lot of the words but it was still really good. She had to beg Auntie Lori _really_ hard to let her borrow it. _It's an awfully grown-up book,_ she said. _I know, but I wanna read it so bad!_ She liked Stephen King books. She liked horror movies, too. She and Jessy spent the night at Grandma's house awhile back, and she, Jessy, and Auntie Leni stayed up late watching scary movies on Channel 5. Jessy and Auntie Leni hid their eyes and screamed, but Alex didn't because she liked zombies and ghosts and stuff.

She looked up from her worksheet, her lips scrunched to the side. She wanted her book.

Getting up, she went to the doorway and peeked out. She could hear Mommy and Daddy in the kitchen making fun of each other. That was okay, because it was the good kind of making fun; if you love someone you're allowed to tease them.

Being quiet, she crept to the end of the hall and looked into the living room: _The Dating Game_ was on TV. Yuck. That show was boring. The host was standing on a stage against a colorful backdrop with flowers on it. He was wearing a suit coat, a white shirt with ruffles, and a bowtie. He looked like the king of the lame-os. _"...here they are!"_ he cried, and the camera cut to three bachelors sitting in chairs, their faces hidden in shadows. _"Bachelor number one is a successful photographer who got his start when his father found him in the darkroom at the age of 13, fully developed. Between takes you might find him skydiving or motorcycling. Please welcome Rodney Alcala_. _"_ The audience clapped and the lights came on to reveal a handsome man with feathered black hair wearing a blazer, the collar of his shirt flipped over the neckline of his jacket.

Alex leaned around the corner. Jessy was sitting on the couch, watching the screen. "Psst! Jessy!"

Her head whipped around, and her brow pinched. "What?"

Alex looked nervously at the kitchen doorway, then back to her cousin. "Can you get my book?"

"No," Jessy hissed, "you have to do your homework."

"I'm done," Alex lied.

"Then get it yourself."

"Please?"

Jessy's face was hard, but it began to soften. Alex stuck out her bottom lip. "Please, Jess?"

Shaking her head, Jessy breathed a longsuffering sigh, got up, and crossed to the kitchen. Alex grinned, then hurried back to her room, dropping onto her bed and making the record skip. She'd forgotten that it was still playing.

A minute later, Jessy came in and glanced anxiously over her shoulder, the book clutched in her hand. "You're going to get me in trouble."

"Thank you!" Alex said as she took the book and opened it. She leaned back, kicked one leg over the other, and started to read.

"Your homework's not really done, is it?" Jessy asked, a stern edge in her voice. Alex flicked her eyes up: Her younger cousin's hands were fisted against her hips and her brow was angled down.

Alex shrugged. "It's getting there."

Jessy sighed, shook her head, and stalked away. "Love you!" Alex called after her with a mischievous grin. She looked back down at her book and sighed contentedly. She had _The Stand_ , she had Kiss, she had it _made_.

Until her father walked in; she jumped and the book dropped to her lap. "Yeah," he nodded, "because I _totally_ wouldn't notice a ten thousand page book was missing from the kitchen table."

"It's only 820 pages," Alex blurted.

Dad came over, took the book away, and snapped it closed. "Yeah, well now it's zero pages. Do your homework or I'm driving over to Aunt Lori's house and giving it back."

Alex held up her hands. "Alright, alright, sheesh."

* * *

Bobby Jr. swirled his fork in a pile of spaghetti, leaned forward, and shoved it into his mouth, being careful not to drip any sauce onto his white wife beater. "I talked to Uncle Lincoln today," he said.

His mother was on his left and his father was on his right, his mother eating and his father drinking from a can of beer. It was six-thirty, and he had plans tonight.

"Yeah?" Dad asked casually and sat his can down, then picked up his fork. "He give you the job?"

Taking another bite, Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I start tomorrow morning."

"That's good," Mom said, "I figured he'd hire you."

Bobby kind of did too, but he was still nervous going in: His entire life and reputation and everything else rode on him getting this job and eventually a car. He was getting _really_ sick of borrowing his dad's Chevy: Thing was a million years old and made funny noises. Sitting behind the wheel, he felt like a jerk, and looked like one too: It didn't matter how much you dressed like John Travolta if you pulled up in a goddamn lemon that clunked and knocked like Tony Orlando on the fucking ceiling.

That reminded him.

"Can I borrow the car?"

Dad took a bite and looked at him as he chewed, his brow furrowed. "Where are you going?"

"Me and Carol are gonna check out that new club in Elk Park," Bobby said, "they say it's supposed to be nice."

Mom and Dad looked at each other. "Alright," Dad said, then pointed at him, "but no drinking."

Bobby chuckled. He _was_ going to say _Who do you think I am, you?_ but didn't because Dad might get pissed and not let him use the car after all. Sure, Bobby drank here and there with his friends, but he wasn't going to be with those losers tonight, he was going to be with Carol, and Carol didn't like drinking. "Alright, deal," Bobby said, and finished his dinner.

Afterwards, he took a shower, then wrapped a towel around himself and spent an hour doing his hair, gelling and combing it, making sure it looked nice. He splashed some cologne on, applied deodorant, and went into his room, where he stood before the closet for a while deciding what to wear before selecting a red button-up shirt and white pants. He shrugged on a black leather jacket and popped the collar of his shirt over the collar of the jacket. He admired himself in the mirror over his dresser, and made his best _Hey, baby_ face, his lips pressed together and his eyes narrowed slightly. _Sorry, ladies, I'm taken. You can look, though._

He started to leave, but noticed a wayward strand of hair above his right ear. "Oh, no, no, no," he said, stopping and pressing it back down with his fingers, "you gotta get with the program." When he was sure it would stay, he went out into the living room. Mom and Dad were sitting in front of the TV, where the _ABC Friday Night Movie_ was starting. Man, how could they stand it? They never did anything. Go see a movie or something, huh? "Alight, I'm outta here," Bobby said, snatching the car keys off the table by the door.

"Okay," Dad said without turning. "Have fun."

"Be careful," Mom added, glancing over.

"I will," Bobby grinned; he was always careful with Carol...except when he wasn't. Hey, let's just say he had good timing.

"I love you."

"Love you too."

Outside, it was dark and chilly. Bobby went down the stairs and started for the car, but stopped when he heard moaning. He looked over into Mr. Grouse's yard, and his heart dropped: The old man was lying in a heap on his walkway. "Oh, shit," Bobby muttered, then rushed over, mindlessly shoving the car keys into his coat pocket.

"You alright?" Bobby asked worriedly as he knelt next him. He was on his back, his eyes squinted.

"I'm fine," he panted, "I just skinned my goddamn knee."

Slipping his arm under the old man's shoulders, Bobby helped him to his feet and, together, they hobbled to Mr. Grouse's front door, Bobby shooting out one arm and opening it. "Watch the step," Bobby said. Inside, he helped Mr. Grouse over to his armchair, and the old man dropped into it with a grunt.

"What happened?" Bobby asked.

Mr. Grouse shook his head. "Nothing, I'm fine."

Bobby put his hands on his hips. The old man's face was pale and he fought for breath. "You sure? You want me to call the doctor or something?"

He shook his head again. "I'm fine, I just need to sit down for a minute. Grab me a glass of water, will you?"

Bobby nodded. "Sure."

In the kitchen, he took a glass out of the cabinet over the sink and turned the tap on. In the all years he'd known Mr. Grouse, he'd never been in his house, so as he waited for the water to get cold, he looked around. The floor was linoleum and cracked, but so clean you could eat your dinner off it. The countertop was spotless; he tried to find a speck of dust, but you'd have an easier time finding an honest man in congress. Bobby filled the glass, cut the stream, and went back into the parlor. Black and white photographs hung on the walls. An old radio, the kind that's as tall as a kid, stood in one corner, and knick knacks and little frilly dollies covered an end table.

He handed Mr. Grouse the glass, and the old man nodded his thanks, then drained it. "There," he said gruffly, "all better."

Bobby studied his face. He didn't look better. Not by much at least. "You sure?" he asked seriously. "If you're hurt, don't fuck around and pretend you're not. Even tough guys get hurt."

Mr. Grouse's brow furrowed. "I'm fine, Santiago, I just fell down. It happens."

"You gonna be fine when it comes time to get outta that chair and take a piss?" Bobby could see the old man trying to stand and flopping forward, landing face first on the carpet and dying or something.

He didn't like it.

"Yes."

Bobby lifted an arm. _Whaddya gonna do?_

He _could_ smack some sense into him, he supposed.

"You can get the hell out now."

Outside, Bobby shook his head and pulled the door closed behind him. He crossed to the driveway, slipped behind the wheel, and started the car: It coughed and clicked. He knew for a fact his old man could afford a new car, why'd he hang onto this hunk of junk? He fiddled with the radio, found a station that wasn't static, and backed out into the street. He threw it into drive, and set off for Carol's, nodding absently to the music, a breathy, longing female whisper full of need.

 _And where are you now_

 _Now that I need you_

 _Tears on my pillow_

 _Wherever you go_

 _I'll cry me a river_

 _That leads to your ocean_

 _You never see me fall apart_

Suddenly the Bee Gees kicked in, and Bobby took notice: The Bee Gees were all over _Saturday Night Fever_ , his favorite movie of all time.

 _In the words of a broken heart_

 _It's just emotion that's taken me over_

 _Tied up in sorrow, lost in my soul_

 _But if you don't come back_

 _Come home to me, darling_

Everyone has that one life changing thing. For some people it's a book or a song, you know, that just blows them away. For Bobby, it was _Saturday Night Fever_. He and Carol saw it at the Palace just before Christmas last year, and John Travolta was the _coolest_ motherfucker Bobby had ever seen. The way he dressed, the way he talked, everything about him, even the dancing; up until _Saturday Night Fever,_ he thought dancing was gay (except when it was with Carol...real close), but that guy made it look good.

When he reached Carol's house, he pulled to the curb and put the Chevy in park. The front door opened, and she hurried out in a simple peach colored dress with a V-line neck, the hem stopping just below her knees. Bobby rested his elbow against the door and watched her approach with a grin. You know who she reminded him of? John Travolta, because like him, she could make _anything_ look good. She opened the door and slid in. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied. He leaned over and they kissed. "You ready to boogie?" he asked archly.

"Always," she said with a suggestive hum, and they kissed again, slower this time, her hand lying flat on his chest. If she drifted it a little lower, he'd say fuck the disco and they'd go park, but it didn't, and she drew back.

A chuckle escaped his lips. "Let's go then," he said and put the car in drive.

* * *

Homework finally done, Alex went to go beg for her book back from her father. He was sitting on the couch next to Jessy, who was currently reading her own book; when Alex saw what it was, she rolled her eyes. Really, Jess, a school book? It's Friday night, read something fun! She had a box full of paperbacks she borrowed from Auntie Lori under her bed somewhere, all Dean R. Koontz, Stephen King, and John Saul. She should bring it out, find a _really_ good one, and let Jessy read it. "Daddy?" she asked in her best I'm-a-cute-widdle-gurl-now-can-I-have-my-way voice. She might be just a week shy of nine, but she wasn't dumb, she knew how to play her old man. Or how to try, at least.

Dad looked away from the TV. "All done?" he asked.

Alex nodded. "I did it all. Can I have my book back?"

"Is it _really_ done?"

Again, Alex nodded. "Yes, it's done, I _promise_."

"Go get it."

Alex sighed and slumped her shoulders. Why didn't she bring it with her in the first place? She should have known he'd wait proof. Gee, it's like she lied to get her book back or something recently.

Well...she did, but still. In her room, she grabbed her homework and brought it back into the living room. Dad took it, scanned it, and gave it back. "That's all of it?"

"Yes, that's _everything_. Book, please?"

Dad sighed, got up, and went into his room, Alex following. A minute later, he came out and handed it back. "I looked through this thing before I put it up," he said, "and the first word I saw was four letters and started with an 'F.'"

Alex blinked. Well...it _was_ an awfully grown-up book, Auntie Lori wasn't lying about that. "I must not have gotten to that part yet," Alex said, playing dumb and innocent; she did _not_ want him to take her book away.

He made a humming sound that suggested to Alex he didn't believe her. Oh well. She tried. "You know using language like that is wrong, don't you?"

Alex nodded. Oh, yes, she knew that very well. She said 'ass' one time and Dad made her spend the rest of the night in her room with no records and no books. It was a _very_ boring experience and she did _not_ want to do it again, so her mouth was, and would remain, clean as a whistle.

Dad nodded. "Alright. Don't repeat those words."

"I won't," Alex vowed.

She took her book, went into her room, and dropped onto her bed. What a lovely fucking evening. Hey, he didn't say she couldn't _think_ them. What could she say? She liked words.

Opening the book, she dipped back in and lost herself until Jessy came in humming the theme song from _The Love Boat_. She sat on the edge of her bed, then looked at Alex, the hum dying on her lips. "What do you want for your birthday?"

Alex blinked at the suddenness of the question. "Uh...I dunno." There were things she wanted (like the new AC/DC record!), but she was pretty sure Jessy didn't have the money for that. She would probably make her something, like a card, which was okay with her. She liked her cousin's cards.

"Hm, I guess I'll just have to decide myself," Jessy said. She leaned over and took her record player out from under her nightstand. Alex turned a page and watched her cousin from the corner of her eye as she loaded a record on and sat the needle in the groove. When Leif Garrett started to play, Alex groaned.

Jessy shot her a dirty look.

"Can you put your headphones in, please?" Alex asked. "That guy makes me have diarrhea."

"My headphones are broken thanks to you."

Oh, that's right. The other night, Jessy was _so_ tired that instead of putting her record player away like she was supposed to, she sat it on the floor, her headphones still plugged in. Later, when Alex woke up needing to pee, she got out of bed and long story short, she got tangled in the headphones and fell down, scaring Jessy half to death. To be fair, she kind of deserved it for leaving her record player just lying around like that.

Alex _never_ did that...and she never left records and clothes and toys and now books strewn across the floor either. Nope. "Use mine."

"Yours are missing, remember?"

Shoot, yes, she did. Then again, they weren't really _missing_ per se. Missing is when you look for something and can't find it, not when you notice it's not usually where it is and then forget about it. They were probably under her bed...like a bunch of other stuff. Finding them would be a chore and a half, but it was either that or listen to Leif Garrett.

Alex would do pretty much anything to keep from listening to Leif Garrett.

With a sigh, she snapped her book closed and dropped it onto the nightstand. Jessy was sitting against her headboard now with a wide hardback book balanced on her knees as a makeshift table for her coloring. Alex slipped off the mattress, knelt, and pulled the milk crates out, shoving them aside so they wouldn't be in the way. She kept the strip along the edge of the bed clean, but beyond the iron curtain, it was a jungle. She lifted the hem of her sheet, got down on her stomach, and peered into the shadowy abyss, her heart sinking: A wild jumble of toys, dirty clothes, and God only knew what else awaited her. She slapped her forehead against the floor and drew a deep sigh. Why didn't she keep on top of this?

Oh, right, because she usually had something more fun to do.

Damn it.

She wiggled into the lightless space and shoved a stack of puzzles out of the way. She swept the pile with her gaze, and started. Hey, here's my other purple sock! I think I threw the other one away, so I should probably throw this one away too. _But_ if I didn't throw the other one away and I throw _this_ one away...eh, I better just leave it where it is.

Reaching, she moved more debris out of the way, and a pair of shining green eyes fell upon her. She froze, then the eyes turned and a dark shadow darted along the wall.

She screamed and pulled out of there like a shot. Jessy jumped up to a standing position on her bed, the blood draining from her face. Alex fell back onto her butt and frantically crab crawled until her shoulders hit Jessy's bedframe. Her heart was slamming and her mind raced. _Monsters are real!_

Daddy ducked into the room, closely followed by Mommy. "What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

"I saw a monster!" Alex blurted.

Jessy started to cry in terror.

Daddy knelt next to Alex while Mommy held out her arms to Jessy; the younger girl threw herself into her aunt's safe embrace.

"We gotta get outta here!" Alex said. She wasn't an expert on monsters, but she did know this: Monsters eat people. Until they were in the car on the way to Grandma's house, they weren't safe. Their very _lives_ were in danger. If they didn't get out now they were goners. "Burn the house!"

"Honey," Daddy said, "I doubt you saw a monster. They aren't real, remember?"

Alex whipped her head around. Was this guy serious? She just told him! "I _saw_ it! It had green eyes and fangs like stalagmites!"

Jessy wept harder and Mommy shushed her.

"Alex," Daddy said firmly, "there are no monsters."

"It was a living nightmare!"

Daddy shook his head. "No more horror books."

"It wasn't a book! It was probably a vampire!"

Kids and their overactive imaginations.

Daddy helped her up and took her into the living room, where she sat on the couch and hugged herself, her traumatized mind replaying the incident over and over again. Did it speak to her? She kind of thought it did. _See you after lights out, Alex,_ or was it _Ummm, Bunny blood?_ Mommy sat next to her, Jessy clinging to her and trembling. "It's alright," Mommy said and stroked Jessy's hair: The little girl's face was white and shell shocked. You'd think _she_ was the one who was almost eaten whole!

Where was Daddy? Did the monster get him? She glanced at the hall, and expected to see him appear at any moment, his arms out and his face turned over his shoulder in fright as a vampire like the one from _'Salem's Lot_ chased him. _Blood! I want your blood!_ Her heart pounded and she felt sick.

A few minutes later, Daddy came down the hall, a flashlight in his hand. He came over and glared down at her. "A rat," he said, "it was a rat, and it's living the American dream in that pigsty under your bed."

Alex blinked. A rat?

Mommy looked at her, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Hot shame crept across the back of Alex's neck not because she kept a messy under-bed-place, but because wow, she thought it was a monster. Heh. What a lame-o, right? "Alex, I _told_ you to clean under your bed," Mommy said, "like a month ago."

Alex _kind_ of remembered that conversation. She also _kind_ of remembered going outside to play and forgetting until just now.

Jessy craned her neck to look at Daddy. "It _wasn't_ a vampire?"

"No, it's worse," Daddy said, "because vampires don't leave turds everywhere, rats do."

Alex snickered at his use of the word 'turds' but quickly sobered; his expression didn't change. He was _mad_.

"Did you get it?" Mommy asked.

"No," Daddy replied, one hand going to his hip and the other gesturing toward the hall, "but I saw it. Had a Vietnam flashback. They have rats over there big as dogs. Ours isn't much smaller."

Mommy shivered.

"We have poison, but first we have to clean that mess up." He looked at Alex, and she flinched. "I'd make you do it, but I don't want you touching rat shit."

Mommy and Daddy left them on the couch and went to clean the mess themselves. Alex felt really bad. "Nice going, Bunny," Jessy said sullenly, "now we have a yucky rat."

Alex sighed.

An hour later, Mommy and Daddy returned. "I'm so sorry," Alex said genuinely, "I didn't know a rat was going to come."

"That's fine," Daddy said serenely, and Alex blinked. Huh? He's not mad anymore. "You don't know much about cleanliness. You're a kid. You have to be taught, and I'm going to teach you. Tomorrow you're coming to work with me and you're going to clean until you can't see straight."

Alex's mouth dropped open. What? But tomorrow was Saturday! Saturdays are for playing and reading books and watching cartoons, not cleaning a dumb restaurant! She turned to her mother for support, but Mommy pursed her lips. " _I_ wanted to take your books and records away for a month. Your father's punishment is _much_ more generous."

Alex bowed her head. She kind of deserved it, but _really?_

* * *

A cramped building with a dancefloor the size of a postage stamp, a scuffed bar, the smell of stale vomit and saw dust in the air, and a smelly, piss soaked bathroom is what passes for a disco in suburban Michigan. Lights flashed, glitter sparkled, lively music played, and people dressed in their Friday night finest danced, so it wasn't a complete wash. Bobby leaned against the bar, drumming his fingers and nodding to Earth, Wind, and Fire as he waited for the bartender to come over.

 _Sounds fly through the night_

 _I chase my vinyl dreams to boogie wonderland_

 _I find romance when I start to dance in boogie wonderland_

 _I find romance when I start to dance in boogie wonderland_

He watched a guy in a black leisure suit really getting down, and he envied his moves: Guy was good, he had to admit. When the bartender appeared at his elbow, Bobby held up a five dollar bill between his fore and middle finger. "Two Cokes, please."

The bartender nodded, grabbed two glasses, and filled them with Coke, then sat them on the bar, made change, and gave it back. Bobby slipped it into his pants pocket and moved aside as a black guy in a sparkly purple button up and black leather pants came up to place an order. Carol appeared from the hall to the bathroom, saw him, and walked over. "Did you get the Cokes?" she asked.

Bobby picked one up and handed it to her. She lifted it to her lips and took a drink. Her face was flushed; they'd been dancing for an hour and both of them were a little winded. On the dance floor, the guy in the leisure suit did a split, then spun on his heels. Guy's a fucking show off. People stood back, their bodies twisting and writhing, as he busted out a backflip. A goddamn backflip! Bobby's lips pursed and his grip tightened on his glass. _That should be me,_ he thought sullenly, then grinned at how childish that sounded. It was true, though; he wanted to be the guy out there dancing like disco machine in the center of the floor. When it came to booging down, though, he was mediocre at best...a faceless hack in tight white pants and a red shirt.

He tried not to let it bother him, but it did. _It's not about being the best, it's about having fun,_ Carol had said. She was right. All about having a good time. Going out, dancing, seeing and being seen. Yeah. The dancing was kind of secondary.

Oh, who the fuck was he kidding, the dancing was _firstdary_. _That's_ what it's all about. _Saturday Night Fever_ wasn't an hour and a half of John Travolta sitting there playing with his dick, it was him dancing. Guy danced like a fucking _dream_. That's what Bobby wanted. He didn't just want to look like him, he wanted to _be_ like him, and a big part of being like him was dancing so good people's jaws dropped and they shit themselves...dancing so fucking good someone standing over by the bar eats his heart out with jealousy.

Bobby sighed and took a sip of his Coke. He thought again of taking dance lessons, but he didn't wanna waste his time in some studio learning, he wanted to be out on the floor in the hot lights, moving like he was made of rubber. Lessons would take time, and Bobby Santiago Jr. was not a patient man. He wanted his disco crown and he wanted it now.

Carol gulped down the rest of her Coke and sat the glass on the table. "You wanna head back out?"

Yeah, he did. He sat his glass down, held out his hand, and smiled when Carol took it. They walked to the floor, parted, and started to dance as another song struck up, the pulsing, clapping effect overlaying an electric undercurrent.

 _People ask me why_

 _I never find a place to stop_

 _And settle down, down, down_

 _But I never wanted all those things_

 _People need to justify_

 _Their lives, lives, lives_

Carol reached out and playfully swiped her finger across his nose, and he retaliated by grabbing her by the hips and drawing her close. She uttered shocked laughter and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I almost fell!" she shouted to be heard over the music.

"I had you! You weren't going anywhere!"

 _Time was on my side_

 _When I was running down the street_

 _It was so fine, fine, fine_

 _A suitcase and an old guitar_

 _It's something I need to occupy_

 _A mind like mine_

She leaned forward and pecked his lips. The strobing lights, white now red, bathed her face, and glinted off the silver heart pendant around her neck. She had never looked better, he decided. He started to lean in to kiss her, but someone bumped into him, and his head whipped around: The showoff was gliding and spinning like he was wearing a pair of skates. Bobby's eyes narrowed viciously; Carol touched his cheek and turned his face to hers. Her hips rocked slowly forward, and her crotch brushed his; she moved seductively under his hands, and grinned naughtily. She leaned close to his ear. "Are you ready to go?" She drew back, and the twinkle in her eye told him she didn't mean home.

She wanted to go dancing...a _different_ kind of dancing.

"Yeah," Bobby said with a slow, cocky nod, "I think –" his word ended in a grunt as someone knocked into him. He turned, and the showoff was throwing his elbows out left and right with nary a care for anyone around him. Flashing, Bobby rammed his palm into the guy's shoulder. He jerked forward, then spun on his heels, his brows angling down. "Hey, man, watch what the fuck you're doing!" Bobby growled.

A dark shadow crossed the showoff's face. "Hey, fuck you, kid; wanna step outside?"

Bobby surprised himself by throwing an impulsive right hook; it crashed into the showoff's face. People gasped and a woman cried out. The showoff's head whipped to one side and he stumbled back a step. "Bobby!" Carol screamed in shock. The showoff whipped back around and flung himself at Bobby; they crashed to the floor, the showoff on top. More people yelled, and the sea of dancers parted. The showoff brought his fist down onto Bobby's chin, and hot pain exploded in his head. He pulled back again, but it was over: A bouncer was dragging him off and another was pulling Bobby to his feet. The dancefloor was as still as a tomb as Bobby and the showoff were yanked toward the door, Carol following behind.

Outside, the bouncer holding the scruff of Bobby's jacket shoved him away while the one holding the other guy did the same. "Get in your cars and go home."

"Man, fuck this," the showoff said, "he's the one who hit _me_."

"I don't care who hit who," the bouncer said, "either you two leave or _I'm_ gonna start hitting, and you're both gonna need the rescue squad."

"This is fucking bullshit," the showoff fumed as he turned and started across the parking lot, "worst disco I've ever been to. This place is garbage." He threw a hateful glance over his shoulder. "You wanna meet me somewhere, kid? I'll beat your ass up and down the street, fucking spic."

Rage burst across Bobby like a blast of red paint, and he started after the guy, but Carol grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back. "Bobby, stop!"

"Get in your car!" the bouncer called.

The showoff turned, shook his head, and stalked to a brown Pontiac Grand Prix. He gunned the engine, backed up, and shot out of the parking lot, the tires kicking up a spray of gravel.

Bobby seethed as he went toward the Chevy, his hands balled into fists and his breathing tight. Carol ran after him. "What was _that_ about?"

"Bastard kept bumping me," Bobby said through clenched teeth. "Jabbed me right in my fucking ribs." He fished the keys out of his pocket, opened the door, and climbed in. Carol slipped into the passenger seat.

"That's no reason to punch someone in the face," she said.

"I told him to cut it out and he said he wanted to fight so we fought," Bobby said and turned the key in the ignition. The Chevy roared to life. His chin hurt and his head ached. He trembled as adrenaline coursed through his veins and his cheeks burned with fury.

Carol sighed and shook her head.

Three miles later, as they waited at a red light, Bobby took a deep breath and put his hand on her leg. "Look, I'm sorry," he said, and looked at her, "that hit to the ribs really hurt and I...I dunno, I lost my cool." Only he did know. It wasn't because the guy bumped him, not entirely. It was something else.

Jealousy?

Carol nodded. "I'm not mad," she said seriously, "I just don't like violence like that. I don't want to see you get hurt and I don't want to see you hurt anyone else." Carol had always been squeamish about fighting and blood and things like that. "You're my cute, cuddly Bobby-bear...not a mean grizzly bear."

Bobby sighed and nodded. "I know. I'm sorry. Really."

She laid her hand on his and smiled at him.

"You ready to go home?" Bobby asked.

She shook her head. "Not yet."

They parked instead. On a lonely back road. With no one else around. Wink-wink.


	99. April 1978: Part 2

**Am I updating too frequently? I know I am for Aberrant (he's ignoring my calls and texts now, and when I went by his house he didn't answer the door even though I heard the TV), but am I pissing everyone else off too?**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **How Deep is Your Love?**_ **by The Bee Gees (1977)**

* * *

You might think Bobby Santiago Jr. is not a morning person – and you'd be right. For the past ten thousand years, however, he got out of bed at 6:00am five days a week, so he could manage. His little cousin, Alex, on the other hand, apparently couldn't: When he walked into Flip's on his first day of gainful employment, he was mildly surprised to see her sitting at the counter in jeans and a fuzzy purple sweater, her arms folded on the surface and her head resting against them. Uncle Lincoln was behind the register, his head bowed over a clipboard. He glanced up, nodded, and looked back down. "Hey, it's Disco Duck. I didn't think he owned jeans anymore."

Bobby was wearing an old pair of black jeans and a white T-shirt. "They were at the bottom of my drawer," he replied as he walked over. He laid his hand on the top of Alex's head and she thrashed.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Uncle Lincoln said.

"Yeah, why not?"

Alex's elbow shot out and caught Bobby in the leg. A couple more inches to the left, and it would have been his nuts. "Leave me alone!" she cried sleepily. "I'm not in the mood."

Uncle Lincoln laughed and shook his head. "Her and her mother are the roughest, most violent women I've ever met. Something about the Santiago gene. Thank God I went to Vietnam or else I wouldn't be able to defend myself."

Bobby thought back to last night at the disco, and smiled nervously. Yeah. Santiago gene.

Finished with...whatever he was doing...Uncle Lincoln sat the clipboard down on the counter. "You hungry, honey?" he asked Alex, whose head was again buried in her arms. She grunted. It could have been a yes, or it could have been a no.

"I thought there were child labor laws or something," Bobby said. "You gonna make this little girl work?"

"This little girl is being punished," Uncle Lincoln said, "and if you care so much about labor laws, go get a job at city hall."

Yeah, that wasn't going to happen; you had to have college degrees and shit to work at city hall, and Bobby didn't _have_ college degrees. Hell, he didn't even have his diploma yet. "Forget I said anything," he said.

Uncle Lincoln nodded. "That's what I thought. Come on. Let me show you to your luxurious accommodations." He went through a set of batwing doors, and Bobby followed. You know, in all the years he'd been coming here, never once had he been in the kitchen. From time-to-time he'd wonder what it was like because, hey, it was a mysterious, off-limits wonderland or something, like the teacher's lounge at school. He pictured it being...bigger. _Much_ bigger. The kitchen that greeted him was totally unlike the one in his head: It was cramped, covered in metal and chrome, and cleaner than a fucking hospital sugary theater. He expected there to be grease coating the walls – not because he thought Uncle Lincoln was dirty, but come on, this place had been around for a hundred years. There wasn't. You could drop your ice cream on the floor, get down on your hands and knees, and lick it up no worries.

Pointing to a sink along the wall, Uncle Lincoln said, "There's your station. I assume you've washed dishes before."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I washed dishes."

"Well, this is the same thing, except you have to be quick. On busy days it's like one of those machines that shoot baseballs." He looked around. "Scott?"

A man appeared from behind a stack of boxes. He was thin with light red hair and cloudy blue eyes. "Yeah?"

"This is Bobby," Uncle Lincoln said and slapped Bobby on the shoulder. Ow. "He's going to be our dish monkey on weekends and in the afternoon."

Scott nodded. "Hey, how's it going?"

"That's Scott," Uncle Lincoln said, "you might not like Scott, you might hate Scott, but you will give Scott the same respect you give me, because like me, Scott is your better. We could have a rush right now and he would survive. You would be killed."

Bobby gulped.

Uncle Lincoln told him where the dishes went, then left. A minute later, he returned with Alex in tow. Her shoulders were slumped and her head was bowed. "Alright, honey, here's what you're going to do." He reached under the microwave and pulled out a spray can. "You're going to polish the legs of the prep tables, the fronts of the fridges and freezers, then the shelves out front. After _that_ you get to clean the ladies' room."

Alex sighed. "Dad..."

"Or you can go home and spend the rest of the month in your room with no books, TV, records, or radio."

The little girl's head bowed even deeper; she held out her hand, and Uncle Lincoln slapped the can into it. "Let me get you a rag."

While he did that, Bobby filled the sink and squirted soap into it. Alex turned and rested her head against the wall. Bobby grinned. "What'd you do?"

"Made a mess under my bed and a rat came."

Bobby leaned one hand against the sink and watched the water level rise. "Bet you wish you weren't such a slob right about now."

Alex looked up, her face darkening. "Stuff a sock in it."

"You could be home watching cartoons or something, but you're a pig, so here you are."

Alex grabbed a plastic bowl from the microwave shelf and cocked her arm; Bobby laughed and held up his hands.

"Throw it and we're coming back tomorrow for a _deep_ clean," Uncle Lincoln said as he came in. He handed Alex a green rag. She sighed, sat the bowl down, and threw her head back, her cowlick rustling. Uncle Lincoln patted her on the head. "Bobby's right, though, if you weren't such a slob you wouldn't be here."

"I know!" Alex moaned and stomped her foot. "I've been kicking my own butt since last night!"

Bobby snickered, and she shot him a dirty look. Uncle Lincoln squeezed her shoulder. "Just get it done and you can go home, alright?"

She sighed. "Fine." She got down on her knees, uncapped the polish, and sprayed one of the prep table's legs.

"I'll check back on you in a little while," Uncle Lincoln said, then turned to Bobby. "You too, Santiago."

* * *

Leni sat on the couch with a Raggedy Ann doll in her lap, her arm clutched protectively around its stomach. Rita sat next to her, a copy of _The National Enquirer_ open on her lap: Someone claimed to have seen Elvis Presley in Billings, Montana, despite the fact that he died almost a year ago. Hm. This person wasn't the only one to report an Elvis sighting. Strange...very strange. She glanced up at her daughter. She was smiling at the TV, even though nothing worth smiling about was on, just _The Price is Right_. Bob Barker yelled for someone to come on down, and a woman jumped up from her seat and did a little victory dance before rushing to a podium. "Leni?"

No response.

"Leni?"

Leni hugged the doll close, then turned, her brow arching up. "Are you talking to me?"

Rita nodded. "Yes. How are you feeling?"

The past nearly two years had been a constant game of ask-and-tell...also of slowly fading. Sometimes Leni didn't recognize her own name, and her legs shook in addition to her hands. Walking was difficult, but she was able to manage...for now. The last time Lincoln and Ronnie Anne came over with the girls, Leni couldn't remember their names, and every once in a while, she talked to people who weren't there, like Luan and Luna. Rita knew for certain that there was no way she could be seeing Luan, but Luna...maybe Luna was crossing over to comfort her in her time of need.

Rita didn't know whether that warmed her heart or disturbed it.

Leni nodded slowly, then turned back to the TV. "My cousins are coming," she said to the doll in a slow robotic voice, "Bunny, and Jessy, and maybe even Bobby Jr. That will be nice." She hadn't forgotten the children, Rita noted, though when Rita brought up Lori or Lynn or even Lincoln her daughter would stare blankly. Some days she was in pain because the Rentschler's sent pain signals to her nerve endings. The doctors prescribed her medication for it, and it made her loopy and tired.

"Would you like lunch?" Rita asked.

"No, please," Leni said.

"Yes please or no thank you?"

"That one." She ran her fingers through the doll's hair. "You're such a pretty little girl. Mommy loves you." She leaned forward and kissed it. "Would you like lunch? Yes please or no thank you?" She listened, then giggled. She lifted her shirt, and Rita turned away with a chill as Leni took her breast out and pressed it to the doll's frozen smile. This had been going on for several weeks now; she found the doll when she and Rita were searching the attic for a missing box of pictures that wound up being in the garage. She couldn't remember whose it was, though she thought it was Lori's; at first Rita thought Leni treated like a baby because she desperately wanted one of her own...but over time it became evident that on some level and at some times, she honestly believed that it _was_.

When Lynn came in from the garage, he sank into his chair, noticed Leni feeding her baby, and looked away. Leni giggled, pulled the doll away, and laid it against her shoulder; she patted its back. "No gas today, odd numbers only," she cooed in a singsong voice. "They shot the bad man."

Lynn and Rita looked at one another, the helpless expression on one's face a reflection of the other's. Two years ago, this would have been abnormal behavior, and Rita would have rushed her to the emergency room fearing a stroke, but today it was normal, her lucid moments becoming fewer and farther between.

Leni looked at her mother. "Do you know when the parade starts?"

"What parade?"

"The one on the thing with the spinny pieces."

Rita shook her head. "No, dear, I don't."

Leni nodded. "Okay. We're going upstairs now. There's not much to do in this town and I want to be in bed early." She stood on shaky knees and crossed the living room. As she climbed the stairs, she cradled the doll to her chest and started to sing.

When she heard her daughter's door close, Rita sighed and put her hand to her head. "I don't know how much more of this I can take." Her voice was thick and quivered.

Lynn nodded. He didn't know what to say. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing he _could_ say. "I know." It wasn't much, but it was all he had, a simple agreement. He didn't know how much more he could take either. Literally. He was sixty-years-old, entirely gray, and wrinkled; his old heart couldn't take the ravages being visited upon his daughter. Every time he looked at her, it ached, and one day, he imagined, it would start to pound so hard it would tear loose and he would die.

Like Luna.

He lifted a trembling hand to his brow. He'd already lost one daughter, and unless he really did have a heart attack, he was going to lose another. How much more tragedy could he endure before it simply became too much? How much more could Rita stand? She was sixty as well, and she looked every bit, with deep lines in her face, sparse gray hair, and faded eyes. One more blow might kill her; Lynn couldn't take that loss, especially if it came close on the heels of Leni's.

A man should never feel as powerless as Lynn Loud felt now, and had felt for years. Fourteen, to be exact, fourteen years since the diagnosis. That was a long time to prepare...and no time at all. He wanted to _do_ something, but there was nothing he could, nothing _anyone_ could do.

Sighing, he looked away from his wife's misery and focused on the television set.

A loud crash sounded from upstairs, and Lynn jumped. Rita's eyes widened, and in an instant she was on her feet and rushing up the steps, Lynn following behind before he even knew he was moving; his heart thundered in his chest and a thousand horrible visions flashed through his mind in the time it took them to reach Leni's door. The first thing he noticed was the vanity; it had tipped over and the mirror shattered. Leni lie face down underneath it, her body seizing violently. Unthinkingly, Lynn shoved his wife out of the way, dashed over, and lifted it, a surge of adrenaline going through him. He pushed it away and knelt, turning Leni over and trembling her name. Her eyes were cloudy, and one side of her face drooped noticeably down. Her arms were folded back against her chest and her fingers were hooked into claws. A chunk of ice fell into his stomach, and he glanced up at Rita, whose hands were pressed to her face.

"Call an ambulance!"

* * *

"You missed a spot," Bobby said. He was leaning against the prep table and watching Alex clean the big metal freezer: She was on her knees and furiously wiping in a circular motion. It was almost lunch, and barely anyone was in the dining room. So far, the entire day had been slow. _Enjoy it now,_ Scott said, _'cause when lunch comes your asshole's gonna bleed._ Bobby _thought_ that meant he was going to get fucked, but he didn't know and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask.

"Can it," Alex said and got to her feet.

Bobby grinned. He liked messing with his little cousin. "Look at all those streaks. You call that clean?"

She spun and raised the can; Bobby had just enough time to fall back a step before she depressed the button and sprayed him, a fine mist coating his face, His lips puckered at the bitter taste and his eyes stung. "Ah! Shit!" he cried and slapped his hands to his face. He didn't see Scott snicker or Alex's face pale; he turned and fumbled blindly for the faucet, his fingers finding it and pushing the cold water tab.

"I'm sorry!" Alex said. "I-I didn't mean to!"

"Like shit you didn't!" Bobby yelled and cupped his hands under the stream. It didn't hurt _that_ badly, but his eyes were probably gonna melt out of his head; remaining calm was not on the menu.

Alex's mouth worked like a fish out of water and her heart slammed like a drum. She meant to spray him, but she kind of didn't think about it first. She didn't mean to hurt him.

The batwing doors flew open, and when Alex saw her father, his brow pinched quizzically, she reacted by hiding the can behind her back. "What's all this screaming about?" he asked.

"Your daughter blasted me in the face with metal polish!"

Daddy's head whipped in her direction, and his jaw set. Uh-oh.

"Why don't you tell him how you spent the last half hour busting her balls?" Scott asked from his station by the grill. One of the waitresses put a ticket in the window, and he twisted around to grab it.

Bobby, bent over the sink, shook his head. "She almost turned me into Stevie Wonder."

Daddy sighed and shook his head. "Bobby, don't poke a hornet's nest. Alex, spraying chemicals in people's faces is a good way to _really_ hurt someone. I don't care how much he was picking on you, that was unacceptable."

"I'm sorry," Alex plead, "I didn't mean to, I just did it."

"Yeah? A lot of people try that argument in court. It doesn't work. If you _ever_ do anything like that ever again, you're grounded until you're eighteen."

Eighteen? That was almost ten years away! She couldn't _stand_ being grounded that long. "I'm sorry, I promise, it'll never happen again."

Daddy shook his head, then went over to Bobby, his hand going to the boy's cheek. "Let me see." Bobby tilted his head back and Daddy examined his eyes. "How does it feel?"

"It stung a little," Bobby said, "but I'm fine. Just worried."

Daddy held out his hand. "Let me see that can."

Alex quickly handed it to him, and he read the label. "Just keep flushing with water," he said. "If you start seeing double I guess I'll have to drive you to the emergency room." He looked at Alex.

"I'm sorry."

When he spoke, his voice was soft and serious. "Please don't do anything like that again. You could have really hurt him."

"I'm really sorry, Bobby, I didn't mean to hurt your eyes."

Bobby held up his hand. "You're fine." He sounded mad, and Alex didn't want him to be mad at her. Sure, he kind of deserved a little spritz in the eyes, but he didn't deserve to be, like, blind or anything.

"Scott, keep an eye on these two," Daddy said. "If they get out of line, you have my permission to use your belt."

Scott laughed maniacally. "I like to hit with the metal end."

Alex's head twitched from side-to-side. "No, no; that won't be necessary."

In the dining room, Lincoln shook his head and sat by the register. Chemicals in someone's face, Alex, really? He knew his daughter had a tendency to be impulsive at times (kind of like her mother), but that was a little much. He'd have to have a serious talk with her later on about thinking before she acted. It probably wouldn't do any good, though; none of the others had.

He reached under the counter and brought out the radio. It hadn't played a note of music in almost two years and he declared it dead long ago, still, he kind of liked messing with it. Force of habit, maybe. A lot of his customers knew him as the crazy white hair asshole who shocked himself on a broken radio every twenty minutes (well, not lately, since the old hunk couldn't work up enough juice even for _that_ ), and part of him wanted to fix it and make them bow down in reverence before them.

A very small part.

He put it back just as two familiar faces came through the door. A grin spread across his face as Jessy ran excitedly up to the counter. "Hi, Uncle Lincoln!" she piped. The day had grown warm and she wore a sleeveless blue dress with white flowers on it; her hair was done up in a cute ponytail and held by a blue ribbon. Ronnie Anne came behind, dressed in blue, loose fitting slacks and a white button-up shirt. Her hair was in a bun, which had become her preferred method of hair-putty-up by rote.

"Hi, Jess!" Lincoln said. The little girl smiled up at him. "What brings you here?"

"We wanna see Bunny learning her lesson."

Lincoln laughed. "Something tells me you're _never_ going to see that." He looked up at Ronnie Anne. "Hey."

"Hey," she said and sat on a stool, swinging her purse into her lap. Jessy climbed into the one next to her, her legs dangling over the side. "We're hungry. Feed us."

Lincoln chuckled. "Let me guess: You don't wanna pay either."

Ronnie Anne cocked a brow. "You're the one who kicks me out before I can."

He leaned over the counter and they kissed. "Because I know you won't."

"Jerk," she grinned, "where's our daughter?"

"Apologizing to Bobby for spraying him in the face with metal polish."

Ronnie Anne blinked. "Did she do it on purpose?"

Lincoln nodded.

"Oh, God," Ronnie Anne sighed. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine."

"That kid drives me up the wall sometimes."

Lincoln laughed. "Payback. I seem to remember _you_ pushing an old man down a flight of stairs once upon a time."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "He called me a spic."

Jessy's brow furrowed. "What's a spic?"

"A very mean name to call somebody," Ronnie Anne explained. Jessy nodded and apologized for using it. _I don't want to be mean._

"What do you guys want?" Lincoln asked.

"A hotdog!" Jessy cried. "With French fries!"

"Burger, fries, shake," Ronnie Anne said, "and someone to share it with."

Lincoln laughed. "Alright." He jotted the order down, ripped the ticket off the pad, and stuck it in the window just as the phone rang. He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Lincoln, it's me," his mother said, "something's happened with Leni and we're at the hospital. It's serious."

The blood must have drained from his face, because Ronnie Anne's brows furrowed in concern. "Uh, okay, yeah, we'll be there in a minute."

"Hurry," Mom said, "s-she might die."

Lincoln's heart squeezed and his stomach turned. "Okay," he said, and hung the phone up. "It's Leni," he said.

* * *

Lynn Loud sat in the hospital waiting room, his face in his heads and his eyes brimming with hot tears that he refused to let fall. He took a deep breath and sat up. Next to him, Rita was shaking with the force of her silent sobs. He slipped his arm around her shoulder, and she buried her face in his chest; her tears soaked through his sweater and she trembled pitifully. Lynn hugged her close and closed his eyes against the ever accumulating misery. He saw his daughter on the backs of his lids, her face drooping and her eyes clouded with terror, and he started to cry too. He wanted to be Rita's rock, but he couldn't.

Lori was the first to arrive, her heels clicking on the hard floor and she hurried up the hall. She was still dressed in her work clothes: A long green skirt, white blouse, and a green vest. When Lynn saw her through his tears, her face white and her eyes pooled with anxiety, he cried even harder. She rushed over, knelt, and laid her hand on his knee. "How is she?"

"I don't know," Lynn sniffed, "they t-took her in the ambulance." He pressed his hand to his eyes and wept bitterly. Lori tried her best to comfort them, but what could she say? Her _She'll be okays_ sounded flat and hollow to her own ears, and she was on the verge of crying herself. Every word she had ever had with Leni, every smile shared, every hug, every piece of advice she had ever given Lori, came rushing back in a wave, and the thought of losing her sister, her friend, pushed her toward the edge.

Luckily, she wasn't alone for very long: Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, the girls, and Bobby Jr. appeared, Alex and Jessy looking afraid and holding hands. "What happened?" Lincoln asked as he came over and knelt beside Lori.

"Yeah," Bobby asked, his voice full of worry, "what's wrong with Auntie?"

"I-I think it was a stroke," Rita said, her voice hitching. Lynn held her tighter and nodded. That's what it looked like to him. God, he hoped it wasn't, he hoped...he hoped it was something else, something not as major, but deep in his heart, he knew that it was...and if it wasn't, it was something just as bad if not worse.

"Is she going to be okay?" Alex asked worriedly.

"I don't know," Rita moaned, and Alex's face screwed up as tears filled her eyes. Jessy squeezed her hand as her own tears began to fall. Ronnie Anne took them over to a seat and sat, drawing both of them into her lap. There wasn't much room, but it didn't matter.

Lincoln raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. The whole way here he was numb in preparation for the news that Leni had died, now, with her fate uncertain, nerves began to fester in his stomach. Lori touched his shoulder, and he looked at her; tears shimmered in her eyes, and they embraced each other, Lincoln's Adam's apple bobbing as he fought to keep from breaking down.

He knew this day would come – but he never realized how thoroughly he had been dreading it. He already lost one sister, he couldn't lose another...god forgive him for saying this, but especially Leni. Happy, upbeat, naive, sweet Leni. He'd heard people like her called 'special,' and it was fitting. She _was_ special, and he couldn't imagine his life without her.

Instead of crying, he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and held his sister as tightly as he could, as if by doing so he could keep himself from drifting away on a tide of despair. He creaked open his eyes, and saw Ronnie Anne cuddling the girls, both of whom wept softly. They needed him. No matter how deeply the idea of losing Leni affected him, he needed to be there for his daughters. He patted Lori on the back and released her. "You okay?" he asked.

She nodded and wiped a tear from her eye. "I'm fine." Bobby Jr. laid his hand on her shoulder; she looked up at him and put hers on top of his. "She's going to be okay," she reassured the boy.

Lincoln nodded to his nephew. "She'll be fine."

He didn't look convinced.

Lincoln got to his feet, crossed to Ronnie Anne, and sat. He held out his arms, and both of his girls shifted to his lap; he wrapped his arms around them and held them close. They clung fiercely to him. "W-What's wrong with her?" Alex asked. How did he answer that? Neither girl knew about Leni's condition; he and Ronnie Anne thought it would be best to keep it from them even though they both knew that something like this would eventually happen. Denial? Maybe.

Taking a deep breath, Lincoln said, "Auntie's sick. Sometimes she's sicker than others, and right now is one of those times." Ronnie Anne put her hand on his shoulder as if to transfer her strength to him, or to absorb some of the burden from him.

Jessy looked up, her eyes wet and red. "Will she get better?"

Lincoln carefully weighed his response. He didn't want to lie to them, but he didn't want to crush them either. "That's why we're here," he said, "to see."

Jessy sucked in her bottom lip, and Alex wrapped one arm around her shoulder. "She _has_ to get better," Alex said. "She's Auntie Leni." She said it as though aunties – and sisters – never died, never got sick or addicted to drugs or fell in with the wrong people, as though aunties were mountains that would forever stand.

If only they were.

For a long time they huddled in that waiting room, a family teetering on the precipice of tragedy, a family that had weathered other tragedies and remained, like a palm surviving one hurricane after another. They would survive this one too, if only barely. After what seemed like centuries, a doctor came in from the hall, and each one looked up expectantly, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. "How is she?" Rita asked, a tremble in her voice.

The doctor nodded. "She's stable. As far as physical danger goes, she's largely out of the woods." He glanced at everyone, especially Alex and Jessy. "Do you mind following me?"

Rita got up, followed by Lynn, and the doctor led them away, which told Lincoln that whatever he had to say, it wasn't good. He glanced at Ronnie Anne, and she squeezed his shoulder. He looked at Lori, she held her son's hand and looked haggard, as though she had aged ten years in the past hour. She would be thirty-eight this year, but it that moment it was easy to mistake her for almost fifty.

Down the corridor, the doctor studied a clipboard in his hands. "Was it a stroke?" Rita asked. Lynn had his arm around her but she wasn't aware – wasn't aware of anything.

Slowly, the doctor nodded. "Yes, it was a fairly major Rentschler's Related Stroke...with epileptic features. We can't say right now what to expect, but from the scans, her cognitive abilities weren't affected so much as her motor functions. I personally do not anticipate brain damage, but partial paralysis is very likely."

Rita put her hand to her head. "H-How bad?"

"We don't know right now. She's still unconscious. Once she wakes up, we'll be able to ascertain where she is mentally and physically."

"Can we see her?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, you may all see her. Not at once, though."

Ten minutes later, Lynn and Rita stood over their daughter's bed. She was hooked up to a number of machines, including a respirator; a long plastic tube was taped to her mouth, and a heart monitor issued soft beeps as it tracked her cardiac rhythm. Her eyes were closed and a look of serenity was settled upon her features. Rita blinked back tears and clung to her husband. She felt like the walls were closing in on her, and breathing was difficult. Neither one of them spoke; there was no longer anything to say, no words of reassurance or encouragement. Maybe there were five years ago when the disease manifested itself as simple forgetfulness and they were able to pretend that it wasn't so bad, but not now, when she lay in bed after a major stroke, the possibility of being paralyzed – or severely brain damaged – clear and present.

Next it was Lori and Bobby Jr.'s turn. They stood side-by-side, Bobby gripping the railing and looking down at his aunt. Fear, slick and black like oil, slipped through his stomach, and hot tears blurred his vision. He knew there was something 'wrong' with Leni, but he didn't know she was sick; his mom never told him and he was kind of mad. He reached out, took her hand, and held it tightly; he didn't want to lose her. He loved her just as much as he loved his own mother. He thought of all the dopey things she'd ever done and said, and he smiled even as tears spilled down his face. _Please get better, auntie,_ he thought, _please._

Ever since getting here, Lori had been thinking of the same thing: How nervous she was about telling Bobby she was pregnant, and how Leni, in her own simple way, alleviated her worries. The image she returned to again and again was of her hugging Leni from behind; Leni was sitting at her vanity and Lori's lips were pressed to her cheek. _You give really good advice._ Leni smiled at their reflection in the mirror. _I try really hard to help_.

Lori broke down and wept. Bobby awkwardly put a calming hand on her shoulder, and she hugged him; he hugged her back, and they both gave into their tears.

Finally, Lincoln and his family, Lincoln holding Jessy in his arms. Alex stood next to her mother, her cheek buried in her hip and her face ashen. "She's going to be okay," Ronnie Anne said and stroked her daughter's hair. Alex trembled. She didn't think Mommy was telling her the truth. Auntie Leni was not going to be okay, and that scared Alex so bad she couldn't even cry. She loved Auntie Leni so much and she wanted her to be okay so they could hang out and play and stuff.

"Is she going to wake up?" Jessy asked. Her forehead was pressed to Lincoln's temple; she couldn't bring herself to look at her aunt.

Lincoln rubbed her back. "Yes," he said, "she's going to wake up."

The doctor said she would.

But how would she be affected? Would she still be Leni? And if she was, would she be the _same_ Leni?

Lincoln didn't know, and he thanked God that Jessy didn't ask.

* * *

Monday morning, Bobby Jr. dressed slowly in a pair of black slacks and a black collared shirt. In the bathroom, he gelled and combed his hair, the plastic teeth raking his scalp. Normally his morning routine took close to an hour; today it took half that. He didn't linger on his face in the mirror, and he wasn't as careful to make sure each strand of hair was perfect: It was hard to care when your aunt's in the hospital and can barely speak.

She woke up late Saturday night, long after he and Mom left. Grandma and Grampa were both there, and in the morning they called everyone. Leni's face when she was unconscious deeply bothered Bobby, but her face when she was awake was worse: The left side drooped like melted candlewax, and her speech was so thick and slurred you could barely understand it. When he walked in and saw her, an old Raggedy Ann doll clutched to her chest, he froze, and his heart froze with him. She turned her gaze to him, and the good half of her mouth twitched up in a grotesque grin. _"Bahabah."_

 _Bobby-bear._

That night he dreamed of it, only this time she was dead but alive, like a zombie in one of those dumb horror movies, and when she spoke, maggots and dirt tumbled from her lips. He woke up with a scream building in his throat.

Presently, he slipped into a green and orange plaid sports coat and grabbed his books from the dresser. He glanced up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: His face was wan and drawn, his dark eyes filled with worry and his lips a white slash. He looked away and went into the living room, where he sat on the couch. He needed to get going, but he didn't have the energy.

Sighing, he forced himself up and out the door. Mr. Grouse was putzing around in his yard, his limp even heavier than usual. In all the chaos surrounding Auntie Leni's stroke, Bobby completely forgot about the old man's fall. "Hey, Mr. G.," he said as his passed, "how's the leg?"

Mr. Grouse waved him off. "I'm fine, Santiago."

"Just making sure."

Carol stood at the end of her street in jeans and a soft yellow button-up under a brown sweater vest. She saw him, and flashed a tight smile. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied.

They spent Saturday evening together, parked on a back road and talking. He wasn't proud of himself for crying as he told her about Auntie Leni's stroke, but it happens, right? Carol held him to her breast and stoked his hair, and somewhere, under all the grief, he decided right then that he was going to marry her...if she'd let him.

"How's she doing?"

Bobby wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "She's awake, but...she's...she's a little messed up."

As they walked to school, he recounted yesterday's visit to the hospital, and at one point her hand crept into his, He squeezed it and fought to keep back tears as he remembered Auntie Leni's stroke addled face. "The whole left side of her body is paralyzed," he said, "they don't know if it's going to be permanent, though. Probably."

Carol touched his face. "I'm sorry," she said.

"It's alright," he said, "she's alive."

That was supposed to be him looking on the bright side, but it didn't _feel_ like looking on the bright side; it somehow made him feel even worse.

When they reached school, they kissed and parted for the day. Bobby was not surprised to find that he didn't want to let her go. At his locker, he entered his combination and shoved his books in. He had homework over the weekend, but he didn't do it; when your auntie's paralyzed in a hospital bed, fractions and English literature doesn't mean much. He closed the door, and turned just as Tommy walked up, a button-up checkered shirt tucked into a white pair of pants with flared cuffs. "Hey, guess what," he said with a little grin.

His happiness annoyed Bobby. "What?"

Tommy held up his thumbs like Fonzie, "Someone got lucky last night."

Cristina, apparently, was kind of religious – not overly crazy with it, but enough that she wanted to wait until marriage to do the old bump and grind. Over the past year, Tommy had been stressing because "handjobs aren't cutting it anymore. I'm sixteen-years-old, damn it!"

Until today, Bobby felt for the guy; it might have been a big deal last week, but right now it was so unimportant it might as well have been nothing at all. "Congratulations," Bobby said, "when's the wedding?"

"I had to promise that I'd love her 'til the end of time. Swore to my God and on my mother's grave. Hey, I _do_ love her, so it wasn't like I was lying."

Bobby started to snap, but stopped himself. "I'm happy for you," he said.

Tommy nodded. "Yeah, it was _awesome_."

"What was awesome?"

Bobby looked up just as Lamont Higgins leaned against the locker and crossed his arms. He wore a white t-shirt and bell bottom jeans.

"Well," Tommy said smugly and turned, "I don't mean to brag, but..."

Bobby didn't hear the rest as he threaded his way through the crowded hall. After school, he was going to the hospital to see Auntie Leni, and as he reached the class just ahead of the bell, he hoped Carol came with him. He kind of needed her there. For moral support.

For Bobby, focusing on school work had always been difficult, but there are times when it was extra difficult, like when he had that crush on Cristina way back. Now was one of those times, and no matter how hard he tried to stay on track, his mind kept returning to his aunt's face and the hissing, raspy sound of her voice as she spoke, one eye bright and shining with life, and the other all but dead.

He wanted to see her, he really did.

But on the other hand, he didn't.

* * *

At lunch, Alex Loud took her tray and sought out her cousin, who sat at the end of a long table surrounded by other kids. There was a seat open next to her, and Alex hurried over before someone could swoop in and take it away: With the mood she was in, she would probably smack them and not be one bit sorry.

She sat, and Jessy looked up at her, "Hi," she said heavily.

"Hi," Alex replied, her tone just as gloomy. "How're you doing?"

"Okay," Jessy replied, "you?"

"Okay."

Normally, Alex would read while she ate...if she was in the middle of a book the way she was with _The Stand_ , but since Auntie Leni went to the hospital, she hadn't felt up to reading; she couldn't get into it, and she kept losing her focus. She looked at her little cousin and tried to think of something to say because she wanted to talk to her, but nothing came to mind, so she turned to her lunch instead. She was sad, sure, but her stomach growled nonetheless.

"I know what I want for my birthday now," she blurted.

Jessy looked at her. "What?"

Alex's eyes flicked down to the tray before her. "For Auntie Leni to get better."

Jessy nodded and looked at her own tray. "Yeah, I want that for your birthday too."

Leni didn't like not being able to move; she was all numb and tingly and when she tried to talk her voice sounded funny. She knew something happened, but she didn't know exactly what it was. She remembered feeling woozy, falling down, and going boom...and that was it until she woke up in the hospital. She was in pain because she didn't have her medication, but only on one side of her body. That one side of her body hurt really bad though, until the nurse gave her a shot and she started to feel all warm and fuzzy. That made the boredom better, and when Mom came back with Dad's old radio from the garage, it got even, like, not as boredom: She lay in bed with her baby in her good arm and listened to music, her mother by her side and her eyes closed as the funny-pokey-needle stuff went through her.

 _How deep is your love, how deep is your love  
_

 _How deep is your love?  
_

 _I really mean to learn  
_

 _'Cause we're living in a world of fools  
_

 _Breaking us down when they all should let us be  
_

 _We belong to you and me_

"Are my friends coming?" she asked without opening her eyes.

"What's that, honey?" Mom asked, leaning over.

Stupid slurry-voice. "Bunny and Jessy."

Mom listened, took a moment to process what she heard, then nodded. "They'll be here later."

Leni nodded as best she could. She looked forward to seeing them; she loved them lots and seeing them the other day when they came just wasn't enough. They were _really_ special to her, and so was Bobby Jr., but he was in Vietnam or something. No, that was someone else. Luna? She didn't know and her mind felt like it was stuck in mud, so she didn't worry about it.

For a long time, she drifted, and only came awake when someone picked her hand up. She looked, and it was Bobby-bear! He was back from Japan! "Hi, Bobby-bear," she said.

"Hi," he said. There was a girl with blonde hair with him, but Leni didn't think it was Lori. Lori was different. This girl wasn't. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Leni said. It came out as _tiiirrrrrdddd._

He chuckled wanly. "You been in bed all day, how can you be tired?"

"I just am. How was Japan?"

His brow furrowed and he leaned over. "What?"

"How was Japan?" she asked, being careful to clearly pronounce each word.

"It was okay," he said and nodded, though he looked confused. He probably still didn't hear her and didn't want to repeat himself and, like, sound mean or something. That was okay, Leni was just glad he was finally home. Everyone was crying and sad when he was gone.

She nodded. "I missed you."

He leaned over again and kissed her forehead. "I missed you too, Auntie."

Later, Bunny and Jessy came, and that made Leni even happier; now she had all of her friends with her, and her parents and her baby too! Even though she was numb and hurty and had to pee in a tube, life was _really_ good.

Bunny stood with her fingers curled over the railing: Her black hair spilled over her shoulders and her cowlick stuck up like a bunny tail (that must be why they call her Bunny). Soft concern was written across her freckled face, and she looked like she wanted to cry. Poor Bunny. "You look like a sad bunny," Leni slurred. She tried to pout, but her face wouldn't work right. She lifted her good hand and touched Bunny's cheek. Bunny squeezed her eyes closed and leaned heavily into Leni's fingers. You'd think someone died or something.

Jessy came next. Her eyes were wet and red. "You look sad too," Leni said. Why were everyone so upset?

"I made you this," Jessy said, and held up a piece of paper. It was a drawing of a stick figure with blonde hair holding hands with a stick figure with a ponytail. There was writing on it too, but Leni couldn't, like, read, so she asked what it said. "It says 'Get well soon, I love you.'"

Aw. "That's sweet." She cupped Jessy's cheek and tried to lean forward to kiss her, but she was heavy as a rock and couldn't move. Lenis need to watch their weight or they'll get too big for their families. Jessy leaned over as far as she could, and Leni's lips were able to just brush her cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too, Auntie Leni."

Next came...someone. For a moment Leni frowned up at him. She knew she should know him but she didn't. Then it came to her. Lincoln. "Hi, Lincoln," she said. He looked just as sad as the girls, and that made Leni sad too. Everyone was so glum! Lenis don't like glum, they like happy. Like, why be glum when being happy is so much better? It's not like Bobby-bear was in Japan anymore.

"Hey," Lincoln said, "you feeling better?"

Leni shrugged. "Yeah." She felt like the same old Leni, just like asleep, with pins and needles and stuff. Ohh, that reminded her, she was working on something for Luna's baby and she had to hurry up and get it done before winter started because the baby couldn't wear it in the summer.

"You scared us," he said.

"Sorry," Leni replied. "I didn't mean to. I just get Angry Leni sometimes."

Lincoln smiled sadly and brushed her bangs away from her forehead. "We love Angry Leni too. We love _all_ Lenis."

"Aw, thank you," Leni smiled. "I feel really bad about scaring everyone. How's school?"

"It's alright," Lincoln said with a nod, "I made all A's on my report card."

"Yay!" That made Leni really happy. She squeezed his hand and shook it weakly. "I knew you could do it. You'll be a tree in no time."

* * *

Alex Loud's ninth birthday party wasn't held until six weeks later; she wanted to wait until her aunt was out of the hospital. It was at her grandparents' house, like it usually was, and everyone was there: Auntie Lori and Uncle Bobby, Bobby Jr., Carol, even her friend Meagan from school. She was Asian.

It wasn't a perfect party – Auntie Leni was in a wheelchair and she still couldn't talk very well – but it was a lot better than she thought it would be, because up until Auntie Leni was discharged, Alex expected her to die at any minute. She didn't, though, and that was the best present Alex got that year.


	100. October and November 1979: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **My Sharona**_ **by The Knack (1979);** _ **Get it Hot**_ **by AC/DC (1979);** _ **The Second Time Around**_ **by Shalamar (1979);** _ **Ring My Bell**_ **by Anita Ward (1979)**

Lincoln Loud sat by the register and idly flipped through a catalog, his eyes scanning picture after picture. "Jesus God, these things are expensive," he muttered to himself. He drew a heavy sigh and slowly shook his head.

"What's that?" Blades asked. He was working on a burger, and his son, James, was finishing his second hotdog. Goddamn kid could put them away like nothing. Blades said he always ate like this, and the funny thing was, the kid was rail thin. Looked like he'd blow away in a stiff breeze. He was maybe thirteen, fourteen, and looked like his old man, only skinnier and with brown eyes instead of blue. His nose was different, too. And so was his chin, come to think of it. Probably belonged to the milk man.

Lincoln turned a page. "Arcade cabinets."

Blades swallowed. "What?"

"You know," Lincoln said, making a circle gesture with his hand, "arcade games, like at that place on Main."

In September, an arcade opened up in the old Rankin's Hardware building: It was a dimly lit space full of noisy, buzzing, pinging games. They had pinball, too. Lincoln never liked pinball. The kids of Royal Woods went nuts for this place; Alex was always in there after school playing _Space Invaders_ and _Galaxian_...and munching on French fries and drinking sodas. She did chores around the house for a weekly allowance (as did Jessy), and every cent she had went to this stupid arcade...and to Stephen King and Dean Koontz paperbacks, but that's a story for another day. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, if he put in a few games, he too could rob the children of Royal Woods blind. Hey, if they're hanging out and playing video games all the time, they're eventually going to get thirsty...and hungry. There was a storeroom at the end of the hall he could empty out and convert into a mini arcade (Flip's Memorial Funland, he thought of calling it, but that sounded too much like a funeral home for clowns).

The price of these things, though; man oh man. He didn't know if it was even worth it.

Blades was nodding as he chewed another bite of burger. James grinned. "That place is really cool."

"You spend money in there?"

He nodded.

"If I get some games, are you going to come here?"

James thought for a minute. "I dunno. Maybe."

That wasn't a commitment. Sigh.

"You _could_ get an Atari," James said, "set a TV up and plug it in."

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "What's an Atari?" He'd seen that name plenty in the catalog, but nothing about setting a TV up.

"It's a video game system you can play at home," James said, "I have one."

Blades nodded. "Kid's always on it. All I hear all day is 'boop...boop...boop.'"

"That's _Pong_ ," James said, "it's really fun."

Lincoln looked down at the book, flipped back a few pages, and found a _Pong_ cabinet. Huh. "You say you can play it at home?"

James nodded. "It's not as big as a cabinet. It's really small, kinda like a Betamax player. You hook it up to your TV and you can play games on it."

Interesting, Lincoln had never heard of that before. "I'm not dragging a TV in here," he said and closed the book.

James shrugged. "Okay."

He was, however, going to see if Sears had an Atari. Alex might like it. Jessy too; she wasn't as big on the arcade as her cousin, but she dug it enough. Speaking of Alex and Jessy, it was Friday and they were spending the night at his parents' house, which meant he and Ronnie Anne could have loud, wall-crashing, floor thumping, headboard slapping sex...or go to bed early. They'd probably do that.

Oh, and not only was it Friday, it was also Halloween, which meant candy for days. Lots and lots of candy. Thanks to Leni, both of his girls had a hellacious sweet tooth and every year he tried to put the candy away, only for Alex to find it and sneak pieces away: He'd find wrappers under her bed, in the bathroom trashcan, shoved between the couch cushions, hell, one time he found a Reese's wrapper in his dinner, and since he'd finally broken himself of his habit of digging through his food before he ate it, he didn't know until it was scratching his throat on the way down.

It also meant Leni, Alex, and Jessy were going to stay up all night watching horror movies...or rather, Alex was going to force horror movies on poor, terrified Jessy and poor, not-quite-terrified-because-her-mind's-really-going Leni. Lincoln didn't like Jessy watching horror movies because they always gave her nightmares, but the funny thing is, while she was petrified the entire time, she wouldn't leave the room or anything. Deep down, he suspected, she liked being scared shitless. Eight months in a cage would clear that right up.

Not that he wished that on her. Ever. He didn't even wish that on...he couldn't think of anyone he hated. The guards who tortured him? Yeah, he'd wish it on them, but that was probably it.

Sighing, he picked the catalog up and stood. "I'll probably go with one of these, though," he said and held it up.

In the kitchen, the new cook, Ray, was scraping a burned mess off the grill. Scott went to jail for something to do with heroin in June and wouldn't be out for something like five years. Junkie or not, the guy was a good worker, so Lincoln just might hire him back if he came back after getting out.

"How many hamburgers you burn today?" Lincoln asked as he leaned against the prep table. Ray, a big old fat man with three chins and Chinese eyes, shrugged. He wore a white T-shirt Lincoln could see doubling as a sheet, jeans, a white apron, and a white hat. He looked like Frosty the Snowman's overweight brother, Fatty. He wasn't a great cook, and Lincoln was looking to replace him. He was _hoping_ Bobby Jr. would show some initiative and take the grill, but he seemed content washing dishes. He was graduating in May and Lincoln already offered him full time. He said he'd 'think about it.'

Whatever. He glanced over at his nephew; he was at the sink, scrubbing a big metal pan. Maybe he'd talk to him, give him a hint that he wanted him to do more.

Or have Carol do it. She could convince him to do anything.

* * *

Alex Loud slipped her headphones around her neck, pressed the yellow PLAY button on her Sony Walkman, and turned the volume up as high as it would go; she imagined everyone who passed her on the street stopping, turning, and sighing dreamily at how cool she was. Tinny guitar and drum issued forth.

 _Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one_

 _When you gonna give me some time, Sharona_

 _Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run_

 _Got it coming off o' the line, Sharona_

She nodded her head, a smile creeping across her lips. Next to her, Jessy rolled her eyes.

They were walking toward the arcade on Main Street like they did every day after school, Jessy in a white sweater with a plaid button-up underneath (the collars of the latter turned over the neckline of the former because how _else_ would you wear it?) and Alex in jeans and a denim jacket with a big iron on KISS ARMY patch on the back. Amber sunshine touched the piercing blue sky, and a cold wind kicked dead leaves along the sidewalk.

 _Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty mind_

 _I always get it up, for the touch of the younger kind_

 _My, my, my, aye-aye, whoa!_

 _M-m-m-my Sharona_

Alex liked this song because it was dirty, or it sounded dirty at least. She didn't know too much about dirty stuff, but she _did_ know it made the heads of lame-os everywhere explode, so she played it as often as she could. Except around Mom and Dad, because they might be kind of lame, but in a good way, so it was alright; plus they might take it away, and she bought this tape (and the Walkman itself) with her own money, and she did _not_ want to have paid money for nothing.

 _Come a little closer, huh, a-will ya, huh?_

 _Close enough to look in my eyes, Sharona_

 _Keeping it a mystery, it gets to me_

 _Running down the length of my thigh, Sharona_

At an intersection, they turned onto Main Street. Pumpkins, miniature scarecrows, and other harvest decorations sat outside stores and adorned shop windows. A group of kindergarteners in costumers approached from the opposite direction, a woman in a long wool coat among them. As they passed, Jessy watched them with apprehensive eyes. "It's already starting," she worried, "if we don't hurry up we'll miss it."

"Relax," Alex said, "we're not going to miss trick-or-treating." Alex loved her cousin, but she could be such a worrywart sometimes.

"We might."

"We _won't_."

They reached the arcade and went in, the sounds of dinging, booping, beeping, and hissing washing over Alex and tantalizing her senses. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She jingled the change in her pocket and scanned the shadowy expanse. What should they play first? Pong? Space Invaders? What about Gun Fight? She fisted her hands in excitement. So many games, so little time.

As Jessy kept reminding her.

"We can't stay long."

Sigh. "I know that. Just a few and we're done, okay?"

"Fine," Jessy relented.

Alex settled on Space Invaders first; a group of boys stood around, making excited noises as their buddy, a dork in a white T-shirt and baseball cap, fumbled his way through the first level. While she waited, she took out her Walkman, opened it, and removed the tape. From the inside of her jacket, she took another: She had five tapes for this thing and she always made sure to have at least two on her at all times. Jessy twisted in place, her hands clasped before her and an anxious expression on her face, her ponytail swishing from side to side. "Calm down," Alex said, "I'm not going to let us miss it, okay? And neither will Mom. If we aren't home in half an hour she's going to draw and quarter both of us." Alex didn't know exactly what being drawn and quartered was, but she read it in a book: This guy was worried about it figuratively happening to him, and he was really upset, so it had to be bad.

"I know," Jessy half-moaned.

Shaking her head, Alex popped the new tape in, hit PLAY, and shoved the Walkman back into her pocket. She crossed her arms as AC/DC started to play:

 _Going out on the town_

 _Just a'me and you_

 _Gonna have ourselves a party_

 _Just like we use to do._

The boy playing ran out of quarters, and he and his friends wandered off to prostitute themselves for more or something (that meant have sex for money, hahahahahaha. Alex didn't know too much about sex, but it was something people got weird about). She fished a quarter out of her pocket, stepped forward, and deposited into the slot. She gripped the joystick, and the game started.

 _Nobody's playing Manilow  
_

 _Nobody's playing soul  
_

 _And no one's playing hard to get  
_

 _Just a good old rock 'n' roll._

On the screen, ranks of purple, blue, and green spaceships appeared, moving jerkily back and forth. Alex moved the joystick, and her own spaceship zipped across the bottom. She pressed the FIRE button, and the battle was on, her teeth clenching in determination and her pupils dilating like a mad dog getting his first taste of blood.

"Take _that_ , alien scum!" she cried as one of her rockets destroyed an enemy, "and _that!"_ Her heart was racing and adrenaline pumped through her veins like boiling water.

 _Goin' bend you like a G string_

 _Conduct you like a choir_

 _So get your body in the right place_

 _We'll set the world on fire._

"I wanna play Pong," Jessy said, "can I have a quarter?"

Alex cocked her hip. "Jacket pocket," she said absently as the aliens fired a volley at her. Sure, the rounds looked like little lines, but to her they were wicked and terrifying and she could _not_ get hit, because the crew of her spaceship had families they wanted to go home to; Captain Alex Loud was _not_ going to let down her men.

She was vaguely aware of Jessy fiddling around in her pocket for a quarter, then going away. In the game, the next level started, and the aliens fired faster. "Oh, no, you don't," she sneered, blasting away at the vanguard.

When someone spoke behind her, she jumped and jerked the joystick: Her spaceship exploded. "Hey, cool, you play video games?"

Alex's fingers curled around the joystick and her teeth ground together. There were fifty good men on that space ship...now I have to notify their families that they died! She turned slowly. A boy she recognized vaguely from school was standing there, his friendly smile dropping when he got a load of her tight-lipped expression. He wore a red and black plaid shirt and a pair of jeans; he had wavy brown hair and blue eyes. Name was Tom or Tim or something.

They were about to call him _the rescue squad_.

"Hey, look," he said, putting his hands up and falling back a step, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you killed."

"Well, you did," she said. She fished another quarter out of her pocket, dropped it in, and started over. Back to square one! Great! She maneuvered the joystick and rapidly hit the fire button, trying to clear the screen as quickly as possible.

Jessy bounced over and reached into her pocket. "Another quarter, please." She got one and bounced away. "Thank you!" Oh, good, she finally loosened up. Nothing to dethaw you after a lame-o day of school like good old Pong.

"You're pretty good."

Alex _almost_ got hit again. "I'm even better when someone's not talking in my ear," she snapped.

"Oh," Tom-Tim-Tad said, "sorry." She caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye as he left. Whew. She thought he was going to get her killed...

A round hit her spaceship, and it winked out.

Damn it!

She fished out another quarter and glanced over her shoulder to check on Jessy: She was playing Pong while two girls from her class stood on either side talking to her. Alex turned back, deposited her quarter, and started over...again. Level 3...she'd make it to Level 3 then they'd leave.

Jessy came over, grabbed more quarters, then went away again. "Die, you alien bastard," Alex breathed, then grimaced when she realized she cussed. She tried really hard not to because if she got into the habit she'd eventually slip up in front of Mom and Dad and they'd have her ass for breakfast. She bit her bottom lip and made an enthusiastic _uh_ sound every time she got a hit. _Yeah, take it! Die! Die! DIE!_

Jessy tapped her on the shoulder. "What? I'm almost –" she turned, but it wasn't Jessy.

It was her Mom.

Aw, shit.

Jessy came over. "Bunny, I need more..." she looked up and saw Mom, and her face fell. "We lost track of time, didn't we?"

Mom nodded. "Yes, you did. You should have been home half an hour ago."

Jessy threw her head back. "This is what happens when I relax!"

"I'm not angry," Mom said, "just...come on or we'll miss trick-or-treating."

Jessy paled.

"Can I finish this level?" Alex asked.

" _Now."_

Alex sighed. Fine. She had all day tomorrow after leaving Grandma's house. Alien scum...watch yourselves, because I _will_ be back.

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. dressed in a pair of black pants, a glittery, silver button-up shirt, and a black coat, and left the house at half past eight, passing a group of trick-or-treaters coming up the walk. From the moment he got home forty-five minutes ago to now it was constant knocking on the door; was it him or were there more kids out this year? Next door, Mr. Grouse's porch light wasn't on, but that didn't surprise Bobby one bit: Getting candy from that guy's like getting water from a rock.

At the curb, he paused, fished his keys out, and opened the door of his almost brand new 1978 Monte Carlo. Uncle Lincoln bought it for him; he wanted a Cadillac, but Uncle Lincoln made him an offer he couldn't refuse. _I'll get you a Cadillac but you have to pay me back; go with something cheaper and you don't._ Hot damn, alright! It wasn't his first choice, but it was a beautiful car nonetheless: Silver like a bullet...drove like one too, when you opened 'er up.

Inside, Bobby turned the key in the ignition and it roared to life, which made him grin every time. He turned on the radio, made sure no dumbass ghosts, clowns, or witches were pissing around in the street, and took off, pausing at an intersection so gangs of roving candy fiends could cross.

The song currently playing came to an end. _"This is WKBBL FM on your Bee Gees free weekend – that's right, no Bee Gees, none of the time, because we here know that too much of a good thing can sometimes be_ not _such a good thing."_ Bobby snorted. This 'fuck disco' shit was really starting to get on his nerves. First you had those assholes back in July blowing up records, then suddenly no disco songs are in the top ten, everyone's making fun of the Bee Gees, crying because 'disco's everywhere!' Bobby saw a guy at school once with a DISCO SUCKS t-shirt. He would have knocked him out but Carol was with him, so, he kind of couldn't. Eh, maybe he wouldn't have anyway. He _would_ have told him where he could stick that stupid shirt, though.

 _Kiss You All Over_ by Exile started, and Bobby glanced in the rearview mirror as red lights appeared. 5.0 coming up fast. Aw, gee, I didn't do anything.

The cop blasted by and hung a sharp left. Bobby should follow him and see if he was really on his way to a call or if he was just trying to get to the doughnut shop. If it was the latter, it might be time for a citizen's arrest.

Would the cop shoot him if he tried, or just beat his head in?

Eh, Bobby didn't really wanna find out, so he kept going, getting to Carol's house five minutes later. She was sitting on the porch when he pulled up, a bunch of kids surrounding her and clamoring for candy. She got up, passed out what she had, and came down the stairs. She was in a blue dress with a wide neckline and some kind of shawl or something. She opened the door and got in. "Hey!" she said.

"Hey," he leaned over and kissed her, "looks like I got here just in the nick of time. Those kids are savages."

Carol laughed and waved her hand. "No, they're fine. They're all hopped up on sugar, though; I would _not_ want to be their parents tonight."

"Hey, at least it's a Friday," Bobby said and pulled into the street, "it's gotta be really tough on school nights."

"I guess," she said. "It never was for me."

Bobby snickered. "Yeah, because you're a good girl."

"Well, yeah," she said, "for the past seven years I've had to be."

"Oh?"

"Umhm. You're my bad half."

He couldn't argue there; she was certainly _his_ good half.

A half an hour after setting out, they arrived at CLUB 305 on the outskirts of Chippewa Falls; it opened in January and was a far better disco than the one in Elk Park...the dance floor was huge and lit up too, just like the one in _Saturday Night Fever_. The parking lot was cram packed, and it took Bobby a few passes to get a spot. They might say disco's dead, but you wouldn't know that by how crowded this place was: A thousand people were on the floor, dancing in flashing white light, green, yellow, red, blue, and pink illumination pulsing beneath their feet. Music trembled from the speakers and Bobby couldn't help but strut as he and Carol approached a table along the wall.

 _But you can't keep_

 _Running away from love_

 _Cause the first one_

 _Let you down, no, no, no_

 _And though others_

 _Try to satisfy you, baby_

 _With me, true love_

 _Can still be found_

Bobby shrugged out of his coat, draped it over the back of his chair, and sat. Carol removed her shawl and did the same. "You want a Coke?" Bobby asked as he scanned the club; pretty people in pretty clothes that sparkled under the lights.

"Yeah," Carol replied. She too looked around. "For some reason I didn't expect there to be this many people here tonight."

Bobby shrugged. "Friday night."

"Halloween night."

"Yeah? Something tells me none of these people are into the trick-or-treating scene."

Carol laughed. "My Coke?"

Sighing exaggeratedly, Bobby got up. "I'm going, I'm going." He threaded his way through the crowd and stumbled up to the bar. Damn, this place _was_ busier than usual. You'd think disco was going out of style or something. He ordered two Cokes and leaned against the counter to wait. Something brushed his arm, but he ignored it, because it's a disco, people are always bumping into you (as long as he wasn't jealous, he ignored it). When it happened again, he glanced over, and recoiled just a little in surprise.

"Hey," Cristina said. She wore a red jumpsuit with a V neck and flared pants cuffs. Her hair was permed and her eyelids were shaded platinum; for some reason Bobby was crazily reminded of The Tin Man from _The Wizard of Oz_. _Get down...on the yellow brick road, ya'll!_

"Hey, how's it going?" he asked. Since he started working for Uncle Lincoln last year, he saw this girl more than he saw anyone else he knew, other than Carol. She had this annoying habit of saying _order in_ every time she put a ticket in the window, even on busy days when tickets came back like machine gun fire. _Order in, order in, order in, order in, order in, order in._ It drove Ray _crazy_. Made Bobby a little batty too.

She shrugged. "Alright. Where's Carol?"

"At the table," Bobby said and nodded in that general direction, "where's Tommy?"

"In the bathroom," Cristina replied and took a drink of something clear. Probably Sprite, or 7-Up.

The bartender brought Bobby the Cokes, and he paid. "Well, when he gets back you guys should come on over."

"Yeah, sure."

Bobby took the sodas over to the table and sat. He passed one to Carol, who thanked him, and took a drink from the other. "Tommy and Cristina are here," he said.

"Are they?" Carol asked.

"Yeah, I saw Cristina at the bar," Bobby replied and glanced at the dancefloor. He didn't see anyone dancing _too_ well, which was a relief. He'd come to terms with the fact that he would never have moves like Travolta, but every time he saw someone really getting down, he couldn't help a little rush of envy. He didn't have to be the best dancer, he told himself at times like that, just as long as he was dancing with Carol. "You wanna go out?" he asked.

She nodded. "Sure."

They got up and made their way through the crowd as the lights cut out and the record changed; when they came back, they were white and throbbing, creating a hypnotic effect that was slightly disorienting. The music kicked in, a high-pitched tom on every first beat and the words a breathy, suggestive whisper.

 _I'm glad you're home_

 _Now did you really miss me?_

 _I guess you did by the look in your eye_

 _Look in your eye, look in your eye_

 _Well lay back and relax  
_

 _While I put away the dishes_

 _Put away the dishes  
_

 _Then you and me can rock a bell_

Bobby spotted Tommy off to his left; he looked like a putz, and Bobby grinned. At least _someone_ here was a worse dancer than him.

 _You can ring my be-ell-ell, ring my bell  
_

 _You can ring my be-ell-ell, ring my bell_

 _You can ring my be-ell-ell, ring my bell  
_

 _You can ring my be-ell-ell, ring my bell_

Carol leaned in and shouted into his ear. "Do you wanna ring _my_ bell?" She drew back and regarded him with a naughty half-smile. For a good girl, she sure could be dirty – but don't they say it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for?

Bobby smirked and nodded. She danced closer and surprised him by grabbing his crotch, her fingers tracing his outline. He jumped a little, and she laughed mischievously. "Just making sure your clapper's up for the job," she said.

"Is it?" he shouted back.

She cocked her head. "Ehh...it's kind of small."

Bobby laughed. That was the first time she ever said _that_. He'd have to make it so she couldn't sit down for a week just so she knew how wrong she was.

* * *

Before heading home for the evening, Lincoln stopped at Sears and went to the toy department, passing racks of plastic masks and other Halloween decorations. Alex and Jessy, like most kids, made their own costumes: Jessy was a schoolteacher (sweater, glasses, and her hair in a bun just like her aunt) and Alex was...well, he didn't know exactly what she was doing this year. She was vague about it.

At the toy section, he browsed the shelves until he came across the Atari systems: The box showed a boy and a girl sitting in front of a TV and holding joysticks plugged into a sleek, stylish machine with switches and woodgrain. The joysticks were basically rectangular hunks of plastic with a stick and a single orange button. Oh, boy, the future is now, Lincoln thought archly as he picked it up. _Hours of family fun! Insert different game cartridges! Wow!_ Lincoln chuckled. How much was this thing?

He checked the price tag, and his jaw dropped. 220 dollars! Holy mother of shit, Batman, that's a lot of money!

Not that he didn't have it. The restaurant was kind to him and Uncle Sam paid him every month like clockwork, still, 220 bucks. Jesus, that's gas for both cars for a year...and then some.

Should he get it?

Alex would probably go crazy for it. Jessy would like it, too. He loved his girls and he wanted them to have nice things and all that crap. He didn't want to spoil them, though. Nothing on earth is more irritating than a spoiled little girl...aside from digging through your food for maggots and not finding any. _Hey, chef bozo, you forgot something._

Oh, what the hell, if they started acting spoiled he'd make them clean the restaurant, pay them, then tax the hell out of their profit. _Welcome to real life, girls, where you can't_ afford _to be a brat._

He tucked the box under his arm and then scanned the selection of games: They were square with colorful illustrations on the front that, Lincoln suspected, were better than the games themselves. He grabbed three: _Breakout, Adventure,_ and _Pong._ At the checkout counter, he nodded to himself. _Santa's in town early this year._ "My boys have one of these," the woman behind the checkout counter said as she scanned the Atari, "I can hear the sound effects in my sleep."

"That bad?"

She nodded. "Oh, yeah."

Well, that's why God invented the volume button.

In the parking lot, he put his purchases into the back seat, slid in behind the wheel, and reached for the glovebox, but stopped himself. _You don't smoke anymore, Loud_. No, he didn't, in fact he hadn't smoked a single cigarette since Richard Nixon was in office, but sometimes his brain misfired. Strangest thing, too. He remembered someone telling him once that their old man quit smoking and even thirty years later he'd reach into his shirt pocket after dinner like he was going for a dart. Old habits, you know.

He turned on the radio and listened as a newscaster read the day's top stories. Inflation, low economic growth, high interest rates, energy shortages, revolution in Iran. The summer of 1979 had not been kind to America. There were gas lines. Again. See, we get a lot of oil from Iran, and in January, the shah, our buddy, was overthrown and some Islamic prophet-wannabe asshole named Khomeini took over and, well, let's just say he wasn't half the lapdog his predecessor was. You'd think we'd learn our lesson eventually, but no. President Carter took most of the blame, and while Lincoln knew it was all his fault (he's not an absolute ruler, after all), he couldn't help but find savage satisfaction in it. Hopefully he resign too, and his gal pal Mondale; let President Loud take over and do it right. A maggot in every pot, and an Atari hooked to every TV.

 _I'd be a_ boss _president,_ he thought.

* * *

Alex Loud slipped a pair of plastic vampire teeth into her mouth and turned to Jessy, who was dressed in a skirt, sweater, and glasses. "Hey, teach, guess what _I_ am."

They were walking down the street a few blocks from their house, their bags already half full of candy; some guy was handing out cans of Pepsi, and Alex held hers in one hand, her bag hanging from her wrist.

Jessy looked at her, and Alex mugged. "A weirdo."

"Nope," Alex said. "It's not obvious because I'm wearing my normal clothes...or maybe it is and you're just dense."

Jessy furrowed her brows. "What are you?"

"A rock and roll vampire!"

Jessy shook her head. Well, _Alex_ thought it was clever. And she didn't have to put much effort into it: She wore her denim jacket, her jeans, her Adidas, and boom, 99 percent of the costume done and outta the way. She _was_ going to go as Gene Simmons or something, but the make-up process would take forever, and if there's one thing Alex Loud didn't have, it was forever. There were books to be read, movies to be watched, records to be listened to, and alien dirtballs to be vanquished.

"It's more obvious than _your_ costume," Alex pointed out. "You could be anything: A secretary, a librarian, someone's mom."

"That's why I have _this._ " Jessy reached into her bag and brought out an apple.

Alex snickered. "Librarians and moms eat apples too, you know."

They turned onto a walkway and went up a set of porch steps. A paper skeleton with a happy smile hung on the screen door. Call Alex crazy, but skeletons shouldn't be happy, they should be hungry for human flesh. She knocked, and after a minute an old woman in a house dress appeared with a wooden bowl in her hand.

"Trick-or-treat!" Alex and Jessy cried in unison, their bags stuck out.

The old woman smiled. "Awww. What are you girls dressed up as?"

"I'm a teacher, ma'am," Jessy said with a grin.

"I'm a vampire!"

"You're both very cute," the woman said, and dropped a handful of candy into each bag with a trembling, arthritic hand.

"Thank you!"

"Happy Halloween, girls."

On their way back to the sidewalk, Alex looked at her cousin. "I _told_ you people wouldn't know what you are."

"She didn't know what you were either."

Alex shrugged. "They probably didn't have vampires in the 1700s."

"She was _not_ that old. You're mean."

At the next house, a teenage girl with red hair tossed something square and plastic into each bag. "Enjoy, they belong to my cheating ass boyfriend."

Uh, okay, is it _candy,_ though.

No, it was not. As they walked, Alex fished hers out and looked at it with a crinkled nose: An 8-track tape. _Donna Summer_. "Ew, it's disco," she said and pinched it between her thumb and forefinger like it was dirty underwear. "You can have it."

Jessy snatched it with a cheesy smile. "Thank you!"

Two houses down, a big black woman in a muumuu gave them both a full sized candy bar. Full sized! "Aw, you look like a teacher," she said to Jessy, who smiled brightly and said that she was. The woman looked at Alex. "And you must be..." Alex opened her mouth. "A vampire."

Close enough.

After they hit a few more houses, Alex hefted her bag and tilted her head from side to side in thought. She was happy with her haul; there was enough candy in here to sink a battleship. "You wanna head back?" she asked.

"Sure," Jessy said. The sooner they got home, the sooner they could go to Grandma's house. As they walked, Alex ripped open a candy bar and ate it slowly. Yum. She _loved_ Halloween; it was her second favorite holiday after Christmas, because at Christmas you got actual presents instead of just candy. On the candy front alone, though, Halloween had Christmas beat: She did _not_ like candy canes, those things were gross.

At home, Mom was doing her homework on the couch in front of the TV, where _The Facts of Life_ played alone and unloved. Every time Alex didn't do her homework, Dad said _Your mother does hers._ Well...she's getting paid to do it, so...yeah.

"Did you guys get lots of candy?" she asked without looking up.

"Yep!" Jessy said and dropped onto the couch. She started rummaging through her bag. "And Pepsi and disco and all sorts of stuff."

Mom glanced at her, her brow furrowing. "Disco?"

Jessy pulled out one of the 8-tracks. "A girl's boyfriend cheated on a test or something and she was _really_ mad, so she gave us his disco."

Mom looked at Alex, and Alex shrugged. _It wasn't a test he cheated on, Jess,_ she thought, but didn't say anything.

"You ready to go?"

"Yes, please!" Jessy cried.

Alex nodded. She had a whole night of watching horror movies and hanging out with her Auntie Leni to look forward to. "Let me grab the Betamax player."

* * *

When Lincoln got home, the house was empty, Ronnie Anne's car wasn't in the driveway, and the lights were on; this told him she probably ran the girls to his parents' house. He _was_ hoping to see them before they took off, but that's okay, he'd manage...somehow.

He brought the Atari inside, sat on the couch, and took it out of the bag. Holding it in his hands, he read the back, then opened it up and pulled out an instruction booklet. Ha, nobody reads the directions.

Ten minutes later, he crawled over to the couch, grabbed the manual, and crawled back to the TV. The Atari sat on the floor, the two joysticks in front of it and a tangle of wires surrounding it. Heh. _Everybody_ reads the directions. He was still reading them when Ronnie Anne came through the door, her purse slung over her shoulder. "Hey, babe," he said absently as he flipped a page. Alright, he thought he _kind_ of knew what he was doing now.

"Hey," she said, came over, and kissed the top of his head, "what's that?"

"An Atari," Lincoln said and closed the booklet. "I got it for the girls; I just wanted to test it out."

"Oh, they'll love that," she replied and knelt down across from him.

Lincoln crawled behind the TV and started to hook it up. "Cost a small fortune, though," he said. "I'm going to have them pay me back with hard physical labor."

Ronnie Anne picked up the box and turned it over in her hands. "Did you get any games to go with it?"

"Yeah, a couple," he said, "they're in the bag."

Ronnie Anne walked on her knees to the couch, grabbed the bag, and took out the cartridges, examining each one with a thoughtful hum. "They were late getting home," she said, "I found them at the arcade. Alex looked like she was going to break the joystick." She chuckled. "She was really getting into it."

Mission accomplished, Lincoln crawled out from behind the TV and got to his feet. "She better not break this one. The manufacturer probably charges an arm and a leg for replacements." He leaned over, flicked one of the switches on the console's face, and grabbed the controllers. He gave one to Ronnie Anne. "What should we play?"

"I don't know," she said, looking at the joystick as though it were a tiny, malformed alien, "you pick something."

Lincoln grabbed one of the carts. "Pong it is," he said. He went over, jammed the game into the slot, and came back to the couch just as it started: Two horizontal lines served as paddles while a tiny cube acted as ball. The object was to get the ball past the other player, like in tennis. "Alright," Lincoln said, resting the controller in the palm of his left hand and wrapping his right around the joytstick, "let's see what you're made of, Loud."

Doing the same, Ronnie Anne snickered. "That sounds like a challenge."

"It is."

He moved the joystick, and his paddle moved up, hitting the ball to Ronnie Anne. She jerked, and served back. Lincoln moved, and the ball hit the top of the screen and sailed past her paddle. The big 0 over his half of the court turned into a 1. "Ha!"

"You got lucky," she said, a competitive hilt creeping into her voice. "Best two out of three."

Lincoln hit the ball, and it angled down toward the bottom of the screen. Ronnie Anne pulled the joystick, and hit it. It came really fast, but Lincoln was just a _little_ faster.

His 1 changed to a 2.

"You lose," he laughed.

"First one to ten," she said.

Lincoln sighed. "I don't know. I'm probably just going to take my victory and be done with it." He sat the controller aside and started to get up, but she shoved him back down and handed him his controller. Oh, it's going to be like _that,_ huh? "Alright," he said, "you're on."

When your kids are out of the house for the night, there are a lot of things you can do: Go to sleep early, have loud, earth shattering sex, or stay up all night playing _Pong_. Guess which one Lincoln and Ronnie Anne did.


	101. October and November 1979: Part 2

**I'm not a huge Star Wars fan, but I did plan to include it...I just didn't. There's so much ground to cover. I did include Indiana Jones (Alex gets a bullwhip) and Back to the Future (Alex hooks a ride on the back of a car). Also in a chapter I just wrote Lincoln gets triggered by the TV series Night Court.**

* * *

After Auntie Leni had her stroke, Grandma and Grandpa had a special hospital bed put in the living room because getting up and down the stairs was hard for her. It sat along the wall below the stairway banister, under framed, happy black and white photos. For some reason, its presence always unnerved Jessy. It was dark and ominous. _Someone who lives here is unwell,_ it said, _and their next stop is probably going to be a coffin._

Jessy didn't like it.

When they got there, Grandma and Grandpa were sitting on the couch in front of the TV, both of them in robes and looking like they were ready for bed. Auntie Leni was in the armchair where she spent most of her time; a blanket covered her to her chest, the tips of her toes making little tents at the bottom. The left side of her mouth was permanently curved downward, her left eyelid drooped heavily, and the left side of her forehead was completely smooth, whereas the other half was deeply creased. Being sick had taken its toll on her, and wrinkles marred her once flawless skin. Jessy loved her aunt dearly, but she didn't like looking her in the face too long, because it always made her really sad.

"Jessy! Bunny!" she slurred, and lifted her right arm from under the cover. The other one _kind_ of worked, but not too well. Her left leg didn't work so well either; a walker stood by her chair, and in the corner was an adult potty chair.

"Hi, Auntie Leni!" Alex cried happily and went over. "Hi Grandma! Hi Grandpa!"

"Hi, honey," Grandpa said, "did you have fun trick-or-treating?"

Alex nodded. "I got a lotta candy. Jessy too."

Jessy held up her bag. "I can barely carry it." That was the truth. Her arm was sore and starting to shake. She went over to Auntie Leni, who was currently patting the side of Alex's face and trying to smile at her. "We brought chocolate," Jessy said.

Auntie Leni turned, a twinkle in her eye. "Chocolate?"

Jessy and Alex both nodded, grinning ear-to-ear; they knew how much their aunt loved chocolate, and they were pleased with themselves for remembering to bring some.

While Auntie Ronnie Anne talked a minute with Grandma and Grandpa, Jessy reached into her bag, took out a Hershey's bar, and opened it. She broke off a piece, and pressed it into Auntie Leni's trembling hand. She pit it to her lip, but it fell onto her chest. "I got it!" Alex said. She picked it up and held it out. "Open wide, here comes the chocolate express!" She and Auntie Leni both giggled. Auntie Leni opened her mouth, and Alex carefully put the candy in, making sure it didn't fall. Auntie Leni chewed and nodded.

"Is that good?" Alex asked.

Auntie Leni nodded. "Very good."

Alex and Jessy grinned at each other. Once upon a time, Auntie Leni fed _them_ chocolate, now it was _their_ turn.

After Auntie Ronnie Anne left, Grandma opened her arms to Jessy. "Come here," she said with a warm smile, "let me see you."

Jessy went over, and to her surprise, Grandma pulled her into her lap. "You're an adorable schoolteacher," she said, which made Jessy smile real big because _someone_ finally got it.

Alex sat on Grandpa's lap and he squinted his eyes at her. "I honestly can't tell _what_ you are," he admitted.

"I took my costume off," Alex said, "I was a rock and roll vampire."

Grandpa chuckled. "Bite any good necks?"

"A few," Alex shrugged.

For a while, the girls sat side-by-side between their grandparents and watched _The Dukes of Hazard._ After that, _Dallas_ came on. "Alright," Grandma said, "I'm ready for bed."

Grandpa nodded. "Me too."

Grandma got up and looked at Auntie Leni, whose eyes darted sickly around the room, pausing only briefly to linger on the TV. She liked _Dallas_ , but she wasn't 'with it' enough to really watch it. "It's time for your medication, dear."

Leni looked at Grandma. "Not right now," she slurred. "It makes me too sleepy."

Grandma sighed. "You have to, or else you're going to start to hurt."

"Later."

Shaking her head, Grandma went into the kitchen, and Jessy worriedly watched her aunt. She didn't want her to hurt; she should really take her medication. When Grandma returned, she was holding a pill bottle. She twisted off the cap, shook a tablet out, and sat it on the end table. "Alex, honey, can you do me a favor?"

Alex's eyes lit up; she liked being helpful almost as much as Jessy...it made her feel important and, like, trusted. "Sure. What?"

Grandma fixed her with a very serious expression. "Make sure Leni takes this before you go to sleep. It's very important. If she doesn't, she will be in a lot of pain. Do you understand?"

Alex nodded. "I'll make sure she takes it," she vowed.

Grandma smiled. "Good girl."

After hugs and kisses all around, Grandma and Grandpa went upstairs, leaving Alex, Jessy, and Leni alone.

And when the cat's away...

Alex jumped up, went over to the tote bag she brought, and took out the Betamax player. Jessy got up and crossed to Auntie Leni. "Do you need anything, Auntie?" she asked.

"Chocolate."

"Okay." She picked up the bag, rummaged around, and pulled out a candy bar. She ripped the wrapped, peeled it down like a banana, and broke a little piece off; if it was too big, Auntie Leni might choke, and Jessy did _not_ want that to happen. She held it out, and Auntie Leni took it. Her hand really shook.

Alex hooked up the Betamax player and came over. She kicked out of her shoes, leaving her socks on, and sat on the arm of Leni's chair as she looked through the bag at the tapes they brought. "What do you want to watch, Auntie?" she asked. "We have..." she pulled a movie out, " _Bloodbath Nightmare Part 3, The Brain that Exploded, Butcher Bob and Psycho Rob, Buzzsaw Maniacs..._ oooo, now with extra gore...and my favorite, _The Night the Dead Came Out of Their Graves."_ She looked up and frowned. Jessy and Auntie Leni were both pale and trembling. "What?"

"Uh, I don't think Auntie Leni wants to watch any of that stuff," Jessy said, "it'll scare her." She looked down and blushed. "And it might scare me too." She reached out, took the bag, and looked around. "What about this?" She yanked out a tape and held it up.

Alex's nose crinkled. " _Princess Pony: The Movie?_ Oh, yuck." She looked at Auntie Leni. "You don't want to watch that, do you?"

Auntie Leni nodded enthusiastically, and Jessy beamed.

"Fine," Alex sighed, "let me get my barf bag." She stood, shrugged out of her coat, and tossed it aside. She wore a black tank top underneath.

"This is a _really_ good movie," Jessy said excitedly as she went over to the Betamax and pushed the button opening the tape deck. She slipped it in, closed it, and hit PLAY. Alex dropped next to Auntie Leni's chair with a huff. _Princess Pony_ was the most lame-o-tastic movie ever; she'd rather listen to all the disco records in the world at the same time than watch it, but Auntie Leni liked it, and if she liked it, okay, fine, not everyone can like the same things. Jessy sat on the other side of the chair and clenched her fists in her lap as the movie started; when the dopey theme song kicked in, Alex bowed her head. Shoot me. Shoot me now.

She had an idea. "Who wants popcorn?"

"I do," Auntie Leni slurred.

Jessy leaned forward to see around Auntie Leni's feet. "That's not such a good idea, Bunny."

Alex hopped up. "And why not?"

"Because you always burn it."

"That is _not_ true," Alex said even though it kind of was. When she tried to make popcorn, things had a way of...uh...going horribly, terribly, and completely wrong. It wasn't her fault, though! Jiffy Pop was involved in some kind of sick anti-Alex Loud conspiracy. _As much fun to make as it is to eat._ Ha. Oh, it looked fun – heating up the little pan and watching the foil expand as your corn popped – but it wound up being like the Trojan Horse. Hey, that's a nice gi aaaaaaaand we're being murdered.

This time, though, she would come out on top.

"You're going to burn the house down, no."

Alex made a _humph_ sound and turned her head away. Just for that, she was going to make the yummiest Jiffy Pop the world had ever seen, and she was _not_ going to share with Jessy. Well...okay, she would share, but Jessy could only have the unpopped kernels at the bottom. She spun and marched straight into the kitchen, her chin jutted determinedly out.

"Bunny!"

She snapped the light on and went to the pantry. She opened the door, looked around, and aha! There it was! An itty bitty pan covered with a sheet of tinfoil. We meet again, foe; tonight I shall dine upon your yummy innards and claim my victory! She grabbed the handle, bumped the door closed with her hip, and went over to the stove. Jessy came in, her hands wringing. "Alex, really," she fretted, "you're going to burn us all up."

"No, I won't, Jessy," Alex sighed, "I am going to make us all a delicious batch of popcorn and we're going to watch the dumb pony movie. We're going to have a grand old time and that will be that." She sat the pan on the burner and crossed her arms. "Any more concerns you'd like me to address?"

Jessy shook her head. "Fine, but I'm sitting by the phone in case we need the fire department."

"We won't," Alex said pointedly.

"Whatever you say."

After Jessy went back into the living room, Alex leaned against the counter. Sheesh. That girl acts like I'm an absent minded dolt or something. She really needed to stop being anxious all the time; she was going to have a heart attack before she was twelve. Hm, wonder if her hair will start going gray soon. _No, this isn't my great-great-great grandmother, it's my little cousin._ She snickered at the image of Jessy stooped and using a cane at ten. _Slow down there, missy, my ears ain't what they used to be._

Speaking of ears, why didn't Alex's hear the sound of yummy popcorn popping? She leaned over and looked at the stove. Oh, it might help if I turned it _on_. She did, and rested her back against the countertop again. Yep. Making popcorn. Alex "Responsibility" Loud. I have a hungry cousin and a hungry auntie and the only cure for their ailment is popped corn. Wonder who invented popcorn. Was there a big fire in a cornfield, and all of it popped and everyone was like _Holy shit, what's this stuff?_ Or did an Indian do it? And how come it didn't _taste_ like corn?

Alex blew a puff of air. She was starting to get bored. She glanced at the pan, but it hadn't started to pop yet. Hm. I know! My Walkman. Music makes _everything_ better. She pushed away from the counter and went into the living room; Jessy had turned the light off, and the only illumination was the blue glow from the TV. "Which pony's _your_ favorite?" Jessy asked. She was sitting cross-legged next to Auntie Leni and running her hands over her ponytail.

"The seven one is the most," Leni slurred.

Jessy cocked her head. "What?"

Alex grabbed her jacket and rifled through the pockets.

No Walkman.

And no tapes either.

Her heart seized.

She picked the jacket up and looked underneath, but they weren't there either. "Oh, no," she said. She planted her knee on the couch and started looking between the cushions. No tapes and nothing to play them on.

"What?" Jessy asked.

Where are they? I know I had them. She put her hands to her head and tried to think. This was terrible. Her music was MIA, and Alexes need their music or their brains start to calcify.

"What?" Jessy pressed.

"My Walkman; it's gone." She got up and looked around. Let's see, I came in through the front door, I...what did I do next?

"Did you leave it in the car?"

Alex froze. Suddenly she remembered: She took it out of her pocket, laid it on the back seat, and then forgot about it.

She dropped onto the couch and put her face in her hands. Great. No AC/DC, no The Knack...nothing, just the dumb pony theme song. Ugh. Oh well. Deep breath, Alex, it's not the end of the world. How could she be so stupid? Leaving her Walkman in the car was like leaving her _head_ in the car. Or her heart.

Yeah. More like her heart.

Well...it's only one night. She could survive. Now what was she doing?

"Bunny!" Jessy cried, and she remembered. Both sprang to their feet and reached the kitchen threshold at the same time: The foil ball was as big as the sun, as big as the moon, as big and round as –

 _POP!_

A hole was blown through the side, and popcorn showered them. Jessy cried out and threw up her hands; Alex just stood there and took it, knowing in her heart that Jiffy Pop had won again.

Jessy's head whipped around, and, boy, if looks could kill. Alex grinned sheepishly. "Popcorn's done." She plucked a kernel out of Jessy's hair and popped it into her mouth. "Yum."

Yuck, hair! Not yum! Not yum!

"I'll get a bowl and..."

"I am _not_ feeding Auntie Leni popcorn from the yucky floor," Jessy said and crossed her arms as if that closed the case.

"But it's not –"

"No."

Alex bowed her head. Good going, Bunny; Auntie Leni wanted popcorn and you fuc – hey, wait a minute! She looked up, and, yep, there was some on the counter next to the stove. Not much – five kernels if that – but enough. She went over, grabbed them, and rattled them in her hand. "What about counter-popcorn?"

Jessy scrunched her brow in thought. "I guess that's okay."

In the living room, Alex stood by Auntie Leni, who turned and looked up at her with confusion in her eyes. "When did _you_ get here?"

Alex started to ask her what she was talking about, but remembered that she got mixed up sometimes. She held out her hand instead. "I got you popcorn. There isn't much, but you can have what's there."

Auntie Leni smiled. "Thank you, you're so nice."

Alex leaned in and kissed her aunt's cheek. "I love you," she said, and meant it deeply.

"I love you too."

Later, Alex started to doze off, but snapped awake. She had to make sure to give Auntie Leni her pill. Well, she hadn't forgotten because it was _very_ important, but remembering didn't do much good if you fell asleep. Jessy was already out, her body leaned heavily to the right and the side of her face pressed into Auntie Leni's chair. Awww, she looks like an angel...an angel who fell asleep in a really weird position. Auntie Leni was still awake, focusing on the movie, her eyes squinted in concentration.

"Auntie Leni?"

Auntie Leni turned and looked at her. "Yeah?"

"Do you want your pill?"

Auntie Leni hesitated, then nodded. "I'm starting to have oucheses."

Poor Auntie. Alex got up, grabbed the pill, and started over before stopping. She needed something to drink it with. Come on, Alex, keep up. She went into the kitchen grabbed a glass, and filled it with water from the tap. She held the pill out to Auntie Leni, who took it and pushed it into her mouth; Alex held the glass and tilted it so that her aunt wouldn't spill it.

"Ready for bed?"

Auntie Leni nodded.

"Do you need help getting there?"

Auntie Leni shook her head. "I'll stay here."

"Okay." Alex pulled the cover up to Auntie Leni's chin and kissed her forehead. "Goodnight," she said, "I love you."

Leni smiled. "I love you too, Bunny. Where's Jessy?"

"Sleeping."

"I love her too."

"And she loves you."

Auntie Leni closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the chair. Alex turned off the TV, then went to the coat closet where Grandma kept their extra pillows and stuff: She grabbed a blanket for her and one for Jessy, and a pillow for her and one for Jessy. She went over to the couch, plopped one of the pillows down, and then sat the rest of the stuff on the floor. She went to Jessy and shook her shoulder: The girl muttered and snorted.

"Come on, Jess," Alex said, "it's bedtime."

Jessy's eyes fluttered open, all red and glassy. Alex wasn't even sure she was awake. Bending, Alex slipped one arm under her cousin's shoulders and helped her up, then helped her to the couch: Jessy rolled onto her side, facing the back, and curled up in a ball. Alex draped one of the blankets over her, leaned down, and kissed her temple. "Love you, Jess."

"...you too, Bunny," Jessy muttered.

Alex threw her pillow and blanket onto the floor, made extra sure the stove was off (it was), then killed the kitchen light before stretching out on the floor and drawing the blanket to her chest.

Within minutes, she, too, was asleep.

* * *

 _Boop._

 _Boop._

 _Boop._

Lincoln's forehead crinkled and his eyelids fluttered. It was a low, monotonous sound, electronic in nature.

 _Boop._

He opened his eyes and stirred, but something heavy lay atop him, pinning him down. His heart blasted into his throat. He lifted his head, and relaxed a little when he saw Ronnie Anne curled between his legs, her head resting on his stomach. Bright autumn sunshine filled the...living room? Lincoln looked around. Yep. They were in the living room alright, but why? They had a perfectly good bedroom complete with a perfectly good bed that didn't leave you feeling sore and stiff (Jesus, my neck – feels like I slept in a bamboo cage). His eyes fell on the dark TV and the Atari system before it, and he remembered: He and Ronnie Anne were up playing that stupid thing until five in the morning. They tried out all the games, but _Pong_ and _Breakout_ were the only ones worth writing home about. _Adventure_ was so lame it made Lincoln's eyes water. How could so much _boredom_ fit into such a small cartridge?

 _Boop_.

Ugh. He could still hear _Pong_ in his head. He laid back against the couch arm and ran his fingers through his hair. He had to pee, but Ronnie Anne looked so comfy; she was inches away from his morning wood, if he could get it under her face maybe he'd be able to jab her awake.

Nah, he'd hold off; he grew up in the Loud house, after all, where there's always a line for the bathroom.

Or was until everyone started dying, going to prison, and selling used cars.

Heh. That was supposed to be funny, but it didn't make him feel like laughing.

Prison, that reminded him: He was due to bring Jessy to see Luan soon. The last time they went was in '77. They flew out on a long weekend in the middle of March, saw her, stayed the night in L.A., then flew back. Jessy, poor thing, was a nervous wreck because she couldn't remember the last time she saw Luan, so she was basically meeting a stranger...a stranger in a big foreboding building that Alex helpfully pointed out looked like 'Castle Dracula.' _There are vampires here?_ Jessy asked, the blood draining from her face. No, honey, there are no vampires.

As for selling used cars, he should probably get on the horn with Lynn and see how the old sumbitch was doing. He flew out last year after Leni's stroke – just him because Girl Lynn had school – and he insisted on taking Lincoln out back and whipping him like a red-headed stepchild. Lynn won two out of three spars, but to be fair, the man _had_ to be closing in on three hundred pounds, and once he was on top of you, he wasn't going anywhere...unless you punched his teeth in or something, but that might be a little extreme for a friendly wrestling match with your older brother.

Then the dying part...it had been a while since he visited Luna, and Leni...well, he saw her just the other day. She wasn't doing well: Half the time she was so out of it she didn't know which way was up. She couldn't remember his name anymore, she talked about Luan being a musician in California, and when she saw Lori, she thought she was someone named Amanda. Before the stroke, she was spared the ravages of aging – despite the stress of him being in Vietnam and Luna dying, she developed nary a wrinkle or frown line. After, she jumped in appearance from eighteen to fifty...a _hard_ fifty. Her pain was worse, too. Mom said that eventually, the misfires would affect her organs: Her brain wouldn't send the signal for her heart to pump blood or for her liver to filter toxins. Or something. He didn't know and, God help him, he didn't _want_ to know.

Sigh. Heavy thoughts for a Sunday morning.

No, Saturday. Jeez, get with it, Loud. Drop and give me twenty for being so dumb.

He shifted, and Ronnie Anne muttered in her sleep.

What time was it, anyway? Probably late as hell. He was planning on picking the girls up from his parents' fairly early for a surprise trip to the museum (for Jessy) and a trip to the arcade (for Alex). He even closed Flip's for the day in anticipation (okay, he closed it because he occasionally liked having _two_ days off in a week instead of one – I'm a lazy fucking white haired sack of shit, I know, sue me). He moved, and pain streaked up his leg. Aw, goddamn! He pulled himself into a sitting position, and Ronnie Anne slid off.

"What are you doing?" she asked huskily.

"Getting up. We're hideously late for work. You're probably going to get fired."

She whipped her head up, her dark eyes pooled with fear.

Lincoln laughed richly.

She blinked, remembered it was Saturday, and slapped his leg. "Goddamn it, you scared the shit out of me!"

"You should have seen the look on your face – you thought you were going to lose your career."

She slapped him again. "That's not funny."

"Hit me again and I'm going to piss myself."

She hit him again, and he _almost_ released his bladder out of spite; instead, he got up and staggered to the bathroom on pins-and-needles, pausing at the beginning of the hall and leaning against the wall with a hiss. In the bathroom, he drained the ol' lizard, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. Done, he stepped out into the bedroom, and found Ronnie Anne curled up on the bed, a soft, feminine outline under the sheet. The clock on the nightstand read 11:05. Not as late as he feared.

"You going back to sleep?" he asked.

"Uh-uh."

Lincoln furrowed his brow. "Then what –?"

She turned, and the sheet slipped down her bare breasts. She grinned mischievously and put her arms behind her head: Her soft, fleshy mounds flattened against her chest. "Wanna play a game?"

Lincoln was already getting out of his pants. When his underwear came down and he popped out, she lifted her brow. "I'll take _that_ as a yes."

He knelt on the bed, crawled over, and waited as she threw the sheet off: The morning sun kissed her naked body, its rays softly caressing the swell of her hips and the angles of her sex. Lincoln couldn't count the number of times he'd seen her nude, but every time, without fail, his heartbeat quickened and he grinned boyishly. She giggled. "Are you going to make love to me or are you going to watch me like a pervert?"

Pulling off his shirt, he tossed it aside: It hit the bedside lamp and knocked it onto the floor. He winced at the clatter of breaking glass. "Oh, nice," she laughed. "Lame-o strikes yet again."

She sounded like she was going to launch into an hour long roast session, what else could he do to shut her up but mount her and thrust? She jumped. "Ow! Either you're getting bigger or I'm getting smaller."

He threaded his fingers through her hair, leaned in...and licked the side of her face. "Ew, gross!" she laughed, "lame-o germs!"

Lincoln smacked his lips and crinkled his nose. "You taste funny."

She hooked one leg around him, then the other, drawing him deeper with a challenging smile, her flesh like warm silk. "Oh?"

Her walls squeezed him, and his breath hitched. "Yes," he sighed.

"How?"

He reached her limit, and his hips instinctively rocked forward: Her eyes widened and her lips trembled.

"Like middle-aged schoolteacher."

She gasped and slapped his shoulder. "I am _not_ middle aged. I'm only thirty-three."

Lincoln pulled slightly back then surged slowly forward, sinking deep into her boiling well. She let out a long, low purr. "That gray in your hair says middle aged to me."

She squeezed her legs and trapped him inside of her; she rolled her hips against him and ran her hands over his face. "What gray?"

"The gray on the top of your head," he replied as he pressed his lips to hers; her tongue flicked out, and he licked it with his. He thrusted, and she moaned.

"I-I don't have any g-grays," she panted.

He slid back, then shot forward. "Yes you do," he muttered, his voice hitching with the pounding of his heart.

Their passion overwhelmed them, and they didn't talk again until they were finished, their hearts slamming against one another and their bodies tacky with their mingled love. Ronnie Anne's eyes were closed and a dreamy smile touched her lips. She was dazing, in perfect tranquility and –

"Ow!"

She opened her eyes and Lincoln held something in front of her face. "What's that?"

"One of those grays I was telling you about."

She examined it. Yep. It was a gray alright.

Damn, she was getting old.

"You're lucky, lame-o," she said and plucked the hair out of his fingers, "your hair's already white."

He snickered. "I've always wondered if I'm going to go in reverse – instead of grays I'll start getting blacks or browns."

She shrugged. "Sounds like something a lame-o would do."

* * *

Alex sat back, unbuttoned her jeans, and sighed. "I'm gonna pop."

They were sitting at the kitchen table, Jessy in Grandpa's lap and Leni in her wheelchair. Grandma was doing the dishes: Alex was going to offer to help just as soon as she could stand up without falling over and rolling away. She ate bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, and sausage – and that was _after_ she, Auntie Leni, and Jessy spent the morning stuffing their faces with candy.

Jessy took a sip of orange juice and looked at Alex's plate; she had half a stack of pancakes left. "I'll eat it."

Alex pushed the plate toward her cousin. "Knock yourself out."

"Thank you!"

Auntie Leni waved at Grandpa, and pointed at her juice on the table. Grandpa carefully slid out from beneath Jessy, got to his feet, and picked up the glass: Bending, he held it to her lips and tipped it slowly forward. A little dribbled down her chin and stained her shirt. "Thank you," Auntie Leni slurred.

"You're welcome, honey," Grandpa said and stroked her hair, a sad little smile on his face that made Alex's heart hurt. She looked away: Jessy was chowing down on pancakes like they were going out of style. She had to have eaten just as much as Alex, and she was still going. Wow. Girl's a machine.

"Do you need help, Grandma?" Alex asked.

"If you'd like," Grandma said, "you can dry."

Alex started to get up, but stopped when she realized her jeans were still unbuttoned. Whoops, can't do that, everyone would see her underwear.

Just kidding. She didn't wear underwear. Too constricting. Of course, underwear had its merits: She was terrified that one day her jeans would split and, hello, world, I'm Alex Loud, nice to meet you. Maybe she should carry an emergency pair in her jacket pocket.

Getting off track. Again. She buttoned her jeans, got up, and crossed to the sink. "There's a cloth in the drawer," Grandma said. Alex opened the drawer, took out a green cloth, and spent the next fifteen minutes drying dishes and talking to her grandmother about school and life and stuff. When they were done, it was pushing ten 'o'clock, and Mom and Dad still weren't there.

An idea occurred to Alex, and it excited her so much she didn't examine it long before bringing it up to Grandma. It took a little convincing, but eventually she relented and let her and Jessy walk home – they'd get the Betamax player and tapes later. "I love you, Auntie Leni," Alex said and kissed the side of her aunt's face. Jessy did the same. After hugging Grandma and Grandpa, they were off. "Why are we walking?" Jessy asked/complained.

"No reason," Alex _maybe_ lied as she turned off Franklin and started toward Main.

"Uh, Bunny?" Jessy asked worriedly. "That's the wrong direction."

"No it's not."

Jessy gasped and hurried after her. "We're going to the arcade, aren't we?"

Alex shrugged. "Maybe."

Jessy sighed. "No! We're going to get in trouble!"

"No we won't," Alex said, "we're just stopping in for a minute." There were alien slimeballs who needed vanquishing.

Jessy grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Her face was stern and serious, like a mother's or something. "Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne could show up at Grandma and Grandpa's at any minute, and if we're not on our way home, we _will_ get in trouble. You _know_ that."

Alex sighed and slumped her shoulders. "I really wanna play _Space Invaders,_ though." She couldn't remember, but she _thought_ she had a dream about it last night: Her in a sleek space suit and holding a fazer or something as she stalked down the flickering-light corridor of an overrun spaceship, alien assholes lurking around every corner and threatening truth, justice, and the American way, with only her, Captain Alex Loud, standing between them and galactic domination. She _had_ to get a couple rounds in.

"We. Will. Get. In. Trouble. Auntie Ronnie Anne and Uncle Lincoln will think we're irresponsible and won't let us do stuff on our own."

She might be a nerd-teacher's-pet-worrywart...but Jessy had a point. "Fine," Alex said, and kicked the pavement, "we'll do it _your_ way."

Jessy smiled prettily. "Good. Let's go."

Fifteen minutes later, they were climbing their porch steps when the front door opened and Dad appeared. He saw them and did a double take. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"We walked," Jessy said.

"Yeah," Alex added, "responsibly."

Dad regarded them quizzically for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright." He grinned. "Come here. I got something to show you."

Inside, Alex scanned the living room. She didn't see any –

She froze.

"Is that an Atari?"

"You mean that thing with the word ATARI on it?" Dad asked.

"We have an Atari now?" Jessy asked excitedly.

Alex gaped at it – black with woodgrain and switches and...and...she went to it and dropped to her knees. "It's _beautiful."_

The museum? The arcade? Didn't happen. Alex and Jessy playing round after round of _Pong?_ Then Alex and Lincoln, then Jessy and Ronnie Anne, then Alex and Ronnie Anne, then Lincoln and Jessy?

Yeah, _that_ did.

* * *

 **Fun Fact: Remember when I had the events of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre described in a radio news report? I briefly considered having Clyde be the truck driver who mowed down the hitchhiker and whacked Leatherface with the wrench. He'd have to have gained weight, because that dude was beefy. I figured that'd be a fun way to bring him back in, but I went with the helicopter pilot thing instead.**


	102. October and November 1979: Part 3

**Lyrics to** _ **Macho Man**_ **by Village People (1978);** _ **Sheena is a Punk Rocker**_ **by The Ramones (1977).**

Bobby Santiago Jr. wasn't used to having Saturdays off: He'd worked every single one since last April, from open to close, so on the morning of November first, after waking up and taking a hot shower, he felt lost. He called Carol to see if she wanted to cruise, but she and her folks were going to visit her grandmother in Ann Arbor (didn't she mention that last night?), so _that_ was out. Next he called up Tommy, but Tommy and Cristina were going yard saling (oh, gross). Finally, he called Lamont Higgins and got a hit. "Yeah, man, I'll hang."

Alright.

Saturday boredom averted.

He dressed in a pair of black slacks and a blue button-up, then, after opening his window and sticking his hand out to test the temperature, threw on his blazer, making sure his shirt collar covered the coat collar perfectly. Mom and Dad were in the living room, Dad working on a beer and Mom reading another Stephen King book, this one as big as a goddamn door stop; had Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader or something on the cover. _The Stand_ the title read. Thing was so thick you could use it to _stand_ on: Can't reach the top shelf in the pantry? Grab _The Stand_.

It was Carol's fault his mom was a bookworm now, but hey, it kept her out of his hair, so no harm, no foul. Every Christmas Bobby got her a couple books. She liked thrillers. Dean R. Koontz, Robin Cook, and a bunch of other weirdos. "I'm going out," Bobby said.

"Where?" Mom asked, looking up.

"For a drive," he said.

"Alright. Drive safe."

"Will do."

He started for the door, but she stopped him. "You're forgetting something."

Rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, Bobby went over and kissed her on the cheek. "Love you, Mom," he said.

"I love you too."

He started to leave again, but this time Dad stopped him. "No love for your old man?"

Bobby leaned over and kissed him on the cheek too. "Love you, Daddy."

Dad recoiled and laughed. "Get the fuck outta here."

"Be careful what you wish for, pops," Bobby said.

Outside, he got behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove over to Lamont's place as an announcer read the morning news on WKBBL. _"Senator Ted Kennedy has announced that he will challenge President Carter for the 1980 Democratic presidential nomination as the president's popularity continues to plummet among rising inflation and stagnating economic growth. This also on the heels of fifty-three American embassy workers being taken hostage in Iran by radicals."_

Bobby turned onto Lamont's street and waited for an old woman to cross. Take any longer, lady, and I'll be as old as you by the time I get where I'm going. When she was clear, he went on, and rolled up to Lamont's house just as he came through the front door in bell bottoms and an orange T-shirt reading KEEP ON TRUCKIN'. Bobby had seen a lot of those shirts lately. What the hell they meant, he didn't know. And how come the picture on it was a guy taking a step and not a, you know, truck?

Lamont came over, opened the door, and slid in. "Man, you saved my ass," he said as Bobby took off.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, my grandpa's coming over," he said, taking out a crumpled pack of Newports. He removed one, lit it, and rolled down the window.

"What, you don't like your grandpa?" Bobby asked.

Lamont took a drag and blew it out. "Nah, I like him, but after a while he brings me down. He's racist as fuck. Makes George Jefferson look like George Wallace." He snickered. "This nigga's so racist he don't even like black people. Got nothing nice to say about anyone. That shit gets old."

Bobby shrugged. "I guess. I got a white mother and a Mexican father, so...I don't know much about racism. I been called a spic a few times, though."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Lamont asked.

Bobby thought for a second. "I don't know," he said honestly, "it's racist against Mexicans, though, so...them's fightin' words."

"You know, nigger means a lazy person," Lamont said. "Or is it a dirty person? I can't remember. I'm more offended by other words, though. Like porch monkey."

Bobby frowned. "What the fuck is that?"

Lamont laughed. "That's what they say in the south. And jigaboo."

Bobby snickered. "I've never heard that."

"Yeah, they got all kinds of stupid names. Spook. Coon."

"What, do you study this shit? I know like three racist names for Hispanics and you're over there giving me every one for blacks there is."

Lamont nodded and took a flask from his hip pocket. "I major in Nigganomics." He unscrewed the cap, took a drink, and handed it to Bobby. Bobby took it and tilted it back. Vodka. Of all the hard liquor he'd had, vodka was his favorite.

"Sounds fun, where do I sign up?" Bobby asked as he handed the flask back.

"Sorry, hombre, we don't take kindly to your kind."

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, alright, I'll remember that." He hung a random right: Houses lined either side of the street. Kids rode bikes, skipped rope, and did hopscotch. On the radio, the news went off and The Village People started to play. Bobby turned it up.

 _Body, wanna feel my body,_

 _Body, baby, such a thrill, my body_

 _Body, wanna touch my body,_

 _Body, baby, it's too much, my body_

A ball bounced into the street and Bobby applied the brakes, already knowing some little dumbass was going to run after it, and sure enough, a little blonde boy in a striped sweater darted out.

 _Every man wants to be a macho man_

 _To have the kind of body always in demand_

 _Joggin' in the mornings, go man go_

 _Workouts in the health spa, muscles grow_

The kid snatched the ball then looked up, freezing when he saw the car, as though it were hurtling at him instead of sitting absolutely still. Bobby made a circular gesture with his hand. _Come on, kid._

The kid didn't move.

Sighing, Bobby rolled down the window and stuck his head out. "Hey, kid, you mind getting out of my way?"

The kid hurried away.

"Thank you."

 _You can tell a macho, he has a funky walk_

 _His western shirts and leather, always look so boss_

"You know all these niggas are gay?" Lamont asked as they got underway again.

"Who?" Bobby asked.

He gestured toward the radio. "The Village People. They're all fruits."

"No, they're not," Bobby said and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, they are," Lamont said. They were on Bobby's street now. His house was up ahead. The mailman followed the sidewalk, and Bobby watched him as he opened Mr. Grouse's mailbox.

It was stuffed.

Bobby frowned as they passed.

"...dressed up like that. It's like gay guys' fantasies or something."

You know, Mr. Grouse wasn't the kind of guy to let his mail pile up like that. And now that he was thinking about it, he hadn't seen him in a while – a few days, maybe even a week. He flashed back to finding him on the ground last year, and suddenly he was kind of worried.

At the intersection, he hung a U-turn and went back the way he came. "What's up?" Lamont asked, his brow furrowing.

"My neighbor," Bobby said as he pulled to the curb across from Mr. Grouse's house. "His mailbox is full and I haven't seen him in a couple days. I wanna check on him."

Lamont shrugged. "Alright."

They both got out and waited for a Chevy van to pass before crossing. "He old or something?" Lamont asked.

"Yeah," Bobby said. At the door, he knocked and waited. Lamont smoked his cigarette and swatted a set of wind chimes like a cat. When no one answered, Bobby knocked again, dread starting to form in his stomach.

"Maybe he's not home."

Bobby shook his head. "He's always home." He tried the knob, but it was locked.

"He's gotta go _somewhere_."

Bobby brushed past and went down the stairs. He had a bad feeling about this. The old guy was probably lying on the floor hurt – if they were lucky. He went around the side and Lamont followed. "A black guy and a Hispanic guy creeping around someone's house looks pretty bad," he said.

"I don't give a shit," Bobby said. A living room window was screened behind a bush. Bobby hesitated briefly (he was dressed in nice clothes after all), then said fuck it and pushed his way through. He put his hands up to the glass and peered in.

He saw Mr. Grouse instantly.

He was sitting in his armchair with his head lulling against his chest. He could be asleep...or he could be dead. Bobby banged on the window, expecting Mr. Grouse to jerk and look around in surprise.

He didn't, and Bobby's heart started to race. He pressed his palms against the pane and pushed up: It lifted with a shriek of protest. "You're going in?" Lamont asked.

Ignoring him, Bobby mashed his face against the screen. "Mr. Grouse?"

The old man didn't move.

"Mr. Grouse?"

Nothing.

Shit.

Bobby removed the screen and climbed in. Lamont came up behind him and craned his neck to see.

On his feet, Bobby went to the old man. "Mr. Grouse?"

He reached out and tapped his face.

His flesh was cold.

Bobby sighed deeply and turned. "He dead?" Lamont asked through the window.

"Yeah," Bobby said heavily, "he's dead."

* * *

It was a few days before Thanksgiving break, and Alex Loud had a mission: Draw her interpretation of the very first Thanksgiving. Sitting at a table in the cafeteria, she ignored her lunch in favor of a fresh piece of paper. Her friend, Meagan, a thin Asian in a pink sweater and maroon pants, studied her intently. It wasn't often that _the_ Alex Loud did schoolwork when she didn't absolutely have to, and at lunch was definitely not a have to situation.

Alex sighed, reached into her jacket pocket, and turned the Walkman volume up: The headphone rested around her neck.

 _Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go_

 _They're ready to go now they got their surfboards_

 _And they're going to the discotheque Au Go Go_

 _But she just couldn't stay, she had to break away_

 _Well New York City really has is all oh yeah, oh yeah_

Hm. She had a good idea of what the first Thanksgiving looked like (Indians and half-dead pilgrims in black clothes and silver buckle slippers eating corn and burning witches), but the object was her _interpretation_ , which meant how _she_ saw it. That gave her artistic license.

And Alex Loud _liked_ artistic license.

"You're taking this pretty seriously," Meagan said.

"Yeah," Alex said absently as she tapped her pencil against the paper. "I wanna do something _really_ cool. I don't know what, though."

 _Sheena is a punk rocker  
_

 _Sheena is a punk rocker now  
_

 _Well she's a punk punk, a punk rocker  
_

 _Punk punk a punk rocker  
_

 _Punk punk a punk rocker_

An idea came to her, and she started to draw, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip in determination. First, the table, then the food, then, finally, the guests: Dee Dee Ramone in a leather jacket and little round sunglasses; Johnny Rotten from The Sex Pistols _;_ Angus Young from AC/DC; a vampire; a Frankenstein wearing a frilly apron and holding a pumpkin pie; a twelve foot Indian brave with a light saber; and, lastly but not leastly, an alien from _Space Invaders_ with big fangs and claws fit for rending flesh. Meagan leaned over, examined the drawing, and her jaw dropped, which told Alex it was good.

"Everyone's going to think you're crazy."

Alex shrugged. "I don't care."

She turned the drawing in, and two days later she got it back...with a big red C. Really? There was a note in the margins. _A for creativity, but there were no vampires at the first Thanksgiving._ What? How about you don't ask for someone's interpretation if you don't want their freaking interpretation, lady.

Sometimes people really perplexed her.

* * *

Mr. Grouse's funeral was two weeks after Bobby found him. The church hall was empty save for Bobby and a few of Mr. Grouse's grown nephews. From the way they talked, Bobby got the impression that they weren't too hot on the old man. Bobby guessed he couldn't blame them, but, you know, despite the fact that he was kind of a jerk, Bobby liked him. He didn't cry or anything, but he certainly felt sad, and the thought of not seeing him putzing around his yard anymore or hearing him yelling _"Goddamn it, Santiago!"_ brought him low.

A few days later, a cleaning company came, loaded all Mr. Grouse's stuff into the back of a truck, and carried it to the dump. Pretty fucking sad, if you asked him: Someone's entire life tossed into the garbage bin like it was nothing. When they weren't looking, Bobby walked over, snatched a candlestick from a chest of drawers sitting on the front lawn, and took it away. He had no use for the damn thing, but he wanted to salvage _something,_ you know?

* * *

Family gatherings always took a toll on Rita Loud – but in a good way. On Thanksgiving, her home – so dark and lonely these past years, especially over the last year and a half – was filled with life and activity. Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and the girls arrived first, just after sunrise; Jessy and Alex both looked like zombies, Jessy rubbing her eyes and Alex's shoulders slumped. While Ronnie Anne helped Rita get the turkey stuffed and in the oven, they sat on the couch and fell asleep, Alex's face resting in her upturned palm and Jessy's leaning against her cousin's shoulder. Lynn and Lincoln handled the side dishes: Green bean casserole, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and creamed corn. Leni slept through most of it, her medication keeping her deep in the depths of unconsciousness. The doctors had to up her dosage twice this year as the Rentschler's caused her brain to send unnecessary and increasingly intense pain signals to her nerve endings. They were also worried about her liver, as the disease could very well cause it to malfunction...in which case she wouldn't live much longer.

Lori, Bobby, and Bobby Jr. arrived just before the Macy's parade started, Lori in a blue dress, Bobby in a suit, and Bobby Jr. in a black button up and gray dress pants. He sat on the couch next to Jessy and flicked her ponytail. She stirred and muttered in her sleep. "Time to wake it up," he said, "the parade's about to start. You don't wanna miss it, do you?"

"No," she slurred, then started to snore.

"Alex," Bobby said, "come on, you guys are acting lazy."

"Buzz off," Alex said and shifted, her eyes not opening, "leave us alone."

In her chair, Leni came awake, and Bobby went over. "Hi, Auntie," he said and kissed her forehead.

"Hi, Bobby-bear," she said, "how's Arizona?"

"Hot," Bobby said, "how's Royal Woods?"

Leni's brow pinched. "I've never been there."

"You're not missing much."

In the kitchen, Rita washed her hands, wiped them on a rag, and sighed. Was that everything? She tried to create a mental checklist, but couldn't: She was so scatterbrained these days it was sad. She hardly slept, and caring for Leni was becoming a full-time job; she was still with it enough to use the bathroom and to help her and Lynn when it came time to move her to bed or into her wheelchair, but at the rate things were going, she wouldn't be much longer.

"Is that everything?" she asked aloud, more to herself than to anyone else.

"I think so," Ronnie Anne said. "Pies are done and in the fridge, the casserole is done, the potatoes are boiling, the stuffing is made." She held up her fingers and countered, her eyes toward the ceiling and her lips silently moving. "Yeah, that's everything."

Rita nodded. "Thank you for your help, dear; I'm so out of sorts sometimes." She forced a laugh. "Aging."

In the living room, Bobby Jr. crossed his arms as a series of balloons made their way through Manhattan, followed by high school marching bands and floats. "You guys excited to see Santa?" he asked.

"Yes, very," Jessy said; she was absorbed in the show.

"Eh," Alex said with a shrug.

"Eh?"

"Eh."

Bobby snickered. "You don't like Santa? Guy brings you free toys every year. The least you can do is show him some respect."

Alex leaned over Jessy and swatted at him, but he pulled away and her fingers slapped cushion. "Ha, missed me, punk."

She leaned over even more, but Jessy pushed her away. "Stop. I'm trying to watch the parade."

Alex got up, and Bobby scrambled over the back of the couch because when that little girl stood, it was on. "Oh, no you don't!" she cried and ducked around the arm, bumping into Leni's chair as she passed. "Sorry, Auntie!"

Bobby hurried into the kitchen and went over to the table, where Lincoln sat with a barely-touched can of beer in front of him. "Hey, Unc," Bobby said innocently and stood behind him. When Alex entered, Bobby mugged at her. _Come and get me_.

Her eyes flicked from her cousin to her father and back again, an uncertain expression rippled across her face.

"I know that look," Lincoln said, "what did Bobby do?"

"Nothing," Bobby said, "me and Jessy were watching the parade and _that_ one –" here he pointed at Alex "–started getting violent."

"You're, what, almost eighteen?" Ronnie Anne asked. "Kick her butt and be done with it."

"Mom!" Alex cried indignantly.

"I don't hit girls," he said and looked at Lori, "my mother raised me better than that."

Lori grinned and nodded. "I did."

"Knock her out, son," Bobby Sr. said, "it's 1979 – you're allowed to hit girls now."

Bobby Jr. grinned, held up his palm, and punched it. Alex looked stricken for a moment, then flattened her brow and rolled up her sleeves. Bobby came around the table, and so did Alex.

"Cut it out," Lincoln said, "or I'm going to whip both of you."

Bobby and Alex both turned to him, their brows lifting in almost identical expressions. "Yeah?" Bobby Jr. asked.

"You think?" Alex added.

Lincoln took a sip of his beer. "No. I _know_."

Bobby looked at Alex. "Wanna team up and beat him to a pulp?"

"Let's."

Ronnie Anne snorted. "You better watch out, lame-o, they're gonna get you."

"I'll go get my gun and come back."

"Lincoln!" Rita exclaimed. "That is _not_ something to joke about! That's _awful_!"

Lincoln laughed. "Hey, I'll only take out their kneecaps."

Rita shook her head. "That is not funny."

"Yeah, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said and slapped his leg, "you don't joke about shooting people."

He _was_ going to say he wasn't joking, but that might be taking it a little too far. He would never shoot his daughter or his nephew, though that Asian paperboy was another story.

No, Lincoln wouldn't shoot him either. Relax, will you? Sheesh. Don't be so goddamn sensitive.

"You can shoot junior all you want," Bobby Sr. said, "but you're paying his medical bills."

"Thanks a lot, Dad," Bobby Jr. said, "I knew I could count on you."

After the parade, Lincoln and Bobby Jr. helped Leni into her wheelchair and brought her into the kitchen, where she and Lori had a nice long conversation. Leni called her 'mom' a few times, and once or twice she said something so off topic that everyone's ears pricked. Overall, though, she was lucid.

At dinner, everyone shoved into the table, Alex and Jessy flanking Leni (Bobby Jr. tried to steal Jessy's seat when she got up to get Leni a drink, but Alex held her fork up in a threatening manner, so he backed off – if he was going to knock his little cousin out, it wouldn't be at Thanksgiving dinner). Lincoln asked Lori to pass the gravy, and she spilled it; it ran across the table in rivulets and dripped onto Ronnie Anne's dress. "Nice going, sister-of-lame-o."

"Sorry," Lori said sheepishly and leaned over the table. "I –" she cried out as Jessy shoved a roll down the back of her dress and giggled.

"Payback."

"Nice one!" Alex cried, impressed. That was totally un-Jessy-like. She held up her hand, and Jessy slapped it.

It was a beautiful evening full of family, laughter, and love.

And hey, Lincoln didn't shoot anybody, so it was a success all around.

* * *

Every Thanksgiving was the same. That's to say, it was the same as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. There _was_ one bright spot, though, and that was dinner.

No, not the dinner the kitchen served, the dinner they cobbled together from the prison commissary: Beef jerky, potato chips, bags of peanuts, snack cakes, and Coca-Cola. It was a tradition that had been going on for centuries (or four years in I'm-not-rotting-in-prison time). Both Luan and Maggie had jobs – Maggie in the library and Luan sweeping and mopping floors – and they each made twenty-five cents a day, which was a princely sum for prison. Luan suspected Maggie must have sucked a dick along the way, but she hadn't bragged about 'getting some' so maybe not. Starting each September, they would both save every red cent, then, on Thanksgiving, they'd pool their money and piss it all away at the commissary. They didn't get as much this year because they decided to buy a little something...extra: Prison wine. The girl who manned the counter had some black market hooch and, well, who doesn't want to feel good every once in a while in prison? Luan had been locked in a cell for nine years, mind you.

Being drunk also dulled the pain, of course, but she didn't indulge too often: She didn't want to wind up an alcoholic. If she had no hope, maybe, but she _did._ In six short years, all of this would be over. She would be forty-two.

Wow.

It never ceased to amaze her when she thought about it, which is why she never thought about it.

Presently, she and Maggie sat across from each other on the floor next to Maggie's bunk, a feast laid between them. Luan picked up a Slim Jim, peeled the wrapper, and took a bite. "And then she said 'I check that book out so much because I masturbate to it,'" Maggie said, and they both laughed. "Really, that's sick," Maggie shook her head. "I'm all about getting it on, but to a picture book of dogs?"

"She was probably joking," Luan said and took another bite. Before coming to prison she had never touched a Slim Jim; all the wasted years...

Maggie shook her head. "Oh, no, she was dead serious. I'm kind of afraid for her to return it. Something tells me the pages are going to stick together."

Luan shuddered. "That's disgusting." She remembered something. "I found a used condom when I was sweeping the other day. And a used needle."

Taking a bite of her cup cake, Maggie nodded. "The needle doesn't surprise me. The condom does. Was it full of sperm?"

"There was _something_ in it," Luan said, "I didn't dip my pinky in and touch it to my tongue, though."

"You remember how we were on lockdown all summer?"

Luan rolled her eyes. "How can I forget?" Every so often the guards conduct surprise searches of the cells, and they always turn up something: Shivs, drugs, money. Every cell that has something winds up on lockdown, the inmate (or inmate _s_ ) within punished individually. Well, after a search in June, the entire inmate population was put on lockdown until August. It was maddening.

Maggie nodded. "I found out why."

"Why?"

"Some bitch on E Block had a zip gun."

A zip gun is a crude, homemade gun. They are relatively easy to make (or so Luan had heard – she'd never made one), but the necessary materials aren't easy to come by in prison. It's not impossible, though.

"Really?"

Maggie nodded. "Yep. She was going to shoot the warden with it."

Luan chuckled. "It probably would have killed her."

"Probably. Those things blow up in people's faces all the time. Is Lincoln bringing Jessy out soon?"

"I hope so," Luan said with a sigh. The last time she saw her daughter she was almost seven and so cute it hurt. She was really glad to hear she was adjusting well to school. Lincoln said she was 'kind of anxious' and he worried she wouldn't take well to being there, but she did, and she made really good grades and didn't get into trouble. That made Luan really happy: Despite how thoroughly she fucked her own life up, her daughter was safe, happy, loved, and thriving. That's all she had any right to ask for.

"Can you have contact visits yet?"

"I have to apply," Luan said, "again. I hope they approve me. I haven't touched my daughter since she was a newborn." Tears flooded her eyes and she wiped them away.

"I know how you feel. I haven't even _seen_ my son since he was two: He's ten now."

If Maggie was trying to make her feel better, it wasn't working. In fact, she felt even worse. She sniffed and shook her head. "I'll see if they'll let me." She reached for a Slim Jim at the same time Maggie did, Luan's fingers brushing lightly across her friend's knuckles. They looked at each other for moment, a ghost of a smile touching each other's lips.

"Back off, bitch," Maggie said.

Luan furrowed her brows. "I saw it first, skank."

"It's _mine,"_ Maggie growled and leaned in.

Luan cracked her knuckles.

For a second, nothing happened...then they broke out laughing.


	103. August 1980: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Shoot to Thrill**_ **by AC/DC (1980);** _ **Whip It**_ **by Devo (kind of – 1980)**

Lynn Loud snatched the ball in her mitt and grinned. "That's strike two, Haveman," she said and looked up at her friend. He was in jeans and a sweat-soaked white T-shirt that clung to his chest; if you looked hard enough, you could see his nipples. Not that Lynn looked. "You on the rag today?

She was serving as the ump and he was at the plate, his face flushed with exertion and sweat standing on his brow. He shot her a dirty look, and she smirked.

Hanging out with boys, Lynn had long ago learned that the quickest way to get under their skin is to insult their masculinity...or talk trash about how you slept with their mom. Lynn didn't do that too much, though one time she _did_ slip when Kaufman said she was playing weak. _That's not what your mom said last night_. Everyone laughed so hard they cried, and Lynn's face flushed with embarrassment.

Presently, she tossed the ball back to Slater, who stood on the pitcher's mound in jeans and one of those funky button-ups he liked so much. He caught it and nodded at Ritchie. "You gonna actually hit this one?"

"Fuck you," Ritchie said and held his bat up, "throw."

Slater wound up and pitched. Ritchie swung, but missed, and Lynn grabbed the ball. "Strike three," she said, "you're out."

Ritchie tossed his bat aside with a disgusted sigh. "What's your problem today?" Ben asked from first. "You're batting worse than Claude." On second, Claude Miller held up his middle finger.

"I have a lot on my mind, alright?" Ritchie said.

"Like all that dick he's gonna suck later," Kaufman said.

Ritchie turned on him, his face hard and his fists balling. "Fuck you!"

Lynn snickered, and Ritchie turned to her next. "You too, Loud. You can _all_ get bent."

Lynn felt a funny surge of...being offended or something. It didn't happen often but it _did_ happen. Her face darkened. "Go change your tampon and come back when you're ready to actually hit something."

"Fuck this," Ritchie muttered. He snatched his bat from the dirt and started across the field, purposely bumping his shoulder into Ben's as he passed. Lynn watched him go, her eyes narrowed to slits. He was fifteen, almost sixteen, and he was acting like a big baby, which kind of pissed her off. When you're on the field, you suck it up, no matter _how_ much you have on your mind. Her anger was tinged with something else, though. She felt...kind of bad for him. He was a good player and he didn't usually let things bother him. Whatever he had on his mind, it must be big.

But screw him. Stalking off like that, ass wiggling in his Levis like a woman. _Look at me, my name's Ritchie and I like it when guys watch me strut by._

If she was honest, she was sad to see him go. Out of all of her friends, she liked him the best.

"What's _his_ problem?" Slater asked as he walked up.

"Probably got dirt in his vag," Lynn said and got to her feet. She took her mitt off and hooked it through one of her jeans' belt loops. Across the field, Ritchie went through an opening in the fence and ducked out of sight; Lynn sighed and hoped he'd come back. She'd even say sorry.

For now, though, she said, "Go back out there. I wanna swing."

"How about a break?" Slater asked. "I'm dying of thirst."

"You want a tampon too? I have one." She reached into her hip pocket and brought it out; Slater recoiled as though it were used and covered in blood instead of still in the wrapper. She carried it not because she was on the rag (that was last week) but for times like this, when her teammates were.

"Put that thing away," Slater said, "I'm going."

"Good." She shoved it back into her pocket, grabbed her bat, and waited for Slater to take the mound. Everyone else had drifted over to the dugout, where they teased each other and drank Coke from glass bottles, as if Ritchie leaving automatically meant the game was over. Pfft. It wasn't much of a game when he _was_ around. Swing, miss, swing, miss. Let him go. Maybe he'd stumble across a bunch of preschoolers playing T-ball and actually _hit_ the ball. Stupid dork.

Slater wound up and pitched: Lynn swung the bat, and it connected to the ball with a sound like thunder. Slater ran backwards, his mitt up. Hopefully it cleared the fence and clonked Ritchie on his dumb, red head.

She should go after him...to see what the problem was or to chew him out, she didn't know –she'd make up her mind once she got there.

You know what? No, she _shouldn't_. If he wanted to be a little girl and cry home to mommy, fine, have fun in daycare. Don't drink too much apple juice or you might pee in your diaper.

Slater picked the ball up from the ground, where it had landed, and started coming back.

The thing is: It wasn't as fun when he wasn't around. On days he couldn't play, Lynn always felt kind of disappointed, and the next time she saw him, she was really excited. She oughta go after him and whack him in the back of the knee for being such a woman and for leaving her.

She blinked.

 _Them_. Leaving _them_. As in down a man. Can't have a fair game when you're down a guy.

Suddenly, she didn't feel much like playing anymore. Slater reached the mound, and she waved him off. Resting her bat in the crook of her neck, she sighed and went over to the dugout. She reached into a cooler, pulled out a glass bottle of Coke, and dropped onto the bench next to Troy White, who was actually black. He took off his blue ball cap and swiped the back of his hand across his brow. "You ever see _The Wizard of Oz_?" he asked her as she popped the cap off her Coke and took a drink, the cool, sweet liquid wetting her tacky throat.

"No," she said, "sounds dumb."

"There's a witch and she gets wet or something, and she's all like _I'm melting!_ That's how I feel."

"Go home like Ritchie," she said, "just follow the trail of tears."

Troy chuckled. "He's been off all week."

Yeah, Lynn thought with a sigh. It was probably something serious and here she was being an ass. Some friend, huh? She started to feel bad.

Heh. Serious. Like his boyfriend broke up with him.

She took a drink and sat the bottle between her legs. Slater came into the dugout, grabbed his own Coke, and sat next to her. "You popped the stitch on that ball," he said.

Lynn shrugged. "They should stitch it better."

"You shouldn't hit so hard."

Lynn shot him a dirty look, and he sidled hurriedly away. Instead of punching him in the arm, she turned away and took another drink. "I hit hard when I'm mad," she said. She also hit hard when she was sad, anxious, and...other things.

Like upset.

She sighed.

On the field, a couple of boys passed by, and Lynn rolled her eyes. One wore a leather jacket and jeans, another wore a denim vest over his bare chest, and the third wore a black T-shirt with KISS across the back. Those were the types of guys who hung around all day smoking dope and listening to heavy metal like a bunch of no good bums. She didn't like people like that.

They needed baseball the way a sinner needed Jesus.

She oughta throw one at them.

Instead, she finished her Coke and got up. She was usually the first one to set foot on the field and the last one to leave in the evening, so when she said she was going home, everyone looked at each other.

"She alright?" Ben asked.

"I dunno," Kaufman said, "she's probably running a fever."

Nope. She wasn't.

She was just sad Ritchie wasn't around.

She liked him.

* * *

Alex Loud bopped her head to the music emanating from the headphones around her neck. She and Jessy were walking down Main Street on a hot, sticky summer afternoon, Jessy in jeans and a blue polo shirt and Alex in a denim jacket over a black T-shirt. She had two denim jackets: One for when it was cold, and with for when it was hot – she cut the sleeves off the latter with a razor blade. A big patch covered the back: AC/DC in red and surrounded by flames. It wasn't one of those cheap iron-on deals, either, it was _sewn_. Alex didn't know the first thing about sewing, but Jessy did – Grandma taught her how, and her friend, Mrs. Wodehouse, taught her even more.

 _I'm like evil, I get under your skin_

 _Just like a bomb that's ready to blow_

 _'Cause I'm illegal, I got everything_

 _That all you women might need to know_

Alex _loved_ this song. It was her current all-time favorite, knocking Ozzy's _Crazy Train_ into second place – well, more like eleventh or twelfth place, since _all_ the songs on this album were really good. In February, AC/DC's singer died and she was really bummed because she thought they were going to break up, but they got a new guy and came back even _harder_. Yay!

 _I got my gun at the ready gonna fire at will_

' _Cause I shoot to thrill and I'm ready to kill_

 _I can't get enough and I can't get my fill_

 _Shoot to thrill play to kill_

 _Pull the trigger, pull it_

Something hit her arm, and she jumped with a little eep. Jessy was glaring at her. "What'd I do _this_ time?" Alex asked.

"Please turn that down when we go in," Jessy said. "You're going to get us in trouble."

Alex rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm going to turn it down when we go into a store. Sheesh. What do you think I am, an animal?" Actually, until Jessy said something, it didn't even occur to her that all the old ladies at The White Elephant might not wanna hear Brian Johnson singing about shooting people. I guess it _is_ pretty violent.

"Good," Jessy said, "I do _not_ want to get kicked out of there."

The White Elephant was an antique store; it was where Jessy met her friend Mrs. Wodehouse, an ancient old woman who trembled like a small dog, drink from tea cups that sat on little plates (little plates!), and liked knick knacks and stuff. Don't get her wrong, Alex liked the old woman, she was really nice, but hers and Jessy's fondness for doilies and figurines and stuff like that was too much sometimes. Sitting in Mrs. Wodehouse's parlor (that's what she called it, never 'living room') and watching them chat and admire glass statues or whatever made Alex wanna hurl.

Presently, they reached the store and Alex hit the STOP button. The shop was at the end of the block with a cross street on one side and a tax office on the other: It had a green awning and a picture of a white elephant on the plate-glass window. It reminded Alex of one of those fancy-shmancy hotels you saw on TV, you know, the ones on the Upper West Side where doormen in dopey uniforms stood around like bums with their hands out. _Tip, sir? I pulled the door_ all _the way open. It was quite taxing._

"Please be careful," Jessy said as she went up the little stone steps and opened the door, her eyes pleading over her shoulder, "don't break anything."

Alex sighed. "You act like I'm the worst person in the world or something." She tried not to take it personal because she knew Jessy did nothing but worry if left to her own devices, but sometimes it really bothered her.

"I'm sorry, but even _I_ don't like going in here because I might mess something up."

It _was_ a small store with _very_ narrow aisles flanked by every breakable thing you can imagine. Alex took a deep breath. "I won't break anything, Jess; I _promise_."

Jessy flashed a wan smile. "Alright."

Inside, an old couple was standing at the counter and waiting for a hefty woman with a severe face and red hair piled atop her head to load a glass clock into a box: She moved so carefully you'd think it was a bomb. Okay, Alex could kind of get why people might be into glass figurines and stuff, but what she didn't understand was why old furniture was so weak. Have you even seen a chair or a table from the Victorian era? One wrong move and that thing's reduced to a little bitty pile of splinters. Did they even _use_ them, or was it all for decoration? Alex didn't see how someone could use a chair that breaks if you look at it wrong. _I say, Livingston, take a load off_. Next thing you know, Livingston's being rushed to the hospital in a horse-drawn carriage with splinters sticking out of his butt. _What should we do, doctor? Get the leeches, nurse._

Alex chuckled softly. Jessy went down an aisle, her head turning back and forth and her eyes as big as saucers. She scrunched her shoulders excitedly, and picked up a glass chicken or duck, Alex couldn't really see. "This is _adorable_ ," she said, then turned to Alex. "Do you think Mrs. Wodehouse would like this?"

Alex shrugged. "I dunno. Probably."

Mrs. Wodehouse's seventy-seventh birthday was in a week, and Jessy wanted to get her the _perfect_ gift. Alex suggested a Fabergé egg, but no, those are _too expensive, Bunny._

While Jessy hummed and moved down the aisle, Alex browsed, her hands in her pockets and her head nodding slightly to the music still echoing through the chambers of her head.

 _Shoot to thrill! Play to kill! Uhh...Jack and Jill went down the hill!_ No matter how many times she listened to that song she could never remember all the lyrics. She could remember the lyrics to _You Shook Me All Night Long,_ though. Actually, she couldn't. Oh well. She had _Back in Black_ on tape so she could take all the time in the world to learn them. You know what they say: Learning is _fun_ damental.

She stopped and picked up a statuette of a cat with big eyes and a creepy grin. Oh, wow, this thing looks like it's plotting to cut someone up into little pieces and bury them in the basement. What was that Edgar Allen Poe story, the one where the guy kills someone, walls them up, and...something about a cat got in there and started making noise, so the cops found the stiff and the guy got sent up the river? She couldn't remember. It was in a book she got from the library last year called _Classic Tales of Terror and the Supernatural_. That book was cool. The little card in the front said the last time someone checked it out was 1962, and she was _reaaaally_ thinking about keeping it because, hey, it's not exactly a hot seller, but she didn't because, you know, stealing's wrong. Sigh.

She set the cat down and picked up a snow globe with a big mansion inside of it. It looked like the hotel from _The Shining_ ; the movie, not the book. Mom and Dad took her to see it for her birthday and it was _awesome_. Jack Nicholson was all _Let me in!_ and that ugly woman was like _no!_ so Jack Nicholson broke down the door with an ax and she stabbed him. Hahahaha. That wasn't in the book. Well, kind of, but it was different. He didn't use an ax, he used a croquet mallet, and he didn't say _Here's Johnny!_ It was a good movie, though. She had to pick between that and _Friday the 13_ _th_ ; she wanted to see them both, but you can't have it all. She wound up seeing it a few weeks later. The part where the dude's lying in bed and _bam!_ an arrow comes up through his chest...it was gross and cool.

Is Jessy almost done? This place is starting to get _pretty_ lame. She went to sit the snow globe down, but she wasn't watching, and it fell. With cat-like reflexes, she shot her arm out and caught it.

Suddenly her heart was racing and she could hardly breathe. Whew. Close call. _This_ is why Jessy worries so much – you're a klutz and everyone knows it.

Maybe she should wait outside.

From somewhere in the store, Jessy squealed. Alright, I'll check on Jessy and make sure she's alright and not being messed up like that dude in _Deliverance_ then I'll head out. She went down the aisle and found her cousin gushing over a figure of a pig in a chef's hat. "It's beautiful!" she cried. Mrs. Wodehouse had a thing for pigs. Pigs were kind of cute, Alex guessed. They tasted good, too.

"Is that what you're getting?"

Jessy nodded. "Yep!"

Cool. Alex looked around, and her eyes fell on a severing dish sitting on a shelf. It was red and had a round, ziggurat shape. Circle on bottom, smaller circle on top, smallest circle on the _tippy_ top. It reminded her of –

She grinned. Oh, wow! She snatched it up and sat it on her head. "Check it out," she said. Jessy turned, and her smile died.

Alex stood as stiff and straight as she could. "Crack that whip!"

Jessy's jaw dropped.

"When a problem comes along, you must whip it!" she sang.

"Bunny!" Jessy hissed through clenched teeth.

"I forget the rest of the song, so I'll whip it. Whip it good. Throw up, poop your pants, it's not too late to whip it, whip it good." She turned jerkily from one side to the other, her arms like a rusty robot stripper dancing for oil vouchers instead of dollar bills.

" _Stop!"_ Jessy hissed, her face turning red and her neck veins standing out. _"You're going to get us kicked out!"_

Alex stopped. "Come on, you don't think –"

A shadow fell across her, and she turned, her neck craning slowly up. The woman with the red hair loomed like a might oak, her arms folded over her ample chest and her face set in a withering glower. Alex ripped the dish off her head and smiled nervously. "H-Hi. I, uh, I was just testing it out."

The woman snorted. "I'm going to have to ask you... _ladies_...to leave."

"But –" Alex started.

The woman's flashing eyes stopped her. She looked over her shoulder: Jessy looked like a girl with her hand in the cookie jar. She carefully sat the figurine down...then gave Alex the dirtiest look _ever_. "Nice going, _Bunny."_ She huffed and stalked down the aisle. Alex turned back to the woman.

"Please, listen, it was –"

"You can keep the dish," the woman said, "it goes well with the tattered remains of your coat."

From the haughty tone of her voice, Alex knew that there would be no reasoning with her. Clutching her new dish, she went after her cousin, her head bowed. Yeah, nice going, Bunny, you stupid idiot.

Outside, Jessy stormed up the sidewalk with big, angry steps, her ponytail swishing back and forth like the tail of a pissed off cat. Alex ran after her. "Wait! Jess! I'm sorry!"

Jessy stopped and stood stock still, her shoulders squared. As Alex approached, it actually occurred to her that she might turn around and punch her in the face.

And she'd deserve it.

Jessy turned slowly; her face was beet red and her eyes shimmered with tears. Alex's heart twisted, and she did the only thing she could think to do: Gave a sheepish smile and held out the dish. "Here. For Mrs. Wodehouse."

For a moment Jessy glared...then she slapped the dish from Alex's hands, turned, and stormed off again.

Alex followed like a chastised child, her head down and her shoulders slumped. Wow, she _really_ messed up this time; now Jessy was banned from her favorite store.

She felt like crying too.

* * *

 _Waka-waka-waka-waka._

Lincoln's brow furrowed.

 _Whew-whew-whew-whew-whew._

 _Waka-waka-waka-waka-waka._

He took a deep breath and stared down at the newspaper: A black and white photo of President Carter and Vice President Mondale standing side-by-side and waving was accompanied by the text: _Carter secures Democratic nomination over Kennedy_. Ah, so it was Jimmy Carter vs. Ronald Reagan, the former governor of California and, apparently, an actor. Lincoln didn't think he ever saw anything with him in it. Good profession to have before launching a career in politics, though, because in both you pretend to be somebody you're not.

 _Waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka._

I swear to fucking God, I'm going to throw that goddamn thing out the window. He rubbed his temple and scanned the other headlines. A Playboy Playmate was murdered, a baby was carried away from a campsite in Australia by a dingo, and –

"Where's my dishwasher?" Fred, the new cook, asked out the window.

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. "Bobby?"

Fred, an older man with lines radiating out from his blue eyes and leathery skin, nodded. "Yeah, I'm running out of shit back here."

Lincoln glanced down the hall, and there he was, standing at the Pac-Man cabinet by the ladies room and jerking the joystick this way and that as he navigated through the maze, the ghosts presumably on his tail. Lincoln's neck flushed. "Hey," he called, and Bobby glanced over. "Having fun?"

"I-I'm almost done," Bobby said.

"Yeah, I'll say," Lincoln grumbled.

It was early in the afternoon and the place wasn't very busy, but too busy for the dishwasher to be playing video games. Pac-Man got it, by the sound of the music, and Bobby pulled himself away; was it Lincoln, or did he look like an addict being taken away from his stash? He flashed back to Luna, but pushed that thought out of his mind. "Nice to have you back," Lincoln said.

"Sorry," Bobby said and went into the kitchen.

"Welcome back, asshole," Lincoln heard Fred say and snickered. Fred was a Korea vet; said he was a drill sergeant and Lincoln believed him. A drill sergeant is just what Bobby needed. He wasn't a bad kid, but he didn't show much initiative. He did his job (full-time now since he graduated) and that was that, the bare minimum. Lincoln was hoping Carol would whip him into shape, but she was busy going to school to be a journalist. _We'll get him straightened out, Linc,_ Fred told him once. If not them, then who?

Lincoln shook his head and slapped the paper down on the counter. He got up and went to check the men's room, passing Pac-Man as he did. Lincoln couldn't blame Bobby for playing this damn thing, it _was_ fun. Better than the Atari, even. He thought about fishing a quarter out of his pocket and playing a round, but nope, I'm the man in charge, if people see me playing video games like a teenager they'll think...I don't know _what_ they'll think, but it won't look good.

He went into the bathroom, and everything was in top shape for once. Good. Back in the dining room, he crossed to the counter and cashed an old man out. "A dollar for a hamburger is pretty steep," he said.

"Talk to Jimmy Carter," Lincoln said as he made change. America was in the middle of a recession, and being a business owner, Lincoln had tough choices to make – like whether to raise the price of his food or move his family into a cardboard box. Well, gee, Andy, that's a _real_ brain-scratcher, let me give it some thought.

It wasn't _that_ dire, but if he kept the same prices Flip had in 194fucking5, he'd be on his ass and begging the army to take him back by this time next year. _I still remember how to kill yellow people, guys, please!_

The old man presently grinned. "In November, he'll get my message."

Yep, because if Reagan wins he'll be _sooooo_ much better.

When the guy was gone, Lincoln went back into the kitchen. Fred was standing ramrod straight before the grill and Bobby was bent over the sink scrubbing a utensils. "We need anything, Sarge?" Lincoln asked.

"No, sir," Fred replied.

"Bobby? Got everything you need?"

"Yep."

Lincoln frowned. "Is that any way to address your commanding officer?"

"It is when you're a goddamn hippie who hates America," Fred said.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "No, sir, sorry, sir."

"That's more like it," Lincoln said, "keep it up and you'll make Private one day."

Bobby's brow furrowed. "I thought I _was_ a Private."

"Nope," Lincoln said, "you're a recruit."

"Not even a human being," Fred said.

"A grab-tastic piece of amphibian shit," Lincoln nodded. "The lowest form of life on earth."

"The North Koreans will eat you alive," Fred said.

"And the North Vietnamese will finish your cold, quivering leftovers."

Fred and Lincoln both laughed as Bobby looked from one to the other as though they were crazy. Hell, maybe they were.

Back in the dining room, Lincoln sat just as Jessy came through the door, her face fire truck red and her brows angled down. Uh-oh. She looked _mad._ She flung herself into a booth and crossed her arms. A moment later, Alex slunk in and sat across from her: Jessy made a point of looking away, her nose up and her chin out.

They were fighting. It didn't happen too often, but it did happen. Better go see what it is this time. Lincoln pushed himself up and went over. "Hey, girls," he said with a genuine smile.

"Hey, Dad," Alex said leadenly.

"Hi, Uncle Lincoln," Jessy greeted tightly.

"You guys hungry?"

"Yes," Jessy said.

Lincoln nodded. "Alright. Burgers? Fries?"

"Yes, please."

"Cokes?"

"Yes, please."

Lincoln went over to the counter, grabbed his pad, and jotted the order down. After tearing it off and sticking it in the window, he took two glasses and filled them with Coke. On his way back to the table, he heard Alex speaking. "...really sorry. Please."

Jessy didn't budge: She stared off toward the Pac-Man cabinet, her arms crossing even tighter. Lincoln sat one glass in front of her and the other in front of Alex. "You girls okay?"

"No," Jessy said, "Bunny got me banned from White Elephant."

Lincoln blinked. Oh, that was _not_ good. White Elephant was Jessy's absolute favorite store: She could spend all day in that place, working her way methodically from one end to the other and back again. White Elephant was to her what a candy shop/toy store/amusement park was to other kids. He looked at Alex, and she bowed her head in shame. "What happened?"

"Well," Jessy said, "she decided to pick up a dish, put it on her head, and do her best Devo impression."

What the hell's a devo? "Really, Alex?"

Jessy nodded. "Umhm. She was singing and dancing and _everything_. Like a clown."

Part of Lincoln wanted to snicker, and another part wanted to send her to her room without dinner.

"I'm _sorry,_ " Alex said, a pleading edge in her voice, "I didn't mean to get you kicked out."

"That doesn't matter, you did anyway."

"I'll make it up to you. I swear."

Jessy _humphed_.

Lincoln put one hand on her shoulder and the other on Alex's; Jessy because she was obviously upset and heartbroken, and Alex because she had one pissed off little girl on her plate and needed all the help she could get. He wanted to dispense some fatherly wisdom, but what could he say? "Alex, honey, you get silly sometimes, and while it's just _adorable –_ " he playfully pinched her cheek – "you need to realize there's a time and a place for it, and in the middle of an antique store is not it."

Alex nodded heavily. "I know."

"Jessy, honey." He touched the little girl's cheek. "You have every right to be mad, but Alex didn't mean anything by it."

Jessy sighed and looked down. "I _know_ , but she got me kicked out and I _really_ like that store." She put her hand to her forehead. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

Lincoln's heart broke.

He had a .45...maybe he could go 'talk' to the owner?

He could see it now: He walks in, the gun gripped in his hand, the owner behind the counter. He goes over, lifts the gun...then falls to his knees. _Please let my niece come back; I'll give you this fancy .45 if you do._

"Maybe you can go back and apologize," he offered.

Alex shook her head. "She was _really_ mad."

Lincoln winced. "I don't know, then." He flicked Jessy's ponytail. "But I _do_ know that there are _way_ better antique shops out there, and if you ask your aunt _reaaaally_ nicely, she might take you to them."

"I don't _want_ other shops," Jessy moaned, "I want White Elephant." She pressed her forehead to the table and sighed deeply. Alex watched her with remorseful eyes and a little frown. Lincoln stroked her hair and bopped her cowlick. "She'll be okay," he mouthed.

Alex sighed and put her face in her hands.

* * *

Rita Loud sat next to her daughter's armchair and dipped the spoon into the mashed potatoes; she brought it to her lips and blew, a little curl of steam dancing away like a phantom on its way to a discotheque. Leni stared at the TV, where Walter Cronkite was reporting on the ongoing hostage crisis in Iran. Wasn't it awful? Those people had been held in the embassy for almost a year, and no matter what poor President Carter did, the Iranians wouldn't let them go: There was a rescue attempt earlier in the year, but two American helicopters crashed and eight servicemen were killed. For some reason that reminded Rita of Lincoln being missing in Vietnam.

"Honey," Rita said, and the girl turned. She held out the spoon, and Leni leaned forward, the good half of her mouth opening. So far, 1980 had not been kind to her: She did not recognize Rita or Lynn, and she rarely spoke. She didn't seem to be suffering, though; in fact, she was always smiling at nothing, so lost in the folds of her own decaying mind that nothing perturbed her...even the accidents. At first, she wept with embarrassment, but now when they happened – and they were happening more frequently – she didn't even seem to notice.

Presently, she swallowed, and a little bit of mush dribbled from her mouth and down her chin. Rita scraped it off with the spoon, and dipped it into the potatoes again. She couldn't eat solid foods anymore lest she choke, which led to weight loss: She was a ghost of her former self, and Rita cried every night as she waited for sleep to find her. These were her daughter's last days, and each moment with her could be her last; when she woke in the morning, she always steeled herself for the possibility that Leni had passed in the night. That would be best, maybe...for her to go peacefully and unware, but Rita prayed to God every night for just one more day. _I'm not ready to let my baby go, Father._

Leni opened her mouth, and Rita slipped the spoon in, tilting it forward and pulling it back. Leni chewed and made happy noises. "Baby," she said.

Rita's eyes went to the Raggedy Ann doll nestled between Leni's arm and her body. Its frozen smile stared mocking back at her. _I'm hungry too, grandma_. Rita pressed the spoon to the doll's mouth. "There you go, baby," she said in the gentlest, most even voice she could.

Leni opened her mouth again, and Rita spooned more mashed potatoes in. On the couch, Lynn finished his dinner, got up, and carried his plate into the kitchen. With the monthly check from Luna's estate and their savings – plus social security – he was able to retire at the beginning of the summer. It wasn't the easiest adjustment, he'd been working nine to five for over forty years, but he was getting used to it – he didn't automatically wake up at 5:30 anymore. He waited until 6. It was a good time to do it, mainly because of Leni, but also the auto industry. Factories were closing down left and right and people were losing their jobs. Lynn said it was the Japanese, and Rita couldn't help but agree: She saw more and more of their little compact cars on the road these days: Toyotas, Hondas, Mitsubishis.

"Is that good?" Rita asked.

Leni nodded and gurgled a response, spitting a wad of potatoes onto the blanket covering her to the chest. Rita took a cloth from her lap and wiped it up.

When the potatoes were gone, she cleaned Leni's mouth and went into the kitchen, where she washed the bowl and spoon. She dried her hands, crossed to the pantry, and took out a bag. She removed a single cookie and went back into the living room, where she sat and broke the treat into as many small pieces as she could without reducing it to dust. Leni watched her curiously, but with none of the excited anticipation that she would have displayed just a year ago. Rita plucked a piece up and held it out with a soft smile. "Here, honey. It's a cookie."

Leni's eyes clouded with confusion.

Rita pressed it past her daughter's lips and into her mouth. She chewed...then smiled. "Cookie," Leni said, "I like cookie."

"I know you do," Rita said and cupped her daughter's cheek in her hand, "that's why I got it for you." She did not notice that tears were streaking down her cheeks. She was so accustomed to them that she never did anymore.

Leni finished and opened her mouth again. Rita pushed another piece in and stroked the girl's hair. "Would you like some milk too?"

She nodded.

"Lynn? Could you make Leni some chocolate milk?"

"Sure," Lynn said and got up.

"There's _chocolate_ milk now?" Leni asked.

Rita smiled wanly. Chocolate milk was once Leni's favorite drink. "Yes, dear," she said, and touched the tip of her nose, "it comes from chocolate cows."

Momentarily, Lynn returned holding a glass of chocolate milk with a bendy straw poking out. He handed it to Rita and smiled down at Leni. "All this chocolate and you're going to have a sugar rush."

Leni nodded as Rita inserted the straw into her mouth. Lynn laid his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Rita looked up at him, and saw the same pain in his eyes that she knew he must see in hers. It was hard to look at, so she looked at Leni...but she was hard to look at too, because when she looked at her, she saw impending doom, and she was utterly powerless to stop it.

"That's good," Leni said, "it tastes like happy."


	104. August 1980: Part 2

DreadedCandiru2: Your character analysis of Bobby Jr. and Alex are is funny and brutal...plus very true in a way.

Guest: I imagine them having moderate social liberal views and being accepting of others. I imagine that if they were serious about politics (which they aren't - they're largely apolitical) they would vote Democrat up to a point then probably go Republican like a lot of working class democrats did in the eighties and nineties.

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Take Your Time (Do It Right)**_ **by The S.O.S. Band (1980);** _ **Cars**_ **by Gary Numan (1980); _Pop Muzik_ by** M. **(1979)**

"I'm really sorry," Alex said the next day. It was the middle of the afternoon; Jessy was sitting on her bed with a book on George Washington, and Alex was standing by her own bed. Jessy hadn't spoken to Alex since the previous afternoon at Flip's, and it was driving Alex up the wall. She didn't like it when Jessy gave her the silent treatment; she had a reputation for being tough (not that she cultivated it), but right now she didn't _feel_ tough...she felt bad and sad and like she was going to cry. "I know I screwed up bad, but please don't be mad at me anymore."

Jessy sighed. "I told you not to do anything like that," she said without looking up from her book, "and you didn't listen. Because you didn't _care_."

That stuck Alex like a knife. _Because you didn't care_... _because you don't care about me_. She _did_ care about Jessy, though. Jessy was practically her sister, for crying out loud, and she loved her.

"Jess," Alex said, "I..." she trailed off. How could she defend what she did? _I was just having fun?_ It's not like she killed someone, she was just being stupid and cutting up. She honestly didn't think it would get them kicked out. If she did, she wouldn't have done it.

"That was my favorite store, Alex," Jessy said, "you might think it's lame, but I enjoyed going in there. Now I can't."

Alex slumped her shoulders. "I know, okay? I'm sorry, Jessy, really."

Jessy shook her head. "I'll get it over it, but right now I'm still really mad. I would like some space."

Alex started to say something, but gave up and left the room, tears starting to form in her eyes. In the living room, she dropped onto the couch and drew her knees up. Mom was vacuuming, and when she noticed Alex, her brow pinched. She turned the vacuum cleaner off and came over. "What's wrong?"

"Jessy's still mad at me," Alex said...just a _little_ sullenly.

Mom laid her hand on Alex's knee and nodded. "Yeah, I would be too."

Alex's head whipped around. "Are you _trying_ to make me feel worse?"

"No," Mom said, "but you have to understand why she's angry."

Alex sighed. "I _know_ why she's angry...I screwed up and got her kicked out of her favorite store. I get it. How do I make it up to her?"

For a minute Mom thought. "I don't know. You can always go back and apologize."

That wouldn't work, though! That lady was _really_ mad...and she was kind of a bitch, too. Then again...maybe if she begged...it was worth a shot, right?

She sighed. Alex was a lot of things...and proud was one of them. She did _not_ want to give that bitch the satisfaction of seeing her beg and plead. If it were Alex, and _her_ favorite store on the line...let's just say she'd have to find a new favorite store. It wasn't, though, it was Jessy's, and Alex would do _anything_ for her cousin. Even grovel in front of a smug bitch.

Oh, she didn't want to...but she would.

"I guess," she allowed.

"Give it a shot," Mom said. "Explain the situation...tell them _you're_ the screw up and not Jessy." She ruffled Alex's hair playfully.

Yeah, might as well; just as long as they let Jessy back in. "Can I go?"

Mom nodded. "Yeah, go ahead."

Alex got up, went into her room, and pulled on her Adidas, then grabbed her jacket from the bed. The whole time she was in there, Jessy didn't look at her, and the tension in the air did not lessen. Outside, the hot August sun beat relentlessly down, and sweat instantly sprang to Alex's forehead. Ugh, it's like that movie _The Day the Sun Exploded_...only worse, because at least the sun blowing up is enough to kill you and put you out of your misery. She started down the sidewalk, but decided to take her bike instead. She went into the garage through the side door and grabbed it from its station next to Jessy's: One was pink with stickers and tassels, the other was flat black; guess which belonged to whom.

Outside again, she closed the door, hopped onto her bike, and pedaled toward Main, the heated air washing over her and drying her perspiration; until she got out of her neighborhood, she had to ride down the middle of the street because the sidewalks were packed with kids playing. A few houses down from hers, a bunch of boys were playing football in someone's front yard: They were all meathead jock types who thought they were cool and better than everyone else. She didn't like people like that.

Man, she hoped this lady was willing to forgive her enough to unban Jessy; the thought of groveling like some kind of loser gave her hives, but the thought of doing it for nothing...here comes the diarrhea again.

 _You're lucky I love you, Jess._

When she reached the store, she jumped off her bike and leaned it against the wall. "Stay here," she told it, and looked suspiciously around. Royal Woods was a quiet town, but bike thieves could be _anywhere_ , even a tranquil, idyllic village such as this. Come to think of it, all the horror novels she read were set in places like Royal Woods, like _Comes the Blind Fury_. She read that one at the beginning of the summer. It had a ghost...a ghost that killed. Next to that, a bike thief isn't such a big deal.

"If anyone tries to steal you, call out, okay?"

The bike didn't reply.

"Okay?"

Still nothing.

She was stalling.

She _really_ didn't want to do this; her face was burning and her heart was pounding just thinking about it.

"For Jessy."

"Who?" the bike asked.

"You know –"

 _Wait a minute...BIKES DON'T TALK!_

She turned, and that Tim asshole from school was standing behind her in a blue plaid shirt tucked into jeans, the cuffs rolled up. Alex balled her fist; guy scared the shit out of her. "What do you want?"

"I was just going to say hi, jeez."

"Yeah? Hi. Now I have something I need to do. Run along." She made a shooing gesture with her hands.

He laughed at her. She furrowed her brow dangerously, and he got the message. "Okay, take it easy, uh, see you in school." He turned and hurried down the sidewalk, glancing over his shoulder like he was afraid she'd come after him with a knife. She watched him go, and when he disappeared and she was sure he wouldn't bother her again, she drew a deep breath and looked at her bike.

"For Jessy."

She went into the store.

* * *

Lynn Loud put on jeans and a white three-quarter T with red sleeves, slipped into her red high tops, then pulled her ponytail through the slot of her red baseball cap and settled it on top of her head. She popped some Big League Chew into her mouth and absently ground it between her teeth as she left her room and went down the hall. _I forgot to put on my bra...again._ She came to a halting stop. Should she go back and get it? If she did, that meant taking her hat _and_ shirt off again. Nah. I'm fine.

Being three months away from turning twelve, Lynn was beginning to develop...which meant she had an extra garment to worry about now. There wasn't much going on between her stomach and her neck, but it was more than she was used to, and every day she forgot to put that stupid bra on.

Tomorrow...I'll remember tomorrow.

Sure, Loud, keep telling yourself that.

In the living room, Mama was sitting on the couch and talking to one of her friends. Peggy. Ugh. Lynn didn't like Peggy. She had big teeth and looked like a horse and just about every time she saw Lynn, she'd make a comment about her being a 'pretty girl' and how she'd look 'beautiful' in a dress. You know, despite what some people might think, Lynn wasn't ashamed to be a girl or anything, and she didn't want to be a boy (that would be weird), but being pretty and frilly was _not_ her thing. Her mother was like that, and while she loved Mama to death, she could not for the life of her imagine being that way. Shiver. When someone told her she should be, especially if they had known her longer than five minutes (and thus should _know_ what she was about), it irritated her. Peggy had been Mama's friend forever, and had been around forever, so she should take a damn hint and shut her Mister Ed looking mouth.

"I'm going to the park," Lynn said. It wasn't a question: She went to the park every single afternoon. Asking permission to go would be like asking permission to breathe.

"Alright," Mama said. "Be careful."

"I will."

She hurried out before Peggy could say something stupid, grabbing her bat from by the front door on the way. Outside, the heat fell over her like sandpaper mixed with acid and broken glass. She squinted her eyes against the glare and went around to the garage, which she opened; her bike was resting against the washing machine. She grabbed it, walked it out, and closed the door. Oh, man, it's hot. Okay, she didn't want to be a boy, but she sure wouldn't mind being able to take her shirt off like a boy. That would be nice. She supposed she _could_ wear a bikini top or something, but, to be honest, that thought, you know, playing baseball like that with the guys, made her blush. Nope, she'd suck it up and power through, just like her father always said.

At least he can take his shirt off, though. I don't see how that's fair, his breasts are bigger than mine!

She swung onto the bike and rode toward the park. She hoped Ritchie was there and not being a little girl anymore, she really wanted to hang with him. If he _was_ still PMSing, well...she supposed she could put up with it...you know...just as long as he was around.

When she reached the park fifteen minutes later, she parked her bike behind the dugout and went through a gate in the fence. Slater, Ben, Kaufman, and Troy stood in a huddle and talked excitedly, a cigarette dangling from Slater's thin lips. Lynn rolled her eyes. Didn't that jackass know that smoking is bad for you? She considered whacking some sense into him with her bat, but decided against it; being cracked in the skull is worse than smoking, so doing it would be...what's that word? Counter-into-it?

"Hey, dillholes," she said as she walked over. Slater looked up and paled. He hurriedly hid something behind his back while everyone else whipped around with guilty expressions.

"Uh, hey, Lynn," Ben said.

"H-How's it going?" Kaufman asked.

"Lovely weather we're having," Troy commented.

Lynn's brows furrowed. "What's wrong with you guys?"

Everyone shook their heads. "Nothing," Slater said, "just hanging out."

Lynn seriously doubted that; they looked like little boys who had been caught doing something wrong by their mom. Did Lynn look like their mom? No, she didn't. In fact, she was younger than all of them, and it got on her nerves when they acted weird.

Her eyes narrowed. "You're full of shit. What's behind your back?"

"Nothing," Slater said quickly, "honest."

"Bull," Lynn said. She started forward, and her friends scattered. Slater started to run, but she grabbed the back of his shirt. He was stronger than her, but physics or something was on her side, and he stumbled back, his arms going up, a magazine clutched in one hand. She snatched it away with a crisp rip of paper and let him go. "You should know better, Slate," she said and looked at the magazine, "I'm L –"

She blinked.

A man was on top of a woman. Both were naked, and his thing was...

"Ew, gross!" Lynn cried, her heart starting to race. It was like a train wreck, she couldn't look away: His thing was pressed against _her_ thing, and it was all pink and fleshy and slick and...ugh.

Her eyes went from the woman's privates to the man's; she'd never seen one of those things before, and she found herself staring at it. She kind of knew the parts. Like that wrinkled, hairy mass must be his balls, and...

She looked up. Her friends were standing in a straight line, their heads bowed in shame. "You guys are real perverts, you know that?"

No one spoke.

She looked back down at the picture, her eyes going instantly back to the guy's schlong. She felt...funny, like...she didn't know but she didn't like it. She tossed the magazine into the dirt and glowered at her friends. "Bunch of sickos. You still play baseball or do you only do perverted stuff now?"

"W-We still play," Ben said.

"Well let's play. I didn't come all this way to look at naked people. Where's Ritchie?"

Troy shrugged. "He didn't show."

Lynn's heart sank. Really?

"I think he had a gynecologist appointment," Kaufman said with a mocking grin.

Lynn sighed. Part of her said screw it, play without him – how often had they been down one or two guys over the years? You can't always have everyone on the field at once. Another part really wanted him here. Why, she didn't know. She just liked being around him.

She made up her mind. "I'm gonna go check on him," she said, "make sure he's not dying or something."

"He's fine," Slater said.

"He didn't look fine yesterday," Lynn said, "in all seriousness, something might be wrong."

They all looked at each other, and Lynn got the impression that they hadn't considered that possibility. In all fairness, she only considered it briefly before mentally cussing him out for storming off.

"I'll be back," she said.

Behind the dugout, she climbed onto her bike and pushed off, swinging wide around the field. She glanced over and saw the guys standing in a huddle, probably looking at that dumb magazine again. Heh. Weirdos. They were probably looking at the guy and not the girl. She flashed back to the picture and cringed a little. Those things are strange looking; wonder how they felt when you touched them.

Well...the guys talked about their things being 'hard' so...like a baseball bat? Maybe...only fleshier.

Shiver.

Did they _all_ look like that, or could they, like, be different? Did all girls look the same? She showered with other girls after gym class, but she'd never made it a point to look at their bodies. In fact, she made it a point _not_ to look at their bodies, because that's gay. She assumed what she had was standard issue, so that meant all girls must have the same equipment, just like all boys probably had the same equipment.

Alright, Loud, stop thinking about pervert stuff, think about what you're going to say to Ritchie.

 _Hey, you alright? You seemed kind of...upset._

Simple enough.

But why was she suddenly feeling nervous? Why was she afraid that he'd still be mad at her? She didn't want him to be mad at her...why? She usually didn't care _what_ someone felt about her? Don't like me? Okay, great.

She didn't know, but deep, deep inside, she had an idea, and she did not want to entertain it because...just because, that's why.

* * *

After work, Bobby changed out of his jeans and T-shirt into a pair of black slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt, then drove to Carol's house. She said she wanted to talk to him, and that was kind of perfect, because he wanted to talk to her too. He hadn't been ring shopping or anything yet, but, yeah, he was going to ask her to marry him. She was busy with school, so it probably wouldn't happen right away, but it was time to get the ball rolling, you know?

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and nodded his head to the music on the radio:

 _You know you ought to slow down_

 _You been working too hard and that's a fact_

 _Sit back and relax a while_

 _Take some time to laugh and smile_

Ain't _that_ the truth! Every day from sun up to sundown he was in that hot fucking kitchen cleaning up after slovenly customers – gum stuck to plates, soggy napkins in glasses and shit. Ugh. Why are people such slobs? To top it all off, Fred was constantly picking at him, calling him names and doing that bullshit drill sergeant routine. Maybe Uncle Lincoln liked that, but Roberto Santiago Jr. did _not_.

 _Now, baby we can do it_

 _Take the time, do it right_

 _We can do it, baby_

 _Do it tonight_

Don't tell anyone, but he was _really_ nervous about asking Carol to marry him. That's a big thing, you know? It's like setting your relationship in stone. There's no coming back from it. A divorce, maybe, but that's like failing, and failing is embarrassing.

Maybe he shouldn't do it.

He loved Carol – at least he thought he did – but what if somewhere down the road he stopped, or she stopped loving him? And what if they had kids by that point? He didn't want to be in a miserable, loveless marriage for the sake of his children, you know? Him and his wife constantly at each other's throats, both of them wishing they never said 'I do.'

That was scary.

Real fucking scary.

 _And baby we can do it  
_

 _Take the time, do it right  
_

 _We can do it, baby  
_

 _Do it tonight_

And when you get right down to it, what is marriage anyway? It's legal, that's it, like a contract. If two people love each other, what's getting married?

Call him crazy, but he kind of _wanted_ to be married to Carol, even if maybe it didn't mean that much.

Five minutes later, he reached Carol's house and parked at the curb. He started to get out, but the door opened and she came out in a pair of bell bottoms and a blue tank top. She crossed the yard, opened the passenger door, and slid in. "Hey," Bobby grinned.

"Hey," she said, and they kissed.

Bobby put the car in drive, but she stopped him. "Hey, I was hoping we could talk for a minute."

The serious quality of her voice gave Bobby pause. He put it back in park and half turned in his seat. Her eyes were filled with something approaching anxiety, and Bobby's heart clutched.

She looked like she was about to break up with him.

"Everything alright?" he asked and lowered the radio, cutting the current song to a whisper.

 _Here in my car_

 _I feel safest of all_

 _I can lock all my doors_

 _It's the only way to live_

 _In cars_

She nodded slowly. "No, everything's fine, I just...need to tell you something."

Bobby blinked, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. She was breaking up with him, she was pregnant, she had a rare form of cancer and would be dead by next week, she and her parents were moving.

"What?" he asked.

She drew a deep breath. "Well...I've been thinking about it for a long time, and I've decided that I'm going to transfer schools. To a four year university."

Bobby recoiled. "Where?"

"New York City," she said, "Columbia."

"New York City?"

She nodded heavily. "Yes. I wasn't going to, but RWCC just doesn't have as good a journalism program."

"What does that mean for _us?"_

"It means we'll be apart," she said, "but that's it. We can handle it, right?"

Bobby raked his hand through his hair. Handle it? _Handle it?_ "I-I'll never get to see you," he said, and inwardly winced at the needy edge in his voice.

"Sure you will," she said and smiled, "I'll be home on holidays and in the summer." Her smile faltered a little. "It won't be the _easiest_ thing in the world, but we can do it. I wanted something closer, but Columbia was the best choice and..." she shrugged.

The thought of being apart from Carol like that gutted Bobby. He didn't want to be away from her – he wanted to be _close_ to her! She watched him with concerned eyes, and any anger he may have felt melted away. He wasn't jiving when he said he loved her, and loving someone means supporting them even if it tears you up inside. Right?

"I'm going to miss you," he said genuinely.

"I know," she replied and took his hand, "and I'm going to miss you too, but it's not forever. And maybe you can come out and see me sometimes. Studio 54 closed down, but New York has a lot of other great discos."

Bobby didn't want discos, he wanted Carol Pingrey.

"I guess," he said, and squeezed her hand. "I'm happy for you. Are you excited?"

She smiled and nodded. "Yes, very."

"Good," Bobby said.

After they parted, he drove home in silence, his eyes blurring with tears. It won't be forever, she said, but it might as well be.

* * *

Alex Loud stood in the doorway for a moment, her stomach roiling with nerves and her heart palpating sickly in her chest. Ahead, a woman in a pink dress with a white collar was browsing and an old man stood at a display of knick knacks, his arms crossed. Great, so there would be witnesses to her groveling. Nice. Before sundown the entire town would know that she swallowed her pride, and they'd probably never let her live it down. She'd have to wrap all of her belongings in a red hanky, hang it off a stick, and spend the rest of her life riding the rails and eating beans from a can.

Or maybe she was being dramatic again. Mom and Dad _did_ say she had an active imagination.

Sighing, she went around the counter on light, tentative feet. The redheaded woman was standing behind the register and studying a vase in her hands, humming and slowly turning it over and over as if looking for cracks...or maybe she was a vampire who sucked glass instead of blood and she was looking for a place to sink her fangs.

Okay, maybe she really did have an overactive imagination, but to be fair, she'd much rather deal with a glass drinking vampire than this broad.

The woman looked up, and her eyes narrowed. Alex's heart dropped. "Uh, hi," she said, "you might not remember me, but –"

"I remember you quite well," the woman said. "I also remember asking you to leave."

 _Yeah, well, I'm back._

Out loud, she said: "I know. Look, I'm really sorry. What I did was stupid and, like, disrespectful –"

"Yes, it was."

" – and I deserve to be banned...that's an awful punishment, by the way, it just eats me up inside...but my cousin Jessy _loves_ this store and she didn't do anything wrong. She told me not to but I didn't listen." Alex sighed. She was blushing and she felt like the world's biggest dork. "Please let her come back. Please? She means a lot to me and this store means a lot to her; she's _really_ upset that she can't come back and I don't like it when she's upset." Alex felt something strange and wet in her eyes. "She's not a screw-up like me. She won't put a dish on her head and dance around, I _swear_."

The woman regarded Alex with something approaching...pity? Was that pity? What's next, a loogie to the face? She sighed, and her stony features softened...just a little. "Alright. I'll make you a deal. If you pay for the dish, I'll let your cousin back."

Joy filled Alex. "Okay!" She reached into her pocket. "How much?"

"Three dollars."

Oh. That was kind of a lot. She dug out her cash and counted it. She had seven crumpled one dollars bills. Seven take away three is four, and payday wasn't for almost a week. That meant she wouldn't be able to go to the arcade very much.

No, you know what? She didn't deserve the arcade. In fact –

"I'll be _right_ back," Alex said. She turned, hurried down the aisle, and looked along the back wall. Where was that stupid pig? Hopefully it was still here.

Yes! There! She picked it up and carried it back to the counter. "I'd like this too, please."

The woman looked at it, then back to Alex, and for a minute Alex didn't think she'd sell it to her...then she picked it up and put it into a little box, then put the box into a bag. "Three for the pig and three for the dish."

Alex handed her the full seven dollars and took her purchase. "Keep the change."

On her way out the door, the woman stopped her. "Little girl?"

Alex turned.

"Apologizing like that was very responsible and grown-up. You're welcome to come back too." She pointed at her. "But you are to remain on your best behavior."

Alex nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

She didn't plan to even come _near_ this store again. She already ruined it for Jessy once, she was _not_ going to do it again.

Her bike was where she left it; she hopped on and rode home with a shit-eating grin plastered to her face. When she got there, she jumped off and went inside. Mom was sitting on the couch and playing _Space Invaders_ , her body leaning forward and a wild look in her eyes. Alex shut the door, and she looked up. "I tripped over it and I had to make sure it still works," she said quickly, then stood. "It-It works." She smiled nervously.

Uh, okay.

"How did it go?"

Alex beamed. "It went _awesome_."

Mom smiled. "Good."

In the room, Jessy was writing something in a notebook, her headphones covering her ears. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and she looked thoughtful. Alex went over and stood next to her, a big, goofy smile on her face. Jessy was so absorbed in what she was doing that she didn't even notice her. Alex cleared her throat, but Jessy didn't hear. She leaned forward and tapped her shoulder: She jerked and whipped her head up, her wide eyes narrowing to angry slits. She removed the headphones and put them around her neck. "What do you want, Bunny?"

 _Let's do the milkshake_

 _Selling like a hot cake_

 _Try some, buy some_

 _Fe, fi, foe, fum_

 _Talk about  
_

 _Pop muzik_

Alex grinned, and something like fear rippled across Jessy's face. "Why do you look crazy?" she asked and leaned away.

Alex reached into the bag and pulled out the box. "I got you something." She held it out; Jessy's eyes flicked between Alex's eyes and the box.

"Is it a bomb?"

"No," Alex said, "it's _even better."_

Jessy took it and opened it. When she saw the figurine, her eyes lit up. "Chef Pigero!"

Uh...that's the name you're going with? Whatever. "Yep," Alex said.

Jessy looked up at her with a puzzled expression. "How did you get this?"

Alex sighed and sat on the edge of the bed next to her cousin. "Well...I went back and I apologized to that lady. I told her how it was me and not you, and I begged her to let you come back. You are officially unbanned."

"Really?" Jessy asked hopefully. "I can go back to White Elephant?"

Alex nodded.

Jessy's brow furrowed. "And you begged?"

"Well...I didn't have to get down on my knees or anything, but kind of."

Jessy smiled and threw her arms around Alex's neck; Alex cried out as she started to lose her balance, but she caught herself before she fell off the edge. "Thank you, Bunny," Jessy said happily.

"You're welcome," Alex said, and hugged her cousin. "I'm really sorry for getting you kicked out. I promise I won't mess up again."

"That's okay," Jessy said, "you're a mess up, but in a good way."

Alex laughed.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Jess. Wanna go play _Space Invaders?"_

"Sure!"

They had to wait their turn, though; Mom was 'testing' it again.

* * *

Lynn Loud took a deep breath, balled her fist, and started to knock, but pulled back at the last second. Damn it, Loud, you're acting dumb! It's just Ritchie. You've known him for years.

Yeah, she had, but maybe something was different now, maybe it had been for a while and she just didn't want to admit it. Maybe she liked the sound of his voice and the way his muscles flexed when he swung the bat and the way he teased her sometimes. Maybe...

Maybe you don't have all day to screw around. Knock on the door already. Lynn nodded. Yeah. The more time she spent messing around out here, the less time she spent playing baseball...sweet, beautiful baseball. She balled her fist and knocked. There. Never let it be said that Lynn Loud was one to pussyfoot around.

She waited for a minute, then gulped at the sound of approaching footsteps. Hey, I think I hear my mom calling me, I better go.

The door opened, and Ritchie's mother appeared, a short woman with black hair and blue eyes. She smiled. "Oh, hi, Lynn."

"Hi, Mrs. Haveman," Lynn said, "is, uh, Ritchie here? Me and the guys are kind of worried about him. They sent me to check on him." She didn't know why she added that last part, because it wasn't the truth.

"He's here," Mrs. Haveman said, "let me get him."

She closed the door, and Lynn let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Great. So he _was_ here and not dead or something. That's all she really needed to know, maybe she should just...

The door opened and Ritchie leaned out, his arms braced against the frame. He wore a white shirt with brown around the arms and collar, the Adidas logo on one breast and the 1980 Summer Olympics logo on the other. His curly hair was in tangles and his clouded blue eyes were red and puffy, as though he was asleep...or crying. Lynn's eyes flicked from his face to his chest, the way the fabric clung to his defined pecs making her heart race.

"What do you want?" he asked shortly.

Words escaped her. "Uh, I-I wanted to make sure you're okay. You didn't show up today."

"Because I'm not in the mood," he said pointedly.

Lynn swallowed. "W-Why?"

He started to speak, but sighed and bowed his head instead. When he spoke next, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

He sounded really sad, and that made Lynn's heart twist. He looked up at her, and she could see pain in his eyes.

She made a decision. "I wanna know what's wrong. I'm your friend, you can tell me. Please?"

For a moment he looked at her, seeming to mull it over, then glanced over his shoulder, as if thinking of making a run for it. He sighed, came out, and shut the door behind him, then sat on the top porch step. "You wanna listen, listen."

Lynn sat next to him, her hands clasped to her knees. A space of six inches separated her leg from his. Part of her wanted to scoot away and give him room, another wanted to scoot closer. He was her friend, after all, and it looked like he needed to be comforted. Lynn didn't know much about mushy stuff like that, but she could try.

Ritchie rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers against his nose. "It's nothing," he said, his soft blue eyes straight, "it's just...my grandma. She's really sick and...and she's probably not going to make it."

"Oh," Lynn said, because she didn't know what else to say. "I-I'm sorry." Her hand twitched – she really wanted to give him a reassuring pat or squeeze or something, but she kind of froze up.

Ritchie nodded. "Yeah, me too. I just..." he trailed off and shook his head.

"I get it," Lynn said, "you don't have to say anything else. We... _I_ was worried about you. That's all."

He glanced at her then away. "Yeah. I'm sorry I got all prissy yesterday."

"It's okay," Lynn said. She really wanted to put her arm around him, but she didn't. "I'm sorry we were picking on you."

Ritchie smiled wanly. "That's alright. I can usually take it, but right now I'm just...I don't know...all messed up, I guess."

"You know what helps _me_ when I'm messed up?" Lynn asked.

"What?"

"Playing baseball," she grinned.

Ritchie chuckled – a genuine sound of humor that made Lynn feel kind of good. "You're an obsessive or something, Loud."

"What can I say?" she asked. "I like playing baseball. With you." That last part just came out, and horror filled her. She blushed and added, "I mean, with all you guys, you know?"

Ritchie nodded. "Yeah, I get you. I guess it's better than moping around in your room."

That sounded like he was going to come play with her. She grinned and nodded eagerly. "Yeah, _much_ better."

He laughed. "I'll go get my stuff."

"Okay!"

He looked at her. "Yeah, you're an obsessive."

She smiled, not because of what he said, but because he was cute...and she wanted to kiss him. "A little bit," she admitted.

He got up. "You're lucky I like you, Loud," he said as he went inside.

She sighed dreamily.

 _I like you too._


	105. November 1981: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Let's Get It Up**_ **by AC/DC (1981);** _ **I'm a Rebel**_ **by Accept (1980)**

* * *

Rita Loud sat by her daughter's bedside, her eyes red and her cheeks coated with tears. Leni's hand was in hers – so frail, so clammy – and every time the girl spasmed, Rita squeezed comfortingly. Lynn stood next to her, his arms crossed and his face a bloodless shade of white. Faye Durham, the hospice nurse, a stout woman with curly gray hair, came over, laid her hand on Rita's shoulder, and said, "I'm going now, Mrs. Loud. Is there anything you need?"

Rita shook her head. "No," she whispered. In bed, Leni moaned and shifted, then started to cry. Rita squeezed her hand. "Can she have more soon?"

"In a few hours," Faye said. "Too much in her system at once will kill her."

Sighing, Rita nodded. She knew that – morphine was the only thing that dulled the pain and had been for nearly a year – but it wasn't enough anymore. She leaned forward and stroked Leni's hair. "Shhh. It's okay, baby."

"I have hurt," Leni wept, her voice a wet gurgle.

"I know," Rita said softly, "but you have to wait."

The pain had been excruciating since the end of the summer...so much so that Leni could barely stand to be conscious. That in of itself was bad enough, but in September, her liver started to go, and toxins began to flood her body. Her skin was a sickly yellow, she was retaining fluid, and phlegm was filling her lungs. The doctors were surprised she was still alive, and all they could do was put her on hospice...which exists solely to make the dying comfortable.

After Faye left, Rita rested her elbows on the railing and stared down at her daughter with tearful eyes. "Did you call Lynn?" she asked her husband.

"Yeah," he said at length, "they're leaving tomorrow."

"Did you –" Rita's voice hitched, "talk to the funeral home?"

"Yes," Lynn said.

Rita nodded and squeezed Leni's hand. Faye didn't expect Leni to last the night, and neither did she – the fluid buildup in her lungs was slowly drowning her. A turkey baster from the kitchen lie on the bed next to a drip pan crusted with mucus. It was the best they could do...it was _all_ they could do.

How strange – and terrible – to make funeral arrangements for someone who's still alive, to talk and act as though they're dead when they're right in front of you, struggling to hang on.

It left Rita feeling cold.

"Lincoln and Ronnie Anne?"

"Not yet," Lynn said. "I haven't called Lori either."

"Don't," Rita said and swallowed. "Not until after. I don't want them to see this. Especially not the girls."

Lynn nodded understandingly. It felt wrong for them not to be here, but in her heart Rita knew that it was right. She didn't want her children, or her grandchildren, to have to experience what she and Lynn were experiencing now, the pressing, claustrophobic dread as death crept slowly nearer. They all knew Leni was sick, they all knew that she could go at any moment; but they didn't have to be here...they didn't _have_ to carry this with them the way she and Lynn did.

Leni sniffled and tried to open her eyes, but gave up and winced. "They don't teach you this in flight school," she said deliriously, then winced again. "I hurt so bad."

Rita squeezed her hand. "I know, baby," she said through her tears. "Just try and get some rest."

"I can't," she muttered. "There's too many people in here."

"It's just us," Rita said, "me and your father."

"And that dog keeps barking. He's a mean doggy." She coughed and a little bit of phlegm flew from her mouth and landed on the blanket. Rita and Lynn both looked at each other; he reached out and squeezed her shoulder. She leaned against his hand and took a deep, shuddery breath.

It was barely nine 'o'clock, and already it had been the longest day of their lives. Rita only hoped it didn't last much longer...or that it never ended. She couldn't decide which.

* * *

Jessy Loud folded her hands on her desk and squared her shoulders in a prim and proper posture that said _I am ready to pay attention and learn_. She faced forward, but noticed that her notebook was not perfectly aligned with the edge of her desk. She frowned, but tried to ignore it; it wasn't _that_ big of a deal, really. Life is not perfect, after all, and if you build yourself up to expect perfection, you're only going to be disappointed. You have to loosen up, roll with the punches, and go with the flow.

She looked at her notebook again. Sigh. Okay, this is going to bother me all period if I leave it like that. She looked around like a girl about to do something wrong, saw only apathetic faces totally uninterested in what she was doing, and scooted the notebook so that it matched the edge of the desk. There. She smiled again, and her upper lip scraped along her braces, making her wince. She hated these stupid things; they were new and they made her look like she had a heaping plate of Intercontinental Railroad for lunch.

"Alright, class," Mrs. Hayman said, and Jessy looked up, "we have a new student. Please welcome Charles." A tall boy with wavy black hair and a narrow face stood next to her, big glasses perched on his nose. He wore a light gray blazer over a black button-up with yellow, green, red, and blue polka dots. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his dress pants, and he smiled goofily. "Chuck comes from a private school."

Chuck nodded as if to say _yup, guilty as charged._

No one seemed to care either way. It was early, cold, and rainy: Chuck could be an alien from Mars and no one would think twice. Jessy, however, was not like everyone else. She shot her hand into the air. "Yes, Jessy?" Mrs. Hayman asked.

"Hi, Chuck," Jessy said, "welcome to Royal Woods Elementary."

Chuck nodded. "Thank you."

"That was very nice, Jessy," Mrs. Hayman said, "if only _everyone_ was as welcoming as you."

A girl with curly blonde hair, her face resting in her hand, rolled her eyes, and someone else snickered. Jessy felt a momentary rush of embarrassment, but pushed it away. She was _not_ the one with a problem, they were, and if listening, paying attention, being polite, and making good grades made her a 'nerd,' 'geek,' 'teacher's pet' or a 'goody-goody,' then oh well.

Mrs. Hayman gestured to the row next to Jessy's; the third seat back was empty. "Sit down, and we'll begin."

Chuck nodded, crossed to his desk, and sat. Mrs. Hayman went to the board. "Alright, everyone, first I'd like to start off with an oral pop quiz on what we've learned so far in chapter fifteen."

Everyone groaned except Jessy. She sat up straighter and preened. She read chapter fifteen last night. She didn't _have_ to, but she liked history, and the Civil War was _very_ fascinating. Brother against brother, cousin against cousin, a country fractured and torn. She was especially interested in the Confederacy, in how it would have developed culturally, economically, and socially if it had succeeded in seceding. She imagined slavery would eventually be abolished as the south developed its own industrial framework. See, before the war, the south had very little in the way of industry – their economy relied heavily on agriculture. As its own nation, however, it would have been forced to mechanize, and slaves would no longer be needed. In fact, they would probably only get in the way as white southerners flooded the cities looking for factory jobs.

Or maybe not. The world would never know. It was fun to think about.

"Chuck, you can participate if you'd like, but since you weren't here, you don't have to," Mrs. Hayman said.

"I'd like to," Chuck said.

"Alright," she nodded, then looked at the class. "First: What was the Missouri Compromise?"

Jessy closed her eyes, smiled, and slowly lifted her hand, confident that no one else knew the answer, and that they wouldn't chime in even if they did.

"Yes, Chuck?"

Jessy's eyes opened. _That's not my name._ She turned to her new classmate just as he put his hand down. "An agreement to allow Missouri to join the union as a slave state, and add Maine as a free state so the number of free and slave states would remain equal."

Jessy's jaw dropped.

"Very good, Chuck," Mrs. Hayman said, then to the class: "What was the Compromise of 1850?"

Jessy shot her hand up just a _little_ quicker than Chuck this time. "Yes, Jessy?"

"An agreement to let California join the Union as a free state, while New Mexico and Utah could vote to be free or slave states. It also stopped the sale of slaves in the capital of Washington, D.C."

Mrs. Hayman nodded. "Good."

Jessy glanced at Chuck; he flexed and unflexed his hand as though he were limbering up for the next question. Uh-uh. Not on my watch, buddy; _I'm_ the class overachiever.

"What were the border states, and why were they called 'border states'?"

Jessy's hand was up before her teacher had even finished speaking. Maybe it wasn't entirely honest, but she had to show this upstart who was boss. "Yes, Jessy."

"Missouri, Kentucky, Delaware, and Maryland. They were called border states because they were slave states that did not secede from the Union. They were located between the Union and the Confederacy."

Chuck's head turned just a fraction of an inch in her direction, and she smirked.

Mrs. Hayman nodded slowly. "Correct. If anyone else would like to answer, please feel free."

No one said anything.

"Name the fort where –"

Chuck's arm beat Jessy by a fraction of an inch. Mrs. Hayman looked at both of them, then at the rest of the class. "Anyone?"

Jessy waved her arm. Her heart was thudding and her breathing was _slightly_ elevated. She was _not_ used to having competition.

"No one?" Mrs. Hayman asked.

Chuck sat ramrod straight, his arm reaching high. He was taller than Jessy, so she sat forward, her butt leaving the chair. _Pick me! Pick me!_

"Going once," Mrs. Hayman said, "going twice..."

"It's Fort Sumter!" Jessy cried, and slapped her hand to her mouth.

Mrs. Hayman fixed her with a disapproving glare. "Jessica, you do _not_ speak out of turn in my class. I expect you of all people to know this."

Jessy blushed. "I-I'm sorry, Mrs. Hayman, I-I don't know what came over me. I apologize." Chuck snickered and shook his head, and Jessy fumed as she sat. Jerk! Who did he think he was, anyway?

While Mrs. Hayman went to the board, Chuck turned in his seat and grinned challengingly. Jessy furrowed her brows. She leaned forward. _"Watch yourself, buster,"_ she hissed lowly, _"you're on_ my _turf now."_

Chuck leaned forward too. _"We'll see to whom it belongs after today."_

Jessy gasped. Correct usage of the word 'whom'!

This guy was _dangerous_.

* * *

 _Do-do-do-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH!_

 _Do-do-do-DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH!_

Alex sighed. She could _not_ get that song out of her head, no matter _how_ hard she tried; it had been rattling around in her skull for a week, and it was driving her crazy. She held the tip of her pencil against the paper and tried to think. Alright. You carry the one and...

 _My, my, my._

Shut up, Brian, I'm trying to do math questions!

 _Loose lips sink ships  
_

 _So come aboard for a pleasure trip_

Alex grinned. She was twelve now, practically an adult, and she kind of knew about sex stuff...so she knew he wasn't talking about mouth lips.

 _It's high tide so let's ride_

 _The moon is risin' and so am I_

 _I'm gonna get it up_

The first time Dad heard this he turned as red as a tomato. _What's that?_ It's AC/DC, Dad...he's, uh, talking about a barn raising. Yeah. They're all Amish. She didn't actually say that, she just thought it. That's not what he was really talking, though; he was talking about his thing.

Ugh. Where was I? I was carrying the one, right? She looked at her worksheet and frowned. She couldn't remember, which meant she had to go through the _whole_ equation again, which wasn't hard – math, like everything else, was easy – but it took so much _time_ : She wanted to hurry up and be done so she'd have some time to read before class ended. She was halfway through _Whispers_ by Dean R. Koontz, and she wanted to know what the hell was up with this Bruno Frye dude. Did he really come back from the dead, or did he have an evil twin?

Her face itched and she absently scratched it, not realizing her mistake until a shiver of pain raced down her spine. Ouch! Over the summer, her parents took her and Jessy to the drive-in to see _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. It had Han Solo from _Star Wars_. It was an _awesome_ movie; Indiana Jones was so cool with his hat and whip, shooting people and beating up Nazis. She begged and begged her mom and dad to let her have a whip too, but they were afraid she'd hurt herself. _Pfft, it's easy! Just flick your wrist_. They finally relented and got her one just like in the movie. She took it into the backyard, all smiles and excitement, pointed at a tree branch ( _I'm gonna wrap it around and swing just like Indy,_ she told Jessy), then flicked her wrist: The business end came back and caught her along the right cheek, leaving a thin, bloody gash. Jessy freaked. _Please don't tell Mom and Dad!_ Alex begged. She didn't, and she got to keep her whip. Heh.

 _Gonna get it up._

She sighed. It was the music video, that's what it was. Every time she saw the video for a song she liked she liked it even more. In that one, they're on stage at a concert rocking out and they're so cool (and, okay, hot) that it freaking hurt. _Oh, Dad, please, can we get cable? There's this new channel called MTV that plays music nonstop!_ Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Okay, back to work. She blazed through the remaining questions and glanced up at the clock when she was done. Alright, ten minutes! She pulled her book out, opened it up, then looked around: Everyone else was still bent over their tests and struggling. Heh. Suckers.

She started to read, but then she started thinking of Auntie Leni, and suddenly Bruno Frye wasn't that important. Auntie Leni was _really_ sick, sicker than she was after her stroke even. Alex was worried about her...very worried.

When the bell rang, she stood, pulled her denim jacket on, and grabbed her things. On the way out, she dropped her test on the teacher's desk. _Hopefully_ Brian Johnson and the other guys didn't louse up her concentration _too_ much. In the hall, she shoved her textbooks into her locker and stopped to admire the pictures taped to the inside of the door: Alice Cooper, Billy Squire, Accept, Van Halen. Speaking of Accept, was her Accept tape still in here? She reached in and moved her books aside. She hoped, because it sure wasn't at home. She glimpsed something at the back, pulled it out, and thrilled. Yep, here it is! She took her Walkman out, popped _For Those About to Rock_ out, and put Accept in. She hit play, and her theme song picked up in the middle:

 _They say I'm a danger to the public and all  
_

 _I only wish they would see  
_

 _I'm just the product of a screwed up world_

Alex slammed her locker and started toward the cafeteria.

 _I'm a rebel - rebel - don't you just know it  
_

 _I'm a rebel - rebel - don't you just know it._

Yep, that's me, Alex Loud, rebellious to the core. I still like fluffy kittens and stuff, though, and...I _might_ like that Dolly Parton song '9 to 5'...and 'You Make My Dreams' by Hall and Oates...but don't tell anyone...please? There's only one person who knows I like that stuff, and her name starts with a 'J' and ends with an 'essy.' I didn't tell her by choice, though; she found me listening to her Hall and Oates album and I had to fess up.

In the cafeteria, she waited in line behind a girl in a blue T-shirt and nodded her head to the music. She looked around, and saw Meagan sitting in her usual spot. People often wondered – or at least she imagined they did – why her and Meagan were friends. Meagan was more of a goody type than an Alex Loud type. Sometimes Alex wondered too, but you know what? If you like someone, you like them, case closed, end of story. At the counter, Alex grabbed a tray and went down the line. Salisbury steak? Green beans? Mashed potatoes?

Not exactly what she was in the mood for, but like her Dad said, beggars can't be choosers. Just last week Mom made tuna casserole, and Alex didn't want any. Yeah, yeah, I used to love it, Mom, but I'm a growing girl, my tastes are changing. Well...let's just say three hours later Alex relented and had two helpings. Tuna casserole's better than nothing casserole, right?

She took her food and carried it over to the table, sitting across from Meagan. "Is this stuff even real meat?"

"Probably not," Meagan said. "And if it is, it's the parts no one eats."

"Like bone marrow and buttholes?"

Meagan shivered. "And you've managed to ruin my appetite already."

Alex picked up her fork, hacked off a piece of meat, and shoved it into her mouth. "Yum. You can really taste the sphincter."

Both girls giggled. "You're so gross."

" _Someone's_ gotta liven things up around here."

"If that's what you call it," Meagan said and took a bite of her mashed potatoes.

That _is_ what she called it.

She was too busy stuffing her face to notice someone had sat next to her until they drove their elbow into her ribs. Oof; potatoes sprayed and Meagan cried out in disgust. Alex looked up, and Tim Underwood grinned. "Hey, asshole."

Alex swallowed. "Hey, loser. I oughta break your nose for doing that."

"Please don't," he said, "I just got over my hand being broken. My mom would _not_ be happy if I cost her another trip to the emergency room."

"You broke my ribs," Alex said.

"No, I didn't."

"They punctured my lungs now I'm slowly strangling to death." She wrapped her hands around her neck, stuck her tongue out like a dead mackerel, and pretended to choke. Meagan rolled her eyes and Tim snickered a little uncomfortably. Heh. She liked messing with him.

Hey, he's the one who wanted to be friends with her; he said so himself. Last October, she and Jessy were playing Pac-Man at the arcade (Jessy made it to round eight and Alex was trying to beat her by making it to round _nine_ ). She was almost there when this guy came up and started talking to her. _Oh, hey, Alex, how's it going? Playing Pac-Man? Be a shame if someone talked in your ear and made you die three pellets short of beating Jessy's record_. That's not what he said...she didn't know _what_ he said...he started talking, she died...and the world went red. She whipped around, ready to tear him apart. _What do you want? To be friends, damn. You're cool and I thought we could hang._

They say flattery will get you nowhere, and that was true of Alex...recognizing how painfully cool she is, on the other hand, kind of might. He wound up being pretty cool too (not as cool as she was, but being Alex Loud level cool wasn't easy). And...keep this under your hat...but he _was_ kind of cute.

"Are you done dying?" Meagan asked. "Your sister's coming this way and she does _not_ look happy."

Alex turned just as Jessy sat down next to her, her tray clattering to the table. Her brow was dark and her lips were a tight, angry slash. "You okay?" Alex asked. There were still kids in school dumb enough to pick on Jessy; apparently the trail of broken, twitching, bloodied bodies Alex left in her wake didn't speak loud enough.

"No," Jessy said tightly. She snatched her milk carton and ripped it open. "There's a new boy in my class and he kept answering all the questions! That's _my_ thing!"

Alex's forehead pinched in confusion. Answering all the questions? "What are you talking about?"

Jessy huffed and told her everything. As she listened, Alex couldn't help but roll her eyes. "You can be a real dork sometimes, Jess."

"I am _not_ about to be upstaged by some yuppie," Jessy said and took a drink, "he better bring his A game, because Jessica Loud does _not_ play around."

* * *

"Can you mute this damn thing?" Lincoln asked. James Richmond, Blades' son, was on his knees in front of the Pac-Man cabinet, elbows deep in the machine's guts. An electric zigzag pattern flashed across the screen.

James grunted and reached even deeper. "Yeah," he said, "if I can fix it. You have no idea what happened?"

Lincoln shook his head. "Nope. Someone probably spilled a Coke on it. That's what I think." The game had been malfunctioning for nearly a week now. He noticed it when he went to clean the bathrooms one day; the screen was all blue and wavy. Well, _that's_ not good, he thought. He unplugged it and plugged it back in, but that didn't work, and he was fresh out of ideas. The other day, Blades and James came in for lunch and James wanted to play, but sorry kid, game's on the fritz. He offered to 'take a look' at it; he was something of a technology whiz, apparently, even had one of those IBM personal computers at home. Lincoln had seen ads for those in magazines; how the hell Blades could afford it was beyond him.

The START screen appeared, no longer blue and no longer wavy. "You got something," Lincoln said.

James leaned back and looked up. "Yeah, it was a loose RAM board, I think. Someone beat this thing up recently?"

Lincoln thought for a minute. There _was_ some teenager being rough with it a month or so back; Lincoln snatched him by the back of his shirt and threw him out – literally shoved him out the door. Hey, he gave him three warnings. _Sir, please don't be so rough; hey, kid, knock it off; hit that goddamn thing again and I'll hit_ you _._

Some people just don't listen.

"Can you mute it? The noise drives me up the wall."

James nodded. "Yeah. The noise is half the fun, though."

Lincoln snorted. "Maybe when you're playing it; not when you're trying to hear yourself think and can't because _waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka_."

James laughed. "I guess."

"What do I owe you?" Lincoln asked.

James waved his hand. "Don't worry about it."

"You sure?

"Yeah," James said. He closed the machine and got to his feet. "It took me fifteen minutes. It's no big deal."

Lincoln shrugged. "Alright. Your old man still owes me for my goddamn bumper."

Last fall, before the election, Blades was doing his whole "Ronald Reagan is Jesus Christ reincarnated" shtick and Lincoln told him to can it (he may have questioned Reagan's masculinity and mocked his advanced age – come on, the guy's sixty-nine!). Blades got pissy and walked off. Lincoln thought that was the end of it...until Ronnie Anne came through the front door a few days later with a puzzled expression on her face. "I didn't know you were a Reagan fan."

"I'm not."

"That's not what that bumper stick on the station wagon says."

Lincoln went out, and sure enough there was a big red and blue REAGAN/BUSH '80 bumper sticker on his car. That son of a bitch superglued it, too; Lincoln had to get down on his knees and chip it off with a screwdriver.

"He put one on my bedroom door," James said, "so I put a Carter/Mondale sticker on the back of his jacket like a kick me sign. He wore it all day before one of his buddies thought he went traitor and slapped him in the back of the head."

Lincoln laughed. "Not bad, kid."

After James left, Lincoln poked his head into the kitchen to make sure everything was ship shape. Fred was frying patties, and Bobby was washing dishes. Ever since Carol went to New York, the kid had been a sad sack. Lincoln felt for him – he knew what it was like to love someone and be away from them. He was thinking of proposing to her when she came home for Thanksgiving. Lincoln told him to wait...now just wasn't a good time.

Or maybe it was and he was wrong. He didn't know. He married Ronnie Anne just days before leaving for basic, didn't he? That wasn't a good time.

Back in the dining room, Lincoln sat by the register and picked up the paper. Princess Diana was pregnant, President Reagan was giving a speech to the press club...yawn, slow news day. It surprised the hell out of him how big a deal people made out of the royal wedding. Oh, Diana! Oh, Prince Charles! Didn't we fight a war so we wouldn't have to cream our jeans every time a prince got married? And Reagan...Lincoln couldn't say he liked the guy (not that he liked any of the presidents since Kennedy), but he had to hand it to him: He was a tough old bastard, took a shot right to the side back in March and lived...at seventy! Shew. Lincoln was sitting right here behind the register when a guy came in and said, "Someone shot the president."

"Again?"

Seemed like only yesterday it was JFK being shot. Eighteen years. Can you believe that?

Man, time flies.

He sighed and thought about everything that had happened in the past almost two decades. A lot. Wow. He was drafted, married Ronnie Anne, fought in Vietnam, was taken prisoner, escaped, fathered a beautiful little girl, watched one sister kill herself and another wind up in prison, took ownership of a restaurant, and...other things.

Like watching his second oldest sister die.

Yeah. Leni didn't have much time left; she'd been going steadily downhill since last year, and now her liver was failing and she was on hospice. Like his parents, he knew it was coming, but...maybe he was in denial, maybe he was hoping the bullet would change direction at the last minute, but...

He didn't know.

It was happening and that was that. He'd come to terms with it. He'd cried his tears and done his mourning. All that was left was to actually bury her.

He blinked back tears.

Okay, apparently he hadn't cried them _all_.

* * *

Rita dipped the turkey baster into Leni's mouth and released the bulb, sucking up a measure of phlegm with an obscene slurping sound. She held it over the drip tray and squeezed it out. Leni gasped for air, her eyes hazy with oxygen deprivation and filling with panic: Her chest heaved and her one good hand desperately clawed and unclawed the blanket. Tears leaked from Rita's eyes and she trembled as she brought the baster back to her daughter's lips. They had been doing this for nearly half an hour, and it was like bailing out a sinking ship with a child's beach pail. Leni was choking to death and each suction only prolonged the inevitable; on some level Rita knew this, but she couldn't stop, she couldn't let her baby go. She sucked up more, then shot it into the tray.

Lynn took Leni's hand and stroked her brow, his eyes wet and shimmery. Rita slipped the baster in, sucked, and squirted into the tray. Suck, squirt, suck, squirt, in an endless, nightmare pattern. Leni gurgled and thrashed, a series of raspy half-coughs escaping her quivering lips. Rita moved the baster back to her daughter's mouth, but paused at the disoriented mixture of pain and terror swirling in the girl's eyes like muddy water.

She was only making it worse; each second was one more second with her daughter... also another second that her daughter suffered. But what mother can stand aside and watch their child die? She should as hell couldn't leave the room; her baby needed her...she was trapped and she felt this so acutely she could scream. She glanced at the end table, her mind working, then back to Leni, who struggled to breathe.

She took a deep breath, sat the baster down, and went to the end table. Lynn watched her curiously as she picked up the syringe, plunged the tip into the morphine vial, and drew back the plunger, pulling clear liquid into the translucent barrel. 20mg, 50mg, 100mg, 200mg. She pulled the tip out, came back to the bed, and looked down at her baby's face, her life flashing before her eyes. Forty years, forty short but happy years. She felt tears threatening to overwhelm her, but she needed to hold it together for just a little while longer.

Lynn didn't speak or try to stop her as she leaned over, found a vein, and sank the needle in, didn't look at her as she depressed the plunger and injected a fatal dose of morphine into their daughter. He threaded his fingers through Leni's sweaty blonde hair and grazed his fingers comfortingly across her scalp. She looked up at him with pitiful, pleading eyes, and he brushed his thumb over her brows. "I love you, honey," he said in a broken whisper.

Rita sank into a kitchen chair and took Leni's hand. The girl's frantic breathing was beginning to slow as the drug took effect, her frightened eyes clouding with medicated delirium. Rita lifted Leni's hand to her lips and kissed each one of her knuckles. When she was a baby and fussy, Rita would sing her to sleep; she did so now, her old voice hitching and cracking with emotion.

" _Goodnight, sweetheart, well it's time to go,_

 _Goodnight, sweetheart, well it's time to go."_

Leni's head turned in her direction and her muddled eyes fell upon her mother, her lids growing heavy and the light slowly fading. Her chest barely moved now. Her bad arm jerked, and the Raggedy Anne doll snuggled close, its button eyes watching Rita over the plane of Leni's stilling chest.

She looked like a little girl getting ready for bed.

" _I hate to leave you, but I really must say,_

 _Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight."_

Leni's eyes drifted closed and her chest stopped moving entirely. A wet rattle sounded from her throat, and that was it. Leni Loud was dead.

She was forty-years-old.

Rita buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. Lynn gripped the rails of the hospital bed and stared dazedly at his second oldest daughter, numbness settling over him. His mind stopped, his heart stopped, even his breathing stopped. He was a statue, calcified by misery, made stone by grief. He was aware of his wife crying, but he was too dazed to go to her, and had no comfort to give if he wasn't.

At least it was over.

At least Leni was free.

"I-I'll call," he stammered. To whom he was referring, he didn't know. There were lots of calls to be made, and he was not looking forward to any of them. He made to move to leave his daughter's bedside, however, and it was a long time before he did.


	106. November 1981: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Physical**_ **by Olivia Newton-John (1981);** _ **The Breaks**_ **by Kurtis Blow (1980);** _ **Bette Davis Eyes**_ **by Kim Carnes (1981)**

* * *

Telling the girls was the hardest part; up until then, he didn't cry, but watching them break down and cling to each other for comfort pushed him over the edge, and he took both of them in his arms. _It's okay,_ he said, _Auntie Leni's in heaven now_. He didn't know if he believed in heaven or not – there had to be _something,_ right? – but he hoped Alex and Jessy did, and he hoped it helped them even if just a little. He remembered Flip hugging him and telling him Luna was "with God now." It didn't help, and from the misery evident in his daughters' eyes, telling them Leni was in heaven didn't work either.

Kids are resilient, though. They can fall off a bike, rip their arm open, and watch with a giggle as it heals before their very eyes. They would mourn and then they would come back. Lincoln loved his sister dearly, but life goes on. You can't fall to pieces and stay in pieces because someone died...as long as they weren't your children or your wife. When Ronnie Anne was giving birth to Alex, Lincoln vowed to kill himself if something happened to them; maybe it's unhealthy, maybe it's wrong, but he meant it. He would have. If there was an accident and Ronnie Anne and the girls were killed, he would do it as surely as he would have done it then. If one of them lived, though, he would go on.

That's to say, Lincoln could certainly see falling to pieces being an option in some cases, but not this one. The girls would bounce back, he would bounce back, and maybe even his parents would bounce back.

That didn't mean it hurt any less, though. When Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and the girls went over to his parents' house that night, Lincoln's heart ached like an abscessed tooth, and the feeling of being surrounded by Leni was both beautiful and awful at the same time. His mother sat on the couch and hugged herself tightly, her wrinkled face a mask of misery. Dad sat in his chair, tears falling down his cheeks and his fingers gripping the arm. Lori was next to their mother, her arm around the old woman's shoulder. Bobby Sr. stood over Lynn, patting him on the shoulder and looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out what. Bobby Jr. sat on the couch still in his work clothes. His head was bowed and his hands were fisted in his lap. Jessy and Alex shoved between Lori and Bobby Jr., and the three cousins embraced each other.

After the funeral home came for Leni's body, the hospice people took the bed, and the living room looked naked without it.

For a while no one talked, the only sound was soft weeping. Ronnie Anne slipped her arm around Lincoln's waist, and he hugged her close with one arm. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. While he was missing in Vietnam, she and Leni drew close in their shared misery, and had remained fairly close through the years. He suspected she was more upset than she let on.

"So am I."

Lincoln eventually got Lori to relinquish her position next to Mom and took over, holding her close as she sobbed a seemingly endless stream of tears. "I'm sick of burying my children," she wept at one point, "I can't do it anymore." He shushed her and rocked her gently. He could understand; he didn't think he had it in him to bury even one, let alone two.

Together, he and Ronnie Anne decided to keep the girls home from school for the rest of the week (it was Wednesday, so they would only miss two days), and Lincoln called Fred at home to ask if he thought he could handle Flip's for a day or two. "I'll come in here and there," Lincoln said, "but I need to be with my family right now."

"Sure, I can handle it," Fred said, "no problem. Not much different from the army."

When you got right down to it, no, it wasn't; in one case, you managed a restaurant, in the other you managed soldiers. That's all government and the military really is: Management.

"Thanks, Fred, I really appreciate it."

"No problem, Linc. I'll be praying for your sister."

"Thank you."

They say that thoughts and prayers are empty gestures, but Lincoln was touched, and at the end of the day, what else can someone do? What else could you possibly ask from them?

Later that night, sitting up in bed, Lincoln felt a rush of tears, but blinked them back. If thoughts and prayers are useless, then so are tears. Ronnie Anne held his hand and didn't say anything, because sometimes silence is better than empty words, and when a life has ended – a beautiful life that you cherished and loved – all words are empty. The thoughts and emotions behind them might not be, but they themselves ultimately are.

Down the hall, Jessy sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees. The lamp on her nightstand cast soft light across her bare legs and socked feet. She wore a pair of gym shorts and a white T-shirt. She was so lost in her grief that she didn't realize as she pulled them out of the dirty clothes hamper that they were Alex's, and when she did, she didn't care. She drew a deep breath and glanced at the posters on her wall, some of them photos cut carefully from magazines and held in place by Scotch tape. Leif Garrett, Leo Sayer, and her current favorite/future husband Rick Springfield. Their smiles were cold and frozen, their visages lifeless. She shuddered and looked away.

Alex came in from the hall wearing a pair of gray sweat pants and a black tanktop; her wet hair hung in clumps over her shoulders and her eyes were puffy from all the crying. Jessy sniffed and wiped her nose as Alex dropped onto her bed, picked up her brush, and started to run it through her hair; her movements were mechanical, robotic. Jessy stared at her knees.

Neither girl spoke; Alex brushed, Jessy stared, her vision blurring and her heart hurting. She missed Auntie Leni so bad it was like a knife in her stomach. She _kind_ of knew that she might die, and she tried to come to grips with it, but when Uncle Lincoln told her, the air left her lungs in a rush and she broke completely and totally down, her preparation be darned. She loved Auntie Leni a lot – just as much as she loved Auntie Ronnie Anne and Uncle Lincoln and Grandma and Grandpa...now she was dead and they would never talk or eat cookies or listen to music again.

She started to cry, her head bowing and her arms wrapping even more tightly around her legs. Wordlessly, Alex got up, came over, and sat next to her; she took her little cousin in her arms and held her close as she, too, began to cry. In her mind she saw her aunt's happy face, and that made the tears come faster and sting more. She buried her face in the crook of Jessy's neck and wept openly. People thought Alex was tough, and maybe that was partly her own fault for being...well...Alex, but she wasn't, not really, and she took just as much from Jessy as she gave, if not more.

They held each other for a long time, eventually lying down, Alex's arms around Jessy and her forehead pressed to the back of the younger girl's head. Their tears tapered off, and they were silent, though each one's mind was a whirl of activity and each one's heart was a tempest of pain. Hours passed before Alex sighed. "Do you wanna watch TV?"

Jessy nodded. Why not? Neither one of them were going to sleep tonight anyway. Might as well do something instead of stew.

They went into the living room and held each other as Alex clicked through the stations with the remote. Cable: It was always on, from midnight to midnight, no signing off. Still, with all those channels, there was nothing worth watching, nothing they _felt_ like watching, so they settled for MTV, where a woman in a blue top and pink Spandex leggings danced around a gym, ogling muscular men like the world's biggest pervert.

 _I took you to an intimate restaurant_

 _Then to a suggestive movie_

 _There's nothing left to talk about_

 _Unless it's horizontally_

One of Alex's earliest memories was listening to music with Leni. She couldn't remember the song, or when it was, but she could _clearly_ remember her aunt's loving face, and her heart shattered into a million little pieces. She hoped her dad was right and that Auntie Leni was in heaven, because if anyone deserved to go there, it was her.

She was an angel.

* * *

Gazing out the window of an eastbound flight, Lynn Loud III was conflicted. Part of her did _not_ want to go to Michigan and leave her friends for a week, but an equally large part of her kind of did: She needed space and time to think. See, she had a problem, a _big_ problem – maybe not a baseball-career-ending-injury problem, but it was up there.

The problem was this: She was in love with Ritchie Haveman. Being in love with someone on its own is not a problem per se – why would it be? – but being in love with your friend, who is much older than you, and who has a girlfriend, _is_. You know baseball: Three strikes and, buddy, you're out. Ritchie was seventeen...and she was a week and a half shy of thirteen, a kid compared to him... _and he already had a girlfriend!_ That's what _really_ got under Lynn's skin. Her name was Robin and she was a bleach blonde freaking bimbo with big tits and itty bitty hips: How she didn't break in the middle was beyond Lynn. And her _voice_. She sounded like a chipmunk who just sucked up a bunch of helium. She was so weak and girly too. Ugh, she hated that hussy. What did Ritchie even see in her? He needed someone who could keep up with him, someone who liked the same things as him, someone who wasn't afraid to get dirty and have fun.

Someone like her.

Lynn sighed. Eight months she'd watched Ritchie with that Dolly Parton wannabe tramp, eight months of seeing them kissing and being cute and digging her fingernails into the heels of her palms so hard they drew blood because _he should be with me._ She should have kissed him that day on his porch when he told her his grandma was dying; she should have taken his hand, looked into his eyes, and told him how she felt. Yeah, being so...open and vulnerable with her emotions scared the God out of her, but she should have sucked it up. Instead, she held off and pined from afar like a stupid schoolgirl or something. She kicked herself every time she saw him with her, and a couple times she almost cried.

For that reason, a vacation to Michigan sounded pretty sweet. Okay, that sounded callous because she was going there because her aunt died (she _thought_ she kind of remembered Leni, but not really), but she just needed to be away. On the downside...she was meeting her cousins, and that made her nervous. She wasn't a shy, stuttering little flower or anything, but she didn't make friends very easily. The guys, yeah, they were great friends (and most of them would be going off to college soon, which really bummed her out). Other people? Eh...not so much, especially girls. There was Polly, but that didn't count since Polly was as big a jock as her – only for roller derby instead of baseball. Roller derby was okay. Oh, and there was Bertha – she was big into pro wrestling and kind of got Lynn into it too (she watched AWA wrestling every week, her favorites being Hulk Hogan and Dusty Rhodes). Outside of that, Lynn didn't get along with girls, and two out of three of her cousins were girls.

So, yeah, she was majorly conflicted. She turned away from the window and looked at her father: He was wearing a plaid blazer and a bright yellow tie, his crewcut crisp and the back of his neck as thick as a package of hotdogs. He really needed to lose some weight: These days when they played catch in the backyard he got winded really easy and wound up bent over with his hands on his knees. He did his best, though, and sometimes he even managed to trip her up. She laid her hand on his leg, and he turned, giving her a tight, washed out smile. He was really upset about Leni dying, and seeing him like that made her feel bad...one, because she didn't like it when her Daddy was sad...and two, because she _didn't_ feel sad. A little, sure, because someone in her family died, but not as much as she probably should.

"Are you excited to meet your cousins?" he asked as his hand swallowed hers.

Lynn nodded. "Yeah. Pretty excited." Her voice was steady and without nerves, for which she was glad. She didn't want him knowing she was stressed.

"Good," he said, "I think you guys will get along fine."

Lynn hoped. Just as long as they weren't all squealing and girly. She could _tolerate_ it, but she'd rather not.

An hour later, the plane broke through the clouds and began its descent over Detroit. Lynn watched from the window with mild interest as the city appeared, a huddle of gray buildings against an even grayer sky, smoke belching into the heavens from factory smokestacks like ghosts. Lynn's stomach clenched anxiously, and she took a deep, steadying breath. Alright, let's meet those cousins.

* * *

Lincoln stood in the terminal with his back against the wall and his arms crossed. To his left, people sat in a waiting room, and off to his right, a man in a trench coat talked into a payphone, his free hand gesturing wildly. Call Lincoln paranoid, but he was watching that guy, sure that at any moment he'd whip out a sawed off shotgun and start shooting. If he was alone, he'd do a somersault out the window and land safely on the tarmac ( _sorry, my hero days are_ over), but Alex and Jessy were with him, so he'd have to tackle the guy and hope he didn't lose half his face to a blast of buckshot.

He glanced at his girls: Jessy nervously wrung her ponytail and Alex stared at her scuffed Adidas. She was wearing jeans and her denim jacket over a black shirt. Pins covered the coat's chest: A loser with spiked blonde hair over the word IDOL; one with the members of KISS grinning through their stupid make-up; Judas Priest. She wore a red bandanna tied around her neck like the singer from AC/DC, the one with the bushy hair and the raspy voice. Lincoln couldn't help but wonder how much blood he spat up following a show.

Jessy was in jeans and a wool zip-up sweater with some kind of Native American pattern on it: Blue and white stripes and staggered zigzags. _How_ he said when he saw her in it; she didn't get it. Both girls were nervous about meeting their aunt, uncle, and especially their cousin, but Jessy wore it on her sleeve whereas Alex buried it. Nothing wrong with either approach, really. Like they said, different strokes for different folks.

He grinned. Every time he used that phrase (which wasn't very often), he thought of the show _Diff'rent Strokes_. That was the one with the little black boy who went _What'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?_ Wasn't it? Alex used that phrase a lot. _What-chu talkin' 'bout, Jessy?_ It made Jessy so _mad_ when she was trying to be serious. _Bunny, please turn down your music, it's distracting me. What'chu talkin' 'bout, Jessy?_ She even did a deep voice when she said it. It was cute. His girls were cute.

Four years until Luan got out and Jessy went back to her.

That made Lincoln sadder than thinking about Leni.

Hopefully Luan killed someone else and had to stay longer.

No, he didn't wish that on her...he just didn't want to give Jessy up.

He sighed and watched as a black boy in a tight brown leather jacket and a blue newsboy cap made his way to the waiting room. He carried a gray Panasonic radio on his shoulder, the circular speakers thumping with music.

 _If your woman steps out with another man_

 _That's the breaks, that's the breaks_

 _And she runs off with him to Japan_

 _And the IRS says they want to chat_

 _And you can't explain why you claimed your cat_

Lincoln looked down at Jessy: She ran her hands over her ponytail again and again. "Hey," he said softly. She looked up at him. He smiled and nudged her arm with his elbow, "don't be so nervous."

"I'm trying," she said.

Lincoln slipped arm around her. "She's probably more nervous than you are. You're meeting one cousin, she's meeting three. And...jeez...everyone else, for that matter. She hasn't seen anyone in years, so it might as well be the first time."

Jessy swallowed and nodded. "You're right."

"You know what helps me when _I'm_ nervous?"

"What?"

Lincoln grinned. "Imagining them in their underwear."

Jessy's eyes widened and scarlet crept across her cheeks. "Uh...I-I don't think that'll help at all."

"Don't worry, Jess," Alex said and glanced over, "we'll be fine."

The gate ahead of them opened up, and people started spilling off, mainly men in business suits and women in power suits with big shoulder pads. Lincoln craned his neck and searched for his brother; Jessy stroked her ponytail even faster, her hands flying over her reddish brown hair. "You're going to pull it all out and be bald if you keep it up," Lincoln said absently.

Jessy stopped immediately, her breath catching.

Pretty soon the flood turned to a trickle, and Lincoln frowned. Where is this guy? He was just about to go looking for him when he came through the gate, and Lincoln instinctively snickered. He looked _just like_ a used car salesman...a fat one at that: Plaid blazer with blue and yellow stripes, tie, tan slacks, and a crewcut so level you could use it as a table. Kathy came next in a long brown coat with black buttons, a green plaid scarf around her neck (come on, lady, it's only November!), and finally, Girl Lynn; she was dressed in jeans, a blue satin baseball jacket with white stripes along the hem and around the cuffs and collar, and a red baseball cap. Her hands were shoved into her pockets and her head was down, the brim of her hat hiding her face. Lynn Sr. looked around, saw Lincoln, and grinned. "Is that Jabba the Hutt?" Lincoln asked.

Lynn nudged his daughter and pointed at Lincoln. "That's him, honey. The goofy looking one with the white hair."

Girl Lynn glanced up and looked at Lincoln, Jessy, and Alex, her eyes narrowing _just_ a little; then she looked back down at her feet.

Lincoln started for his brother, and Lynn started for him, both men's families trudging behind. They hugged; Lynn lifted Lincoln off his feet and squeezed. All Lincoln could do in return was grind his knuckles into the top of Lynn's head. "Ow!" Lynn let him down and rubbed his scalp. "I oughta pound you, you little runt."

"Exit's that way," Lincoln said and hooked a thumb over his shoulder, "let's go."

"Piss off," Lynn said, "I wanna say hi to my nieces." He pulled up his pants legs and bent; Jessy leaned instinctively back. "I don't even recognize you two. Which one's Jessy and which one's Alex?"

"Uh, I'm Jessy," Jessy said, "and that's Bunny. I mean Alex."

Lynn smiled. "It's good to see you again. Last time I saw you you were seven. Or were you still six?" He pursed his lips and thought, then stood back up. "I don't know. Say hi to your cousins, honey."

Girl Lynn looked up. "Hi."

"Hi," Jessy said.

Alex nodded. "Hey."

Kathy came forward and put her arms around Lincoln. "How are you doing? I'm so sorry about Leni."

Lincoln hugged her back. "I'm alright. It's hard but we'll manage."

In the car, Lincoln backed out of the spot. Used Car Salesman Lynn was in the passenger seat, Jessy and Alex were in the second row, and Girl Lynn and Kathy were in the back. The day had gotten darker as rain threatened, and Lincoln turned on the headlights before leaving the parking lot.

"How're Mom and Dad?" Lynn asked.

"Pretty broken up," Lincoln admitted, "I think they're even worse than they were when Luna died."

Lynn nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess it's different. They were taking care of her. Did they actually...see her go?"

"Yeah, it happened at home," Lincoln said. His mother told him that they knew it was coming and purposely didn't call him or Lori. Part of him resented that a little, but another was grateful, especially for the girls' sake. If they knew, they would have wanted to be there, and like his mother, he didn't want them to carry that with them.

Lynn shook his head. "I wish we came out sooner. I knew she was doing bad, but I didn't know it was the end."

"Probably for the best," Lincoln said earnestly, "just remember her how she was. That's what I've been doing...or trying to do."

For a long time no one spoke, the only sound the hum of tires on pavement and the music on the radio, one top forty hit after another with your host Kasey Kasem. This next track is a cover of an earlier song...blah, blah, blah, shut up Shaggy and play the record already.

 _Her hair is Harlow gold_

 _Her lips are sweet surprise_

 _Her hands are never cold_

 _She's got Bette Davis eyes._

It was raining now, and Lincoln turned on the wipers. He glanced into the mirror: Jessy and Alex both stared out their respective window, while Kathy and Girl Lynn talked quietly.

They reached the Franklin Avenue house forty-five minutes later. Light shone in the living room windows; somehow it seemed darker, smaller...colder. "Alright," Lincoln said, "here we are."

Girl Lynn looked up and craned her neck to see this house. "This is where you grew up?" she asked.

Before Lynn could answer, Lincoln jumped in. "If _that's_ what you call it."

Lynn snickered. "Shut your trap, Loud."

Inside, Dad was sitting in his chair and Bobby Jr. was on the couch, leaning over the arm and talking to his grandfather. Bobby Sr. wasn't around, probably at work. Lori, Mom, and Ronnie Anne weren't in evidence either. Dad glanced over as they came in; Lincoln started to speak, but Lynn shoved him out of the way. "Hey, Dad!"

For the first time in what felt like forever, Dad smiled, "Hey!" He pushed himself up and shuffled over; he and Lynn embraced.

"How are you?" Lynn asked.

Dad nodded; he was tight lipped and his eyes were misty. "We're holding up. How are you? Where's my granddaughter?"

Lynn turned, saw his daughter, and held out his arm. "Come here, honey."

Girl Lynn came forward, and Dad smiled as she looked up at him. "You've done a lot of growing since I saw you last. How old are you now?"

"I'll be thirteen in a week and a half," she said.

Dad patted the top of her head. "You're practically an adult. Do you still like baseball?"

Lynn nodded.

"Maybe you and I can go out back when it's not raining," he said, "I'm the one who taught your dad everything he knows."

"Really?" Lynn asked, and twisted around to look at her father.

Lynn Sr. nodded. "It's true."

"You'll have to take it easy on me," Dad said, "I'm sixty-three, but sometimes I feel ninety-three."

While Dad got caught up, Lincoln went into the kitchen and found Ronnie Anne making dinner – pork chops with mashed potatoes and stuffing. The smell found Lincoln's nostrils and made his stomach grumble. He went over, put his hands on her hips, and kissed her neck.

She leaned into him and hummed. "Hey."

"Hey," he replied.

"Is my favorite brother-in-law here?"

Lincoln snorted. "No, he wouldn't fit in the car so I left him at the airport."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "He'll get here. What about his daughter? I wanna meet her."

"She's out there," Lincoln said, "she's the one in the ball cap. Where's Mom?"

"She and Lori are looking through photos upstairs. They're trying to pick one for the obituary."

A little shiver raced down Lincoln's spine. "I oughta go check on them."

"Yeah, you do that and I'll go meet my niece."

Lincoln made a thoughtful _hmmm_. "In a minute."

"Now," she laughed.

"Nope."

She stepped hard on his foot, and his arms released. She bumped him with her butt and he nearly went down; she hurried out of the kitchen with a girlish snicker. "You're lucky I don't have my gun!" he called after her.

He wouldn't shoot her, jeez.

He'd just pistol whip her a little.

* * *

Lynn took off her jacket and hung it up by the door; under it she wore a white three-quarter T with green sleeves. She wasn't a big fan of green, but it was Ritchie's favorite color, and for whatever reason she wanted to wear it. She pulled her ponytail out of her hat slot and hung it from the hook next to her coat. She turned, and looked at the couch, where her cousins sat side-by-side-by-side; Bobby Jr. flicked Alex's cowlick, and she backhanded his chest while Jessy sat still with her hands on her lap. Lynn didn't like feeling like an outsider, and right now, in this house and surrounded by these people, she did.

Suck it up and power through.

That's what he dad always said, and her dad was a wise man, even if he _could_ be kind of a dork sometimes. She took a deep breath, went over to the couch, and sat down. What should she say? Make small talk? _Nasty weather we're having, huh?_ That didn't seem right. She stole a glance at Jessy. She didn't seem _too_ bad, a little girly but not overly much. Alex, on the other hand...the moment Lynn laid eyes on her, she groaned inwardly. _She's a metal freak_ , she thought. Lynn didn't like metal freaks. They were dopes and geeks and...okay, don't say anything...but they were a little intimidating too, with all that leather and denim and loud, head banging, scream-and-scare-everybody music.

Before she could decide what to do or say, Jessy turned to her. "So, uh, what do you like to do?"

Lynn felt put on the spot, and the back of her neck burned. "Play baseball," she said.

"Oh, that's cool," Jessy said, "what else?"

"Watch baseball."

Jessy watched her. It was unnerving. "Uh...and I like wrestling."

"That's cool," Jessy said, "I like to read."

Lynn nodded. Reading? Who has the time to sit still and _read?_ "That's really cool."

"Cut it out, Bobby!" Alex cried.

"That's Bobby," Jessy explained, "he's irritating."

Bobby leaned forward and reached for Jessy's ponytail, but Alex grabbed his arm and shoved it away. "You're going to lose that arm if you keep it up," Alex said.

"Sor-ry," Bobby said, then looked at Lynn. "What's your name?"

"Lynn," Lynn said.

"Gee, the men in this family don't have much of an imagination when it comes to names," he said, and Lynn felt a sudden rush of offense.

In his armchair, Grandpa chuckled. "Says the man with 'Jr.' after his name."

"Hey," Bobby said, "I'm going to name my kid something else. Like Valentino. That guy was a heartthrob, wasn't he?"

Grandpa nodded. "Yes, he was. The women _loved_ him. When he died, my cousin Margret cried for days."

Lynn balled her hands and felt out of place. She was really starting to wish she stayed in Arizona...not that Mom and Dad would have let her. Was it still raining outside? Eh...she didn't mind rain. She should go get her ball and...toss it and try to catch it before it hit the ground. She got up and went upstairs to her room – which belonged to her aunts Luna and Luan at one point. She knew Aunt Luna was dead (and a musician), but she didn't know much about Aunt Luan, just that she was in 'jail.'

When Lynn was gone, Alex glanced at the spot she had occupied. She was just as nervous as Jessy about meeting her, and when she saw her, her heart dropped. _Oh, gross, she's a jock._ Alex didn't like jocks. They swaggered around like they owned the world and everyone else was beneath them. They were also maybe a little...intimidating? All the jocks she had even known were huge jerks.

At dinner, Alex stole furtive glances at her cousin, trying to detect jerkiness on her. She seemed kind of standoffish, she didn't really talk or try to engage anyone. Alex considered saying something to her, you know, to see if she even _had_ a voice box, but she was afraid she'd brush it off or something, and being just a _little_ proud, Alex did _not_ like being brushed off...or rejected...or turned down...or told no. Unbeknownst to her, Lynn was doing the same thing. Alex didn't talk much. She struck Lynn as sullen – most heavy metal kids kind of were.

That night, as she got ready for bed, her father came into the room and sat next to her. "Have fun today?"

Lynn shrugged. "Grandma and Grandpa are alright." Her grandmother gushed over how beautiful she was, but Lynn didn't hold it against her. Grandmothers are supposed to do stuff like that, even if you're a big tough baseball player.

"What about your cousins? Did you guys get along? I didn't see you really hanging out with them."

Lynn sighed. "They're okay. They just aren't really...you know..."

"Your type of people?"

Lynn started to say yes, but that sounded bad. It was true to a degree, though; none of them were the type of person she would choose to hang out with.

Dad put his arm around her and drew her close. "Your Uncle Lincoln wasn't my type of person either. When we were growing up he was into comic books and science fiction. I always thought he was a total square, but you know what?"

"What?" Lynn asked.

"I loved him anyway, because he's my brother. I know it's different with you and your cousins – me and Lincoln grew up together, and you guys didn't." He sighed and looked down. "That's my fault. But you're family and even if they're not exactly your cup of tea, you need to push past that."

Lynn nodded, kind of understanding what he meant. "I don't know how, though."

Dad thought for a second. "Well...be yourself, of course. Don't pretend to be someone you're not. You're a lot of things, honey; kind, fun, caring...just be you and make an effort to accept them for who _they_ are. Like I said, your uncle and I were very different, but, you know, I'm glad I had him around growing up. I might not have chosen him to be the way he was, and he me, but I'm happy he was who he was. Does that make sense?"

Lynn nodded again. "Yeah, it does." She smiled. "Thanks, Daddy, you give _real_ good advice."

Dad hugged her and kissed the top of her head.

Across town, Alex sat up in her bed with _Whispers_ in her hands. Bruno Frye _did_ have an evil twin. Kind of clichéd, but that's alright, it was a good book anyway. In the next bed over, Jessy was brushing her hair; it spilled over her shoulders like shimmering wheat...only reddish brown instead of blonde. Hey, Alex tried to come up with a better analogy, but she was no Dean R. Koontz. "Uncle Lincoln said she was just as nervous as us," Jessy said, "and I feel kind of bad for her if that's true."

"I wasn't nervous," Alex lied.

"Yes you were," Jessy said.

"No. I wasn't."

"Bunny, yes you were."

Alex sighed.

"I think we should try to make her feel more welcome," Jessy said.

Alex closed her book and laid it aside; she wasn't much in the mood for reading anyway, her mind kept drifting to Auntie Leni. "I get the feeling she doesn't really _want_ to be welcome."

"I think you're wrong," Jessy said. She sat her brush down and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. "We just need to...I don't know...be nice to her."

Alex thought for a second. Lynn didn't try to talk to them or anything, which told Alex she didn't _want_ to. Or maybe Jessy was right and she was nervous like them. "What should we do?"

Jessy hummed. "I don't know, but something, right? Auntie Leni would want us to all get along."

True.

Alex thought long into the night. She didn't have much, but there was _one_ thing that might break the ice a little...


	107. November 1981: Part 3

**Lyrics to** _ **Don't You Want Me?**_ **by The Human League (1981);** _ **Pac-Man Fever**_ **by Buckner and Garcia (1981);** _ **Living After Midnight**_ **by Judas Priest (1980);** _ **Jessie's Girl**_ **by Rick Springfield (1981);** _ **Beat on the Brat**_ **by The Ramones (1976)**

* * *

Lynn didn't sleep very well; she was in strange surroundings and stretched out on a lumpy bed that was not her own. She was also nervous about seeing her cousins in the morning, and spent a good two hours wondering how to approach them. Dad just said just to be herself and to accept them as they were. Alright. Alex was a freaky rock person and Jessy was kind of girly. She could live with that. Like Dad said, you don't have to have everything in common with family to still love them.

At 6:30, she heard movement downstairs and got out of bed. In the kitchen, her grandmother was starting breakfast, and for a moment Lynn stood in the doorway watching her. She was a plump woman with glasses and short, thin gray hair and was dressed in a matted pink robe and slippers that were both probably older than Lynn. She wasn't like her grandmother in Arizona, she was tall and thin, and her hair was jet black...Mama said it was dyed but not to bring it up because it was impolite.

Grandma must have sensed her presence, because she turned her head for no reason (grandma senses activate!). A smile touched her wizened face. "Good morning, dear."

"Good morning," Lynn said.

"How did you sleep?"

Lynn shrugged. "Alright."

"Are you hungry?"

"Kind of."

"I'm making eggs, bacon, and toast," Grandma said, "if you want something to tide you over, there are cookies in the pantry."

Lynn blinked. Cookies? At 6:30 in the morning? "Okay!" Should she wait for Grandma to get them, or should she go herself?

"There's on the fourth shelf up," Grandma said.

Lynn crossed to the pantry, opened the door, and found the cookies. She took a couple out and shut the door again. "Would you like to help me?" Grandma asked.

"Sure," Lynn said.

"You can make toast."

While Grandma fried eggs and bacon, Lynn manned the toaster, making two pieces for each person: Ten pieces total. "When your father and his siblings lived at home, breakfast cost a fortune to make," Grandma said, "and so did dinner...and lunch."

"I bet," Lynn said. Dad said there were six kids. That was a lot.

"Of course, everything cost a fortune," Grandma added. "Christmases, birthdays...speaking of birthdays, what would you like for your birthday, honey?"

That question caught Lynn off guard. "Uh, I don't know. Baseballs?"

Grandma chuckled. "Alright. If that's what you want."

Grandpa came in a few minutes later. He saw Lynn and smiled. "Good morning, sweetie."

"Good morning."

"If you want we can go out back and throw the ball around a little."

Lynn nodded. She could _really_ use some baseball; she didn't get to play at _all_ yesterday, and if she went too long without playing baseball, she started to get kind of cranky and felt constipated. Nothing relieved stress like good old fashion baseball.

Grandpa laughed. "Just be easy on me."

"I will," Lynn said with a grin, "promise."

Shortly, Mom and Dad both came down, and Lynn was actually feeling kind of good – more comfortable than she had the night before. That is, until Uncle Lincoln showed up with Alex and Jessy just as they were finishing...then she got kind of nervous again. She retreated to her room, where she dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Alright, Loud, just be yourself and stop acting like a little girl. If they don't like you, so what?

Yeah. So what?

She grabbed her mitt, threaded through her belt loop, then picked up her ball and bat. She went down the stairs and found Alex and Jessy in the living room. Jessy wore a dopey gray sweater with a pink and blue pattern and pink pants, Alex was in jeans and her weirdo jacket over a black shirt. She and Jessy looked up when Lynn came in, and Lynn's step faltered.

Damn it, stop being a pussy!

"Hey," she said, "do you guys wanna hang out?"

Jessy looked at Alex, then Lynn. "Sure. What do you want to do?"

"We can do whatever you guys want," Lynn said. "I was going to play baseball with Grandpa."

Jessy looked nervous. "I've never played baseball before. I'll try, though. Bunny?"

Alex looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

Five minutes later, Alex and Jessy were standing in the backyard and watching as Grandpa tossed a ball straight into the air and caught it. Lynn stood back with her bat, rolling her neck and stretching. "Don't hit it too hard, now," Grandpa said. "You might take someone's head off."

"I won't," Lynn said as she bounced from one foot to the other, "I promise."

"Alright," Grandpa said. He tossed the ball underhand, and Lynn swung: The bat connected with a loud crack and the ball sailed through the air, hitting the fence and bouncing off. Jessy jumped a little, and Alex grinned at her cousin's skittishness.

"Take it easy, Jess," she said.

Grandpa looked over his shoulder. "That was good, sweetie. I have another idea, though."

His idea was to have them all stand in a circle and toss the ball back and forth, backing up with each catch; if you dropped the ball, you were out. "Do you play on any teams?" Grandpa asked.

"No," Lynn said and tossed the ball to Jessy, who turned her head and stuck out her hands – it fell just in front of her and she was outta there. "Me and my friends play."

"That's nice," Grandpa said, "have you tried for a team?"

Lynn shook her head and tossed the ball to Alex, who caught it and took a step back. "There aren't any girls teams in Tucson."

"That's a shame," Grandpa said and caught the ball, "you'd mop up."

Lynn shrugged. "I guess." She tossed the ball to Alex, who in turn tossed it to Grandpa; he missed.

"It's just you two now," he said, and for some reason, Lynn thought he missed on purpose.

Alex tossed her the ball and she caught it. "You're pretty good," Lynn said by way of conversation, "you ever play?"

"Not really," Alex said, and caught the ball, "I'm not into sports."

Lynn caught it. "Not everyone is. I like your jacket." That wasn't entirely the truth, but when you're grasping at straws, you have to say something, right?

"Thanks," Alex said, and caught the ball – just barely. "I brought something else you might like."

"What's that?" Lynn asked, snatching the ball.

"I'll go get it," Alex said with a mischievous grin. She turned and hurried back to the house. Lynn glanced at Jessy as the younger girl sighed heavily and shook her head. Grandpa lifted a quizzical brow, but didn't say anything. A few moments later, Alex came back with...

Lynn's eyes widened. "Is that a bullwhip?"

"Yep," Alex said proudly, "just like in _Raiders of the Lost Ark."_

A little grin spread across Lynn's face. "That's a cool movie. Can I see it?"

"Sure," Alex said and held it out, "you have to be really careful, though." She pointed to an ugly cut on her cheek, "I...may have gotten this from that."

Lynn took the whip and looked at it. Oh wow. This was actually pretty cool. "Can you wrap it around stuff and swing?"

"I don't think you can really do that; I tried. I'm not very good with it yet, though."

Lynn held it by the grip and snapped her wrist: It lashed the air was a sharp crack, like a gunshot, and she snickered. "That's really cool." She did it again, and again, then on the third strike, she over, uh, whipped, and it came back and slashed her face. "Yow!" she cried.

Jessy gasped and Alex paled. "Honey, are you okay?" Grandpa asked as he rushed over. Lynn pressed her fingers to her face, and they came away bloody.

"Wow," she said, "that thing packs a punch."

Grandpa tilted her head back and examined her wound. "It's not very deep. Let me get you a Band-Aid."

"I'm fine," Lynn said quickly, "really. I've had worse."

"Alright, how about we put the whip away? I'm going to have to have a talk with Lincoln..."

He turned and went back into the house. Jessy and Alex looked at each other, then at Lynn. "Hey," Lynn said, "you wanna try something?"

A few minutes later, Alex stood by the fence while Lynn stood twenty feet in front of her. Alex was holding the whip and Jessy watched from the sidelines, her eyes peeking through her fingers. "This is a bad idea, guys," she said, "Grandpa said to put the whip away. We might get in trouble."

"Oh, come on," Lynn said, "we won't get in trouble. I just wanna see if it'll work, then we'll stop. Okay?"

Jessy sighed. "You sound like Bunny?"

Lynn ignored her and rolled her arm. "You ready?" she called.

"Go ahead," Alex said.

Lynn gripped the ball tightly, then pulled back and tossed underhand. Alex drew back and lashed the whip forward: The tip struck the ball and knocked it to the ground. She and Lynn both snickered. "I wanna try now," Lynn said. They changed positions, Lynn holding the whip and Alex the ball. "How do I throw this thing?" Alex asked.

"Underhand," Lynn said, "like a bowling ball. I mean, you _could_ throw overhand, if you want."

Alex looked at the ball as she tried to decide how to throw it, then drew back and threw overhand. It was a sloppy toss, and it wobbled, but that didn't bother Lynn...she'd been playing a long time and she'd seen worse. She cracked the whip, and the ball dropped. She laughed. "That's fun."

"You ever play the video game?" Alex asked.

Lynn shook her head. "I didn't know there was one."

"Yeah, it's for the Atari," Alex said. "Do you like video games?"

Lynn shrugged. "I kinda like Pac-Man."

Alex grinned. "My dad has Pac-Man at his restaurant. Do you wanna go play it?"

"Sure," Lynn said.

They started walking around the side of the house, but Jessy stopped them. "Uh, guys? We should get permission first."

"Yeah, I was just thinking that," Alex said as she changed course.

* * *

When he had a lot on his mind, Bobby Jr. cruised. Today, he made an endless circuit of Royal Woods, passing the same places a thousand times but not noticing. The window was down to let in the cool autumn air, and the radio was turned up loud so he couldn't hear himself think; new wave synth pop blasted from the speakers...all he heard was noise.

 _Don't, don't you want me?  
_

 _You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me  
_

 _Don't, don't you want me?  
_

 _You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me_

Bobby turned onto Carlisle Avenue, a residential street flanked by squat, lower middle class homes, and slowed as an old woman scuttled across.

 _It's much too late to find  
_

 _When you think you've changed your mind  
_

 _You'd better change it back or we will both be sorry  
_

He wished Carol was here; yeah, it might not be manly to want your girlfriend around to comfort you, but Bobby didn't really give a shit about being manly right now, his auntie was dead and he was trying _really_ hard not to break down like a little bitch or something, but he kept thinking about her and it wasn't easy. It wasn't easy at all. The one thing he kept going back to was that Christmas when he was eight or something and she was so excited for cookies she took one out before it was done and it was this gloopy fucking mess. She called it 'cookie soup.' She was...he couldn't articulate it because he and words still weren't on the best of terms...childlike. That would have to do. She was childlike, and it was really, you know, endearing or whatever. She was always happy and upbeat and just...childlike.

Even when his mother told him she was dying, he had hope, hope that someone would come out with a cure or something. Not anymore. She was gone, just snuffed out like a fucking candle.

He sniffed and turned onto Main, passing Flip's for the fifth time that day. He didn't notice, but he _did_ notice Alex, Jessy, and Lynn coming up the sidewalk. You might not know it from the way he picked on them, but he had a soft spot for his little cousins – even if they _did_ burn his eyes outta their sockets with metal polish. He didn't know Lynn very well, but right now he even felt mushy for her.

Turning the wheel, he pulled to the curb and turned the radio down. Alex glanced over and rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Hey, guys," he said.

"Hey, Bobby," Jessy said.

"Going to Flip's?"

"Yeah," Jessy said, "we're gonna play Pac-Man."

Bobby nodded. Pac-Man was fun. So was hanging out with your cousins. "Room for one more?"

"Sure," Jessy chirped.

"Great." He killed the engine, grabbed his keys, and rolled the window up. He got out just as a cold blast of air swept along the street. He was wearing a think black button-up and a pair of black slacks. He wasn't thinking when he left the house and didn't grab his coat. He laid his hand on Jessy's head and reached for Alex's cowlick, but she drew back. "Do it and die," she said with a little grin.

"You know if you cut that thing off I won't be able to do it."

"I like my cowlick," she said, "it's unique."

"Yeah, uniquely dorky."

She lunged for him and he jumped back. "Too slow." He glanced at Lynn; she looked a little uncomfortable. "I'd mess with you but you look like you'd kick my ass harder than her."

Lynn shrugged.

"That's it? Never been in a fight before?"

Lynn scrunched her lips up in thought, then shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Yeah, well, hang around her and you'll learn." He looked from Lynn to Alex, then back again, noticing something. "What's wrong with your faces? You look like the Capone twins."

Lynn and Alex both snickered.

"They were playing with a bullwhip," Jessy said.

Bobby's brow furrowed. "A _what?"_

"A whip," Jessy said.

"Like Indiana Jones," Lynn said.

"I don't know what the hell that is, but okay. Come on, I wanna trounce you girls at some Pac-Man."

In a group, they crossed the parking lot and went inside. Fred was standing behind the register and cashing out a fat man in a suit. When he was done, he looked at Bobby and squinted. "I thought you were off."

"I am," he said, "me and my cousins wanna play Pac-Man."

Fred looked at Jessy and Alex with a smile and a nod. "Hi, girls." He looked at Bobby with a glare.

"What, they get the welcome wagon and I get _that?"_

"They're the boss's daughters, I _have_ to kiss their butts. I don't have to kiss _your_ butt, you dirty hippie."

Bobby chuckled. "Alright. I love you too."

At the Pac-Man machine, Bobby stood aside as the girls came up. "Alright," he said, "ladies first."

Jessy brushed past her cousins. "Excuse me."

Because he was feeling especially family oriented, Bobby fished a quarter out of his pocket and dropped it into the slot for her. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

The game started and she leaned forward, the soft glow of the screen bathing her face. "She's really good," Alex said to Lynn. "I can never beat her."

Jessy gripped the joystick and moved it to the right.

 _Waka-waka-waka._

"You hear that song they have out?" Bobby asked, leaning against the wall. "Pac-Man Fever?"

"I don't think so," Lynn said.

"How does it go?" Alex asked with a challenging lift of her brows. Almost like she didn't think he'd sing it.

Bobby cleared his throat. He snapped his fingers and shook his hips. "'Cause I've got Pac-Man fever; _Pac-Man fever._ It's driving me crazy."

Alex broke out laughing and Lynn threw her fist to her mouth.

"Please don't sing," Jessy said, "I'm trying to concentrate."

Bobby flicked her ponytail and bent until his cheek was almost touching hers. "Pac-Man fever. I'm going out of my mind."

On the screen, Pac-Man ran through a line of pellets, all four ghosts hot on his tail. He whipped around and pressed his other cheek to hers. "I've got all the patterns down, up until the ninth key. I've got Speedy on my tail, and I know it's either him or me."

"Knock it off, Bobby Jr.," she said.

Pac-Man chomped one of those magic balls that turned the ghosts blue. Jessy grinned and stood up straighter as she turned and went after them; they fled, cartoon expressions of terror on their faces.

Bobby put his hands on her shoulders like the world's most annoying masseuse. "Now I've got them on the run, and I'm looking for the high score; so it's once around the block, and I'll slide back out the side door."

Jessy snapped and stomped on his foot. Pain exploded through him and he jumped back. "Ow, goddamn!"

Lynn and Alex both laughed at him as he hopped on one foot. Jessy made a humming noise that said _warned you_. "You're as bad as Bunny!"

Alex drew her hand back and he almost fell over trying to get away. "Only Jessy can call me that."

Bobby blinked and leaned forward. "Bbbbbbuuuuunnnnnnnnnyyyyy."

She started toward him.

"Santiago!" Fred yelled. "I am going to kick you out."

Alex stopped and shot him a dirty look.

Bobby stood up straight and popped his collar. "Alright, Fred, sorry." When Fred turned, Bobby flipped him off. That guy really got on his nerves.

Jessy was already on level three. Bobby rotated his foot and leaned against the wall as she moved through the maze, her body unconsciously leaning forward and her heels leaving the floor. Bobby crossed his arms. Let's see how good she is.

Ten levels later, she lost her last life and moved aside. Not bad. Lynn took her place, fished out a quarter, and dropped it in. You know, he should try to make her feel welcome; she was his cousin after all and he didn't want her to think he didn't like her. He pushed away from the wall and bent next to her ear. "See, the point of the game is to eat all these little pellets." He touched the screen with his finger, intentionally blocking it. "And these little pills here..."

"I know how to play, Bobby Jr.," she said.

"Oh?" Bobby asked. He leaned against the machine, splaying his palm across the screen. "Let's see what you got."

She glanced at his feet, and he shuffled them away. "Nuh-uh, you can't..."

His words turned into a high pitched _eeep_ when she slapped the top of his head and rubbed her hand through his hair, messing it up. He whipped his hand away from the screen and started putting it back into place. Alex pointed at him and laughed.

"Shut up," he grumbled.

"You look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower."

Jessy giggled and Lynn smiled smugly. Bobby shook his head and ran his hands over his hair. "I just wanted to hang with you guys and look how you do me. It's really sad."

Lynn made it to level ten before dying. She stepped away, and Bobby and Alex both went for it at the same time, Bobby winning by just a hair. "Stand aside, kid. Let me show you how it's done." He dropped his quarter in and the game started. He had a foolproof method here. See, you always go left, then down, then across, then up. He was doing good until Blinky got on his ass; even then it was alright...then someone shoved him from behind, and he fell against the machine.

That's how he lost a life on the first round.

"Which one of you did that?" he asked over his shoulder. Lynn, Jessy, and Alex all shook their heads.

"Yeah, well, you better watch it." He turned back to the screen. "I don't play when it comes to Pac-Man. You might fall victim to my catlike reflexes."

He was almost clear when Lynn came over and grabbed his hand. "You're doing the joystick wrong. Here, let me show you the right way."

"Get outta here!" he cried. A ghost was coming both ends and unless he ducked right, he was a goner. Lynn grabbed him again and shoved his hand forward...Pac-Man went right into Pinky's waiting maw.

"I _told_ you you were doing it wrong," Lynn said.

Bobby splayed his hands on the cabinet and bowed his head.

"I've seen some pitiful players in my day," Jessy said, "but you take the cake."

"His parents are so disappointed in him they make him sleep outside," Alex added.

"And his boyfriend broke up with him," Lynn added.

They all laughed at him until they cried.

"You know, it wasn't fair before, two on one, now it's _really_ not fair. You like baseball, don't you? You should be on _my_ side. I, uhhh, I know Babe Ruth."

Lynn chuckled. "Yeah?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, he's my dad's cousin's great-uncle."

"Babe Ruth is dead."

Oh, Bobby didn't know that. "No he's not." He patted his heart. "He always lives in here."

Lynn rolled her eyes and Alex shook her head. "Alright, dweeb, you're dead, let me have _my_ turn."

Bobby stepped aside and gestured toward the machine. "Go ahead."

She hip-bumped him and took her place, slipping a quarter in and gripping the joystick. Her face hardened in determination, and when the game started, she went left and focused on clearing the bottom half of the screen, ducking and dodging ghosts. For a minute Bobby watched, then he leaned in. "'Cause I've got Pac-Man fever; _Pac-Man fever._ It's driving me crazy."

She shook her head and jerked the joystick to the right, missing Blinky by a fraction of an inch. "Oooh, that was close, kid, you almost died. That would have been a shame, you'd look like a dork in front of God and everyone."

She elbowed him in the stomach, but not hard enough to hurt...much.

After that he left her alone...not because he was afraid of her, but because he wanted to see how she stacked up to Jessy; she died two levels behind the little girl. Bobby held up his hand. "Nice job, Jess."

She slapped it and preened. "I like it because it's a game of strategy."

"Well, maybe you can show Bunny some tips so she doesn't embarrass herself anymore."

That time she _did_ elbow hard enough to hurt.

* * *

Leni's funeral was on Monday afternoon, but we won't go into that. Even unto the end, Leni Loud loved life and her family, and she would want us to focus on those two things instead, especially on the relationship between Lynn and her cousins. Lynn and her parents were in Royal Woods for a week, and in that time, the little girl raised to love baseball found room in her heart for other things – like Jessy, Alex, and Bobby Jr. No, they did not become instant and inseparable bosom buddies, and no, it was not as though they had known each other forever, but they did get along, and they did come to love one another over a series of snapshot moments.

On Saturday night, Lynn introduced Alex and Jessy to professional wrestling; Jessy gaped in horror at the brutal violence of _WWF All-Star Wrestling_ , Bruno Sammatino and George "The Animal" Steele grappled inside a steel cage while the announcers excitedly delivered blow-by-blow commentary. When Steele slammed Sammartino in the head with a steel chair, the little girl gasped.

"He just hit that guy with a folding chair!" Alex cried, her eyes widening.

Lynn smirked and nodded. "Uh-huh."

"His brains are probably all scrambled now!"

"It wouldn't surprise me if he went backstage and died."

Lynn and Alex both laughed uproariously at this.

"That's terrible!" Jessy cried. "He's someone's son and brother and you're laughing about him dying!"

Lynn rolled her eyes. "Calm down, Jess; I've seen that guy take a million hits to the head. He'll be fine."

Sammartino got back up and fought on, ripping Steele off of the cage, which he was climbing, and slamming him to the mat. "This is insane!" Jessy cried. "I-I can't believe this is on television! It's worse than Roman gladiator fights!"

Steele started to get up, and Sammartino kicked him square in the face. Alex let out a pained "Oooooh," and Lynn half stood and encouraged Steele got get up and kick Sammartino's butt, her fist pumping. Jessy drew back into the couch and covered her face with a pillow, her little heart racing. How terrible! That night she couldn't sleep because she was so worried about those poor men.

On Sunday, Lynn spent the night at her Uncle Lincoln's house. She and Jessy sat in the living room and watched _CHiPS_. Lynn kind of liked cop shows. Jessy thought Eric Estrada was 'hot.' Alex was with them at first, but disappeared at some point. Lynn had almost forgotten her when the walls started to thump as loud rock music filled the house. "She ripped her headphones out again," Uncle Lincoln said from his armchair.

Jessy snickered. "Do you wanna see something funny?"

"Sure."

Lynn got up and followed her to hers and Alex's door, which was closed. Jessy grinned, held her finger to his lips, and slowly pushed the door open. Lynn's jaw dropped at what she saw: Alex was jumping up and down on her bed and using a broom as a guitar, her head banging back and forth. The stereo on her nightstand practically throbbed.

 _I took the city 'bout one A.M,_

 _Loaded, loaded_

 _I'm all geared up to score again,_

 _Loaded, loaded_

 _I come alive in the neon light_

 _That's when I make my moves right_

Lynn lost it and doubled over, her hands flying to her stomach. Jessy hid her mouth behind her hand and giggled. Alex glanced over, saw them, and blushed. "I was just cleaning," she said quickly.

An hour later, Lynn was watching the nightly news when Alex poked her head into the living room. "Hey, Lynn, come here."

Lynn furrowed her brow, but got up and followed anyway. At the door, Alex said, "This is how I get payback." She turned the knob and pushed it open. Jessy was lying crossways on her bed, her head hanging over the side and her ponytail pooled on the floor. She had a pair of headphones on and held a magazine in front of her face. Lynn could hear music drifting out.

Jessy sang along to Rick Springfield...very off key, her head bobbing from side-to-side. "Jessy wants to be your girl! Jessy wants to be your girl! Yes, I'm a woman like that!"

"That's even worse!" Lynn cried and slapped her knee.

Jessy leaned back, saw them watching her, and froze, her face turning fire engine red. "Get out of here!" she screamed.

"Rick Springfield called," Alex said.

"Yeah, he's filing a restraining order," Lynn added.

Jessy threw the magazine and shot up to a sitting position, her headphones ripping out of her record player.

 _And I'm lookin' in the mirror all the time_ _  
_

 _Wonderin' what she don't see in me_ _  
_

 _I've been funny; I've been cool with the lines_ _  
_

 _Ain't that the way love's supposed to be?_

Lynn picked up the magazine; it was open to a black and white photo of Rick Springfield. "I see lip marks," Alex said.

Jessy crossed her arms. "Go away!"

They started to leave, and she stopped them. "But leave Rick."

Later on, Lynn sat across from Alex on her bed while she loaded a record onto the turntable. "You might like this song, it's about one of your favorite things. Well...kind of." She dropped the needle into the groove, and brash guitar played:

 _Beat on the brat  
_

 _Beat on the brat  
_

 _Beat on the brat with a baseball bat  
_

 _Oh yeah, oh yeah, uh-oh_

Lynn snickered. "I know just who to dedicate this song to."

"Yeah?" Alex asked. "Who?"

Lynn blushed. "No one. Just some hussy. She, uh..." Lynn rubbed the back of her neck. "She kind of stole the guy I like."

"Oh," Alex blinked, "well...I don't know anything about that, but if you want her out of the way, I have a lot of horror movies you can use for ideas to get rid of her."

They wound up watching _Bloody Cannibal Massacre_. Lynn's jaw touched her chest the entire time: There was one part where someone rigged a shotgun to go off when this guy opened the door, and it did, and it cut him literally in half. "There you go," Alex said, "you could do that."

Lynn couldn't lie: Picturing that happening to Robin _did_ put a little bit of a smile on her face. And she also couldn't lie about the movie getting to her; even big tough baseball players get scared from time-to-time, and if watching a movie where deformed cannibal inbreds in the Mojave snatch passersby off the highway doesn't scare you, well...you must be Alex.

That night, lying on the floor between her cousins' beds, the covers pulled up to her chin, Lynn fought to sleep. No, that shadow is _not_ a cannibal mutant, stop being a wuss; no, that sound wasn't a cannibal coming down the hall with a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, and a bib with her face embroidered on it as though she were a lobster. Relax, Lynn.

She was just starting to calm down when an arm shot out from under the bed and grabbed her. She screamed so hard her head pounded, jumped up, and threw a reflexive punch, connecting with something hard and unyielding. Jessy jerked up, screamed, and fumbled for the lamp on her bedside table. When she got it, the soft illumination revealed Alex half under the bed, a red rubber devil mask covering her face. Lynn sat with the blanket to her mouth, her teeth chattering. Alex pulled the mask off and shook her head. A mischievous light shone in her eyes. "You should have seen your face." She snickered.

"Bunny!" Jessy cried angrily. "You scared me to death!"

Realizing that she wouldn't be eaten, Lynn let the cover down...and chuckled. "How'd that punch feel?"

Alex rubbed her forehead. "It hurt like hell, but it was _so_ worth it."

The door opened, and Lincoln and Ronnie Anne were there, both in robes. Lynn's eyes flicked to the gun in her uncle's hand, and her jaw dropped. Oh, wow, it looked like a jewel or something, all shiny and silver. "What's going on?" he asked.

Jessy huffed and pointed at Alex. "Bunny scared Lynn and me too."

He looked at Alex, and his eyes narrowed. "It's always something with you," he said and dropped the gun into the pocket of his robe

"How'd you even do it?" Lynn asked, honestly perplexed, "I saw you get in bed."

Alex shrugged. "I moved it out from the wall a little so I could slip down." She tapped her head, and winced as her finger poked bruised flesh. "Ow. I plan ahead."

"Another stunt like that and you'll be planning ahead to when you're not grounded anymore," Ronnie Anne said, "we thought you were being murdered."

Lynn blushed. She didn't scream _that_ loud.

"Is that why Dad has his gun, or is he compensating for something?"

Lincoln's face dropped, and Ronnie Anne's jaw hit her chest. " _What_ did you just say?" she asked, and from the tone of her voice, Alex knew she said something _majorly_ wrong.

"I-It was in a book," she said quickly, "this guy was a huge dweeb and he carried a gun and someone said he was compensating for something. Like being a dweeb."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne looked at each other, and both of them smiled. "Your father has nothing to compensate for. Now go to sleep and stop scaring people."

On Tuesday, the day after the funeral, Alex and Jessy went back to school, and Lynn was pretty bummed until her parents and grandparents took her to the park; grandpa missed more swings than he hit, but when he hit, he sent that ball _sailing_. She took it easy on him and Dad, because one was kind of overweight and the other was kind of elderly; she could have run circles around them though.

At Royal Woods Elementary, Jessy went into her first class ready to learn and to put Auntie Leni's loss behind her...then her heart sank when she saw Chuck (what was his last name?). He was sitting in the far left row at the very front in a blue button up tucked into a pair of gray dress pants, an aquamarine colored sweater draped over his shoulders. His black hair was slicked back from his forehead and shone in the overhead light. Ugh. She totally forgot about this joker. He glanced up when she walked in, and flashed a smug smirk. "I see you've licked your wounds and returned."

She shot him a dirty look, turned her nose up, and went past, virtually throwing herself into her desk. She wasn't a violent girl by nature, but she could punch him two times and _still_ want to punch him more.

There was a test that day, and Mrs. Hayman was going to let Jessy study and take it later because she missed so much school, but she insisted on taking it; that condescending yuppie would take _great_ satisfaction in her admitting defeat and sitting out, but she was Jessy Loud, and she was _not_ going to take this sitting down.

She blazed through as fast as she could, hoping to beat Mr. I-think-I'm-so-good-because-I-went-to-a-private-school, but with a twinge of horror, she heard him sigh contentedly. "Sometimes I get tired of always getting A's," he said to seemingly no one in general; Jessy knew he was talking to her, though, and her eyes squinted.

At lunch, Alex sat across from Meagan and picked at her food. Spaghetti and meatballs. Normally she loved this stuff, but the school's version? Yeah, no. It was gross; basically egg noodles smothered in ketchup. "How're you doing?" Meagan asked.

"Okay," Alex said. She was upset and she missed Auntie Leni a whole lot, but all things considered, she was alright. It kind of bothered her that she didn't get a chance to say goodbye, to hold Auntie Leni's hand and tell her how much she loved her and cherished their time together, but that's the nature of death. A lot of people don't get to say goodbye to their loved ones.

Some of that must have shown on her face, because Meagan frowned and leaned forward. "If you want to talk about it, I'm here for you."

Alex smiled, genuinely touched. "Thank you."

Something clattered to the table next to her, and she jumped. Jessy held her hands up to her hand and curled her fingers. She made a frustrated noise and stomped her feet. "I hate that guy!"

"Who?" Alex asked.

"That yuppie know-it-all. He's the worst person _ever_. Worse even than Hitler."

"Whoa," Alex said, "I doubt he's _that_ bad."

"I would literally rather have Adolf Hitler as a classmate."

Alex snickered and shook her head. She caught a flash of movement from her eye and turned just as Tim sat down. "Hey," he said, "uh, how's it going?"

"Terrible," Jessy said.

"Alright," Alex corrected.

"I'm real sorry about your aunt," he said, "I would have come over or something, but I figured you needed space."

Alex nodded. Yeah, when you're dealing with the death of your auntie, the last thing you want is people down your throat. Well, Lynn, but that was different, she was family and not half the devil Alex feared she was. "Thank you."

"You guys wanna go to the arcade after school?" he asked, gesturing around the table, "I'll buy...just as long as we only play one game apiece. I don't have much money."

"Not today," Alex said, "we have family in town. Tomorrow maybe." Lynn was leaving in the morning, and Alex kind of really wanted to hang out with her before she went.

Tim nodded. "Alright."

That night, Lynn said farewell to her cousins; she and her parents were flying back to Tucson at noon and she wouldn't see them again. She was actually a _little_ upset...they were alright for a couple of girls and an annoying John Travolta wannabe. She was actually going to miss them – and her grandparents too.

Her aunt Lori drove them to the airport. Of all her family members, she spent the least time with Lori (well, after her husband), but she was still pretty cool. At the airport, Lori hugged them all; when she hugged Lynn, she leaned in and whispered in her ear. "Put your dad on a diet. He's _really_ letting himself go."

Lynn snickered. "I'll try," she said and hugged her back, "he's hard-headed though."

"The Loud men all are."

In the air, her father put his arm around her. "Did you enjoy your cousins?"

"Yeah, they're pretty cool."

Dad nodded. "You know, if you want, you can come out next summer or something and spend time with them."

"Yeah, that'd be pretty neat," she said, a little gleam of excitement in her eye.

It would be more than _pretty_ neat; it would be _very_ neat.


	108. May 1982: Part 1

**Lyrics to** ** _Rio_** **by Duran Duran (1982)**

It's not every morning you wake to your wife...doing something to your body...but that makes it all the better, right? Lincoln loved steak, but if he had it for dinner day after day after day, he'd either outright hate it, or get so used to it that it would lose that special treat-like quality.

Just like Ronnie Anne's pre-breakfast blowjobs.

He was usually a light sleeper and someone putting his thing in their mouth would wake him right up, but he was up late last night, and didn't come fully awake until his body was almost ready to spill its contents. See, one of Alex's birthday presents (thirteen, can you believe it? Holy shit, she's a teenager now!) was an Atari 2600 came called _Pitfall,_ and Lincoln _may_ have been up until one in the morning playing it.

When he realized something out of the ordinary was happening, he opened his eyes, and for a horrible second he thought he was back in Vietnam and the guards were torturing him in a _new_ way, but then he saw it was Ronnie Anne and grinned. Oh, well, this is nice. He threaded his fingers through her hair, not to increase her speed but because he liked to touch her, and enjoyed the ride. He reached his peak, trembled over the side, and blew his load: She slowed gradually as she swallowed every last bit. She pulled back and looked up at him with devious eyes. "Morning, lame-o."

"Good morning," he said as she crawled into his arms, "what did I do to deserve _that_?"

She shrugged. "Eh. I figured you'd need a boost today since you were up all night playing that dumb game. Plus your morning wood looked kind of nice."

Lincoln chuckled. "Hey, I wasn't up _all_ night."

"Pretty damn close," Ronnie Anne said. She leaned forward, "now gimme a kiss."

Lincoln drew back. "Uh...I'd rather not."

"C'mon," she said with a smirk, "why not?"

Her lips were inches from his, her breath hot against his lips. "Because you just..."

She kissed him, and he kissed her back. Oh well. It wouldn't be the first time he did this after she did...that. Their tongues moved lazily together, and Lincoln's hand went to the side of her face, his finger slipping through her hair. One thing led to another, and he eventually wound up between her legs returning the favor, her nightdress pushed up over her hips and her fevered sex arching against his face. Damn, missy, you're gonna knock my teeth out. She reached down and their fingers entwined as she rode out her orgasm with a series of hitching sighs. As soon as she was done, he made sure to shove his tongue into her mouth. She didn't resist, so maybe _he_ was the one with the problem.

While she showered, he dressed in a pair of brown slacks and a white T-shirt, virtually the same thing he'd been wearing to work for twenty years now. In the kitchen, Jessy and Alex were sitting at the table and eating cereal, Jessy in jean shorts and a white button-up blouse and Alex in jeans, a black T-shirt, and her cutoff denim jacket. You'd be forgiven for thinking she wore the same outfit every day, but she had, literally, a dozen different such T-shirts: Her dresser drawers were blacker than a James Brown concert. Both girls looked up and greeted him when he came in.

"Good morning, Uncle Lincoln!"

"Morning, Dad."

"Hey, girls," Lincoln said and went to the coffee pot; Alex picked up a taste for the stuff as soon as she hit the big 1-3 (you know, because being grown up) so there was fresh, hot joe every morning and all he had to do was pour.

"Dad," Alex said, "who do you think would win in a fight: Magnum P.I. or T.J. Hooker?"

Lincoln's brow pinched. "Who?"

"Magnum P.I..."

"I know who _he_ is, but I don't know the other guy."

"William Shatner," Jessy supplied.

Shatner, Shatner...

"He played Captain Kirk."

Oh! Okay. "Well," Lincoln said at length as he poured his coffee, "I think they'd resolve their differences like adults and then have a beer together."

Alex sighed and rolled her eyes. "No they wouldn't. Magnum P.I. would punch T.J. Hooker's teeth out, then advance to the next round and fight Cagney and Lacey."

Lincoln snorted.

"It's a WWF event," Alex said, "The All-Star Cop Show Brawl. The winner gets to be called the best cop show ever."

"You're nuts," Lincoln said fondly.

"That's what _I_ said," Jessy said.

Lincoln leaned back against the counter and took a long drink as he watched his girls finish their breakfast. One more month and Alex would unofficially be a high schooler. Seems like just yesterday he was changing her diapers and crawling out of bed at two in the morning to feed her. And Miss Jessy wasn't too far behind. He was tempted to be nostalgic and woolgather, but if you're looking behind you, you're not seeing what's in front of you. Oh, right! "Either one of you girls wanna come to the range with me this weekend?"

"I will," Jessy said.

"Yeah!" Alex said excitedly.

For years Lincoln had been planning to teach them how to shoot and handle guns. He'd already introduced them to the tenants of gun safety and let them hold and examine his .45, but neither had actually fired it yet. Thirteen and almost-twelve seemed a good enough age to start.

Lincoln took a drink. "Saturday?"

"Sure," Alex said, and made a gun with her finger. She pointed it at Jessy. "You better watch out, Jess, Sheriff Alex Loud's in town."

Jessy slapped her cousin's hand away. "You don't point guns at people, Bunny. They aren't toys."

"That's right," Lincoln said, "and if I ever see either one of you treating a gun like it is, I'm going to take it away and slap you with it."

"If you do that I'll take it away and slap _you_ with it," Ronnie Anne said as she came in from the hall. She wore a gray skirt that stopped at her knees, a white button-up shirt (with chest ruffles, arrr), and a gray blazer. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and she looked as much like Lincoln's idea of a teacher as Lynn looked every bit as much like a used car salesman. You dress for the job you want, I guess.

"Hey, Mom," Alex said, "Dad was making all _kinds_ of threats. You should have heard him, something about going Vietnam on our as – butts."

Ronnie Anne brushed past Lincoln. "He can try."

"It'll be in all the papers," Lincoln teased.

"Don't you have a restaurant to run into the ground?"

"I've been trying for eleven years; it just won't die." He kissed Ronnie Anne's cheek, then went over to the table and kissed each of the girls, Jessy happily presenting her cheek and Alex shying away: He cupped the back of her neck and drew her forehead into the biggest, wettest dad kiss he could muster.

"Oh, gross! Lame-o spit!'

Lincoln smacked his lips distastefully. "Yeah, gross is right. Love you!"

Outside, the amber rays of the cresting sun crept across the morning still; birds sang early songs from the tops of trees and a few errant kids made their way toward the high school. Lincoln remembered his days of walking to school; then he stopped being a loser and got a '63 Impala. Poor kids. Maybe he should offer them a ride...then peel off when they tried to get in.

He slipped behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed into the street. Oh, good, he was just in time for the morning news. _"...Vanderbilt University earlier this month is believed to be the work of the so-called Unabomber. In other news, the Royal Navy has reported the loss of a ship in its ongoing war with Argentina over the Falkland Islands. Twenty-two sailors are reported to have been lost. Prime Minister Thatcher vows to..."_

Lincoln turned the channel. Another war over something stupid. Let the Argentineans have their dumb Falkland Islands; newsflash, Britain, the colonial days are over, leave everyone alone. He settled for a station playing the type of music you heard on MTV by men with make-up, funny hair, and a strange 'new romantic' fashion sense, all synthesizers and British accents.

 _Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand_

 _Just like that river twisting through a dusty land_

 _And when she shines she really shows you all she can_

 _Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Grande._

Jessy liked this song. Or was it Alex? No, it had to be Jessy, though he knew for a fact that Alex dug 'dork music' too; after all, didn't she ask for that album by The Police for her birthday? Hahahaha, she could fool her little friends, but she couldn't fool him.

At Flip's, he pulled into a spot, hopped out, and went in. That song was kinda catchy, though, he had to admit; all he could remember was _Rio, Rio Grande,_ so that's what he sang to himself as he unlocked the door and looked around. Hm. Sarge wasn't here yet, that was a little out of the ordinary. Hopefully he wasn't dead somewhere; Lincoln couldn't afford to break in a new cook. Inside, he prepared for the day then got sidetracked. He suddenly developed a fever, you see.

A _Pac-Man_ fever.

He was six levels in when Sarge arrived. "Morning, Linc."

"Morning."

"You beating it?"

One of those goddamn ghosts caught up to him, and his final life disappeared before his eyes. "No, thing's beating _me_."

* * *

Alex Loud turned the volume of her Walkman up and divided her attention between Jessy and Krokus's _One Vice at a Time_. Killer album. They sounded a lot like AC/DC, and while some people might say that's a bad thing, Alex thought it was a _good_ thing. Hey, what's wrong with sounding cool?

"I just _know_ he's working on a snide remark right now," Jessy fumed, "smirking to himself and believing he's so witty, but he's not."

She was talking about her archrival Charles "Chuck" Spencer. Every day they had an encounter. They sat in the same row in math class, him at the front and her in the middle, and last week, when the class handed their assignments forward, Chuck found hers and tsked. "Ah, Jessica," he said, "I see you failed to equate question three properly." To Jessy's undying embarrassment, he whipped out his pencil and 'fixed' it before giving it to the teacher. Oh, she was _hot_ after that one. Yesterday, she got him back. He mispronounced the word "Choctaw" in history class, and she corrected him in front of everyone. Heh. She was really proud of herself for that one.

"Chill, Jessy," Alex said, "you're going to give yourself a heart attack."

Jessy took a deep breath. "You're right. I shouldn't let him bother me."

"That's the spirit," Alex said. "I'm telling you, though, he probably likes you."

"Gag me with a spoon, no!" she cried, her face flushing. "I would rather rip my eyeballs out and eat them."

Ah, kids, they can't admit when they like each other. She was totally open about the fact that she liked Tim Underwood...to herself. He was a fun guy with a good personality and a cute face; a real triple threat. Keep this between us, but she was a _little_ afraid of asking him out or anything. She _thought_ he liked her too, but what if he didn't? Alex was kind of proud, and she did not want to look a dweeb by asking this guy out and getting turned down. For another thing...she was just nervous, okay? Jeez, can't a girl get away with _not_ explaining every little detail?

Back to Jessy, though. "I bet he wants to _kiss_ you," Alex teased, and leaned into her cousin, knocking her off balance.

Jessy puckered her lips and shook her head, her ponytail swishing back and forth.

Alex grinned. "Oh, yeah, he _totally_ wants to kiss you. And hold your hand, too."

"I bet his hand's all slimy and gross," Jessy said, "just like him."

They reached the school and went in with a stream of kids. "I'll see you at lunch," Alex said as they parted, "be sure to pop a breath mint so you're minty fresh for Chuck." She made a kissy face, and Jessy rammed her palm into her shoulder. "Ow. You're feisty. I hear Chuck likes feisty."

She shook her head and stalked away. Heh. Kids.

At her locker, she opened the door and took out her science book. Nothing to really jumpstart your day like some early morning science. Yup. Mandel and peas and igneous rocks. Wahoo. She slammed the door and turned, starting when she almost bumped into Tim, who leaned against the lockers. "Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said.

"You didn't scare me," Alex said quickly, feeling kind of embarrassed, "I just...you know when you're falling asleep and you feel like you're dropping? Yeah, that happens sometimes when I'm awake." Her words came out in a rush, and her face turned red. Real cool, Bunny.

Tim blinked. "Oh, uh, is that healthy?"

Alex nodded. "Totally healthy. Very normal. It's not like there's anything wrong with me or anything." She smiled nervously.

"Okay," he nodded, "just...as long as you're alright." He ran his hand through his mahogany hair. Alex tried _really_ hard not to stare into his clear blue eyes, and succeeded...for the most part. He flashed an anxious smile, and she returned it. "So...see you in class," he said, and wheeled around.

Call her what you will, but Alex was kind of bummed he didn't...you know...ask her out or something.

Sigh. He must _not_ like her.

Oh well. Other fish in the sea and all that.

She liked _that_ fish, though, damn it.

Outside _her_ first class, Jessy stopped, took a deep breath, and prepared herself for Chuck – not to kiss him, bleh, but to deal with him. Oooh, he made her so mad; sometimes she couldn't focus on anything else but the anger he caused. She knew she shouldn't let him get to her, but it was really hard.

Alright. Let's get this over with. She went in and took her seat, ignoring Chuck even when he turned to smirk at her. Today he was wearing a powder blue button-up shirt tucked into white slacks, a gray blazer, and no tie. He thought he was _soooo_ cool but he looked like a doofus. He better thank his lucky stars she wasn't a petty girl, or she'd 'accidentally' spill something on him, and it wouldn't be water...it'd be something he'd _never_ be able to get out of his precious little jacket, like Kool-Aid. She could see him now. _Oh no, my jacket is besmirched forever by the horrid stain of red juice. Woe unto me, woe!_ She giggled. _That's_ what you get for messing with Jessica Danielle Loud, you stupid creep.

She watched him through narrow, predatory eyes. She tried to imagine kissing him and almost threw up. Bunny did _not_ know what she was talking about; she was in love with Tim so she had boys and romance on the brain. _Oh, Tim, how I love thee, let me count the ways_. She didn't think Jessy knew, but it was painfully obvious from the way she acted...plus there was that drawing of his name with hearts around it she found in Alex's notebook. She needed a piece of paper and it was lying on Alex's bed practically offering itself to her. She opened it, and boom, Bunny has a crush.

But not Jessy (well, Rick Springfield)...and especially not on Chuck Spencer. If you used her name, his, and 'crush' in the same sentence, it would read: Jessy totally crushed Chuck in the oral exam or something.

She liked that sentence a lot.

* * *

Bobby was late to work – but in his defense, it's not because he was lazy or anything. Yeah, he didn't really wanna do much extra (Uncle Lincoln kept asking him if he wanted to cook, and he kept saying no), but he was on time every day and did what he had to. He was not lazy, he just couldn't sleep.

It was Carol.

She broke up with him.

He wasn't dumb, he kind of saw it coming but he was in denial or something. The last couple times she came home, she was kind of distant and not as affectionate as she was before. He never asked her what was wrong, because...to be honest, he was afraid of what she would say; he let it go and hoped things would turn out okay. Ha. Kind of like seeing your kitchen on fire, turning you back, and hoping it snuffs out on its own.

It happened the previous day. She was home for spring break and she called him to say she wanted to talk. He drove over to her place, and like the day she told him she was going to New York, she got in and they sat at the curb. He could have been angry, but she was so nervous when she did it that he just couldn't. _I think we need to break up,_ she said, her eyes straight ahead. Those seven words hit him like a freight train, and he couldn't even remember what either one of them said after that. Naturally he asked why; she said something about their paths diverging or some shit.

Did it matter _what_ she said? It was over. End of story.

Bobby knew that they made it farther than a lot of other couples who get together when they're eleven-fucking-years-old, that by all rights they defied all odds by not breaking up over something stupid at thirteen, but that was real cold consolation.

When he got to work, his head was throbbing from lack of sleep, his eyes ached, and he could barely drag himself across the floor. In the kitchen, Fred started in immediately. "How nice of you to join us, Santiago."

"Eh."

"Your flag burning session run over?"

"Yeah," Bobby said.

Fred shook his head. Sometimes Bobby _really_ hated that guy. He should try to get Uncle Lincoln to fire him. Probably wouldn't work, they were army buddies and probably gay for each other. _Drop and give me twenty, Loud; oh, Sarge, invade my demilitarized zone._ He turned on the faucet, added soap, and leaned heavily against the sink. No matter what he did, he couldn't get her out of his mind. They were different types of people, but they worked, though, and her good girl thing...he didn't know, something about that really did it for him. She wasn't some trashy fucking bimbo sucking guys off in the bathroom between periods, she was...Carol. He sighed. Did he do something wrong? Was that stuff about diverging paths jive, or was she serious? Could he fix it, or was it something you couldn't fix?

He'd never felt so achy and broken-up before, and he didn't like it; it was as though there were a hole in his soul, a black, empty, gaping fucking hole...and it hurt. He didn't know what being shot was like, but he couldn't help compare it to what he was feeling. What did he do now? He didn't think too much about the future, but when he did, it always involved Carol; that was out the window and...

He wasn't going to fall apart, that was for damn sure. He was hurt, but it's a break up, that's all. He'd get through it, he just needed time. Should he ask for a few days off? Nah, probably not; how would _that_ sound? _Hey, Uncle Lincoln, I need time off because a girl broke my heart._ He'd sound like a bitch.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved Carol out of his head – her warm, blue eyes, her soft, golden hair, her smile, her sweet smell, the sound of her voice, the way her hand felt in his...

"Santiago, goddamn it!" Fred cried.

Bobby shook his head and realized the sink was full and overflowing, water and suds cascading onto the floor. He jerked, and hurriedly turned the faucet off.

"Good work. Grab a mop and clean this up before I slip and break my goddamn neck."

Bobby went to grab the mop, moving slow and giving Fred plenty of time to fall; he didn't, though, because why would he? Luck was not on his side these days.

Fred stood by the prep table and watched. "Get it all," he said, and Bobby sucked in his bottom lip to keep from snapping at him. "You missed a spot."

He didn't care if the old bastard _was_ a drill sergeant, he was going to punch him in his stupid nose if he kept it up. He might wind up on the wrong end of an ass beating, but feeling that satisfying crunch of breaking bones under his knuckles would be so fucking worth it. He chewed the insides of his mouth as he drew the mop back and forth across the floor. Maybe if he snapped this thing over his knee and went after Fred with part of the handle he'd stand a fighting chance. Or maybe he could go grab the .38 Uncle Lincoln kept under the counter and blow his teeth out.

Ehh, that might be going a little too far.

When he was done, Bobby took the mop over to the bucket, wrung it out, and left it standing upside down in the slop sink. He drained some of the water from his own sink then went out front to see if there were any dishes. Cristina was taking some old guy's order, and Tina was laughing at something a fat man in a business suit was saying. He glanced down the hall, and Uncle Lincoln was playing Pac-Man. Oh, it's okay when _you_ do it, but when it's me, the world's coming to an end. He was probably pretending the joystick was Fred's cock; next he was going to put it in his mouth.

Bobby sighed. He was in a _bad_ mood, and, it might make him sound like a bitch, but he wished he stayed home.

* * *

Lynn Loud spent most of the day deep in thought, her face in her hand and her mind far, far away from Tucson Junior High. Well...not all _that_ far, if we're being technical: The high school, where Ritchie was right now, sat only two and a half miles away, across an expanse of streets, highways, and middle class homes with stucco sides and terra cotta roofs. Her mind, like her heart, belonged to him, and he took them with him wherever he went. Sigh. Lovesickness is not a beautiful thing. It's a terrible, awful, _horrible_ thing. Lynn had been sick in her day with lots of stuff – the flu, chickenpox, uh, the common cold – but none of those were even a _fraction_ as bad as this. It was a rippling, panging, empty, aching, longing that never...went...away. At least you can hack up phlegm or push out diarrhea. This? Nothing could cure it.

Except for...

Well... _that_ , yeah, but...sigh. Again. Sigh, sigh, sigh. She had a chance, though, didn't she? Ritchie and Robin broke up a few months ago (oh, Lynn was _so_ happy that day) and no one else snapped him up – wow, girls are dumb. There was still the matter of him being seventeen and her being thirteen...and him going off to college in the fall. She didn't mind a long distance relationship – this was kind of the same thing, wasn't it? – but their age difference was what really stopped her. She didn't care, but he probably would, and there was a more than fifty-fifty chance he'd turn her down. Those were piss poor odds, as far as she was concerned. On the baseball field, she'd take them, but when it came to Ritchie? She was a tough baseball player, but, yeah, alright, she had the heart of a thirteen-year-old girl. Embarrassing maybe, but true; she didn't know if she could stand the love of her life breaking it. She'd probably curl up and die.

But she couldn't go on like this, pining from afar and keeping it all bottled up inside She had to tell him, for better or worse, of that much she was sure; but being sure didn't make her feel any better. Her stomach was in knots and she trembled, literally trembled. She didn't want to do this...but she had to.

At lunch, she sat with her friends Polly and Bertha: Polly was tall and thin with plain features and shoulder length black hair, Bertha was heavyset with short red hair and freckles: She wore a black T-shirt with I BROKE WAHOO'S LEG across the front in white. "Hey, Loud," Polly said, "I saved you a spot on the roller derby team for this Saturday if you want it."

"Maybe," Lynn said as she sat; roller derby was the last thing on her mind right now.

"You gotta decide by tomorrow," Polly said, "if you don't want it we have to get someone else."

Lynn nodded. "I'll think about it." She opened her milk.

Polly frowned. "Think about it? What's there to think about? It's roller derby. AKA the most fun you can possibly have."

Lynn shrugged.

"If you don't wanna do that, we can watch wrestling at my place," Bertha said, "Ric Flair's gonna be on. Ric Flair is the best." Ric Flair was a heel – bad guy – so of course Bertha liked him.

"I don't know _what_ I'm doing Saturday," Lynn said, "I might have a family thing going on." That was a lie; she just needed some breathing room. Can't a girl get a little breathing room? Damn, I have a lot on my mind!

Polly waved her hand. "Your family's always going to be there; roller derby only happens twice a month."

"And Ric Flair isn't on TV every night, you know."

Lynn knew...and she didn't care: Ric Flair was a stylin', profilin', limousine riding, jet flying, kiss-stealing, wheelin' n' dealin' loser. Hulk Hogan was better: Bigger, younger, and badder. But even Hulk Hogan wasn't enough to take her mind off her predicament. Dread filled her stomach, and every minute that passed was a minute closer to telling Ritchie how she felt...and probably getting her heart pulverized. If that happened...well, it happened. She wouldn't be mad at him, and she'd still want to be friends with him. Would he still want to be friends with her? Would her confessing her feelings make things weird between them?

Great, something _else_ to worry about. She _really_ needed to hit a ball. You know what she missed? Recess. Recess was nice – a little activity to break up your boring, monotonous, sitting inside day, a chance to get out pent up energy and to clear your head.

After lunch, she went to her next class and tried to focus, but it just wasn't going to happen, so she stared out the window and let her mind wander: One minute she convinced herself that she shouldn't tell Ritchie how she felt, then the next she convinced herself that she should, that she _must_. Ugh. Why does love have to be so hard? Why couldn't Ritchie just love her too?

The end of the day came quickly; suddenly the bell was ringing and everyone was streaming out through the big double doors facing Calle Grande Avenue, Lynn among them, her stomach quivering and her heart palpitating sickly. Tomorrow. She should wait until tomorrow. The weather would be better for this sort of thing: A whole five degrees cooler. Heh. You might not think so, but five degrees makes a heck of a difference.

No, no it doesn't.

It had to be today.

And it would be.

Taking a deep breath, she started for the park.

* * *

"Ah, I _love_ that arcade smell," Alex said as she looked around the room: A hundred different games lined the walls, everything from old standbys like _Pong_ and _Space Invaders_ to new favorites like _Dig Dug, Burger Time, Pole Position_ , and _Donkey Kong_ , all of them surrounded by kids with hotdogs and pops from the concession stand. The smell of French fries, sizzling hamburgers, and video games filled the air, as did the sound of ringing, dinging, and music from overhead speakers. She glanced at Tim, who stood next to her, her eyes flicking down to his cool Ozzy Osbourne three quarter band T: It was white with black sleeves and had a picture of Ozzy and his group on the front. She'd been wracking her brain for a way to ask if she could borrow it, but hadn't come up with anything yet.

He sniffed. "Yeah, it's, uh, it's really fragrant in here."

She snickered. "What do you wanna play?"

He looked around, scanning the cabinets and taking a deep breath. "I dunno. Pole Position?"

"Okay," Alex said, and together they crossed to the Pole Positon cabinet; a black boy in a yellow T-shirt was currently playing it, and not doing so well by the looks of it: His racecar kept going off the track and exploding. Who designed those cars anyway, Acme? She didn't know much about motorized vehicles, but she was pretty sure they weren't supposed to blow up after hitting a billboard. She said as much to Tim, and he shrugged.

"Probably faulty fuel tanks," he said semi-seriously, "one wrong move and they go up like the Fourth of July."

Alex swallowed a giggle. He was cute when he was being serious. "You ever work on one?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah," he said. His father owned a mechanic shop and he helped out; working on cars was kind of his thing, you know, like how _not_ working on cars was hers. "You'd be surprised how many people come with their tanks all rusted out. It's scary. Half the cars on the road are ticking timebombs."

"I don't think it's _that_ bad," Alex said.

"They have entire cemeteries full of people killed in car explosions," he said, "well...for what's left of them."

She chuckled and nudged his arm with her elbow, the brief touch of her bare flesh against his not-quite bare flesh making her heart skip, "You're full of shit."

"Honest," he said, "picking up body parts is a full-time job. You should apply."

"What makes you think _I_ want to pick up body parts?"

Tim shrugged. "You like all those horror movies."

"Yeah? I like Dig Dug too, that doesn't mean I want to dig a hole."

"Alright," Tim relented, "nothing wrong with being unemployed."

The black boy reached into his pocket, realized that he didn't have any more quarters, and hung his head as he walked away. Alex had seen that dejected walk'o'shame a million times before...and _maybe_ she'd taken it herself a time or two. "Ladies first," Tim said and gestured toward the machine.

"Yeah," she said and shoved him forward, "ladies first."

"You sure? I'll set the bar _pretty_ high."

Alex crossed her arms. "Go ahead."

Tim pulled a quarter out of his pocket, dropped it into the slot, and the game started. He grabbed the steering and put his foot on the accelerator pedal, the blue glow emanating from the screen washing across his determined face. He was pretty good at this game, she'd give him that, but she was Alex Loud...she had all _kinds_ of tricks up her sleeve. Like this one: She turned away and purposely bumped his arm with her elbow. "Hey, how's it going?" she called to an imaginary friend. Let's call him Brad. Yeah. Cool guy. When the sound of exploding racecar filled her ears, she grinned.

She turned, and Tim was looking at her, his lips scrunched up and his head slowly nodding. _So_ that's _how it's going to be, huh?_ She imagined him thinking. "Oops, sorry," she said in a tone that clearly indicated she wasn't.

"That's okay," he said, "I don't get mad...I get even."

Alex laughed. "Oh, do you now?"

"Yep," he said and turned back to the screen. He pushed the pedal down and spun the wheel. "It's part of my religion: Someone screws you over, you screw _them_ over."

"Sounds like a dumb religion," Alex said.

"That offends me deeply," Tim said.

"You'll get over it." She looked over her shoulder. "Uh, what's your mom doing here?"

"My mom?" Tim turned to look, and Alex grabbed the wheel and jerked it: His car slammed into another and both went up in little pixilated balls of flames. GAME OVER said the screen.

"Looks like it's _my_ turn," she said and hip-checked him out of the way.

"That was _low_ ," he complained.

"All's fair in l – war." She blushed because she almost said _love_. She pulled a quarter out and slipped it into the slot. "But only when _I_ do it."

Tim nodded. "Yeah, that sounds really fair."

"It is."

She gripped the wheel and pressed her foot to the pedal. She was tense, expecting him to retaliate at any moment, but he didn't. She got through the qualifying lap, then started the actual race. Kind of dumb that they did that: Here, before you play the game, you have to _earn_ it. The Japanese made all these things, didn't they? That was probably their way of getting back at America for all the atomic death we rained from the sky during World War II. She was halfway through the race and in fourth place – embarrassing, and in front of the guy she liked, too! – when Tim brushed past her and went around the side of the machine. "Aha! I _knew_ I saw a dollar!"

"There's a dollar?" Alex asked without looking away.

"Yeah, a whole hundred pennies...in paper form. Let me grab it." A spilt second later, he uttered a wobbling "Whoa!" and the screen went dark. Alex was in second and almost to the finish line.

Defeat from the jaws of victory.

She looked at him: He stared down at the cord lying on the ground. "Oops," he said, "I'm such a klutz."

Alex took a deep breath through her nose. She wanted to look angry, but the little smirk on her face betrayed her. That was actually kind of good. "There's no dollar, is there?"

Tim shook his head. "No. No there isn't."

Next they played Dig Dug. Alex loved this game...but she didn't understand it. Okay, you dug into the ground and monsters came after you, but what's up with the ghost guy? "How can he come _through_ the ground?" Alex asked as she jerked the joystick back and forth. A fire spitting dinosaur was hot on her tail, and she couldn't get close to any rocks: You're supposed to dig under them so they fall on your foes.

"Well...he's a ghost, right? Ghosts go through stuff."

"The ground?" Alex cried as another dinosaur took up the chase.

"They come out of dead bodies, don't they?" Tim asked. "Dead bodies go in the ground, so the ghosts _have_ to go through."

She finally got to the rock, but she was too slow: It crushed her instead of her pursuers. "No!" she yelled and bowed her head. "Dig Dug," she faux-wept.

"What are you going to tell his wife?" Tim asked. "Mrs. Dig Dug is at home right now waiting for him, and he's not coming back because of _you_."

Alex looked up, grinned, and pointed. "The ghosts – they're the spirits of Dig Dugs past." She pulled out another quarter and dropped it in. "Think about it, there's an endless supply of Dig Dugs dying day in and day out. It wouldn't surprise me if their world was haunted."

"Worse than the ocean."

Alex's brow furrowed and she looked at him. "What do you mean?"

Tim shrugged. "The ocean. All the ships that sank and planes that crashed and people that drowned. Every time you drink a glass of water, you're drinking liquid ghost."

"You're weird," Alex said, "and coming from _me,_ that's saying a lot."

Onscreen, dinosaurs and ghost guy chased her. She leaned forward, her heart beginning to race and her stomach clutching with dread. "No! Please!" She went under a rock, and it crashed onto her enemies, flattening them like prehistoric pancakes. "Ha! Take _that_!" Her jubilation was short lived, though, as another ghost-or-whatever-it's-supposed-to-be floated effortlessly through the dirt. "No! Have mercy!"

It didn't, and she died.

She threw her head back as Tim laughed at her. "Why, God?"

"Don't blame God for you being a lousy gamer."

She whipped her head around. "Where I come from those are fighting words."

"Where do you come from?" Tim asked, "lamesville?"

Balling her fist, Alex lunged at him; he threw up his hands and danced back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he laughed. "You're from coolsville, okay?"

"Damn right I am," she said.

Next, they played _Ms. Pac-Man._ Tim started off, and Alex behaved herself; she didn't sabotage him. "So she's not his wife," he said as he navigated Ms. Pac-Man through the first level, "is she his sister?"

"She's probably his girlfriend," Alex said, and that word made her blush just a little. Jeez, Alex, you're acting _really_ dumb today. D-U-M-B, everyone's accusing me!

Tim shook his head. "No, she has the same last name. She has to be related to him. Cousin, maybe?"

Hm. Alex hadn't thought of that. She always assumed that the creature was a Pac-Man, the way she was a human, not that it was Pac-Man the way she was Alex. "If Pac-Man is the family name, then what _are_ they?"

"Uhhh, I dunno."

Onscreen, a cut scene started: Mr. Pac-Man being chased by ghosts in one direction and Ms. Pac-Man being chased by ghosts in the other. Alex leaned in and squinted as Mr. and Ms. Pac-Man kissed and a little heart formed above their heads. She suddenly felt very awkward, and was hyper aware of Tim's closeness: Her arm was brushing his hand as it rested on the joystick, and she could feel the faint caress of his breath against the side of her face. Her heart caught and she swallowed hard. Wow, uh, this is either really nice or really terrible...I honestly can't tell which right now. She turned her head, and he was watching her with hazy eyes and slightly parted lips.

"Heh, I guess they're a couple," Alex said nervously, her eyes darting in a triangle from his eyes to his mouth and back again. She didn't realize that he was leaning forward – that _she_ was leaning forward – until their lips clumsily touched; her heart took off like a rocket and her knees went weak. For a second neither did anything else, then his tongue darted out and wiggled between her lips. She opened them, and they kissed tentatively, their tongues gingerly exploring one another. When each found the other agreeable, the kiss deepened, and Alex braced herself against the machine lest she fall. His hand brushed her arm and he squeezed lightly, his touch sending a shiver up her spine.

When the kiss broke, they were both grinning goofily. Alex tried to think up something cool to say, like a movie one liner ( _That was a blast..._ as things start to explode), but she couldn't, so she giggled instead. They turned when the sound of Ms. Pac-Man dying flitted from the machine: The game started without them, and poor Ms. Pac-Man was left defenseless against the ghosts.

"How about Space Invaders?" she asked.

"You're on," Tim nodded.

* * *

 **I stated in the summary that this story would go into the new millennium, but I'm thinking of ending it a little sooner (early '90s). It would be an open ended finale so I could pick it back up if the spirit took me, but satisfying enough to serve as a definite ending if I decide not to continue it. I have two possible endings in mind: One is light and happy, and the other is dark. In the dark ending, something happens that leads directly and indirectly to the deaths of five people and leads one of the Louds to pull a Jack Ruby on someone. Which would you rather see?**


	109. May 1982: Part 2

**STR2D3PO: I have plans for Bobby starting in the next chapter. I'd probably pick the story back up at some point, as I've really taken a shine to all these characters and to their lives, but I've been working on this story for, like, three months now, and I'm running low on fuel with it. I need to step back and take some time to recharge, work on other things, etc, which I wouldn't do until I have at least a temporary ending in place.**

 **Lyrics to** ** _867-5309/Jenny_** **by Tommy Tutone (1981)**

* * *

Rita Loud didn't watch soap operas anymore; they reminded her too much of Leni. In fact, everything reminded her of Leni, from sitting on the couch to lying in bed, and how could it not? For forty years her daughter was a constant, her life permeating the very foundation of Rita's reality. The sunrise reminded her of Leni, as did the sun set; holidays reminded her of Leni, as did regular days. It would have been very easy to curl up into a ball and simply stop existing, but she didn't, because for all the pain and suffering, she knew that one day she, too, would die, and she would see Leni again, and Luna too. This knowledge kept her sane. The separation was not forever; it was only temporary.

Most days Rita sat before the TV and read from her Bible, rubbing her wounds with the calming salve of God's word, rejoicing, albeit very mutedly, in His promise of eternal life. Somewhere, Leni and Luna both still lived, and just so long as she kept reading and praying and believing, they would be together again.

This didn't make it any easier, of course. She felt Leni's loss like a knife in her heart. Since she died, Rita didn't know what to do with herself, for through all of her children leaving, Leni remained. Now she was gone, and each day she felt cast adrift, aimless, without direction. She and Lynn rarely left the house for non-essential trips; his knee had been bothering him all winter, and showed no signs of getting better, and her fingers, which had been arthritic for years, ached every day now. It was almost as though Leni had been keeping them together, and now, in her absence, they were beginning to fall apart.

Bobby Jr. came over almost every day, and seeing their grandson was one of the only things they had to look forward to. He often had dinner with them, and Rita would insist that he have seconds, thirds, and even fourths, not because she was afraid he would waste away, but because she hoped he would be so full at the end of it he would be unable to do anything else but drop onto the couch and not leave them. It usually worked, too.

The girls stopped by almost as often, but didn't stay as long; they would pop in on their way home from school, say hi, have a snack, and then leave. They were both so big now, practically grown women. She felt so awful that Luan was missing her daughter's life. That was not a new emotion, but every time she realized that Jessy was growing up, it came back. She personally didn't think she could manage herself if she were in Luan's situation; fifteen years is a dreadfully long time. Oh, it passes quickly, but that's what makes it so long; moments fly by at such a rapid pace that missing a decade and a half of them just puts you that much closer to their end.

Two daughters dead and one in prison. Sometimes it was enough to make her wonder if she were being cursed, or tested like Job. Was that an inordinate amount of tragedy for one family? Part of her seemed to think it was, then she remembered the story of those boys in WWII, the brothers, six of them, who all died when their ship sank. Their poor mother! How awful it must be to lose all your children in one fell swoop. At least she and Lynn still had Lori and Lincoln and Lynn, and Luan, God willing, would be home in three years.

When you got right down to it, she had more than had been taken away from her, and she should count herself as blessed. She sometimes might not feel blessed, but she was, and that too kept her together.

Without Leni, though, the house was so empty! She never imagined it would ever be so still and silent. Perhaps they should get a pet. Yes, a dog, an excitable, tail-wagging, won't-leave-you-alone-for-two-minutes dog. Rita liked cats well enough, but they were so standoffish; they kept to themselves and having one sometimes was like not having one at all. Dogs, on the other hand, are like children, always tugging at your shirtsleeve and getting under your feet. A dog could never replace her children, of course, but it was better than having nothing.

Presently, she looked up from the Bible in her lap. The CBS Nightly News was on. Dan Rather was the host now, Walter Cronkite having retired early last year after nineteen years – not very long at all, really, a twinkling of God's eye. Lynn was in his chair with the paper held up in front of his face. He read it more slowly than in years past, pausing here and there to read from one of the many supermarket tabloids they bought during their shopping trips. "I think we should get a dog," she said, her voice loud in the preternatural quiet.

He hummed. "Dogs are a lot of work."

"Not small ones," she pointed out, "no more work than cats."

"If you want," he said, and that was that. When you've been married for over forty years, you don't have to speak to communicate; sometimes words are unnecessary.

Shortly thereafter, a knock came at the door, and Rita got up to get it. Bobby Jr. stood on the step in his work clothes, and Rita's heart soared. "Hey, grandma!" he said, and they hugged.

"Hi, honey, how was your day?"

"It was alright," he said.

"Bobby," Lynn greeted.

"Hey, gramps," Bobby said and came in, "every time I come over you're sitting around like a bum. It's almost like you worked fifty years or something."

Lynn chuckled. "It felt more like a hundred and fifty years."

Bobby went over and sat down on the couch. "Every day feels like a hundred and fifty years in that restaurant."

"Lincoln working you hard?" Lynn asked.

"Nah, it's his cook. Guy's always on my case. He's a real di – butthole."

Lynn shrugged. "You're always going to have people like that, son. You just have to deal with them, as hard as it may be at times."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I try. He drives me nuts sometimes. He was a drill sergeant and he thinks the place is Fort Flip's or something."

Lynn chuckled. "That explains it. Don't take it personal, in that case, that's just what they're programmed to do."

"What would you like for dinner, dear?" Rita asked over the back of the couch, her hand going to her grandson's shoulder.

He turned. "I was thinking I'd order a pizza. You feed me every night, now it's my turn to feed you guys, and order out pizza's my signature dish."

"That sounds very nice, dear."

* * *

Dusk was pooling in the park, the sky cooling to purple embers and shadows welling up from the field. In the dugout, Lynn opened her gym bag, threw in her ball, mitt, and bat, and zipped it closed again. Down the bench, Slater lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, the smoke hanging hazily around his head. Lynn threw her bag over her shoulder and, without a word, went over, plucked it from his lips, and threw it on the ground. "I'm getting pretty sick of your stuff, Slater," she said.

He spread his hands, a look of puzzlement rippling across his face. "I was smoking a cigarette."

"Exactly," Lynn said, and stomped on it, the sole of her high top grinding it into the dirt, "giving yourself cancer one puff at a time."

Slater rolled his eyes. Lynn wasn't the type of wear her emotions on her sleeve, but that didn't mean she didn't have any. Slater was her friend and it really bothered her that he smoked. He might not take it seriously, but she did, because one day it was going to hurt him, and who the hell wants to see one of their friends willingly hurt themselves? He might as well be cutting his wrists with a knife.

"Next time I see you with one of these things, I'm going to tackle you and shove the whole pack down your throat."

Love doesn't _have_ to be mushy; it can be tough.

Slater held up his hands. "Alright, fine."

She smiled. "See you tomorrow."

On the field, Ritchie was talking to Ben, the latter nodding and walking away as Lynn came up. Ritchie was dressed in jeans and a pale yellow T-shirt with white writing across the front, a blue baseball cap on his head. Lynn was nervous as hell as she approached, a slick, oily feeling way down in the pit of her stomach, but she wasn't too nervous to admire the way his shirt clung to his rippling muscles, and the way his Levis hugged his butt and powerful legs. She sucked her lips in to keep from leering like a happy pervert and glanced away. She was not entirely foreign to feelings of desire, but she was still unused to them enough that every time she felt her body beginning to respond she sputtered.

Ritchie was loading his bat into his bag when she arrived. She reached out and swatted his arm – his warm, toned, well-defined arm. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her, and smiled. "Hey, Lynn, what's up?"

Alright...here we are...moment of truth, Loud. You're a tough baseball player, swallow your nerves and do this thing. "I, uh, I was hoping we could walk together. I have to talk to you."

"Sure," he said easily. He turned away, zipped up his bag, and tossed it over his shoulder. "Let's roll."

Side-by-side, they made their way across the field and out onto Park Street. The lamps along the sidewalk started to wink on, casting murky pools of light across the pavement and chasing shadows into the street. The air was still warm after the heat of the day, but a chill was beginning to creep in. They passed a pea green 1981 Datsun parked at the curb, and Ritchie whistled appreciatively. "I'd kill for a car like that," he said. Lynn took a nervous step to the side, and he laughed. "Not you, dork, someone I _don't_ know." He winked. "Less chance of getting caught."

Lynn rolled her eyes. "That makes me feel _so_ much better."

"Eh, I wouldn't kill anyone," he said and hooked his thumb under the strap of his bag, "I might steal one, though."

"You'll wind up in prison," Lynn said and stole a furtive glance at him, her eyes tracing the outline of his face, his fine cheekbones, his proud nose, his strong chin. Her stomach clutched and her throat was suddenly very, very dry.

"As long as they let me keep the car," he said.

"Yeah, you'll look real cool tooling around D-block in your Datsun. All the other inmates will throw their undies at you."

He laughed richly. "Men want to be him...and they want to be _with_ him."

 _I want to be with you._

Her stomach rumbled sickly.

"You okay?" he asked, and Lynn blushed. Did he hear?

"Yeah, just kinda hungry," she said.

"Me too," he said, "no matter how much I eat at lunch I'm starved by the end of the day."

Lynn shrugged. "That's baseball."

"Yeah," he said, "you use up everything you have. If you do it right." Ahead on the left, a group of people in bright summery clothes stood by the order window of Carl's Ice Cream and around the stone picnic tables dotting the front. "You want some ice cream?"

"Uh, sure," she said, the panging in her stomach intensifying. She and Ritchie had stopped her a million times before, but this time, it felt kind of different...like a date?

Wishful thinking, Loud, she told herself; hey, her hopes were kind of getting up, so she had to quash them. It wasn't _really_ a date, it was just two friends having ice cream, that's all...so what if one of the friends wants to be more and kind of really wants to hold the other friend's hand and kiss him?

"Come on," he said, and nodded at the shop. They left the sidewalk and got in line behind a teenage boy in a denim jacket, his matted brown hair spilling over his shoulders. Once upon a time, she cringed when she saw a rock person, now she cringed...then thought of her cousin Alex. Alex was alright – I guess not _every_ metalhead is complete skuzz.

"What do you want?" Ritchie asked.

 _You_. Out loud, "I don't know. Strawberry?" Strawberry was _his_ favorite. Maybe she was trying to score brownie points...or maybe she suddenly liked strawberry. Shut up.

Ritchie nodded. "I knew you'd finally come around." Her favorite was mint chocolate chip. He teased her and said it tasted like toothpaste.

"I thought I'd change it up," she said with a shrug.

"Change is good."

"Sometimes," she said. "You and the other guys going to college isn't the good kind of change. I mean, for me. I'm going to miss you. All of you."

Ritchie nodded somberly. "Yeah, I'm gonna miss you guys too. Hey, I'll be back, so if you don't become all girly and stuff while I'm gone, we can scrape up a game."

Lynn snickered. "Girly. That's a good one, Haveman."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Talk to me when pigs fly."

The boy ahead of them got his cone and walked off. Ritchie stepped up to the window. "Two strawberry cones," he said to the cashier.

"1.50."

Ritchie dug a dollar out of his pocket and then went looking for change. "I have fifty somewhere," he said.

Lynn hurriedly pulled out fifty cents and laid it on the counter. Heh, Lynn Loud saves the day. "Here."

The cashier nodded, put the money into the register, and went off the make their cones. "Did you see that?" Lynn asked. "I bailed you out, Haveman."

Ritchie chuckled. "Thanks, Loud. I have fifty cents, though."

She shrugged.

A few moments later, the cashier returned with their cones and handed them to Ritchie. He gave Lynn hers, and their hands brushed, which made her heartbeat quicken. They ate as they walked, Lynn happily licking the frozen treat; it tasted good because Ritchie bought (most of) it. "Not bad," she said and glanced at her friend, "I see why you always get this."

"It's better than that Colegate stuff you get," he said, then smirked. "You _must_ like it." He reached out and swiped his finger across the tip of her nose; it came back pink.

Lynn blushed, whether from his touch or because she looked like a giant slob she couldn't say.

It was full dark by the time they reached her house. Soft light shone in the front window, and the porch lamp was on. She sat on the top step and Ritchie sat next to her; his ice cream was dripping down his fingers. Lynn took a crisp bite of her cone, and shards fell onto her shirt. She brushed them away.

"So what did you wanna talk about?" Ritchie asked.

Lynn's heart stopped mid-beat. She thought the moment of truth was telling him she wanted to talk; apparently she forgot about the actual talking part.

Ritchie was looking at her, she had to say something.

She took a deep breath. Her face was suddenly burning and her stomach rolled sickly. The weather was going to a lot better tomorrow...

"I just..." she rubbed the back of her neck and glanced at him. His eyes were soft and kind, as they had always been, now filled with concern. What did she do? What did she say? There's more than one way to skin a cat, but there are only so _many_ ways to skin a cat. Might as well just do it, like ripping off a Band-Aid. "I like you, Ritchie. Like, really like you. I know you probably don't like me back because I'm a kid and all, but I had to tell you. You mean a lot to me and I kind of wanna be more than friends."

Ritchie's eyes widened slightly in shock, and Lynn's stomach crawled into her throat. "I'll understand, really, I will, I just wanted you to know how I feel. I hope we can still be friends."

She bowed her head and stared at her knees, unable to bring herself to look at him, afraid of what she might (or might not) see. She was hot and quivering all over like a small, frightened dog, and her heart blasted against her ribcage. Ritchie didn't speak, and the air between them was heavy with tension.

Lynn felt hot tears forming in her eyes, and squeezed them shut.

Ritchie turned to her in a rustle of clothes. "I...I don't know what to say. I never thought...I-I didn't know."

"I'm sorry," Lynn said.

When he put his hand on her shoulder, she tensed. "Don't be. Look, you're a great girl...you're fun, you're caring, and...and you're beautiful."

Lynn flushed. He thought she was beautiful?

"I just...uh...well, for one, I'm leaving for college in the fall, and two...I-I don't know if it's right for us to, you know, be together. You're...and I'm..."

Lynn nodded. "I know," she moaned.

He sighed. "It's not that I couldn't see us, you know, together, I just...I don't know if we should be. At least for right now."

"Yeah," she said glumly.

"You mean a lot to me too, Lynn," he said, and surprised her by putting his arm around her shoulders. "And we'll always be friends, no matter what. For right now, let's just...wait."

She laid her head against his chest. "Okay. I'll wait. For you."

"I'll wait for you too," Ritchie said.

They sat together for a long time.

* * *

It was a warm spring night; Jessy sat at her desk with her homework before her and her radio on, the lamp spilling warm light across her work station. The window was open, and the curtains fluttered in the fragrant night-breeze. She stopped writing, held the eraser of her pencil to her chin, and thought very carefully about how she would word the next passage.

When Alex spoke behind her, she started. "Ah, what a _lovely_ evening!" She dropped onto her bed and kicked one leg over the other, then reached out and grabbed a hardback book from her nightstand. The cover depicted the snarling maw of a rabid dog. CUJO the title read. Another morbid, weirdo Stephen King book. Jessy rolled her eyes: Alex had been acting _pretty_ strange since she got home from the arcade. She wasn't sullen or anything, but she also wasn't usually this buoyant.

Something was up...and Jessy suspected it had something to do with Tim Underwood.

"I just love a good book," Alex said as she turned a page, "don't you, Jess?"

Jessy nodded. "Yep."

"And I love hanging out."

You also love Tim. Hahahaha. She didn't say that, though; she went back to work. On the radio, a commercial for an auto dealership went off. _"This is WKBBL, happy Thursday night. We are giving away two tickets to see Duran Duran in Detroit next month. Just be caller number nine and tell us the name of your_ favorite _hometown radio station."_

Jessy's heart jerked. Duran Duran tickets? She _loved_ Duran Duran! She whipped her head around, but Alex was already reaching for the phone Uncle Lincoln recently had installed. "Way ahead of you, Jess," she said and dialed the number from memory; every week, like clockwork, she called and requested AC/DC or Judas Priest. Never they obliged.

Jessy waited giddily, her tiny body thrumming with excitement. She could already feel those tickets in her hand.

After a moment, Alex snapped her fingers. "Darn. Caller number seven." She hung the handset up and started reading again. Jessy sighed.

 _"_ _You are lucky caller number nine! What's your name, caller?"_

 _"_ _Charles,"_ a familiar voice said, and Jessy's head whipped up, _"Charles Spencer."_

Jessy's eyes narrowed.

 _"_ _Who's your favorite hometown radio station?"_

Alex watched the radio with a lifted brow.

 _"_ _WKBBL."_

 _"_ _Alright, my man, you are now the proud owner of two Duran Duran tickets courtesy of WKBBL!"_

Jessy's lips pulled back from her braces in a sneer of disgust. Alex slowly shook her head and turned a page.

Of course Chuck Spencer got them! Ooooh, she hated that boy so much she could scream. Instead, she forced herself to get back to work as the deejay spun another record.

 _Jenny, Jenny, who can I turn to?_

 _You give me somethin' I can hold on to_

 _I know you think I'm like the others before_

 _Who saw your name and number on the wall_

Alex swung her foot back and forth and hummed along as she turned another page. Jessy stole a glance at her and furrowed her brows. Yeah, something _definitely_ happened with Tim. Maybe they held hands or something.

 _Jenny, I got your number_

 _I need to make you mine_

 _Jenny, don't change your number_

 _867-5309_

 _867-5309_

 _867-5309_

 _867-5309_

"You know that's a real phone number?" Alex asked.

"No it's not," Jessy said.

"Yes, it is."

"Bunny, no it's not; they wouldn't put a real phone number in a song."

Alex looked at her with a challenging expression. With a flourish, she closed her book, sat up, and reached for the phone. Jessy blinked. "Stop!"

"It's not a real phone number," Alex said mockingly, "so what's the problem?"

She paused. "I don't know the area code." She picked one at random and dialed. When Uncle Lincoln had the phone put in, he specifically told them to _never_ make any prank calls; if they did, he said he would take it out back and shoot it to pieces.

"It's going to be on the bill anyway," Jessy worried, "how are we going to explain that?"

"I don't know," Alex said, then in a singsong voice, "but it's ringing."

Jessy's heart dropped. "Hang up!" She lunged out of her chair and went for the phone, but Alex pulled away just as a man's voice came on the line.

 _"_ _Hello?"_

Alex grinned. On her knees in front of her cousin, Jessy winced.

"Hi," Alex said, "is Jenny there?"

 _"_ _GODDAMN IT!"_

Alex's eyes went wide and Jessy paled.

 _"_ _STOP CALLING ME! THERE'S NO JENNY HERE! WHO ARE YOU? I SWEAR TO GOD IF I FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE..."_

Alex slammed the phone down and chuckled nervously. "Uh, I guess she moved."

Jessy's heart was pounding and her knees shook. She blew a puff of air. Thank goodness that was ov-

The phone rang, and Alex jumped.

In the living room, Lincoln reached for the phone and brought it to his ear without looking away from the paper. "Hello?"

"Yeah, I wanna speak to the asshole in charge."

Lincoln's eyes creaked to narrow slits. "Yeah? You got him."

"Stop calling me, there's no Jenny here, alright? Every day you people bother me, calling, asking for Jenny, there's no Jenny, Jenny doesn't live here, Jenny _never_ lived here."

Lincoln frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know any Jenny and I sure as hell didn't call you."

"Well, someone from this number just did. I hit star 69 and this is what I got. I'm going out of my fucking mind. I have to take my phone off the hook every night before I go to bed just to sleep, it's insane, I'm going crazy."

"Who did you speak to?" Lincoln asked; he had his suspicions.

"A girl. She asked for Jenny."

Lincoln covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Girls!"

In their room, Alex and Jessy both started. "Good job, Bunny, now Uncle Lincoln's going to take the phone away."

They went into the living room, peeking very slowly around the corner, Alex grinning sheepishly and Jessy giving a stiff wave. Lincoln sat in his chair, his face hard. "Did you prank call someone?"

They looked at each other and shook their heads, Alex chuckling nervously. "What? Us? Noooo."

Lincoln put the phone to his ear without looking away from them. "Hold on a second." He gestured them over, and they both went on leaden feet. "Tell me if you hear the caller's voice." He handed the phone to Jessy, and she took it in trembling fingers.

"H-Hi."

"That's not her!"

Jessy turned and shoved the phone into Alex's hand as though it would detonate at any moment and blow her up. Alex lifted the phone to her ear and, in a deep voice, said, "Hi."

"That's her! That's her! I can _tell_! Who do you think you are calling me...?"

Lincoln snatched the phone from Alex's hand. "Look, it was two teenage girls messing around. They didn't mean anything by it."

The man was silent for a moment. "Well...who's Jenny? I swear to God I'm going to kill this bitch when I find her."

Lincoln covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Who the hell is this Jenny person?"

Alex and Jessy looked at each other. "It's from a song," Alex said, "Jenny...and it has his phone number in it."

Drawing a deep sigh, Lincoln shook his head and brought the phone back up to his ear. "Apparently it's from a song," he said, "it has your phone number in it."

 _"_ _MY PHONE NUMBER? OH, I AM SOOOO SUING..."_

"I apologize for my daughter," Lincoln said, "I'm taking her phone away and grounding her."

Alex's face dropped. "Dad!"

Lincoln hung up the phone and looked at her. "A week," he said, "I am taking the phone for a week. You will be grounded until Friday. If you give me attitude, you will be grounded until _Monday_. Is that understood?"

Alex sighed and nodded. "Yeah," she said heavily, "it's understood."

Next he looked at Jessy, and she cringed. "Why didn't you stop her?"

"I tried!"

"She did," Alex said.

"Alright, you're off the hook...under one condition: Disconnect the phone and bring it here."

Jessy nodded and rushed off, Alex trudging sadly behind.

A phone number in a song. Huh. If it was _his_ number, he'd sue too: He'd sue the record company, the manager, the singer, and the groupies too.

* * *

Some days are harder than others, and today was one of those days. See, every once in a while, it hit her: She'd wasted her life. She was thirty-nine-years old, a college dropout, and when she got out in three years, she would be starting over in a world that was probably different from the one she left. Forty-two is awful late to start a career and a life.

Worse than that was the fact that she had missed her daughter's entire life. She would be twelve in September, and she was a stranger to Luan. Every time she came to visit (once every year or so), she was visibly nervous and uncomfortable, and Luan really couldn't blame her. How terrible it must be for her to see her mother in prison. Luan imagined she would feel pretty uncomfortable herself. In her darker moments, she realized that she was really no mother at all; she was a birth-giver, and that's it. Jessy would be better off if Luan just died.

She was selfish, though, and she didn't want to die – she wanted a relationship with her little girl, even if it wasn't much of one; she'd already decided that when she was established on the outside, she would give Jessy the option to live with her, and if she didn't want to, she wouldn't make her. Her home had always been with Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and Alex, and though she wasn't a perfect person and had made mistakes, Luan wouldn't make the mistake of taking her daughter away from her family – her _real_ family. It was painful, but she did it to herself.

All for nothing. It was all for nothing. She thought she was making the world a better place, but she wasn't; if anything, she made it worse. She was young and naïve; now she wasn't. Things are the way they are, and no matter what you do, life will never be perfect. There will always be poor people, and starving people, and there will always be reasons for nations to go to war. People are flawed, and anything involving people, or built by people, or even maintained by people, will be flawed too. Capitalism, socialism, everything in-between – it was all the same, created and midwifed by men, therefore inherently defective.

Sitting on her bunk, she examined the notepad in her lap. It was a drawing of Jessy as she appeared the last time she visited in December. She was working on that and another at the same time, switching between them when the current became too painful. The other was of Leni and Luna holding hands in a field of flowers that Luan imagined was heaven. She didn't believe in heaven, but when you've lost two of the people who mean everything to you, you're hard pressed to think of them as simply being gone. She doubted they existed somewhere, but it was a nice thought that they did, that they were together again, all of their demons and imperfections washed away, happy and always by each other's side. She wanted very much for that to be true, and who knows, maybe it was.

Lincoln was bringing Jessy out this summer, and Luan couldn't wait: It would be her first contact visit, and she could actually hug and kiss her little girl.

July, he said. Two more months.

In other words, forever.

She sighed.

"You alright?" Maggie asked.

"Yeah," Luan said, "just a little depressed."

"Me too."

"Why?"

Maggie sighed. "It's been so long since I've sucked a dick, I can't remember what they taste like."

Luan was shocked into laughter. "You always do this," she said.

"Yeah," Maggie said, "and it always makes you laugh, even after...what, ten years?"

For a moment Luan thought. "Has it really been that long?"

Maggie was silent for a while. "Almost, yeah."

"Time flies when you're having fun," Luan said.

Maggie snorted. "Yeah, it's been a _blast_."

"Oh, shut up, you know you like it."

"Eh...it could have been worse. You've been a pretty cool cellie. I'm going to miss you when you leave."

"Aw, I'll miss you too."

And that was the truth. She _would_ miss Maggie. But she sure as shit wouldn't miss much else.

* * *

Alex held the gun out, arms extended, feet splayed, her right hand resting in her left palm. She wore goggles and noise quieting headphones; she was surprised her father didn't make her put on a cup, too. _This gun has one heck of a kick, honey, don't wanna hurt your ladyparts!_

He currently stood off to the side with Jessy, who also wore goggles and headphones; his arms were crossed and he watched her with welling pride. "Shoulders square," he reminded her.

"I know, Dad," she said and rolled her eyes. She was happy, though; she liked it when her dad was proud of her. A lot of the time, she had to do something not so fun for that to happen (like taking responsibility for doing something wrong, bleh), but today she was making him proud _and_ having fun. Twenty feet in front of her, a paper target featuring the black silhouette of a man, waited for her to pump it full of righteous fury. The stalls immediately to their left and right were empty, but further down, people practiced with rifles and handguns, the pop of gunfire and the metallic clack of bolts sliding back seasoning the warm spring air.

Alright, you scum-sucking bad guy, get ready for the clover. She squinted down the sight, slowed her breathing, and squeezed the trigger. The gun spoke, and a hole appeared in the target...not in that sweet, sweet killzone around the heart, but close enough to stop him in his tracks. She moved her arms a fraction of an inch and fired again, this time hitting the bastard in the throat. Ha! Thought you could insult AC/DC and get away with it, did you? Aspirate on your own blood! She moved her arms up, and fire, this time ripping a chunk of his skull off. She remembered one of her favorite movies, _Night of the Living Dead_. Kill the brain and you kill the ghoul. She fired again and again, killing the zombie dead as dogshit. When she pulled the trigger next, the gun clicked.

"Good job!" Dad said. He came forward, and she handed him the gun, making extra sure that the barrel pointed away from him and Jessy. She took her headphones off and grinned. "If that was a real guy he'd be pushing up daisies."

"That's why you don't mess with Alex Loud," she said.

He slipped the clip out and inserted a fresh one from his pocket. "Alright, honey," he said to Jessy, "it's your turn."

She nodded and took up position. She was nervous, and kind of didn't want to come, but she liked spending time with her uncle. He handed her the gun and she held it out the way he showed her. Standing behind her, he put his hands on her arms and tilted them slightly up. "You want to aim high," he said, "but not too high. You go for the biggest target: The torso. Headshots are fun, but when someone's creeping down the hallway at 4am with a crowbar, it's not about fun."

"Okay."

"Don't pull the trigger hard, just a light squeeze. If you jerk it, you'll throw off your aim. Breathe steadily, but don't fire as you're breathing in. Inhale...exhale...bam."

She nodded, her heart beginning to race, and he stepped back.

Jessy peered down the sight, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

 _BLAM!_

A hole appeared in the target man's side. "Nice shot!" Alex said, "you blew out his kidneys!"

"Good one, honey," Uncle Lincoln said.

Jessy felt a rush of accomplishment. She, too, liked it when he was proud of her. She aimed, stared down the sight, pointing directly at the bad guy's heart, and pulled the trigger.

"Wow, hole in one!" Alex said.

"That was a clean kill," Uncle Lincoln said proudly. "You hit the heart and stopped it instantly, which means very little blood."

Next, she aimed for the head, but the bullet barely glanced it. "That's okay," Uncle Lincoln said, "he got your message."

She lowered her arms and pulled the trigger again: The bullet tore through his cheek. "Ouch," Alex said, "that must have hurt."

"I imagine," Uncle Lincoln said, "getting shot in back hurt like hell, imagine the face."

"How long before he lost consciousness?" Alex asked.

Lincoln thought for a moment. "Hard to say. If there's a God and he's good, it'd happen pretty quickly. If there is and he's not, he'd be awake until he bled out."

When the clip was empty, Uncle Lincoln came over and took the gun, then leaned over and pecked her forehead, which made her smile. "You did good," he said, "I'm proud of you. Both of you. Who wants ice cream?"

"Me!" Alex and Jessy cried in unison.

Shooting paper targets and eating ice cream with his girls was a very good way to spend a sunny Saturday in May, Lincoln decided.


	110. June 1984: Part 1

Lyrics to Uptown Girl by Billy Joel (1983); Here Comes the Rain Again by Eurythmics (1984); Too Young to Fall in Love by Motley Crue (1983); Footloose by Kenny Loggins (1984).

* * *

Monday, June 15 was the last day of school in Royal County - for teachers. See, teachers start earlier and finish later than students...not just the day, but the whole year. Alex and Jessy had been out for a full five days, watching MTV, playing video games, and spending time with boys...well, Alex, not Jessy: She had been going out with Tim Underwood for two years now, and whenever she got the chance to be with him, she took it by the throat. They were cute together, and reminded Ronnie Anne of her and Lincoln...except Tim wasn't as amazingly great as Lincoln, but hey, who is? He might not be perfect, but he was perfect for HER, and isn't that what perfection is, something that's great in a certain context? Your perfect day and your neighbor Jim Bob's perfect day might be two totally different things. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, you know.

When Ronnie Anne got home that day, she found her perfectly imperfect husband in the driveway, knelt by the back bumper of the station wagon and using very bad language. She was only mildly surprised to see him home so early; he sometimes took off early and left Fred in charge. He trusted the old drill sergeant the way a soldier trusts their commanding officer, even though Lincoln was technically the officer. Every so often he'd have Fred over to the dinner and they'd talk shop, but never, Ronnie Anne had noticed, about what they did in their respective wars.

Anyway, Lincoln was kneeling by the bumper and cussing up a storm, his arms moving as he did...something. Ronnie Anne frowned as she walked up. Did someone rear end the car?

"...rip off his stupid greaser head and shit down his neck," Lincoln muttered. Metal scraped metal, and a shiver went down Ronnie Anne's spine. Ah. Nails on a chalkboard.

She stood over him, and he looked up, his eyes squinting against the glare of the summer sun. He held a screwdriver in his hand. "What's the matter, lame-o?" she asked.

"That son of a bitch Blades," Lincoln said. He moved, and Ronnie Anne saw it: A REAGAN/BUSH '84 sticker was adhered to the bumper, in the exact same spot as the last one. She rolled her eyes.

"You and him are going to drive me up the wall, lame-o."

"Me?" he asked and touched his chest. "I didn't put this damn thing on here."

Ronnie Anne hummed. "Yeah, but you probably made fun of Reagan knowing damn well Blades has a crush on him."

Lincoln started to speak, but stopped and bobbed his head back and forth. "I MAY have made a comment about him falling asleep during cabinet meetings..."

Ronnie Anne lifted her hand. "There you go. It's entirely your fault."

Lincoln narrowed his eyes and held the screwdriver up. She snorted. "You don't have the guts."

He playfully lunged at her, and she jumped back with a laugh. "I will kick you, and I'm wearing heels."

"I took a bullet, I'm pretty sure I can handle being kicked."

"You say that now, but just wait until you're sitting in the emergency room with your head tilted back and your nose bones falling out of your nostrils like potato chip crumbs."

A shiver went through him. "That's gross. You sound like Alex now."

Ronnie Anne snickered. Alex and her love of gory horror movies was legendary in the Loud house. Every Friday night during the school year, and every other night it seemed in the summer, they went to J and K Video on Main, and Alex would wander the tiny horror section like a kid in a candy store, her eyes wide and the corners of her mouth turned up in a sharp grin. After much hemming, hawing, and false starts, she'd come away with two or three VHS tapes with lurid covers and, more often than not, drippy, bloody writing. Later, at home, she'd pop one of the tapes in and curl up on the couch like a woman settling down to watch a light hearted romance. The sounds of screams, revving chainsaws, and her maniacal laughter would ring through the house. "Oh, right in the guts!" "Don't go in there!" "That's ONE way to get a head!"

"Like mother like daughter."

That wasn't true. She did not like horror movies. She preferred the historical dramas Jessy rented. Those were good. She and her niece would watch them together and pick out all the inaccuracies they could. "That wasn't around in 1925," Jessy would say, "it wasn't invented until 1928." Ronnie Anne and her family were real lame-os...and she loved it.

"Speaking of," Lincoln said, "she's out with Tim. I had half a mind to say no. Remember what we were doing at fifteen?"

Ronnie Anne grinned. "Of course I do. We mutually masturbated."

A cute blush touched Lincoln's cheeks. Heh. Mr. Grizzled war veteran is embarrassed. "Exactly," he said and turned back to the bumper.

Ronnie Anne opened her mouth to say something but stopped. She understood how he felt; who likes the thought of their teenage daughter being...ahem...sexually active? Not her. At the same time, though...it happens. You can't lock her in her room until she's eighteen. Her mother didn't do that to her, and Lincoln's parents didn't do it to him. Maybe you could argue that their parents were lax, but they turned out well, and all they could do was hope they'd raised Alex as well as they themselves had been raised.

"Get that Reagan crap off the car and stop worrying about Alex."

Lincoln was chipping the bumper sticker off now. "She's my little girl," he said seriously, and the tender affection in his voice made her smile. She leaned over and rubbed his head. "She's fine, lame-o," she said, "she has a pretty good mom and an amazing father."

Lincoln reached over his shoulder and clasped her hand in his with a contented sigh. "I love you," he said, and twisted around to kiss her fingers.

"I love you too, Lincoln."

Inside, Jessy and her friend Tonya, a thin girl with black hair, were sitting on the couch and watching MTV. Boy George danced effeminately while singing Church of the Poisoned Mind. Jessy had something of a crush on Boy George, and Alex teased her about him being gay. He certainly looked it, but so did half the men these days. Call her Archie Bunker, but she remembered a day when girls were girls and men were men, since the late sixties, though...ugh. If she was born ten years later, she'd probably still be a virgin because there's no way in hell she'd sleep with a man who looked like a woman.

She crossed through the living room as the next video started: A blonde in a pink dress twirled in circles as muscular men in tight pants, bowties, and nothing else danced around her.

Jessy and Tonya both squealed, and Ronnie Anne winced as her eardrums were ripped to shreds. "There she is!" Jessy cried and grabbed her friend's arm.

"I know!" Tonya cried excitedly back.

There was only one female singer Jessy squealed over...the same one who was performing in Detroit this weekend. Ronnie Anne felt a rush of guilt. Jessy begged to go, but the tickets sold out faster than a band looking for a hit. Yeah, she and Lincoln spoiled the hell out of their girls, and maybe it was wrong to give them every little thing they wanted, but what could she say? They were weak. That's to say: Not getting those tickets might be a character building experience or some damn thing, but Jessy was upset, and Ronnie Anne hated it when she was upset.

Stupid Lola and her stupid sold out show.

* * *

Alex Loud threaded her fingers through Tim's and squeezed his hand. "There's not as much horror as I was hoping for."

He nodded. "Yeah, it's kind of dumb." He reached into the bucket of popcorn on his lap and tossed a handful into his mouth. "You wanna leave?"

They were sitting in the back row of a largely empty theater watching a matinee screening of Ghostbusters. Alex knew going in that it was a comedy, but she was really hoping it'd be a scary comedy and not a stupid one. "No," she said at length, "it's not that bad."

She wasn't afraid of starting something and then stopping if it wasn't working out, but the movie really wasn't that bad. She reached into the bucket and grabbed a heaping helping of popcorn, unbuttered, just the way she liked it. When they first got here and Tim sat the bucket in his lap, she was kind of scared to stick her hand in: She'd heard something somewhere that guys cut holes in the bottoms of those things, stick their cocks through, and when the girl goes for a snack, boom, handful of penis. Yeah, it's stupid and doesn't make sense when you think about it, but...okay, it might not be cool, but she wasn't ready for sex stuff yet. Yeah, she was a normal girl and she got turned on, but she just wasn't there yet. Sheesh. What are you, the sex police? Worry about your own self.

That's not to say they hadn't made out; they had. A couple times, in fact. The last time, they were going at it and Tim put his hand on her breast...through her shirt of course. She brushed it away and he didn't try again. He respected her boundaries, and as ironic as it may seem, that REALLY turned her on. Afterwards, she told him she wasn't ready for that kind of thing yet, you know, so his feelings weren't hurt and he didn't think she didn't like him or something. He simply shrugged and said "Alright."

Presently, he took a sip from his fountain Pepsi and sighed. "I guess. You think you can really catch ghosts like that?"

Alex thought for a moment. She'd read a couple nonfiction books on ghosts, and some people thought they were pure energy. "If they're energy, then yeah, you can probably trap them."

"What if they're just imprints on the fabric of reality?"

Alex chuckled. He read the same books; some experts believe that "ghosts" are like echoes of the past. Think of it this way: You press down on a couch cushion, and when you take your hand away, there's an imprint. Boom. Ghost. "Probably not in that case."

Tim nodded. "Alright...could you catch a vampire?"

"No," Alex said immediately.

"Why not?" he asked.

Alex sighed. Didn't this guy know the first thing about creatures of the night? Apparently all their horror movie marathons were lost on him. " Because vampires can turn into mist and stuff. Remember 'Salem's Lot? How Mrs. Glick just...disappeared after Ben shoved the cross in her face?"

'Salem's Lot was her favorite vampire movie. It wasn't as good as the book, of course, but no movie ever is.

Tim nodded slowly. "Alright, assuming they're bound by the same laws of physics as we are. Could you catch one?"

Alex giggled. She loved their irreverent chats. "Well, yeah, but they have superhuman strength, so it'd be really hard. You'd need at least five guys to bring it down."

Tim frowned and turned in his seat. "Why do they have superhuman strength, though?"

Alex shrugged. "I don't know. I guess because in the original legends they were supposed to be demonically possessed or something. Like in The Exorcist."

"That didn't make any sense either," he said, "the girl's head did a complete 360. Yeah, she had a demon in her, but she was still, you know, physical. Her neck should have been totally broken, but it wasn't, which was totally bogus."

On the screen, one of the ghostbusters woke up in bed to a ghost, uh, servicing him, and made an exaggerated O face. Alex blushed fiercely and looked away. Wow, that's really awkward. Why would they put that in there? Tim coughed nervously.

"Well...all of that stuff falls apart if you look at it too closely," she said, carrying on as though nothing had happened. Kind of the...out of sight of out mind principle. Heh.

"I guess," Tim said, following her lead. He ran his hand through his brown hair. "Zombies are dumb too."

"They're scary as shit, though," Alex said.

Tim laughed. "Yeah, real scary, stumbling around and groaning like my grandfather in the morning before his geritol."

"Shut up," Alex snickered, "they're scary. Imagine a thousand of them coming at you in the middle of the night."

Tim took a drink. "A thousand of anything is scary. A thousand kindergarteners is scary."

"But it's what the zombies do to you that's scary. They eat you alive." She shivered. Being eaten alive by the walking dead was the absolute worst way Alex could imagine going. Except maybe for being burned alive. That would be pretty hideous too, your skin blistering and melting as the flames licked your body...oh, God. Nuh-uh. No way, no how.

"Yeah," Tim relented and sighed. On the screen, the Ghostbusters theme song was playing. "Do you wanna leave now?"

"Might as well, I haven't been paying attention for, like, ten minutes."

They got up and made their way out of the theater and into the lobby, which was empty save for an old man in shorts pulled up to his nipples; he stood with his arms crossed by the ladies room, probably waiting for his wife. Or maybe he was pervert who got off on the knowledge that women were peeing feet away. Tim took her hand, and she smiled dreamily. Hand holding is such a simple thing, but gratifying to no end. At least she thought so. Maybe it's lame and childish. Who knew? But if it was, well...give her a baba and a coloring book.

Outside, the day was hot and bright; a pick up truck passed in the street followed by a Chevy van. What kind of car did she want? She had her learners and Dad had been teaching her to drive...she was good, she just needed a little more time on books because the DMV is petty and stupid. She kind of wanted a Jeep. Those were cool. Or a tank, but those are probably a nightmare to get registered. Uh, sorry, ma'am, but your tank's fifty one tons, and Michigan state law says they can't be more than fifty and a half. Sigh. I guess I'll just have to take the turret off to lighten it up. That's a shame, though. The turret's the best part.

Alex found herself stealing a glance at Tim's crotch. Hey, she might not be ready to touch it, but she might almost be ready to see it. Soon. At some point.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the arcade; neither said they were going there, it was unspoken because, come on, it's the coolest place in Royal Woods. It's got games. Tim opened the door for her like the gentleman he was, and she responded by elbowing his stomach as she passed because when a girl likes a girl likes a boy, she picks on him. It's a scientific fact. She read it in one the encyclopedias her parents had on the living room bookshelf. Or maybe she didn't. It's still a fact, though.

Inside, the air was cold and seasoned with that beautiful arcade scent. Kids crowded around games and music drifted from the speakers. Billy Joel. Don't tell any one but she kind of liked him.

I'm gonna try for an uptown girl

She's been living in her white bread world.

Tim slapped her back and she stumbled forward. Oof. "There's your song."

Alex whipped around. "Excuse me?" I don't like Billy Joel, Tim, honest, he's a dork.

"Uptown girl, that's you."

"White bread world?" she asked, lifting a brow. "I'm Hispanic, jerk. Or...half Hispanic."

"So you're like marble rye...white and brown swirled together."

Alex snickered. "Shut up, idiot."

* * *

Lynn Loud walked by Ritchie's house at noon because it was on her way. She was going...well, she was just walking, okay? And her destination necessitated her taking that particular route. It's not like she was waiting with bated breath for him to get home from college or anything. Heh. What was she, a lost puppy?

Yes. She was. And she was totally waiting for him to get home.

So, she went by his house, didn't see his car in the driveway, and felt crushed. You mean I have to wait even longer? Oh, come, on! It's been two months already, isn't that enough?

The last time she saw him was spring break. They spent a whole glorious week together, playing baseball, eating ice cream, and just...enjoying each other's company. As friends, of course. She hadn't brought up her feelings for him since the day she confessed them; he knew how she felt, and she didn't want to be too pushy or needy or anything. She was getting kind of impatient, though; I mean, damn, I'm fifteen, I'll be sixteen in November, how much older do I have to be? That impatience, though, was muted, because the last couple times he was home, she noticed him looking at her, and not the way a friend looks at another friend, if ya catch my drift. His eyes had a newfound tendency to linger on her chest, and once or twice she caught him staring just a little too much at her butt. Catching him always made her giddy with excitement because it meant he liked what he saw, that he noticed how her body was developing: She may have had the body of a child when she first admitted her love for him, but in two years she'd turned into a woman with pert, though not large, breasts, shapely hips, and toned muscles.

Am I old enough now Ritchie? She could see herself saying as she advanced on him like a seductive cat, her hands lying themselves flat on his rippling pecs. Well...maybe she wouldn't go quite that far, but the thought of touching his chest did make her feel a little warm downstairs.

After having her hopes dashed, she went back home, where she restlessly paced the floors. It's been half an hour, should I go back? He might be home now. Oh man, forty-five minutes, he's GOT to be there now. At one point Mama asked her what she was doing. "You're running around like a chicken with it's head cut off."

"Just exercising," Lynn lied with a nervous smile.

"Why don't you go to the park?"

Gee, Mama, great idea, why DONT I go to the park? Oh, that's right, the guy I love is coming home today and I can't focus on anything else...not even baseball. Plus, the park is really far away and the farther I am from Ritchie the longer it'll take me to get to him and I JUST WANT TO SEE HIM, GAHHHH!

"Maybe," she said out loud.

To keep out of Mama's hair, she went into her room and paced, stopping by the head of her bed every now and then to look at the Polaroids tacked to the wall: Snapshots of her and her friends through the years. Her eyes instantly sought out Ritchie in every one, a hazy smile touching her lips when she found his face.

Should she bring...them...up while he was here? Sure, he knew how she felt, but maybe she needed to remind him. Hey, I still really like you, and look, I have breasts now...not that you haven't noticed, wink.

She was kind of afraid to, though, just like she was before she first told him, because what if? Gotta love those. What if he changed his mind? What if he found someone at college? What if he decided over the last two months to become a priest and couldn't be with anyone but God?

Only one way to find out, I guess.

Ask.

She waited a whole two hours before going back to his house, two long, miserable, antsy hours. But it paid off.

His car was in the driveway.

* * *

Jessy sat down on the couch and opened a can of Pepsi. On TV, a woman with short red hair and wearing a long white dress held a lantern aloft and picked her way across what Jessy could only assume was an English moor.

Talk to me

Like lovers do

Walk with me

Like lovers do.

Jessy took a sip and sat the pop on the end table. "Do you think they'll play the video for Kiss Me Twice?" Tonya Perkins asked. "I hope they do, that's the best Lola song EVER."

"Eventually," Jessy said, pointedly ignoring her friend's declaration. It was a well known fact that Lonely Girl was Lola's best song, but some people simply don't get along with facts. The lyrics were deep, insightful, and...Jessy could almost believe it was about her because like the girl in the song, she, too, was lonely. She had her family, of course, but she didn't have that special someone to make her feel beautiful and desired. No boys had ever approached her, no boys looked twice in her direction, and no boys had ever left a letter in her locker or on her desk professing their undying love and calling her "angelic" or "ethereal." Sigh. It didn't usually bother her, but every once in a while it kind of did. Bunny had a boyfriend, Tonya had...well, he wasn't really her boyfriend but they liked each other, and most of her other friends had boys they were with or almost with. What did she have?

Nothing, that's what, and sometimes she felt so, so alone...but Lola understood exactly what she was going through, and knowing that she wasn't the only one made it better.

In addition to understanding her, Lola was also very articulate, unlike a lot of the other pop stars she'd seen interviewed on MTV, and being kind of a geek herself, Jessy REALLY liked that. Most of the other stars were stuttering and dumb sounding: Wham, Pat Benatar, Van Halen...Boy George didn't sound dumb, though. Boy George was hooot no matter WHAT Bunny said.

"I can't wait," Tonya said and fisted her hands in excitement.

The current video ended, and Jessy's hopes soared...only to come crashing down when We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister started. Ugh. Jessy didn't like this video: The angry dad made her nervous. Okay, no, he didn't: He scared her.

Tonya sighed. "Ugh! That's not Lola!"

The front door opened, and Jessy glanced up as Uncle Lincoln came in. "Hi, Uncle Lincoln!" she said.

"Hi, honey," he said. His face was flushed and sweat stood out on his brow.

"Did you get the bumper sticker off?"

"Most of it," he said as he crossed the living room, "I'll worry about the rest later." He passed the TV and paused as, on screen, Twisted Sister's lead singer confronted the angry dad at the top of a staircase. He was big and muscular with long, curly blonde hair and lots of make up: Lipstick, eyeshadow, rouge. "What the hell is THAT thing?"

"A weirdo," Jessy said.

"And he's keeping us from seeing Lola," Tonya added sullenly.

Uncle Lincoln turned to her. "That's a man?"

"I think."

Uncle Lincoln shook his head and went into the kitchen. A moment later Jessy heard him talking to Auntie Ronnie Anne. "You see that big blonde thing dancing around on TV?"

Jessy giggled. Uncle Lincoln was a riot sometimes.

Twisted Sister went off and Tina Turner came on, strutting down a city street in a denim jacket, her hair permed and teased. Bunny got a perm "just like Motley Crue." She had to cut her cowlick off because it looked dumb, though. She used enough hairspray to deplete the ozone layer, and sometimes just standing next to her Jessy got a headache.

"I'm getting really impatient," Tonya said.

Jessy nodded. "Yeah, me too."

"We should start our own MTV that plays just Lola videos."

Jessy laughed. "There aren't THAT many."

Tonya shrugged. "So? They're good, at least."

Well...she was right about that. Uh, waiting sucked.

Fifteen minutes later, Alex came home, taking off her sleeveless denim jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. Her headphones were around her neck, and speaking of Motley Crue, that's what she was listening to now.

You say our love is like dynamite

Open your eyes

It's fire and ice.

She turned the volume down as she came over and dropped onto the couch in between Jessy and Tonya. "What're we watching, guys?"

"We're waiting for..." Jessy trailed off as the screen went blank and white text appeared in the bottom right corner. "Lonely Girl" followed by...

"Lola!" she and Tonya screamed in unison. Alex winced. Y'ouch.

Lola's face appeared from the darkness, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and her lips parted just enough to reveal the signature gap between her teeth. She started to sing, and Jessy leaned forward, her hands going to her chest and balling into fists; she smiled broadly, her braced teeth clenched and her eyes wide. Lola floated through a desolate, shadow filled house lit only by the glow of a single candle that faded in and out over her face during close ups. Ooooh, she loved this video: It was a clever physical metaphor for the emptiness conveyed by the lyrics. Most of the videos on MTV were simple and so transparent you could see the band's underwear, but not this one, it was intelligent and thought provoking and actually made sense. Presently, Lola stumbled through a hallway and frantically threw open doors, but beyond each was only her singing face...because she was a lonely girl...lonelier than Jessy even.

When it was over, Jessy sat back with a Cheshire grin. Next to her, Alex shook her head slowly.

"She is so beautiful!" Tonya cried. "And fashionable! And perfect!"

Jessy took a deep breath. Her happiness at seeing her idol was tinged with sadness. "I really wish her show wasn't sold out," she said glumly, "I very much would have liked to have gone."

She turned to Alex when she felt her hand on her shoulder. "You'll see her at some point, Jess," she said seriously, "even if we have to break into her house and make her sing at gunpoint."

Jessy smiled wanly. Every time she felt down, Alex was there to hold out her hand. She was really the best sister ever...and that's she was, not a cousin but a sister. "Hopefully it doesn't come to that," she said, "but I'm not discounting the idea entirely."

A devious smirk touched Alex's lips. "Just say the word, sis."

Later, after Tonya left, Jessy sat on her bed and stared up at the posters of Lola on the wall. Despite Alex's (admitted sweet and morbid) offer, she was really bummed.

As fate would have it, though, she didn't have to wait very long to see Lola.

* * *

"You know what your problem is, Santiago? You're lazy, a shiftless, snot nosed little bum."

As soon as Uncle Lincoln said he was going home and leaving Fred in charge, Bobby knew he was in for a shitty afternoon, and sure enough, here they were, face to face in the kitchen, Fred's finger jabbing Bobby's chest and Bobby's face burning hotly. His fists clenched and unclenched, his heart raced, and his body trembled. This was it. He was going to lose it and punch the motherfucker in his stupid pug nose.

It started shortly after Uncle Lincoln left. Fred wanted Bobby to run the grill since he, Fred, was busy up front. Alright, fine, no problem. The thing was, Bobby wasn't very good at the grill. Uncle Lincoln gave him a few lessons, but a few lessons doesn't mean shit in the middle of a rush. Bobby got overwhelmed and burned a couple patties…he thought they were fine, but the customers didn't and complained. Fred yelled at him, and that, combined with the stress of the rush, made Bobby screw up even more. When the pace slacked, Fred stormed into the kitchen, throwing the batwing doors open so hard they slammed against the wall with a sound like Armageddon, and started flipping out, cussing and screaming and calling Bobby names. Bobby swallowed his pride and apologized because he was trying to be professional, you know? Fred wouldn't have it, and now Bobby was so close to knocking the old guy out it hurt.

"You just wanna do the bare minimum and go home," Fred raged, "you uncle gives you a job and you think you can just skate by on family ties, well you know what? If it were up to me, your ass would have been out of here a long time ago. You suck, Santiago; you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose; you could suck a man's dick right off of his body; you're worthless and weak and stand up straight when I'm talking to you, you lilly-livered son of a bitch! Look at your bunk! It's a goddamn disgrace!"

Bobby blinked. Bunk? What the hell was this guy talking about?

Fred's face was beet red, his teeth clenched, his eyes bugging out of his head; a big, throbbing vein stood out on the side of his neck. Cristina's face appeared in the window, her brows angled down in confusion.

Fred jabbed his finger into Bobby's chest again. "You look like a slob, Santiago! Your uniform is the sloppiest goddamn mess of clothes I've ever seen in my life. The North Koreans will have a field day with your ass! You are going to die because you can't hack it!"

Bobby's anger was tinged now with something else…two somethings, actually: Fear and puzzlement. Something wasn't right here; Fred was having a fucking war flashback or something, and that made him dangerous because what do you do in war? You kill people. This crazy motherfucker was going to kill him.

"Uh, I-I'm sorry, Sarge," Bobby said, and tried to inch past the cook, "I-I just…you know…"

Fred blocked his path. "You're a fucking pantywaist, Santiago! You're the weakest, most pathetic one in this whole goddamn platoon. The only thing you're good for is cannon fodder! If Uncle Sam had a backbone, he'd do like the Russians and use you and everyone like you to clear minefields!"

The old man leaned in, and Bobby panicked: He shoved him back against the prep table and hurried into the dining room. Fuck this. Customers turned and stared as he made his way to the door. Fred poked his head out the order window. "That's right! Go AWOL! The MPs will love your sweet ass!"

Outside, Bobby went to his car, slipped behind th wheel, and turned the key in the ignition, his heart slamming like a drum; he half expected the crazy son of a bitch to come after him and jump on the hood or something, but he didn't. Music flooded the car, and he jumped:

Been working so hard

I'm punching my card

Eight hours for what?

Oh, tell me what I got

I've got this feeling

That time's just holding me down

I'll hit the ceiling

Or else I'll tear up this town

He threw it into reverse and backed up. Fuck that guy; got a fucking psycho working back there talking about North Koreans and shit. Wait until Uncle Lincoln hears about this; crazy bastard'll lose his job for sure…

* * *

When Lincoln went outside to finish getting that damn sticker off his bumper, he noticed the limo immediately; it sat at the curb to the left of his driveway, the hood open and thick white steam rising from within. A very large man with a nose ring and tattoos covering his bare, muscular arms stood over the engine block, his fingers absently scratching his head in the most obvious gesture of puzzlement Lincoln had ever seen. He would have gone over to help, but though he'd been driving for twenty plus years, he didn't know shit about cars, so he didn't; instead he knelt down and minded his own business. Having someone that close, behind his back, though, made him kind of nervous, and as he worked, he stole glances over his shoulder. The big guy shook his head, got back into the car, and that was that until a tow truck arrived and backed up to the front bumper. The driver got out, and the big guy did likewise. As Lincoln scoured the sticky remains of the sticker (goddamn fucking stupid greaser), he caught snippets of their conversation. "…back to my shop. Might be a while. "How long? We've somewhere to be." The second voice was British and presumably belonged to the big guy. "Probably a day."

Shortly, a door slammed, and Lincoln turned to see the tow truck driver hooking the limo to the back of his truck. The big guy went around to the back door facing Lincoln and opened it: A woman stepped out, a giant phone pressed to her ear. It looked like one of the walkie talkies they used in 'Nam. Lincoln squinted his eyes against the glare and studied her. She wore leather boots with heels, black stockings, a leopard print skirt, and a dark blue top under a leather jacket. He reached her face: Blonde hair teased and permed or what the hell ever you called it; brown eyes, lipstick, and…

Holy shit, Lincoln reconized her. It was that girl…the one Jessy went crazy over. Lollipop? Lolita?

No, it couldn't be.

"I don't care if Cyndi Lauper's doing it," she said haughily into the phone, "do I look like Cyndi Lauper to you? No, I am much better looking. And much more talented."

There was a gap between her front teeth.

It is her!

Lincoln gaped and rubbed his eyes. Well…this is unexpected.

The big guy closed the door behind her and looked at Lincoln, then back to her. He said something lowly, and Lola (that's it!) rolled her eyes. "I guess," she sighed.

The big guy started up the driveway, and Lincoln got to his feet. "Excuse me," he said, "we've encountered a bit of trouble and were wondering if you'd be able to help us."

"I will if I can," Lincoln said.

"Our car's broken down and won't be fixed perhaps until tomorrow." He looked nervously at Lola, who spun her hand in a circular gesture. Get on with it. "You see, we need a place to stay the night, and since we're here anyway…"

Lincoln blinked. Was he asking to stay here? That didn't make any sense. "There's a motel just up the street," Lincoln said, "I can…"

"We'd rather not," the big guy said, and stole another glance at Lola, who frowned as she spoke into the phone. "Too much chance of the press finding out, and we'd very much like to avoid that if possible."

"Well…we do have an extra room, but…" the idea of letting strangers into his home, around his family (expecially a big, muscular British guy) didn't sit exactly well with him.

The big guy reached into his vest, and Lincoln stiffened, his hands instantly curling into fists. If he brought out a gun, Lincoln would break his nose or catch a bullet trying. Instead of a firearm, however, he pulled out a checkbook. "How much, love?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I don't know, Chunk" Lola said shortly, "I really don't care."

"How does five thousand sound?"

Lincoln sputtered. Five thousand dollars? Holy hopping hellspawn, Batman! Lincoln didn't hurt for money – at all – but five grand is five grand. Plus…Jessy was a fan…

He made a show of thinking about it even though he'd already decided. "Alright," he said finally, "but I have two teenage daughters. If you even look at them…"

"I'm not into children, mate," Chunk deadpanned.

"One's fifteen."

"I'm not into children, mate."

"Alright," Lincoln said, "you can stay."

Chunk nodded. "Thank you."

While Chunk went around the back of the limo and got several bags from the trunk, Lincoln studied Lola. Jeez, Jessy was going to go crazy.

After conferring with the tow truck driver, Chunk carried the bags up the driveway, and the limo was sprinted away. Lola followed the Brit, still talking into the phone. "No, I do not want to open for Madonna. I don't care how good it would be for my career, it's an insult. Madonna should be opening for me."

Lincoln sighed. She sounded like a joy to have around. "Right this way," he said, and lead them to the front door.

Inside, Ronnie Anne was sitting on the couch. She looked up, and frowned when Lincoln came in, their guests in tow. "Who are –?" her eyes widened when she saw Lola. "No," she drew.

"We have company."

She looked from Lola to Chunk and then back again. "Their limo broke down, and they need a place to stay that isn't a motel where the press can bother them, apparently."

Chunk nodded. "That's right. The press are savages, mate."

"Look, I gotta go," Lola said, "I'll call you later." She held the phone away, pushed a button, and handed it to Chunk. She looked appraisingly around the room and sighed. "I guess it'll have to do."

Lincoln tossed the check to Ronnie Anne. She furrowed her brows, picked it up, and opened it. "Oh, wow," she said. "Jessy is going to –"

As if on cue, Jessy came into the room. "Auntie Ronnie Anne, can I…?" her jaw dropped when she saw Lola. Something like fear came into the pop star's eyes, and when Jessy screamed, she, along with everyone else, jumped.

"OH MY GOD! THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!"

Lola turned to Chunk. "Oh, great," she said through clenched teeth, "a fan."

Jessy was jumping up and down and shaking with excitement. "I can't believe this! Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God…"

Lola forced a tight smile. "Hi."

"You are my favorite singer ever!"

Lincoln couldn't help but grin at his niece.

"What's going on?" Alex asked as she came down the hall, "it sounds like…" she too stopped when she saw Lola. "Oh, wow."

Lola lifted a hand. "Hi, yes, it's me." She turned to Lincoln. "Where is my room?"

"Right this way," Lincoln said. He led her and Chunk past Jessy, who stood frozen in wide eye wondered, and Alex, who looked confused, but intriqued. She wasn't a Lola fan, but having a celebrity in her house was…interesting. At the end of the hall, Lincoln opened the guest room door and held out his arm. "Your luxurious accomodations."

It was a small space with a single bed in the middle, a chest of drawers, and a desk. Lola frowned. "Uh…this is it?"

Lincoln blinked. "Yes, this is it. It's not much but…"

"I really don't care if it's much," Lola cut him off, "is this the only room?"

"Yes."

She threw her head back and sighed. "I am not sleeping in the same room as Chunk. His feet stink and he farts."

"I have a disorder, love," he said.

"Sleep on the couch,"

"That couch won't fit me."

Lola crossed her arms. "Sleep on the living room floor, then."

"You know I hurt my back in the war."

Lola made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "Fine, but where am I going to sleep?"

"You can sleep in my room," Jessy said, and everyone started. She crept up noiselessly, and now she stared up at Lola with big, adoration filled eyes. "We have a really comfortable cot with a pillow top, and we can talk, and listen to music, and…and…and all kinds of stuff."

Lola looked at Lincoln; her expression said shoot me, please. "You can drag the cot into the living room," he suggested.

The pop star sighed. "I'm not sleeping in a living room. I guess I'll just have to bunk with…" she looked at Jessy and gulped.

"I'm Jessy," Jessy gushed, "and my cousin is Alex, but I call her Bunny because that's what our aunt called her, but I'm the only one who's allowed to call her that now since our aunt died."

Lola nodded. "Great, kid, real great. Show me where I'm sleeping."

Jessy grabbed Lola's hand and yanked the pop star down the hall. "It's right through here. Oh, I am so excited. The Lola sleeping in my room. This is literally the greatest thing to ever happen to me." In the room, Alex was sitting on her bed with a book. Lola stopped in the threshold and looked around with a sneer of disgust: Clothes, records, and magazines littered Alex's side. Horror rose in Jessy, and she shot her cousin a dangerous look.

"What?" Alex asked over the top of her book.

"Bunny, we have a very important guest and she's going to be sleeping here. Clean up this…yuck you call your half of the room."

Alex sighed.

"Now, Bunny," Jessy said firmly. Alex wasn't used to her cousin speaking so boldly, and immeadiately followed her orders.

Jessy turned to Lola and smiled. "While we wait we can watch MTV. They played the video for Lonely Girl earlier. It's my favorite song. The lyrics are so deep and meaningful and the video is a beautiful metaphor and I love it so much!"

"Uh, thanks," Lola said as Jessy dragged her into the living room, "I'm glad you like it."

Jessy sat on the couch next to Ronnie Anne, and Lola sat stiffly next to Jessy, her hands resting in her lap and a tight smile on her face. "I'm sorry about Jessy," Ronnie Anne said, "she's a huge fan."

"I've noticed," Lola said.

Lincoln came into the living room and glanced at Lola. "I'll get that cot out of the garage," he said, "it's –"

A knock at the door cut him off. Oh, who the hell was this now? He crossed the living room and opened it; Bobby Jr. pushed past and came in. "Uncle Lincoln, your fucking cook had a mental…" he trailed off when he saw Lola, his jaw dropping.

"My cook had a what?" Lincoln asked as he shut the door.

Bobby didn't reply. "My cook had a what?"

"Uh…yeah, nothing…who is that?"

Lola glanced at him, then away…never in his life had he seen a more beautiful woman. Her fine cheekbones, her brown eyes, her sensuous lips, her flawless skin…Bobby's heart jumped into his throat and his stomach knotted.

"That's Lola," Lincoln said, "she's going to be staying with us for a few days."

"Lola," Bobby repeated slowly, rolling the name over his tongue like fine wine. A big, goofy smile spread across his lips, and he started for her. She glanced at him again, looked him up and down, then turned to the TV. Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly a forearm the size of a treetrunk was wrapped around his neck from behind and he was being dragged back. "Whoa, what the fuck!" Bobby cried and thrashed.

"Down, Chunk," Lola sighed, and Bobby was released. He spun, ready to tear ass, but stopped: The guy behind him was six feet tall if he was an inch and had more muscles than a Mr. Universe contest. Bobby smiled nervously. "Uh…"

"What do you want?" Lola asked.

Bobby turned. Huh? His eyes fell on her, and he remembered. He opened his mouth, but his vocal cords froze up and his mind went blank. Could you blame him? He was standing before an angel, a literal, honest-to-god beauty queen.

Lola watched him with raised brows, her lips pursed. Bobby's heart throbbed. "I, uh, I…"

"An autograph?" she asked.

Huh? "Uh…well…I'd rather your phone number."

Lola's eyes narrowed, as did Jessy's. "Go away, Bobby! Lola and I are watching MTV!"

Ronnie Anne grinned and shook her head. Lincoln was in the kitchen on the phone with Cristina. "He's better now," she said, "but for a few minutes there he was freaking."

"I'll be there in five minutes."

"Please?" Bobby said. "y-you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, I-I.."

Lola sighed and waved her hand. "You can take him away now, Chunk."

Chunk grabbed the back of Bobby's shirt and pushed him toward the door. "Wait!" Bobby cried. "Please! I'm in love here! Don't do me like that!"

"Let him go," Lincoln said as he came in from the kitchen, "me and him have somewhere to be."

Chunk unhanded Bobby, and Lincoln put his hand on Bobby's back. "Come on."

Bobby threw a final glance over his shoulder as Lincoln hustled him out the door. "I'll be back," he said, "and I'll bring chocolates!"

Lola shook her head, but a very small smile played at the corner of her lips.


	111. June 1984: Part 2

**Lyrics to** ** _You're the One That I Want_** **by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John (1978);** ** _I Don't Want You_** **by The Ramones (1978);** ** _Fall in Love With Me_** **by Earth, Wind, and Fire (1982);** ** _Shot Down in Flames_** **by AC/DC (1979);** ** _State of Shock_** **by The Jacksons ft Mick Jagger (1984); _Beat It_ by Michael Jackson (1982)**

* * *

Lincoln stood in the middle of the kitchen with his arms crossed, his lips a tight, bloodless slash. Fred stuck out his hand and Bobby tentatively took it. "I'm real sorry," Fred said, his eyes darting away from Bobby's in what Lincoln took to be shame, "I guess you weren't the only one who got overwhelmed."

Bobby nodded. "It's alright."

"No, it's not, I kind of went off the deep end, even before I…you know. I didn't mean to."

After they made up, Lincoln sent Bobby home and looked at Fred. It was past dusk, and Flip's was empty save for them and Cristina, who swept under tables in the dining room. Fred bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "I had an episode," he admitted, and the abject misery in his voice broke Lincoln's heart.

"It's alright," Lincoln said, "I get it."

"I just…I don't know. I was stressed, Santiago was getting on my nerves, I went to chew him out…and it was like I was back in Korea."

Lincoln walked over to his cook and squeezed his shoulder. He had never had a full-blown episode himself, but he'd heard and read about them, and from what he knew, they were intense and so realistic you couldn't tell which end was up.

"I can't say I know what you're going through," Lincoln said, mustering his softest, most sincere dad voice, "because I've never had that happen. I _have_ , however, done...other things." He summoned a self-deprecating chuckle. Fred stared down at his feet, his embarrassment radiating off of him in waves. "Once, my daughter turned on her music all of a sudden and I hit the deck."

Fred nodded. "I've done stuff like that. That's just instinct, though. I wasn't going on instinct."

Lincoln nodded. No, from what Cristina and Fred himself both told him, it didn't sound like he was. "It happens," Lincoln said, "probably a lot more than people let on. Don't beat yourself up about it." Lincoln squeezed even tighter, sure that what he had to say next wasn't what Fred wanted to hear - hell, he wouldn't want to hear it either. "I do want you to see someone about it."

Fred stiffened under Lincoln's hand. "I know how you feel, Sarge. I really do. Remember, I was in Nam. The most important thing here is your health. You strike me as a pretty proud guy."

Fred didn't reply, but he didn't have to.

"Pride doesn't mean anything when you're running around the house in your underwear crying into a banana for air support."

A genuine chuckle escaped Fred's lips.

"I think you need a doctor, you know, professional help...but if you want to talk to me, I'm always here."

Fred looked up, and Lincoln was surprised to see that the old drill sergeant's eyes were misty. "Thanks, Linc, that means a lot. It just...it comes back sometimes."

Lincoln nodded. "I know. For me..." he trailed off and collected his thoughts. "For me, I don't think it ever left...not entirely." He liked to think that he was over it, but when he was honest with himself, he wasn't. The nightmares were fewer and farther between than they were fifteen years ago, and he wasn't quite as jumpy, but there were other things...like maggots. His mind always drifted to maggots someway, somehow. He'd see a car speeding down the street, and think something like _someone's in a hurry to get home...he must be excited for the maggot surprise his wife is making for dinner_. Stupid things, things he passed off as jokes...but what did they say about his mental state? What did it really say? Surely nothing good.

Fred sighed. "I guess that's just how it's going to be. Right?"

"I don't know," Lincoln said honestly -of both Fred and himself - "but I want you to be okay, and that means swallowing your pride and seeing a doctor or something." He squeezed the old man's shoulder once more. "That's an order."

Fred grinned and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Lincoln patted his back. "Good. You want tomorrow off?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, then," Lincoln said and smirked, "get out of my face."

After Fred left, Lincoln leaned heavily against the prep table, his hands splayed on the cold metal and his face settling into a grim expression. How likely was _he_ to have an episode like that? It'd been fifteen years and he hadn't yet, but like they say, there's a first time for everything. He imagined himself going back to Vietnam in his mind and shooting a gook in the chest, only to snap out of it and find Jessy, or Alex, or Ronnie Anne dead at his feet; tears welled in his eyes and dread formed in his stomach. No. That wouldn't happen. God, he could _never_ hurt his girls. Only he knew that it wouldn't be one of the girls until it was too late: It would be a Vietcong with a bamboo shoot in one hand and a bowl of maggots in the other.

 _I should take my own advice, he thought, I should talk to someone too._

Sighing, he pushed away from the table, snapped off the light, and went into the dining room where Cristina was just putting away the broom. Lincoln walked to the register, took out her pay for the day, and sat it on the counter.

"Is he alright?" she asked as she came over and picked up the bills.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "he's fine."

She counted the money and slipped it into the pocket of her dress, "Good. He was pretty scary for a minute."

Lincoln closed the register and turned, "Imagine how scared you were and multiply it by ten; that's how _he_ feels."

A flicker of confusion crossed the girl's face. "A-Alright." She took her apron off and hung it up. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright, take care. Say hi to Tommy for me. I haven't seen that kid in forever."

"He works a lot," Cristina laughed, "sometimes he comes home and drops right into bed."

Tommy and Cristina had been living together for almost a year and a half. They both worked and took classes at the college: Tommy for something to do with engineering and Cristina for veterinary science or something. She told him several times but he could never remember. His head was so crammed with other things that he could only fit new data by jettisoning old data. I have to memorize this security code, I better ditch my recipe for maggot soufflé.

See?! That's the kind of thing I'm talking about, Loud. You call that _healthy?_

No, he did not. He didn't know _what_ to call it.

After Cristina left, he locked up, got in the car, and drove home through the gathering gloom, the radio turned up to drown out any dark thoughts that might try to wiggle their way in.

It didn't work.

He saw Jessy lying dead on the floor, and Alex huddled in a corner and weeping. _Daddy, stop!_ Then he saw himself, face red, teeth clenched, eyes fevered with shell shock and a gun in his hand.

By the time he reached his driveway, he was cold and shaking, and it took him almost half an hour to calm down enough to get out and go inside.

* * *

Lynn dropped onto the bench, twisted the cap off her Coke, and took a long, cold drink. Ah. Nothing more refreshing than the sweet, sweet taste of Coca-Cola...except for playing baseball with the guy you love, that's pretty refreshing too, and revitalizing, and...other stuff.

On the twilight field, Ritchie wound up for the pitch and threw: Kaufman swung but missed, the ball thumping into Slater's mitt. "Strike three, asswipe, you're out."

Kaufman kicked dirt and Ritchie laughed. "You're rusty, Kauf; what, they don't have baseball at Cal Tech?"

"No," Kaufman said as he started away from the plate, "but they have your mom."

"Ooooo," Slater said.

"Kaufman's feeling froggy," Ritchie said. "He must want me to whip him."

Lynn sat her drink aside and leaned forward, her eyes focused on Ritchie's face: His boyish grin, the twinkle in his eye. In that moment she wanted to kiss him so bad it hurt.

They'd been together most of the day, first at his house, where they played catch in the backyard while talking and teasing each other, then here at the park, where they eventually hooked up with Slater and Kaufman. The others weren't home yet, but when they were it'd be just like old times. Lynn was happy they were coming, yeah, but if they didn't, oh well…she'd just have to have Ritchie to herself.

Presently, Ritchie made his way over to the dugout, and Lynn's heart started to beat faster. He came in, grabbed a Coke from the cooler, and sat next to her with a sigh.

"Nice pitching," she said, "but Kaufman's not the only one who's rusty."

Ritchie chuckled. "Hey, I play as much as I can, but that's not often." He opened the Coke and took a drink. "You weren't exactly the sultan of swat today yourself."

Heh. Yeah. She missed more swings than she landed, but it wasn't really her fault...see, the ball was being thrown by a really cute guy in tight jeans. How can you expect her to focus under those circumstances?

Should she say that? She did want to bring up the subject of their relationship...

"Eh, I couldn't focus. On the ball."

"Yeah? That's the whole point of batting, Loud, or did you forget that while I was gone?"

Lynn took a drink of her Coke. "No. I can usually focus, just...I dunno." She couldn't bring herself to say it. Some tough baseball player, huh?

Why was this so difficult? He was almost more trouble than he was worth. Okay, that's a lie, but still...gahhh!

You know what? Suck it up and power through. Stop acting like a wimp. You're Lynn Loud, and when Lynn Loud wants something, she goes out and takes it or dies trying.

But...I've never wanted anything as much as I want Ritchie. What if...?

What if you stopped pussyfooting around? Huh? What then? What if you just kissed him?

Lynn's stomach clutched. I can't do that! He might not want me to and it might ruin our friendship.

Or he might like it and kiss you back.

Well...maybe, but...

No buts, Loud, grow a set and get the guy.

"Lynn?" Ritchie asked worriedly, and Lynn jumped.

"Yeah?"

"You alright?"

Lynn nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine, just thinking."

"You looked like you were pretty deep in thought."

"I was." She nervously pushed the bill of her cap up.

"What about?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Lynn's mouth was dry and her heart blasted against her ribcage. She felt warm and weak and shaky, and she didn't know if she loved it or hated it. She swallowed, steeled her resolve, and looked up at him. "You," she said.

Ritchie's lips turned up in a little smile. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "And me, and if I'm old enough now for us to be together."

Ritchie took a deep breath and looked into her eyes, his smile tightening as he considered. Why was he thinking about it? She had to do something to sway him. Acting on pure instinct, she touched his face, the feeling of his warm flesh making her heart skip a crazy beat. "I want to be with you," she said, giving voice to the first thing that came into her mind, into her heart. "Very much."

For a moment he simply looked at her, then he reached out and touched her face too, his thumb brushing her cheek and making her shiver pleasantly. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, her voice a trembling whisper.

He smiled at her, then bent forward. Heart racing, Lynn met him halfway, their lips pressing lightly together and the tips of their noses grazing. His fingers threaded into her hair, and his eyes stared softly into hers as their breaths mingled. He made no further move, and somehow Lynn knew that he was waiting for her to decide, giving her one last chance to back out...or to give herself to him entirely.

She tilted her head to the side and kissed him, their tongues meeting with an electric spark and moving slowly over one another. Her hand fluttered to his chest, and her fingers curled feebly into his powerful muscles. The sweet taste of his mouth made her head spin, and the soft caress of his fingertips against her skin made her shiver.

"Hey," Kaufman said as he came in to the dugout, "we're gonna..." he trailed off when he saw them. Neither noticed his presence, and neither would have cared if they had. Slater came up behind his friend, took in the sight before him, and furrowed his brows. He always kinda thought Lynn was into girls, but from the way she was sucking Ritchie's face off, like a starving woman sucking down a turkey dinner, he was wrong...so, so wrong. Eh. Wouldn't be the first time.

He slapped Kaufman's shoulder. "Come on, let's get outta here before they start taking their clothes off.

"Yeah," Kaufman said and turned, "that's one ball game I don't wanna be around for."

When the kiss finally broke, Lynn looked up at Ritchie with shimmering eyes and a smile that went on for days. "So?" she asked hopefully.

"You wanna see a movie tomorrow?"

* * *

Lola drew a heavy, frustrated sigh and shook the can of Aquanet. It was almost gone and she didn't bring any more because she assumed, silly her, that they would be in Detroit right now, and not in some Podunk little town a million miles from nowhere. In Detroit, she could go without for a little while, since she would spend most of her time in her room, away from prying eyes. Here, however, she was forced to keep up appearances because there were people _everywhere._ Like that annoying little girl with the braces. Ugh. She just would not shut up. Lola this, Lola that, Lola, Lola, Lola...it was enough to make her want to pull her hair out. At least then she wouldn't need this stupid Aquanet. She _hated_ putting that crap on, it made her naturally silky locks stiff and hard. Oh, but everybody's doing it. Madonna's doing it, Cyndi Lauper's doing it. She didn't care what those bimbos were doing, she was her own person and she was tired of being told to act and dress like someone else, she was sick of being light and poppy and appealing to teeny bopping valley girls. Like, totally. She was a serious musician. Oh, but no one's going to take you seriously. You're too cute and blonde.

Well...Lonely Girl was a serious song, and it was doing just fine. Braceface liked it; the only thing that kept Lola from snapping at her was the fact that she seemed a little more intelligent than her average fan. "Was the video for Lonely Girl conceived as a visual metaphor, or was it unintentional?" she asked at one point, and Lola was impressed. You don't hear too many little girls using big words. Lola enjoyed big words, because once upon a time, they set her apart; using them made her different from the white trash she grew up with, and from her white trash Mama and all her little redneck boyfriends. Intelligence in Bristol was a rare thing, and Lola liked being a rare thing.

Ha. Not that she was now. She looked just like every other pop slut in the year 1984. If you sat down and watched an hour of MTV, you'd see the same bland style a thousand times, and you'd hear the same empty song a thousand times: Overly produced synthesizers and inane lyrics. Might as well jump. Pfft. David Lee Roth had _that_ right...jump from a tall building.

Why can't I just be me? I'm pretty great, if I do say so myself.

Wasn't she?

Sometimes she honestly wondered, and sometimes, late at night as she lay awake, she couldn't help but think that despite all of her success and all of the books she'd read and all of the work she'd put into being better...that despite all of that, she was still just trailer trash.

Sigh. At least when she _was_ trailer trash, she had Lana. Now, all these years later, she had no one, just a roadie who only hung out with her because she paid him (sexless prostitution, if you asked her), greedy music industry types who wanted to make a profit from her, and guys who wanted to fuck her and throw her away.

Like garbage.

She held the can to her hair and depressed the button. She was sitting cross legged on a cot between Alex and Jessy's beds, her slender, feminine form clad in a pink nightgown. Alex sat up in her bed reading a book with yucky, grody blood on the cover, and Jessy was humming and writing in a notebook, her attention divided between the page and Lola. Lola was aware of this, and did her best to ignore it. She was starting to get a little creeped out, to be honest: She wouldn't put it past the girl to tie her to the bed, break her legs so she couldn't get away, and keep her here forever. _I'm your biggest fan!_ Whack. Well, there goes my foot.

She moved the can over her whole head in a wide circle, making sure to get every single strand. I have to look my poppiest. God forbid anyone in the music industry show individuality.

Behind her, Alex coughed. "You're killing me with that stuff," she said.

"Too bad, kid," Lola replied.

Lola could sense the girl opening her mouth to reply, but Jessy cut her off. "Bunny, leave Lola alone!"

"I'm strangling over here! It's worse than mustard gas!"

Lola snorted. "Aquanet is hardly comparable to mustard gas, sweetie. Try again."

"That's right," Jessy said, "if it were mustard gas, you would be dead right now."

Alex pulled her shirt up over her nose. "I feel like I'm dying."

"You use just as much," Jessy said.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No. I. Don't."

Ugh. Listening to two little girls bickering was not what she wanted to do with her evening. If she wasn't afraid of being recognized, she'd take a walk, but she would be, and instead of one Jessy there would be a dozen, a hundred, a million…shudder. She would literally rather pull out her intestines and skip rope with them than deal with a bunch of screaming, squealing teenagers. She had half a mind to drag her cot in to the living room and be done with it, but sleeping in living rooms reminded her of the many, many nights she and Lana were forced to sleep in the living room at home while their mother "entertained" guests in the single bedroom - the dirty, grody, roach infested living room. You'd wake up to the flutter of insect legs on your skin, and sometimes you'd be covered in bugs and you'd scream and...no. It might not make much sense, but she could not rest easy surrounded by TV's, couches, and armchairs.

So in here with the scissor sisters it was.

She sighed and held up a hand. "Can you two please stop talking? You're giving me a headache."

"Sorry, Lola," Jessy said quickly.

Alex glared at the back of the pop star's head, then slowly lifted her book up, covering her face

Satisfied that her hair was as stiff as it could be, Lola capped the Aquanet and sat it next to the bed. She was reaching for her pick when something banged against the window between the girl's beds; her heart leapt into her throat and Jessy cried out. Alex looked up from her book and frowned.

It came again, and Alex got up. Jessy and Lola both watched nervously as Alex pulled the blinds up: She screamed and jumped back, which made Lola and Jessy scream too.

"Bobby?"

She unlocked the window and lifted the sash. The guy from earlier was back, a stupid grin plastered to his face as he poked his head into the room. He wore a black button up open at the throat, and a gold chain hung around his neck. "Hey, how's it going?'

Lola rolled her eyes and turned away.

"What are you doing here?" Alex demanded. "You scared the shit out of us."

"I just wanted to see my two favorite cousins," he said innocently.

Alex crossed her arms and lifted a brow.

"Alright, alright," Bobby said, "I'm here to steal _her_ heart."

Lola glanced over her shoulder. "Are you now?"

Bobby nodded. "I was going to write you a poem about your eyes being two limp cesspools or something, but me and words don't get along."

Lola snickered. Did this poor bastard have any idea what he just said?

"So," he continued as he took something from his shirt pocket and held it up, "I made you a mix tape."

A mix tape? Really? "How very junior high of you," she said sarcastically and turned away. She grabbed her pick and started to tease out her hair. "Did you make me a friendship bracelet too?"

"Oh, come on, give it a chance."

"Bobby," Alex said sharply, "she's not interested. Go away."

Who said she wasn't interested? In hearing what was on the tape, that is.

"Just wait 'til she hears this," he said. He turned, walked roughly ten feet back, and grabbed a boombox from a bush. He put the tape in, held it up, and pushed PLAY.

"He's such a dork," Jessy sighed.

Lola hummed her agreement. It certainly seemed that way.

Especially when the music started.

 _I got chilllllls_

 _They're multiplyin'_

 _I'm loooosin' contr-ool_

 _'Cause the power you're supplyin'_

 _It's electrifyin'_

Lola snickered. Okay, wow.

"Grease, Bobby, really?" Alex asked.

 _You're the one that I want_

 _Oo-oo-oo._

 _You're the one that I want_

 _Oo-oo-oo_

 _You're the one that I need_

 _Oh, yes indeed._

Lola was looking over her shoulder now, a bemused smile on her lips. This was _not_ happening. God, it was like something from one of those stupid teen comedies. Jessy hid her face in her hands, so ashamed was she by her cousin's total dorkitude. Alex shook her head sadly. Lola had seen some stuff in her day, but this took the cake.

An idea struck her, and her smile turned in to a shark like grin. "Hey, kid," she said to Alex; Alex looked at her. "You like that angry rock stuff. Do you have anything to tell him to piss off?"

Alex scrunched her brow in thought. "Ummm. I should. Let me check my tapes."

While she did that, Lola slipped off the bed and scurried to the window on her knees. Bobby stood in the backyard, the radio lifted over his head. A hot blush spread across her cheeks; it was like a train wreck. She was _so_ embarrassed for him.

"Here you go," Alex said and handed Lola a boombox of her own. She pushed the play button, and rock music issued forth. Lola held it out the window and smirked.

 _I don't care, I don't care_

 _I don't care, I don't care_

 _I don't want you._

Bobby's face fell. Heh. Good choice, kid.

Undaunted, he lowered the radio, pushed the fast forward button, then held it up again.

 _Baby, you know, I could pick you up_

 _Turn your life around_

 _If you fall in love with me_

 _I would build you up, never let you down_

 _If you fall in love with me_

Lola's jaw dropped and her face burned furiously. Oh, wow, that, uh…that's pretty…yeah…

He smiled and nodded as if in agreement with the lyrics.

Lola held her hand out behind her. "Give me something else."

A moment later, Alex handed her a tape, and Lola put it in.

 _Shot down in flames_

 _Shot down in flames_

 _Ain't it a shame_

 _To be shot down in flames?_

Lola grinned smugly and cocked her head. Checkmate, Bobby; you've been shot down in flames.

Bobby lowered his radio, hit the fast forward button, then lifted it once more, a cocky smile forming at the corners of his lips.

 _Yeah, come on, baby._

 _You gotta be mine 'cause you're so fine._

 _I like your style, it makes me wild._

 _You take it to me good, you like it,_

 _Know, you should._

 _You get me on my knees, well, please,_

 _Baby, please._

 _Listen: She looks so great, every time I see her face_

 _She put me in a state, a state of shock._

She laughed. Oh, no you don't! She looked over her shoulder just as Jessy shoved a tape at her. "Here," she said with a grin, "this one is _perfect."_

Lola took the current tape out, slipped the new one in, and hit play.

 _Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it_

 _No one wants to be defeated_

 _Showin' how funky and strong is your fight_

 _It doesn't matter who's wrong or right_

 _Just beat it, beat it_

 _Just beat it, beat it_

 _Just beat it, beat it_

 _Just beat it, beat it_

"Take _that_ , Bobby," Lola called, leaning out the window.

"Fine," Bobby called back, "but only if you go on a date with me."

Lola laughed. "Uh, no."

"Come on. Please? I really wanna take you out."

"Nope," Lola replied, "not happening."

"Even if I get on my knees and beg?"

She started to speak, but the loud scrape of a window being opened stopped her. "What are _you_ doing?" Chuck asked.

"Something that's none of your business, pal."

Lola grinned and turned to the girls behind her. "Should I sick Chunk on him?"

They both shook their heads.

"It's alright, Chunk," she called, "go back to bed."

In the yard, Bobby popped his collar. "Yeah, Chunk, go back to bed."

The window closed, and Lola looked at Bobby the same time he looked at her; for some reason she couldn't name, her heartbeat sped up and the blush in her cheeks deepened. He smiled. "Please?" he asked, his voice soft and sincere.

Lola shook her head. "Hmmm, no." Her voice was also soft; she detected a teasing edge that she did not consciously intend. It also sounded like she was smiling. Was she smiling? It kind of felt like it, but it had been so long since she smiled that, to be honest, she forgot what it was like.

Ew, why was she smiling? Guy was a dork! Though...he _was_ kind of cute.

"Pretty please?" he asked.

Lola crossed her arms on the sill and leaned forward, the cool night breeze caressing her fevered face; she felt the sudden, perverse urge to say yes. "No, Bobby."

He grinned like a loon even though she just turned him down...repeatedly. Is he on something? "I really like it when you say my name."

She smiled. She couldn't help herself. "Bobby."

Behind her, Jessy and Alex exchanged a puzzled glance. Lola rocked forward on her knees and giggled. "I think she likes him," Alex whispered.

Jessy shook her head and tried to speak, but words escaped her. This had been a strange day, from finding her favorite singer literally standing in her living room to...whatever this was, and right now, she was kind of dizzy.

"Why won't you go out with me?" Bobby asked.

Lola scrunched her lips to the side and made a thoughtful humming noise. A dozen reasons came instantly to mind, but the one that stood out the most was this: He didn't even know her. He was another guy taken by her beauty, and if there was one thing she did not want, it was to date someone who was superficially infatuated with her. If she was going to even begin to possibly consider the prospect of letting someone into her heart, they'd need to be more than a shallow toad drooling down their shirt because "herrrrr prettyyyyy."

She didn't say that, though, because that was cutting a little too close to the bone, and when it comes to emotions, Lola did not cut close to the bone; long ago she learned that any whiff of vulnerability, like blood, brings sharks, and being open with how you feel is a sign of vulnerability apparently. Hey, she didn't make the game, she just played it.

" _Why_ do you want to go on a date with me?" she asked instead.

Bobby shrugged. "Because you're beautiful and I wanna get to know you better. That's what you do on a first date, right?" He pursed his lips and squinted his eyes in a contrived attempt to exaggerate his natural handsomeness, and Lola laughed. Oh, jeez.

"No, Bobby," she said with a playful grin.

He stuck out his bottom lip.

"No, Bobby."

He tilted his head and whined deep in his throat like a puppy. Awww...he was cute...but Lola was not in the habit of picking up stray dogs. "Go home, Bobby."

Bobby drew a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping and his head bowing. "Alright," he said sullenly. He picked up his boombox and cast one last look at Lola: His warm brown eyes locked with hers, and Lola's breath caught in her throat. They were so tender...and vulnerable, and...she shook her head. Uh, no.

But the smile in her voice said otherwise. "Goodnight, Bobby."

He grinned just a little. "Goodnight, Lola."

A giggle bubbled up in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down. Bobby turned and made his way out of the backyard, disappearing around a corner. Lola watched him go and sighed. He _was_ charming...in a fumbling, dorky kind of way. She crossed her arms on the sill and rested her chin on them. She couldn't lie, she was flattered and...well...she felt kind of good.

But isn't that how it goes? You set yourself up for something only to come crashing down because it's an illusion, smoke, a false floor of no substance: You set one foot on it, and the whole thing caves in. Life's most bitter disappointments always come cloaked in the prettiest disguises, like dogshit in silvery wrapping paper. You think you're about to open a treasure, but it winds up being a turd.

She sat up straight, pulled the window down, and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing when she found the gruesome twosome looking at her strangely. "What?" she asked.

Alex, arms crossed, shook her head very slowly. "Nothing," she said, and there was a taunting little hilt to her voice that Lola didn't like.

Right. Nothing.

Unable to leave it at that, Alex grinned deviously. "You like him."

Lola's face fell and her heart may have dropped with it. "Uh, no, I don't," she said, "he's a dweeb."

"Is that why you're blushing?'

Lola's eyes narrowed even more. "I blush when I'm tired," he said through her teeth. That was not the truth.

Jessy turned to her cousin. "Bunny, leave her alone."

"Yeah, Bunny, leave me alone," Lola said and shooed the girls out of her way. Back on her cot, she grabbed her pick again. Jessy went to her bed and Alex went to hers, the latter dropping with a sigh and snatching her book off the nightstand. Lola stabbed the pick in her hair and pulled.

"You know," Alex said, "he's a good guy. You should go on a date with him."

Lola rolled her eyes. "Not happening, sweetie."

"Why not?"

Because he's another guy who wants to get in my pants, just like all the other guys. It doesn't matter if he _is_ cute and charming. Most of them are. "He's not my type."

Alex was silent for a moment. "Well...I kinda felt that way about my boyfriend but I was wrong...you are too."

Lola sighed. "Things are different when you're a grown-up, honey. You'll see that when you stop being thirteen and get a little life experience."

"I'm fifteen," Alex said tightly.

"Oh, excuuuuse me," Lola said sarcastically.

Jessy shot Alex a dirty look. "Stop bothering Lola. She doesn't like Bobby and that's that."

Welllllll...

No. He was just like all the others; they'll say whatever you want to hear, they'll promise you the moon and the stars and the sun, they'll play you like a dime store fiddle...all to get what they want. And what do they want? To get their dick wet. That's it. To satisfy their basest urges because they're shallow.

She realized that might sound cynical if she were to say it out loud, but in her experience it was true. The boys back in Bristol, the men out in Hollywood...they were all the same. She just wanted someone to love her...and they just wanted to love someone for the night. When she was younger, she fell for it, because she was desperate for the love she didn't have at home, but she was older and wiser now, and she realized that there was only one person on earth who could truly love her. Lana. And their relationship was ruined, partly because of Lana...but mainly because of her.

Sigh.

Only one person had ever really loved Lola, but now that one person didn't, and she was a lonely, lonely girl.

* * *

I can't believe I did that.

He chuckled harshly. What was he, crazy? Yeah, he was...crazy for Lola, and had been from the moment he laid eyes on her. She was beautiful...simply and stunningly beautiful. But it was more than that, she was...he didn't know exactly. She was cool and aloof, which he never thought was attractive before, but with her it drove him wild. She had a...what do you call it...prim haughtiness to her, like a queen or a princess, and he wanted to worship her. Strange, I know, maybe it's just been a while. He hadn't exactly had many girls since Carol...okay, he hadn't had any, and sometimes he'd see a woman on the street and he'd find himself fantasizing not about doing her, but about kissing her softly and playing with her hair and holding her in his arms...tender, affectionate stuff...the kind of stuff he missed most after Carol left.

And call him nuts, but there was something in Lola's sparkling eyes that told him she wanted affection too.

He sighed. He was currently walking down the sidewalk, his fingers curled around the handle of his boombox and the soft glow of street lights casting shadows against the night. Her eyes...God, her eyes were breathtaking, like shining diamonds or something. And the sound of her voice was musical...the way she said his name, the smiling hilt in her tone...

Lovesick. Holy shit, he was lovesick! He hadn't felt this way since he was ten years old. He didn't like it then, as far as he could remember, and he didn't like it now.

But he had to have her...he had to have her in his arms, had to have her fingers woven through his, had to have his lips pressed lovingly to the gentle plane of her forehead, had to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand while gazing deeply into her eyes...her soul open to him, and his open to her.

He couldn't say why, but he wanted that so fucking bad he throbbed.

Was it wishful thinking, or did she respond to him? He thought back to her in the window, backlit against heavenly light, her eyes shimmering and her lips arranged in a coy Mona Lisa smile. He was tempted to say she did, and that sent his heart soaring. He laughed into the darkness and swung his radio the way a happy elf would swing his lunch pail. Hi, ho, it's off to work we go!

At home, Mom and Dad were sitting in front of the TV and watching _60 Minutes._ They were both graying and starting to wrinkle. Pretty soon they'd look like his grandparents and he'd have to stop being seen with them in public lest they cramp his style. Dad glanced up when he came through the door and furrowed his brows. "Why are you grinning like a girl?" he asked.

Bobby came into the living room, put his hands on his hips...and just laughed. He felt good. Really good.

"Are you alright?" Mom asked worriedly.

"I'm great," Bobby said, "better than ever, in fact."

Dad tipped back a can of beer. Mom pursed her lips. "Oh? And why is that?"

Bobby shrugged. "No reason," he lied. "What, a guy can't be happy every now and then?"

Mom and Dad exchanged a look. "It's a girl," they said in unison.

Bobby flushed. Was he really that obvious? "No," he said, "it's not a girl." He would have told the truth, but he didn't even know if she liked him back, and talking about her before then seemed kind of...wrong or something. Premature? Yeah, that word fit.

"Yes it is," Dad said.

Mom nodded. "You can't fool us, Bobby."

Bobby waved them off. "Go to bed or something."

Mom and Dad grinned at each other. Rolling his eyes, Bobby went into his room and plotted his next move. He had to be very careful; the last time he contrived to win a girl's heart, he wound up driving her into his best friend's arms...where she was to this day.

He would _not_ make the same mistake again.


	112. June 1984: Part 3

**Lyrics to** ** _Baby's Got Her Blue Jeans on_** **by Mel McDaniel (1984)**

* * *

Lincoln stabbed a hunk of egg and lifted it to his mouth. Across from him, Ronnie Anne took a sip of orange juice. Next to him, the chair creaked dangerously as Chunk shifted his weight. Alex, sitting beside her mother, took a crisp bite of toast. Jessy ripped a strip of bacon in half and slipped part of it into her mouth.

Lola, clad in a pink bathrobe, sat in the middle of it all, her head bowed over her plate and a scowl on her face. Lincoln took a drink of coffee and studied her hair. He would never understand why women used so much hairspray. Alex was just as bad; to him, it looked dirty and unattractive.

Ronnie Anne's fork scraped against her plate, and bacon crunched between Jessy's teeth. Morning sunlight filled the kitchen, and so, too, did silence. In fact, Lincoln could hear the soft _tick-tick-tick_ of the clock on the wall. Breakfasts were never this quiet. If someone didn't say something soon, he would lose his mind. "These eggs are good," he said, grasping at straws, "how'd you make them?"

"Same way I always make them, lame-o," Ronnie Anne replied and shoved a forkful of potatoes into her mouth.

"She made the bacon like she always makes it too," Alex said, "dry."

Uh-oh.

Ronnie Anne turned to her daughter. "That's not stopping you from eating it."

Alex shrugged. "If I didn't eat every time you messed up, I'd starve."

Lincoln laughed and Alex grinned. Ronnie Anne snatched the girl's plate and pulled it away.

"Hey!"

"You can eat at Tim's house," Ronnie Anne said, "I'm sure his mother's bacon is much better than mine."

Alex sighed. Ronnie Anne chuckled and shoved the plate back in front of the girl, who smiled.

"Will the car be fixed today?" Lola asked suddenly.

"Hopefully," Chunk said. "I'll call in a bit."

Lola picked up a piece of toast and took a bite, craning her neck forward so as not to get any crumbs on her robe. She chewed and exhaled through her nose. She looked annoyed, but Lincoln had come to believe that that was her default expression. He wondered if -

A knock came at the door, and Lincoln jumped.

"I'll get it," Alex said and got up. Lincoln glanced at the clock. It was barely 6:30. Who in the hell could it be?

The Vietcong?

Again! He did it again! You're ridiculous, Loud. It's not funny. You're gonna say that one day and believe it, then what?

He didn't want to think about it.

A few moments later, Alex came back and sat down with a sigh. "Who was it?" Lincoln asked.

She started to reply, but Bobby Jr. spoke behind him, and he jumped again. "Nice try, kid, but the window was unlocked."

Lola glanced quickly up, a hopeful light in her eyes, then looked down again.

Bobby clapped Lincoln on the shoulder. "I need a ride to work. My, uh, car broke down."

Lincoln turned. "Broke down?" He bought that son of a bitch brand new, what the hell was it doing breaking down? "What'd you do to it?"

"Nothing," Bobby said, "I just went to start it and it wouldn't start, what?"

Jessy and Alex exchanged a knowing glance, and a smile crossed both of their lips. Lola stared down at her plate as though it were the most interesting thing she had ever seen. Chunk took a bite and watched Bobby from the corner of his eye.

"How'd you get here?'

Bobby shrugged. "I walked."

Lincoln's brows furrowed. "Bobby, it's farther from your house to here than it is from your house to Flip's. Why didn't you just walk there?"

Bobby held up his hand in an I-don't-know gesture.

"He's here to see Lola," Alex said and grinned deviously, "he's in love with her."

Bobby's face turned bright red, and in all made sense. He glanced at Lola as she pressed her hand to her forehead, blocking her face. Ronnie Anne grinned just as deviously as her daughter, and Jessy looked stricken.

"It's not like that," Bobby said quickly, "honest. I just...I wanted some of Auntie Ronnie Anne's home cooking. That's it."

"Sorry," Lincoln said, "but we're..."

Alex got up. "You can have the rest of mine." She winked at her cousin as she left.

Bobby grinned and sat down. "Alright," he said, "what do we got here? Bacon?" He picked up a strip and shoved it into his mouth as Lincoln turned back to his plate. Lola turned her face away and sighed.

"So," Bobby said to Chunk, "I know her, who are you? Her dad?"

Chunk ignored him.

"Older brother?"

"Roadie," he grunted.

Bobby nodded. "Ah. Okay. What, uh, what's a roadie?"

Chunk pushed away from the table, got up, and left the room. Jessy followed, then Ronnie Anne; she jerked her head to the left, telling Lincoln to get up too. Not likely; he wasn't finished.

She pursed her lips and jerked her head again, and Lincoln gave up because he was a white haired pansy who made maggot jokes (now I'm joking about joking about maggots, God I'm pathetic). He grabbed his plate and got up, leaving Bobby and Lola alone. Use protection, son, those pop stars have diseases...like synthesizer-ria and Aquanet-itis.

Bobby took a bite of toast and looked around, his brow pinching. "Where'd everyone go?" he asked.

Lola massaged her temples with her fingers.

He shrugged. He wasn't here to see them anyway. "So, uh, have you thought about my offer?"

"No," Lola said pointedly, "there's nothing to think about."

Bobby picked up a glass of orange juice. He didn't know who it belonged to, but it was his now. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not going out with you."

"Well, why? Hey, I'm not asking for much, just dinner. We can eat and talk and see if we get along." He forked a piece of egg into his mouth and chewed. "In fact, we're eating and talking right now, so it's kind of like we're already on a date."

Lola looked at him, and the inscrutable half grin on her pouty lips made his heart race. "I can leave," she said.

"Please don't "

The plaintive, vulnerable quality of his voice made her stomach flutter. No, Lola, no, no, no. You're setting yourself up to be hurt...again. God, you don't even know him! What's wrong with you? A guy shows interest and you go to pieces like a schoolgirl. He's no different from the others.

Only...she could almost believe he was. The light in his eyes, maybe, or the way they didn't leer, but caressed her softly...tenderly...

She hoped the car was fixed soon, because if she didn't get the hell out of this no name town, she was going to wind up losing a lot of respect for herself.

"Tell me about yourself," Bobby said casually.

Lola's brain screamed at her to get up and walk away, but...oh, God, she didn't want to. "What do you want to know?" she heard herself asking.

"Well..." he trailed off. He was going to say _who are you_ , but that sounded kind of bad. I love you, baby...what's your name again? "What do you do?"

"A lot of things," she said cryptically.

"Like?"

"Like sing."

Bobby grinned. "You sing? What do you like to sing?"

"Songs."

"Can you sing me one?"

Lola was shocked into laugher. "No."

"Why? I want to hear you sing."

"You need tickets, hon. I don't perform for free."

Bobby shrugged. "Alright. Fair enough."

"What do _you_ do?" Lola asked.

Bobby's face paled slightly. "Well, I, uh...I'm a culinary support tech." He grinned sheepishly.

"A culinary support tech?" Lola asked. "What's that?"

"It's...I facilitate the preparation and serving of quality meals in a restaurant setting. Without me the place would fall apart."

Lola lifted her brow.

Bobby sighed and bowed his head. "I wash dishes, okay?" Embarrassment was evident in his voice, and Lola's heart went out to him. She knew that tone well: She'd heard it from her own mouth a million times.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "The place really _would_ fall apart without me."

"It would," she agreed, "I was a waitress and when our dishwasher came in late...bad things happened."

He looked up. "You were a waitress? Where?"

"Virginia."

"Oh. Is that where you're from?"

Lola shook her head. "No, Tennessee. But the town I lived in straddled the border. You could be in Tennessee on one side of the street and Virginia on the other."

Bobby blinked. "How did _that_ work? Did each side have its own stuff?"

"Schools and government buildings," Lola said. "But not supermarkets or anything."

"I can see that," Bobby said and took a sip of juice. "You don't really have an accent."

"I worked hard to get rid of it."

"Do you call people y'all?"

Lola giggled. "No, I do not. I would rather lobotomize myself with a rusty butter knife than speak that way."

Bobby winced. "Ouch. You must really not like where you came from."

"I don't. I hated it."

"Why?"

Lola rolled her eyes. "You ask a lot of questions."

"I said I wanted to get to know you," he said, "and if you don't know something, you ask, right?"

"I guess." She picked up her toast and took a bite.

"Who's the big guy? I wasn't joking when I asked what a roadie is. He a trucker?"

Lola shook her head. "No, he's not a trucker. He drives my limo and carries my things."

Bobby's brows furrowed. "What, are you famous?"

"I guess," Lola said demurely.

"It all makes sense now," he said archly, "you're a movie star or something and you don't want me because you got Michael Douglas or something waiting back in Hollywood."

Lola laughed genuinely. "No, I don't have Michael Douglas waiting for me. I don't even _know_ Michael Douglas."

"The guy from Wham then?"

"Which one?"

Bobby started to reply but stopped. "I don't know. I really don't listen to them. I hear that stupid song on the radio all the time, though." He squared his shoulders and deepened his voice. "Jitterbug...jitterbug."

Lola snickered. "You sound just like him."

Bobby shrugged. "I practice in front of my mirror."

Lola nodded. "I can see you doing that."

"In my Day-Glo sweater and my leg warmers."

The image of him dressed like George Michael made her smile. "Let me ask _you_ a question."

"Shoot."

Lola rested her elbow on the table and threaded her fingers through her hair as best she could; the Aquanet made it stiff, you know. "Who are you?'

"Who am I?" Bobby asked and touched his chest.

"Yeah," she said through a grin, "who are you...aside from a dishwasher?"

Bobby took a deep breath. "You know, I've asked myself that a lot over the past couple years. I'm tempted to say something, but I won't lie: I don't really know."

Lola lifted her brow. "You don't know who you are?"

Bobby nodded. "Pathetic, I know. I just...I guess the stork never brought me a calling. I'm not an artist, I'm not a gearhead, I can't sing." His eyes flickered down in shame. "I'm kind of a loser, I guess."

Lola frowned, and her hand twitched with the desire to reach out and give him a reassuring touch. "You seem like an alright guy," she offered.

"I had..." he shook his. "Never mind. I had plans for the future, but they didn't pan out. They weren't big plans like singing or acting or whatever, but I was happy with them."

The earnestness of his tone touched her and she frowned. "What?" she found herself asking. "What were your plans?"

Bobby looked up at her, and she saw hurt in his eyes. "Nothing. I was in love with someone but she broke it off. I can't say I blame her, I mean, I am a loser after all."

Lola's frown deepened. She started to reach out, but Lincoln popped his head in. "Alright, Bobby, let's go."

Bobby glanced at him then at Lola, his eyes leaden with disappointment. "Alright, well, I guess that's that." He pushed away from the table and got up. "I can...uh...come back later if you want. I really liked talking to you."

Lola liked talking to him too. "Okay," she said with a jerky nod.

Bobby smiled beatifically. "I'll bring you something."

Lola grinned. "Another mix tape?"

Bobby cocked his head. "Maybe."

After he was gone, Lola sighed. She couldn't lie: She kind of wanted another mix tape.

* * *

Lynn hummed a happy tune as she dressed for the day, stripping out of the oversized jersey she wore to bed and pulling on a comfortable pair of jeans. Bare chested, she went to the dresser and dug through it for a shirt, finally settling on a three quarter T with green sleeves. Green was her boyfriend's favorite color, after all.

She smiled hazily. Boyfriend. That felt good to say and think. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. She pulled the shirt over her head and looked at herself in the mirror, studying the freckles on her cheeks, her kind-of-thin lips, and her plain features. She never thought she was beautiful, and that was okay with her (hello, baseball player, not Miss America), but when she was with Ritchie, when he looked at her with that sly little half smile of his and kissed the tip of her nose, she _felt_ beautiful, and you know what? Call it lame, call it girly, but that was a good feeling.

Still humming, she nodded at her reflection, snatched her cap off the dresser, and put it on, pulling her ponytail through the slot in back. Another thing that felt really good was when Ritchie played with her hair, his fingers threading through her chestnut locks and his nails lightly raking her scalp...um, she didn't know whether to drool like a dog, purr like a satisfied cat, or melt like a snowman caught in a sudden heatwave, so she did all three.

In the living room, Mama was dusting, a chore she undertook every Tuesday. She glanced at Lynn and smiled. "Hi, honey. Going to the park?"

"Yep," Lynn said. She hadn't told her parents about her and Ritchie yet; she was kind of worried that they were act differently about her spending time with him if they knew that they were more than friends. They were a little apprehensive in the beginning about her hanging out with a giant group of boys (older boys at that), but she was quickly assimilated and became one of the guys as far as everyone was concerned, Mama and Daddy included. Now, things were just a little different, and they might not be too keen on the idea. Or maybe they wouldn't mind, Lynn honestly didn't know, the topic of boys had never come up: From the moment she started to notice the opposite sex, her focus was on Ritchie and Ritchie alone. She'd never had anyone else...so this was all new to her...frighteningly and exhilaratingly new.

"Your father wanted to talk to you about working this summer."

Lynn nodded. "Alright." Every summer since she was eleven, she worked at the dealership a few hours every day, washing cars, tidying up, and following Daddy around bored out of her mind as he talked about insurance, billing practices, and all the other "nuts and bolts" of business ownership. She spent the majority of the summer before last in Royal Woods with Alex and Jessy, so she was spared that time. It wasn't bad work...she'd just rather be playing baseball. This year, however, she doubted she'd want to spend one minute apart from her boyfriend.

Ummm, that word again; it just rolled off the tongue. Bbbboooyyyffffrrriiieeennnddd. Okay, that sounded kind of creepy and desperate, like she was a crazy stalker girl or something. I won't break into your house and smell your hair while you're asleep, Ritchie, I promise.

Outside, the desert sun pounded relentlessly against the blacktop, and as Lynn started for Ritchie's house, she began to sweat. Hopefully she didn't smell gross by the time she got there...especially, you know, 'downtown.' Hey, she wasn't planning anything, but from what she had been able to surmise, sex wasn't exactly something a couple penciled into their schedule between yoga and grocery shopping...it just happened. 'When the mood strikes' was a phrase she'd heard used before, and that pretty much summed up how she figured it went. Jumping immediately into bed with a guy, even if he was Ritchie, seemed kind of...sluttish? But let's face it...if the mood struck, the mood struck.

She reached Ritchie's house ten minutes later and climbed the porch steps with a happy bounce. At the door, she knocked then put her hands behind her back. When Ritchie answered, she broke out in a big, sappy smile.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied. She leaned forward and they kissed, his tongue fleetingly touching hers and making her shiver.

"What brings you by?" he asked.

"Well," she said, "my boyfriend said he'd take me to a movie today."

"Did he?" Ritchie asked playfully, "well, I guess he better follow through."

Lynn nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

* * *

Rita Loud picked the corgi up and sat it in her lap; it trembled with excitement and let out a sharp bark. She smiled fondly and scratched behind its ears. "You're a good boy," she cooed, "yes you are."

 _Bark! Bark!_

Lynn looked up from the paper and watched over his reading glasses as Russel turned, planted his forepaws into Rita's soft stomach, and tried to lick her face. She laughed, hooked one arm under his butt, and lifted him up. His tongue darted out and swiped across Rita's chin; she tilted her head back and ran one hand along the dog's sleek flank.

They'd had Russel for going on a year and a half; Lori appeared at the door with him one day not long after Rita told her about wanting a dog. She said a girl she worked with was getting rid of him and was planning to ditch him on the street. Terrible, Lynn thought...then he found out why: Russel was a chewer...and a scratcher. Not of people, but of things: He chewed Lynn's slippers his first day on the ground, he chewed Rita's shoes, he chewed the wooden couch legs, he chewed five of Lynn's Frank Sinatra records, he even chewed the goddamn newel post. There were scratch marks on the walls, the doors, cabinets, the fridge, and Lynn's chair. Oh, and the carpet...he even scratched up the carpet, and Lynn thought that goddamn carpet was indestructible: It survived thirty plus years, six kids, and four grandkids only to fall victim to a twenty-pound dog. Tsk.

He was broken of the habit now, thank God, but that didn't fix the carpet or anything else. Lynn folded the paper and turned to the TV: A group of old women stood around a giant bun topped with a little bitty hamburger patty, one squinting and asking "Where's the beef?"

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Rita asked the corgi, and his little tail wagged back and forth. "Alright," she said and got up with a grunt, her fingers digging into the arm of the couch. Her arthritis bothered her more and more these days, sometimes to the point that she could barely move her hands. Lynn's knee was just as bad: If he spent too long on it, it would start to ache and burn. He hoped that damn Nazi who shot him was happy with himself.

Shuffling on slippered feet, Rita went to the hall closet and took out Russel's leash. The dog sat still and presented himself as Rita bent: She hooked the leash to his collar and stood straight with a near audible crack of old bones. "We'll be back," she said.

"Walk once around the block for me," Lynn said.

"We'll try," she said, then looked down at the dog, "won't we, Russel?"

 _Bark!_

* * *

Lola had no idea what to do with herself, so she wound up sitting alone in Alex and Jessy's room and dividing her attention between the poster of herself over the younger girl's bed and thoughts of Bobby.

It was strange to think that millions of girls around the world had pictures of her hanging on their walls - girls she had never met and probably never would. Unnerving too, when you really got down to it. Her life was like a one-sided mirror: They could see in, but she couldn't see out.

Is this what you wanted? A voice asked from the center of her head. It sounded like Lana.

Yes...no...

Which is it, Lola?

She sighed unhappily because she didn't know. In a way, yes, she did want this, she wanted to be loved and adored because growing up no one loved and adored her...instead they turned their noses up and sneered at her dirty, ill-fitting dime store dresses...they called her names, they made her feel worthless and disgusting, like a bug...

Like white trash.

But up on stage, with twenty thousand screaming fans spread out before her, she didn't feel like white trash...she felt like _somebody_ , and for a little while, she could forget about that little girl in Bristol with the tattered clothes and dirty face, the little girl people once treated like dirt...or a pretty object to be used and thrown away...she could forget the shame and self-loathing...she could forget all the times she felt two inches tall and repulsive...she could forget all of that and pretend for just a little while that under the distant, snooty bitch she wasn't still that sad little girl...only now sans a sister.

On the other hand, she didn't want this...the shallow admiration of people she didn't know, people who loved her only as far as her voice and a can of Aquanet could carry her, people who didn't really love her at all. She wanted...she wanted someone to really and truly love her, just one person, that's all, just one person out of the whole world.

Someone like Bobby.

She sensed something in him...a vulnerability much like that in her...it was of a different character, perhaps, but similar. She considered herself a fairly good judge of people (a trait learned the hard way) and after talking to him today, she was almost certain that he wasn't trying to get between her legs. He called himself a loser, and in his eyes she saw earnestness: He really believed that. He thought he was a loser. I don't know who I am, he said, the stork didn't leave me a calling. At the end of the day, she didn't know who she was either. A singer. Ha. What's singing? You open your mouth and make sounds in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement. That's all. It doesn't take special skill, not really. Almost anyone can do it. Even a little redneck girl from Tennessee.

I'm a loser, he said. Well...she was trailer trash.

A broken little girl.

But maybe...just maybe...he could fix her, and she could fix him; he could hold her in his arms and make her feel loved and beautiful, and she could hold him in hers, stare lovingly into his eyes, lay her hand on his chest, and make him feel like anything but a loser.

She chuckled humorlessly to herself. Jesus, Lola, pretty heavy thoughts to be having about a guy you just met. You're going to run headlong into this, trip, and break your face like a stupid stupidhead.

She laid back on the cot and stared up at the ceiling, where a bar of sunshine stretched to the wall. She knew it was stupid, but that's the heart for you...it doesn't think, it only feels. The brain is the thinker of the family, and right now hers was telling her that she was being totally dumb.

Dumb or not, though, she couldn't get him out of her head, and she couldn't help wondering how amazing it would feel to have his strong arms wrapped protectively around her...to rest her head on his chest, hear the pounding of his heart, and realize that she was doing that to him...the grody little trailer park trash girl from Tennessee.

Ahhh! You sound pathetic!

"Hey."

Lola looked at the door; Chunk stood in the threshold with his arms out on either side of him against the frame. "I just called the shop. Car won't be done 'til tomorrow, maybe later. He says the whole engine block is shot."

Lola sighed. "Whatever."

"We can call a car and I can come back for it later," he offered.

Yes, that would be the smart thing to do. What could she offer Bobby, or anyone else for that matter? She was a damaged little girl who wanted to be loved. She was shallow and egotistical...

...and selfish.

"No," she said.

Chunk didn't reply for a moment. "Right," he finally said, then went away.

After that, Lola was alone for a while...until Jessy came in. Talk, talk, talk, talk. "Could you leave me alone, please?" she finally asked. "I have a lot on my mind."

"Oh, o-okay," Jessy said. Lola could hear hurt in the girl's voice, and that made her feel worse. She did want to be left alone, though, and nothing drives people away quite like being a bitch. Heh. She knew that all too well.

Eventually, the thoughts became too much, and she needed to get her mind off of Bobby, so she got up and went off in search of something to do.

* * *

Lincoln didn't want to leave Fred in charge again, at least not so soon after his episode, but he also wanted to show old drill sergeant that he still trusted him, so he came up with a compromise: He would wait until the last hour of the day to take off. No big deal, he stayed until the end of the day a billion times...hell, it'd been almost fourteen years since he took command of this platoon (heh), and it was only over the past couple months that he started leaving early.

Only he didn't count on how used to leaving early he had become: By four 'o'clock, he was jittery and ready for the door. He sat behind the register and fiddled with his and Ernie's old radio even though it had shown the slightest sign of life in...what, ten years? Eight years? He doodled on an order pad, he twiddled his thumbs...then he played Pac-Man. It was a shame about Sarge, Lincoln was really starting to think he was manager material. He might still be overall, but he couldn't have his guy screaming about bunks and Koreans and people going AWOL every time he got stressed out: It wouldn't be good for business, and it wouldn't be good for Sarge. He was tempted to ask him if he'd called the VA or anything, but it was too soon. He didn't want to press the guy.

Onscreen, Pac-Man folded in on himself and died. What is it these ghosts were supposed to be doing to him anyway? Eating him? Scaring him? Luring him into a panel van and molesting him. Hey, little boy, I got maggots in here.

Lincoln slapped the joystick in disgust and walked away, his hands flying to his hips. The maggot shit needs to stop, Linc, it really does, it's not healthy.

I know that, Linc, it just happens. Okay? What do you want from me?

To make an appointment at the VA.

Yeah, fine, okay, but what good is that ultimately going to do? I've talked about this before, remember? I talked about it to Ronnie Anne plenty; how will talking to an army shrink be any better?

 _Stop making excuses, Loud!_ a familiar voice roared in his ears.

Uh...Sgt. Hellman? What are you doing in my head?

 _Never mind that, Bugs, stop being a freckled face waste of ejaculate and man up!_

Alright, now his old drill instructor was talking to him, maybe it _was_ time to make that appointment.

In the kitchen, Bobby was whistling as he scrubbed a skillet; he turned it over and over again in the soapy water, his head bobbing back and forth and putting Lincoln in mind of a cocksure rooster strutting through a dusty barnyard. Sarge was frying patties and not freaking out about the state of the platoon, so that was good.

"Hey, Uncle Lincoln," Bobby said, "nice weather we're having, huh?"

Lincoln peered through the order window at the front door: The sky was gray and summer rain fell across the parking lot. "Yeah," he said and turned back to his nephew, "it's like paradise out there." He went over to the sink and leaned against it. "You and Lola, huh?" he asked with a grin.

Bobby shrugged one shoulder as he rinsed the skillet off and set it aside. "I like her. I don't know if she likes me, though. I'm trying my very best."

Lincoln had noticed. He also noticed that by the end of breakfast their conversation wasn't quite as one sided as it was when it began. He also heard Bobby call himself a loser, which hurt. Bobby wasn't what Lincoln would call a go getter, but he sure as hell wasn't a loser. He was a great kid, charming, sweet, you know, all that stuff. As for not being a go getter...hell, didn't Lincoln himself fester behind a grill until someone died and handed him a business? What if Flip was still alive? Would he be a thirty-seven-year-old short order cook making kid money and 'looking' for something else? Probably. The stork might not have brought Bobby a calling, but it didn't bring Lincoln one either. His calling, he always suspected, was to marry Ronnie Anne and to have children with her. See, callings aren't always a vocation, they can be other things too.

Maybe Bobby's was Lola.

Be a shame if she didn't want him, though; she didn't seem overly interested...a little, maybe, but not much. Then again, Ronnie Anne didn't seem overly interested either, and here they were almost thirty years later.

Wow, thirty, huh? Time flies when you're having fun.

"Well, just be careful," Lincoln said, "she might eat your heart right outta your chest." He clapped the boy's back and grinned. He was serious, though. He didn't wanna see the kid get hurt.

"Don't worry about me," Bobby said, "I'm a big boy. I can handle a little heartbreak."

"If you say so."

After that, the day started to wind down, and at six Lincoln took off; the rain stopped at some point and murky twilight fought its way through the cloud cover. At home, he parked in the driveway behind Ronnie Anne's car and wondered, as he did every day, if it wasn't time for an upgrade. He'd been thinking of ditching the station wagon and getting something else, but he hadn't seriously looked at anything. The thing worked fine, but it was, what, ten years old now? Maybe Dad can hold onto the same car for fifty years, but not him. If they did wind up getting new cars, he'd see if Alex wanted one of the old ones. He doubted she would - what fifteen-year-old wants a station wagon? - but maybe they could paint it black, write AC/DC and MOTLEY CRUE all over it, and turn it into a real metal machine. He grinned at the image of his daughter tooling around in a black station wagon covered with skulls and zombies; everyone would look at her like she was crazy...and she would love it.

Killing the engine, he got out, slammed the door, and went inside. Ronnie Anne was stretched out on the couch napping while Dan Rather read the news on CBS: A talk radio host was gunned down outside his home in Colorado, and Margaret Thatcher had tough words for a Lord or a Duke or something. Isn't it amazing how something's always _happening?_ There are never any days when Rather pops up and says "Not much going on," then tap dances for twenty-five minutes to fill time. Nope. Something worth talking about is always going down. News never rests. City that never sleeps? More like the world that never sleeps.

Lincoln grinned. Welcome back, Lincolnus Loudicus, celebrated philosopher, where've ya been?

Ronnie Anne stirred and muttered in her sleep. Lincoln knelt next to her and took a moment to admire her face. She would be thirty-eight in September but she didn't look a day over thirty...seriously, the years had been kinder to her than to him. He could pass for thirty-nine! Terrible, I know. The only thing he had over her was his hair. Hers was beginning to gray around the temples and along the crown of her forehead. Someone's getting ooooollllldddd. When's the retirement party, RA? How's that social security treating you? Up for a game of shuffleboard? Don't break your hip. He leaned in to kiss her but froze when a loud thump filled the house. Ronnie Anne's brow pinched and she shifted. Lincoln looked over his shoulder and frowned. It came again, and he looked up at the ceiling. It sounded like Dick Clark was reviving _American Bandstand_ in his attic. He got to his feet and walked curiously into the hall; the folding ladder was down, and the sound of movement drifted through the open hatch. He glanced into Jessy and Alex's room: Jessy was sitting in the middle of her bed with her headphones on, a book in her lap, and a pink Care Bear resting against her bare leg: She wore denim shorts and a button up shirt with tiny, multi colored polka dots. Her hair was held back in a ponytail that rested limply against her shoulder.

"Jess?"

She turned a page but didn't look up. In the attic, something thumped. He looked up at the hatch: Soft light glowed beyond. He knew where Ronnie Anne and Jessy were; there was only one other person who had any business being up there...and something told him she was with her boyfriend.

Sighing, Lincoln climbed the rickety ladder and pulled himself up through the hatch. Lola was bent over a chest, elbows deep and pushing the contents back and forth, occasionally humming with interest. Lincoln dusted himself off and looked around: Alex was supposed to come up here and dust once a month, but from the looks of it, she hadn't in a long time.

Because heat rises, the space was hotter than the middle of the sun. Lola's pink dress was splotched with dark patches of sweat, and her breathing was ragged, as though she had just run a marathon...in heels...and finished with the best time.

"What are you doing?" Lincoln asked sharply.

She glanced over her shoulder, her face serene and unperturbed, as though she had every right to be doing what she was doing. "I got bored and decided to go through your stuff."

Lincoln blinked. Oh. Well...at least she was honest.

She turned back to the trunk and continued to rifle through it. She pulled something out and held it up to see. "Oh," she drew, "Purple Heart. You were in the war?"

"Yes," Lincoln said, "I was."

She looked over her shoulder again, this time with half lidded eyes. "Did you _shhhooooooot_ anyone?" she drew cutely.

"Yeah," Lincoln nodded and walked over, "I shot a couple people. Especially the guy I found going through my stuff once. I shot _him_ twice."

She nodded slowly and went back to it. Seriously, lady? I just dropped a hint that I don't want you pawing through my shit. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at her, hoping she'd feel his gaze, get the message, and leave.

She didn't.

"Lola," he said softly yet firmly, breaking out the dad voice.

"Hm?" she asked as she pushed things aside.

"It's impolite to go through people's things."

Ignoring him, she picked up a framed photograph and squinted at it. "That girl looks just like Luna Loud."

"It _is_ Luna Loud."

Lola's head whipped around, her eyes filled with sudden light so brilliant Lincoln winced. "You knew Luna Loud?" she asked, her tone low and reverent.

"Yes," Lincoln said, "she's my sister."

Lola's face lit up and she let out an ear piercing wail that would make even Jessy proud. She looked at the photo in her hands then up at Lincoln, her lips in a lopsided grin. "I _love_ Luna Loud! She's my favorite singer _ever_! Oh, this is _not_ happening." She looked at the photo again and squealed.

Lincoln rubbed his head. No, unfortunately, it _is_ happening.

Lola hugged the frame and rocked from side to side as If greeting an old friend she hadn't seen in years. "My sister and I saw her on TV and she said to follow your dreams and to never let anyone stop you and she was so cool and laidback and I cried for _days_ when she died."

"You have a sister?" Lincoln asked.

The light in Lola's eyes dimmed and she sighed. "Well...I _did._ A twin."

"Oh," Lincoln said, suddenly sorry he'd asked. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

Lola took a deep breath and stared at the picture of Luna. "She's alive," she said, "we just don't get along anymore."

On her knees with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped, Lola was the picture of misery, and Lincoln's paternal instincts kicked in. He dropped to one knee and put his hand on her shoulder. "Why?" he asked gently.

Lola sighed. "We had a fight and I said some things. She said things too, but I kind of deserved them."

Lincoln's heart broke for her. "Well...have you made up?"

Lola shook her head. "I-I'm kind of ashamed...like...too ashamed to even talk to her." She sighed. "It's nothing."

Lincoln sat next to her and drew his knees up with a grunt. "No," he said, "it's not nothing. You're obviously upset, and...she's your sister. That's a really special bond. You can't let an argument get in the way of that." He thought of his own siblings. "I have five siblings...well...two are gone now...and you know how many arguments we've had? How many knockdown, drag out fights?" He chuckled at the memory of all the times he'd got at it with Lynn. "A lot. But we always made up because family is everything...if you don't have your family, what _do_ you have?"

Lola sat back on her butt and heaved a watery sigh. "I know, I'm terrible. Lana and I were so close when we were kids." She tittered. "She was my rock." She wiped tears from her eyes and swallowed. When she spoke next, the words came with great difficulty. Like kidney stones. "We were really poor growing up and our mother was...not the best...we didn't have anything. Just each other, and...we just drifted apart, I guess. I really wanted out, you know?" She glanced at him as if for encouragement, and he nodded for her to continue. "And she didn't. She just didn't care." Her voice was somber now. "She was fine with being white trash for the rest of her life, and she thought I was...putting on airs or something."

She was quiet and mournfully contemplative for a long them, then she shook her head. "She was right. I'm white trash, and I have nothing. I _am_ nothing." A sob escaped her trembling lips; she buried her face in her hands and began to weep bitterly. Lincoln frowned and put his arm around her shoulder.

"Lola," he said, "you're not nothing."

"Yes I am," she moaned, "I'm a fraud."

"Honey, no you're not," he said, "you're a beautiful, intelligent girl with a beautiful voice and a lot of people really like you."

She sniffed and lowered her hands; her red rimmed eyes simmered with tears. "No, they don't. They don't even know me. They see a dancing doofus and that's all. They don't see the real me. They might 'like' me, but..." she trailed off and wiped her eyes.

Lincoln drew her closer, and she allowed it. He tried to think of something to say, some magic combination of words to stop her tears and assuage her pain. "Do you know the real Luna Loud?" he asked.

She started to speak but stopped, perhaps not waiting to admit that she didn't.

"No, you don't," he said, and sighed. Even after all these years, talking about Luna was still hard. "I don't think even I knew her, at least not toward the end. You know what though?"

"What?" Lola croaked.

"She touched you anyway. Right? She had an impact on you. When you found that picture just now and went crazy, you know who you reminded me of?"

"Who?" Lola asked and turned to him; she sounded genuinely interested.

"Jessy," he said. "She acted the same way when she came into the living room yesterday and saw you. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree and she said, I think, the same thing you said about Luna."

Lola blinked and turned away, her brow pinching in thought.

"You touched her life the way Luna touched yours. And I'm sure Jessy's not the only one. A lot of girls feel the same way."

Lola stared down at her lap as she processed what he just said. "You're right..." she swallowed and looked like she was going to cry again. That wasn't exactly the reaction Lincoln was hoping for. "I've been a bitch to her," Lola said, "I told her to leave me alone. If Luna said that to me my heart would have broken." She squeezed her eyes closed and fought back more tears.

"It's okay," he said, "it's easy to lose sight of things in life. The important thing is you realize just how important you are to all those little girls out there. You're their Luna."

Lola nodded. "I know. I wanna make it up to her. I'm going to be her best friend. I'll make her ask me to leave _her_ alone."

Lincoln smiled. "I think she'd like that."

"I'm going to do it right now," she said and started to get up.

Lincoln didn't let go. "There's something else you need to do."

Lola's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"Make up with your sister."

Lola took a deep breath and glanced away. "What if she doesn't want to make up?" She sounded like a worried little girl.

"Only one way to find out. Call her, have her come up here and meet you somewhere. At your concert, a restaurant, here if you're staying..."

Lola nodded. He was right. A very handsome and very charming man told her today that if you don't know something, you should ask.

And Lola was going to as Lana to be her sister again.

* * *

The sizzle of cooking meat told Lana she screwed up before the pain even hit: She yelped, ripped her hand out of the engine block, and shook it as hot agony throbbed up her veins and into the middle of her head. "Shit," she hissed and squeezed her eyes closed against an involuntary rush of tears. This was not the first time she burnt the tar out of herself on a hot carburetor or something, but melting your skin off isn't the kind of thing you get used to; hurt like a bastard every time.

She glanced up and saw Jed over by the big roll top doors, deep in conversation in a customer. He was a hefty man with long graying hair and a beard; he wore gray coveralls like Lana herself, his name in red stitching against a white background over his heart. She looked back at her aching fingertips: A white blister was beginning to form on the pad of her pinkie. Oh, yeah, that's a third degreeer alright. Hells bells, she hated burning the piss out of herself when he was around. Sure, it could happen to anyone, but she was a woman in a male dominated garage, and anytime she screwed up she couldn't help but think the guys looked down on her or something. Oh, lil Lana done burned her silky girl fingers again, what do you expect from a woooonmmmaaannn? They probably didn't, they were all real nice, but you never know about someone. They can smile in your face and be your best friend...then turn around and stab you in the back.

Of course...that wasn't the real reason she didn't like messing up in front of Jed in particular, oh no. She didn't like it because she maybe kinda had a thing for him. Not a girly 'sweep me off my feet' kinda thing, but she liked the guy, he was nice, smart, and he had a way about him...sort of a...of a fatherly way, and Lana liked that a lot. She wasn't a genius, but she wasn't dumb, and on some level she realized she probably had kind of a weird daddy thing going on, since she never had a dad growing up. That made her feel really down sometimes, like she had something wrong with her, but when you got right down to it, it's just another thing. Better a fatherly type than one of those raging, bucking good old boys that liked to shoot everything and fight in bar parking lots on Friday nights.

Where was she? Oh, right, she burned her goddamn hand off in the guts of Mrs. Jolynski's '64 Chevy. Hurt like a son of a bitch. She flexed her fingers and winced. Damn it. With a frustrated sigh, she threw the wrench onto the floor, where it clattered, metal on concrete. In the next bay over, Jimmy Peadon was on his back under an '83 Lincoln, his legs sticking out. A radio sat on a counter nearby playing country, and underneath the music Lana could hear Jimmy's muttered curses. Jed had a nickname for everyone at the shop. Jimmy was "Captain" because he cussed like a sailor. Lana was "Calamity" like Calamity Jane, the cowgirl. She was really handy with a gun or something...Lana wasn't too sure, but she certainly didn't sit around and knit all day, so Lana was happy to be called after her.

Right now she didn't feel like Calamity Jane. She felt like Stupid Sara and Olivia Ouch. A huge part of her wanted to power through the pain and hide her wound, she could do it, but another part of her, a part she didn't like much but kept getting louder and louder as she grew older, wanted to go to him and let him take care of her...to let him sit her down and make it all better.

Now that did sound girly. She could take care of her own damn self...had been since she was six-years-old. She had no one in this world...except for Lola, but she was Miss High-Falutin now, and she didn't want anything to do with her white trash sister. If you want to be garbage for the rest of your life, honey, go right ahead, she said the last time they saw each other three years ago. You're white trash too, Lana pointed out, and you always will be, no amount of hairspray's gonna change that.

Fucking hussy.

Lana missed her.

Sighing, she looked down at her hand. The blister was getting bigger as it filled with puss. Jed took cuts and burns very seriously, and he'd be mad if she tried to play Big Billy Badass and didn't tell him. _Damn it, Lana, you're gonna lose your hand_ , she could hear him saying, the disappointment in his voice turning her stomach. She didn't wanna disappoint him. She wanted to be a good employee...and maybe something more. Hell, no shame in liking someone, is there?

That had to wait, though, because her hand really hurt and she might not even be able to finish what she was doing.

Sighing, she pushed away from the Chevy and started toward her boss, who was currently talking to Larry. She passed the radio, and the song playing made her feel real self-conscious all of a sudden.

 _She can't help it if she's made that way_

 _She's not to blame if they look her way_

 _She ain't really tryin' to cause a scene_

 _It just comes naturally, aww, the girl can't help it_

Heh. That's not me. Lola, maybe. She always _was_ the pretty one.

She came up behind Jed and waited for him to finish with Larry. Stupid goddamn Chevy, making her look bad in front of Jed. That old woman needed to get one of them new Japanese cars...or one of the ones with the doors that opened up like wings. Delorans, that's it. Lana liked those for some reason.

Larry nodded and went away; Jed turned and started when he saw Lana. She grinned sheepishly, her eyes darting away from his. "I, uh, I hurt myself," she said.

Jed's brow softened with concern. "How bad?" he asked.

"Not too bad," she said quickly and held out her hand. He took it in his, so rough yet so gentle, and her heart started to race. He squinted at the blister and then looked up at her with a paternal incredulity that said _really? Not bad, huh?_

Lana flashed a nervous, toothy smile. Don't be mad, please.

"That's a third degreeer," he said. He was still holding her hand, his thumb and middle finger closed lightly on her wrist. Her heart slammed and she felt weak in the knees.

She coughed. "Maybe more like a two and a halfer."

Jed stared into her eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "You're gonna be the death of me, girl. You can wind up losing your hand and here you are joking about it." He released her. "Come on. Let's get it cleaned up."

She followed Jed down a hall to the office; he went in and motioned for her to keep going to the break room. She went in, walked over to the sink, and turned it on cold. Next she squirted some dish soap into her hands and scrubbed them as clean as she could. Satisfied, she went over to one of the tables, drew a chair out, and sat down just as Jed entered with a plastic first aid kit. He came around the table, knelt in front of her on one knee, and rested the kit on the other. "How's it coming?" He asked as he unclasped it.

Lana shrugged one shoulder. "Eh. There's a rattle in the engine block. I think it might be the cylinder."

"Sounds like it," he said as he pulled out a metal pin. Lana grimaced. Damn it, she hated this part. He held out his hand, and she laid hers in his palm, her knuckles brushing against his callouses. He closed his fingers on her wrist and, with the other hand, brought the needle around with the deftness of a surgeon. The point pricked her flesh, and she drew a sharp intake of breath.

"I know, honey, I'm sorry," he said absently as he drained the wound. He didn't often call her honey or sweetie, but every time he did it made her heart stumble a bit.

Next, he applied Neosporin, then opened a Band-Aid and wrapped it tightly around her finger. It was yellow with a cute red dog on the front. A little childish, but it made her smile. "That should be good for now," he said, and started to get up, his face passing within inches of hers. Her body tensed and she almost leaned her lips into his. "The only thing I don't have is a lollipop. Got Coke in the fridge."

Lana nodded, her lips in a closed-mouth smile. Jed went over to the fridge, grabbed two bottles of Coke, and brought them over, handing one to Lana and keeping one for himself. "Here you go, darlin'," he said, then flicked the bill of her cap down over her eyes.

"Hey," she laughed and pushed it back up, "hands off the hat."

"I'm sorry," he said and sat, "I never did like that hat, though. You oughta take it off more often."

"Yeah, and why's that?" she playfully asked as she opened her Coke.

"Because you look nice without it," he said with such innocent honesty that Lana blushed.

"Y-You think?' she stammered, her eyes darting away.

Jed popped the lid off his Coke. "Yes, ma'am. Might distract all my workers though."

Did he just say she was pretty? It sure sounded like it! She grinned to herself and pulled the hat off, setting it aside. She kept her hair short and pulled back in tight pigtails by the base of her head. Long hair, even done up, wasn't the best when you're bending over engines all day. Why Jed kept his long she'd never know.

"Is that better?" she asked coyly.

Jed grinned. "Yes it is."

Her face blushed and she turned away. She was just tilting her head back to take a drink when Debbie, the secretary, popped. "Lana, you got a phone call."

Nodding, Lana got up, sat her Coke on the table, and followed Debbie out, bopping Jed playfully on the head as she went.

In the office, she sat at the desk and picked up the phone. Probably her goddamn landlady looking for the rent. You'll get your money, hussy, you always do. "Hello?"

"Lana?"

Lana froze.

It wasn't her landlady at all.

It was Lola...the sister she hadn't spoken to in three years, the sister she called a white trash, trailer floozy, and the sister who called her a slit licking dyke...the sister she missed so much sometimes she cried...the sister who was once the only thing she had in life, and was now all she didn't have...

The sister who didn't love her anymore.

"Lana?"

"Y-Yeah, I'm here," Lana heard herself saying.

Lola took a deep breath. "I need to see you. Now."

Lana blinked. "Huh?"

"I know, it's short notice...but please. I need you."

Lana's heart clutched at the beseeching edge in her sister's voice. I need you, she said. All the cross words they exchanged, all of the names and things they called each other, indeed even the past three years, and the couple bad years even before that, went totally and completely out the window. "Where are you?"

Five minutes later, Lana went back into the break room and sat across from Jed. He looked up at her, noticed the serious expression on her face, and frowned. "You alright, hon?"

Lana took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. That was my sister. She...she needs me. I don't know why, but she does."

Jed nodded. "Take as much time as you need. Family comes first."

"Thanks," she said.

He reached his hand across the table, and she took it without question; his fingers gently grazed her palm, and she rubbed his thumb with hers. He smiled warmly at her. She ducked her head and giggled girlishly, but she didn't care.

She was happy.


	113. June 1984: Part 4

**Lyrics to** ** _I Can Dream About You_** **by Dan Hartman (1984);** ** _I Want to Know What Love Is_** **by Foreigner (1984);** ** _Hold Me Now_** **by Thompson Twins (1984)**

Jessy Loud turned the page and flicked her eyes to the top line, her breathing shallow and her heart shivering like a frightened mouse. She was reading one of Bunny's yucky horror books, and she was so scared she could barely move, didn't _want_ to move, because she was sure that even the slightest rustle of her legs against the blanket would bring forth such vile and hideous creatures that she would go mad if she looked at them. Why her sister loved these awful, terrible things was beyond her...as was why she didn't just put it down and walk away.

After the next page, she told herself; I really wanna see if Church comes back.

The tape she was currently listening to ended, and without looking up, she fumbled for the eject button, pressed it, and flipped it to side two, then closed the deck and hit PLAY. Lonely Girl started, and she sighed dreamily.

Lola had been in her house -in her bedroom! - for over twenty-four hours. Can you believe it? It was like a movie: World famous pop star stays with a fan, they have adventures, become best friends, awww, and roll credits. Only Jessy didn't think she and Lola were going to become friends. Lola was kind of...grumpy. Jessy understood, she really did: Being a teen idol and touring and always being mobbed by fans and the press has to take a lot out of you. Still...it kind of hurt that she was so surly. She told herself not to take it personally, and she tried to take her own advice, but...yeah, it stung. That was okay, though, because even though she was larger than life to Jessy, she was just a person, and people have bad days, or months, or even years.

Like her mother.

Jessy didn't really know why her mother was in prison - Uncle Lincoln told her that it was up to Mom to tell her - but she had to have done something, right? She seemed really nice though: The first time they had a contact visit, Mom spent the whole time touching her, stroking her hair, and telling her how beautiful she was. Then, when it was over, she covered her face in kisses and said, "I love you so much, Jessy." She cried and hugged Jessy so hard it hurt.

Where was she again?

Oh, right, heh. The connection between Lola and Mom was tedious, but she couldn't help making it; her mother had been on her mind a lot lately: In just over a year she would get out of jail and come home. That meant Jessy would have to live with her, but she didn't want to. She wanted to stay here with Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne, and especially Bunny. Bunny was her sister even if they were only cousins, and not being with her would be like a fish being without water. It was bad enough that she spent so much time with Tim, but at least they still lived together.

Jessy sighed deeply.

She did not want to live with her mother, and that made her feel really bad because she knew Mom loved her and she loved Mom too; it would probably hurt her feelings but...she just couldn't, okay? A part of her wished this wasn't happening...that Mom wasn't getting out. That's mean and awful and selfish, but it put her between a rock and a hard place. A very, very hard place. She felt tears beginning to well in her eyes, and wiped them away. There she goes again, Jessica Danielle Loud, the anxious crybaby. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was almost fourteen, she should be able to handle things like a grown up, but to be honest...she couldn't. She wasn't brave and bold like Bunny, she was a nervous wreck sometimes and a little baby the rest. No wonder boys didn't like her. She wouldn't like her either.

The bed dipped and a hand fell on her knee. She looked up, expecting Alex or Auntie Ronnie Anne, but was surprised to find Lola staring back at her, the corners of her lips turned down in a worried frown and her eyes pooled with tender concern. Jessy reached up and moved the headphones down around her neck.

"You look so sad," Lola said.

Jessy swallowed and shook her head. "It's nothing," she said, "really...I was just thinking."

Lola rubbed Jessy's knee in a soft, reassuring circle. "What about?"

"Nothing," Jessy said, "it's kind of embarrassing." And it was. Your mother being in prison? You being a scared, anxious little girl? Her face flushed at the idea of telling Lola those things.

The older woman must have sensed this, because she took a deep breath and said, "Do you want to know something embarrassing about me?" Her eyes pooled with such unabashed shame that Jessy's heart jerked.

"N-Not if you don't want to."

Lola rubbed Jessy's leg again. "I'm white trash."

Jessy's brow scrunched in confusion. Jessy knew what white trash was…white trash was hillbillies and stuff, not a beautiful, eloquent woman like Lola.

"I grew up dirt poor in a trailer," Lola continued. Her hand no longer moved, but rested against Jessy's knee as though the life had drained out of it. "I was dirty, stupid, and ashamed. My clothes had holes and didn't fit me, I wore my shoes until my toes were sticking out, and the other kids made fun of me. I hated my life. I wanted something better, now I have it...but even so, I never feel good enough." Water flooded her eyes and she looked down. "I have money and fame and fans, but I'm still that little girl with the dirty face and the ratty dresses from the Goodwill. I'm still sad and unloved."

Jessy's heart broke. "No, you're not. Lots of people love you. I love you."

Lola nodded and smiled wanly. "And I appreciate it. I've been a giant bitch to you and I'm sorry." She surprised Jessy by taking her hand and staring into her eyes with earnest intensity. "I'm trailer trash and that's how trailer trash acts when it gets a little bit of money and a swollen head. I really didn't mean it." Tears spilled down Lola's cheeks and sparkled like diamonds in the glow of the lamp.

Jessy squeezed Lola's hand and struggled against her own sudden tears. "It's okay. I guess I have been kind of annoying. It must - "

"No, honey, you haven't," Lola said, "you acted the same way I would have acted when I was a girl. You were excited, and I was a bitch about it. I'm sorry. I really, truly am and I want us to be friends." She touched Jessy's face, and Jessy smiled for her.

"Apology accepted."

Lola stroked Jessy's cheek. "Now what's _your_ embarrassing thing?"

Jessy pursed her lips. She respected and admired Lola greatly; if she could talk about her secret shame, then so could she. "It's my Mom."

"What about her?" Lola asked, and glanced over her shoulder as though they were trading state secrets and could be busted at any minute.

"My real Mom. Ronnie Anne's my aunt. My Mom's in prison and she's coming out soon."

Lola blinked. "Prison? What did she do?"

"I don't know," Jessy said, "she's been in there my whole life and I've always been here. This is like..." she trailed off. It would sound bad, and Lola might think less of her.

"What, sweetie?" the pop star asked softly.

Jessy took a deep breath. "Like they're my real mom and dad. I don't want to live with my Mom. I want to live here. It upsets me because I know it'll hurt my Mom's feelings."

Lola nodded understandingly. "I get that. They raised you. That's a natural way to feel. I think most people would in your situation. How do you feel about your mom?"

"Like she's not my mom at all," Jessy admitted.

"That's normal too," Lola said at length, "at least I imagine it is. You're really close with everyone here, huh?"

Jessy nodded. "Yeah. They've always been there, you know?"

"And your mom hasn't."

Jessy nodded again. "Yeah."

Lola drew a deep breath. "I don't know what advice I should give you, hon. I'm kind of brand new to being someone's friend, but a woman I look up to the way you look up to me once said to follow your dreams and to not let anyone stop you. That might not be entirely relevant here, but if you stretch it it is."

Jessy frowned as she mentally searched for how that related to her situation. "So...if my dream is to stay here, I should do it?"

Lola nodded. "More or less. If this is where you're happy and comfortable...if it feels like home."

"It does."

"Talk to your uncle. He seems like a really good guy, I'm sure he wouldn't make you go if you didn't want to."

Jessy nodded. "Yeah. I guess."

"It's hard to get it out there sometimes, but it feels so much better when you do." Lola squeezed her hands and grinned. "Trust me, I am _the_ Lola, after all."

Jessy laughed. "Okay. I will."

"Good," Lola said. "What'cha reading?"

The sudden turn of conversation knocked Jessy off balance for a moment. "One of Bunny's books." She held it up. "It's not what I usually read, but I thought I'd give it a try...and I regret it."

Lola tilted her head to one side to read the title. "That's not how you spell 'cemetery.'"

Jessy snickered. "No, but it's how a bunch of kids spelled it on a sign."

Lola hummed interestedly. "What's it about?"

"An Indian burial ground where you bury dead things and they come back to life."

Lola's eyes widened. "Oh, that's creepy."

Jessy laughed. "Yeah, it's not my usual thing. I like the classics."

"Me too. Who's your favorite writer?"

Jessy thought for a moment. She didn't really have a favorite per se, since she was constantly reading and discovering great books by authors she'd never heard of...and terrible books by authors she loved. "Hmmm. Probably Jane Austen."

Lola's eyes lit up. "I like her too. My favorite is Charles Dickens, though."

Jessy nodded. "He's okay. I just like...you know...romances." She blushed.

"Romances are nice," Lola said.

"Yeah. They kind of make me sad though."

Lola tilted her head. "Why's that?"

Jessy shrugged. "No one's ever...I mean..." she sighed. "They're really nice and sweet and reading them makes me miss that in my life. Romance, I mean."

"Like a boy?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

Lola patted her leg. "Honey, you're a sweet, intelligent, beautiful girl, any boy would be lucky to have you, and at some point it'll happen."

"I know," Jessy said, "it just...I don't know, I guess it kind of hurts my feelings that no one's ever...you know...made me a mix tape and played it outside my window."

Lola laughed musically, her cheeks turning a light shade of red.

Jessy grinned. "That was kind of dorky but it was really sweet."

"Yes," Lola said, "it was. Probably the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"He really likes you. You should go on a date with him. He's not the best guy ever, I guess, but he's pretty great."

Lola sighed dreamily. "Yeah, he's okay. He's supposed to come back, and between me and you...I really hope he does."

* * *

Lynn Loud snuggled next to Ritchie and laid her head on his chest; he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and slipped his fingers into her hair, which made her shivergiggle...that's a word she made up. It means to shiver and giggle at the same time. Yeah, stupid, but she was too happy to care...with Ritchie she felt goofy and dorky and giggly and good, and nothing else in the world mattered. Oh, Loud, you're acting like a girl.

Yeah? So what?

Presently, they were lying on a blanket in the hills high above Tucson, the city spread out below them like a glowing, golden sea. Over them, the night sky went on forever, a rolling, endless sheet of black velvet twinkling with a wondrous swirl of diamond-like stars. Ritchie's car was parked behind them, the doors standing open and the radio on to barely a whisper, the music combining with the cool air to create a hazy, dream-like atmosphere.

 _I can dream about you_

 _I'm gonna press my lips against you and hold you to me_

 _I can dream about you_

 _You know you got me spellbound what else can it be?_

Ritchie scratched lazy circles in her scalp and she purred happily as she ran her hand over his chest, her fingers tracing the outline of his muscles through his shirt; wet fire filled her core, and in that moment, if he wanted to make love to her, she would let him. Instead, he held her close and played with her hair, which felt so good it put her in a near trance.

 _I can dream about you_

 _If I can't hold you tonight_

 _I can dream about you_

 _You know how to hold me just right_

"Hmmm, I love this," she said sleepily.

"So do I."

"I wanted this for so long," she said, and slipped her hand under his shirt: His flesh was warm and quivered beneath her palm. He moved his hand down and brushed his fingers across her cheek.

" _How_ long?"

Lynn's fingers crept up his stomach and to his solid chest: His heart pounded and she grinned because it was pounding for her.

"Since I was a little girl."

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when she fell in love with him, but she thought it was when she was ten. He was picking on her like usual, and she realized how much she liked it...how much she liked him paying attention to her, how much she liked it when he flicked her ponytail and stuck his tongue out at her. Or maybe it was when she was eleven and she sprained her ankle...he carried her to the dugout the way a groom carries his bride across the threshold; she felt so safe in his arms, and small, but in a good way. He massaged her wound and held ice on it afterwards. She blushed furiously as he touched her, and her heart pitter pattered excitedly.

Maybe it was earlier, maybe it was later...she didn't know...but it had been forever and now that she had it, the wait seemed that much longer.

"You're still a little girl," he said archly.

Lynn kissed his chest and breathed deeply of his scent. "No I'm not. I have breasts now."

Ritchie was shocked into laughter.

"You've noticed," she said playfully.

"I have," he admitted. "You've grown a lot." His fingers danced across her face and she shivered pleasantly. She pulled away, took his hand in hers, and pressed it to her heart: His warmth seeped through her shirt and flowed into her sensitive breast, making her tingle from head to toe. His fingers gently cupped her, and his thumb brushed her nipple; her breath caught and a needy whine trembled in the back of her throat. She guided his hand down, and it slipped under her shirt, his fingertips kissing her bare flesh and leaving trails of fire in their wake. He reached her chest, and when he moved over her mound, she moaned deeply. His hand was strong and rough from years of playing baseball, but his touch was tender and light.

She smiled hazily and closed her eyes as he rolled her aching nub between his thumb and index finger. He shifted, and in the darkness his lips found hers, their tongues meeting and swirling slowly, sensuously around one another.

 _I don't understand it_

 _I can't keep my mind off loving you_

 _Not even for a minute_

 _Ooh, now baby, I'm caught up in the magic I see in you_

 _There's one thing to do_

He pulled her close to him and kissed her deeply, his hands plunging into her hair and massaging her head. She kissed him back, her fingers moving over his face and his neck. When he drew back for air, they were both panting and blushing. "I liked that better than baseball," she said, and it was so silly that they both laughed.

"We'd better get going," he said, "it's late."

"In a minute. I want to watch the stars. With you."

Ritchie wrapped his arms around her, and together they looked into the starry sky.

* * *

Lola held up her hand, fingers splayed, and hummed. "That _is_ pretty," she said of the aquamarine nail polish.

"I told you," Jessy said with a knowing grin, "the purple eyeshadow looks really good too."

Lola had to admit: She was right about that too. Personally, she had always been fairly conservative with makeup, because the trailer park women she grew up around had a tendency to go overboard, and she did not want to look like them. She remembered one who wore red eyeshadow...ugh. Purple, however, looked really nice on her. Alluring, even. She glanced at Alex, who sat on her bed with a book open in her lap. "How do I look?" she asked and playfully batted her eyelashes.

"Like Prince," Alex said.

Jessy giggled, and Lola gasped. "I do _not_ look like Prince."

"Do you hear that?" Alex asked.

Lola frowned. "No, what?"

"Doves crying."

Lola snatched up Jessy's pillow and threw it: It struck Alex's arm and nearly knocked her over. "Ha!" Lola cried, "ten points!"

Alex threw it back, and Lola caught it. "Nice try, sweetie, but you missed."

Alex cocked her brow, her lips curving up in a wicked smile. "I wasn't _trying_ to hit you."

"That's what they _all_ say," Lola teased.

"Pshaw," Jessy said.

"Yeah, pshaw, Bunny," Lola agreed.

Alex grabbed her own pillow and flung it: It crashed into Lola's face and she toppled with a sharp cry of alarm. "Are you okay?" Jessy cried.

Lola sat up and rubbed her head. Kid had a hell of an arm, she'd give her that. She turned, and Alex was grinning smugly. Lola grabbed the pillow and jumped up; Alex paled and looked around. She was defenseless. "You made a grave mistake, little girl," Lola smirked, "I have all the pillows." She lunged forward, and Alex leapt up, the book flying from her hand. She jumped off the foot of the bed and ran through the doorway. "That's right!' Lola called after her. "Your half of the room is _mine_ now."

She tossed the pillow onto the bed and dropped. "Ah, comfy," she said.

Jessy giggled and rocked forward on her knees. "How're you doing over there, Bunny?" she asked.

Lola threw up the devil horns sign. "I like blood and guts and stuff. And my boyfriend Tim." She and Jessy both laughed.

"What time is it?" Lola asked as she sat up.

Jessy glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "10:05."

Really? That late? I guess that means Bobby isn't coming over. Sigh. She was looking forward to seeing him...very much; in fact, she would describe what she felt right now as 'bitter disappointment.' On some level she knew she was acting foolishly and maybe even a little precipitously, but she liked Bobby, right or wrong, for better or worse. God, she was stupid, but being stupid actually felt kind of good. Hey, it's like not like she was marrying the guy or anything, she just dug him...and maybe they...

That thought cut off when something slammed into the back of her head: She screamed as she fell off the bed and landed on her hands and knees.

Jessy sucked air. "Bunny!"

Lola looked over her shoulder: Alex loomed over her with a giant feather pillow in her hands and a mocking smile on her lips. "There are other pillows in the house, you know." She lifted it up and brought it down across Lola's back, driving her to the floor.

Jessy grabbed her pillow and went after Alex, who jumped back. "Et tu, Jess?" she asked. Jessy swung the pillow, but Alex avoided.

Lola got to her feet and grabbed Alex's pillow. She was going to make that girl wish she was never born.

"Back up, Jess!" Alex laughed; Jessy advanced and Alex fell back. "I don't wanna have to hit you!"

Lola grinned savagely and went over just as Alex swung her pillow and knocked Jessy aside. Capitalizing, Lola brought her pillow up, then down, hitting Alex in the head and sending her to her butt. Both girls were on the floor now, and Lola stood among them. "I am victorious!" she cried. "Kneel and trembled before me, peasants!"

Alex brought her pillow around and took out Lola's legs; with a surprised exclamation, she went down and landed in a heap. Alex laughed, but her delight was short lived: Jessy whacked her hard, and she fell forward.

Now there were three girls on the floor, all of them laughing and gasping for breath.

"I think you fractured my skull," Alex said.

"Well _you_ shattered my cheekbone," Jessy retorted.

"My legs no longer work," Lola said and drew herself to a sitting position. "I'm a paraplegic now. Thanks a lot, kid."

Alex rolled her eyes. "Don't me so dramatic, you'll regain the use of your legs...eventually."

"Too bad the same can't be said of you and your brain," Lola said.

Alex's jaw dropped, and she reached for her pillow. Laughing, Lola reached for hers too. "Come on, Bunny," she taunted, "make my day."

Alex started to raise the pillow, but froze when a strange plinking sound filled the room. "What was that?" Lola asked.

It came again, and they all turned to the window. Lola's heart leapt when she realized what it was: Bobby. She sprang to her feet and hurried over, unlocking it and lifting the sash; cool night air rushed over her face, and the sound of a million crickets drifted to her ears. She scanned the backyard, and found him standing in a shaft of moonlight roughly fifteen away. He was dressed in a pair of leather pants and a black button up open at the throat. Her breath caught, and a dreamy smile touched her lips. She got down on her knees and crossed her arms on the sill, her body leaning slightly forward.

"Hi, Bobby," she said.

"Hi, Lola," he replied. "I brought you something."

"Yeah?" she asked. "What?"

He bent and picked up his boombox. Lola laughed. "Again?"

He shrugged. "You liked it, didn't you?'

Lola nodded. "Yeah...I did."

"Good," he said. She stared deeply into his brown eyes, and God help her, she knew it was wrong, too fast, whatever you want to call it…but she could feel herself falling. He smiled at her, a shy, boyish grin, and she smiled back. He pressed the PLAY button, and held the boombox up. Soft, airy music began to play.

 _I gotta take a little time_

 _A little time to think things over_

 _I better read between the lines_

 _In case I need it when I'm older_

Lola giggled, her insides turning to warm goo. Bobby's smile widened, and she leaned even farther over the sill, her face a beautiful shade of crimson and her eyes big and twinkling.

 _In my life_

 _There's been heartache and pain_

 _I don't know_

 _If I can face it again_

 _Can't stop now_

 _I've traveled so far_

 _To change this lonely life_

She nodded slowly. "Mine too," she said, her voice a crackling whisper; her lips began to tremble, and she sucked them in as tears filled her eyes. She didn't know what was happening or why, but she didn't want to fight it…so she let it happen.

 _I want to know what love is_

 _I want you to show me_

 _I want to feel what love is_

 _I know you can show me_

"Here," Alex said and Lola turned: The girl held her boombox out. "There's go away music preloaded for your convenience."

Lola sighed dreamily. "I don't want him to go away."

Alex blinked in confusion…then grinned. She glanced at Jessy, who slipped off of her bed and reached underneath. "On it."

Lola turned back to Bobby: The silvery moon fell upon him like a spotlight…or like a sign from God. His cheeks blushed, and Lola had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

"Here," Jessy said. She took Alex's tape out of the deck and slipped another one in. She handed the boombox to Lola. "I really hope this doesn't send the wrong message."

Lola took it, sat it on the sill, and pressed PLAY. The song started in the middle.

 _You say I'm a dreamer, we're two of a kind_

 _Both of us searching for some perfect world we know we'll never find_

 _So perhaps I should leave here, yeah yeah, go far away_

 _But you know that there's nowhere that I'd rather be_

 _Than with you here today._

Lola knew this song well. She toured with them earlier in the year. She locked eyes with Bobby and nodded in agreement with the lyrics.

 _Hold me now_

 _Warm my heart_

 _Stay with me_

 _Let lovin' start, let lovin' start._

Bobby's face glowed with happiness, his smile growing so big Lola was surprised it didn't consume his entire being.

He lowered the radio and reached for the fast forward button, but she shook her head. "Come here," she said, and giggled at his expression of shock. She sat the radio aside and motioned with her finger. He dropped his own radio and came over, his feet carrying him slowly, approaching like a beautiful dream apparition. Lola crossed her arms on the sill and watched him come, emotion filling her eyes and her heart. Her brain yelled at her to stop before it was too late, to think about what she was doing, but she ignored it; what had the damn thing ever done for her anyway? Besides lying and telling her fame would make her happy?

Bobby reached the window, the soft lamplight streaming through the window bathing his handsome face in a gold and glorious glow. Up close, he looked scared...shaky...his face pallid and his dark eyes filled with uncertainty. Lola had the urge to take him in her arms and cradle him to her breast, to run her fingers through his black hair and whisper soft words of love into his ear. Instead, she leaned over the sill, her lips fighting to turn up at the corners.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

He swallowed, ducked his head, and reached into his shirt pocket. "I-I made you something else."

"Did you?"

He nodding. "Yeah." He chuckled self-consciously, "it's kind of juvenile, I guess." He brought something out. "Hand?"

She held out her right hand, palm down, and his warm fingers closed on her delicate wrist, sending tendrils of electricity up her arm. Her breath caught and her heart pounded painfully...pleasantly. He threaded something around her wrist and tied it. He let go, and she looked at it: Brown twine laden with beads...blue, yellow, and red. There was also a pink, heart shaped charm that sparkled in the light. Lola's heart fluttered and she looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears.

"It's a friendship bracelet," he said. "It's not much."

Lola swallowed a lump of emotion. "It's beautiful."

"Like you," Bobby said, "inside _and_ out."

Lola smiled at her present. Of all the trinkets boys and men had ever given her - diamond earrings, silver necklaces, jewel encrusted broaches and gold rings - this was the most beautiful. She looked down at Bobby's face, and reached out, her fingers tentatively brushing his cheek. He lifted his hand to her face too, and for a moment they gazed lovingly into each other's eyes, both losing themselves in the love and need they saw. She rocked forward on her knees, and he stretched up on his tippy toes: She took his face in both hands and his fingers trailed down her throat. Their lips met, and Lola's heart skipped a beat when his tongue crept gingerly into her mouth. She kissed him back, her body beginning to trembled, and he stroked her face with the back of his hand.

Their heads tilted together, and the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as they gave themselves to one another, as they sought salvation deep in the other. Bobby's knees shook, and he fell forward against the house, breaking the connection.

Lola panted heavily, her heart racing a mile a minute and her head dizzy with the taste of his mouth. He looked up at her, a radiant smile on his lips. He was so beautiful and sweet and everything else she had always looked for but had never found. She didn't care about looks, or intelligence, or anything, and deep down she never had. She only wanted inner beauty...kindness...tenderness...love. And Bobby had those things.

At least he seemed to.

She wanted this to be real...she wanted it so badly she could weep. She cupped his cheek in her hand and fixed him with big, anxious eyes. "Please don't hurt me," she whispered.

Bobby kissed her lips. "I won't, Lola," her promised, "I swear to God I'll never hurt you."

She believed him, and together they giggled like children. "Do you wanna go for a walk?" Bobby asked. "It's a nice night."

She nodded. "Yes I do. Just let me get dressed."

"Okay," he smiled, "I'll be right here."

She sighed contentedly and got up, drawing the blinds closed and winking at Bobby. "I won't look," he said.

"Thank you."

She turned, and frowned. Where were Alex and Jessy?

Oh well.

She slipped off her nightgown and pulled on a black leather skirt, a red top, and her leather jacket. She went to the window and opened the blinds. Bobby kept his word: He was there waiting for her. She smiled to herself as she slipped one leg through the window, straddled the sill, then brought the other one around: She was sitting now, and Bobby helped her down, his hands under her arms: He was strong and she felt like she was floating as he lowered her to the ground.

"Shall we?" he asked and held out his hand.

She took it and threaded her fingers through his. "Yes, we shall."

Together, they walked off into the night.

* * *

"I really don't like this movie, Bunny," Jessy said. They were sitting side-by-side on the couch in the darkened living room, the blue flicker of the TV bathing the walls in an eerie glow. Alex was resting against the arm with her legs folded under her and a pillow in her lap. Jessy was stock still, her back ramrod straight and her eyes wide in horror. Her hands trembled in her lap, and her heart quaked in her chest. She couldn't look away, though, and deep down, she didn't want to. "T-Turn it off."

"Go back in the room," Alex said absently, her eyes glued to the screen. She leaned slightly forward and grinned, which told Jessy something awful was about to happen: She covered her eyes, and sure enough, the character stupidly picking his way through the night shrouded forest let loose a blood curdling scream. Alex snickered.

Jessy _would_ go back in the room, but Lola and Bobby were probably still romancing each other, and the whole reason they came out here in the first place was to give them privacy.

She suddenly hoped that if they were...doing something...they weren't doing it in her bed. Oh, God, what if they were? She would never be able to sleep in it again!

Maybe...maybe she should go check, just to make sure.

Getting up on shaky legs, she hurried out of the room before anyone else could die and went down the hall. The door stood open, and light spilled out. That alone told her nothing dirty was happening, but maybe it was anyway.

She cautiously poked her head in, and found the room empty, the window open and the curtains rustling in the breeze. Hm. They must have gone somewhere. She started to go back into the living room to tell Alex, but the sound of a revving chainsaw and her cousin's demented laughter stopped her. Uh...Bunny could just find out on her own. She crossed to her bed, sat, and slipped on her headphones. She pushed the play button, and happy, poppy music surrounded her. There. That's better.

In the living room, Alex snickered as a man fell from a tree and landed on a rock, his body folding backwards at an amusingly impossible angle. That's the kind of thing she found funny in these movies: The over-the-top hokiness.

The man moaned in pain, and Alex shook her head at his terrible acting. She froze when she glimpsed Chunk from the corner of her eye: He was standing by the opposite arm of the couch, his eyes squinted. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. He kind of made her nervous: He spent all of his time in the guest room and was even more standoffish than Lola was in the beginning.

He noticed her watching him and glanced over. "Is that _Zombie Summer Camp Night Terror_?"

Alex grinned. "Yep. The extra gory version."

"That's me favorite movie." He came around and sat stiffly on the couch, his hands clasped to his knees. Neither spoke for a while, the atmosphere between them awkward. "I like the part where the bloke gets hit with the hammer," he said by way of conversation.

"And his eyeballs fall out."

They both snickered. "And the part," he said, "where the doctor breaks his foot..."

Alex cut his off, "And he's all 'My ankllllllllle!" She threw up her hands and hooked her fingers in an exaggerated gesture. To be fair, that's exactly what the doctor did.

Chunk snorted. "What about the bird that gets shot with the flare gun?"

Alex nodded. There was indeed a scene where a woman gets shot with a flare gun: Her chest catches fire and she looks down at it with a contrived expression of shock.

"I say," he snickered, "gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'my heart burns for you.'"

They both laughed like lunatics.

And that, sometimes, is how easy it is to make a new friend.

* * *

Holding hands and talking, Bobby and Lola drifted aimlessly along the nighttime streets of Royal Woods, the cool breeze stirring the trees and washing softly over them. At first they encountered the occasional car, but soon even those fell off, and they were alone.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," Lola said, her fingers lazily rubbing Bobby's knuckles. "I thought it's what I wanted, but..." she sighed. "It's not."

Bobby squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"When I was a little girl...I had nothing. I was poor and unhappy and I thought if I had everything, I wouldn't be unhappy anymore. But I _am_ unhappy." She paused. "Well...I _was_ unhappy.

Bobby smiled at her. "You're happy now?"

She nodded enthusiastically, then bowed her head. "Also scared. I pretty much gave you my heart back there...and my heart's fragile."

Bobby pulled her into an embrace; her head tilted backwards and she stared up into his earnest eyes. "I'll be gentle with it." They kissed slowly in the spill of a streetlamp, and happiness like tingling pins and needles filled her.

Sometime later, they found themselves in Ridgewood Park, where shadows pooled deep and crickets played a lonely nocturnal symphony for only them. Lola craned her neck up, and caught a breathtaking glimpse of the night sky through the treetops. She pulled on Bobby's hand. "Let's sit," she said.

They settled on the ground and put their arms around each other, then turned their faces up to the star splashed heavens. Lola pointed. "That's Orion. Did you know that?"

Bobby shook his head. "No, I didn't. I don't know much."

Lola giggled. "Well, you know how to make a girl smile."

Bobby grinned and held her tighter. "That came natural."

Lola hummed and rested her head against his shoulder. "Why? What drew you to me?"

For a moment Bobby was silent. When he spoke, his voice was halting. "Your beauty. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and when I saw you, I lost it." He chuckled softly. "Also...you had a kind of regal air about you, like a princess. Then your eyes...I guess I sensed sadness and...I wanted to hold you and make it better."

Lola smiled. "You're doing a good job."

"I try," he said and kissed her cheek. She turned her head, and their lips touched. His tongue brushed hers, and her heart raced as she kissed him back. In each other's arms, they fell back into the soft grass, their passions rising and their bodies responding to one another. His hands crept over her, and her hands crept over him; she sighed softly as he touched her, and he moaned as she touched him. She did not plan on their making love when she climbed out the window, but she gave herself to him willingly and happily, spreading her legs and allowing him to mount her; he thrusted, and she cried out as he filled her, their bodies becoming one, their spirits melding, their hearts slamming the same unsteady rhythm. Their eyes met and held as he stroked smoothly into her; Lola held up her hand, and Bobby weaved his fingers through hers and squeezed.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and dug her heels into the firm fresh of his butt; she drew him possessively to her, needing him deeper in both body and soul. He kissed her, and she arched her back, pressing her sex flush against his.

She was a broken, lonely girl, but it was okay now, because she had found someone to love her...finally, after all the years, all the hopeless days and sleepless, tear-filled nights. Her was her loser king, and she would be his trailer trash queen.

Their end approached swiftly; her body burned with desire and her mind was dazzled with exploding pleasure. "Don't pull out," she begged when she felt him beginning to swell, "please don't pull out."

He clutched her hand tightly, gave one final thrust, and then erupted, his liquid heat shooting into her cervix and filling her womb with painful fire. She cried out as she too began to cum, her body shaking and her hips bucking against his, milking every last drop of his beautiful, life giving love.

When it was over, he rolled off of her and held her in his arms, his face burying in her hair. She snuggled close to him, her bare butt nestling against his hot, deflating member. A tranquil peace fell over then, and for a long time they lay in the grass, their bodies flush and their hearts pounding. Finally, she turned in his arms and held him too. "You're not a loser, Bobby," she said.

"And you're not trailer trash, Lola."

She giggled deep in her throat. "I don't feel like that when I'm with you."

"Good," he said and kissed the tip of her nose, "and if I have my way, you never will again."

Much later, they walked back to the house hand-in-hand. The window was still open, and warm light fell through. Noise drifted from it, and Lola cocked her head in puzzlement when she heard Chunk's voice. They reached the sill and she peered through, a bemused smile touching her lips. Alex sat in a heap on the floor, her hands out, palms up and fingers curled. "My ankllllllllle!" she wailed. Chunk stumbled around, bumping in to things. "That hammer knocked me eyes out."

"I don't want to know how the movie ended!" Jessy cried. "It's gross!"

Bobby chuckled. "Place is a madhouse. Always has been."

Lola hummed. "Yeah. But I kind of like it."

Bobby threw his arms over her shoulders and pulled her close, his lips brushing her neck. "When your limo's fixed, are you leaving?"

Lola sighed. She didn't know what she was doing. Part of her wanted to say screw it, give up her career, and stay right here, but another part was terrified by that prospect. Music was all she knew, and it was all she had. Without it, what could she be? A waitress?

And if this didn't work out...?

"I don't know," she said, and turned. "But I want to be with you regardless."

He smiled and nodded. "I'll go anywhere you do."

She touched his face. "Please?'

He kissed her and held her close. "I love you, Lola."

"I love you too, Bobby."

He gave her one final kiss, then a boost: She climbed into the window and nearly fell. Chunk and Alex both looked at her strangely. "I'm back," she said with a sheepish smile. They craned their necks and looked at Bobby.

"Hey, guys," he said and lifted a hand.

Lola turned, knelt, and leaned over the sill. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes you will."

"Good."

She leaned over enough to reach his lips, and they kissed again. Bobby should be a controlled substance, because his kiss was addictive.

And she was a total junkie.

* * *

Lincoln jumped up and threw a bleary glance at the window. Ronnie Anne sat up next to him and snapped the light on.

Tap-tap-tap.

They looked at each other, Ronnie Anne's brow angling down in confusion. The clock on the nightstand said it was just after two; no one with pure intentions knocks on your bedroom window at that hour. Lincoln reached into the nightstand, took out his .45, and slipped out of bed: He wore just his underwear.

At the window, he pulled up the blinds and frowned. Bobby Jr's smiling face filled the frame; he gave a little wave and pointed at the lock. Lincoln glanced over his shoulder at Ronnie Anne. "What the hell does _he_ want?" she asked.

Lincoln shrugged. Unlocking the sash with one hand, he pulled it up and knelt, a blast of cool night air washing over him.

"You and that gun," Bobby said with a shake of the head, "you're gonna shoot your own dick off one day."

"I'm gonna shoot yours off in two seconds for waking me up. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Not a clue," Bobby said, "but this is important."

"What?"

Bobby reached into his pants pocket. "I borrowed something of yours a while back and I forgot to return it. Repeatedly." He pulled something out and laid it on the sill. "Now I remembered."

Lincoln picked it up, his eyes widening. "My 8-track!"

Bobby nodded smilingly. "Yep, I saw the cover and thought it'd be cool. It wasn't."

Lincoln stared at the boxy tape with something approaching wonder, then looked up at his nephew, his brow furrowing severely. "This thing went missing fifteen years ago."

Bobby waved a hand. "It hasn't been that long. More like twelve years."

"I thought Alex did it."

"Nope. Bobby Jr. did."

Lincoln held up the gun, the barrel pointing at the ceiling. "Get out of here. And if you steal from me again..."

Bobby held up a hand. "Way ahead of you, Uncle Lincoln."

When he was gone, Lincoln closed the window and stared down at his tape with a grin. All this time, and Bobby had it. Heh. He tossed it and the gun into the nightstand and went back to sleep, his arm draped over Ronnie Anne's side.

Like his nephew, he totally forgot about that tape, and wound up never listening to it again.


	114. June 1984: Part 5

**Lyrics to** ** _Let's Go Crazy_** **by Prince and The Revolution (1984)** ; **_Lookin' for Love_** **by Johnny Lee (1980)**

* * *

 **She's the rock that I lean on**

 **She's the sunshine of my day**

 **And I don't care what you say about her**

 **\- George Jones (She's My Rock, 1984)**

Lana left Bristol just before seven that evening in her battered blue 1977 Ford pick-up. She bought it used two years ago from an old man outside town who was so fat he couldn't fit behind the wheel anymore. She thought that meant it would be in good shape: It's not like he was getting rid of it because there was something wrong with it, right?

Wrong; goddamn thing had been nothing but trouble since the day she brought it home. She wasn't even sure it'd make it to Michigan, but her sister needed her, so she'd try, and if it broke down, well, she'd hitchhike the rest of the way. Yeah, hitchhiking's dangerous for a woman, but she had a pawn shop .38 in the glove box, and if anybody tried something they were libel to get a hole between the eyes. Hell, she might not be the real Calamity Jane, but she could shoot some; her ex, Derrick, was a gun nut and taught her...he also taught her how to take a punch, and that decking a man in his stupid, drunk nose is a good way to break a knuckle.

Dusk was gathering in the hills as she followed the highway north into Virginia, the tops of the low, time worn mountains black against the purple-orange sky, then melding with it as the last light drained from the day. She stopped to gas up at a Chevron station on the outskirts of a one stoplight town across the West Virginia border: Moths danced in the harsh light of the overhang, and a big man in overalls sat in a chair chewing tobacco and listening to a ball game on a radio. Inside, she bought some snacks and a couple drinks for the road, including a can of something called Jolt Cola ("all the sugar, twice the caffeine!"). Hell, if it'd keep her awake, alright.

Back in the truck, she ripped open a package of cheese crackers and threw a handful into her mouth, then washed it down with a gulp of Jolt. Not bad. She shoved the can between her legs, threw the Ford into drive, and pulled out onto the highway ahead of a Mac truck. Truckers made her nervous, and she kept looking in the rearview mirror. You know how many truckers are serial killers? A hell of a lot. They can kill you in one state, toss you out in another, and keep on going. She worked at a diner in high school that served a lot of truckers: Most of them were dirty, leering perverts who'd grab your butt or your tit, and you couldn't do nothing about it because you needed this job and the boss didn't care. Lola worked there too; that's how they were able to get the hell out of Mama's house when they were sixteen...lots of hard work and very little going to school. They both wound up dropping out: Kinda hard to care about fractions and old dead guys when you and your sister are struggling to keep your one-bedroom apartment over the laundromat and can't even feed yourselves at the end of it all. It was better than living with Mama, though. Mama was a hussy from hell when she got drunk, and she stayed drunk, so...there you go.

It was nice when it was just her and Lola. They didn't have much, but they had peace and they had each other, and after Mama's house, that was enough.

Then Lola started getting uppity. She always was a princess type, pink, and frilly, and whatnot, but it was when she started really getting serious about singing that she became Miss Better-Than-You. _If you wanna be white trash for the rest of your life, sweetie, go right ahead_. Ha. That was the day Lana got the job at the garage. She was real excited because she liked working on cars and the pay was decent too. Lola was talking about moving to California and wanted Lana to go with her, but Lana said no. She had an alright job, she was starting to see Derrick (that turned out to be a mistake), and, to be kind of honest, she was getting sick of Lola expecting her to bend over backwards and do whatever she wanted...especially since Lola didn't appreciate none of it. She supported Lola, but Lola didn't support her; she was really excited when she got the job at the garage; Lola was right there to shoot her down. _Oh, yippie, you work at a gas station now_...that's what she called it, a gas station...that was an insult, like calling a lobster a crawdad. She thought that was white trash; she thought Lana was white trash. Well, when Lola was doing all those singing contests out in Knoxville for piddling fifty dollar prizes and singing Patsy Cline songs at bars on Friday nights for _maybe_ a free pitcher of beer, who do you think was working extra shifts to pay the bills? Who do you think went to churches for help when she couldn't make ends meet? Who do you think went to the police station and got on food stamps and lied saying she lived alone because when it came to money she was? That's right, Miss White Trash.

It hurt. It really did. Lola meant the world to her, but somewhere along the way, she stopped meaning anything to Lola. She didn't even call anymore.

Until now.

The sullen half of Lana figured she needed something just like before she left. It told Lana to turn around and forget it. She was just white trash, after all, what can white trash do for you? The other half of her...well, the other half didn't care because it loved Lola with all its heart, and it remembered being six years old and cuddling its sister on a ratty cot while their Mama was fighting with one of her boyfriends in the next room (and losing by the sound of it), it remembered telling Lola _I'll always protect you, no matter what._

And that's why she drove through the night, her foot leaning heavy on the pedal: Somewhere her sister needed her, and she was going to be there for her.

When she grew tired and the lines on the road began to blur, she rolled the window down and turned the radio up, the twang and screeching fiddles of country piercing her ears and making her head ache. She stopped in Ohio and bought more Jolt, drinking it and hoping the slogan wasn't lying. Somewhere past the Indiana state line, with dawn a bluish orange crack on the horizon, it kicked in; she felt so damned wired she reckoned she could shoot sparks out of her fingertips if she tried. She stopped again to get breakfast from the drive thru at McDonald's; she loved those Egg McMuffins, they were like happiness on the go. Sometimes Jed would get food for everyone, and she'd always get two because they weren't all that big: She'd eat them, suck her fingers, and, if no one was looking, lick the wrapper too. Jed asked her where she put it all. _Damn, girl, you eat like a three-hundred-pound truck driver_.

 _They're good_ , she'd say.

Jed was always teasing her, and from that, she was pretty sure he felt something for her; she'd been kind of hoping he'd do something about it. See, outside of Derrick, she never dealt with men (or anyone else for that matter), so she didn't know much about them; she could be dead wrong about him. Here he is trying to be a father figure or some damn thing, and there goes girly Lana trying to kiss him. Girl, what the hell are you doing? Also, if she was honest, she was kind of scared he wasn't all he was cracked up to be. Derrick was a nice guy too...until you got to know him. She did not want to deal with that. Getting hit, treated like dirt...but the worst part? Building up a romanticized image of someone and having it torn down...kinda like finding out your granddaddy's a pervert or your favorite singer eats puppies sandwiched between weeping orphans for lunch.

She hoped Lola was alright. She sounded kind of upset on the phone. She said she was staying at a house in some little town out there...which didn't make any sense. What was she doing _there?_ Someone kidnap her or something? If so, they called the wrong person for a ransom; she had less money than a ranch hand after a night in the city.

It was closing in on noon when she reached Detroit: Lotta factories and busted down looking buildings surrounded by chain link fences. Reminded her of Knoxville a little. Parts of that place were going to the dogs lately, beer bottles everywhere, graffiti, homeless people - it was so bad at night your gun had to carry a gun. She took out the paper she wrote Lola's directions on and glanced at it. Royal Woods and an address. Was that a town or a subdivision? Sounded like a subdivision. There was one in Johnson City called Royal Pines, nice place, too. Lots of cops and doctors lived in there. She kept her eyes open and saw a green sign with ROYAL WOODS 15 on it. Must be a town then, they don't put subdivision names on signs like that...at least they didn't in the south.

Twenty minutes later, she crossed a truss bridge with flecking green paint and entered the town of Royal Woods (A SWELL PLACE TO LIVE, proclaimed the wooden sign to the right...well, golly gee). The highway turned into Main Street in town, and quaint brick storefronts lined tree flanked sidewalks. A courthouse rose from the town square, and a big war memorial overlooked a fork in the road. She slowed to a crawl and checked the paper again. Hm. Now, where the hell was this street? She drove aimlessly for a while because she was too proud to ask for directions, then she gave up and pulled into a Texaco, where a man in overalls pointed her in the right direction. She thanked him, turned left onto Main, then followed it to Hillcrest Street. Ten minutes later, she parked at the curb in front of a little ranch with an itty bitty lawn.

She never did understand what people saw in living in the city or the suburbs, were everyone's on top of each other and no one has any room to move. Her perfect home would have lots of space around it...and maybe even kids to fill that space.

Before getting out, she studied the house and its surroundings; she didn't see any rooftop snipers or evil, sister stealing ninjas hanging around, so she figured it was okay. She briefly considered bringing the gun, but decided against it; paranoid much, Lana?

She slipped out from behind the wheel, closed the door, and stretched, her back cracking and popping. Twenty-three, Lana, you're not even twenty-three and already you're an old woman.

Heh. Hard living, you know. Not the fun kind, either.

Rubbing her sore butt, she went up the walk, climbed the steps, and knocked. She had to admit, she was kind of nervous: She hadn't seen Lola in forever, what would she be like? And what kind of trouble would she be in?

Inside, footsteps approached the door, and the handle rattled. Guess it was time to find out. Lana took a step back as it opened and a Hispanic woman appeared, her hair pulled back into a bun. Lana started to speak, but the women cut her off. "You're Lola's sister."

Gee, what gave it away?

"Yes, ma'am," Lana said, "she called and said she was here."

The woman nodded. "Yeah, she's here. Come in."

The woman stepped aside and Lana entered the house. "I'm Ronnie Anne. "

"Lana."

The living room was small and comfortable with forest green carpeting and wood paneled walls. A brown and yellow plaid couch with an Afghan thrown over the back stood off to her right while on her left a big TV sat on an end table. "You can sit down," Ronnie Anne said, "I'll get Lola."

"Alright, Lana nodded. She sat stiffly on the edge of the couch and put her hands on her knees as Ronnie Anne disappeared down a hallway. While she waited, she looked around, her eyes lingering on framed photographs dotting the walls: A little Hispanic girl here, a little white girl with braces there, a family portrait with both girls, Ronnie Anne, and a man with white hair Lana took to be the father. They didn't look like sister stealing ninjas, so _that_ was a load off.

She blew a puff of air. Her heart was racing and her stomach was in knots. When Ronnie Anne reappeared, she stood, and when Lola came behind, she tensed ever so slightly. Her sister was dressed in a pair of stretchy black stirrup pants and a white top. Her step faltered when she saw Lana; tears sprang to her eyes and she looked like she was going to bawl, which kind of threw Lana off a little. She held out her arms and came forward, sweeping Lana into a shocked embrace. Lana's heart pounded in something like fear (what's wrong with her? Cancer?), and for moment she didn't know what to do, then as her sister began to weep, instinct took over and she hugged her close. "What's wrong?" she asked softly, and her hand fluttered to Lola's face. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

Lola sniffed. "Me."

Lana's heart clutched. "What? What's wrong with you?"

Lola pulled away, sat on the couch, and wiped her eyes. Lana sat next to her. "What's wrong, Lola?" she asked and put her hand on her sister's shoulder. Lola looked up with big, shimmering eyes and took Lana's hand, threading her fingers through Lana's like she used to when they were kids.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?' Lana asked.

"For everything," Lola replied, "for how I acted and how I treated you."

Lana didn't know what to expect when she left Bristol, when she knocked on the door just now, but it sure wasn't an apology. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed.

"I was a bitch," Lola said and squeezed Lana's hand. "I had a chip on shoulder and I...I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I ruined our relationship." She started to cry again, her hand going to her face. Lana's heart shattered and she wrapped her arms around her sister, her own eyes flooding with tears.

"It's okay," she said, her voice trembling, "I don't care about that."

"I missed you so much," Lola whispered.

"I missed you too," Lana said, "I thought you didn't love me anymore."

Lola wept harder, her body shaking against Lana's. "I'm so sorry I made you feel that way. I love you more than anything. You're my rock."

Lana gave into her tears and wept bitterly, all of the pain and heartache of the last three years welling up and rushing out of her like a cleansing rain. When they were kids, she and Lola did everything together, because they had no one else, they shared their pain, and their joy, and their everything. They were all the other ever had, and for a while, they didn't even have that. But now, they did once more, and Lana hugged her sister as tight as she could to keep her from going away again; she had never admitted it, even to herself, but she missed Lola so much she ached. Physically she wasn't there, and that was bad but manageable, but spiritually, in her heart, she wasn't, and that was not.

"I love you," Lana said.

"I love you too," Lola replied, and pulled away: Her eyes were wet but her face was warm and bright. She took Lana's hand again.

For a long time they sat on that couch touching and looking at each other, their hands clasped and their hearts brimming with reignited love. "I want you to meet my friends," Lola finally said and got up. Lana allowed herself to be led down the hall and into a bedroom; after the last three years, she'd let her sister guide her anywhere.

Two beds flanked opposing walls, each with its own nightstand and a window in the middle. On one bed, a girl with a ponytail was reading a book, on the other, a girl, the Hispanic, sat next to gigantic man with a nose ring. A comic book sat in her lap, and the big man was leaning over to see. "That's the most gruesome thing I've ever seen," he muttered.

"Wait until the guy gets covered in acid. Even his bones melt."

They both snickered.

"Guys," Lola said, and they all looked up. "This is Lana." Lola smiled widely and squeezed Lana's hand. "My sister."

Lana flashed a tight, awkward smile. "Hi."

Lola pointed at the big guy. "That's Chunk, my roadie."

Chunk nodded.

"That's Jessy...she's my best friend," she said, and pointed to the girl with the ponytail; Jessy beamed and waved. "Hi."

"And that," Lola said and pointed to the Hispanic girl, "is Bunny, Jessy's cousin. They're like sisters."

Lana's brow furrowed. "Well, that's a strange name."

"It's a nickname," Bunny said, "and only Jessy is..."

"Bunny, this is Lana," Lola said with a grin, then turned to her twin. "Her real name's Alex."

"It's nice to meet y'all," Lana said.

"Do you still like getting the occasional manicure?" Lola asked playfully (Lana _was_ a girl, and sometimes she liked feeling like one...sometimes). "Jessy gives _the_ best."

"Sure," Lana said with a shrug and a nervous laugh.

Lola dragged her over to Jessy's bed. "Your nails are going to look _beautiful_."

* * *

Lincoln slowed as he approached the driveway and studied the Ford parked at the curb: It was powder blue with white trim, dents, and rust spots. His eyes flicked to the tags. Tennessee. "That must be Lola's sister," he said as he spun the wheel and pulled in behind Ronnie Anne's car.

"I hope they buried the hatchet," Bobby said in the passenger seat, "she was really upset about it."

"Uh-huh," Lincoln said and killed the engine. He hadn't told Bobby about his and Lola's heart-to-heart in the attic the previous afternoon. He figured it wasn't his place to say anything, even if Bobby was with her now... _I'm from Missouri_ , Lincoln said earlier when Bobby brought it up (to be fair, Lincoln asked him why he was grinning all over himself). Bobby didn't get it. _Show m_ e, Lincoln said. He was only teasing, though; Bobby wasn't a liar...as far as he knew, and he sure wasn't stupid enough to lie about something like that if he was.

Lincoln threw open the door and went inside, Bobby behind him. What he found brought a bemused smile to his face: Ronnie Anne, Chunk, Lola, and a near carbon copy of Lola that Lincoln assumed to be Lana, were shoved up on the couch, Lana and Lola holding Atari joysticks and playing Pong. Alex and Jessy sat on the floor with their backs against the sofa, Alex near Ronnie Anne and Jessy near Lana. Lola jerked the joystick this way and that, her face pinched in competition. Lana sat on the very edge of her seat, her eyes wide and her lips pursed.

"You're about to eat your words, Lana," Lola smirked.

"No I ain't," Lana replied, her accent rich like honey.

Lola looked up and smiled. "Oh, hi Lincoln!"

Lana jerked her joystick and scored over Lola, who turned to the TV and rolled her eyes. "That doesn't count," she said, "I was saying hi to Lincoln."

"It counts alright," Lana said. "Who's next?" she asked and looked at Chunk. "Big boy?"

"Nah. One whipping was enough."

"Ten to zero," Ronnie Anne reminded him.

"Lincoln," Lola said, "this is my sister, Lana." She wrapped her arm around the other girl's neck and yanked her close.

She laughed. "Hi."

"Hi," Lincoln said, "looks like you two made up."

"Yup," Lola chirruped.

"We're tighter than bark on a tree," Lana grinned.

Lincoln nodded, his heart feeling all warm and fuzzy like his stomach felt after eating...pizza. "I'm glad."

"Yeah, me too," Bobby said and shoved past. Lola's face lit up, and she jumped to her feet. Bobby went over and took her in his arms; when they kissed, Ronnie Anne's brow angled slightly up. Teach, apparently, was the last to know.

"Lana," Lola said and half turned, her hand clutching the front of Bobby's shirt, "this is Bobby. You can look but you can't touch."

Lana snickered. "Don't worry, sis, I got me someone else I have my eye on...he is kinda cute, though."

"He's also a giant dork," Alex said.

"Hey, dorks do it better," Bobby said.

"Yes they do," Lola grinned and pecked Bobby's cheek.

Lana snorted. "Well, let's see then." She nodded at the controller next to her.

While Bobby took up his maybe-possibly future sister-in-law's challenge, Lincoln went over to Ronnie Anne and kissed her. She smiled and slipped her hand into his. "I might have a totally unearned reputation as a cold, hard hearted bitch - "

"Unearned, huh?"

" - but this is really sweet."

Lincoln sat on the arm of the couch and put his arm around her. Looking at the motley crew on and around the couch (not _that_ Motley Cru, Alex), Lincoln couldn't help but agree. "Yeah...it is."

* * *

 _Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today_

 _To get through this thing called life_

Lana held her hand up in front of her, fingers splayed apart. "Hm," she hummed, "that _is_ a pretty color."

Jessy preened and put the cap back on the nail polish. "I told you."

Lana's nails were painted a light, glossy shade of pink. Lana had a girly streak sometimes, but pink had never been her color. This, however, looked really nice.

They were sitting cross legged and facing on Jessy's bed. Chunk and Alex were kneeling side-by-side, their elbows planted in the mattress. "Her finger looks like an alien spat venom on it," Alex remarked.

"It's more like a cannibal tried to cook it but she got away," Chunk said.

Jessy shot them a dirty look.

"Will you two get out of here?" Lana snickered.

"Maybe she's a vampire and she was handling holy water," Alex suggested.

"Vampires don't come out in the daylight, love," Chunk pointed out.

"Daywalkers d-" her words cut off when Jessy whacked her across the face with her pillow.

 _Electric word life it means forever and that's a mighty long time_

 _But I'm here to tell you there's something else_

 _Go crazy_

"You're going _down_ , Uncle Lincy," Lola said and gripped the joystick.

"I'm older, stronger, and wiser," Lincoln said, gripping his own joystick, "you're the one going down. In flames."

Ronnie Anne, sitting next to Lincoln with her arms crossed, snorted. "You're supposed to back me up," Lincoln said.

"Wise," she chuckled.

On screen, the game started, and Lincoln jerked the stick, serving the square pixel ball. Lola moved her stick, and hit it. Lincoln responded, sending it back. Lola leaned forward and gritted her teeth.

"You're sexy when you concentrate," Bobby said next to her. She blushed and fought back a grin. Bobby kissed her cheek and put his arm around her.

"Stop!" she laughed. "You're going to make me lose!"

"Keep going, Bobby," Lincoln said, "or you're fired."

Bobby snorted. "Is that your version of a threat?"

Lincoln nodded. "You're right. Keep going or I'll put you on the grill."

Bobby paled. "Yes, sir!" He spun Lola around, and the controller fell from her hands.

"No!"

Lincoln grinned, but suddenly Ronnie Anne was spinning _him_ around. "You're sexy when you're threatening to unfairly fire our nephew." She pressed her lips to his and he was powerless to do anything but kiss her back. Lola ditto Lola with Bobby.

 _If you don't like, the world you're living in_

 _Take a look around you at least you got friends_

It was Alex and Lana vs Jessy and Lola. "Girl, we got this," Lana told her teammate as they bumped fists, "those two Miss Prisses are _done_."

Lana clutched her pillow as Lola rushed forward; she didn't have the heart to whack her sister in the head with it, so she swung it around and slammed her in the arm, knocking her off her feet and onto Alex's bed. Jessy ducked Alex's blow, and hit her cousin in the legs: The older girl went down with a sharp cry. Lana hit Jessy across the back and drove her to her knees.

"Ha! Ya'll ain't-" her words turned in to a breathless _umph_ when a pillow crashed against the back of her head and made her stumble. She spun, and Lola smirked smugly. "Oh, you hussy," Lana said and started forward. Lola screamed laughter and jumped back.

"No, please!"

Lana sprang forward, and Lola broke into a run, flying out the door. Lana gave chase, and found her sister cowering behind Chunk, who had been on his way to the bathroom or some such. "Protect me, Chunk!"

Chunk stared at Lana for a moment, then twisted his head around to Lola. "Remember that raise I wanted, love? The one you didn't give me?" He walked away, leaving her vulnerable and exposed, and, with a grin, Lana pounced.

 _Are we gonna let the elevator_

 _Bring us down, oh, no let's go_

 _Let's go crazy, let's get nuts_

 _Look for the purple banana_

 _'Til they put us in the truck, let's go_

Lana planted her knees in the soft dirt and pinched the wiggling worm between her thumb and forefinger. "Nightcrawler," she said to Alex, who knelt beside her. It was evening and warm dusk filled the backyard; cricket noise seasoned the summer air. She turned to Jessy, on her other side, and grinned at the girl's disgusted expression. "They're good eatin'."

"Oh, gross, Lana," Lola said. She was kneeling across from them.

"I seem to remember you eating a few in your day."

Lola's cheeks turned bright red, and Alex snickered. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," Lana said and rocked back on her knees. "You used to slurp 'em up like spaghetti."

Jessy gagged and Lola's blush deepened. "No I didn't! Please don't tell Bobby."

Lana smiled deviously and looked from Jessy to Alex. "Should I tell him?"

Alex nodded. "He'll never kiss her again."

"Don't you dare, Lana," Lola said in warning.

Lana waved her hand. "Oh, I wouldn't do that."

She looked at Lola.

Lola looked at her.

Suddenly Lana leapt to her feet and started running toward the back door. "Bobby! I got somethin' to tell you!"

"Lana!"

Lola jumped up and gave chase. She caught up quick and crashed in to her twin like a linebacker; they both fell to the ground. Jessy and Alex winced in unison as Lola straddled Lana's prone body.

"I wasn't gonna do it! I wasn't gonna do it!"

"Kids," Alex said and shook her head sadly.

Jessy nodded her agreement, then flashed an evil, metal smile. "Maybe I should tell Tim how you used to eat boogers."

Alex's face went white. "You better not."

"I won't," Jessy said, "or will I?"

 _All excited but we don't know why_

 _Maybe it's 'cause we're all gonna die_

 _And when we do, what's it all for_

 _Better live now before the grim reaper_

 _Come knocking on your door_

"Alright," Lana said and slapped a piece of pizza onto the already heaping plate, "just you and me, big boy."

Across the kitchen table, Chunk did likewise. "I doubt you'll beat me, love, I did competitive eating for two years."

"We'll see about that," Lana nodded slowly. She picked up two slices, pressed them together, and took a bite. Chunk took a piece in each hand and turned back and forth between them. Everyone else - Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, Alex, Jessy, Bobby (with his arm around Lola), and Lola watched intently. A half dozen empty pizza boxes were stacked on the table, plastic cups and paper plates strewn across its surface.

"My money's on Chunk," Bobby said.

Lola chuckled. "Honey, you don't know Lana. She's not human."

Lana finished, sandwiched two more slices, and dug in, ripping and rending with her teeth. Chunk shoved the last of his current pieces into his mouth and picked up two more.

"It's like a slow motion train wreck," Jessy marveled.

"Wait until they start puking," Alex said and fisted her hands, "it's gonna be awesome."

Chunk finished just ahead of Lana. Uh-uh. There was no way in hell some tea sipping, crumpet munching, nose ring wearing guitar carrier was gonna beat her. She picked up _four_ slices and pressed them together. His brow raised and someone gasped.

"Do you think she can do it?" Ronnie Anne asked Lincoln.

"I don't know," Lincoln said honestly, "that's a lot at one time."

She did it, but that was it: Her stomach was stretched and ached something fierce. Chunk dropped the piece he was currently working on and bowed his head with a pained moan. "That's all for me," he said. Everyone clapped and congratulated Lana. She was too busy keeping from splitting down the middle to enjoy it, though.

Alex slipped out of her chair and knelt next to Chunk. "Are you gonna barf?" Her eyes shone with no-good.

"I dunno," he said without looking up, "I might."

"I know a good way to keep from barfing," Alex said. "Think of dirty diapers rotting in the hot sun."

Chunk pressed his fist to his mouth and hitched.

Alex's grin widened. "And slathered with cottage cheese, chunky baby puke, and sauerkraut."

Chunk jumped up, banging into the table, and rushed to the bathroom. Lana's face was white. "Girl, you got problems."

As soon as Chunk was out, Lana was in.

 _Let's go crazy_

 _Let's get nuts_

 _Look for the purple banana_

 _Until they put us in the truck, let's go!_

"So," Lola said, "tell me about this guy."

She, Lana, Jessy, and Alex were sitting in a circle on the floor between Jessy and Alex's beds; it was nearly ten, and soft lamplight filled the room

Lana shrugged, a little blush covering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "Not much to tell. I got my eye on him but I don't know. He's my boss so I probably shouldn't."

"Does he like you?" Alex asked.

"I think, but I don't know. He's a nice guy and all, so maybe I'm, like, mixing up signals or something."

Lola scrunched her lips. "Hm. I say go for it."

"Yeah," Alex said, "walk up to him and give him a big, wet kiss."

Lana's blush deepened.

"No, Bunny, she can't do that," Jessy gasped. "That's sexual harassment."

"Not if he likes it," Lola said and batted her eyelashes.

"What if he doesn't?"

Lola's face fell just a bit. "Well, then, yeah, it can be construed as sexual harassment. Still, I say go for it. You're great. I bet he'll be happy to have you. He'll sure be lucky."

"I don't know," Lana said and rubbed the back of her neck, "I'm kinda...you know...fragile."

Lola nodded understandingly and took her sister's hand. "I am too, but if you don't take a chance at happiness, you'll never _be_ happy."

Lana sighed and considered her twin's words very, very carefully.

 _C'mon baby_

 _Let's get nuts_

 _Yeah_

 _Crazy_

 _Let's go crazy_

* * *

Thursday afternoon, Chunk pulled the limo to the curb in front of the Loud house and parked. Lana drew up behind him and killed the engine: When the garage called to say that it was fixed, she drove him there to pick it up.

Inside, Lola laid her suitcase on Jessy's bed and slowly packed, lingering and taking as much time as she could, stalling the inevitable.

She didn't want to leave.

It wouldn't be for long; after the concert she had a month off, and she planned to spend every single minute of it with Bobby. In August, she had to be back in L.A. to begin laying down tracks for her next album. Bobby said he would come with her, and that lifted her spirits: They could play house in her apartment...fall asleep together, wake up together, make love together, and maybe even get married. She didn't want to leave Lana, though, and she didn't want to leave the Louds: Though she had only known them a few days, they had become something approaching family, and after having no one but her sister for her entire life, and not even her for a while, it was nice to be surrounded by so much love, happiness, and affection.

She snapped the suitcase closed and sighed. It was just until Monday, she told herself. She picked it up and carried it into the living room, where Lana stood by the front door with Chunk; she stared at a yellow invoice in her hands and shook her head. "That guy ripped y'all off."

Chunk nodded when she came in. "Ready?"

No, Lola thought sadly, I'm not. "Yes," she said.

Outside, Chunk loaded her suitcase in to the car while Lana, Jessy, Alex, and Ronnie Anne gathered to say goodbye. Lincoln and Bobby were at work: She said goodbye to them both that morning.

"You can come with me," Lola offered again as she hugged Jessy. "VIP treatment."

Jessy hugged her back. "No, that's okay. Lola the singer is great and all, but I prefer Lola the person."

Lola smiled and held the girl at arm's length. "Lola the person will be back in a few days," she said, "and we can hang out, okay?"

"Sounds good," Jessy grinned.

Next came Alex. Lola hugged her and she hugged back. "I still think your music's yuck," the girl said, "but _you're_ pretty cool."

"You're not bad either," Lola said, "for a grody metalhead." She mussed Alex's hair.

"It was nice having you," Ronnie Anne said as they embraced.

"It was nice being here," Lola said.

Ronnie Anne reached into her pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, which she handed to Lola. Lola unfolded it and frowned. "We don't want it," Ronnie Anne said of the check.

Last but not least, Lana, the sister with whom she had so recently reconciled. They had one day together, one beautiful, absolutely perfect day. It wasn't enough, but really, no amount of days would be. She had hoped Lana would stay, but she was leaving to go back to Tennessee today. Life goes on, and time stops for no one.

"I'm gonna miss you," Lana said as she hugged Lola fiercely.

Lola hugged her back just as hard. "We'll drive down and see you," Lola said.

"I'd like that," Lana said. "A lot."

Chunk opened the back door, and Lola got in.

"You coming back too?" Alex asked the roadie.

He bobbed his head from side-to-side in thought. "Maybe for a bit."

"You totally should. We barely scratched the surface of my VHS collection."

Chunk chuckled. "Keep the player warm, then. We'll see how many we can watch in a day."

Lola watched Lana through the window as Chunk went around the front and slid behind the wheel. She kissed her hand and pressed it to the glass. Lana kissed her hand and held it up. Tears stood in her eyes, as tears did in Lola's.

Chunk put the limo in drive, and they pulled away. Lola sighed and stared out the window, seeing the passing town but not taking it in.

"It's only for a little while, love," Chunk said into the rearview mirror. His voice was uncharacteristically soft.

Lola sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Sometimes a little while is too long."

Chunk didn't reply, because it was true: Sometimes a little while _is_ too long.

* * *

Billy Richmond finished his burger and looked around: Linc was still in the bathroom as he had been since shortly after Billy came in. Guy must be nuking the toilet to hell and back with as long as he'd been gone. That's what'cha get for eating here every day, Linc. Your food tears my ass up too.

Sighing, Billy got up and stood by the counter for a minute, waiting: He'd been eating here at least once a week since Linc took it over and never once had he paid, but he still didn't feel comfortable just walking out the door. He'd give it five more minutes then go.

Linc was a good guy, Billy had known him almost thirty years - starting back when he still went by Blades - and come to think of it, he was the only guy he knew from his younger days that he saw on a regular basis. He and Bobby used to have a beer once a week at The Hidey Hole, but that kind of stopped after Daggy died. He saw Tim, formerly Poppa Wheelie, here and there, and a few others, but Linc was the one he spent the most time with. Billy wouldn't say the guy was his best friend, but he was a friend, and an old one at that. No friends like old friends. Billy remembered when Linc was this little pencil neck geek in a cardigan, and Linc remembered when Billy was this loser trying to be James Dean and probably looking as lame to the grownups as those New Wave assholes on MTV looked to him now. Lotta history there, you know?

The only problem was...Linc was a closet democrat or something. Oh, he said he wasn't, but who apart from the most hardcore democrat could resist Ronald Reagan? The guy was like Jesus, George Washington, and Abraham Lincoln rolled into one. Remember when all those air traffic controllers were striking? Reagan told them to get back to work, and when they didn't, he fired their asses. Hahahaha. Plus, he took that crazy Hinckley bastard's bullet like a champ...how old was he in '81? 69? 70? 70-year-old man gets blasted and fucking spits the round out like nothing. Kennedy was what? 45? And he took Oswald's shot like a bitch. Billy had been working on Linc for years now, but he wasn't coming around, which told him the guy was a lost cause, but hey, ole Blades Richmond wasn't the kinda guy to give up on his friends.

Billy gave up waiting and left, reaching into the pocket of his work pants for his keys. His car was parked on the side; when he turned the corner and saw it, he froze.

"What. The. Fuck."

A giant blue sticker with white writing was adhered to the driver door. MONDALE/FERARRO '84. Billy blinked, but it didn't disappear. There was one on the hood, too; the back driver side window was covered by another sticker: A red, white, and blue donkey. Below was a fourth: PROUD DEMOCRAT. Gaping, Billy walked around the back, his fingers touching his temples. Another sticker stared back at him from the bumper: I HEART THE ROYAL COUNTY DEMOCRATIC PARTY.

Billy felt faint. "My car," he moaned.

"Looks like someone switched parties."

Billy turned to see Linc standing behind him, his arms crossed over his chest and a cocky half smile on his face.

This was not happening. "I-I can't drive this fucking thing. Everyone will think I'm a democrat."

Linc reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "That's the point."

It had been a long time since Billy cried, but standing there in the parking lot of Flip's next to his newly minted liberalmobile, he came damn close. "Hey," Linc said, "at least I'm not an asshole: I didn't use super glue."

Billy sighed. Driving home that day was the most shameful experience of his life. He just hoped to God no one he knew saw him.

* * *

It was late, and the garage was lit by a single bulb hanging from the raised hood of a 1979 Pinto: Shadows nested in corners, and music whispered from a radio on a dusty work bench. Jed was bent over the engine, one hand braced on the edge and one deep in the car's guts. Lana crossed her arms, leaned one shoulder against the door frame, and watched him, her lips a tight, thoughtful slash. If you don't take a chance at happiness, Lola said, you'll never _BE_ happy.

And Lana was not happy.

Yeah, she had her sister back, and while that did make her happy, she was unhappy in general. Lola always felt like white trash...and Lana always felt like trash period. Her daddy didn't want her, her mama didn't want her, no one in her life wanted her, and twenty-two years of not being loved and wanted takes a toll on you, even if you do have a sister like Lola.

She was scared, though, scared that he would reject her, but more, she was scared that he might hurt her.

She didn't want to be hurt anymore.

Jed stood up straight, mopped the back of his hand across his brow, and turned his head, starting when he saw her. He squinted against the glare and leaned forward. "Lana? That you?"

Lana's stomach knotted. If you don't take a chance at happiness, you won't _be_ happy. "Yeah," she said, making her decision, "it's me."

"What are you doing here?"

"I just got back in town and thought I'd drop by." She shoved away from the frame and started across the floor as the music changed and another song began, high and lonesome like the hills.

"At eleven at night?" Jed asked.

Lana shrugged one shoulder. Jed often stayed late because 'there ain't much at home.' Lana knew the feeling, and she wondered if he was as lonely as she was.

 _I spent a lifetime lookin' for you_

 _Single bars and good time lovers were never true_

"How's your sister?" he asked.

"She's good," Lana said. They were standing a foot apart now, Lana's heart crashing in her chest and her body shaky. She couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes, to bare herself like that until she knew.

 _Playing a fool's game, hopin' to win_

 _Tellin' those sweet lies and losin' again_

"You weren't gone very long?" he said.

"I didn't need to be."

He nodded. "I missed you anyway."

A smile touched her lips. "I missed you too." She turned to the engine. "What do you got?"

"Damn fan belt," he said and splayed his hands on the car. "Pain in the ass."

Lana looked at his hand, and swallowed. Tentatively, she twitched hers closer, then, taking the plunge, she laid it on top, her fingers grazing his and hooking between them. For a moment he didn't do anything, and Lana was sure he'd reject her, then he curled his hand and brushed her pinkie with his thumb.

 _I was alone then, no love in sight_

 _I did everything I could to get me through the night_

 _I don't know where it started or where it might end_

She looked up at him with hopeful eyes, and he smiled warmly at her. She smiled back, and he slipped his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled close, wrapping her own arm around his waist and resting her head on his chest. She felt safe and warm in his embrace, two things she had seldom known.

 _No more lookin' for love in all the wrong places_

 _Lookin' for love in too many faces_

 _Searchin' their eyes_

 _Lookin' for traces of what I'm dreaming of_

"Jed?" she asked and looked up at him.

"Yeah?"

She looked deeply into his eyes, showing him her everything: Her pain, her uncertainty, her fear...and her hope. "You ain't gonna hurt me, are you? Like...my heart?"

Jed smiled down at her. "No, darlin'. I'd never hurt something so precious."

Lana's cheeks blushed and a happy giggle escaped her lips. "Okay," she said, and put her head on his chest again.

 _Now that I found a friend and lover_

 _God bless the day I discover_

 _You, oh you, lookin' for love_

Later, when they left, they left together.

* * *

On the last day of June, Lincoln sat in an overstuffed armchair and crossed his legs.

"So, Corporal, Loud," the doctor sitting across from him said, "what's bothering you?"

"Maggots," Lincoln replied.


	115. September 1985: Part 1

**Lyrics to _The Power of Love_ by Huey Lewis and the News (1985); _S_ _ussudio_ by Phil Collins (1985); _Hell or High Water_ by AC/DC (1985); _All She Wants to do is Dance_ by Don Henley (1985); _I Feel for You_ by C** **haka Khan (1984)**

* * *

On the morning of her release, Luan was awake before dawn, her arms crossed over her chest and her foot twitching with restless energy. The cellblock was quiet save for the metallic opening and closing of doors and the hollow footfalls of the guard on patrol, which made her even more nervous than she already was. Her stomach was in knots, her heart raced, and her palms perspired. Today was a happy day: After fifteen years in prison, she was going home.

Only she wasn't happy.

She was terrified; in just a few short hours, she would be cast into a world she had lost touch with, into a world where she had nothing aside from family. Family is vital, but at forty-three, Luan had no occupation, she had never held a job, she never did taxes or paid bills, and she had never been truly responsible for herself. Her siblings all worked and had homes; what did she have? Nothing. She was moving in with her parents and hoping her brother would make good on his promise to give her a job. The only thing she had out there was a daughter she barely knew...a daughter who already had a mother and didn't need her...didn't want her.

Not that she could blame Jessy. She had a happy, normal life, a life that Luan could not enrich, but only disrupt, a life in which, at best, she would only ever have a secondary role...not as a mother, but as some kind of messed up aunt. She didn't hold it against Jessy that she wanted to stay with Lincoln and Ronnie Anne –they were all she had ever known, and even if she and Luan built a good relationship, they would always be her parents, not her and not Ted. It was no one's fault but her own. In a way, she lost her child just as surely as Harold Manning's children lost their father.

Shortly after daybreak, Maggie woke up, rolled out of bed, and used the toilet. Sitting with her elbows on her knees and bending forward, she let out a tired moan; she never was a morning person. "Today's the day," she croaked.

Luan nodded and hugged herself tighter. "Yep."

"Luan Loud, back on the street," she said and ripped off a wad of tissue. "Look out, world." She wiped then flushed. "Lynn's coming to get you, right?"

"Yeah." Lynn was driving over from Tucson to pick her up at noon. She'd spend the night at his house then fly to Detroit in the morning, where either Lincoln or Lori would be waiting. She'd played out the reunion with each of her siblings a million times over the years, and they were always happy scenes...she didn't feel the dread and shame she felt now.

Maggie got up and slipped into her bunk. "You think he has time to make a pit stop?"

"No."

"A clit stop."

Luan smiled wanly. "He's not sleeping with you."

"It won't take very long," Maggie said, "I'll bend over and back up against the bars..."

"He's married," Luan said and sighed. "All of my siblings are married and have homes and careers."

Unlike her. She had nothing but blood on her hands and a hole in her heart.

"And you have a best friend named Maggie who's going to miss you," Maggie said soberly, and Luan felt even worse. She was going to miss Maggie too; under better circumstances they could have been something else than cellmates...best friends in high school, maybe, or coworkers...something, anything than what they actually were. Life doesn't work that way, though. You sometimes meet people who become very important to you under the worst of conditions, and you'll always wonder how much different your relationship would have been if the sailing had been a little smoother, the constellations arranged just a little differently. In another life you could have grown up together and forged a special bond...in this life you knew each other briefly in prison.

Just as well, she supposed. If she and Maggie knew each other on the outside, Maggie would probably have raped one of her brothers by now and gone to prison anyway.

"I'll miss you too, Mags."

The rest of the morning passed in a slow, agonizing crawl, dread forming in her stomach like a gathering storm until she could barely breathe. Call her crazy, but she wasn't ready; she didn't want to leave, at least not yet. She needed more time, just a little more time.

At 11:45, a guard opened the door and Luan drew a deep, shaky breath. Here it was: She was beginning her life again...her sad, shattered, so called life. She jumped off the bunk and grabbed the bag she'd packed: Her toiletries, her pictures, her letters, the few personal possessions she'd accumulated over the past fifteen years. Maggie stood and they hugged tightly. "I'm really going to miss you, Luan," she said seriously, and Luan teared up. "Please write."

"I will," Luan promised.

Clutching her bag in hooked, white knuckled fingers, she went to the door and paused when Maggie said her name. She half turned; Maggie was grinning mischievously. "Suck a dick for me."

Luan chuckled despite herself. "I'll send pictures."

Maggie smiled. "Even better."

Luan nodded a final farewell, and followed the guard onto the block, waiting for him to close the door. As they passed, girls flung jeers and jealous insults at her, a time honored tradition undertaken every time someone was released. Outside the block, Luan followed the guard down a long hall, their echoing footsteps unnerving her all the more. In the intake department, she signed a form and was given her effects that were confiscated when she was originally arrested...the forty-three dollars she was carrying was conspicuously absent.

She changed into her clothes in a bathroom: A fifteen-year-old maternity dress and a pair of slip on shoes that were old and ratty in 1970. Done, she sat in a waiting room and gazed out the window at the parking lot, looking for Lynn's car, a 1983 Lincoln...like that meant something to her. She hadn't seen a new car since Richard Nixon was president...now Reagan was in office...the same Reagan whose Gestapo tactics as governor of California Luan struggled so hard against...so foolishly. My idols are dead and my enemies are in power. Heh. Some revolution.

At 12:15, a puke yellow car with a white roof pulled through the gate, swung around, and parked at the curb. Luan sat forward and squinted: She saw Lynn behind the wheel, and her stomach clinched. She got to her feet and waited for a guard to give her permission to leave, but none came, and she debated her next move with herself. Should she go? She didn't want to get in trouble. She went to the reception desk where a female guard in a white uniform shirt sat behind a typewriter. She looked up. "M-My brother's here," Luan said, "can I go?"

The guard nodded. "Yep. You're free."

Luan blinked. As she went outside into the arid desert day, she turned the concept over and over again in her mind. Free. She'd wanted this for so long, but now that she had it, she didn't know what to think.

She knew what to feel, though.

Fear.

She opened the passenger door and slipped in. "Hey," Lynn said happily and leaned over, one arm slipping around her shoulders.

"Hey," she replied and hugged him back.

She had seen Lynn fairly recently ('82?), but she was taken aback by his appearance as she always was: He was overweight, his crewcut was dotted with bristles of gray, and lines were beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. In her mind he was still eighteen, and seeing that he wasn't somehow came as a shock.

She wondered if he felt the same about her: She had lines on her face too, and her hair, while not graying, had dulled. Was she a virtual stranger to him the way he was to her?

"How does it feel?" he asked as he spun the wheel and pulled away from the curb.

Luan nodded. "Overwhelming," she admitted.

"I bet," he said, "I mean...it's gotta be a little scary." They were turning onto the highway now, a long cracked ribbon of blacktop running arrow straight through the dusty land. Luan looked in the rearview mirror: The prison huddled darkly against the piercing blue sky, a gothic castle haunted not by ghosts, but with a decade and a half of her life. She shuddered.

"A lot scary," she said.

"Well...we're glad to have you back," Lynn said, "Mom and Dad are really excited. They've been talking about it for months."

Luan nodded. She knew, and she was excited to see then too; they hadn't come to visit since before Leni died. They were getting up there in years and the trip was too much for them. "It's going to be good to see everyone. I'm looking forward to meeting Lynn. How is she?"

"Good," Lynn said, and glanced at her. "We just found out she's dating a boy. She has been for a while but she didn't tell us." He chuckled.

"Uh-oh," Luan said, "have you had a talk with him yet?"

Lynn shook his head. "Nah, he's a good kid. Plus...I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not in playing shape, he is. I kind of expected _him_ to have a talk with _me."_

"How old is she now?"

"Sixteen," Lynn said. "She'll be seventeen in November."

Wow. Seventeen and Luan had never even met her. "Jessy's fifteen," she said wistfully, "I was hoping I'd be there for her birthday."

Lynn noticed the hitch in her voice; he held out his hand and she grabbed onto it. "You'll be there for the rest of them."

Only if she wants me there, she thought but did not say.

* * *

Alex Loud pulled on her denim jacket, slipped her headphones around her neck, and grabbed her skateboard from next to her bed, tucking it up under her arm. In the kitchen, Jessy was eating a bowl of cereal and paging through a magazine. Her mom got out of prison today and she was coming to Royal Woods tomorrow. She was kind of nervous, and you know what? Alex was, too. Dad said aunt Luan was okay with Jessy staying here, but there was the possibility that maybe Jessy would eventually leave, and Alex didn't want Jessy to leave. Jessy leaving would be like her right arm leaving…only worse; she could live without her right arm.

"Morning!" Alex said and flicked her sister's ponytail as she passed.

"Morning," Jessy said and took a bite of cereal.

Alex grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, popped the tab, and took a drink. It was New Coke, which tasted a lot different from old Coke. Most people didn't like it; Alex did, though. It was sweeter. Kind of like Pepsi. She bumped the fridge door closed with her hip and chugged her pop, then tossed the empty into the trash.

"Love you," Alex said and flicked Jessy's ponytail again as she left the room.

"Love you too."

Outside, Alex breathed deeply of the warm September air. Ahh...what a beautiful morning. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and...hey, look, that dog's taking a dump on the sidewalk. Nothing can be perfect, I guess. She dropped her skateboard, took out her Walkman, and hit play: Music started, and it wasn't metal. Hey, a girl can't live on rock alone, right? Plus, this song was in her favorite movie of all time (that wasn't horror): _Back to the Future_. She saw it with Tim at the Palace in July, then she convinced Mom and Dad to take her and Jessy to see it again. It was really cool; it was about this guy who goes back in time to the fifties. He was played by that dude from that show: Michael J. Fox. In it, he zips around on a skateboard and holds onto cars for a free ride like the most badass of all badasses.

And Alex wanted to be just like him.

 _The power of love is a curious thing_

 _Make a one man weep, make another man sing_

 _Change a hawk to a little white dove_

 _More than a feeling that's the power of love_

She hopped on to her board, pushed off with one foot, and rolled down the walkway to the sidewalk, her knees bent and her arms out like wings. She wasn't the best (or even the second best), but she'd been practicing all summer and today, she was ready to hook her first ride, Marty McFly style.

She rolled down the sidewalk, kicking pavement and gaining momentum. A Pontiac passed in the street, and Alex eyed it, but there was no place to grab on.

 _You don't need money, don't take fame_

 _Don't need no credit card to ride this train_

 _It's strong and it's sudden and it's cruel sometimes_

 _But it might just save your life_

 _That's the power of love_

 _That's the power of love_

She was really zooming now, the wind washing over her and the tires clunking on the cement. Alex Loud, time travelling, skateboarding, headbanging she-goddess! And what's that passing in the street? Is it a...Jeep with a metal wheel rack on the back hatch for her convenience? It sure looked like it!

Her brow furrowed in determination and a wicked grin spread across her face. She veered to the right, jumped the curb, and gave chase, kicking the street faster and faster. The Jeep was getting away. Oh, no you don't! Come back here and let me ride you!

Alex blushed. Oh, boy, that sounded kind of dirty. Of course, everything sounded dirty when you're a horny sixteen-year-old girl. Not that she was overly horny! Just...you know...sometimes she _really_ felt those hormones, especially when she was waking up in the morning and her night dress had ridden up and her bare thing was pressed against a lump in the blanket and her hips had been slowly rocking in her sleep...

Yeah, let's not talk about that...let's talk about the fact that she was catching up to the Jeep. It was feet away, her foot skipped along the concrete, oh man if it slows down I'm toast. Heart starting to pound, she reached out, wobbled, and grabbed the wheel rack.

 _First time you feel it it might make you sad_

 _Next time you feel it it might make you mad_

 _But you'll be glad baby when you've found_

 _That's the power makes the world go 'round_

I'm doing it! I'm actually doing it!

The Jeep pulled her forward, and she bent her knees to steady herself. The wind rushed through her hair and an imaginary throng of screaming fans lined the street, yelling, cheering, and pumping their fists. There goes Alex Loud, one of them marveled, she's just like Marty McFly...only a billion times cooler.

Alex smiled as the Jeep turned onto Main Street; that smile turned to a gasp when the board started to slide. She held on and pressed her weight down to keep it going out from under her. It worked, because of course it did...she was Alex Loud!

Closing her eyes, she nodded to the music, basking in the warm glow of her momentous accomplishment.

 _It don't take money and it don't take fame_

 _Don't need no credit card to ride this train_

 _Tougher than diamonds and stronger than steel_

 _You won't feel nothin' till you fee_

 _You feel the power, just feel the power of love_

 _That's the power of -_

"Hey, get the hell off my car!"

Alex's eyes flew open. The driver's face was hard and angry in the rearview mirror, his eyes like ice. Alex gulped. Uh-oh.

The Jeep slowed, and she took that as her cue to let go. "And stay off!"

She watched the Jeep speed up.

Humph.

No one ever yelled at Marty McFly.

* * *

Jessy left the house ten minutes after Alex and walked the ten blocks to school in a thoughtful haze, her books pressed to her chest and her ponytail bobbing back and forth at the force of her stride. She walked fast when she was thinking, and right now she had a lot on her mind. Tomorrow afternoon, her mother would be here. She was nervous, sure, but she was also kind of excited. It was her mom, after all, even if she didn't really know her, and Jessy looked forward to building a relationship with her. That excitement was tinged with guilt, though, because she didn't really think of her as her mom per se. When she said 'mom' it was a title. Auntie Ronnie Anne was her mom, and she would always look at her as such; that made her feel awful because she knew it would hurt her mother's feelings.

When she got to school, she went to her locker, opened it, and shoved her books in. She grabbed her science book, tucked it under her arm, and closed the door.

Another thing that bothered her was her lack of a boyfriend. Call her what you will, but she really wanted the romance that Bobby and Lola had. It was so sweet how he came to the window and played her music and made her a friendship bracelet and all that stuff; she desperately wanted something like that for herself, someone to hold her hand and gaze into her eyes and make her feel like a beautiful princess or something...that would be very, very nice.

Sigh.

Love was for other people, apparently. She was just a dork with braces that no one wanted; dorks like her don't get love and romance, they get to be spinster librarians with twenty cats waiting at home to be fed and worshipped. Their boyfriends are of the battery operated variety, if you know what I mean.

She had hoped high school would be different, but it didn't look like it would be.

Relax, you're barely two weeks in.

Right. She was just stressed about mom coming home, and when she got stressed, everything looked drab and dreary. She needed to focus on something else.

Like getting a higher grade on the math test than that bastard Chuck Spenser.

* * *

Lynn Loud III ate her dinner slowly, her eyes occasionally flicking to the woman across from her. She was of average height with long, straight reddish brown hair and teeth that were almost too large for her mouth. She stared down at her plate; her body language told Lynn she was uncomfortable.

Dad said aunt Luan would be 'out of sorts' and that she should try to make friends with her.

"So, aunt Luan," Lynn said presently, "what do you like to do?"

"I like to draw," Luan said and glanced up, "and read. And play cards." She grinned tightly. "I'm pretty good at cards."

"Oh, that's nice," Mama said, "maybe we can all play a game of rummy after we eat."

Luan nodded. "That'd be nice."

"Actually," Lynn said, "I was hoping aunt Luan would watch wrestling with me. Hulk Hogan is fighting Andre the Giant in a steel cage." She loved steel cage matches. Those were her favorite after hardcore matches – a hardcore match is where two or more guys beat the everloving shit out of each other with all kinds of stuff, like metal trashcans and steel chairs. If you put a hardcore match inside a steel cage, Lynn would cream her jeans.

Mama sighed. "I really don't like you watching that stuff. It's too violent."

Lynn rolled her eyes. "It's not _that_ bad."

Mama hummed, which meant she disagreed but wasn't going to force the matter; every once in a while she tried, but she usually relented after a little old fashion begging: The pout/kitten eyes combo Alex taught her always did the trick. Heh.

"I'm pulling for Andre," Dad said and forked a piece of ham into his mouth.

"You always root against the Hulkster," Lynn said.

"Because he gets on my nerves," Dad said. He squared his shoulders and deepened his voice: "Take your prayers and say your vitamins, brotherrrrr."

Lynn snickered and Luan smiled weakly. "You said it wrong," Lynn said.

"Nope, he says it wrong."

After dinner, Lynn led Luan to her room. "I have my own TV," Lynn explained, "so we can watch it in here."

"Wow," Luan said, "your own TV."

"Yep. It gets cable, too."

Luan's brow furrowed in confusion.

They sat on Lynn's bed, Lynn stretched out with her head on the pillow and Luan perched stiffly on the edge. Lynn kind of wished her aunt would relax, she was making her nervous.

On TV, Hulk Hogan bounded into the cage and ripped off his tank top to the thunderous cheers of a thousand fans. Lynn had eyes only for Ritchie (who was in his last year of college, which meant he'd be moving back full time in June, yay!), but she could appreciate Hulk's physique: Guy was ripped. It actually looked painful, like his skin was going to split. "That's the Hulkster," Lynn said, "he's the baddest of all badasses."

"He's big," Luan said with something like horror.

Lynn snorted. "Wait'll you see Andre the Giant. He makes Hulk look like a midget."

Moments later, Andre made his way to the ring and climbed over the top rope, a massive man with short, curly black hair and dressed in a black one-piece leotard with a single strap across his chest. Luan gasped. "He's even bigger!"

"Told you," Lynn said.

The match started, and Hulk and Andre locked up. "They hate each other's guts," Lynn said. "I don't know why, I must have missed that." She snickered and shook her head. "They'd kill each other if they could."

Andre tossed Hulk against the cage, and Luan winced. "Get up, Hulk!" Lynn cried and sat up. Andre grabbed him and threw him aside like a kitten. "Come on!"

Luan watched with wide eyes as Andre picked Hulk up by the head; Hulk lashed out with a punch, and Andre dropped him and stumbled back a few steps.

"Yeah!" Lynn laughed, "kill him, Hulk, kill him!"

Hulk kicked Andre in the stomach with a titanic boot, and Andre went down like a mighty oak.

The match lasted another ten minutes before Hulk went berserk and finished his opponent with a crazed flurry of punches. He pinned him one two three, and the crowd went wild. Lynn pumped her fist. She loved it when her guy came out on top; no better feeling in the world than a win...except Ritchie playing with your hair and trailing kisses down the side of your face as he does it, but that's different.

"That was…exciting," Luan said hesitantly.

"Better than that MTV crap Alex and Jessy watch."

Luan looked at her, her brow furrowing. "What's that?"

"Music videos."

Luan stared blankly.

"It's..." Lynn started, but stopped, figuring it would be easier to show her. She got up, crossed to her dresser, and turned the knob, stopping when she found the right station: A man with a balding pate and wearing a gray suit with a yellow tie stood before a half empty night club and sang into a microphone while his synth player and brass section made like a bunch of dorks.

 _Now I know that I'm too young_

 _My love has just begun_

 _Su-Su-Sussudio oh oh_

 _Oh give me a chance, give me a sign_

 _I'll show her anytime_

 _Su-Su-Sussudio oh oh_

Lynn's nose crinkled. "That's Phil Collins. He's the lamest dude ever." She turned to see Luan tapping her hand on her knee.

"I like this song," she said.

Ew, aunt Luan! "Eh, to each her own. Alex kind of got me liking AC/DC. It's good work out music."

"I've never heard of them," Luan said.

Lynn went over to her radio, opened the tape deck, and slipped in a cassette. "Hold onto your jock, because you're about to." She stabbed the PLAY button, and blistering guitars and crashing drums filled the room, making Luan jump.

 _Hot money_

 _Lyin' through your back teeth_

 _Fightin' on the main street_

 _Breathe your last breath on me_

 _Mama done told me_

 _Poor boy get home_

 _Hot lovin'_

 _Turn your happy feeling_

 _Touchin' and a teasin'_

"This song gets me _pumped_ ," Lynn said. She threw a punch at the air, then hit it with a totally rad spinning kick.

Luan was shocked into laughter.

 _COME HELL OR HIGH WATER!_

 _COME HELL OR HIGH WATER!_

 _COME HELL OR HIGH WATER!_

Lynn kicked the air again, then followed up with a punch. "Take that, Andre!"

Luan chuckled. "You're going to have to hit higher. His face is _way_ up there."

Lynn crouched down, leapt, and socked imaginary Andre right in the kisser.

"Lynn!"

Luan and Lynn both turned. Kathy stood in the door, a scowl on her face. "Turn that noise down, you're making the walls shake."

"Sorry, Mama," Lynn said and spun the volume knob until AC/DC was a whisper.

After Mama left, Lynn dropped onto the bed. "You have good moves," Luan said, "maybe you can be a wrestler yourself one day."

Lynn nodded. "I've thought of it. I think it'd be kind of cool."

"Very dangerous, though."

Lynn lifted one shoulder. "Yeah. Kind of."

"Are you going to go to college?"

"I think," Lynn said. "I just don't know what I want to do yet."

Luan nodded. "It took me a long time to figure out what I wanted to do. I was...twenty or twenty-one, I think."

"What was it?" Lynn asked.

"Social work. I wanted to be a social worker." She looked down in shame. "That didn't happen."

For a minute things were pretty awkward, and Lynn didn't know what to say. She knew Luan blew someone up but didn't mean to...why or how she got from wanting to be a social worker to being a terrorist Lynn wasn't sure. Regardless, I mean...there's not much you can say, is there?

"You wanna play a video game?"

"A what?"

"Let me hook my Intellivision up and I'll show you..."

Luan watched as her niece plugged a sleek black machine into her television set. A rectangular keypad was attached to it by a curly black cord. Lynn sat next to her and pressed a couple of the buttons. "This is _Major League Baseball_ , my favorite game."

It was that night, as she watched in wonder as Lynn played an animated game of baseball on her TV screen, that Luan realized just how much the world had changed while she was away.

* * *

Royal Woods, at least, hadn't changed a bit: Cliché, maybe, but it was true: Everything Luan saw that golden September afternoon in 1985 was exactly as it had been in June 1970: Lori said there was a new housing development across the river and a twelve lot mobile home park next to Hugo's Skating Rink, but otherwise nothing had been added and nothing had been subtracted, save for Rankin's Hardware: It was a True Value now. The cars were newer, for the most part, and the few kids Luan saw walking the street were dressed just a _little_ differently, but beyond that, she could almost pretend it was 1963 again, and that the past twenty-two years hadn't happened: She was twenty and determined with a bright future ahead of her, the possibilities endless. That girl, Luan realized, had been cheated...not by the justice system or the anti-war movement or Ted Harris, but by herself. She was forty-two now and had nothing to her name. She was hesitant to think of herself as being at rock bottom (she wasn't in prison anymore, at least), but she was certainly close.

"Principal Strickland died a few years ago," Lori said as she pulled onto Rosemont Avenue, "and Mr. Davis in, like, '73, but that's pretty much it."

Luna and Leni.

Funerals benefit the living...they provide closure. Luan was in prison for her sisters' deaths, and while she knew in her heart they were gone, not having that final farewell made it somehow less real. She planned to visit their graves as soon as she could, and she imagined it wouldn't be easy.

For a while, she gazed out the window, the only sound the faint hiss of the radio.

 _Well we barely make the airport_

 _For the last plane out_

 _As we taxied down the runway_

 _I could hear the people shout_

 _They said, "don't come back here Yankee"_

 _But if I ever do_

 _I'll bring more money_

 _'Cause all she wants to do is dance_

 _And make romance_

"How's Bobby Jr. doing?" she asked. They were turning onto Franklin now, and Luan felt an inexplicable rush of apprehension.

Lori nodded. "He's doing good. He and Lola got married. Did I tell you that?"

Luan shook her head. The last time she spoke to Lori on the phone, in May, she didn't mention it. Maybe it happened later.

"Yeah. Private ceremony in Hawaii. They didn't tell anyone, they just did it. They were worried about the press."

Luan smiled wanly. "You and Bobby Sr. did the same thing."

"I know," Lori chuckled, "only we weren't worried about paparazzi, I was pregnant."

Luan's head whipped around. "You were?"

"Yeah," Lori said. "You didn't know? I thought it was, like, an open secret. Mom and Dad knew. Mom told me a few years ago that she was disappointed I felt like I had to hide it from her."

Luan hummed. She had no clue Lori was pregnant before she and Bobby married. It was sudden, but Luan rolled with it, as they say. Thinking about it now, she might suspect something was up if it happened today, but when it did happen, it was 1961 and she was seventeen...sheltered, perhaps, ignorant maybe.

"Have you told anyone else?"

Lori shook her head. "No. I told Leni back then because I was terrified of telling Bobby and needed advice, but other than that, just you."

They pulled into the driveway and Luan's heartbeat sped up. Like the town in which it sat, 1216 Franklin Avenue was the same as it had always been...except for one thing. "Where's the swing?" she asked, turning to Lori.

Lori sighed. "That would be Bobby Jr's doing. He broke it goofing off when he was ten or eleven and Dad never got around to replacing it."

That swing was where she had her first kiss twenty-two years ago on a cold November night. Hearing that it was gone stung a little.

Lori got out and Luan followed. Before she left Tucson, Lynn insisted on taking her clothes shopping: She wore tan slacks and a white blouse, plus new shoes; her hair was down. For some reason she couldn't name, she felt like a fraud.

Lori knocked on the door and Luan took a deep breath. When it opened and Mom appeared, sudden tears flooded her eyes. Mom's hands went to her mouth, then she held her arms out: They both wept as they embraced. Dad hobbled over on his cane, and they both wept as _they_ embraced.

"I'm so glad you're home," Mom said; she held Luan at arm's length and smoothed her hair. "We missed you so much."

"I missed you too," Luan said, choking back a sob. "I'm so sorry." She broke down sobbing and her mother held her.

"It's alright, honey," she said, but it wasn't. She had caused her family so much pain, so much heartache; it would _never_ be okay. Nothing she could ever do or say would make up for the harm she did her parents, her siblings, and her daughter, nothing would undo the past fifteen years.

But if there was a God and he was good, she could make the next fifteen better.

* * *

Jessy Loud sat nervously in the back of the station wagon as Uncle Lincoln drove to her grandmother's house. She wrung her ponytail in her hands and fought to keep her breathing steady. She was being stupid, she figured, but she couldn't help it.

Alex put her hand on Jessy's leg and squeezed. "You okay?"

"Yes," Jessy said quickly, "just anxious."

For her entire life up until now, her mother had been a distant figure behind a pane of glass, and now she was here, in the flesh. Jessy tried to articulate her emotions to herself, but while she was usually good at doing so, right now she couldn't.

"It'll be okay, honey," Auntie Ronnie Anne said and turned in her seat, "your mom's really great. You guys will get along fine."

She hoped so.

They pulled into the driveway of Grandma and Grandpa's house and Uncle Lincoln turned off the car. Jessy got out, took a deep breath, and followed her family inside.

Grandpa was sitting in his chair, while Grandma was on the couch. Jessy saw her mother sitting next to her, and her heart did a little backflip. Alright, Jess, no reason to be nervous. Woman up a little. When they entered, Mom looked up and smiled widely. She got to her feet and started to come over. Jessy met her half way and they hugged. "Hi," Mom said, her voice thick with emotion.

"Hi, Mom," Jessy said.

While Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne dropped onto the couch and Alex excitedly told Grandpa about how she hitched a ride on her skateboard (earning an admonishment from Auntie Ronnie Anne in the process), Jessy and her mother went in to the kitchen to catch up. Jessy sat at the table while her mother poured herself a cup of coffee. "Do you drink coffee?" Mom asked.

"Sometimes," Jessy said. She drank coffee only rarely.

"How do you like it?"

"Sugar and cream, please."

Mom poured another cup, added sugar and cream, then came over and sat it in front of Jessy. "Here you go."

"Thank you," Jessy said, and took a sip while her mother sat. For a minute neither of them spoke, and Jessy was afraid they wouldn't have anything to talk about.

"How's school?" Mom asked. That struck Jessy as a pretty genetic topic, just a few steps above a comment about the weather, but she couldn't judge, because she couldn't have done much better.

"It's good," Jessy said, and wracked her brain for something to add; a two word response seemed curt, rude, and wrong. "It's high school, so it's the big leagues."

Mom smiled and nodded. "Yes it is. You've always done really well in school so I'm sure you're handling it well."

"I think so," Jessy said. "I'm kind of looking forward to taking electives next year."

"Those are fun," Mom said knowingly, "I took an extra civics class. That and history were my two favorite subjects."

Jessy took a sip of her coffee. "I like history too, and math."

"I never really liked math," Mom said. "I was good at it, but I didn't like it. Have you decided what you want to be when you grow up?"

Jessy scrunched her lips and thought for a moment. "Not really. I was thinking of maybe being a teacher like Auntie Ronnie Anne, but I don't really know."

Mom smiled. "I wanted to be a teacher. In fact, I'm the one who got your aunt interested in it."

"Yeah?" Jessy asked.

"Yep. I was telling her about the classes I was taking at the college and she kept asking all these questions and said 'Huh, that sounds cool.'" Mom laughed and so did Jessy because she could totally see Auntie Ronnie Anne saying that. "I changed my mind, though. I wanted to be a social worker and help underprivileged children."

Jessy blinked. "Oh, that's good."

Mom nodded, and her eyes flicked away in shame. "That obviously didn't happen."

Jessy looked awkwardly at her mug. No, it didn't. "What did?" she heard herself asking.

For a long time, Mom didn't respond, and Jessy regretted the question. She'd always been curious, though. She asked Uncle Lincoln once and he told her that that was up to Mom to tell her. Jessy accepted that and never asked again, but she often wondered over the years. Fifteen years isn't that long, so it's not like she kidnapped and ate a bunch of babies or anything, right? Jessy told herself that she wouldn't ask so soon, but here they were with it hanging in the air like thick, poisonous smoke.

Mom took a sip of coffee as if in an attempt to draw strength from the beverage; the mug trembled slightly in her hand, and when she sat it on the table, it made a hollow clunking sound.

She spoke, and her voice was a course whisper. "I killed someone."

Jessy's heart stopped in her chest. "O-Oh."

"It was an accident," Mom said quickly. "That doesn't make it any better, and it doesn't change anything, but I really didn't mean to." Tears filled her eyes and she wiped them away. Jessy felt like she should say something to comfort her, or maybe reach out and squeeze her hand _it's okay, mom_ , but she was in shock. Her mother killed someone? She ended a human life? Her stomach clenched and she felt sick.

"How?"

Sighing, Mom looked at her. "I put a bomb outside a courthouse."

Horror filled Jessy's breast. "W-Why?" she asked woundedly.

Mom blinked back tears. "Because I was young and stupid and it's really easy to do the wrong thing while thinking you're doing the right thing. The bomb wasn't meant to hurt anyone but that doesn't really matter, I guess. It did. It hurt a lot of people. It hurt the man it killed, it hurt his family, it hurt your grandparents, and it hurt you." Mom reached out and took her hand. She honestly didn't know how to feel. She was horrified and hurt that her mother would do such a horrible thing, but she also felt really bad for her because it was an accident.

"I'm okay, Mom," she said in an effort to reassure her.

Mom nodded. "I know." She stroked Jessy's hair and smiled sadly. "You're wonderful and I'm thankful for that."

After dinner, Jessy sat with her mother on the couch and watched TV. Mom slipped her arm around her, and Jessy leaned into her. Later, when she got home, that's how she felt: As though she were at home. With Uncle Lincoln, Auntie Ronnie Anne, and Bunny was where she belonged, but she loved her mother, and in her heart, she knew they could build a happy relationship...probably never a traditional mother/daughter dynamic, but something.

And Jessy felt good about it.

* * *

Lincoln picked Luan up on his way to Flip's two days later. She was wearing the uniform dress he dropped off the day before, a plastic name tag pinned above her heart. She was visibly nervous as she slipped into the car.

"Good morning," Lincoln said and turned down the radio. "You look like you're on your way to hell instead of your first day at work."

Luan smiled tightly. "I'm not gonna lie, I'm scared."

Lincoln spun the wheel and pulled away from the curb. "You shouldn't be, I'm not _that_ much of a bastard." He glanced at her; she stared straight ahead, her face hard and her eyes filled with anxiety. He was trying to lighten the mood, but apparently it wasn't working. She was afraid of failing, she told him as much the other day: She'd never had a job before, and she was terrified that she would be a crummy waitress. Waitressing wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but he thought she'd do fine: It might be wrong to indulge in nepotism, but Luan was his sister and there was no way in hell he was going to fire her, no matter how bad she was. If it came to it, he'd put her on permanent cleaning detail or something. Hell, the place could use a full time cleaner; his customers were slobs.

"How are you adjusting?" he asked to break the silence.

"Alright," she said. That wasn't exactly the truth: She was still bowled over by the fact that out here, no one watches you 24 hours a day; why? God knows people can get up to a lot of evil when no one's looking. When she woke in the morning, she found herself sitting on the edge of her bed waiting for someone to come and get her, and yesterday, when she wanted to walk to Lori's house and visit, she asked her mother's permission. _Of course, dear_ , she said bemusedly. On her way there, she felt like she was doing something wrong, being out and alone, and when a police car passed in the street, her heart clinched and she was certain it would turn around and take her back to prison. Come to think of it, she wasn't adjusting very well at all.

"It's weird," she admitted.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I felt kind of weird after...you know...'Nam. I kept thinking they were going to come back and take me prisoner again." He chuckled uneasily. "It, uh, it wasn't fun."

"No," Luan said, "it isn't. Compared to what you went through, I had it easy."

Lincoln tilted his head slightly. "I don't know. It was bad but it was only a couple months. Then again, it's been, what, seventeen years? And I still feel it sometimes."

He saw Dr. Jenner, the psychiatrist at the VA in Detroit, once every couple months. Jenner believed that Lincoln's 'maggot fixation" was a morbid coping mechanism - ultimately harmless but still not the best way to go about it. Lincoln's main concern was taking an all-expenses paid trip to crazytown and hurting one of his girls - or anyone else - but Jenner thought it highly unlikely. _Not impossible, but from what you've told me and from what I've observed myself, you've done a fine job of coming to terms with it on your own._ That was encouraging, but Lincoln was still concerned: His family was at stake, so he'd never be completely at ease.

Maybe Luan should talk to someone.

"I missed a lot," she said heavily and looked down at her lap.

Lincoln reached out and took her hand. "Yeah. But that's the past. If you keep focusing on what you missed, you're going to wind up missing even more."

She nodded and looked up at him. "You're right."

"I am," he said. "It's always going to hurt, but life goes on."

"Yeah, it does," Luan said. "I'm going to focus on this job, and on building a relationship with my daughter, and succeeding."

Lincoln smiled. "There you go. You think you're going to stay with Mom and Dad? I know you'll want your own place and all, but me and Lori were talking and, you know, they're getting up there in years, and we think it'd be smart to have someone there.

Luan nodded. She'd come to believe the same thing over the past few days: She knew they weren't doing all that great, but actually seeing it really brought the point home: Dad struggled on the stairs and sometimes Mom couldn't even button her own clothes. They did need someone there, someone to help them around the house and to grocery shop and things like that.

"I was thinking the same," she said, "I'll stay."

Lincoln nodded. "Thank you. I feel bad about asking you to take that on -"

"Don't," Luan said. "They're our parents, Linc. I'm happy to do it."

Lincoln smiled and patted her knee. "They're happy to have you home."

"I'm happy to be home."

They were pulling into Flip's now. Fred's Ford was parked in its usual spot by the corner: Lincoln gave him a set of keys last fall since he was always here so early. He'd also left him in charge a few times, twice because he had an appointment at the VA, and a couple times just to test him. He held up, and Lincoln was seriously considering making him manager. The main thing stopping him was this: If he did...what the hell would he do with his days? From the day he graduated high school to right now, twenty-one years later, he'd worked. Sure, there was that eight months he spent as a guest of Charlie in Vietnam, but that aside, he'd been a workaday schlub since Lyndon Johnson was president, and he was still young and healthy, so he really didn't have any reason to step back.

A vacation would be nice. His and Ronnie Anne's twentieth wedding anniversary was coming up in May; maybe they could go on a cruise or something.

He parked next to Fred's truck and killed the engine. "Alright," he said to Luan and opened the door, a smirk touching his lips, "let's see what you got."

Inside, Fred was forming patties from raw hamburger and whistling...sounded like the Marine Corps anthem. "Hey, Sarge, got s new recruit I want you to meet," Lincoln said. Fred glanced up.

"This is my sister, Luan," Lincoln said and patted Luan on the back.

"Hi," Luan said.

Fred nodded. "Hi. I'd shake your hand but I'm full of meat."

"Fred is the asshole you'll be handing orders to," Lincoln said. "We call him Sarge because he was a drill sergeant. He yelled at people and got paid for it."

Fred nodded. "I was good, too."

Lincoln led Luan into the dining room. She crossed her arms and looked nervously around. "This shelf is where the plates are kept. There are some in back they put the food on, glasses and silverware are here too." He picked up an order pad and opened it. "You take down the order, put it in the window, then run the food when it comes out."

Luan blinked in confusion. "Run it?"

"Run it to the table."

She nodded. "Okay."

"When your table leaves, you bring the dishes into the kitchen and clean the table off. It's really simple. I promise. You just have to be quick because when we're busy, this place with eat you alive."

Luan gulped...but nodded determinedly. Waitressing might not be much, but this was her new life, and she intended to take it seriously.

Lincoln watched her throughout the day, and while she made a few mistakes here and there, that was to be expected. Overall, she did really well, and you know what?

He was proud of her.

* * *

Bobby Jr. liked Los Angeles: The rugged Hollywood Hills, the glinting, neon decked Sunset Strip, the Santa Monica shore, all the palms and mansions and night clubs...it was like paradise.

He did not, however, like all of the music industry types around Lola, and they didn't like him: They were constantly talking down about him to her, telling her he was some kind of leech and freeloader who wanted to take advantage of her and live it up on her dime. In his more generous moments, he allowed that, yeah, okay, it might look that way...but it wasn't. He dug SO-CAL, and having money and not having to work was great and all, but he was in love with Lola, and if being with her meant living in a mansion, great, and if it meant living in a rundown trailer in Tennessee...whatever. Just as long as he had her, he didn't care where they lived or what they did.

Lola didn't listen to them, thank God, but it bothered the shit out of Bobby because one day she might...she might buy their jive and start thinking he was what they accused him of being. He did everything he could to show her he wasn't like that: He never asked for money, he never suggested they take lavish vacations, he never even said they should go out to eat. Lola knew, and she told him not to worry, but when you have something precious and a bunch of pretentious snobs are trying to fuck it up, how can you _not?_

On September 28, Bobby woke at noon alone in bed, bright Southern California sunshine bathing him in golden warmth. Lola was at the recording studio finishing up her third album and would hopefully be done today or tomorrow. When she was, they were flying to Royal Woods for a week or two then down to Bristol to see Lana and Jed; the last time they saw everyone was in March at Lana and Jed's wedding. Not everyone, of course, just Uncle Lincoln, Auntie Ronnie Anne, and the girls. It was nice though: The ceremony was held at a little clapboard church in the hills, and Lana wore a simple blue dress. She was all smiles and glowed with happiness: Of course that might have had more to do with her being pregnant. Neither one of them knew at the time, so it wasn't like they married because they felt they had to or something...they did it because they made each other happy.

The same reason Bobby and Lola got married.

Getting out of bed, Bobby glanced out the window and at the city below. Their house was in the foothills overlooking the Valley, and sometimes when Lola didn't have anywhere to be in the morning, they'd sit on the patio until late talking, holding hands, and looking at the lights.

In the bathroom, he pissed and took a long, hot shower, singing as he massaged shampoo into his hair:

"Baby, baby, when I look at you

I get a warm feeling inside

There's something about the things you do

That keeps me satisfied."

He snatched the soap and pretended it was a microphone. "I feel for you...ohh, I think I love you." He snickered. Prince wrote that. Bobby met him at a party last month...well, he didn't really meet him per se, they were both in the same room. Weird guy; Bobby was actually afraid to introduce himself. You know who he kind of reminded him of? Lola. Prince, too, bore himself like a queen. Bobby didn't care how many stories he heard about Prince doing this woman and that, guy was gay. Had to be.

"I feel for you," Bobby continued as he put the soap down. He started to reach for the conditioner, but the curtain was drawn back, and he screamed like a bitch, his mind flashing back to that boring black and white horror movie where this guy dresses as his mom and stabs people in the shower.

"Relax," Lola giggled and stepped in, "it's just me."

Bobby's eyes crept over her naked body, from the Y-shaped juncture of her femininity, up her taunt stomach and over the gentle swell of her hips, to her pert breasts, her velvety throat, her deviously grinning lips, and finally to her sultry eyes. "See anything you like?"

"Oh, yeah," Bobby said. He took her in his arms and kissed her, his hands going to the soft flesh of her butt and squeezing.

She laughed against his lips and they kissed slowly, their tongues softly and sensually caressing. She pulled back and smiled up at him. "Switch me spots?"

Bobby slid past and let her take his place; she stood under the spray and wetted her hair while he lathered his hands with soap and rubbed her back, from her shoulders down to the top of her butt. Touching her always turned him on, and by the time he was done, his Bobby Jr. Jr. was standing tall and proud like the mighty mast of a schooner at sea or some shit. "You're home early," he said as she turned to face him.

"So do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

Bobby blinked. Well...he didn't want bad news at all, to be honest. "Uh...might as well get the bad out of the way first."

She reached for the shampoo. "We can't leave for at least another week. There's been a last minute addition to the album and I have to record it staring tomorrow. It's a duet."

That wasn't so bad, he supposed. A delay is only a delay. "Who with?"

"Mick Swagger."

"Really?" he asked, interested. Mick Swagger did that song he liked...it was a duet with The Jeffersons called _Condition of Surprise._

Lola hummed. "Cyndi Lauper was supposed to do it but she canceled at the last minute. Probably something to do with that stupid WWF."

Huh. "That's pretty cool."

"I kind of want you to be there," she said, and winked, "so you can beat him up if he gets fresh." She closed her eyes and rinsed her hair.

Bobby chuckled. Mick Swagger weighed all of ninety pounds soaking wet. Lola could easily handle him. "Alright, I'll tag along and defend your honor."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"What's the good news?"

She opened her eyes, and they sparkled like diamonds. "I'm pregnant."

Bobby's jaw dropped and she laughed. "Really?" he asked hopefully.

"Umhm. I kind of suspected something was going on so I went to the doctor. We're due in May."

One never knows how they'll react to the news that they'll become a father until they actually get it. Bobby Santiago Jr. reacted by giggling like a girl and sweeping his wife into a loving embrace.


	116. September 1985: Part 2

**Lyrics to _Oh, Sheila_ by Ready for the World (1985); _Freeway of Love_ Aretha Franklin (1985)**

* * *

"This is so fucking cool," Alex breathed, her eyes as big around as planets. She and Tim were sitting in the very back row of a theater at the Palace. It was late afternoon, and apart from a tiny smattering of people, they were alone.

On the screen, a group of teenage punks ran through a rain swept cemetery from brain eating zombies while loud rock music played (do you wanna party? It's party time). One, the weird chick who liked stripping naked and dancing on tombs, fell and was surrounded by ghouls in burial suits: She screamed as they fell on her.

"Aw, man," Tim said, "she was my favorite character."

Alex grinned. "You only liked her because she took her clothes off."

Tim shrugged. "No one else has, so she kind of wins by default. Her boobs looked kinda funky, though."

"Yeah, they did," Alex said.

"And, uh, I'm not an expert on what girls have...you know 'down there' but it looked like she was wearing a prosthetic or something."

She noticed that too: That chick's crotch was as smooth as a Barbie doll's. She glanced over at Tim and smirked at the little blush on his face. Aw, he's embarrassed. "You never saw one?" she pressed.

He shook his head. "Well, I mean, I watched scrambled porn once and I _think_ I saw one."

Alex brushed her teeth across her bottom lip and thought very carefully about what she was going to say. Okay, she didn't think all _that_ carefully, but only because she'd been kind of thinking about it for a while now. "Do you _wanna_ see one?"

Tim's head whipped around. "What?"

She smiled sinfully. "Do you wanna see one?"

He gaped, then shook his head. "Well, I mean, you know, I don't really, you know...no, not at all. Uh-huh."

Alex giggled. "What, are you gay?"

Tim's eyes widened. "No, no, I just, you know, I'm not a pervert or anything."

"So...you _don't_ want to see my pussy?"

Raging fire spread across Tim's cheeks. He looked hurriedly away and focused on the screen. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "If you wanted to show it to me, I guess."

Yeah, actually, she did. She also wanted him to show himself to her. She scooted closer. "How about this? I'll show you mine if you show me yours." She grinned.

Tim looked at her, his lips pursed as if in thought. "Yeah," he said haltingly, "okay."

Alex drew back and stared at him. It may have looked like she was trying to be sexy or something, but she wasn't: She was trying to gather up the courage to show herself to him. Sure, she'd thought about it and she figured she was ready (her body was certainly telling her that she was), but suddenly she was kind of, uh, nervous.

Tim was watching her expectantly. "Look, if you don't want to..."

Screw it. She unbuttoned her jeans, hooked her thumbs in, and lifted up, pulling her pants and underwear down in one fluid motion. She blushed hotly from head to toe and her heart slammed in her chest. She wiggled her hips until her pants were around her knees, then stood, turning to Tim: His jaw dropped.

The feeling of his eyes caressing her hot, bare skin made her shiver. "So, yeah, uh, that's what girls look like."

Tim swallowed hard and looked from the spot between her legs. "C-Can I touch it?"

Alex's heart seized, and a pang of desire rippled through her. Oh, God, yes, please touch me! "Uh...I-I guess." She glanced nervously around. The theater was dark and no one was close, but she felt exposed anyway. She sat back down, her pants falling to her ankles. Tim turned in his seat and looked at her, uncertainty on his face. He started to reach out his hand but pulled it back. "A-Are you sure?"

Alex nodded. "Yes." Her voice was a husky whisper.

Tim scooted closer and leaned over, his nose brushing her cheek and his hot, ragged breath puffing against her skin. She tingled pleasantly as his hand dipped between her legs, his fingers grazing the soft, vulnerable flesh of her inner thighs. He cupped her in his palm, and she twitched at the sensation of his heat flowing into her. Gently, he moved his middle finger up the sticky crease of her rapidly moistening sex, and her fingers hooked into the armrest of her chair. When he reached her aching nub, she sucked a sharp intake of air over her teeth as pleasure exploded through her body.

He stopped. "Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

Alex nodded. "Yeah, that just felt really good." Her mouth was dry and her voice was shaky. Tim gently rubbed his finger back and forth over her clit, and she moaned in the back of her throat, the gathering friction shooting electric sparks into her brain; she was so wet his motion was beginning to produce a squelching noise that Alex could just hear under the slamming of her own heart. Her hips rocked instinctively forward and she bit down on her lower lip to keep the building cries from escaping. Tim's breathing was coming quicker, hot against her fevered flesh. He kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then her quivering throat, his speed increasing and pushing Alex to the edge. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and she turned her head, welding her lips to his at the same moment her orgasm detonated within her. She let out a long, trembling "Uhhhh," and spasmed as every one of her nerve endings crackled with burning release.

Tim held her close as her climax washed through her. When it was over, she shuddered and giggled. "That's much better than when I do it."

"So you're saying I'm better?" Tim asked.

Alex started to deny it, but that's exactly what she was saying. "Yeah. You're better." She shifted in his arms and looked at him. "At touching a girl. I bet I'm better at touching a boy than you."

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

Tim leaned back in his chair. With a nervous, glance at her, he unzipped his jeans and pulled them down; when he sprang free, Alex's breath caught. It was big, and red with heat, and twitched with every beat of his heart. She grinned and reached for it, but stopped herself and looked at him. "May I?" she asked and batted her eyelashes.

Tim chuckled. "Yeah, go ahead."

She wrapped her fingers around him and he squirmed a little. She wasn't prepared for how hot it was, and for how soft the skin was: Silky, smooth. She ran her hand up his shaft, and marveled at the texture. She reached his crowned head and brushed her thumb across the top, her skin collecting a drop of his essence. She gripped him and moved slowly up and down, watching his face for reactions: His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, a look of rapture upon his features. She went faster, his precum leaking out and greasing the way: Her hand was hot, sticky, and wet, and she was starting to get turned on again.

Tim was panting, his body trembling. Alex went faster, and he threw his head back as his rod began to swell: Alex's eyes widened when he came, long, silvery ribbons shooting from his head and splattering the back of the chair in front of them. The corners of her mouth turned up in a devious smile and her eyes danced with a mischievous light. Wow, that thing makes a mess, like an oil spindle or something. His last pump fell across her knuckles and dripped down her hand. She held it up and studied it in the light cast by the screen. Hm. Baby batter. Tim watched her with wide, hazy eyes, his cheeks scarlet and his chest rising and falling.

"I should probably go wash my hands," Alex said.

Tim nodded jerkily. "Yeah, me too."

Though she missed the rest of _The Return of the Living Dead_ , that was the most fun Alex Loud ever had at the movies.

* * *

Bobby threw back his drink and sat the glass on the table. He was four in and starting to get a headache: The throbbing neon lights and loud, synth heavy music weren't helping matters:

 _Oh, oh, Sheila let me love you till the morning comes_

 _Oh, oh, Sheila you know I want to be the only one_

Fuck Sheila. He caught sight of himself in the mirror running along the wall and grimaced: He looked grouchy. At least his duds were nice: Black blazer over a purple shirt with white pants. Hi, there, pops.

He grinned. He was going to be a father. Him. Crazy, right?

"You thought of any names yet?" Mick Swagger asked. He wore a pink polo shirt, tan slacks, and big sunglasses that hid his eyes. He sat across from Bobby with his legs crossed and a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

"No," Bobby said and glanced at Lola; she took a sip of her Coke and shook her head.

"We haven't even had time to process it."

The thing about being famous in this country is the goddamn media is on top of you 24/7. The tabloids are always willing to pay for information...and some people are always willing to provide it. Someone in Lola's doctor's office figured one of today's hottest stars being pregnant would fetch a pretty penny and went to one of those supermarket gossip rags: When she and Bobby walked into the studio that morning, everyone smiled and congratulated them. Lola was not happy, and neither was he: Last night in bed they decided to wait a month or two before telling everyone. She said Dr. Spock encouraged women to hold off until the end of the first trimester because miscarriages don't happen after that...or something, he wasn't clear; Lola was smart so he trusted her. Why she was taking advice from the Star Trek guy, though, he couldn't say. Mick insisted on taking them out 'for a spot of celebrating' so here they were in a club off the Sunset Strip where celebrities and socialites danced in the glow of soft electric stardust.

Mick nodded and took a sip of his rum and Coke. "Right. I suppose it _was_ all a bit sudden. You stop having a right to privacy the moment you get famous."

Bobby noticed.

"I'm pretty upset," Lola said. "I wanted to wait, now I have to call my sister, he has to call his parents...I just hope they haven't found out yet. I'd like it to come from us and not the press."

 _Oh, baby, love me right_

 _Let me love you till we get it right_

 _Can't you let the others be_

 _'Cause with you is where I got to be, yeah_

Bobby finished his drink and massaged his temples. "We should sue," he said.

"Oh, I'm considering it," Lola said.

"Doubt you'll get far," Mick said. "It was probably some receptionist who makes fuck all a year and lives alone with three cats. You'd be better off finding the slag and punching her lights out." He grinned archly.

"I just might," Lola said and took another sip of her pop, daintily sucking through a straw, her brow pinched in anger. Bobby smiled to himself: She was cute when she was mad.

Mick took a drag of his cigarette and blew a narrow plume of bluish smoke. Pink, green, and red neon flashed across his wrinkled face. He was in his forties, but could have passed for sixty. Hard living, Bobby supposed, and thought of Auntie Luna: How would _she_ look if she were alive? Probably just as bad.

The current song ended and another started: Smooth piano and hot sax for all you cool cats and Daddy-Os:

 _Knew you'd be a vision in white_

 _How'd you get your pants so tight?_

 _Don't know what you're doin'_

 _But you must be livin' right, yeah_

"If you do hit her, you didn't get the idea from me," Mick said and stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray. "I'd like to stay _out_ of trouble for a bit."

"I'll make sure to mention your name to the police," Lola said.

Mick laughed. "If you must, at least wait 'til I'm back in London."

"England and America have an extradition treaty," Lola assured him.

"The Queen will protect me. I shagged her once, you know."

Lola was shocked in to laughter. "No, you didn't."

"I did," Mick said, "then I sat naked on the King's throne."

"There is no king; Phillip is a Prince consort."

Mick chuckled. "Whatever he fancies himself, I did his wife and rubbed my ass on his chair."

"Uh-huh," Lola said playfully, "I'm sure you did."

 _With the radio playin' our song_

 _We keep rollin' along_

 _Who knows how far our car can get_

 _Before you think your love slowin' on down_

A waitress passed close by, and Mick held up his hand. "Another between the sheets for the man of the hour."

Bobby started to protest, but the waitress was already gone. Lola took a sip of her pop and got up. "I'm going to the bathroom. Hurry up and finish your drink, I want to get home and call Lana."

Bobby lifted his empty glass in salute. She turned and made her way through the crowd to the ladies' room, skirting the dance floor and passing the bar. Bobby watched her go, a little smile on his lips. She's carrying my child, he thought. It was heady, it was surreal...and it made him so happy he could piddle.

"You excited?" Mick asked over the music.

"Yeah," Bobby replied. "Yeah, I'm really excited."

Mick picked up his glass. "Nothing like fatherhood, mate. The first time you hold your child you'll cry like a baby." He took a drink and sighed.

"You have kids?"

"Yep, two boys and a girl." The waitress returned and sat a glass in front of Bobby. Bobby nodded his thanks.

Lighting a cigarette, Mick reached into his pants pocket and brought something out. "You take mandies?"

Bobby blinked. "Uh, I don't know what that is."

"Quaaludes," Mick clarified. He opened his hand and held it out for Bobby's inspection: His cupped palm was filled with white pills.

Bobby's eyes widened and he shook his head. "I don't do that stuff." He'd smoked pot before, but he'd never done anything harder: His mother sat him down one day, told him exactly what happened to Auntie Luna, and begged him not to do drugs. As headstrong and perhaps even rebellious as he was, he vowed to Mom that he wouldn't, and every time he'd been offered something more than grass, he remembered her big, tear filled eyes brimming with pain over the loss of her sister and with fear for him.

Mick shrugged. "More for me, then."

A few minutes later, Lola came back and stood behind her chair. "You ready to go?" she asked.

"Yeah," Bobby said and got up. Mick rose as well, holding out his hand. Bobby took it and they shook.

"Good luck with the kid and congratulations again."

"Thank you."

Next he gave Lola a friendly hug. "It was nice singing with you, love. I imagine they'll want a video out of us, so I'll probably see you soon. If not, good luck and congrats."

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

At home, while Bobby laid down with an ice pack against his forehead, Lola sat in the living room and dialed Lana's number. She picked up on the fourth ring and sounded out of breath. "Hello?"

Lola smiled at the sound of her sister's voice. "Hey, it's me."

"Oh, hey," Lana said happily, "it's good to hear from you." Lola called Lana once or twice a week...sometimes even thrice. Each one felt like both a seamless continuation of the last and the first in a long, long time. "How's it going?"

Lola nodded. "Good. I have good news."

"Oh?" Lana asked, intrigued, "what's that?"

"I'm pregnant."

Lola yanked the phone away from her ear and smiled as Lana issued a happy scream. "That's amazing, hon, when are you due?"

"May," Lola said.

"That's only six months after me," Lana said, "our kids are gonna be the best of friends. Are you excited?"

"Yes," Lola said earnestly, "I'm very excited...but I'm nervous too."

"Same reason I am, huh?"

"Yeah," Lola sighed.

When Lana found out she was pregnant, she called Lola. As they were so close, Lola instantly picked up on the anxious undertone in her sister's voice. After a little pressing, Lana confessed that she was nervous 'as all get out' because _I don't know how to be a mother...only one I ever saw in action was Mama, and she wasn't very good. I'm scared I'll screw it up._

"Remember what you told me?" Lana asked now.

"Yeah."

"Same goes for you: You're a much better woman than Mama ever was, and you'll be a much better mother."

Lola sighed. "I know, it still worries me though. I just feel..." Lola grasped for words. "I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing."

"So do I," Lana said seriously, "but we'll get through it together, hon. I'm here for you anytime you need me."

Maybe it was pregnancy hormones, but Lola teared up. "I'm here for you too. I can't wait to see you. Are you big?"

Lana chuckled. "Oh, yeah, as a house. I'm not looking forward to the next two months, that's when it gets really bad, I hear. The swelling and pain. Shit. My back aches 24/7 now. I hate it."

"You're not working, right?"

Lana laughed. "You kidding me? Jed won't let me anywhere _near_ the garage. Sometimes he won't even let me get out of bed, waits on me hand and foot."

"Aww," Lola said, "that's nice."

"Gets on my goddamn nerves," Lana laughed. "You know me, I'm not one to sit on my butt."

"You better enjoy it now," Lola said, "because by this time in December you're going to have a wee little baby up every couple hours."

"Don't I know it, but Mama Lana's up for the challenge."

Lola hoped _she_ would be up to the challenge as well.

* * *

Lori Loud cracked open a Coke and took a drink, then carried it into the living room. She didn't like the new formula as much as the old, but eh, it wasn't the end of the world.

On the couch, Luan sat with her hands on her knees, her body tilted slightly forward and her head down: She was studying a hardback book on the coffee table: It was black with silvery writing. THE BACHMAN BOOKS: FOUR EARLY NOVELS BY STEPHEN KING. When Lori sat, Luan looked up at her. "I never took you to be a Stephen King fan. His staff's a little...unLorilike."

Lori chuckled. It was true: Stephen King books were filled with sex, violence, and bad language, all of which were extremely unLorilike. Once upon a time, she'd blush furiously at the obscene way Elvis swiveled his hips...now she read books with the f word on every page. "I didn't either but a girl Bobby was dating left one lying around, I picked it up, and she didn't get it back until I was done. He's a very good writer."

Luan nodded. "Yeah, I read a couple in jail. The one about the guy who can see the future and the one with the haunted car. They were good. I kind of like Danielle Steele."

"Ooooh," Lori teased and batted her eyelashes, "romance."

Luan laughed. "Yes, romance. It's light and happy and sometimes that's what you need."

Lori nodded. Understandable. Being in the environment she was, Luan probably needed all the light and happy she could get. "I guess you're right. The world is bad enough on its own. Did you hear about that guy in Los Angeles? The Night Stalker?"

"Yes" Luan said. The Night Stalker was a serial killer who broke into people's homes, raped them, robbed them, and murdered them, often after torturing them to boot. Luan shivered. She realized she had no room to judge, but what kind of sick monster can do that? Go into someone's house, beat them, stab them, and...do other things to them...and enjoy it so much that they go out and do it again two nights later?

"They caught him," Lori said, "but I was so worried because Bobby and Lola are in LA. He said 'oh, mom, that guy's not going to bother us.' Like they didn't bother Luna's neighbor? That actress?"

"One of the women who did that was at Blyth for a while. She was on another block and I never met her, but I heard someone beat her up."

"Good," Lori said as the phone began to ring. She reached for it. "I hope they hurt her." She pressed the handset to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom," Bobby croaked. He sounded sick.

"Hi, honey!" Lori said. "You sound off, is everything okay?"

Lori spoke to Bobby at least once a week and had since he moved out to California last summer. _That_ was a shock...well, perhaps not the actual moving part but his whirlwind romance with Lola: One minute he denied even being sweet on a girl, the next he asked if she could stay with them for a month. Lori was initially against the idea, but Bobby Sr. talked her into it. _Come on, he's a grown man, let him have his girlfriend over_. Lola stayed from the end of June to the beginning of August, and before Bobby even announced he was going with her, they suspected: He and Lola were extremely lovey dovey with one another, and it was clear that at the very least they liked each other very much.

Having your child two thousand miles away never gets easy, though. You can't tie them to your apron strings forever, but as a mom, you never stop worrying and you never stop missing them.

"I'm fine, I just called to tell you something."

Luan picked up the Stephen King book and idly read the summary on the inside flap.

"What?" Lori asked.

"Lola's pregnant."

Lori's eyes widened. "She is?"

Luan looked at her.

"Yep. We just found out."

Lori broke out in a wide grin. Her first grandchild! Oh, wait until Bobby hears about this. Wait until _Mom and Dad_ hear about this. "Honey, that's wonderful, congratulations. When is she due?"

"May."

"I'm so happy for you guys...oh, this is so exciting."

Bobby laughed. "You're gonna be a grandma. Feel old yet?"

"No, I feel elated."

When she finally hung up, she turned to Luan, who lifted a brow. "She's pregnant?"

Lori nodded. "I'm going to be a grandmother."

Luan reached out and they hugged. "Congratulations."

"It feels just like yesterday I was pregnant with Bobby...now _he's_ having children." She laughed girlishly and brushed her bangs away from her forehead.

It was crazy when you thought about it. My sister is going to be a grandmother. Wow. Maybe Lori didn't feel old, but Luan sure did.

"We have to go tell Mom and Dad," Lori said and got up, "they are going to literally freak out."

Ten minutes later, Mom clutched Russel to her chest and smiled from ear-to-ear. "Oh, a great-grandchild! We've been waiting, haven't we, Lynn?" Russel's eyes bugged out of his head as the old woman squeezed him tight.

"Better late than never," Dad said from his chair, "we expected one two years ago."

"We didn't expect, we hoped," Mom said, "we're both sixty-seven, after all, and God knows we won't be around forever."

Russel let out a whine, and Mom released him: He jumped down and padded away, tossing a glance at his master. _I lick your face and you try to squeeze me to death. Nice._

Mom held out her arms, and Lori bent down to hug her. "Congratulations, dear."

"Thanks, Mom."

Rita was more glad than her daughter would ever know, as was Lynn: She meant what she said about them not being around forever. One day, and probably sooner rather than later, God would call them home...but as long as they could both last another nine months, they'd get to meet one great-grandchild at least.

Maybe it was sinful pride or vanity, but Rita wanted to meet them all.

* * *

It was Jessy's idea to stay the weekend with her mother: She very much wanted to get to know her better, and bonding with someone isn't something you can do through a series of broken, several hour long meetings. She wasn't quite as nervous about it as she may have been in the beginning, but she still felt a little anxiety because of course she did: As Auntie Leni might phrase it, that's what a Jessy does.

The first night, they sat on the couch and watched _Amadeus,_ one of three movies she rented from J and K Video. "This is one of my favorite movies," Jessy explained, "despite the fact that it's riddled with historical inaccuracies."

"I don't know much about Mozart," Luan said. "He was never really my thing."

"I read a book about him after I saw the movie," Jessy said, "they really played fast and loose with his story, especially in regards to Salieri; they made him look really bad, but he and Mozart weren't really mortal enemies like they are in the movie."

Luan was impressed with her daughter's knowledge; she was as bright as she was beautiful, and it made Luan misty eyed to think that she gave birth to such an amazing girl.

"It's actually pretty insulting," Jessy said, "but I'm a sucker for period pieces."

Luan smiled and stroked Jessy's hair. "What's your favorite period?"

Jessy hummed and flicked her eyes to the ceiling in thought. "I don't know, it changes a lot. I like the colonial period and the Civil War period. We just learned about the Cuban Missile Crisis, and that was pretty interesting."

Luan smiled tightly. "I remember that. I was so scared." She laughed.

"Uncle Lincoln said he was really scared too. He said you turned into a real drill sergeant." She said the last nine words haltingly, having started speaking before she realized that Mom might be offended by that and be angry at Uncle Lincoln. Instead she chuckled.

"Yes, I did. Your grandfather and I built a fallout shelter in the basement out of tables and old books. We all thought war would break out at any moment. I went a little overboard, but I was worried about everyone."

"That's understandable," Jessy said, "I'd be really worried too." She bowed her head. "I probably don't have it in me to be a drill sergeant, though. I'm not very tough."

Her self-deprecating tone twisted Luan's heart. She reached out and rubbed the girl's shoulder. "You don't have to be tough. Sometimes things just...happen and you don't know how you'll react until you're there. Your Uncle Lincoln...did something very brave in the war and he wasn't exactly the toughest person ever."

"He's one of the toughest people _I_ know," Jessy said.

"He wasn't always that way." She stopped and collected her thoughts: She was new to being a mom and giving motherly pep talks, and she desperately did not want to say the wrong thing. "You just...you don't know how you'll deal with things until they come."

"I guess," Jessy said. "I'm just really anxious sometimes and it makes me feel weak and...like...bad."

Luan put her arm around her daughter's shoulders and drew her close. "I think you're perfect and I love you very much."

"I love you too."

They slept in Luan's room, Jessy on Luna's old bed and Luan on hers. She laid awake for a long time listening to the comforting sound of her daughter's breathing. She remembered that day fifteen years ago she almost had Jessy aborted, and tears filled her eyes. Thank God it didn't work...Jessy was the most precious thing in the world, and the thought of her not being here made Luan's stomach knot. Suddenly needing to touch her daughter, to confirm that she was indeed there, alive, and well, Luan got up, crossed the room, and knelt at Jessy's bedside: She stroked the sleeping girl's forehead and gazed tenderly upon her face. "I love you," she whispered, and laid a soft kiss on her cheek.

The next day, Saturday, she and Jessy walked to the library, and Luan couldn't help smiling at how animated her daughter became: She went up and down the aisles like a girl in a candy store, her face glowing and her eyes big and bright. "I _love_ this place," she told Luan as she dropped to her knees and began meticulously going through the contents of a bottom shelf. "If you want to get some books we can use my card, but you have to take good care of them."

Luan smiled. "Maybe."

After Jessy selected an armful of books, they walked to Flip's. Lincoln sat behind the counter and read the paper. "Hi, Uncle Lincoln!" Jessy piped as she and Luan crossed to the table. He looked up, saw them, and grinned. "Hey, Jess. That's a lot of books. Should keep you busy until Monday."

"It'll take me a little longer than _that,"_ Jessy said, "more like Tuesday."

"Do you read very fast?" Luan asked after they ordered.

"Sometimes," Jessy said, "it depends on if I'm really interested or not. I can read easily read two hundred pages a day."

Lincoln brought them their food: Two burgers and a basket of fries to share. "I have a question," Jessy said, her eyes filling with anxiety, "if you don't want to talk about it, that's okay, I don't want to upset you or anything."

Luan frowned; she reached across the table and took the girl's hand. "Honey...I'm your mother. You can talk to me about anything. You can _ask_ me anything."

"Well...my dad. I kind of want to know about him, what he's like, that kind of thing. I know he's in jail too but that's pretty much it."

Luan nodded. She expected Jessy to want to know about her father. She thought long and hard before speaking. "He's very intelligent and very handsome. He...was always loving and tender." That was not a lie, but by the end of their relationship, he wasn't as loving and tender as he was in the beginning: He was so consumed with revolutionary work, and the stresses that go along with it, that he sort of lost sight of everything else. But you know what? So did she. By April 1970, they were both blind, short tempered, and near delusional in their pursuit of a 'better' world...so much so that that became paramount...not each other, not their relationship, and not even their own personal futures. She said none of this to Jessy: She wanted her to have a somewhat favorable view of her father, because he did want a relationship with her.

"I have his address," Luan said, "I'm sure he'd love it if you wrote to him."

Jessy nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that too."

It took her a week to gather the courage, but she did write to her father, and he _did_ love hearing from her.


	117. May 1986: Part 1

**Lyrics to** ** _Madhouse_** **by Anthrax (1985);** ** _How Will I Know?_** **By Whitney Houston (1986)**

* * *

Life's s funny thing, and not very fair, either. One man can smoke cigarettes for seventy years and never cough a day in his life, and another can smoke for twenty-five and wind up with lung cancer. Guess some people are just a little more sensitive. And he, apparently, was one of them, a fact he pondered deeply as he lie dying in a Dallas hospital. Hm. Thought I was a little tougher than that. Apparently not, though; he liked to think he was, but at the end of the day he must have had faulty lungs or something.

Oh well. No point in beating himself up about it; the cancer was doing that plenty. He hurt from head to toe, his throat ached like he just swallowed hot embers, and breathing with hard, even with the machine pumping air directly into his lungs. He was on pain killers and they made him all loopy, which he didn't like, but it was either that or be in agony, so the choice was pretty well clear...he was lucid for a bit here and there when the meds started to wear off, and that was enough for him anymore. He wasn't a particularly sentimental man; he thought about his life mainly because what the hell else did he have to do as he waited for them to knock him out again? He couldn't even sit up to see the TV any longer, couldn't read, couldn't do anything but think, so think he did: About his son out in California, about his ex-wife, about that Chinese place in Fort Worth he liked so much, about the time he wrecked his truck when he was seventeen because something ran across the road and damned if it didn't look like a chupacabra, all black and evil-looking. He didn't believe in that sort of thing, but he knew Texas wildlife fairly well, and that thing wasn't normal. Hell, maybe it was a marsupial and escaped from a circus or something. Ugliest creature _he_ ever saw, though.

He thought mainly about his son, Freddie. He was thirteen and lived out in Hollywood with his mom. His mom told him all kinds of lies about him and turned him against him, which was just as well: Call him crazy, but he'd rather his boy not give a shit about him dying than weeping and being depressed. He was on one of those dumb NBC sitcoms now. Played the annoying little brother or some damn thing. He hated that damn show but he used to watch it every time it was on and smile all over himself when Freddie came out. He was proud, very, very proud.

Sometimes he thought about the day he found Luna Loud dead in her apartment. He didn't like to because it bothered him...you don't just find your friend's body after they've been dead a week and they've started to rot and move on. At least he didn't: Every once in a while he saw her bloated, bluish face in his dreams, and more than once he sat bolt upright with a scream caught in his throat because her eyes opened. They were open when he found her, but in his dreams they were always closed, and sometimes...

All these years later he still felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe if he'd been a little more forceful about her cleaning up, or maybe if he'd gone to her place sooner...

Lotta maybes in life.

After the funeral, Bobby Preston called them all together and asked them what they wanted to do. "The choice is up to you: You can get someone else or you can hang it up. Personally, I think you should keep going."

Of course he did. They made money, and while Bobby Preston wasn't a cheat, he also wasn't the type to willingly part with a dollar - metaphorically speaking. They turned a profit so why would he suggest stopping? He wouldn't and he didn't.

Tex did. He told them to do wherever they wanted, just as long as it didn't include him. Bobby let him go, but he did it with the grudging unhappiness of a man letting his own hand go. Charlie, Blake, and Cliff formed a new band with some Native American guy Cliff knew; they did a couple albums that didn't really go anywhere, real hard rock stuff.

Tex took a break. For a whole year he didn't do anything but wait to see how he felt at the end of it: Did he want to continue with music, or did he want to do something else. In March 1972, he decided that he did want to continue with music, but not in a band. That summer CBS hired him as a session musician: The hours were decent, the pay was good, and he didn't have to tour.

At the time Luna died, they had four albums worth of material in the vault, and CBS slowly released it over a period of years, the last record coming out in 1979...at the height of the disco craze, which meant it didn't do too well.

Next came the greatest hits collections, one in 1980 and another last year. He was a little perplexed: They both had all the same songs with one or two exceptions. What was the point? Put something else on it, who the hell wants virtually the same album twice? He couldn't really complain, though; he got royalties and didn't have to work if he didn't want to. That was nice. Money might not buy happiness, but it provides peace of mind, and anyone who says differently is either lying or not using it right.

After the divorce, he moved back to Texas in 'and opened a bar because why not? Gotta do something, and a business is a good investment, isn't it? It did fairly well, probably because he didn't make a fuss about who he was and overcharge people like other celebrities might. The way he saw it, a whisky sour was a whisky sour, his weren't special because he owned the place, and it didn't cost him any more to make them than it did anyone else, so why charge more?

In late '84 he started getting sick: Tired, sore, scratchy throat, weakness. He wasn't one to run to the doctor whenever he didn't feel one hundred percent, but after a month of not getting better, he went down and got checked up. That's when they found it: Cancer. It was still early and he had a chance, but it wound up spreading and here he was, fifty-one and gaunt with bulging eyes and sunken cheeks, slowly fading away in a sterile, harsh-white hospital room and waiting for his medication. It occurred to him that he and Luna had something in common: They both killed themselves with their addictions, her with cocaine and him with smoking. He used to look at her and shake his head. _That girl's messing herself up_. Then he'd light a cigarette. It struck him as funny and he would have laughed if he had the energy. Isn't that how it goes, though? We can see where everyone else is veering off the path, but we never know _we're_ doing it until we look around and realize we're lost.

Presently the nurse came in with his medication and he took it with a polite nod, then closed his eyes and drifted away.

Life is a funny thing. A man can be meditating on his life at noon and breathing his last at midnight. William "Tex" Rayburn found that out firsthand.

* * *

"HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!"

Lincoln sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. I'm up, Sgt. Hellman, please don't kick my ass! Instead of his senior drill instructor, however, he was greeted by the sight of his grinning daughters, Jessy holding a tray and Alex holding a pitcher of orange juice, a rag draped over her forearm and lending her the appearance of a waiter in a fancy restaurant. Lincoln glanced at Ronnie Anne, who sat next to him and blinked the sleep from her eyes. "What's this?" she asked, the corners of her mouth turning up.

"Breakfast in bed," Jessy said as she came over and carefully sat the tray across Lincoln's lap. There were two plates, each heaped with food: Bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, potato hash, and two orange slices with blueberry eyes and lime smiles.

"It was my idea," Alex said haughtily.

Jessy rolled her eyes. "She wanted to take her skateboard to McDonalds and get you guys grody Egg McMuffins. I suggested we cook."

Lincoln smiled. "Thank you, this is really nice." He leaned over and kissed Jessy on the cheek, then Alex. Next they went around the foot of the bed; Ronnie Anne hugged and kissed both of them.

"Thank you," she said as she rocked Jessy back and forth.

"You're welcome," Jessy said. "We love you."

"We love you too."

"Twenty years, Dad," Alex said as she poured him a glass of orange juice, "feeling mighty old, huh? Ready for some shuffleboard?"

Lincoln chuckled. "Not yet. I won't really feel old until my daughter graduates high school."

"Next year," Alex said, "class of '87."

Oh, Lincoln knew. His little girl, who was _just_ in diapers it seemed was going to be all grown up in a mere matter of months. That didn't make him feel old, but it did make him feel...sad? Yeah, sad, because Alex's childhood was coming to an end and the next chapter of her life was starting: Marriage, children, a career. He looked forward to it, but he also wished that _this_ would last just a little bit longer.

Then, joy of joys, he'd have to do it all over again with Jessy. Letting go is hard, but holding on isn't healthy: Children grow and build their own lives, that's a fact of life. You either accept it or you wind up like the mother in that movie he watched with Alex, the one where the guy was a mama's boy and she dominated his life. Put me in my chair by the window...where I can keep my eye on you. Come on, Ma, the guy's, like, thirty, leave him alone.

"Class of '64 is better," Lincoln said playfully.

Alex snorted. "Yeah, back when you had to drive your car with your feet like The Flintstones."

"Your father had a very nice car," Ronnie Anne said, then grinned. "It was a real mean machine."

"I bet," Alex said, "had one and a half horse power."

"Stop making fun of Uncle Lincoln and come help me with the dishes," Jessy said.

Alex slumped her shoulders. "But I cooked."

"No, _I_ cooked."

"Well...I supervised, that's even harder."

Jessy put her hands on her hips and fixed Alex with a stern look that made Lincoln smile. "Fine," Alex sighed and trudged after her sister.

When they were alone, Ronnie Anne looked down at the tray, her eyes scanning the plates. "This is really sweet...even if I did want to sleep in today."

Lincoln chuckled. "Come on, breakfast beats sleep every time." He picked up his fork and Robbie Anne scooted closer, her leg pressing against his. She reached over, picked up a piece of toast, and took a bite.

"I guess," she said and sprayed crumbs. "It does look really good."

"The bacon's not burnt at least," he said, and laughed when she slapped his arm.

"Watch it, square for brains," she said, "I take insults about my cooking very seriously."

Lincoln cut off a hunk of egg and forked it into his mouth. "If only you took your actual cooking that seriously."

She slapped him again, harder this time; he hissed because it stung like a motherfucker. "You know, there's a pressure point in your neck. All I have to do it squeeze and you'll be out like a light."

"You better kill me, because when I wake up your ass is grass."

He reached for her neck and she drew away. "No!" she laughed and scrunched her shoulders protectively up. He cupped the back of her neck and drew her face to his, their lips grazing lightly.

"I love you," he said and gazed in to her eyes.

She grinned and kissed his lips. "I love you too."

Lincoln slipped his hand into her hair and they kissed deeply, their tongues moving together in soft, comfortable affection. Ronnie Anne slid her hand over his bare chest, and he shivered at the ripple of sensation her touch sent through him. Almost thirty years, and she could still turn him on like he was sixteen and flooded with hormones. His dick twitched to attention and he moved his hand down her face, his fingers trailing over her soft jaw, her silky throat, down the front of her nightdress to the gentle mound of her-

"Knock, knock."

They yanked apart from one another and whipped their heads toward the door. Bobby Jr. lifted his hand and gave a little wave. Lincoln frowned because the kid just interrupted him in the middle of sucking face with his beautiful wife, then frowned deeper at what he was wearing: Pink slacks, silky blue button up, pink sports coat, and white shoes. Big sunglasses covered his eyes and a gold chain hung around his neck. In 1978 he thought he was John Travolta, now he thought he was the guy from Miami Vice or something. Lincoln rolled his eyes: What a dork.

"What are you doing here?" Ronnie Anne asked in a tone that indicated she was just as annoyed at being interrupted as Lincoln.

Bobby shrugged as he came forward. "I wanted to wish you guys a happy anniversary." He dropped onto the edge of the bed and pulled his sunglasses off with a calculated flourish.

Lincoln's erection was gone now, and he sighed.

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said curtly, perhaps hoping he'd get the message and leave.

He didn't.

"You're welcome." He leaned over and scanned the tray. "What are we eating?"

" _We_ were eating breakfast," Lincoln said pointedly.

"That's not what it looked like when I walked in" Bobby said teasingly.

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne exchanged a glance. Should you kill him or should I?

Before either could homicide their nephew, Lana slipped into the room, her hand over her eyes. "Y'all decent?" she asked. She was in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

"Yeah, they're decent...now," Bobby said.

Lana took her hand away, saw them, and grinned. "Happy anniversary!"

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said. Realizing she was naked under her nightgown - her thin, silky, revealing nightgown - she crossed her arms over her chest. Don't go, Lincoln thought longingly.

"Thanks," Lincoln said as Lana sat next to her brother-in-law.

"Y'all doing anything?"

"No," Lincoln said, "just...spending time together."

"That's nice," Lana said. "Me and Jed didn't do anything this time around because of the baby, but next year we might go to Mexico or something. Then again we might wait until Justin's a little older."

"Speaking of," Lincoln asked, "where is he?"

"Alex and Jessy took him right outta my arms," Lana laughed. "From the looks of that kitchen, they were just _looking_ for a distraction."

Lincoln gulped. "That bad?"

Lana nodded. "Oh, yeah. I've seen some messes in my day but..." she shook her head.

Lincoln bowed his head. Lovely. Next to him Ronnie Anne sighed and pressed her fingers to her temples, no doubt envisioning the catastrophic state Alex and Jessy left the kitchen in. "How's Lola?" Lincoln asked to change the subject.

"She's good," Lana said, and Bobby snickered.

Lana chuckled and swatted his chest. "Shut up."

Bobby shook his head and held up his hand.

"What?" Lincoln asked.

"She wouldn't want us to say," Bobby said.

"Nope," Lana agreed, "she'd be real mad if we did." She looked at Bobby and they shared a knowing smile. Lana turned to Lincoln, a playful, girlish light in her eyes. "She peed the bed."

Bobby nodded. "The baby kicked her bladder and I woke up warm and wet."

Lana snickered. "It happened to me once. You can't control it. You gotta pee, baby kicks you..." she shrugged.

"It almost happened to me with Alex," Ronnie Anne said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"She was really embarrassed," Bobby said seriously.

"And you're making fun of her," Lincoln said and shook his head sadly. "Husband of the year."

Bobby flipped him off.

"Anyway," Lana said and got up, "happy anniversary." She slapped Bobby's shoulder. "Come on, we better hurry up and get that ice cream to Lola before she freaks out. Those pregnancy hormones ain't no joke."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah." he stood up and skipped his sunglasses back on. "You kids stay safe," he said to Lincoln and Ronnie Anne, "we wouldn't want an unintended pregnancy, would we?"

Ronnie Anne threw a piece of toast at him. He chuckled. "Have fun."

At least he shut the door on his way out, which improved Lincoln's opinion of him...even if he did look like a flamingo. Ronnie Anne picked up her fork and started eating. Well, then, guess we're not having anniversary sex this morning. He glanced at her lap: The hem of her nightgown had ridden up to expose the warm bronze flesh of her thigh. His heartbeat quickened and he reached out to touch it, but wouldn't you know, someone knocked on the door.

Goddamn it. Ronnie Anne favored him with a sidelong glance and smirked. "Foiled again, lame-o."

"I wasn't doing anything," he lied, then: "It's open."

The knob turned and Alex poked her head in. "Hey, me and Jessy are going to the river," she said, then grinned. "You know...so you guys can have some 'alone time.'" She shrugged. "To do taxes...or catch up on _Murder, She Wrote_...or..." she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Ronnie Anne cocked her brow. "You're not going anywhere until that kitchen's clean."

"It's clean," Alex said quickly.

Lincoln cocked _his_ brow.

"Almost."

Ronnie Anne crossed her arms.

Alex smiled sheepishly. "I'll get on that right now." She slowly pulled her head back and closed the door.

"You think we'll be interrupted again?" Lincoln asked.

"Probably," Ronnie Anne said, "now shut up so I can eat my breakfast. It's getting cold."

* * *

Lynn Loud grabbed her bat, pulled her cap on, and left the house with a kiss to her mother's cheek. Outside, Ritchie was parked at the curb, the windows down and the radio on. She grinned like the cat that got the canary as she approached. He glanced over as she opened the door, threw her bat into the back, and slid in. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied and leaned over: They kissed and she smiled against his lips. He smiled back and pecked her.

"You ready?"

"You know it," Lynn said.

It was spring break, one of those magical times of year when Ritchie was home and the others were too. This vacation was special, though, because for the first time in years, _everyone_ was here. The stars didn't align so perfectly very often, and when they did, it was just like old times: Hours of baseball and friendly ribbing capped off by a trip to the ice cream parlor or the pizza shop; then, she and Ritchie were going to see a movie. She didn't know what yet: Was the one about fighter pilots still in theatres? That looked pretty cool.

"Have you thought anymore about college?" Ritchie asked as he turned onto a side street. Kids played on the sidewalks and old men watered their lawns.

Lynn shrugged. "Eh."

She and Ritchie spent most of yesterday evening - his first back in Tucson - sitting in his driveway and talking. Not much of a date, but Lynn wasn't picky about things like that...shocking, I know. She told him how she was thinking about not going to college after all: Why should she? College was great if you had a specific field you were interested in, but Lynn did not. Her father was hoping she'd start at the dealership when she graduated, and while that didn't give her a raging girl-boner, she knew the work well enough, and was confident that she could do it. The money was good too, plus if she didn't go, her parents would give her what they had saved up, which was just over twenty thousand dollars. Maybe she'd eventually take classes for business management or something, but for right now she wasn't overly concerned with it.

"Eh?" Ritchie asked.

"Yeah," Lynn said, "eh."

"It's up to you," Ritchie said, "but we'll have to break up because I won't associate with no degree havers anymore."

Lynn punched him in the arm and he cried out. "Ow, never mind!"

"That's what I thought," she grinned.

"Domestic violence isn't the greatest thing for a relationship, you know."

She cocked her fist and he shut up. "Love you," she said and smiled prettily.

"Love you too," he chuckled as they pulled into the park. He found a spot by the bathrooms, took it, and killed the engine.

"Are the others here?" she asked and got out.

"I don't know," Ritchie said and followed, slamming the door behind him. "I talked to Slater before I left and he said he was on his way."

Lynn grabbed her bat from the back, closed the door, and laid it against her shoulder. A few kids climbed over the playground equipment and pushed each other on the swing sets while their mothers watched from benches. Ritchie came around the front end and she took his hand. Did she want kids of her own, she wondered as they made their way to the baseball field. She hadn't given it much thought - jeez, she was only seventeen - but it doesn't hurt to look ahead from time to time. Right now she didn't; she was kind of looking forward to being out of school, working, and having her own place. Or maybe a place with Ritchie once they both got settled.

Who knew?

At the dugout, they found Slater and Ben drinking cans of Coke. Lynn frowned at the cigarette dangling from the former's mouth. How many times did she have to tell this guy?

He glanced up, and their eyes locked: She saw fear, the way the lion sees fear on the gazelle. She let go of Ritchie's hand and dropped the bat: Slater broke and ran, the cigarette falling to the dirt. Lynn made sure to stomp it as she pounded after him. "Stop!" Slater wailed. "That was my first one in months, I swear!" He threw a frightened glance over his shoulder just as she lunged at him: Her shoulder crashed into his back and they went down: Lynn's chin scraped painfully across the ground and she bit her lip. Ow! Look what you made me do!

"Those things are going to kill you!" Lynn cried as she straddled his chest and grabbed his shirt in both hands.

" _You're_ gonna kill me!" he screamed and threw his arms over his face.

"Damn right I am! Where're the rest of them?"

"I don't have any more! I swear!"

Lynn cocked her fist. "I'll do it," she warned.

"Right pocket! Right pocket!"

She let go of him, went through his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros, and crushed them in her fist. "You're going to thank me when you live to see forty," she said and flung them away, then got off. Her chin hurt. She touched it and winced.

"Will I get there in one piece?" Slater asked and sat up.

"Keep smoking cigarettes and find out," Lynn said. She helped him to his feet, then pulled him into a hug. "How're you doing?"

"Alright," he replied and hugged her back. "You?"

"Eh. It's boring without you guys around."

They started making their way back to the dugout, where Ben was showing Ritchie a new pitching technique he picked up somewhere; every time Lynn saw him, there was less to see. He was easily pushing two-fifty when he left, now he had to be below one-ninety.

She hoped he was getting enough to eat.

That thought stopped her dead in her tracks. God, I sound like Mama. She laughed and Slater looked at her funny. "What?"

"Nothing," she said.

* * *

Alex shoved a towel into her bag, zipped it up, and threw it over her shoulder. She picked up her boombox, jammed a few tapes into the pockets of her denim jacket, then turned. Across the room, Jessy was putting a tube of sunblock into her own bag: She wore jean shorts, pink sandals, and a white button up shirt with little black polka dots that reminded Alex of pepper: When she wore it, Alex would point at it and say "you got a little something on your shirt there, Jess." Heh. She fell for it every time. "You almost ready?"

"Yep," Jessy said. She slipped her arm through the strap and hefted it onto her shoulder with a grunt. It looked kind of...bulgy.

"Uh...what's in there?"

Jessy wobbled and nearly fell over before steadying herself. "Extra clothes, towels, first aid kit, extra shoes, a flashlight in case we're still out when it gets dark, a hat for if the sun starts to bother me, a couple books for when I'm done swimming, a pillow...uh other important stuff that I can't think of off the top of my head."

Wow. Alex snickered and shook her head. "We're going to the river for a few hours, not on an extended safari."

"I like to be prepared," Jessy said and left the room.

That girl was nuts. Alex loved her, though.

Alright, am _I_ prepared? She ran through her mental checklist: Towels, clothes, tapes, a couple cans of Coke…that _should_ be it. She went over to her dresser and opened the top drawer because that's where she kept her odds and ends. She scanned the contents but didn't see anything she thought she'd need. She started to close it again, but her eyes fell on a box partially hidden under an old pair of underwear (I haven't fit into these things since the eighth grade, why are they still here? I better leave them where they are). She took it out and looked at it thoughtfully.

Hmmm. Jessy had a point, being prepared _was_ smart. She took one condom for her and another for Jessy, just in case she hit it off with Tim's cousin.

Oh, Alex didn't mention that? Yeah...she hadn't to Jessy either.

She shoved the condoms into her pants pocket then leaned over to see if they made a distinctive outline. They did. Damn it. She pulled them out and put them in her jacket's inside pocket. She didn't really want to because she might forget, rip it off, toss it aside, and boom, condoms all over the ground. That'd make her look like a slut or something. She wasn't: She and Tim hadn't even had sex yet. The condoms came from Mom.

Shudder. That was _the_ most awkward mother/daughter powwow ever. Alex was minding her own business and reading a book in bed when Mom came in, sat down, and started fumbling around the subject before blurting: "When your father and I were seventeen, we were having sex."

"Oh, gross!" Alex cried, the book falling from her hands. "I didn't need to know that!"

"Yes you did. Sex happens at your age, especially when you're with a boy you really like. Uh, we won't try to stop you but...just be safe." She handed Alex the condoms without meeting her eyes. "If you need me to show you how to...put one on..."

"God, no!"

Yeah, it was embarrassing, but Alex _did_ carry one around with her for a while, you know, just in case. So far, though, she and Tim hadn't done anything past...was it second base? Third? They used their hands on each other, okay? Well...one time he _did_ suck on her tit while he fingered her...but that's beside the point. She put two condoms in her pocket as a precaution. End of story.

In the hall, she knocked on Mom and Dad's door. She should be a smartass, open it up, and hold one of the condoms through the gap. Need one of these?

"Yeah?" Dad called.

"We're going now," Alex said, then added, "if that's okay."

Dad didn't reply for a moment. "Alright. Have fun."

"We will," Alex said, "uh, you too."

Outside, Jessy stood by the tailgate of the station wagon. Alex went over, tossed her bag in, and closed it. "Did you grab the kitchen sink?" Alex asked playfully.

"Yep," Jessy said, "it's in there."

Alex got behind the wheel while Jessy slid into the passenger seat; she cranked her window down and rested her arm on the frame while Alex started the engine: A blistering barrage of guitars exploded from the speaker and Jessy jumped.

 _Trapped, in this nightmare_

 _I wish I'd wake_

 _As my whole life begins to shake_

 _Four walls, surround me_

 _An empty gaze_

 _I can't find my way out of this maze_

She angrily stabbed the eject button and Alex snickered. "Every time," she said and backed into the street.

"Your music gets yuckier and yuckier as time goes on," Jessy said.

"That's called thrash metal, Jess," Alex said and put the car in to drive, "it's all the rage."

"Is it even music? It was a sonic assault on my senses."

Alex snickered. "The liner notes said the same thing." Ahead, a car was parked in the middle of the street, and someone was leaning into the passenger window. "Drug deal," Alex said in a singsong voice as she went around them.

Jessy turned in her seat. "You think?" she asked anxiously.

"Yeah, and if they see you rubbernecking like that they'll chase us down and bust caps in our asses."

Jessy's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I heard it in a rap song," Alex explained. "It means they're going to gun us down and leave our bodies for the police to find." She turned onto Main and accidentally (or not) cut off a Japanese car. Last year, Dad bought a new station wagon and gave the old one to her: In the seven months she'd had it, she'd had a couple close shaves. She also may have run over a cat. In her defense it darted out of nowhere like a stupid dummy. It was gone when she pulled over so it either lived, dragged itself off to die, or died then came back to life and was even now tracking her down for revenge.

"So, Jess," Alex said as they pulled to a stop at the traffic light just down from Flip's, "there's something I neglected to mention about our trip today."

Jessy looked at her severely. "What?"

"It's nothing bad," Alex said, "Tim's just bringing his cousin Mark along." Alex grinned. "And he's siiiinnnggglllee."

Jessy rolled her eyes. "Will you stop trying to hook me up with everyone? You're not a very good matchmaker."

Alex started to defend herself, but really couldn't; it was true. She knew Jessy wanted a little romance in her life, so being the good sister that she was, she took it upon herself to set Jessy up on a couple dates. None quite panned out: Somehow she even got Jessy on a date once with another girl. She still wasn't sure how that happened.

"I'm not that bad," Alex said proudly, "come on."

Jessy crossed her arms. "You set me up on a date with Chuck Spencer."

"That wasn't my fault," Alex said as the light changed to green and she began driving again. "It was Meagan. She said 'oh, my brother knows this guy. He's cute and really smart like Jessy. They'll get along great.'"

"I almost died from embarrassment."

Alex turned onto Tim's street. "I know, and I'm sorry. I've never met this guy but Tim says he's alright and if you don't like him, just ignore him or something."

Jessy sighed. "I can't do that, that's mean."

"I'm just saying it's not like an actual date. We're going to the river, that's all. You're single, he's single...maybe something will happen. Maybe it won't. Who knows? Just be open to the idea."

"I'm not against the possibility of hitting it off with the guy, it's you being involved that makes me nervous. He'll probably wind up being a serial killer or something."

They were pulling to the curb in front of Tim's house now, a ranch with a pitched roof. Alex put the station wagon in park. "Get in back."

"What?"

"Get in the back."

"Why?" Jessy demanded.

"So you and Mark can talk or something. You need to actually interact with the dude."

Jessy sighed. She opened the door, got out, and transferred to the back seat. Alex honked the horn and watched out the window. She really hoped Mark wasn't six hundred pounds or a dwarf or something; she'd look like the biggest idiot ever. When Tim first mentioned him, he said, and I quote: "He's a normal guy. Has hair. Teeth. He's a pretty big geek and wears glasses, but he's not shy or socially awkward or anything."

It _sounded_ promising, but maybe Tim was lying through his teeth; if he was and he came outside with a midget, he wouldn't have any left because Alex would knock them out, put them on a piece of string, and wear it as a necklace.

She started to honk the horn again, but the front door opened and Tim came out, followed by who she took to be Mark: He was tall and gangly with longish blonde hair that covered his ears, a sharp nose, and thin lips. His glasses were tinted brown and he wore a black T-shirt with SLAYER across the front in red. "There he is," Alex, a playful hilt to her voice, "and he has good taste in music, too."

In the back seat, Jessy hummed. Alex couldn't tell if it meant she thought he was cute, a dork, or some third option. Very generic sound. Maybe she was thinking about the leftover pasta in the fridge. Hmmm. It _was_ good pasta. "So?"

"Can I _meet_ him first?" Jessy asked. Then: "How old is he?"

"Sixteen," Alex said.

"He looks like he's in his twenties."

As they approached, Alex studied him a little closer. He had a little bit of hair on his chin and upper lip, and a smattering of acne on his face: His stride was easy and confident...not cocky or conceited, but he didn't look self-conscious or anything, which was good. Tim came around the front of the car and slapped the hood with a grin. Alex glared as he slipped in. "Do that to my car again and you're dead," she said.

Mark opened the back door, got in, and pulled it closed with a sigh. "Sor-ry," Tim said. "This is Mark."

"Hey, how's it going?" Mark said.

Tim laid his hand on Alex's shoulder. "This is Alex and that's her cousin Jessy."

Mark glanced at Jessy. "Hey."

"Hi."

"That's a rad shirt," Alex said as they took off.

"Thanks," Mark replied, "I saw them with Megadeth at the Nissan Pavilion. It was a great show. Blew my eardrums out." He chuckled.

"That's really cool. And here Tim told me you were a geek."

"I didn't say that," Tim said quickly.

"Whatever," Mark said, "I guess I kind of am. I work with computers, I read sci-fi, uh...I used to okay Dungeons and Dragons but I looked around one day, realized I was sitting in a dark basement with a bunch of other dudes telling stories about fairies and enchanted forests, and said 'yeah, I need to dial it back a little.'"

"You know who _else_ is a huge geek?" Alex asked into the rearview mirror. "Jessy."

Jessy blushed at how contrived and obvious Alex with being with her...ahem...matchmaking.

Mark glanced at her. "Is that true? Are you a geek too?"

Jessy shrugged. "I guess."

Mark nodded. "You know you're not really a geek until you get a pocket protector." She nodded slowly. Okay. "Do you want a pocket protector?"

"Do you actually have one of those?" she asked.

"I have multiple pocket protectors," Mark said, and reached into his jeans pocket. "In fact, I have a pocket protector for my pocket protector."

"What's the point of a pocket protector?" Alex asked as they pulled to a stop at a light.

"I'm not sure," Tim said, "but I think it has something to do with protecting your pockets." Alex shot him a deadly glance and he shrugged. "Maybe."

"Yeah, it's pretty self-explanatory," Mark said, feeling his pockets. "Where's my pocket protector?" He leaned forward and pulled it out of his back pocket. "Here it is." He held it up. "This bad boy's saved my life on numerous occasions."

Jessy looked at it. She couldn't say she'd ever seen one up close. Girls don't really have much use for those things, even geeky ones. "There's nothing in it," she pointed out, "what exactly are you protecting your pockets from?"

Mark shrugged. "Just because I don't have a pen now doesn't mean I won't have one in twenty minutes. What then?"

"You can put it behind your ear," Jessy suggested, "that's what I do."

Mark leaned slightly forward and squinted at the side of her head, which made her kind of nervous. "Your ear is flat against your head, mine isn't. Anything I put back there slips right out."

The light changed and Alex turned left onto River Road. A cloud passed in front of the sun, and a shadow fell across the day. Alex turned on the radio, and Whitney Houston blasted from the speakers.

 _I say a prayer with every heart beat_

 _I fall in love whenever we meet_

 _I'm asking you what you know about these things_

 _How will I know if he's thinking of me?_

"Oh, I like this song," Jessy said.

Up front, Alex nodded. "I know, that's why I haven't changed it yet."

Mark and Tim both gazed out the window as Jessy nodded her head and Alex drove, a pained expression on her face. She liked non metal music, but this was too much; she kind of regretted putting the radio on now.

As soon as the song ended, she turned it down. Let's play matchmaker again, shall we? "What do you like to do?" she asked Mark.

"Uh...read, work on computers, uh, I write too."

"What's your favorite food?"

"Uh, tacos. Tacos are good."

"Turn ons and turn offs?"

Jessy sighed and pressed her fingers to her temple. Jesus, Bunny. She glanced at Mark, whose brow was furrowed. He had a good personality it seemed, and she kind of did want to get to know him a little better...but not _that_ much better.

"Wow," Mark chuckled, "I didn't know we were playing twenty questions."

In the mirror, Alex's eyes demanded an answer. "Uh, well, I like pina coladas," he said seriously, "and getting caught in the rain."

Alex nodded. "That sounds fun."

She was oblivious, which made Jessy laugh. "Are you into health food?"

Mark shook head. "Nah, I'm into champagne."

Jessy snickered at Alex's quizzical expression. "You know that song?" Mark asked. "That's what I say when people ask me stuff like that. They either get it and think I'm a smart ass or they don't and think I'm being serious."

"What are you talking about?" Alex asked.

"Don't worry about it, it's a geek thing," Mark said.

Alex rolled her eyes as she pulled to the side of the road and parked under a tree. A path forged into the forest and wound to the river. Everyone got out, and Jessy went around to the tailgate, which she opened. Alex appeared next to her and elbowed her in the rubs. "Huh? He seems cool."

Jessy's heart clutched. She looked up, but Mark and Tim were standing out of earshot by the head of the trail, Tim pointing toward the river, sun dappled glimpses of which were visible through the trees. "You know, you're really embarrassing sometimes."

"Yeah," Alex said, "but how do you like him?"

Jessy sighed. "He's okay."

Alex nodded smugly. "Umhm. From stupid to Cupid." She gave herself a literal pat on the back.

"The day is still young," Jessy said. She handed Alex her bag, threw her own over her shoulder, and closed the hatch. Together they made their way over to the trail.

"Plenty of time for steamy, kissy romance," Alex teased.

"Maybe," Jessy allowed, and laughed at Alex's expression. Weren't expecting me to say _that,_ were you, Bunny? Hey, she did promise to keep an open mind.

At the head of the trail, Alex grabbed Tim's hand and pulled him along. "Come on, Timbo. Timbob. Tim-a-rino."

Tim raised his eyebrow.

"The Timanator. Arnold Schwarzetimmer."

"Are you done?"

Alex scrunched her lips and thought, but couldn't come up with anymore. "Yeah, I'm done." She yanked his arm and they started along the path. Mark and Jessy followed, Mark's hands in his pockets and Jessy holding the strap of her bag to keep it from digging into her shoulder. Maybe Bunny was right and she _did_ overpack.

She stole a sidelong glance at Tim; his head was tilted slightly forward and he shoulders were slouched. He seemed at ease, just a guy walking through the woods and not practically on a blind date with some girl he'd never met before. She wished _she_ could be that confident.

"So, where do you go to school?" she asked and shifted her bag. Yeah, Bunny _was_ right.

"I go to school in Elk Park," Mark said and glanced at her. "It's a vocational program with an emphasis on STEM subjects, you know, science..."

"...technology, engineering, and math," Jessy said.

He chuckled. "Yeah. Sorry to be patronizing, a lot of people don't know that."

"What are you studying?"

"Computer programming," he said and looked up at the sky.

Ahead, Alex shoved Tim and he nearly fell over. Tim responded by shoving her back: She stumbled and started to fall, but Tim grabbed her and steadied her. She kissed his cheek then slapped his arm. _That's_ the kind of relationship she always wanted; caring, playful, loving...she could do without all the hitting, though.

"I don't know much about computers," Jessy said. "I've used them in school before but not very often."

Mark nodded. "Not many people do. It's a really specialized field right now, but give it...uh, ten years and everyone's going to have their own personal computers and a lot of stuff they teach in college now will be common knowledge."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. It might even happen sooner."

Jessy hummed. "Why, though? Why would most people want a computer?"

They emerged from the forest, and the land sloped down to the river's edge. On the other side, heavy underbrush pushed against the bank.

"There's this thing called Usenet, it's a worldwide distributed discussion system available on computers...uh, it's hard to explain, but with it, the possibilities are endless. Soon, everything will be on computer networks. Encyclopedias, news updated in real time, discussion boards. The technology is rapidly developing and who knows where it'll end up."

"Interesting," Jessy said earnestly.

"Yeah, it's crazy. The world's going to look a lot different in twenty years."

They reached Alex and Tim; Alex was on her knees digging through her bag and Tim was laying a towel on the ground. Alex stood up with a can of Coke in her hand and cracked it open as Jessy dropped her bag and sighed. Whew. That was a load off. She wiped her brow and held her hand out; Alex gave her the pop and she took a grateful swallow. It was warm but oh well.

"Alright, let's go," Tim said and pulled his shirt off. Jessy looked away with a blush. It was socially acceptable for a man to walk around topless, but it still made her feel kind of weird...and hot, to be honest, but only if she stared and imagined running her hands over...

Never mind.

Alex pulled off her jacket. "Let's," she said and flung it aside.

Something flew out and landed on the ground.

Well...two somethings.

Jessy's jaw went slack with embarrassment and her face burned. Tim coughed and Alex's brow furrowed. "What?' She looked down, saw the condoms, and blushed just as hard as Jessy. "Uh...I can explain."

Mark chuckled. "Looks like _someone's_ ready for a good time."

Alex had never been more humiliated in her life, and she panicked. "It was Jessy. She wanted me to bring them in case she and Mark hit it off."

Jessy's face turned beet red. "That is _not_ true! I didn't even know he was coming until we were in the car!"

"I've honestly never seen those in my life. It was all her."

Jessy trembled with embarrassed rage. When Mark laid his hand on her shoulder, she jumped. "Hey, whoever brought 'em, it's alright. Uh, that's what they're there for."

"Yeah," Tim nodded, then flicked his eyes to the ground. "I'm actually carrying one too."

Alex looked at him. Oh? You dirty dog. Heh.

"Me too," Mark said. "I think it's expired though. I've had it since, like, the seventh grade. See? We're all packing." A little grin ran across his face. "I have an idea." He turned and went to the water's edge.

Jessy took a deep breath. "I can't believe you blamed me."

Alex shrugged and offered a pensive smile. "Sorry. I just panicked. I mean...it looked really bad." She glanced at Tim as he slipped his arm around her waist.

"You made me sound like a tramp," Jessy said.

Alex grinned. "Oh? Does that mean you're trying to impress - ?"

Her words cut off when Mark yelled his cousin's name. Tim turned just in time for something to hit him in the cheek and bounce off. "Son of a bitch!" he cried and stumbled back, his hands flying to his face. Jessy and Alex both looked down: A condom filled with water lay on the ground like a bloated, translucent maggot.

"Extreme water ballooning" Mark said, "you really have to chuck 'em to make 'em pop."

Flashing, Tim snatched the condom up and threw it back at Mark, who dodged. "My face is all greasy and lubricated now," Tim said.

Alex and Jessy both laughed, then Alex turned to her sister. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Jessy's brow angled slightly down. "Uh, probably not."

She wasn't.

* * *

Lola threw her head back and let out a long, frustrated groan.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Rita asked as if she didn't already know. She was sitting in her armchair flanking the couch, Russel curled up and asleep in her lap. The noon news was on: The anchor talked about Chernobyl and Gorbachev's response. Gorbachev was supposed to be a reformer but he wasn't letting very much information out, Rita noted. People were dead, thousands had been evacuated, and the earth was irradiated for miles around. That was about all that was known this side of the Iron Curtain. It's easy to be a reformer except when it's not, she figured.

"I feel like I'm dying," Lola said. She was sitting on the couch with her legs spread and her hands resting on her stomach. Her sister sat next to her and fed her little boy from a bottle. Lynn was in his chair asleep, his chin lolling against his chest and a long, silvery ribbon of drool dribbling from one corner of his mouth. In the kitchen, Lori and Bobby Jr. were making lunch. Rita would have gotten up and made it herself but her daughter and grandson insisted. Humph. You'd think she just turned sixty-eight and had trouble getting around or some such.

"I felt that way with Leni," Rita said wistfully. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back. If she thought too much about Leni, she'd have a nightmare about her, and of all the nightmares she had had over the course of her nearly seven decades on earth, the ones about Leni were the worst: She was always a little girl sitting on the floor and playing when Rita came in, knelt down, and jabbed her in the neck with a needle, and the confused hurt in her eyes as she died made Rita weep even after being awake for an hour.

No, she wouldn't focus on that; she'd focus on her great-grandchild. He or she would be here any day now.

"Why did you do this six times?" Lola moaned and shifted her weight.

Rita sighed. "I suppose I liked the feeling of holding a newborn in my arms. I must be the only one who feels that way because all of my children have only had one a piece so far."

"Ronnie Anne said she wanted more," Lana said without looking up from her son's face; she was smiling warmly and happily. "But...you know, whatever it was that happened."

Rita nodded. "They were both very disappointed. More so than they let on. It was God's will that they have one, though. And Jessy, of course."

"Can you believe she ditched me to go swimming?" Lola asked and huffed an exaggerated sigh.

"Oh, hush," Lana said, "I'd do the same if I didn't have Justin."

Lola crossed her arms as Bobby came into the room with a plate in his hand. He'd taken that awful pink jacket off at Rita's insistence: Wearing a coat indoors is almost as impolite as wearing a hat, she told him. That wasn't the truth: She just thought it was ugly.

"Here we go," he said as he sat between Lola and Lana. Lola grinned and picked up one of the sandwiches.

"Thank you, boo boo bear," she said cutely and pinched his cheek.

"Anything for my two favorite people," he said and rubbed her stomach. Early on in the pregnancy they decided to have the baby in Royal Woods, since it would be easier for the two of them to come here than for everyone to go to California, and they both wanted to be around family. She was due several days ago, but the little one just didn't want to come out. He or she was a shy little turtle. If it didn't happen soon, she would have to be induced.

Bobby picked up a second sandwich and turned. "Lan?" He waved it around. "Sandwich?"

She turned her head and took a bite. "Umm. That's good. What's that meat on it?"

"Honey ham and roast beef," Bobby said.

"Hm. Gimme more." He held the sandwich out again and she took another bite, pulling back and bringing a long piece of roast beef with her; it hung limply from her maw, and she slurped it up.

"Ew, gross, Lana," Lola said, "develop some table manners."

Lana chuckled. "Honey, we're not at a table."

Rita smiled softly at their interplay. Lori told her that their mother was abusive to them during their childhood, which broke Rita's heart: They were beautiful girls...even if they did both have their eccentricities.

Doesn't everyone, though? Her children and their spouses thought she was eccentric for having six kids. That wasn't an unreasonable number, was it? Her great grandmother had twelve; seven made it to adulthood. Seven children out of twelve. How awful. The poor woman.

Presently Lori came in with a plate and went to her father's chair. "Dad," she said softly.

Lynn didn't move.

"Dad?" She shook his shoulder and he snorted, his rheumy eyes opening.

"I'm up," he said thickly.

Lori laughed. "You are now. Here, I made you a sandwich." She handed him the plate.

"Thank you, honey." He sat the plate on his chest and looked down at his lunch.

"Those are good sandwiches," Lana said, and pressed her son against her shoulder; she patted his back.

"It certainly looks good," Lynn said and picked it up.

Lori sat on Lola's other side and patted her leg. "You look miserable," she said.

"I am," she said.

"So was I with Bobby." She chuckled. "Those stairs were not easy to climb."

Rita nodded. "You did nothing but complain."

"She _still_ does nothing but complain," Bobby said around a mouthful.

Lori's jaw dropped. "I do not."

Bobby took a bite and nodded. "My whole childhood, all I heard was "Bobby, pick up your room' 'Bobby, stop getting in trouble' 'these are D's, Bobby, not B's."

"You tried to change your grade," Lori laughed, "and you did a really pitiful job of it, too."

Bobby shrugged. "Tommy said it looked good."

"Tommy wears glasses," Lori said, "he's not the best judge of things like that. Did he also tell you to sign my name on a detention slip as L-O-R-R-E-E?"

Lola snickered. "Oh, wow."

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, that was his fault too. Kid had it out for me. I don't know why I hung out with him."

"You're full of it," Lori said. "You were a handful."

"I wasn't that bad."

"Lana was a handful," Lola sighed and glanced at her sister with a challenging smile.

Lana, still patting Justin's back, nodded. "And Lola was the one who complained. 'Lana, stop eating worms' 'Lana flush the toilet when you're done' 'Lana stop throwing rocks at the neighbor girl.'"

"You almost broke her nose," Lola laughed.

"The little hussy deserved it. She ran Hops over with her bike and broke his leg. Then she laughed about it." Justin let loose a wet belch, and Lana winced. "There goes my shirt," she said.

Lori got up. "I'll get you a rag."

In just a few short days, Lola reckoned, _she_ would be the one getting puked on, and you know what? She couldn't wait.


	118. May 1986: Part 2

**My computer died at the end of last month and I've written everything from the first 1984 chapter on my phone. I was going to the library on Saturdays to edit and upload chapters but that's a pain in the ass, so now I'm doing that from my phone too which means that there will be some formatting changes, such as using all caps instead of italics since I can't do italics on my phone. I can add them here and will for song names, etc at the beginning of each chapter, but going through the whole thing in desktop mode on my phone and adding italics is a pain in the ass too. It'll look kind of dumb in all caps but bear with me.**

 **As for Tex, I figured that he was an important enough character that his story needed closure, which is what happened in the last chapter. He's gone and we'll probably never hear of him again.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _I Can't Drive 55_ by Sammy Hagar (1984); _We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off_ by Jermaine Stewart (1986)**

* * *

Jessy didn't think pairing off into teams, tracking each other through the forest, and throwing water-filled condoms like deadly projectiles at one another sounded like fun, but everyone else did, and she was overruled, which is how she came to be trudging through a twisted stand of trees and underbrush with Mark, Tim's cousin. "What's your last name?" she asked, realizing she didn't know it.

He threw a glance over his shoulder and scanned the ground they'd just covered, as though he were afraid of a sneak attack. "DuChamp," he said.

"Oh, French," Jessy said and nodded.

Crows wheeled and cawed overhead like a bad omen. Jessy wouldn't lie: She was nervous. Mark seemed alright, but she still didn't know him very well, and here she was alone in the woods with him. Granted, River Road was so close she could see it through the trees, but that provided little comfort.

"French-Canadian, actually. Not really that much of a difference. What's yours? I think Tim mentioned it but I forgot."

"Loud," she said, "it was Loude."

"That's French too. They must have screwed up the customs paperwork." He tossed his...uh...water balloon into the air and caught it one handed. Jessy's was leaking into her pocket. Yeah, it was dumb, but touching it made her blush.

"Exactly," she said.

"They did that a lot. Half the surnames in this country only exist because some overworked paper stamper misread someone's handwriting or misheard an accent."

"That's what my uncle Lincoln thinks happened to us," Jessy said and stepped over a fallen branch. "He also said we're related to De Sade."

Mark chuckled. "Oh, wow. That guy was a nut."

Jessy hummed and nodded. "He didn't know who he was until I told him." She laughed. "He was all proud of it then suddenly he wasn't."

They were almost to the road now. Mark nodded to a thick tree trunk, and they sat, Jessy with her legs crossed and her back against it, Mark to one side, commanding a 180 degree view of the forest. "I never understood what gets people off about hurting someone else or getting hurt," Mark said. "Getting punched in the face isn't my idea of foreplay."

He glanced at Jessy, noticed her blush, and blinked. "Sorry to be crude. I have this thing called Asperger's syndrome and it makes social interaction a little different for me, so if I say something like that, I'm not doing it to be suggestive or rude, I just sometimes...don't know what's acceptable in a given situation and what isn't."

Jessy's brow furrowed. "W-what is it?" she asked.

"It's a developmental disorder characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction and non verbal communication along with restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests." He chuckled. "That's really technical, but yeah, that's what it is. It's on the autism spectrum, a very mild form of it. Sometimes I have trouble reading social cues and subtexts and things like that. I was actually really stressed about coming today because Tim said there was this cute girl and I'm like 'what if I like her and I think she likes me too and I try to kiss her but I was wrong and maybe I should stay home.' It's a pain in the ass."

Jessy's heart sped up at the words cute girl.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.

"It's really no big deal. Like I said, it's just a pain in the ass sometimes, and it makes me look like a real weirdo, but often that's me logically reacting to it. Like...if I was going to kiss a girl I'd ask...that's kind of strange and makes me look socially awkward, but I'd rather look stupid that way than look stupid by trying to kiss a girl who's been telling me with non verbal cues that she hates my guts." He laughed richly. "I did that before."

"Oh, no," Jessy said with a wince.

He nodded. "Yeah, I thought she really liked me but she REALLY didn't, and when I went in for the kill she shoved me back. 'Ew, what are you doing, freak?' 'Kissing you' 'No you're not' 'Okay.' That's what I said too. I felt kind of dumb and a little hurt...but I really don't feel shame like a normal person. I'm pretty uninhibited. Like, if you stood up right now and your pants fell down and I saw your butt, you'd be really embarrassed, right?"

Jessy laughed at how casually he said that. "God, I'd die," she said and crossed her arms.

"Yeah with me it's just " - he looked down at his pants and pretended to pull them up - "'whoops'." He laughed and so did Jessy. "It has its pros and cons. I'm not really shy or self conscious or anything. I just show up. Here I am."

"I am," Jessy found herself admitting.

"What?"

"Self conscious." She blushed a little because it's kind of embarrassing to reveal yourself to someone like that; but really, it just slipped out. Her own awkwardness HAD been weighing heavy on her, after all.

"Oh," Mark said, "I'm sorry. Why?"

She looked at him; he watched her with simple, innocent curiosity, his head tilted slightly to one side. She started to reply, but couldn't think of anything to say, so she shrugged instead. "I guess I was just born that way." She'd given thought to why she was anxious and self conscious, but had never arrived at a satisfying conclusion. She thought that maybe it was because she grew up knowing that Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne weren't her parents and she was something of an outsider (in theory but not practice, of course) but even that didn't really ring true, so she'd written it off as who she naturally was...which made sense. Sometimes people are a certain way; you can accuse society of creating monsters like Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, but much of the time, men (and women) are simply born bad...just like they are born awkward or easygoing.

Mark nodded solemnly. "I mean, I don't really understand being self conscious in general for obvious reasons, but you're pretty and intelligent and you seem pretty cool. You really don't have much to be self conscious about."

Jessy's heartbeat skipped and her cheeks burned hotly. Mark braced himself against the trunk and swept the forest with his gaze. Jessy had never been called beautiful by a boy before, and she was surprised by how warm and tingly it made her feel. She smiled widely and looked away so he wouldn't see. "Thank you," she said.

"For what?" Mark asked.

"For calling me pretty...and intelligent."

"Oh. You're welcome." The bemused and genuine way in which he said it was...

...cute.

I think I DO like him.

She grinned, but then frowned. Now what? She had no idea what to do, this was all new to her...brand new, in fact, and she kind of felt like she was in over her head. If Bunny was here, she'd ask her, but she wasn't, she was totally and entirely on her own.

And you know what? Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was time she sucked it up and started acting like a woman instead of an anxious little girl.

Yes, it WAS time.

...but how?

Well...he said he couldn't read social cues very well, so that meant she'd have to be direct and to the point, right?

Being direct and to the point with...matters like this is totally NOT something Jessys are good at. One, she'd feel kind of like a tramp or something, and two...it made her nervous, alright?

Mark turned back and sat against the tree, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around. Jessy opened her mouth but closed it again, sure that if she tried to speak her heart would bounce right out.

Darn it.

Dropping hints was more her speed, but she couldn't do that because he might not pick up on them. Dropping hints is also much different than coming out and saying something. The former is more subtle and nuanced, the latter is clumsy. A hint says 'hey, I kind of like you.' Coming out right and saying it bypasses the 'kind of' part completely and she didn't know if she was quite ready to do THAT. Sure, she liked him enough, but they just met!

Wow, this is tough.

What was it Lynn always said? Suck it up and power through?

Jessy swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "You're pretty good looking and intelligent too."

Mark glanced at her as though she had simply commented on his shoes. "Thank you."

Ugh. She twisted her ponytail in her hands and gazed off to her left, away from Mark. "I mean, I kind of like you. You said to just come right out with that stuff and, I mean, I think I'm at step one of liking you...just so you know."

Her face was on fire and her heart slammed.

Mark chuckled. "That's cool. I'm at step one of liking you as well. You're pretty and smart. I like that. You're really quiet, though. Why don't you tell me about yourself? Your cousin says you're a geek. What makes you a geek?"

"Well," Jessy said, "I do really well in all subjects, especially math, but I really like history. And I'm kind of a teacher's pet, not that I mean to be and not that I suck up, I just...make friends with them and stuff."

Mark nodded. "So you're a good girl?"

Jessy shrugged. "I guess."

"That's cool. I've never liked the bad girl image for some reason. Like your cousin...she seems cool...but there's just nothing there. Like...no."

"She's not really a bad girl per se..."

Mark shrugged. "Maybe not, but...you know Gilligan's Island?"

Jessy nodded.

"When it comes to Ginger and Mary-Anne, I'm Mary-Anne all the way. What do you do for fun?"

"I like to read and listen to music. I also play video games and lately I've been drawing a lot with my mom. She's really good and she's teaching me."

"I wish I could draw. I like doing it, but I'm not very good. I do landscapes. I can't really do people."

"I do a little of both. I really like to draw mountains and, like, seaside cliffs."

Mark glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing and turned back to her. "What do you like to read?"

"Mainly the classics. Like Charles Dickens and Mark Twain."

"I like Mark Twain alright. I like Jules Verne better. That's more my speed."

"I've read a little bit of him. Do you like H.G. Wells?"

Mark grinned. "Yeah, I like him."

"Have you heard about the radio adaptation Orson Welles did of The War of the Worlds in 1938?"

Mark laughed. "Yeah, everyone panicked and got scared. They thought Martians were really invading."

Jessy snickered. "My grandmother said she cried all night."

"It really freaked people out," Mark said and looked over his shoulder again. "Radio was such a new medium and with the play being presented as a series of news reports, people didn't know what to think."

"Right," she said, "it'd be like if CNN started broadcasting about zombies or something."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, that would be scary. Do you like movies like that?"

"No, I don't," she laughed, "I like historical dramas and romance."

"Have you seen Amadeus?"

"Yes! That's one of my favorite movies!"

"It's very historically inaccurate."

Jessy nodded. "I know. It's kind of a guilty pleasure in that regard."

"It's good otherwise," he said, "you just have to take it as fiction. You have to do that with most movies, though. There's a saying: Never let the truth get in the way of a good story."

Jessy smiled. "Mark Twain."

"Was it?"

"Yep. He was full of wisdom."

"I like the one quote: A classic is something everyone wants to have read..."

"...but no one wants to read," Jessy finished. "I don't know if he was right about that, lots of people like to read the classics. Me, for one. There ARE some that I tried but couldn't get into. Those are few and far between, though."

"What's your favorite book of all time?"

"Well, it changes all the time. I read The Old Man and the Sea recently so maybe that."

Mark shook his head. "I don't like Hemingway."

"No? Why not?"

"His prose is too simple. His stories feel rushed, like he was speeding through them so he could clock off and go drink."

Jessy laughed. "Well, he WAS an alcoholic."

"I think Fitzgerald was too."

"Edgar Allen Poe."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, he was. Married his thirteen-year-old cousin, too."

"Just like Jerry Lee Lewis."

"Killed his career. His wedding doubled as a funeral."

Jessy giggled. "I guess. Saves time and money that way. What's YOUR favorite book?"

"2001: A Space Oddessy by Arthur C. Clarke. It's hard science fiction, meaning there's an emphasis on scientific accuracy." He looked over his shoulder again. "It's not that psycho pop crap like on Star Trek."

"I haven't read too much science fiction. All I really know about it are silver suits and fazers."

"You should check it out. You might like it. Pretty girl reading sci-fi might blow people's minds though."

Jessy giggled and blushed.

By the river, Alex craned her neck and swept the forest with her gaze. Next to her, Tim squeezed the condom and grinned. He'd been trying to make it pop for a good five minutes, but it was pretty strong. He WANTED to sneak up on Mark and whack him in the head with it, but Alex suggested they let him and Jessy have time to 'bond.' Not sexually, at least that's not what she meant but maybe it was happening that way; they'd been gone for a while, it seemed.

"How long until they realize we're not coming after them?" Alex asked.

Tim shrugged. "I don't know. If they're hitting it off and talking or something, it might be a while." He squeezed again. "You wanna put this thing to good use?" He was half joking...and half serious.

"Uh, no," Alex said, "its integrity's been compromised."

"Pfft. No it hasn't. These things are made to withstand..." he blushed. "You know. The rigors of sex."

Alex cocked her brow. "It's bulging with water and you've been putting pressure on it for, like, ten minutes. It would probably rip. Plus, it's all stretched out."

Tim looked at it. "It should still fit. They're meant to hold their shape."

"I'm telling you, it won't."

Tim really wasn't all that competitive of a guy, but sometimes Alex was so cocky and self-assured he just HAD to bring her down a few pegs. In a caring, loving, you know, boyfriend type way. "I bet you five bucks it will."

Alex's brow flattered and the corners of her mouth turned up in a grin. She loved competing. "I bet you five bucks it won't."

Nodding, Tim carefully untied it and drained the water; it soaked into the thirsty dirt. He reached into his pants but paused when he caught Alex staring expectantly at his crotch, her hands on her hips and a naughty light in her eyes. She'd seen his thing plenty over the past few months, but having someone watching like that, even if that someone had touched it before, was just a little unnerving. "Go on," she said, and met his eyes. Unnerving, yeah, but the longing he saw in her brown irises turned him on. He pulled it out and she smiled widely.

Wrapping his fingers around his rapidly inflating shaft, he gave it three quick tugs, then, satisfied that he was fully erect, he slipped the condom on, pinching the tip just as he'd practiced.

Goddamn it, she was right. It was REALLY loose.

"Oh, wow, that's snug," he lied. "It actually kind of hurts."

Alex dropped down to one knee and examined it; Tim's heartbeat sped up. "It looks a little baggy to me," she said and stood, which was really disappointing. He was kind of hoping she'd put it in her mouth.

Swallowing hard, Tim shook his head. That wasn't important right now, the fact that he was losing the bet was. "I'm telling you, it fits. Give me my five bucks."

Alex lifted her brows. "It does not fit."

"Yes. It. Does."

"Yeah? Prove it. Use it on me."

Tim blinked. "Uh...what?"

Did she just ask him to do her? Uh...yeah, no. He really liked Alex (okay...maybe he loved her) and yes, he wanted to sleep with her, but this fucking condom was in no shape for sex, and he really didn't want to be a father at seventeen.

Alex made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and held it close to his dick. "Go ahead."

Tim looked from her face to her hand and back again. "You want me to fuck your hand?"

"I want you to prove that condom won't come off. Unless you want to admit defeat."

No, he didn't.

Sighing, he tilted his hips forward and pressed his tip through her fingers, then pulled back. The condom stayed.

"Hm," she said and squeezed him; he moaned and her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I guess you were right." She gripped him and stroked, her thumb brushing along his length. A shiver ran through his body and he rested his forehead against hers: Their breaths mingled and began to come faster as she increased her speed. He grabbed her hips and kissed her deeply, their tongues swirling around one another.

When his climax hit him, his body rocked forward and he sighed into her mouth.

She broke the kiss and fixed him with a haughty smirk. "Guess what."

"What?" Tim hitched.

She held up her hand: Something shone on her palm. "It broke."

Tim looked down at his rod: The top of the condom hung in tatters. "You did that," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She glanced over his shoulder and tensed. "Here they come, put your dick away."

Tim started. He tucked his thing back into his shorts, realized he was still wearing the condom, then pulled it off and threw it away. It plopped to the dirt.

"Do something with it!" Alex said.

He put himself right, picked it up, and looked around; he was beginning to panic. He darted down to the river and tossed it in. It floated along the surface like a dead jelly fish. Hopefully the current would take it. He walked up next to Alex just as Jessy and Mark emerged from the trees.

"Ha," Alex said.

They were holding hands and talking.

"We're awesome," she said and held up her hand for a high five. Tim slapped it, and something squished between their palms. Alex winced. "We better wash our hands."

* * *

At dusk, they piled into Ritchie's car, Ben, Kaufman, and Slater in the back and Ritchie in the passenger seat. Lynn buckled her safety belt and grinned at her boyfriend. "Tape, please."

Ben, Kaufman, and Slater looked at each other nervously as Ritchie reached into the glove box and slipped a cassette into the tape deck. One thing about Lynn Loud: She liked speed. Like...really liked speed.

As driving guitar and pounding piano filled the car, Lynn threw it into reverse and whipped out of the spot, knocking her friends together like bowling pins. She slammed it into drive and took off, the engine roaring and the tries kicking up dirt.

"One foot on the brake and one on the gas, hey!

Well, there's too much traffic, I can't pass, no!"

Ritchie held onto the handhold over the door and smiled to himself as she turned onto Park Street, the back end drifting and Ben crying out. It was his car and he should be worried she'd wreck it or get a ticket, but the look on her face when she drove fast, her eyes narrowed and the corners of her lips turned up, was really, uh, beautiful.

She took it easy on the main streets, but this stretch of Park to Central was wooded and seldom traveled, so she really opened it up.

"So I tried my best illegal move

Well, baby, black and white come and touched my groove again!"

She swerved around an imagery car, and Slater's head made contact with the window. He moaned.

In the green dashboard glow, Lynn's face was a mask of rapture. At that moment, Ritchie knew, nothing existed but her and the road. He tightened his grip and braced his feet against the floor. Lynn loved going fast and he loved Lynn...crazy, excitable, speed demon Lynn.

"Gonna write me up a 125

Post my face wanted dead or alive

Take my license, all that jive

I can't drive 55! Oh No!"

Ahead was a dirt road that passed through a stand of trees and a stretch of desert past the old industrial park before connecting to Sage Street. Lynn spun the wheel and turned onto it, the tires biting gravel and the back end sliding sickeningly. Ben, Kaufman, and Slater all yelled; Lynn punched the gas and the car shot down the road. It jostled and the headlights splashed across the newly fallen night. Ritchie glanced at her as she chuckled. Heh-heh-heh. She's gonna kill my car, he thought, but didn't care.

"So I signed my name on number 24, hey!

Yeah the judge said, "Boy, just one more...

We're gonna throw your ass in the city joint"

Looked me in the eye, said, "You get my point?"

I said Yea!, Oh yea!"

Lynn glanced past Ritchie at the open desert between here and Central, where lights twinkle and cars drove back and forth...the sweet, sweet open desert, perfect for doughnuts and off-roading. "Don't even think about it," he said.

She stuck her bottom lip out.

"Nope."

She whined in the back of her throat like a chastised puppy.

"Not happening."

She sighed and turned back to the road.

"Write me up a 125

Post my face wanted dead or alive

Take my license, all that jive

I can't drive 55!

Oh, yea!"

They reached Sage, which was lined with crumbling old factories and warehouses. She hung a sharp right, and Ben knocked into Kaufman. "Let me out!" the former cried.

Lynn pressed harder on the gas and the car rocketed along the empty lane. Central was coming up quick, and cross traffic was heavy.

"Please slow down!" Kaufman wailed.

Lynn went faster. She was just messing with them. She wouldn't really shoot out onto a busy street like that. Ritchie knew this, but he still felt a twinge of apprehension.

"When I drive that slow, you know it's hard to steer.

And I can't get get my car out of second gear."

The engine vroomed as they drew close to Central. They were feet away and she was still pushing the pedal to the floor, her face hard and her eyes trance like. "Babe?" Ritchie asked worriedly.

"What used to take two hours now takes all day. Huh!

It took me 16 hours to get to L.A."

"Lynn!"

Lynn smashed the brakes and Ritchie was flung against his safety belt. Ben's head hit the back of Ritchie's seat, Kaufman screamed like a woman, and Slater howled.

Panting, Ritchie turned to his girlfriend. She serenely watched traffic pass, then turned gently onto Central. "I'm thinking Mexican," she said and turned down the radio, "what about you guys?"

* * *

After leaving the river, they cruised through the late afternoon streets of Royal Woods, the windows open and the radio on. Alex watched Jessy and Mark in the rearview mirror as they talked and laughed together. Oh, yeah, I am GOOD she thought to herself. Of course, Tim helped, but she wouldn't give him credit out loud: She didn't want him to get a swollen head.

Um, speaking of swollen head, he owed her a favor. To be honest, she was kind of disappointed that condom didn't fit, because if it did...well, no use worrying about it, they probably would have been disturbed anyway. Plus, she'd kind of like her first time to not be on the ground. She didn't need candlelight and rose petals like a little fairy princess, but a bed would be nice. And some guaranteed privacy. She'd heard that a girl's first time can be painful and that it might take some doing to get it in. In the dust with her cousin and her new boyfriend lurking around wasn't the ideal place to lose her virginity, she thought.

New boyfriend. Heh. See, Jess? And you were worried about me being involved. Oh, you set me up on a date with Chuck Spencer boo hah hoo. Well look at you now, eyes all lit up, face all flush, giggling and talking a mile a minute. Hm. What do I want in return? Maybe I should make her do my chores...or my homework. She glanced at Tim and took his hand. He looked over and smiled. "You hungry?" she asked.

Shrug. "Yeah, I could eat."

"Well, I'm starving." Nothing quite works up an appetite like swimming in the hot sun. She could eat a horse. Raw. Ummm, with Tabasco and salt and a side of buttery rice. She looked into the rearview mirror. "Hey, you guys wanna go to Flip's?"

"Sure," Jessy said without turning from Mark, her hand lifting and waving dismissively. Aw, she's at the stage where looking at her guy takes precedence over eating. Enjoy it now, sister, because it doesn't last long. Alex turned onto Main Street and started for Flip's. Was Auntie Luan working today? If she was Alex had to make sure she had enough to leave her a good tip. Can't shortchange family. That would make for an awkward Thanksgiving.

At Flip's, she parked, killed the engine, and got out with Tim. Mark and Jessy didn't move, so caught up were they in their conversation...about fractions. Oh, yuck. "You guys coming?"

Mark opened the door and slipped out; Jessy followed. They never broke eye contact and their conversation never stopped.

Inside, the air was cool and still: Fred swept behind the counter and Auntie Luan was bent over writing on an order pad. A few people worked their way through a languid early dinner, and a group of boys stood around the Pac-Man cabinet, one complaining because 'old man Loud' turned the volume off.

Alex dropped into a booth and Tim slid in across from her. Jessy and Mark weren't paying attention, and Mark wound up sitting next to Alex and Jessy next to Tim. Not that it really mattered, just...hey, Jess, that's not your favorite sister, that would be me...right here. Alex Loud, you know, with the perm and the freckles?

Auntie Luan ripped the ticket off the pad, slapped it in the window, and turned, a warm smile crossing her harried face when she saw them. She started over, and Alex wondered if she could tip her aunt with the Bon Jovi tape in her pocket.

"Hi, honey," Auntie Luan said to Jessy when she walked up.

Jessy turned. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Alex."

"Hey," Alex said.

"What can I get you guys?"

Alex looked around. Tim shrugged. "Burger and fries."

Jessy and Mark were back to talking and neither heard her question. Oh well. "Same for them."

Auntie Luan nodded and jotted their orders down. She looked up at her daughter and smiled a little.

"That's Mark," Alex said, "they liiike each other."

Neither rose to the bait. Neither seemed to even notice the bait.

While Auntie Luan put their orders in, Alex slouched back and watched Jessy's happy face. "Hey, Mark," Tim said.

Mark didn't turn.

"Mark."

Still didn't turn.

"Remember that time you you ate a bug in second grade?"

Nope. No turny.

Alex snickered. "They're in their own little world."

"Sounds like kind of a boring world. Math and stuff."

"Yeah, but wherever. We can hang out in our world."

Tim tilted his head. "What's our world?"

"Metal, horror movie, and mocking music videos."

Tim nodded. "Speaking of which, you should come over to my house tomorrow. We can make fun of MTV."

Auntie Luan brought them glasses of Coke and Alex thanked her. "You should come over to MY house. I always go to yours."

Jessy giggled at something Mark said and covered her face.

"Well...your dad kind of makes me nervous. You know that."

Yes, she did. They had been dating four years and in that time Tim met her father like three times, and never for very long. Dad said Tim 'seems okay' but Tim was convinced that they were supposed to be sworn enemies because 'I'm dating his daughter.' He saw one too many TV shows where the girlfriend's father was a hardass or something and thought that was normal.

"You're stressed for nothing," she said, "he's not like that."

"I guess," Tim said noncommittally, "he still makes me nervous."

A few minutes later, Auntie Luan brought their food over and sat their plates in front of them. She rubbed her hand across back of Jessy's shoulders and she turned. "Food," Auntie Luan said with a smile.

"Thanks, Mom," Jessy said then, seeming to remember her manners, "this is Mark."

Mark lifted a hand. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Hi," she said with a nod and looked at Jessy. "Are you two...?" she grinned and gestured between them.

Jessy blushed. "Uh...kind of."

Auntie Luan nodded. "That's nice."

When they were done, Alex laid a five dollar bill on the table. She really didn't want to part with that much money, but it was either that or a handful of pennies and she was NOT going to leave Auntie Luan a handful of pennies.

Outside, dusk was gathering and the streetlights were turning on. In the car, Alex started toward Tim's house, really kind of regretting that today had to end. She took Tim's hand, weaved her fingers through his, and squeezed. "My Dad will be at work tomorrow, so you and Mark can come over...you big pussy."

Tim snickered. "Alright."

At Tim's house, she pulled to the curb and parked. He leaned over and they kissed.

In the back, Mark looked over Jessy's shoulder. "Well, I guess that's all."

Jessy nodded slowly. Yeah. She guessed. She really enjoyed herself and she didn't want him to leave, though. She took his hand in hers. "I had fun today," she said.

"Me too."

"Do you want to hang out tomorrow or something?"

He grinned. "Yeah, that'd be cool."

She smiled at him and he smiled back, but made no move to get out. "Uh...can I kiss you?"

Jessy's heart slammed and her stomach clutched sickly. Oh, wow, she kind of was not expecting this...but she felt herself nodding regardless. "Umhm."

They leaned into each other and their lips gently touched. His tongue prodded her mouth, and she let it in, lightly and clumsily flicking it with hers. She squeezed his hand as he did the same to hers, then drew back. Her flesh burned from head to toe and she could barely breathe over the thunderous clapping of her own heart. "Bye," he said.

"Bye," she replied dreamily.

"See you tomorrow."

She giggled. "Yeah, see you tomorrow."

He got out and together, he and Tim went up the walk. Jessy watched them go, and drew a hazy sigh. She climbed up front with Alex and dropped into the passenger seat, where she buckled her safety belt. Her heart still galloped and the taste of his lips lingered on hers. Was it normal to feel shaky after your first kiss? Because that's totally how she felt right now.

"Huh? Didn't I tell you?"

Jessy looked at her cousin; the glow of the dash panel cast shadows across her face. Jessy was too happy and quivery to come up with a smart alecky retort, so she just nodded. "Yeah, you told me."

Alex nodded and put the car in drive. "Uh-huh. And you thought I was gonna fail again, but you were wrong, Jess. Alex Loud came through for her sister. You know, he's a cool guy, great catch and all, you should really thank me by...say...doing my chores for a week."

Jessy reached out and turned the radio up, drowning her cousin's voice out.

"Not a word, from your lips

You just took for granted that I want to skinny dip.

A quick hit, that's your game.

But I'm not a piece of meat, stimulate my brain, no."

Alex looked at her, but she was gazing out the window, bobbing her head back and forth and thinking about Mark.

"The night is young, so are we.

Let's just get to know each other, slow and easily, oh.

Take my hand, let's hit the floor.

Shake our bodies to the music.

Maybe then you'll score."

"Did you hear me, Jess? My chores?"

"So come on baby, won't you show some class

Why do you have to move so fast?

We don't have to take our clothes off

To have a good time

Oh no

We could dance and party all night

And drink some cherry wine, oh"

Alex sighed. "Not even my homework?"

Jessy tapped her knee and hummed along to the music.

"Fine," Alex sighed, "I guess I'll just do them myself." She looked at her cousin: Her eyes were closed, a smile played at the corners of her lips, and her face shone with happiness. Alex smiled fondly. "I'm happy for you," she said.

* * *

Lynn Loud took the Barrio Burrito Challenge at La Fiesta Mexican Restaurant: Three massive burritos stuffed with meat, beans, rice, corn, peppers, and onions, smothered in sauce and topped with melted cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, sour cream, and guacamole. It came with a side of tortilla chips and salsa. If she ate all of it, she would get a free bag of cinnamon chips and bragging rights, which were more important since her asshole friends didn't think she could do it.

"There's no way in hell," Slater said as he squinted at the picture in his menu, "look at that thing."

"Yeah, even I couldn't eat all that," Ben said.

They were sitting at a booth along a big plate glass window overlooking the parking lot and Central beyond. A strand of white lights ran along the crease where the wall met the ceiling, and meriachi music played through strategically placed speakers. Underneath the brassy melody, the chattering din of a hundred voices babbled like water over rocks. La Fiesta was a cramped, tiny hole-in-the-wall kind of place and tonight it was packed.

Lynn stared down at her own menu. A picture depicted the Challenge in all its glory. Yeah, it WAS a lot of food, but you know what? She was Lynn Loud the motherfucking third: She had this. Closing it, she looked up at Slater, then Ben. "I'm gonna do it," she said, "and then I'm gonna eat those chips and not share a single one."

Slater shook his head. "No, you're not. You're going to leave at least one whole burrito on that plate, then you're going to puke."

Lynn's eyes narrowed. "We'll see."

They saw alright: When the waitress brought Lynn's plate out and sat it in front of her, Lynn's eyes widened. Oh, shit, I made a mistake. "Damn," Ritchie muttered.

You know those big oval serving platter plate things? That's what this was, and brother, it was heaped. Lynn considered herself physically strong, but she didn't think she could pick it up. How that girl got it to the table without her arms snapping off was a mystery.

I-It wasn't that big in the picture.

Ben whistled and Slater shook his head slowly. "You'll never finish that."

Lynn steeled her resolve: Her pride was on the line and she was NOT going to give Slater the satisfaction of being right. She picked up her fork, hacked a piece off, and shoved it into her mouth with an exaggerated "Mmmmm."

"How does it taste?" Ben asked.

"Like she bit off more than she can chew," Slater said, and they both snickered. Oh, wow, they were REALLY cruising for a bruising tonight: It was made even more irritating by the fact that that's exactly how it tasted.

Ritchie took a sip of his Corona and picked up his taco. "Seriously, you're gonna hurt yourself."

"Fuck you," Lynn said around a mouthful. "I'll eat every last bite and lick the plate when I'm done."

Ritchie shrugged. "Alright." He took a bite. "Don't forget your chips."

Lynn's eyes went to the bowl next to her plate. It overflowed. And the salsa...it was REALLY chunky, not thin and runny, oh no, that would be too easy. Whose idea was this challenge, anyway? It wasn't fair. This was WAY too much food.

She was still working on the second burrito after everyone else was done. They watched her expectantly, Slater and Ben leaning over the table and Ritchie sitting casually back, his arm draped over the back of the bench. Lynn's stomach sent signals to her brain - I'm full, dumbass, stop eating - but her brain ignored them. She stopped, crumbled up the chips, sprinkled them on top, and dumped the salsa on. "She's getting desperate," Slater mocked.

Lynn flipped him off.

The second burrito disappeared, but there was one more standing between her and victory. Her stomach panged and breathing was hard. "You think they'll let me order another one?" she asked, "this isn't enough."

Ritchie snorted laughter.

By the time she was done with half of the final burrito, she was feeling queasy and light headed. She propped her elbow on the table, rested her face in her palm, and seriously meditated on her life choices.

Ritchie put a tender hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him; his eyes were soft with concern. "Honey, stop," he said gently. She would have smiled at him calling her honey if her stomach didn't feel like it was splitting open. She patted his hand and he slipped his fingers through hers. You know, winning isn't everything, Lynn knew that, but it was important to her...and as long as she had Ritchie in her corner, she was a winner through and through.

She sighed. "You were right," she said, and turned to her friends, "I can't do it."

"That's seriously too much food for one person," Slater said.

"Not even really a challenge," Ben said. "You can win a challenge."

Lynn's stomach quivered. Before they left, she made a pit stop: Boiling brown burrito juice spilled from her butt, and she moaned in misery. Stupid challenge.

* * *

Lola tossed and turned for most of the night, but no amount of position changes would satisfy the child in her womb: It kicked, flipped, and swished, swimming around her stomach the way a goldfish swims around a bowl. Lori said Bobby did the same thing before she went into labor, which suggested the end was nigh.

And that depressed her.

Being big and sore was awful, but outside of that, she liked being pregnant...she liked the knowledge that she was carrying a new life in her womb, a life created by her and Bobby's love; she liked feeling the baby move; she liked rubbing her stomach and talking to her child; she liked the way Bobby touched and kissed her bump...it was a warm, heady experience and even though she wanted to hold her baby in her arms, a large part of her didn't want this to end.

She turned onto her side and snuggled up to Bobby until her butt pressed against his crotch; his warmth enveloped her, and in his sleep, he put his arm around her, which made her smile. She liked it when he cradled her. She felt safe, loved, and protected, and though she had been with him for nearly two years, that was still a new and exciting sensation.

Kick.

Oof. THAT sensation was still new and exciting too, but she could really do without feeling it at three in the morning. She sighed and rubbed her stomach, finding the heel of the baby's foot. Knock it off, she thought with a fond, long suffering smile, mommy would like to sleep, please.

Kick.

Ow. You little monster. She pinched the baby's foot, and it pulled away. Come back here. She shifted, and the baby slid around in what felt like a circle: She was instantly nauseous and for a minute she thought she was going to puke - if so, there would be no getting up and going to the bathroom, she'd be too slow.

When it passed, she scooted back until she was as against Bobby as possible. "You're moving a lot," he muttered.

"Uh, the baby's moving a lot," she said.

Bobby's hand went to her stomach and made a slow, lazy circle. The baby kicked against his palm and she laughed. "Cut it out, kid, we're trying to sleep here."

Kick-kick.

"You're pissing our baby off."

"Hmmm. As soon as it comes out I'm using my belt."

"No you're not," Lola said and twined her fingers through his.

"I won't hit very hard."

Lola twisted her head and looked over her shoulder. "But I will."

Bobby, his eyes barely open, kissed her cheek. "I know you will."

Shortly, the baby settled down and Lola was able to sleep for a little while, but she was up again just before six. Might as well start my day, she thought and got out of bed. In the kitchen, Bobby's father was sitting at the table in his work clothes, a mug of coffee before him; Bobby's mother sat across from him in a pink robe, her own mug lifted to her lips.

"Someone looks tried," Mr. Santiago said with a grin.

Lola nodded, shuffled over to the table, and sat. "Very," she said, "the baby kept me up half the night."

Mrs. Santiago nodded. "Soon. Maybe even today. The Loud-Santiago babies have a way of emitting a huge burst of energy before coming out."

Kick.

Lola touched her stomach. "If that's the case, this baby is coming in the next twenty minutes."

Mr. Santiago finished his coffee and got up. "Just don't deliver on my floor, huh? That placenta smell is a bitch to get out."

Mrs. Santiago was shocked into laughter. "Oh, Jesus, Bobby, you're gross."

He kissed her forehead. "Love you too, babe. Call me when she pops." He pointed sternly at Lola. "Not on the floor."

"I'll deliver on your bed," Lola retorted.

"Then you and junior will have yourselves a new bedroom set." He grabbed his lunch pail off the counter and left the room. A few minutes later the front door opened and closed.

Mrs. Santiago sat back in her chair and yawned. "I kind of wanted another one," she said, "but I didn't like being pregnant."

"I don't really mind it," Lola said, "it's challenging right now, but I could see myself doing it again."

Mrs. Santiago smiled. "Lots of grandbabbies would be nice. Mom had six kids. God, that woman's insane." She laughed. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Lola thought for a moment. "Yes, please."

Mrs. Santiago got up, took a mug from the cabinet, and poured some in. She was just finishing up when someone knocked on the door. "Here," Mrs. Santiago said and sat the cup in front of her, then went into the living room.

Kick.

Lola picked it up, blew a curl of steam away, and sipped.

Kick-kick.

"Mommy's holding a hot drink," Lola said, "please stop." She turned just as Lincoln, Alex, and Jessy came into the kitchen. "Uncle Lincy," she smiled, "and Bunny and Jessy."

"Hi!" Jessy said and dropped into an empty chair.

Alex walked over, laid her hands on Lola's stomach, and scrunched her lips to the side in thought. "Yeah, it's still in there."

Lola snorted. "Where would it have gone?"

"She saw a movie about a baby stealing vampire last night," Lincoln said, "and she was convinced it stopped by here on its way back to Transylvania."

Jessy shuddered.

"It wasn't from Transylvania," Alex said as she went over to the counter and made herself a cup of coffee, "it was from Asia."

"Sounds like a lovely film," Lola said and took a sip.

Jessy shivered again. "It was terrible."

"Yet you watched all of it with me," Alex said and sat.

"How're you feeling?" Lincoln asked.

"Like this baby won't stop moving."

Lincoln grinned. "Any time now."

"That's what I said," Mrs. Santiago said as she came in.

Jessy smiled. "I'd like to meet my cousin today."

"Me too," Alex said, "I'll introduce them to the works of George A. Romero." Her brow knitted in thought. "Or maybe we'll start with Wes Craven."

"My baby is not watching icky Bunny movies," Lola said and crossed her arms.

"Yes it will," Alex said confidently, "and it's going to love them."

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I wanted to stop by and say hi, and the girls wanted to hang out for a little while."

"We can't stay too long," Alex said then grinned, "we have boys coming over."

Jessy blushed and looked away. Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, they want to be just like their cousin Lola."

Both girls went white. "No we don't," Alex said.

Lola laughed. "What's wrong with being like Lola? She successful, attractive, intelligent..."

"And big as a damn house."

Lola turned as her sister came into the kitchen, baby Justin cradled in her arms. Dark bags hung under her eyes and her blonde hair stuck wildly out. During her many hours awake, Lola heard her nephew cry several times. Heh. At least she wasn't alone in feeling tired and miserable. "Here," Lana said archly and handed her son to Jessy, "since you like playing with boys so much, might as well get used to this."

"I don't play with boys," she said, her face fire truck red.

Alex nodded. "She does," she mouthed.

"Ronnie Anne will be there," Lincoln said to Lana and laid a hand on each of his daughter's shoulders, "and if there's any playing, these girls and their little boyfriends will wish they were never born."

"We're just going to watch MTV," Alex said, "I swear."

Lori blushed as she remembered watching a movie with Bobby...then nine months later...

"Watching television can lead to a lot of things," she said, only half teasing.

"Like a quadruple homicide," Lincoln said and kissed his girls goodbye.


	119. May 1986: Part 3

**Lyrics to _Rock Me Amadeus_ by Falco (1986); _Your Love_ by The Outfield (1986)**

* * *

Lincoln made change for a black man in a business suit, nodded, then went back to the order form on the counter in front of him. Should he get new menus made? The current ones were getting a little worn; they were also marked up with pen, the old prices scribbled out and the new ones written underneath...or beside...or even in the margins. When was the last time he had them changed? When he added chicken, right? That was...'73? '74? Twelve years at least. Yeah, it was time for an upgrade.

What about that radio spot? Should he do it?

He didn't know. He saw an ad in the paper promising cheap airtime on WKBBL and he thought 'you know what Flip's needs? A commercial.' Made sense, right? Get the word out, have a catchy little jingle, bring more customers in. No brainer. Only WKBBL's idea of cheap and Lincoln Loud's idea of cheap were two totally different things. He could afford it, no worries there, but would it be worth it? Flip's was a local staple. It had been in continuous operation since 1936, and it wasn't exactly hiding - it was right on the main drag in front of God and everyone. He doubted a commercial would bring in people who didn't already patronize the place. 'Huh? Flip's? Never heard of it. Get the kids, Ethel, let's go.'

But maybe...

The bell over the door dinged and Lincoln looked up. Luan was putting her hair into a ponytail as she hurried around the counter. She was late.

"Sorry," she said, "I was helping Dad. His knee is acting up." She took her purse off and put it under the counter.

"You're okay," Lincoln said and scanned the sheet. He probably wouldn't do the commercial. He had enough customers anyway. "Jessy has a boyfriend."

Luan nodded and smiled. "Yeah, they came in yesterday. He's tall. And scrawny."

"I haven't met him," Lincoln said and sat back, "Alex told me about him this morning. Name's Mark. He's Alex's boyfriend's cousin."

Luan smoothed out her uniform, straightened her name tag, and sighed. "She's growing up fast."

Lincoln nodded. When it came to Jessy, Luan had skipped ahead, missing her childhood and coming out to find her daughter already a young woman. It bothered her, and Lincoln imagined it would bother him too. Probably to the day he died.

"She's starting early," he pointed out in an effort to soften the blow, "none of you girls had boyfriends at fifteen."

Luan nodded her acquiescence. "True. We were late bloomers. You, on the other hand..."

"Yeah," Lincoln chuckled, "I guess I wound up being the Casanova of the family." He shook his head. "Who saw THAT coming, right?"

Luan shrugged. "You're a great guy, Linc. Don't be so down on yourself."

"I'm not down. Hell, I'm a war hero. How COULD I be?"

"That's the spirit."

Afterwards, Luan went to take an old couple's order, leaving Lincoln alone with his order form. Maybe he WOULD buy that airtime. It couldn't hurt, right?

* * *

The door opened and Mrs. Loud filled the frame, her eyes flicking down to Tim's. He flashed a nervous smile; she made him almost as anxious as her husband.

"Hi, Mrs. Loud," he said.

"Hi, Tim." She looked at Mark, whose face was expressionless...as though he WASN'T meeting his girlfriend's mother. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Mark. Alex and Jessy said we could come over...if that's okay."

Mrs. Loud looked from one to the other, then nodded. "Alright." She stepped aside and they went in, Tim closing the door behind him; he used exaggerated care so that it didn't shut too hard. Mrs. Loud went to the foot of the hall. "Girls! You have visitors." She looked over her shoulder, and Tim saw the corners of her mouth curl up: She reminded him of a hungry cat...and he was the canary with the broken wing.

A series of loud thumps sounded, and Tim frowned.

"Move, Bunny!" Jessy called.

"I was first!"

Mrs. Loud crossed her arms and lifted her brow as Jessy appeared, and Alex shouldered past her. Jessy's face darkened, and she threw out her arm, shoving Alex back. "Hi, Mark," she said with a smile. Mrs. Loud snickered.

"I think they're excited to see you," she said to Tim.

Jessy came forward with a bounce in her step and her hands behind her back. "Hey," Mark said.

"It's good to see you."

Alex brushed past her sister. "Hey, ready for some MTV?"

"Sure," Tim said.

While he, Mark, and Jessy sat on the couch, Alex turned the TV on and spun the dial until she found Madonna crawling around on the floor. Tim glanced at Mrs. Loud: She stood by the entryway to the kitchen with her arms crossed. Uh...was she going to stay there the entire time?

Alex came over and dropped between him and Mark.

Mrs. Loud went into the kitchen, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief. Alex nudged him in the ribs. "Would you do Madonna?"

Tim opened his mouth but closed it again. That sounded like a trick question. "Would you?" he asked.

"No," she said instantly, "I prefer bigger women." She snickered when he looked at her. "You know, more cushion for the pushin'." She held her hands out, gripped an imaginary set of thighs, and thrusted her hips.

Jessy threaded her fingers through Mark's and leaned her head against his shoulder. She was talking about a letter she got from her father and how she wanted to write to his side of the family and Tim really couldn't keep up: He never knew Jess could be such a motor mouth...she was always so quiet.

"You don't have one of those," he said to Alex.

Alex shrugged. "I can get a strap on."

"That doesn't count. It's not real."

"Say that when it's tearing down your butt walls."

Tim was shocked (and horrified) into laughter. "Not gonna happen."

"You'll like it," she said and took his hand, "you fucking homo."

On TV, a guy in a tuxedo climbed out of a horse-drawn carriage and strutted into a palatial concert hall where people in petticoats and powdered wigs bowed as he passed.

"Er war ein Punker

Und er lebte in der großen Stadt

Es war in Wien, war Vienna

Wo er alles tat"

Alex's brow furrowed. "Uh...why's he speaking Nazi?"

"Actually, it's called German," Mark said.

"Actually, I can't understand it," Alex retorted.

"I can," Mark, "I speak a little bit. He's talking about Amadeus, the composer and the subject of one of Jessy's favorite films."

Jessy giggled. "Yep."

"Er hatte Schulden denn er trank

Doch ihn liebten alle Frauen

Und jede rief

Come and rock me Amadeus"

"He's talking about how Amadeus was the first punk and had a bunch of groupies."

Alex snickered. "Yeah, he was a real punk. Johnny Rotten has nothing on him."

Jessy squeezed Mark's hand again. "You speak German, that's really cool."

"Yeah, I taught myself because there's a foreign movie I liked and it got really annoying trying to watch it and read the subtitles at the same time. I'm not the best, especially when someone's speaking it really fast, but I'm alright. Once you know English, learning German, French, Spanish, and Italian is really easy. English is really a hodgepodge of different languages, and if you're familiar with enough English words and their synonyms, you can understand a lot of foreign words."

Jessy watched him with big, shimmery eyes, like he was the coolest thing or something. When Alex first mentioned wanting to find someone for Jessy, Tim didn't think of Mark. He didn't really know Jessy and...it just didn't occur to him. Then, when she brought up going to the river, it just so happened she picked a day he'd already planned to hang out with Mark, and it clicked. Ah, maybe they'll get along. Alex took the credit, but HE was the real matchmaker here, and presently he patted himself on the back.

"My mom speaks Spanish, but she never taught me," Alex said, "I guess she doesn't care if I appreciate my heritage."

Jessy's brow pinched. "She TRIED to teach you, but you didn't want to learn."

"Well...she tried to teach you too."

Jessy sighed and bowed her head. "I couldn't get the hang of it."

Mark turned to her. "I can teach you. I don't know it as well as I know German, but I know it a little."

Jessy smiled. "That'd be great. You can teach me German if you want. It doesn't really matter to me."

Alex blew a raspberry and swatted Tim's chest. Check out these dorks, her expression said. Tim nodded and leaned close to her ear. "Imagine if they had a kid."

"Auntie Alex would make sure he turned out cool," she whispered.

"You'd screw him up worse than they would."

That earned him a slap to the arm. Ow, what the hell was it with her and hitting people? She really needed to take up boxing or something, get all that aggression out.

Of course, there are other ways of getting one's aggressions out...but if he thought of that too much he'd pop a boner and the last thing he wanted was for Mrs. Loud to walk in and see a tent in his pants. Well, second to last: It'd be even worse if it was Mr. Loud.

The Amadeus video ended and after a bumper where an astronaut planted an MTV flag on the moon, another started: A dude in a white shirt and a black tie sang into a microphone while black clad supermodels woodenly strummed guitars on either side of him, their bodies moving jerkily left and right. Tim hummed appreciatively at their tight dresses, which brought another smite from Alex...for his Alex was a jealous Alex. "Ow! Damn, I was just looking." He MAY have done it on purpose to instigate her. Hey, she was easy sometimes.

"How would you feel if I did that?"

Tim shrugged.

"Oh?"

"I'd be fine with it."

"Okay." She looked at the TV. "Oh, Robert Palmer, you're so hot, I really want you to kiss me and touch me and put your hands in my hair and rub your crotch against mine..." she hesitated for a second because thinking of that (not necessarily with Robert Palmer) was kind of turning her on. "And bite my lower lip...and slip your hands up my shirt...hmmm...down the front of my pants..." she looked at Tim and bit her bottom lip.

Jessy and Mark were both looking at her strangely.

"Damn," Tim said, "I didn't go THAT far."

Alex shrugged and offered a sheepish grin. "Payback."

The phone in the kitchen rang and Tim heard Mrs. Loud talking lowly. "Well...I'd run through his band like a freight train. They'd all be pregnant by the time I was done."

Alex's forehead crinkled. "Yeah? Well, I'd be pregnant too. With triplets. And then I'd marry him."

"I'd become a Mormon and marry ALL those chicks."

"Not if I went bi and married them first."

"That's illegal."

"So is polygamy, dick."

Jessy and Mark looked at each other. "They're a couple of dorks," Mark said.

Jessy nodded her agreement. "Yeah. Two dweebs."

Alex and Tim were still arguing when Ronnie Anne came into the room. "Alright, boys, you have to go."

Jessy and Alex's heads both whipped around. "Why?" they asked in unison.

"Because we're going to the hospital. Lola's having the baby."

* * *

Bobby sat in the waiting room with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap, Lana on one side and Mom on the other. Lana rocked Justin and cooed softly, telling him all about his little cousin. Mom held Lola's cellphone in her hand and squinted at the buttons, pressing them one at a time in a halting manner as if the layout of the keypad was really that much different from a landline telephone (it wasn't). "Hm. This is literally the most nifty thing ever," she said as she put it to her ear: It was big and boxy with a telescoping antenna. You couldn't put it into your pocket which made it a pain in the ass to carry around, though it was nice to have in case you got a flat in the boonies like he and Lola did on the way to Lana's wedding.

Bobby sighed and shook his foot. He was nervous: This was it, go time, a very fragile operation in which any number of things could go wrong. Terrible possibilities assaulted his mind, but he pushed them away. It was going to be alright, no need to worry or get uptight, relax, chill, she's not going to wind up in accute distress or what the hell ever like Auntie Ronnie Anne, she's going to easily and healthily deliver and we're all going to live happily ever after, amen.

Yep. But what if...?

"Hi, Mom," Mom said. "We're at the hospital with Lola. She's having the baby."

Bobby turned to his mother: She smiled and nodded. "I'm really excited. We were just about to have lunch when her water broke all over the kitchen floor." She laughed.

Mom didn't seem to think Lola's water breaking meant WE HAVE TO LEAVE RIGHT FUCKING NOW! and took her sweet time cleaning the floor; Bobby almost put Lola in their rented Cadillac and left Mom behind. 'Oh, don't worry, she's fine.' No, she's not, she just gushed all over the goddamn floor. Poor Lola looked terrified when it happened, her eyes widening and the blood draining from her face. Bobby hugged her tight while they waited. Finally he snapped, 'Will you stop worrying about the goddamn floor? We have to go!'

She laughed now. "Yeah, Bobby's so nervous he can barely sit still." She looked at him and he turned away. This is serious, Mom, damn. "Remember when MY water broke and everyone started going crazy except for you and Dad? That's what it was like."

"I didn't go crazy," Lana said more to herself than to anybody else. She smiled at Justin. "Mama's been THERE before. It took you eight hours to come after my water broke."

Bobby remembered: That was a LONG wait. Still, when your water breaks, you go straight to the hospital, you don't play around. The baby might, like, run out of amniotic fluid while you're putzing around.

"Okay. Love you." Mom pushed the end call button and sat the phone in her lap. "They're coming down when Luan gets off work," she said.

Bobby uncrossed his legs and shifted to one side, his elbow propping on the arm of his chair and his fist pressing into the side of his face. Mom laid a hand on his leg. "Honey, stop worrying, it's going to be fine."

"Yeah," Bobby said.

"You're gonna give yourself a heart attack and wind up in the bed next to her," Lana said.

"I'm not worried," Bobby lied, "just a little restless."

Mom rubbed his leg. "Take a walk. See if there's anything to eat in the cafeteria."

Eating and walking away were the LAST two things on his mind. He wanted to be right here when the doctor came out, not screwing off in the cafeteria with a bowl of hospital Jell-O. "I'm fine," he said.

Mom sighed. "Alright."

She called Uncle Lincoln while Bobby shook his foot some more. He didn't even realize Auntie Ronnie Anne had shown up with the girls until someone was giving him a wet willy. He jerked around and Alex laughed. "THAT got your attention."

Jessy sat next to Lana and put her hands on her knees. "Is the baby here yet?"

"Not yet," Bobby said.

Alex dropped beside her cousin and slouched in her seat. "It probably doesn't want to come out because its dad's a lame-o."

Bobby ignored her. How long had they been here? It felt like forever and a day...plus ten minutes. Something must be wrong. Please God don't let something be wrong.

"You nervous?" Auntie Ronnie Anne asked, a smiling hilt to her voice.

Bobby shook his head. "Nope."

"He's VERY nervous," Mom said.

Something occured to him. "What happened to you?" he asked. "When you had Alex?"

Auntie Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"But..."

"But nothing. You're going to worry yourself into a heart attack."

Lana chuckled. "That's what I said."

Bobby sighed and sat back. He was glad everyone else was having a good time; he, on the other hand, could not afford to: The woman he loved was giving birth in the next room over and something might happen. Something bad. He suddenly wanted to get up, kick down the door, and charge in like Indiana Jones into the Temple of Doom, punching doctors and nurses out of the way until he was at Lola's side. Instead, he recrossed his legs and bobbed his head back and forth.

"Bobby's being a spaz," Alex said.

"He's worried about Lola and their baby," Jessy said in his defense, "leave him alone. She'll be fine, Bobby."

Bobby nodded. "I know," he said, even though he didn't. These hayseed doctors better not fuck her up; he'd snap a neck if they hurt Lola or the baby.

He got up and started to pace. Auntie Ronnie Anne grinned. "He looks just like Bobby when YOU were giving birth."

Mom laughed. "To this day he says he wasn't nervous."

"He's a goddamn liar."

"I know," Mom said, "but he's MY liar."

Bobby walked to the edge of the waiting room and peered down the hall: It terminated at a set of double doors with narrow windows. A nurse walked up to them, waved a card in front of a little black box on the wall, and opened them. He briefly considered running in after her, but held himself back. He put his hands on his hips and drew a deep breath, then turned. Jessy watched him with a sad frown that turned into a faint, encouraging smile, and he forced a tight smile back. "She'll be okay."

Alex nodded. "Seriously, Bobby," she said soberly, "you're stressing over nothing."

"Yeah, well, I'm worried," Bobby admitted.

"Don't be," Alex said, "in an hour, two tops, you're going to be holding your kid."

Only it WASN'T an hour or two; they were still waiting when Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Luan showed up with Grandma and Grandpa. Bobby was in a frenzy at that point, even though the doctor assured him that Lola and the baby were both fine. "Sometimes it just takes a while." Bullshit, man, that's my wife and kid in there!

"Honey, the doctor is right," Grandma said, "sometimes it takes a while."

"It's taking too long," Bobby moaned as he dropped into the chair next to her.

"Just be patient and trust in God."

Dad arrived a half hour later, and now the waiting room was overflowing with people. Bobby couldn't breathe; it was too hot. He needed elbow room, fresh air, he was going crazy!

Finally, at just past eight, the doctor came out and removed his face mask. Everyone fell silent as he walked in, and Bobby jumped to his feet. "Is it over? Is the baby okay?"

The doctor nodded, "Yes it is and yes SHE is. Congratulations."

Ten minutes later, Bobby stood over the bed, his hands gripping the railing. Lola looked worn and tired, her face white and slick with perspiration. She cradled the baby to her breast and spoke softly to it, her eyes brimming with love and her lips arranged in a smile. "Your daddy's here," she whispered, her voice a breaking croak. Bobby's head swam with how surreal it was. Daddy. He was a daddy now.

"Can I hold her?" he asked.

Lola hummed. "I guess." She held the baby out and Bobby took her with over cautious care: She was small and pink and fast asleep. Her name was Stephanie Nicole.

As Bobby's eyes filled with tears, he vowed to always love and protect his little girl, no matter what, for from that moment on, she was the most important thing in his life.

After him, the first family member to hold her was her great-grandmother; she stared down at the baby with tender adoration and rocked her gently back and forth. "Oh, she's so beautiful," she drew, "she looks just like you, Lola."

Her great-grandfather was next, then her grandparents, then her aunt Lana. "You're just the cutest little thing," she said, "you do look just like your mama, but I see your daddy in you too."

Jessy and Alex did rock, paper, scissors to decide who went first; Jessy won and giggled as the baby squirmed in her arms. "It's nice to meet you too. I'm Jessy, your favorite second cousin."

Alex cleared her throat.

"And that's Bunny. She's yucky."

Alex narrowed her eyes, and Jessy crinkled. "Yeah, yucky bunny rabbit." She passed the baby to Alex, who grinned.

"Don't listen to her, she's a geek and a nerd and the teacher's pet. I, on the other hand, am cool. We're going to watch lots of horror movies together."

"No you're not," Lola said.

Alex nodded. "We totally are," she whispered.

Luan was next. As she held Stephanie, she remembered holding Jessy through the night way back in the year 1970 and crying softly because she knew that, come morning, she would be taken away from her. She knew she shouldn't dwell, but she couldn't help it: She missed so much of her little girl's life. When she handed the baby to Lincoln, she was teary eyed; she went to Jessy, hugged her from behind, and kissed the top of her head. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too, Mom," Jessy said and rested her head against her mother's chest.

Lincoln stared at his great niece (grand niece? Wherever she was) with a bemused smile. He'd known for nine months that Bobby Jr. was going to be a father, but holding his daughter made it real. Jesus Christ, little Bobby had a child now. It's a cliche to say that something felt like it was only yesterday, but it seemed like it really was only yesterday that Bobby was a baby himself. He would be twenty-five this December...and twenty-five years really isn't that long when you get down to it.

Looking upon the little girl's face, he couldn't help also feeling the old sting of disappointment that he and Ronnie Anne couldn't have more children. They had a wonderful daughter and an amazing niece, but both of them had hoped for more kids - a whole platoon of kids. Sometimes to this day when they made love, he found himself unconsciously pushing as deeply as possible during his end...as though one more inch would pollinate her infertile womb.

He handed the baby to Ronnie Anne, and she smirked as she, too, thought of how recently Bobby Jr. was a newborn. Jeez, it's scary how quickly time passes. Twenty-five years is nothing. She'd be forty in September and in another twenty-five years she'd be almost as old as Lincoln's mother.

Virtually at the end of her life.

In twenty-five short years.

Gulp.

* * *

Lynn Loud snuggled close to Ritchie and draped her arm over his chest; they were lying on a blanket stretched out on the ground, the car radio on and the city spread out below them. It was their spot, a place they returned to again and again following a long day together. Last night it was after baseball and that dumb burrito challenge, tonight it was after ice cream and Top Gun at the Regal cinema.

Ritchie turned his head to her and she smiled up at him. "Next month," she said.

He grinned. "Yeah. I'll be home for good."

Lynn had been looking forward to the day he came back to Tucson since the day he left...what felt like a million years ago. She could never decide if him visiting was a good thing or not, because just when she started to get used to having him around, he had to leave again. After next month, though, she wouldn't have to let him go anymore. Sure, they'd both eventually work jobs and wouldn't be able to see each other all the time, but he'd be here. And so would she.

Ritchie slipped his arm around her shoulder. "Have you thought about moving in together? I mean, eventually?"

Lynn nodded. "Yeah, actually, I have."

"Yeah?" he asked hopefully. "What do you think?"

What did she think? Hm, lets see...she thought it would be awesome! "I'd kind of like us to both be settled first."

Ritchie nodded. "Makes sense."

She propped herself up on her elbow and leaned into his lips. "After that...yes." She kissed him, and he kissed her back, their tongues caressing and then grappling for dominance as the kiss deepened. His arm wrapped around her hips and pulled her needily closer; her crotch rubbed against the outside of his leg and she gasped into his mouth at the crackle of sensation that struck deep into her center. Her hand wandered over his chest and stomach, drifting lower of its own violation as her passion swelled; she cupped his bulge and squeezed, eliciting a sharp gasp from his lips. He kissed her more urgently, and somehow in the heat of the moment, he wound up on top of her, his nails raking through her hair and his teeth brushing her bottom lip. Lynn's heated body trembled, and her legs fell open, her hips rocking against the rigid tent in his pants.

He pulled away, and Lynn looked up at him breathlessly, her heart quaking in her breast. A gentle breeze rustled his hair, and barely audible music scented the night with whispered promises.

"Try to stop my hands from shaking

But something in my mind's not making sense

It's been a while since we were all alone

But I can't hide the way I'm feeling"

He touched her cheek, and she smiled. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

He kissed her again, slower this time, with more affection, and Lynn lost herself in him, not realizing that they were both naked from the waist down until he was pressing against the sultry opening of her virginity, that they were making love until he filled her, his girth straining against her rippling walls, and pain tinged pleasure exploding in her skull. She cried out into his mouth and arched her back, taking him deeper. He thrusted, and her body was spread apart in the most beautiful agony she had ever know.

They moved together as the moon rode across the night sky, the constellations bearing witness to the consummation of their love, and the lonely hills ringing with the sound of their climax.

* * *

Jessy Loud put her headphones on, hit PLAY, and re-read the letter from her father: Like the letters from her mother, it was written on yellow legal paper and came in an envelope stamped with the name of a prison: Rockbed Federal Penitentiary, Rockbed, California.

In her last letter, Jessy asked him about his side of the family. She was curious to know if she had other cousins, uncles, or grandparents; if she did, she wanted to get to know them. Her grandfather, Dad said, died in the Korean War and his mother died in 1975. He had an older sister named Barbara who had three kids, two boys and a girl. "She won't speak to me because of what I did, but she would probably like to hear from you," he wrote.

Jessy didn't know if she should write to her aunt or not; she might not want anything to do with her either, and Jessys do NOT like rejection. Being rejected hurts.

Grabbing a wide hardback book from her nightstand, she balanced it on her lap, set a sheet of paper down, and started to respond to her father's letter. She was just finishing with the salutation when the bed dipped down. She looked up; Auntie Ronnie Anne was sitting on the edge. She fashed a tight smile as Jessy slipped the headphones off and sat them around her neck.

"Hi," Auntie Ronnie Anne said, "I, uh, I was hoping we could talk."

Jessy blinked. Did she do something wrong? She tried to think but couldn't remember anything. "Okay." She turned her music off.

Auntie Ronnie Anne drew a deep breath. "You're almost sixteen now..."

Alex, hitherto reading quietly in her bed, threw her head back. "Uh, not again."

Jessy looked from Auntie Ronnie Anne to Alex and back in confusion. What not again?

Auntie Ronnie Anne rubbed her knees. She looked nervous. "When your uncle Lincoln and I were that age...we were having sex."

Jessy's jaw dropped and her cheeks ignited in a hot mixture of embarrassment and revulsion. "O-Oh."

Auntie Ronnie Anne nodded. "We don't encourage you girls to...be like us, but we realize things happen, and we, uh, want you to be safe." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a slim box. She handed it to Jessy, and Jessy examined it. When she realized they were condoms, she gasped a little.

"If you need me to show you how to put one on...on a man..."

"That won't be necessary!"

Auntie Ronnie Anne nodded and got up. "Alright. I, uh, I love you, Jess."

"I-I love you too."

When she was gone, Jessy hid her face in her hands. Oh, my God, that was so embarrassing.

"Uh-huh," Alex said smugly, "wasn't very fun, now was it?"

"No, it wasn't," Jessy moaned.

Alex grinned evily. "I wonder how she'd show us to put one on. Like...would Dad get involved?"

Jessy shuddered. "Ew, shut up, Bunny!"

Alex laughed, even though it wasn't funny.

Sometimes she hated her brain.


	120. August 1986

**Lyrics to _Best of Both Worlds_ by Van Halen (1986); _Ten Seconds to Love_ by Motley Crue (1983); _Shake Me_ by Cinderella (1986); _Who Made Who_ by AC/DC (1986)**

Alex pulled to the curb and killed the engine, leaving the radio on. In the passenger seat, Jessy scanned the front of the terminal, her head moving back and forth as she looked for Lynn. "I don't see her."

"Because we're not that late, Jess," she said. Lynn's plane was scheduled to arrive at 3:15. It was 3:30. If the plane wasn't behind (aren't they always?), Lynn probably hadn't even gotten her baggage yet. Jessy was convinced that Lynn had already come out, saw they weren't here, and resorted to living broken hearted in a dumpster like a baseball loving raccoon. Jessys love to worry. Sometimes Alex thought being anxious turned her sister on or something. Oh, yes, Mark, fret to me, harder, faster, oh, oh, yes.

Alex shifted in her seat; she was getting kind of turned on. Yuck, what a weirdo. She clamped her thighs together and leaned back against the headrest. She wasn't stupid, she realized getting turned on was a normal part of life (she was a woman with a functioning reproductive system, after all), but sometimes it made her feel...well, dirty. Guys were supposed to be the ones really into sex and women are supposed to be kind of meh. That's how it was in all the movies and TV shows. When a woman was really into sex in one of those, she was a filthy slut, and Alex did NOT want to be a filthy slut.

But she also REALLY wanted to do her boyfriend.

Sigh.

"I should go look for her," Jessy said as a stream of people came through the doors and spread out.

Alex turned up the radio. "No, you shouldn't."

"Well, there's a picture in a gallery

Of a fallen angel looked a lot like you

We forget where we come from sometimes

I had a dream it was really you"

Alex nodded her head and tapped the wheel. A lotta people didn't like the new guy in Van Halen, but Alex thought he was alright. She wasn't head over heels for them, though. If she was maybe she'd feel differently, though when the first lead singer of AC/DC died and they replaced him with Brian Johnson, she was totally fine with it. It helped that he was just as cool as Bon, though in a different way. This Van Halen guy's voice wasn't annoying like the last one: It was fine for a song or two but after that...dude, shut up.

She glanced out the window. Come on, Lynn, we gotta go.

Tonight was a very special night: Mark and Tim were coming to dinner. Tim was nervous because he thought Dad was going to hang him from a meat hook and beat him with a tenderizing hammer (is that what it's called?). Mark was nonplussed, because he was Mark. Alex kind of wished Tim would take a few pages from his cousin's book and chill the hell out...though he WAS kind of cute when he worried.

Heh. Guess Jess isn't the ONLY one turned on by anxiety.

Alex shifted again. She was wet...her panties were damp and her thighs stuck together. What a pervert! God!

"There she is!"

Alex glanced over as Lynn came out of the terminal in a pair of red gym shorts and a white jersey with a red number 1 on the front. Her bag was slung over her shoulder and she looked around; she spotted the car, grinned, and started over.

"Told you you were worrying over nothing," Alex said. "You always do that. You're worse than Bobby was when Lola was having Darling Nikki."

Jessy's head whipped around. "Stop calling her that, Bunny, that song's dirty."

"Okay, Tipper Gore."

Jessy started to reply but Lynn cut her off by opening the back door and tossing her bag in. "I hate flying," she said and slid in, closing the door behind her. She leaned over the seat and ground her knuckles into the top of Jessy's head. "Hey, Jess."

Jessy cried out and threw her hands up.

Lynn turned to Alex next. Alex narrowed her eyes. "Don't you DARE."

Oh, but Lynn dared: She lunged forward and brought her fist up. Alex drew back her hand and slapped her cousin's arm.

"Ow!" Lynn yelled...then slapped her back.

"Ouch!" Alex lashed out and slapped her again.

"Y'ow! Stop hitting me!"

"Stop hitting ME!"

"Bitch."

"Skank."

"Hussy."

"What does that even mean?" Alex asked, lifting her hand, palm facing up. "Lola's sister says it all the time."

Lynn leaned back against the seat. "It's how you call a woman a bitch in the south."

Throwing the car into drive, Alex glanced at the rearview mirror. "Why not just call her a bitch?" Her arm stung from Lynn's blows but she wouldn't give her the satisfaction of rubbing it...even though she really wanted to.

Lynn shrugged. "I don't know. I think hussy's supposed to be more polite, but calling someone that's just as insulting, so..."

They were pulling onto the highway running along the airport's western edge. Alex reached for a tape, put it in, and turned up the volume: Blistering guitar pounded from the speakers, and Jessy rolled her eyes.

"I love this song," Lynn said, shouting to be heard over the music.

"Me too," Alex said over her shoulder, "it's my favorite song about premature ejaculation."

"Touch my gun

But don't pull my trigger

Let's make history

In the elevator

Or lock the door

Shine my pistol some more

Here I cum

Just ten seconds more"

Jessy's face crinkled. "You're gross, Bunny."

"Mark's gonna prematurely ejaculate when you guys have sex."

Lynn snickered and a look of horror crossed Jessy's face. "No! Ew!"

Alex nodded. "Yep." She gripped the wheel and thrusted her hips. "Oh, Jess, uhuhuhuhuh nngh."

In the back Lynn laughed out loud. "No!" Jessy cried.

"Reach down low

Slide it in real slow

I want to hear your engines roar

Before I'm in the door"

"She's gonna get pregnant off five seconds of unsatisfying sex," Lynn taunted.

"We're not having sex!"

Alex merged onto the interstate and looked at her sister: Her cheeks were so red Joe McCarthy wanted to put them in front of the HUAC. "So you're frigid."

Jessy ignored her.

"Come on," Alex prodded, "you don't ever get turned on?"

If it was possible, Jessy's blush deepened. She looked like a lobster with a ponytail. "Aww, she's embarrassed," Lynn said.

Alex passed a semi and swung into the right lane. "It's the most normal thing in the world," she said seriously as she turned down the music. "I get turned on all the time."

She shot Lynn a dirty look in the mirror when she chuckled. "Shut up. You do too and don't say you don't."

Lynn held up her hand. I plead the fifth.

In the passenger seat, Jessy crossed her arms and gazed at the suburbs flashing by outside the window. "Sometimes. But we've only been dating three months. You don't sleep with a guy after three months."

Well...Alex couldn't argue that. She and Tim had been together...what, like six years? And they hadn't slept together. If what her body was telling her, though, that time was drawing nigh.

In the back Lynn hummed thoughtfully. "I, uh...I slept with Ritchie."

Alex and Jessy both whipped around, startling Lynn a little. "What?"

"How was it?" Alex asked; Jessy didn't speak, but Lynn could see the same question in her green eyes.

"It was really good," Lynn said with a lopsided grin, "it kind of hurt a little at first, but not too bad."

Jessy's mouth hung open. Alex turned back to the road and didn't say anything for a moment. "Hm. Did you use a condom?"

"No."

Jessy gasped. "Lynn!"

"He pulled out," Lynn said defensively. "You don't even need a condom really just as long as he doesn't finish in you."

Jessy shook her head and faced forward again.

"Jessy would have to use a condom," Alex said, "because Mark will cum so quick."

"One and done," Lynn said.

Jessy sighed.

In Royal Woods, Alex turned onto River Road and followed it to Auntie Lori's street. "You wanna meet Lola and the baby, right?" she asked.

"Not at all," Lynn said sarcastically.

"Bitch."

"Hussy."

"Dead head jock."

"Virgin."

Alex tossed Lynn a lethal glance, and Lynn smirked. "You're probably pregnant," Alex said.

"Nope."

"With octuplets. And they're all going to hate baseball."

Lynn winced. "That's low, Bunny."

At Auntie Lori's house, Alex cut the engine. "Alright, girls, let's go see our cousin." She got out and slammed the door as Lynn and Jessy followed, Lynn stretching. "My ass is killing me."

At the door, they gathered around and Alex knocked. A few seconds later, it opened and Bobby Jr. appeared in dress slacks and a pink Izod. "Hey," he said happily, "and you brought Lynn with you. Still think you're a baseball player?" He slapped his palm against the top of Lynn's head and mussed her hair.

She pulled away. "Still think I won't kick you in the nuts?"

"Go ahead. That's assault and if do it you're going to wind up in a cell with a handsy three hundred pound lesbian named Big Bertha. See how big and tough you are then."

Alex shoved past him. "Go away, we're here for Lola and Nikki, not you."

Bobby threw up his arm and stood aside. Lynn made sure to step on his pretty white shoe as she passed. "You guys are dicks," he said as he closed the door.

Lola was sitting on the couch with Stephanie in her arms and her head lolling against her shoulder. Mother and daughter were both asleep, Stephanie swaddled in a pink blanket and Lola in a pink bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers. On TV, General Hospital played unwatched.

Lynn knew full well that Bobby was married to Lola - the pop singer that Lynn hadn't heard of before but made a point to seek out after she became family - but seeing someone you knew from television and the radio in real life, just...sitting there and sawing logs with a ribbon of drool coursing down the corner of their mouth, is pretty goddamn surreal.

"She looks tired," Jessy said, "we shouldn't wake her."

Stephanie stirred at the sound of Jessy's voice and started to gurgle. Lola's brow pinched and she shifted her butt. Alex reached out and poked Lola's face, and the singer's eyes creaked open to slits. "What do you want?" she muttered.

"To see my cousins," Alex said. "And to introduce you to Lynn."

Lola blinked and sat up. She looked around, saw Lynn, and squinted her tired eyes. "Hi," Lynn said.

"Hi," Lola said, her voice still thick with sleep. She lifted one arm, and Lynn had no choice but to give her an awkward hug. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"You too."

Jessy held out her hands and smiled broadly. Lola passed her the baby and scratched her head. "That little girl kept us up ALL night."

As if on cue, Bobby came in from the kitchen and handed her a cup of coffee. He took a sip from his own. "All. Night. Soon as the sun goes down..."

"Ping," Lola finished, "wide awake."

"Baby Nikki's a night owl," Alex cooed and tickled her cousin's chin. "Just like Bunny."

Jessy nodded long sufferingly. During the summer and on spring break when she didn't have to keep normal hours, Alex was up all night and slept most of the day. Jessy would wake up at five in the morning to find Alex buzzing around like a toddler high on caffeine. Oh, and then there were the pranks: The old shaving cream in the hand routine, the old hand in warm water routine - once she drew a mustache on Jessy's upper lip with a marker and she ALMOST left the house like that. But it was okay, because during the day, Jessy got her revenge.

"She needs to get with the program," Lola said, "Mommy and Daddy are NOT night owls."

Alex reached out for the baby, but Jessy brushed past her. "Lynn first."

Lynn looked at the bundle with a rush of apprehension. "Uh...how do I do it? I've never held a baby before."

"Cradle her head," Alex said. "Here...hold your arms out." Lynn did, and Alex moved them into position as though Lynn were a mannequin. Jessy laid the baby in Lynn's arms, and stepped away.

Stephanie's eyelids opened, and Lynn's heart stopped: They were the biggest, most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, murky brown and inquisitive. Her little brow clinched and her head tilted slightly to one side. Who are YOU? she seemed to ask. Lynn broke out in a goofy smile. "Hi," she said, "I'm your cousin Lynn and we're gonna play lots of baseball together."

Stephanie squirmed and let out a breathy sigh that made Lynn giggle. "She's beautiful," she said to Lola.

"Thank you," Lola said.

"My turn," Alex said.

Lynn snorted and turned away.

"Hand her over, Lynn."

"Get lost, hussy."

Lola laughed and Alex fumed. "Fine, five more minutes."

Yeah, five minutes turned into twenty-five minutes.

Hey, time flies when you're in love.

* * *

"Luan?"

Luan took a step back and peered through the window into the kitchen: Fred held the ticket she'd just put in, his brows scrunched in confusion. He tapped it. "This says a burger with sauerkraut...do they want sauerkraut on it or on the side?"

"On it," Luan said.

Fred's face crinkled. "Christ."

Luan puckered her lips in her own expression of disgust and nodded. "I know."

Sighing, Fred shook his head and turned to the grill. Luan shoved the order pad into the pocket of her waist apron and looked around: All of her tables were taken care of, and that wasn't many: It was getting late and the dining room was next to empty. Lincoln sat by the register filling out paperwork to renew his business licence, Amanda, the other waitress on duty, was sweeping, and a kid played Pac-Man. She leaned against the counter and quickly counted her tips. 31.50. Not bad, but not good for a Saturday.

"Tim and Mark are coming to dinner tonight," Lincoln said without looking up.

"Don't be TOO hard on them, Linc," she teased.

"Eh, I'm not going to be hard on them. Alex says I make Tim nervous, though, so I'm thinking of messing with him. Tell him we're going to have a duel in the backyard: If he shoots me, he can keep dating Alex, if I shoot him...well..."

Luan laughed. "You're bad."

He sat his pen down and leaned back. "This paperwork is a pain in the ass." He glanced at the clock, bobbed his head in thought, then got up. "Hey, Sarge," he called through the window, "you alright if I take off?"

Fred held up his thumb. Lincoln turned, picked up the papers from the counter, and shoved them into a folder. "Another day in the books," he said. "You can go when you want."

"I'll stay a little longer."

"Alright." Lincoln drew her into a one armed hug and patted her back. He almost got in trouble for hugging Luan on the job once: Someone who worked with Ronnie Anne saw and went back to her with it. "He's really chummy with that waitress with the reddish hair."

"Luan?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"Yeah, that's her name."

"Well, that's his sister so..."

"Tell Mom and Dad we'll be over tomorrow."

"Okay."

After Lincoln left, Luan wiped down the counter and swept behind it, then picked up dishes from one of her tables and brought them back to the sink; Fred sent the new dishwasher Ricky home and was covering since no orders were coming in. Amanda left fifteen minutes before close, and the last table cleared out five minutes later: Luan took the dishes back, wiped it down, and did a quick check of the bathrooms, where she took off her underwear and put them into her apron, then locked the front door on her way to the kitchen.

Fred was wiping the sink dry when she came in and sat on the prep table, her legs dangling over the side. She took out her tips and counted them again. 34.79 now after the last few tables. Hm. That was better but still not great.

"Everything done?" Fred asked as he took off his apron, went over to the rack by the door, and hung it up.

"Umhm," Luan said and put her money back into her apron. She looked up and smiled as Fred approached; she wrapped her legs around his waist and he kissed her deeply, his body pressing against hers and his bulge raking across her feverish center. She purred into his mouth as he fumbled with his belt: He got it, and his pants dropped to his ankles. Luan leaned back and braced her arms against the table; he thrusted and speared her core, making her cry out.

Human brings need love and affection as surely as plants need water and sunlight...and sometimes, in the lonely dark of a cold night, they cling to someone with whom they are not IN love. Some people believe in waiting through the seasons for someone to fall in love with, but when you're alone and crave human contact - a touch, a kiss - that wait is intolerable. You would not expect a man starving in body to wait, so why expect a man or a woman starving in heart, in spirit, to wait? Cannot one revel in the warmth of a soft touch, in the fleeting brush of earnest lips, without rushing to the altar? Can't two people share tender intimacy with one another and not be in that curious thing called love?

Fred kissed the side of Luan's neck, and Luan ran her fingers through his hair, her heels biting into the backs of his legs. He thrusted again, and Luan gasped, her body arching forward. His lips touched her cheek, the corner of her mouth, his breath puffing hotly against her skin and making it tingle. She drew herself closer, and they kissed again, his hands plunging into her hair and his body melding with hers. She began to tremble as her climax formed deep inside of her. She dug her nails into his back and rocked her hips against his, a series of grunts passing from her mouth to his and back again. Searing heat welled up in her stomach, and she spread her legs wide. Moments later, he yanked out and shot his load across the front of her dress: It was warm and heavy through the fabric, burning against her flushed skin.

They took a minute to catch their breaths, then Fred pulled up his pants and Luan sat up. "I'm doing laundry every night now," she said.

"I can keep it in," Fred suggested.

Luan laughed and shook her head. "No. That's quite alright."

He leaned forward and pecked her tenderly on the cheek. "I'm an old man, my spunk probably doesn't even work anymore."

"Is that a risk you're willing to take?" she asked as he pulled her underwear back on and stood.

"No."

She laughed and patted him on the chest. "Alright then."

Outside, Fred locked the door and dropped the key into his pocket. "See you tomorrow."

"Bye."

He went to his car, and she to hers; they both went home and went on with their lives.

* * *

Lincoln sat in his armchair and scanned the paper while the NBC Nightly News with Tom Brokaw played in the background: Someone shot up a post office by the sound of it then turned the gun on themselves. Hm. Why not just do that in the first place instead of taking people with you?

Lincoln adjusted his reading glasses; damn things pinched the bridge of his nose. He only wore them when he was doing serious reading...not when he was skimming the ingredients of the potpourri spray while taking a shit or anything. Ronnie Anne had reading glasses too but she refused to wear them. Oh well. She was the one who was going to be blinder than Stevie Wonder in twenty years, not him.

When a knock sounded at the door, he glanced over at the couch where Lynn, Alex, and Jessy sat, three pretty maids in a row (wasn't that the name of a movie? Or was it a nursery rhyme?). Alex grinned in that nearly imperceptible way of hers, and Jessy's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Alex got up and crossed the living room.

She was actually kind of surprised Tim agreed to do this without her literally twisting his arm. She did have to threaten him a little, though. Dinner, my house, Saturday night...or I'll never touch your penis again. For a minute there, she thought she overplayed her hand and he was going to walk, but he must have decided it would be easier to do what she wanted than to break in a new penis-toucher.

She opened the door: Tim and Mark stood on the step. Tim wore a nice plaid short sleeved button up tucked into kaki dress pants. His hair was neatly combed. Jesus, what a dork. Mark was even worse: He was clad in a black three piece suit with a black tie and a white undershirt. "You look like an undertaker," she said, then turned to Tim, "and you look like an undertaker's nerdy cousin."

"We wanted to look nice," Tim said defensively, then nodded to Mark, "he went a little overboard."

"I wanted to make a good first impression," Mark said.

Alex snorted and shook her head as she stepped aside. Mark came in first and Tim followed, his lips tightening nervously. Jessy jumped up and smiled. "Hi."

"Hey," Mark said and went over. Jessy clasped her hands behind her back and dipped her shoulders left and right, her eyes lingering on Mark's.

Remembering herself, she turned to Lincoln, who watched quizzically from his chair. Aren't you going to introduce me? "Uncle Lincoln, this is Mark. Mark, this is my uncle Lincoln."

Mark nodded and shook Lincoln's hand. "I like your suit," Lincoln said.

"Thank you. It's almost unbearably hot."

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Take your jacket off."

"I can't, I'll look silly."

Alex and Tim exchanged a glance. Tim stepped forward. "Hi, Mr. Loud."

"Hi, Tim, it's good to see you again."

"Thank you, sir, you too, sir."

Alex rolled her eyes. Kissass.

Jessy introduced Mark to Lynn and they shook. "You're crushing my hand," Mark said emotionlessly.

"I know," Lynn replied.

She let him go and did the same to Tim, who winced. "That's my cousin Lynn," Alex said, "she's an as - butthole."

Lynn stuck her tongue out.

The kids sat on the couch and Lincoln went back to scanning the paper, or pretending to. He wasn't joking when he told Luan he wanted to mess with Tim, he kind of did. What could he do that wasn't TOO harsh? Ask him if he wanted to see his gun? Pretend to have a major Vietnam flashback? He grinned at the image of him screaming into the remote for air support while Tim looked on in horror. Christ, Linc, you're sick, you know that?

Yeah. He did. At least he didn't joke about it as much. Dr. Jenner really whipped him into shape: Now whole weeks passed in which he didn't think once about...well, you know.

He laid the paper on his chest and focused on the TV where Brokaw was talking about Reagan and Gorbachev. Gorby, as he was affectionately known by American communists, was the new king turd of shit mountain AKA the USSR. What the hell was that thing on his forehead, a bruise? He and Ron must have gotten into a lover's quarrel. No, Gipper, I want to be on top.

In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne dropped a pan and cussed. "You okay?" he called.

"Fine," she replied.

On TV, the segment ended and Brokaw regarded the audience with the expression of a man who was constipated. "New York has a new governor tonight following a special election to replace disgraced former governor Merriman who resigned amidst allegations he took bribes and gave state contracs to mob affiliated construction firms." A picture appeared above Brokaw's left shoulder: A black man with glasses and a thin pencil line mustache.

Lincoln knew his face instantly.

"Republican Clyde McBride, who served as a naval helicopter pilot during the war in Vietnam and received the Navy Cross for valor during the evacuation of Saigon, defeated Democrat Charles Stewart to become New York's first African American head of state."

"Holy shit," Lincoln said and sat forward. "Honey! Come here!"

"I'm kind of busy!"

"Now!"

On TV, footage played of Clyde standing behind a podium at campaign headquarters and addressing a crowd. "The people of New York have spoken," he said, "and they have said no to big government, no to tax increases, and no to job killing, anti business policies."

Ronnie Anne came in and wiped her hands on a dish towel. "What?"

Lincoln nodded at the TV. "Guess who's governor of New York now."

She turned, and her jaw dropped. "Is that...?"

"McBride describes himself as a Reagan conservative," Brokaw said. "He will be sworn in at a special ceremony next week."

"Holy fuck."

Everyone looked at her. "What?" Alex asked, genuinely concerned: Her mother cussed, but rarely did she ever use fuck.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Looks like I should have married HIM. I'd be a first lady right now."

Lincoln slapped his knee and laughed. "Lady."

She came over and slapped his arm...then kissed him. "But I'm glad I didn't; I'll take a lame-o-in-chief over a commander-in-chief ANY DAY."

Alex rolled her eyes. Whatever.

Later, at the table, Lincoln twirled his fork in his spaghetti and looked at the boys across from him, Mark next to Jessy and Tim next to Alex. Tim looked uncomfortable and moved with the exaggerated awareness of a very self conscious man. Mark, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home; he ate with gusto and chatted easily with Jessy. Hm. Why wasn't this guy afraid of him too?

"So, Tim," Lincoln said without looking up from his plate, "have you decided what you're doing after you graduate?"

"Yes, sir," Tim said, "I'm gonna work in my dad's shop. I think I might also go to school for automotive engineering."

Lincoln nodded and hummed appreciatively. At seventeen, Tim Underwood knew what he wanted to do with his life. At seventeen, Lincoln Loud did not. "Mark?"

"Computer programming," Mark said instantly.

Lincoln swallowed a mouthful of noodles. "Are you going to work for the government?"

"Uh, it's a possibility, but I'd rather work for a private company like Apple. The pay is better and the workload isn't quite as demanding."

Mark DuChamp knew what he wanted to do as well. Impressive. Lincoln turned to Lynn, who sat next to him. "What about you?"

Lynn looked at him with an expression that told him she wasn't expecting to be grilled too. "I don't know. I'll probably work at the dealership."

Lincoln nodded. "That's not a bad plan. Your father makes good money, right?"

"Yeah," Lynn nodded, "pretty good. He said he wants to pass it on to me one day and the idea doesn't exactly make me we - excited, but I can do it."

Jessy's arm moved slightly and so did Mark's. Lincoln assumed they were holding hands under the table. Poor Tim could hardly bring himself to even look at Alex, almost as if he were afraid Lincoln would rip his head off if he did. Lincoln couldn't help but wonder how he would have reacted had Ronnie Anne's father been in the picture. Would he have been that nervous? Probably. Dads can be pretty intimidating. Hey...inTimidating. Hahahaha. I gotta tell that one to Luan.

"Running Flip's didn't exactly make me jump for joy either, but it's a living. The bad thing about business ownership is how much of your time it takes."

Lynn nodded. "Yeah, Dad does work a lot."

"But that's how you get ahead in life. You think most millionaires are born? Nope, they get that way through blood, sweat, and tears."

After dinner, the party adjourned to the living room, where Alex hooked up the Nintendo. She shoved a controller into Tim's hands and sat between him and Lynn. "Alright, you're Luigi and I'm Mario."

Tim made a sound of disgust. "I don't wanna be Luigi. Luigi sucks."

"Too bad," Alex said.

"Switch me controllers."

"No. My house, my Nintendo, you're Luigi."

"Actually," Lincoln said and got up. "It's MY Nintendo." He squeezed in between her daughter and her boyfriend and plucked the controller from Alex's hands. "Hey!"

Tim was stiff. Oh, God he's sitting next to me! Lincoln chuckled softly and nudged the kid in the ribs. "You and me, Tim. You still have to be Luigi, though."

"That's fine, I was just playing. Luigi's okay."

"No he's not," Lincoln said, "Luigi sucks."

Lincoln did not have much experience at playing Super Mario Bros; when he bought the Nintendo for Alex's last birthday, she ditched the Atari and he and Ronnie Anne put it in their room, where they occasionally played it. He was pretty good, though...at least until it came to the underwater level. It got him every time. Tim breezed through it.

"You're pretty good," Lincoln said.

"The trick is don't stop. The moment you stop is the moment you'll always regret."

Lincoln handed the controller to Alex and watched as she and Tim went back and forth, trading taunts and insults because, as far as Lincoln knew, that's how love worked. Well...Jessy and Mark weren't insulting each other. Eh, different strokes for different folks.

When it came time for the boys to leave, Lincoln shook hands with both of them, then clapped Tim on the shoulder. Tim swallowed hard. Lincoln leaned close to his ear. "Stop being so nervous. I like you...for now."

Tim nodded jerkily. "Yes, sir."

After they were gone, Lincoln dropped into his chair and crossed his legs. "Our girls are both with a couple of weirdos."

Ronnie Anne snorted from the couch. "You know what they say, lame-o; girls marry men like their father."

Lincoln hummed. "Neither one of them is a sexy, successful war hero, though."

Ronnie Anne laughed so hard she nearly pissed herself.

* * *

"We should wake her up," Lynn said. It was the next morning and she and Jessy were sitting on the couch with bowls of cereal. Lincoln was at work and Ronnie Anne was running errands.

Jessy, dressed in jean shorts and a white T-shirt with FRANKIE SAYS RELAX across the front (Alex bought it for her as a joke...you know, because 'you need to chill out, Jess') drew her legs under her. "It won't do any good. She'll just keep sleeping."

Lynn finished her cereal and turned to her cousin, a mischievous light in her eyes. "Is that a challenge?"

Jessy shrugged. "If you think you can do it."

A savage grin ran across Lynn's face. "Let's go."

Alex was on her stomach in a tangle of bedclothes, her face buried in the pillow and her body arrow straight: She was still dressed in the jeans and black T-shirt she wore the day before. Lynn and Jessy watched her from the doorway, Lynn's arms crossed and her lips scrunched to the side in thought. "What time did she go to bed?"

"Like, six, I think."

On the bed, Alex snorted.

Hmmm. What could Lynn do? An idea came to her, and she went over to the bed, where she knelt and shook Alex's shoulder. "Hey...wake up...Tim's here."

Alex snorted, stirred, and muttered in her sleep. Lynn looked at Jessy, who smiled and shook her head. "He's at the door," Lynn said, "he says he has something hard and hot to give you."

"Tell him go way," Alex murmured sleepily.

Lynn threw her fist against her mouth to stifle a laugh; she had a GREAT idea. She motioned Jessy over. "Rub her shoulder," Lynn whispered. Jessy's brow furrowed, but she did as she did as she was told, sitting on the edge of the bed and massaging Alex's shoulder.

"No, Tim," Lynn snickered, "she said go away."

"Lemme lone."

"Tim! Put your dick away!"

Alex pushed herself up and looked over her shoulder, her eyes drooping. "What are you doing?"

"Waking you up," Jessy said.

"Well stop." She threw her face against the pillow, and Jessy and Lynn looked at each other. Jessy shrugged. Told you so. Lynn shook her head and glanced up at the posters on the wall. Motley Crue, Quiet Riot, Cinderella, Ratt...guys with big hair, make up, and leather clothes.

"Those dudes look gay," she said.

Alex didn't reply.

Lynn got up. "You like guys who look like girls?"

Nothing.

Alright, no more mister nice guy. Lynn grabbed Alex's wrist and yanked: She tumbled out of bed with a scream and landed in a heap on the floor.

Lynn and Jessy both laughed.

"What the fuck?" Alex cried and sat up, her face flushed with anger.

"I'm bored," Lynn said, "let's do something."

Alex's nostrils flared. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon," Jessy said.

"That early?"

"Early," Lynn snorted. "I've been up since sunrise. Meanwhile YOU'RE laying around like a lazy skank."

"Eat me," Alex said sullenly.

Lynn laughed. "That's Tim's job."

Sighing, Alex got to her feet. "Fine, what do you wanna do?"

Lynn shrugged. "I dunno. Cruise. Go to the river. See Grandma and Grandpa. Something instead of sitting around the house all day."

"Let me shower and wake up first," Alex said.

Forty-five minutes later, Lynn sat on the couch next to her grandmother, Russel's paws on her breasts and his tongue excitedly licking her chin. "Take it easy!" she laughed and rubbed the dog's flanks.

"He's very happy to see you," Grandma said, "every time you visit and go home he gets so depressed."

Lynn scratched his head. "I miss you too, boy."

Alex sat by the armrest with her head bowed. "You look hungover," Grandpa said with a wink.

"I was asleep," she said.

"Alex stays up all night," Jessy explained. She sat next to Lynn and petted Russel's back.

"That isn't healthy, dear," Grandma said, "you need a full nights' rest. Not a full days' rest."

Alex moaned.

When they left, Lynn insisted on driving and Alex let her because operating a motor vehicle was the last thing she wanted to do right now. She sat in the passenger seat and rubbed her aching head as Lynn pulled away from the curb. "Any good places to drive off road?" Lynn asked. She fiddled with the radio, hitting the PLAY button. Guitar, drum...and was that cowbell? Eh, it sounded good, and Lynn's foot unconsciously pressed on the pedal.

"Not really," Alex said. Even with all the windows down and the wind blowing it was hot. "This is a station wagon, Lynn, not a hot rod."

"Anything's a hot rod if you're brave enough," Lynn shouted.

"Screamed and scratched and rolled out of the bed

I never really got her out of my head

And now and then she makes those social calls

Gives me a squeeze, gets me kickin' the walls"

Lynn bobbed her head as she turned onto Main Street at random. She REALLY wanted to open this baby up. Next to her, Alex came alive as the music flowed through her. Ahhh, that's better. She felt human now. She rested her arm on the door and watched the shops and businesses lining the sidewalk. "Can you turn it down?" Jessy asked from the back. "You're giving me a headache."

Lynn turned it louder.

"Now let me tell ya, it still feels tight

And we were shakin' after every bite

I feel her comin' in the middle of the night

Screamin' higher"

Jessy sighed and sat back against the seat.

"Shake me, all night, she said

Shake me, shake it, don't break it, baby

Shake me, all night, she said

Shake me, oh yeah"

They pulled to a stop at a traffic light, and Lynn caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. She turned to see a battered convertible with the top down. Four guys were inside, the passenger grinning lewdly at her: He wore a white T-shirt under a denim jacket and his black hair was puffy and permed. He looked like a creep.

She turned down the radio and he nodded. "I'll shake you all night, baby."

Alex leaned forward, her brow pinching.

"Pfft."

"Biggest dick in three counties." His friends laughed.

"Get bent, creep," Alex said.

"Come on," he said, "I'll make you cum so hard you'll see Jesus."

Lynn snorted. "Like you make your buddies cum?"

He leaned forward. "I wasn't talking to you, honey. You couldn't handle this."

Alex and Lynn both laughed richly. Jessy looked away and held up her hand to shield her face; her heart was racing and she wanted no part of this.

The guy's face darkened. "Stop laughing at me."

Lynn bowed her head over the wheel and Alex slapped her own knee.

"Fuck you bitches. Bunch of fucking dykes."

The light changed and the convertible peeled off, its shrieking tires sounding like a challenge to Lynn. She punched the gas and the station wagon surged forward. The current song ended and a new one started. AC/DC by the sound of it. Lynn smiled and turned the volume up as high as it would go.

"What are you doing?" Alex asked. The needle was creeping past forty and they were pulling abreast of the convertible.

"The video game says "play me"

Face it on a level but it takes you every time on a one on one

Feeling running down your spine

Nothing gonna save your one last dime 'cause it own you

Through and through"

The creepy passenger guy glanced over and did a double take, a frown crossing his lips. "Wanna race, no dick?" Lynn asked.

"Lynn! No!" Jessy cried. "That's dangerous!"

The driver looked at her, then pushed the pedal down. The car zoomed ahead, but Lynn hit the gas and kept pace, pausing when she came to a lame-o car doing the speed limit. She gritted her teeth as the convertible pulled far ahead.

"Uh, Lynn?" Alex asked, "maybe we shouldn't."

Lynn spun the wheel and swung into the left lane; she accelerated and Jessy yelled. The convertible was coming up fast, and Lynn swung back into the right lane. No carload of creepy, nasty, skuzzy metalheads (no offense, Alex) was going to beat Lynn Loud the motherfucking third at a race.

"Yeah, satellites send me picture

Get it in the eye, take it to the wire

Spinning like a dynamo

Feel it going round and round

Running out of chips, you got no line in an eight bit town

So don't look down, no"

The creepy passenger guy's face appeared in the mirror, and he paled. That's right, ass munch, we're gaining. Alex held onto the hand hold and licked her lips nervously; in the back, Jessy was teaching herself how to pray.

Ahead, the light changed from yellow to red, but the convertible showed no signs of stopping. Shit, if they made it through, she'd be stuck and they'd win.

Lynn gunned the engine.

"Don't run the red light!" Alex screamed.

"Please stop!" Jessy wailed.

The convertible kept going, even as a big truck with wooden sides pulled into the intersection. Lynn's heart clutched. Oh, fuck, they're gonna wreck.

The convertible braked hard, the back end fish tailing. It spun and the side connected with the side of the truck. The wooden rails gave way, and a tidal wave of warm, brown manure crashed down onto the car. Lynn's jaw dropped and Alex gasped. "Oh, shit."

"Literally," Lynn said, and they both laughed.

The light changed, and as they passed, Lynn stuck her head out the window: The creeps were digging themselves out while the driver of the truck looked on. Passenger guy looked up, and their eyes locked. "I knew you were shit," Lynn said, "but wow."

As they drove off, he picked up a clump of dung and hurled it at them. He missed...but if it was any consolation, he DID hit a cop car just as it pulled up.

Uh-oh.

* * *

On his way home from Flip's that day, Lincoln stopped at the cemetery and sat between Leni and Luna's headstones, one knee drawn up and his arm resting atop it. This position made his back ache. Must be getting old. Still no streaks of black or brown in his hair, though; guess it's not going in reverse. Damn, and I wanted to see what I looked like with color on my head.

In the west, the sun sat low on the horizon, its feeble rays spreading across the rooftops of Royal Woods and bathing the trees in golden glow.

"Jessy has a boyfriend now," he said as he stared into the coming dusk. "Kind of a weird guy. Goofy weird, not serial killer weird. She really likes him. You know, face lights up every time she talks about him, that kind of thing." He chuckled sardonically. "Our girls are growing up. Alex is graduating next year, then Jessy, Alex drives, Jessy has her learners..." he shook his head. "I'm kind of not ready for it. I miss them being little." Memories washed over him: Alex and Jessy sitting in his lap as he read to them, Alex and Jessy jumping on the bed to wake him and Ronnie Anne up, Alex's first day of school, Jessy's, skinned knees, kisses, hide and seek, a million precious moments that formed no longer his present, but his past. They were both practically adults now, not his little girls.

He blinked the accumulating tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. "That's life, though. Letting go is hard, but sometimes you have to. Hell, eating maggots was pretty goddamn hard too, but it was either that or starve, and I wasn't going to starve." He paused. "I was going to come home...because I wanted this." He smiled at the mental image of his girls, all three of them. Yes. That's what he wanted...and if it took shooting people and eating maggots to get it, oh well. He was over it; he had more important things to worry about...like teenagers.

He sighed and got up. "I love you guys. I'll be back soon." He kissed his palm and laid it on Luna's headstone, then Leni's. "I'll bring the girls next time, okay?"

He walked off into the gathering gloom, and two grave markers silently watched him go.

* * *

Monday evening, Luan locked the door, pulled her apron off, and crossed to the rack behind the counter, where she hung it up. She leaned next to the register, her elbows planted on the countertop, and counted her tips. 28.45. She needed to get gas for her car (a '78 Chevy Lincoln bought her...against her wishes) and groceries for the house. The latter could wait until tomorrow, the former could not.

She was just putting her money away when Fred put his arms around her shoulders from behind and drew her to him. She stood up straight and leaned back into his embrace, a satisfied smile playing across her lips. Luan was ashamed of herself the first time she slept with Fred, because she knew that she did not love him and that he did not love her, but she had to be honest with herself: She was a woman with needs. It had been sixteen years since she was made love to, and while she was not a sexual creature, that was a long time. Moreover, it had been sixteen years since she'd been touched or held, sixteen years since she touched or held someone else; she had love to give, and if she didn't get it out, it would back up into her system like poison. You don't have to love somebody in order to love them, right?

Sometimes, a woman needs the gentle strength of a man, and a man needs the tender softness of a woman. You might call it wrong, but being in his arms felt pretty damn good to her, even if neither planned to shackle the other with a wedding band.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," she replied.

He squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head. "I was wondering...and I know it's a lot to ask...but I was wondering if you'd spend the night with me. I...I don't want to be alone."

Luan started to protest but stopped, the earnest hitch in his voice touching her. She didn't know him very well, but she sensed something in his past...something that bothered him...the way something in her past bothered her. She wondered if he had nightmares too, and if sometimes being all alone in the dark scared him like it did her.

She thought for a few moments. "You don't have to," he said.

No, she didn't...but she didn't want to be alone tonight either.

"Alright," she said, "just let me call my parents."

"Thank you," he said.

Luan turned and kissed his cheek, then went over to the phone and called home, just a hint of shame creeping into her. When Mom answered, she took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Hey, it's me...would it be okay if I stayed the night with a friend?"

Mom missed a beat. "Of course. You're a forty-three-year-old woman, you don't have to ask my permission."

Well, she felt like she did...especially when she was leaving her aged parents alone to go sleep with some guy.

Putting it that starkly almost made Luan change her mind.

"You and Dad will be okay?"

"We're fine, honey."

Luan nodded. "Alright."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

For a moment Mom didn't say anything more, then: "Be careful."

Click.

Luan hung up the phone and sighed. She was ashamed of herself, but when Fred put his hands on her hips, that feeling lessened.

It wasn't love, but that night as they coupled, Luan on top and bending over to kiss him, her fingers threaded through his and their hips rocking in time, and later, as they held each other, it didn't have to be.


	121. June 1987: Part 1

**I've been sick the past couple days...as in 'barely conscious oh my God is this Captain Trips?' sick. It's miserable.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** ** _Head to Toe_** **by Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam (1987);** ** _Lock Me Up_** **by Alice Cooper (1987);** ** _Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now_** **by Starship (1987)**

Alex Loud threw her bag onto the bed and rummaged through it. Undies? Check. Swim suit? Yup. Three changes of clothes? Uh...yeah, three shirts, three pairs of shorts...two pairs of socks. Oh no, that won't do. She went over to her dresser and opened the top drawer. She scanned the contents, grabbed a pair of socks, then started to close it again but stopped when her eyes fell on a familiar box. Oh, yeah, we're gonna need these; I am NOT coming home from this camping trip still a virgin. She took her socks and her rain coats to the bed and jammed them in. Is that everything? She thought so.

"I'm really sorry, Jess, I tried," she said as she zipped it up.

"That's okay," Jessy said, seemingly unperturbed: She was sitting cross legged on her bed and writing a letter to her aunt Barbara; her ponytail was flopped limply over her shoulder and her head was bent. She could play it cool all she wanted, but Alex knew she was bummed that Mom and Dad wouldn't let her go. See, the idea, when Tim brought it up, was for him and her and Jessy and Mark to all go together: His father recently bought a parcel of land on a mountain lake in the Upper Peninsula (us Michiganders call it the UP, you non Michigan assholes have to use its Christian name). He planned to build a cabin on it at some point, but for now it was a grassy field surrounded by forest (and the lake, of course), and Tim thought it'd be fun to camp there for a few days. Alex's lame-o parents, on the other hand, did not. Alex was eighteen now and out of school (holy shit, finally), so they didn't mind her going, but Jessy?

I'm not comfortable letting my sixteen-year-old niece go camping in the woods with her boyfriend, Dad said. It's not that I don't trust you it's just that I'm a white haired dork and I'm like the town in Footloose: I hate it when people have fun.

He was worried about Jessy and Mark having sex, of course. Should he be? Eh...maaaaybe. Alex couldn't say: It's Michigan, the nights get cold even in the summer...and what better way to stay warm than to snuggle up in a sleeping bag with the guy you like...completely naked? If you asked Alex, Jessy wasn't quite ready for the S word and if she went there would be no bumping and grinding. Then again, she didn't know what was going on in her sister's head (or oh God her pants): She might surprise her and pounce Mark like a hungry lioness. Rawr.

So...maybe Mom and Dad were technically justified in their discomfort...but they were still lame. Hell, Mom gave them both condoms, but suddenly the idea of Jessy using them made them squeamish? Plus, if Jessy and Mark REALLY wanted to do it, they had ample opportunity. Jessy had her licence and a new car (well, it was a new-to-Jessy car: a 1981 Volkswagen Beetle...little and cute, just like her) and they went places together, so what was to stop them from going to Sexville? You don't need a whole weekend alone, you know: A half an hour, maybe less...that's all it would take.

Sigh. Parents just don't make any sense sometimes.

Presently, Alex sighed and sat on the bed. "I know you're upset, and I feel bad."

Jessy nodded. "I'm disappointed, but it's not the end of the world. I'm seeing Mark tomorrow, so...I'm happy."

Since Jessy wasn't going on the trip, Mark wasn't either, so it was going to be just her and Tim...which she really couldn't complain about.

"Yeah, still."

Alex was looking forward to her being there because everything's better when you add a Jessy to it.

Well...almost everything.

Jessy looked up from her letter. "I'm really not that worried about it, you shouldn't be either."

"Alright," Alex said and got up.

"Good," Jessy said.

Alex carried her bag into the living room and sat it by the front door. Mom and Dad were both at work; she said goodbye to them last night because come on, she wasn't getting up at the butt crack of dawn; those days were over.

Until she started working. Bleh.

And it would probably be at Flip's. At least to start with.

It was kind of scary; she was eighteen and had no idea what she wanted to do. Nothing really grabbed her by the tits. Doctor? Lawyer? Policewoman? Yuck, gross, and no. What if she wound up NEVER figuring it out? She'd be sixty and still working for her father. Probably living with him too. There goes Alex Loud, she's a spinster. Poor bitch hasn't gotten laid in ninety years.

Everyone else knew what they wanted to do: Mark, Jessy, Tim. Even her friend Meagan (she was taking a course to become a CNA, a certified nursing assistant or something). Ole Bunny, on the other hand, didn't know her own butt from a hole in the ground. Ho hum.

In the room, she did one final sweep to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Nope. She had it all.

"Is Tim picking you up?" Jessy asked.

"Nope," Alex said, "I'm driving. Pfft, you think I'm going way out in the boonies in someone else's car? Nuh-uh."

Jessy frowned. "Why? It's just Tim."

"I'll feel more comfortable," Alex said.

"In control," Jessy replied as though It were a bad thing.

"Exactly. You gonna come see me off?"

"Yeah," Jessy said and got up.

Outside, the day was hot and bright, the glare of the sun stinging Alex's eyes. Holy moly, melt me, why don't you? She went around the back of the station wagon, opened the hatch, and tossed her bag in. She slammed it shut and met Jessy at the driver door. "Have fun," Jessy said as they hugged.

"I will," Alex said. "I wish you could come."

"Maybe we can do it when I'm eighteen."

Alex patted her sister's back and drew away. "Sounds like a plan." She opened the door and slid in behind the wheel, pulling it closed behind her. She grabbed her sunglasses from the dash and put them on, then rolled the window down. "Mom and Dad won't be home for a while...you should have Mark come over." She winked, but realized that Jessy probably didn't see it, so she slid her glasses down and did it again.

Jessy blushed. "No, they'll get mad."

"Not if they don't know," Alex said and started the engine.

Jessy shook her head.

"Alright," Alex relented, "you're 'not' going to have Mark over. Got it."

"No, I'm really not!"

"Uh-huh. Sure."

Crimson colored Jessy's cheeks, whether from embarrassment or irritation Alex couldn't tell. Alex put the station wagon in reverse and it began to roll backwards. "There are are a couple extra condoms in my drawer if you need them," she called out the window. Jessy crossed her arms and looked away, her nose tilted up. That was her way of saying 'I'm ignoring you because you're getting on my nerves, Bunny." Alex had seen that posture a lot over the years.

With a honk and a wave, Alex pulled into the street and set off for Tim's house, a full weekend of swimming, hiking, roasting marshmallows, and sex ahead of her.

Her stomach rolled with nerves. She was looking forward to, you know, 'doing the horizontal mambo' but she was also just a weeee bit anxious. Heh. Totally normal, right? Lynn said it hurt a little. Okay. Uh, what's 'a little'? You're basically putting something big into something small, so there had to be stretching and straining involved. Shudder. As painful as it sounded though, it also sounded kind of hot.

And going all the way in general...

Yeah, a little intimidating. Just a bit.

She was still gonna do it, though.

After Alex was gone, Jessy went inside and finished her letter to Aunt Barbara; she wanted to Jessy to visit at some point over the summer but Jessy wasn't too sure about that, so she made up an excuse. She didn't have anything against Aunt Barbara (she seemed nice) and she kind of did want to meet her cousins, but the thought of staying at someone's house she didn't know, and being completely surrounded by the unfamiliar, made her stomach clutch. Yeah, anxious Jessy, whatever; you work with what you have and Jessy had a desire to not do that. At least not right now. Maybe she'd give it a month and see how she felt.

Done, she folded it and stuck it into an envelope, which she sat on the nightstand. She had a letter from her father she needed to answer, but she didn't feel like writing anymore right now. She felt kind of like taking a walk; thoughts were encroaching on the corners of her mind, and sitting around, it was getting REALLY hard to ignore them. Call Mark over, Bunny said. Oh, part of her wanted to VERY much...part of her wanted to run her hands over his naked body and then let him do the same to hers...part of her wanted to lay nude before him and slowly come undone as his palms gazed gently over her flesh until she burned with fever and gasped for air...wanted to shake and cum in front of him...wanted him to see her as no one had ever seen her before, at her most open and vulnerable.

Another part, a much bigger part, said she was a slut.

She wasn't, she knew that - she was almost seventeen and almost-seventeen-year-olds are FILLED with hormones - but she couldn't help it; entertaining those thoughts made her feel dirty. And just generally bad: Some nights she got so turned on indulging in them that she couldn't sleep. She'd lay awake under the covers, her whole body on fire and her girlhood leaking molten lead, her heart racing and her chest heaving as her lungs pulled in desperate breaths. The kiss of her nightgown's fabric against her aching nipples and her throbbing mound was intolerable, and she'd find herself squeezing her thighs together and rocking her hips forward. Normal, maybe, but it still felt somehow wrong. And the thoughts themselves felt wrong as well: Her naked under a thin sheet that clung softly to her body, Mark rubbing her through it, the material getting wetter and wetter as she approached her climax, whereupon she'd arch her back and shudder with her orgasm, her eyes narrowing and her lips parting. Oh, and her sitting on her knees next to Mark, his form beared entirely...she'd glide her hands over his chest, his quivering stomach, and his rigid penis, her heartbeat getting faster and faster until she couldn't take it anymore, crawled on top of him, and let nature take its course.

Sigh. It made her feel dirty and awful and at the same time excited her to no end; even now, just thinking about thinking about it, she was getting hot. If she kept it up, she WOULD call Mark over.

What's the problem, you might ask? Well...like her sister, she was nervous (what girl isn't?), but also...it was WAY too soon. She and Mark had only been together a year. She really liked him, but sex was like...almost like marriage in a way. That might be a little sentimental, but that's how she saw it. You literally became one with your partner, you gave yourself to them in the most total and intimate way possible. That might not be a big deal for other people, but it was for her, and she wouldn't have sex until there was enough spiritual and emotional depth to their relationship...a depth that cannot be achieved in 365 days.

She took a deep breath. She was getting turned on.

So lets change gears, shall we? She was kind of hungry, so why not head down to Flip's for lunch with her mother? She should be going on break soon, and if not...well, she could borrow a page from the Book of Bunny and pout/kitten eyes Uncle Lincoln into letting Mom have a few minutes. Bunny wasn't always right, but she sure knew how to get her way.

Decided, Jessy got up, slipped into her flip flops, and grabbed a ten dollar bill from her dresser. Uncle Lincoln wouldn't make her pay, of course, but that thought didn't even cross her mind.

Outside, she locked the front door, crossed to her Beetle, and got in. A troll doll with wild purple hair sat on the dash, its frozen Mona Lisa smile vaguely taunting. I know something you don't know. It kind of creeped Jessy out, and she shoved it into the glovebox: Bunny put it in here, and every time she rode shotgun she sat it there again. She also put a bunch of grody Garbage Pail Kids stickers on the dashboard; each character had a horrible deformity or was in the middle of suffering an awful and outlandish fate. One was Adam Bomb: A giant, fiery mushroom cloud blossomed from the top of his cranium. Get it? They were dumb, and new ones appeared every time she let Bunny in.

Snapping on her seatbelt, Jessy started the car and set the radio to rights: Bunny left it on the rock station, and now Jessy put it on WKBBL, making sure it wasn't loud enough to distract her. Hands at 10 and 2, she backed cautiously into the street and turned left.

"Good Friday afternoon, this is Boomer keeping you company here on WKBBL, Royal Woods, Elk Park. President Reagan giving a speech in West Berlin today between naps; Giving arms to the Contras really tires a guy out. You know what DOESN'T tire a guy out? Playing today's biggest hits."

Music started to play as Jessy turned onto Falmouth Street.

"Head to toe

I know"

Oh, she loved this song! Slowing, she allowed herself to do something she NEVER did while driving: She leaned over and turned up the volume...just a little.

"Today started with a crazy kiss

On our way home

We were in for a surprise

Who would have known"

This song reminded her of Mark. She told him it was 'their' song and he shrugged. I'd rather Anthrax, but okay. She sang along now VERY off-key...she wasn't very good, but it came from the heart and that's what matters, right?

"Ooh, baby, I think I love you

From head to toe

Ooh, baby, I think I love you

From head to toe"

She stopped at a traffic light and glanced in the rearview mirror as a town cop car pulled up behind her: It was green with white doors featuring a big gold star, and red and blue lights on the roof rack. Her heartbeat sped up. Was the music too loud? Should she turn it down? No, he might see her fiddling with the radio and decide she was a menace to society: That girl isn't giving the road her full and undivided attention...take her out! Just act natural, Jess. If you act weird he might think you're a drug smuggler or a terrorist. Looking straight ahead, she continued singing, one eye drifting to the rearview mirror.

"Here today, gone tomorrow

It's possible, but I doubt it

His kiss is credit in the bank of love

I never leave home without it"

The light changed and Jessy self-consciously left turned onto Main, fighting to not look in the mirror and losing: He turned right. Whew! For a second there she was kind of scared.

"He's different from any boy I know

Body supreme

Bedroom eyes, head back to the side

Please don't be so mean"

She pulled into Flip's parking lot and into a slot facing the window. A middle aged couple ate hotdogs together and didn't look too happy about it. Jessy wondered if it was the hotdogs part they didn't like...or the together part.

Killing the engine, she got out and went inside. Uncle Lincoln was sitting by the register and watching the TV he had installed last year: It was mounted in one of the corners where the wall met the ceiling like a big, boxy techno spider. Jessy didn't like sitting at the table underneath it because she was afraid it would come loose of its moorings and fall on her head.

Mom was standing by the doors to the kitchen, her head craned up to see the screen. Jessy followed her gaze: President Reagan stood behind a podium on a stage before the Brandenburg Gate and addressed a crowd waving German and American flags.

"Behind me stands a wall that encircles the free sectors of this city, part of a vast system of barriers that divides the entire continent of Europe. From the Baltic, south, those barriers cut across Germany in a gash of barbed wire, concrete, dog runs, and guard towers. Farther south, there may be no visible, no obvious wall. But there remain armed guards and checkpoints all the same-still a restriction on the right to travel, still an instrument to impose upon ordinary men and women the will of a totalitarian state."

He did look kind of like he just woke up from a nap, but can you blame him? He was, like, seventy-five. Her grandfather was sixty-nine and he took naps all the time. Looking away, she went to the counter and sat across from Uncle Lincoln. He ripped his eyes from the TV and turned. When he saw it was her, he broke out in a smile. "Hey."

"Hi."

Mom looked over and smiled herself. "Hi, honey."

"Hey, Mom. I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch together."

Mom's face lit up. "Sure, that'd be wonderful. I just have a couple tables..."

Uncle Lincoln waved his hand and turned back to the TV. "I'll take care of them."

"You sure, Linc?" Mom asked uncertainty.

"Yeah. Take a break."

"In West Germany and here in Berlin, there took place an economic miracle, the Wirtschaftswunder. Adenauer, Erhard, Reuter, and other leaders understood the practical importance of liberty-that just as truth can flourish only when the journalist is given freedom of speech, so prosperity can come about only when the farmer and businessman enjoy economic freedom. The German leaders reduced tariffs, expanded free trade, lowered taxes. From 1950 to 1960 alone, the standard of living in West Germany and Berlin doubled."

Mom took her apron off and hung it up. "What do you want?"

"Just a burger and fries."

While Mom wrote their order down, Jessy went over to a booth and sat facing the TV. Mom came over with two Cokes and slid in across from her. "This is a nice surprise," she said as she pushed one of the glasses to Jessy.

"Yeah, Alex left earlier and I was all alone with nothing to do, so I thought 'hm, lunch with Mom sounds nice.'"

Mom laughed. "Well, I'm glad. Seeing you ALWAYS makes my day better. Any plans for the summer?"

Jessy took a sip of her pop. "Not really. Aunt Barbara wants me to drive out for a visit, and I might, I don't really know yet. Otherwise I'm just going to spend time with Mark." She felt her lips turn up in a coquettish smile as they always did when she talked about Mark.

Mom grinned knowingly. "That sounds nice. How is HE doing?"

Jessy nodded. "He's good. He's been applying to colleges a lot lately. We're hoping he gets accepted to one close by. The best choice so far is the technical university in Detroit." Royal Woods Community College didn't have the programs Mark needed, otherwise he'd go there. Jessy had all but decided on teaching elementary school, so she'd most likely take classes at RWCC and see if she couldn't find a tutoring job or something in the meantime.

"In the 1950s, Khrushchev predicted: "We will bury you." But in the West today, we see a free world that has achieved a level of prosperity and well-being unprecedented in all human history. In the Communist world, we see failure, technological backwardness, declining standards of health, even want of the most basic kind-too little food. Even today, the Soviet Union still cannot feed itself. After these four decades, then, there stands before the entire world one great and inescapable conclusion: Freedom leads to prosperity. Freedom replaces the ancient hatreds among the nations with comity and peace. Freedom is the victor."

"How long is he going in for?" Mom asked.

"Four years," Jessy said and smiled. "He's really serious about computer programming. He was even talking about maybe going BACK to school once he gets established, you know, day courses or something."

"That's really good to hear. He'll do very well for himself. And you too. Have you decided yet what grade you want to teach?"

"And now the Soviets themselves may, in a limited way, be coming to understand the importance of freedom. We hear much from Moscow about a new policy of reform and openness. Some political prisoners have been released. Certain foreign news broadcasts are no longer being jammed. Some economic enterprises have been permitted to operate with greater freedom from state control. Are these the beginnings of profound changes in the Soviet state? Or are they token gestures, intended to raise false hopes in the West, or to strengthen the Soviet system without changing it? We welcome change and openness; for we believe that freedom and security go together, that the advance of human liberty can only strengthen the cause of world peace. There is one sign the Soviets can make that would be unmistakable, that would advance dramatically the cause of freedom and peace."

Jessy stared at Reagan as she thought. "Not yet," she finally said, "I still think fifth or sixth, though, but I'm not really sure."

Mom took a sip of her Coke. "That's one of the age ranges I thought about teaching. I was leaning more toward first or second."

"General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization: Come here to this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall."

Fred came over and sat a plate in front of Jessy and another in front of Mom. "Thank you," Jessy said.

"You're welcome," he grinned.

Mom smiled up at him. "Thank you."

He smiled back. "You're welcome." He put his hand on her shoulder and she patted it. Jessy's brow pinched. Hm. Did they like each other?

* * *

Alex turned the volume up and nodded to the music. Tim watched her from the passenger seat, clad in jeans and a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. She caught him looking from the corner of her eye and grinned at his bemused expression. That Alex, it said, what a dork. She started to sing along. It can always get dorkier, buddy.

"Don't want to be clean

Don't want to be nice

The whip's gonna crack

My leather is black and so are my eyes

I'm gonna be rough

I'm gonna be mean

I'm here 'til the end, my sick little friend

I'm back in your dreams"

He shook his head and looked away as if to hide himself from the embarrassment that was his girlfriend.

Currently they were rolling north along I-75, dense stands of pine trees pressing close to either side of the road. The farther they got from Detroit, the more rural the landscape became, the settlements smaller and occurring less frequently. Signs directed traffic to Hamilton Township, Eerie Lake, Lava Falls, and Weston Hills. Alex had also seen signs for Salem Road, Black Hollow, and Cemetery Lane. She wasn't a scaredy cat or anything, but she couldn't lie: It was kind of creepy up here. Something told her if they stopped, they'd be brutally murdered by a guy in a mask, or beset by a gang of vampires. From what Tim said, the UP was even LESS populated...he also might have said something about the campsite being literally thirty miles from the nearest town. Gulp.

Every slasher movie Alex had ever seen came back to her, and now she was horny AND scared.

"You're a worse singer than Jessy," Tim said, shouting to be heard over the music.

She made sure to sing even louder.

"Cover your eyes or cover your head

You'll never know what hit you til you're covered in red

Screaming bloody murder 'til the barricades bend

Sweatin' in the fog til the end"

She slapped the wheel with her hand and bobbed her head from side to side. The wind tossed her hair into her face and she coughed. Ugh, my mouth! She brushed it behind her ear, and corrected; the car was veering to the right. Whoops. Can't have that. If we wreck, Jason, Freddy, and the dude from Hellraiser will be on us like ugly on Cory Feldman.

Tim leaned over and turned the radio off. "Hey, jerk," she said, "I was listening to that."

"Listening is fine, singing along is not."

Alex blew a raspberry. "You can't sing either."

"I know," he replied, "I recognize my limitations. I also can't dance."

Alex snickered. He COULDN'T dance. Oh, God, watching him try to cut a rug made her eyes bleed and her sides split. At prom he attempted to dance along to Billy Idol's Mony Mony and it was BAD. He did okay with the slower stuff, though, then again with his hands on her hips and his eyes staring into hers, maybe she was too distracted to notice his ultimate suckatry.

"I never kicked you off the dance floor, though," she pointed out, "I've always been supportive and encouraging."

Tim blinked. "Well...I..."

Alex nodded. "Umhm. Feel like an asshole now, don't you?"

"Yes."

The road curved around a hillside and crossed a wide river with muddy banks. A man fished from a boat and farther down kids splashed in the water. "You ARE an aashole," Alex said, "but you know what?"

"What?"

"You're MY asshole."

Tim smirked and she took his hand. "Good to know I'm loved, at least." He flushed ever so slightly at this; neither one had said 'I love you' yet. Alex, for one, was pretty certain that she did love him, but she hadn't been in any rush to say it because that's not a word you throw around lightly, you know? If she was going to come outright and say it, she wanted to be a million percent sure she meant it...and that Tim loved her too.

Alex nodded. "Yeah, you are."

"You are too."

Her stomach fluttered and she felt herself smiling stupidly; she sucked her lips in and glanced away so he didn't see. Can't look like too much of a dweeb.

Tim twisted in his seat, reached into the cooler in the back, and grabbed a can of Pepsi. He turned, cracked it open, and took a sip, then handed it to Alex. "You're sure there're no killers lurking around up there? No cursed legends or haunted cemeteries?"

"I don't know," Tim shrugged. "I don't think. There IS supposed to be an old Indian burial ground in the area. Not sure where, though."

Alex took a sip of Pepsi and handed the can back. "That's terrifying."

Tim took it. "Yeah, the locals say the dead get up and walk around at night. They're really gruesome and messed up looking, too."

"Lovely," she laughed. "We're totally gonna die."

Up ahead, a tractor trailer with a load of timber was parked along the gravel shoulder, the driver kneeling next to one of the tires.

"Yeah, campers and backpackers go missing all the time. It was on Unsolved Mysteries. Robert Stack called it the most scare-tastic place in Michigan. I'm pretty worried."

Alex grinned suggestively and looked at him. "Stay close to me, I'll protect you."

"Yeah?" he asked, a hilt to his voice.

A Winnebago ambled along at the speed of retirement. Alex pulled into the left lane and passed it. "Umhm. I'll hold you REAL close." A pleasant little tingle raced through her center. Ooh, Alex, you're being dirty.

Tim chuckled. "If you think you can keep me safe from flesh eating Indian zombies, alright."

"I can." An idea occured to her, and she glanced at him, the corners of her mouth curling up in a salacious smile. "I ALWAYS play safe."

Color touched Tim's cheeks. "Yeah?" he asked awkwardly.

Alex snickered. He was cute when he was embarrassed. How far could she go? "Yeah," she said, "I brought LOTS of protection."

Tim smiled a little. "So you have a gun?"

She shook her head. "No, no gun. It's a DIFFERENT type of protection."

"Yeah?"

"Yep."

"Maybe we'll get to use it."

Alex hummed. "Maybe."

Half an hour later, they crossed into the UP, where forests rolled forever and remote hilltops rose from the sea of trees like the craggy ruins of prehistoric civilizations long forgotten. Cobalt blue lakes dotted the terrain, and deep rivers cut through the rocky soil. The last oupost on the edge of the REAL wilderness was Harrisport, an ancient industrial town which grew up on either side of the Ojibwe River. They stopped at a Safeway and stocked up on food: Alex pushed the cart while Tim tossed in everything that didn't require refrigeration...and some stuff that did. "We got chips, crackers, cookies, pretzels, snack cakes," she said as they worked their way along the meat display along the back wall. "How about some healthier choices, like fresh fruit and vegetables?"

They both looked at each other...then broke out laughing.

"So," Tim said a few minutes later as he perused the case, "burgers and hotdogs sound good?"

"A hotdog sounds REALLY good right now," Alex said, then blushed crazily. Somehow that sounded so much worse out loud than it did in her head. She had no regrets, though, her hormones were raging and the promise of being alone in the woods with her boyfriend was making her feverish. And kind of wet. Guess I AM a slut. Oh well. There are worse things to be, like a janitor.

Tim sucked in his lips to hide a grin and nodded. "We'll get two packs, then."

At the checkout counter, Alex scanned the magazine rack and started when she caught sight of the current issue of People: Bobby and Lola were on the cover with Nikki between them; she wore a little pink dress and her dirty blonde hair was done up in pigtails. She grinned widely, her brown eyes dancing with light. Alex never got used to seeing Bobby and or Lola in the media.

Without looking at the headline, she picked it up and tossed it into the cart.

Tim grabbed it and looked at it. "Life after one," he read.

"Yup," Alex said, "she's a nut."

Bobby and Lola came out last month for Nikki's birthday, and the whole time they were there Nikki just did NOT stop. She wore Alex and Jessy out, especially the night Alex accidentally gave her some pop in her bottle. Well...it wasn't an accident, but Alex didn't expect her to bounce off the walls for three hours straight while shrieking laughter. When Jessy found out what Alex did, her jaw dropped. "Bunny! You don't give a one-year-old pop!"

Whoops. You live and learn, right?

Outside, they loaded the groceries into the car and got in; since he knew where this place was and she didn't, she let him drive and played deejay, not that there were many stations up: Static, oldies, static, Lana music, static, static, Jessy music. Oh, she actually kind of liked this song. Don't tell anyone. It was in that sappy romance movie Jessy dragged her to. She, uh, may have really enjoyed it. REALLY don't tell anyone THAT.

She turned up thr volume and grinned. Tim rolled his eyes and made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. She turned it louder. "Come on, Timbo," she said and playfully batted her eyelashes.

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"Fine. I'll just sing with myself," she said. And she did, making sure to be as off key as possible.

"Lookin' in your eyes

I see a paradise

This world that I found

Is too good to be true

Standin' here beside you

Want so much to give you

This love in my heart

That I'm feelin' for you"

She looked at him and nodded slightly. Yup, I feel like that. He stared straight ahead and gripped the wheel tightly, his cheeks burning. Alex Loud, making things awkward since 1969.

"And we can build this dream together

Standing strong forever

Nothing's gonna stop us now

And if this world runs out of lovers

We'll still have each other

Nothing's gonna stop us

Nothing's gonna stop us now"

She swayed back and forth, screaming the lyrics and slapping her knees in a sloppy tempo: She was just as bad at keeping a beat as she was at singing, but oh well, if she was going to share her body with this guy, she might as well share everything else with him too...like her terrible singing and inherent dorkiness. Not everyone got to see that side of her. Betcha didn't even know it existed, huh? It's a more closely guarded secret than Area 51.

Tim chuckled and shook his head.

"Come on, Timmiester, second verse, same as the first."

He shook his head. "I'm not singing this lame-o song."

"I'm so glad I found you

I'm not gonna lose you

Whatever it takes

I will stay here with you

Take it to the good times

See it through the bad times

Whatever it takes

Is what I'm gonna do"

She leaned in, rubbed her head against his shoulder like an affectionate kitten, and looked up at him with big eyes. He glanced at her. "Oh, no, you are NOT pouting me into singing."

She stuck out her bottom lip. "Pwease?"

"Nope. Not happening."

"But it's our song."

He looked at her and she made her widdle wip twemble. He sighed. "Fine." When the chorus came on, he nodded reluctantly and muttered through.

"And we can build this dream together

Standing strong forever

Nothing's gonna stop us now

And if this world runs out of lovers

We'll still have each other

Nothing's gonna stop us

Nothing's gonna stop us now"

She smiled dreamily and took his hand from the wheel, weaving her fingers through his. Her heart was racing and she felt warm and tingly all over. Tim looked down at her and the corners of his mouth twitched up into a grin. He looked back at the road and then again at her. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

"I love you, Alex," he said.

The breath left her in a rush and her heart skipped a beat or three. She searched his eyes and saw something in them.

Honesty.

He meant it.

"I love you too," she said.

His lips gently met hers and they kissed slowly, their tongues brushing softly over one another. He pulled away and turned back to the road. Alex was shaky and flushed from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, the spot between her legs burning and aching in time with her heart. She giggled like a real lame-o.

That's right, Tim. Nothing's going to stop us now. Wink-wink.


	122. June 1987: Part 2

Lynn Loud Jr. had been the owner of Big Bill's Car Emporium for thirteen long years - boring years, monotonous years, maybe even...soul crushing years - and never once had he been as excited as he was today. Standing in the middle of the showroom with his hands on his ample hips, he drew a deep breath through his nose and let it out of his mouth. "Love that used car smell," he said and cackled, blissfully unaware of how much he sounded like his late father-in-law. Next to him, his daughter stood ramrod straight with a clipboard in her hands. She wore a black power suit with white pin stripes, white ruffs, and big shoulder pads; her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked so grown up and professional it brought a tear to his eye.

Today was Friday, and Lynn had been training her since Monday, working carefully with her on every aspect of the business from human resources, general management, and paperwork (lots and lots of paperwork) to selling, maintenance, and even janitorial - hey, if you're going to be in charge, you have to know EVERYTHING, and if Lynn wanted, he'd make her manager when she was ready. He wouldn't force her, but he'd very much like to pass the dealership onto her one day. Yeah, it was a real drag sometimes, but it made money: The hours were long and the work was shit more often than not, but his family always had the best, and a few times they were even able to take nice vacations (he ignored Big Bill's advice...he said to never take a day off, and Lynn ALMOST never took a day off. The old man was probably spinning in his grave). Maybe you can do what you love, but not everyone can, nothing wrong with that. A job, even a career, is oftentimes a means to support life, not life itself. You don't live at work, you live outside of work, with the ones you love.

He made sure to tell that to Lynn on her first day. I know you might not be crazy about this place, I'm not either, but it's not so bad.

And it wasn't. It sure beat the hell out of working in a warehouse or a goddamn restaurant. Hahahaha, sorry, Linc, but it's true.

If Lynn wanted to take this place over, he'd give it to her in ten years. 1997. He'd save, invest, and build on what he had (which was quite a pretty penny), then he'd retire. What would he do after that? Eh, he'd burn that bridge when he came to it. He'd probably sleep in for once. Oh, boy, he couldn't wait for THAT.

Presently, he scanned the floor: Wyatt, his top salesman, was talking a young couple into a 1986 Dodge Caravan with woodgrain, while Giovanni, his mop up guy, was wiping the windshield of a 1978 Chevy. Geo was feebleminded but did his job, which was why he liked him. I got one feeb who does what he's supposed to and fifteen other feebs who don't, he told Lynn the other day, and it was true: The hardest part of this job was dealing with the employees. They were always fucking up, doing stupid shit, sexually harassing each other, hurting themselves, and getting pregnant. That last one was the reason he didn't hire women. He wasn't sexist, he just didn't want someone working for him who'd need weeks of maternity leave. It wasn't fair to him and it wasn't fair to the other employees...they had to pick up the slack, after all.

He wouldn't mind Lynn getting pregnant too much, though, because hey, free grandkids.

"Alright, honey, last lesson of the week. You ready?"

Lynn nodded determinedly.

"Okay, follow me."

He led her through the side door and onto the lot: The hot desert sun pounded down on the pavement, and a faint, arid breeze stirred the pendant flags. Rows of cars stretched into the distance, the daylight glinting off a thousand chrome bumpers. A few of his guys were hard at work coaxing the fair people of Tucson into quality pre owned motor vehicles as Lynn walked over to a red 1980 AMC Eagle and laid a hand on the hood. "This is a nice looking car, isn't it?"

Lynn shrugged. She was hugging the clipboard to her chest so the papers wouldn't fly away. "I guess."

"It's not. It's a piece of junk."

Lynn's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Sometimes, no matter what you do, a car's a lemon. I've put more goddamn money and manpower into this hunk than I should have. I'd have been better off sending it to Lucas at the scrapyard, but I didn't and here it sits...stinking up my lot like a turd. Do you know what we're going to do to this piece of crap?"

Lynn shook her head.

A predatory grin crept across Lynn 2's face. "We're gonna sell it."

Lynn 3 blinked. "Sell it?"

"Umhm," he nodded, "we sank good money into this rustbucket, so we're going to put a butt in the seat and send it home with one lucky contestant."

Lynn looked like she was trying to process his words. "But...under the warranty, we have to fix it if something goes wrong with it."

"Yes, ma'am," Lynn said with satisfaction - she knew her stuff and he was proud. He pointed at the yellow sticker in the upper right corner of the AMC's windshield. "See how this sticker's yellow?"

Lynn nodded.

"That means it's on a reduced warranty. Three months instead of the usual eight. Even if it doesn't last the whole ninety days, we won't have to worry about it for TOO long. We probably won't make a profit on it, but as long as we break even, I'm happy."

Lynn's brows pinched even further. "I thought the point of business was to make money, not break even."

Lynn 2 shrugged. She wasn't wrong. "You see, honey, sometimes in business, you have to eat shit and learn to like the taste of it."

He laughed at his daughter's mortified expression. "You have to put up with a lot of shit in business, and you need to like it because that's the price you pay," he explained. "This car, for example: I didn't know it was a dud when I bought it. My mechanic told me all it needed was a new fan belt. He was wrong and I got saddled with a dud. What can I do but eat it and smile?"

She scrunched her lips to the side as she thought it over. Selling people junkers wasn't right, but he kind of had a point. "What can we do to keep from winding up with lemons?"

Her father chuckled. "Sell new cars."

"How about we get a mechanic who knows what he's doing?"

Dad waved his hand. "Sparky's been working here longer than I have. I can't fire him."

"If he's not doing his job right..."

"Shit, honey," he said, "and like the taste."

Was he serious? Yeah, okay, maybe you had to eat the occasional poop nugget here and there, but a whole turd shaped like a fully grown fuck up mechanic? Just get a new one. It's not that hard: You can't throw a spark plug in this town without hitting a grease monkey. If Lynn had her way, Sparky would be out of a job and Big Bill's would have someone on hand who knew his stuff.

As Dad explained the finer points of selling a lemon to an unsuspecting customer, she jotted down a note: NEW MECHANIC ASK HIRE. If Sparky left before she got into a position to fire him, she wanted to personally handle the hiring process of the next one, that way she was sure he wasn't another screw off: If she was taking this place over, she didn't want a single lemon on the lot.

There's a new sheriff in town, she thought, and her name is Lynn Loud the motherfucking third.

* * *

Ronnie Anne Loud got home late that Friday afternoon, pulling into the driveway juuuust as the streetlights came on. It was the last day of the school year which meant lots of extra stuff had to be done (teacher things, you wouldn't understand). In addition, Helen Carr's retirement party was held afterwards, and she couldn't skip that, Helen was her friend. There was cake too. Ronnie Anne liked cake. Kind of. A little. Okay, a lot, but who doesn't? Cake is yummy.

Killing the engine, she got out and went inside. Jessy was sitting on the couch with her legs under her and a pillow in her lap, her eyes pointed at the TV; ALF was on. Yuck. Of all the dumb sitcoms her girls watched, ALF was the worst. Is that puppet supposed to be an alien or an anteater? It looked like the latter to her but apparently it was the former. Every episode 'Oh, we can't let the government get ALF, they might experiment on him. Boo-hoo-hoo." Ronnie Anne hoped the government found him, sent him to Area 51, and cut his stupid face open.

"Hi, Auntie," she said without looking up.

"Hi. Is your uncle here?"

She shook her head. "He hasn't come home yet."

Ah, probably cheating with other women. That's right, Waitress 1 and Waitress 2, serve my table harder! Wonder if he's tipping them: That's called prostitution, lame-o, and it's against the law. Stupid, too; why pay when you can come home and get it for free? It's not like I play hard to get.

In hers and Lincoln's room, she kicked her shoes off and let her hair down. She undid the front of her dress, reached in, and unclasped her bra. Slipping it off, she tossed it aside and her girls hung free. Oh boy, nothing beats taking off the ole brassiere after a long day. Except Chinese food. Chinese food sounded REALLY boss right about now.

In the kitchen, she looked looked around for the menu from China King but couldn't find it. Huh. It should be on top of the fridge but it's not. Why is it not on top of the fridge, Lincoln? Are you and your mistresses ordering a little post coital snack? You know, I wouldn't divorce you for cheating on me, but THIS...this might just do it. Give me your eggroll and I'll think about it. And no, I don't mean your penis, though I'll take that too. Just wash the skank off of it first.

She caught sight of something wedged between the fridge and the counter. Something white and paper. Is that you, China King menu? She stuck her hand into the gap and carefully retrieved it. Oh, it is. Yay. She took it into the living room and sat next to her niece; she slapped the girl's leg. "I'm thinking Chinese. How about you?"

Jessy hummed. "That sounds GOOD."

"Right? We can get a pu pu platter, wonton soup, eggrolls, spring rolls, pork fried rice, a happy family, oooh, a triple delight..." she was starting to salivate and her stomach rumbled.

"That's a lot of food," Jessy said.

"Well, I'm a lotta hungry. What do you want?"

Jessy thought. "Um...rice and stir fry."

Ronnie Anne blinked. "That's it?"

"Well...an eggroll too."

"One eggroll? Jeez, Jess, hate food much?"

"No, I..."

"Food hater." She reached out and dug her fingers into Jessy's stomach. Jessy jumped and cried out.

"Stop!" she laughed and flailed her arms and legs. "I like food!"

"Then why are you starving yourself, huh?" Ronnie Anne asked playfully. She threw her other hand into the mix, and Jessy tried to pull away, but backed up against the armrest. Heh. Nowhere to run, Jess.

"Stop! I'm gonna pee!"

"Order something else and I'll stop."

"Okay! Okay! Three happy family's and a Peking duck!"

Ronnie Anne ceased her assault. "Jesus, Jess, you're such a pig."

Jessy's jaw dropped and Ronnie Anne laughed. "You're not a pig." She leaned forward and pecked her niece's cheek. "Love you."

"I love you too."

Ronnie Anne got up and went into the kitchen. She called, placed an order (she got Lincoln his favorite: Orange chicken and bean sprouts), then came back into the living room just as the prodigal husband returned.

Holding a pizza box.

"Hey," he said and bumped the door closed with his hip, "I stopped at Pissy's on the way home. Man, they were PACKED. I almost left."

Seriously? Ronnie Anne put her hands on her hips and flattened her brow. Lincoln stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"I just ordered Chinese."

Jessy giggled and Lincoln blinked.

"Oh." He looked sadly down at the box then up at Ronnie Anne.

She smirked and crossed to him; she opened the box, grabbed a slice, and took a big, cheesy bite. "I guess we'll have both."

A half an hour later, the Chinese arrived. Now...Jessy wasn't a very adventurous girl (Bunny liked to call her Ms. Play-It-Safe), but it was Friday night and she felt like cutting loose and getting crazy, so here's what she did: She put rice and stir fry...on a slice of pizza. Uncle Lincoln watched from across the table as she assembled her creation, one brow lift quizzically. "What's THAT?"

She hummed. She hasn't decided what to call it yet. It was a...she grinned. "The clash of cultures." She giggled at Uncle Lincoln's expression.

He made a circular motion with his hand. "Alright, well, how does it taste?"

Auntie Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "You're a nutcase, Jess."

"I know," she said, "I like to get wild." She folded the pizza and took a bite, making sure to get a hearty mouthful of both rice and stir fry. She chewed slowly, analyzing the taste. It was...interesting, almost like China and Italy were having sex in her mouth.

Her face turned bright red. Oh, gross! Why would you EVEN, Jess?

"So?" Uncle Lincoln asked expectantly.

Jessy gave a thumbs up. "East meets west."

Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne both laughed.

* * *

They reached the campsite at half past five that afternoon, just as the light of summer sun was beginning to weaken from bright gold to ember orange. Tim wasn't lying: This lake was waaaay the fuck out there...over the hills, through the woods, and at the end of a rutted dirt road with no name. As they made their way along the tract at a careful ten miles an hour (not slow enough to completely stop the jostling, in other words), Alex gazed out the window. "I bet this road's a bitch in the winter...and when it rains."

"Yeah," Tim said, "I don't see how this is going to work, but whatever. Let's just hope the weather holds up and we don't get trapped."

Trapped, huh? Alex wouldn't mind that. At least for a day or two...after that she'd probably start to get cabin fever and go full Jack Torrrence from The Shining. Hereeeeee's Alex!

She fiddled with the radio, but couldn't find a single station that wasn't a pit of static. Not even the country channel, which really surprised her...they were in the country after all, weren't they? You know you're in the sticks when it's too country for country. Fiddles? Banjos? What the hell are ya, some kinda city slicker?

Good thing she brought her...

Alex's heart dropped.

Oh, damn it!

She hissed and hit the dashboard. Tim glanced over and frowned. "What?"

"I forgot my boombox at home," she said and threw up a hand.

Tim snorted.

"It's not funny."

"It's also not a big deal. A radio kind of defeats the purpose of camping. The point is to get away from it all, not to bring everything with you."

"But it's music," Alex said, "it's like an essential food group."

They hit a pothole and Alex's head hit the ceiling. "We'll do other things," he said, "hiking, fishing, you won't even notice it's missing."

Alex doubted that. Music was her life, man.

Ten minutes later, the forest fell away and the lake appeared ahead. A field of tall, wavering grass stretched from the treeline to the shore, which was rocky and dotted with patches of fine, sandy soil. There was a clearing off to their left, and Tim pulled off the road and drove to it through the grass, parking beside and killing the engine. "Me and my Dad did this," he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt, "we also dug a latrine." He nodded in some vague direction toward the lake. "You know...for when you gotta poop."

Alex blushed a little. Poop? What do you mean? I don't poop, Tim, honest. Pooping's gross. "Did you bring toilet paper?" she asked.

"Of course," he said, threw open the door, and got out, "I brought everything."

That wasn't a lie: Standing before the open hatch with her hands on her hips, Alex stared at the jumbled mass of things crammed into the cargo compartment. Sleeping bags, Coleman grill, lawn chairs, awning in case it rained, lanterns, flashlights, metal cookware, the tent (only one, huh? Guess we'll have to share...good thing there isn't one sleeping bag, too). "I'm going to start calling you Jessy."

Tim grabbed the tent. "I know, right? Because being prepared is such a dorky thing."

"Yes it is," she said defiantly even though it wasn't. In fact, him being so prepared and rugged and manly kind of turned her on. Ugh. Where's the off switch? I'd like some peace and quiet, Ms. Sex Drive. She got both of the chairs and carried them over to where Tim was kneeling, a confusion of canvas and plastic poles on the ground before him. "That the tent?"

"No," he said, "it's my nuclear reactor."

She kicked him in the butt and nearly knocked him over. "Smart ass," she said.

While he finished setting up the tent, she unloaded the rest of the things from the car. She kind of wanted to origanize all of it, but there was really no place to put stuff. Hm. Looks like Mr. Always Be Prepared forgot storage bins. Humph. She was actually looking forward to putting everything in its place...almost like a horny little housewife.

Sigh. What, am I ovulating or something? I fucking am, aren't I? Oh, that's lovely. One wrong move and I'm gonna get knocked up, I just KNOW it. My body could fertilize a rock right now. Just sleeping next to Tim will probably do the job.

Eh. If I'm gonna get preggers, I might as well do it the fun way. Wink-wink.

She was joking. She did not want to get pregnant at all. At least right now. Who knows about later on. Part of her wanted to clamp her legs closed and keep them closed all weekend, but another part reaaallly wanted to open 'em up. Ahhh, it was like a tug of war between her clit and her brain, and her brain was losing: Clit shaped soldiers surrounded the Brainbunker and the brain was thiiis close to chomping on a cyanide capsule and sticking a gun in its mouth.

I know, let's think of something else...like how the only sound is the rustle of the wind in the grass and the chirping of insects. I can't believe I forgot my radio. She had a few tapes in the car, but she didn't want to use the battery because what if it died and they needed to make a quick getaway from some douche in a hockey mask? Uh-uh, I've seen THAT happen before. Hey, guys, let's suck up all the juice listening to American Top 40 then not have any when the big, hulking slasher shows up. Doesn't that sound fun?

Presently, Tim stood up, stepped back, and admired his work. The tent looked...well, like a tent, not too much variation between models, right? It was forest green with creme colored trim and little mesh windows to allow ventilation. It was dome shaped, like tents are wont to be. Uh...and it had zippers. Lots of zippers.

Alex went over and slipped her arms around Tim's waist from behind; she pulled him close, the brush of his butt against her crotch sending a shiver up her spine. "Good job," she said, "now we have shelter."

Tim laid his hands on hers. "Yep, our most important need has been met. Now it's time to meet our second most important need."

She kissed his back; his smell filled her nostrils and his heat radiated into her groin. "Hmmm. What's that?"

"A fire."

Oh, I have plenty fire to keep us warm...in my pants.

"Alright...make a fire."

"Uh...it's not that easy. Come on."

Okay!

Instead of leading her into the tent like she was hoping (but not really expecting), he took her into the woods, where the dying light of day filtered through the treetops and cast coins of brilliance on the soft, pine covered ground. "Alright, Loud, we need firewood," Tim said, "find what you can and stack it in my arms." He held them out, his wrists bent upward and his hands cupped. Alex looked around but didn't see much. She grabbed a long stick and laid it across Tim's forearms, then found another. Heh. Looks kind of like a sword.

Grinning, she spun around and thrust the stick forward, her left hand going up. "On guard!" she cried.

Tim didn't look amused. "Come on, we gotta get this done before dark."

Alex poked the tip into his chest. "I am Alejandra Carmen Loud, you killed my father, prepare to die."

Signing, Tim rolled his eyes. "Your father is alive and well back in Royal Woods. Shut up."

Alex raised her brow. "Will you fight...or will you perish like a dog?" She jammed the stick deeper, and he winced.

"Alright," he said and shifted his stick to his right hand. "You wanna go, let's - "

She brought her sword around and whacked him on the arm with a meaty slap. He yelped. "Ow, bitch!" He flashed, and his stick connected with Alex's shoulder.

"Y'ouch!" she cried.

"Doesn't feel too good, now does it?" he asked smugly.

He hit me! I'm a girl and he hit me! Oh, I'm gonna kick his ass. She jabbed him in the stomach as hard as she could, and he stumbled back with a breathless oof. "Ha," she gloated, "you're no match for a swordsman such as - "

He lunged forward and slapped her across the outer thigh. She screamed as tears welled in her eyes. "You bastard!" She threw herself at him and tackled him to the ground; they landed in a heap with her on top. She grabbed the front of his shirt, and he shoved his palm into the side of her face, holding her back. They were both laughing.

"Get your hand outta my face!"

"Get your face outta my hand!"

Her crotch scraped along his, and her breath caught at the electric sensations his growing bulge sent deep into her. Tim's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, which told her he felt it too. His struggling stopped, and so, too, did hers; they stated into one another's eyes, their bodies responding to the touch of the other. Alex's heart crashed against her breast, and blood boiled in her veins. She was panting now, and so was Tim. She was thiiiiiiiis close to giving in to desire.

"We, uh, better get that firewood," she said, her voice shaky.

Tim nodded quickly. "Yeah. Firewood."

She got up and staggered: Her knees were weak and her inner thighs were sticky and slick. Oh, yuck, I hate this stuff. She held out her hand and helped Tim to his feet, their touch kicking up sparks and making Alex feel faint.

"Firewood," she said and glanced away. Yup. Firewood. Gotta keep your eye on the prize and the prize is firewood. Not Tim's wood, not Alex's fire, firewood.

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. Yeah. Get it and, uh, stack it. In my arms. And no more swordplay."

"We'll save THAT for later," she said. In fifteen minutes, they had enough wood to last the night, and headed back to camp. The fiery light dappled the surface of the lake, and Alex nudged Tim in the ribs. "That's pretty, huh?"

"Yeah," he agreed, "it's beautiful up here. It'd be a nice place to live if it wasn't so far from everything."

Alex nodded. "Thirty miles IS a bit much. What's in the opposite direction?"

"More woods. A couple lakes. That Indian burial ground I was telling you about."

They were drawing close to the campsite. Alex snorted.

"Seriously, there's a burial ground a few miles up the road. It's off the trail."

"Yeah, right."

"I swear to God. I saw it with my own eyes. Little piles of rocks everywhere, carvings. They say if you take one of the stones, ghosts will haunt you until you bring it back."

They were back at camp now. Tim dropped the wood onto the ground. Alex turned to him. "I don't believe you."

"Okay. We'll hike there tomorrow."

While Tim built the fire, Alex organized everything the best she could. "Are there bears up here?" she asked over her shoulder at one point. Tim was holding a lighter to a bunch of dry grass, and thick smoke belched into the air.

"Yeah," he replied, "we have to keep the food wrapped up and in the car. A lot of people hang their coolers and stuff from trees. We can rig something up tomorrow; I wanna swim before sundown."

Alex looked up at the setting sun; it was melting across the sky in a burning orange smear. "You better hurry," she said.

Behind her, Tim got to his feet and stepped back as the kindling caught. "Done."

Alex walked over and stood next to him. Sticks crackled in the growing conflagration. She looked at him. "Yep. That's a fire alright."

"Sure is," Tim said. "Get your swim stuff on." He pulled his shirt off, and Alex's eyes were instantly drawn to his bare chest: His muscular pecs, his chizzled stomach. Firelight flickered across his skin, lending it a warm, golden glow. Alex's hands twitched, but she restrained herself from touching him. Heh. Nerves of steel.

"Hey," he said softly, and she looked up into his smiling eyes, "my face is up here, asshole."

She was shocked into laughter. "Your face isn't much to write home about. Your body, though..." she hummed exaggeratedly and giggled.

"I don't know whether to be flattered or offended," he said.

Her nerves of steel crumbled and she laid her hand on his chest: His skin was soft, smooth, and warm. "Be both."

"Okay." He leaned in a kissed the corner of her mouth. "I will. Now get dressed."

He waited as she shifted through her bag and took out her bikini. It was pink with white stripes. She bought it special for the trip; usually she just wore jean shorts and a T-shirt, but she wanted to look sexy. She stood and turned. Tim was watching her hungrily, his eyes flicking quickly to hers when he realized he'd been caught. She smiled. "So...where do I change?"

Tim shook his head slowly. "I-I don't know. Tent?"

Well, duh. "Hmm, I don't know," she said playfully, "it's kind of cramped in there."

Tim swallowed. "Well...you can change right there. I won't look at you."

"Oh?" Alex teased.

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll turn around. See?" He spun and faced the other way. She unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them down slowly, her eyes never leaving the back of his head. She kind of hoped her turned, but he didn't.

"Ah," she said, "nothing quite like taking your underwear off and being totally naked from the waist down."

Tim tensed a little, but still didn't turn. She slipped on her bottoms and took her shirt off. Her pert breasts pointed possessively at Tim, her nipples so hard they ached. All this teasing was really turning her on. "Except being totally naked from the waist up."

He twitched but held fast, and she giggled. Wow, nerves of steel much, Timbo?

She put her top on and clasped it across the shallow of her back. "Okay. I'm decent."

He turned jerkily, as if afraid she were lying. When he saw that she wasn't, he turned the rest of the way and folded his hands against the front of his pants. Hm. What do we have there? "You alright?"

Tim nodded. "Yup. Totally fine."

"Looks kinda like you're...hiding something?" She started forward.

He shook his head. "Just ready for a swim. I, uh, I love to swim."

She reached him and moved his hands away from his groin. He was VERY hard, his erection making a sizeable tent in his pants. She grinned and sucked in her lips. "I see that," she said and looked into his eyes. His poker face was good, but the circles of color on his cheeks betrayed him. "Oh, stop," she said, cupping it in her hand and squeezing, "you act like I've never seen it before."

Tim swallowed. "No, I was just...resting my hands against it."

She snickered. "Okay. Come on, let's take that swim before you bust on yourself." She squeezed again and smirked at the way his eyes rolled back into his head. She pecked his lips and let him go. "Last one there's a lame-o."


	123. June 1987: Part 3

**Lyrics to _Heart and Soul_ by T'pau (1987); _Something So Strong_ by Crowded House (1987)**

* * *

Jessy turned to the clock on the nightstand. 9:03pm. Sigh. She was okay up until after dinner: She came to her room, put her headphones on, picked up a book, and realized that in a more perfect world, she'd be with Mark right now, roasting marshmallows and gazing longingly at him over the warm glow of a fire. She understood her aunt and uncle's reasoning (with the way she felt, she couldn't guarantee nothing would happen) but that didn't mean she wasn't disappointed and just a LITTLE angry. She was. She really wanted to hold his hand and rest her head on his chest...instead she was sitting alone on her bed and trying to focus on a book she didn't particularly want to be reading and on music she really didn't want to be listening to.

"Give a little bit of heart and soul

Give a little bit of love to grow

Give a little bit of heart and soul

Don't you make me beg for more

Give a sign, I need to know

A little bit, little bit"

My heart and soul aren't here right now, she thought sadly, check back tomorrow.

At least she had THAT. She really shouldn't be so impatient, but when you're...when you're in love and the one you love isn't around, it's like you're missing something, some vital part of yourself that leaves behind a gaping, aching hole.

Was it too early to say she loved Mark? Because she did...or at least she thought she did. She loved his mind, she loved the sound of his voice, she loved his offbeat sense of humor and his personality and...and everything thing else she could possibly name. Put all of those things together...and you have HIM. She loved HIM.

Of course you could argue that she loved him as far as she knew him. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is deep, endless love. She wanted their relationship to have depth...more depth than a single year can provide, and maybe once she got deep enough she'd discover that she DIDN'T love him. For now, though? Would it be dishonest to say that she didn't?

Yes. It would be very dishonest because at this present moment, her heart belonged entirely to him. That scared her...but it also made her feel really good. Love is a funny thing: Sometimes its agony and other times it's ecstasy, sometimes it's low and warm, and other times it's hot and raging...and the funniest thing of all? You can feel each of those kinds of love for the same person...on the same day...heck, even at the same TIME. She drew a deep breath and looked at the clock again. 9:05...now 9:06. Ugh. Every minute without him is an eternity and every eternity with him is a minute. An iron band squeezed her chest and she crossed and uncrossed her legs. She needed to get her mind onto another topic. Like...is Bunny okay? God knows a million horrible things can happen to you in the woods: Sunburn, swarm of angry bees, bear attack, hypothermia, tornadoes, alien abduction...followed by probing, shudder. If aliens are such an advanced species, why do they need to probe? I mean, that's pretty barbaric. Can't they wave some kind of wand that takes a full body scan and be done with it?

Uh! Unless they're sadists. That made perfect sense...they get a sick thrill out of tormenting humans. She REALLY hoped no aliens abducted Bunny. They could have Tim, though. He was a nice guy, but if it came down to it, she'd choose him to be taken away and probed.

Oh, God, what if she had to choose between Bunny and Mark? Her chest tightened even more and her stomach knotted with nerves. She knew aliens weren't real, but still, the thought of being put into such a position was awful.

Mark. She'd choose Mark to be taken away...then she'd fold in on herself and spend the rest of her life crying.

A shiver ran through her body. Let's not think about that anymore, okay? Let's think about...hmmm...The Brat Pack? Uncle Lincoln called Molly Ringwald Molly Ringworm and Auntie Ronnie Anne called Rob Lowe Rob Slow because he reminded her of a student she had who was slow in math. They could be so mean sometimes. Uh...anything else? Something that's NOT Mark preferably? She let her eyes drift to Alex's side of the room. Posters of big haired metal bands stared back at her. That guy with the eyeshadow made a pretty woman. Hehehe. Uncle Lincoln was always making fun of the metal singers, much to Bunny's chagrin. His idea of a cool guy was Patrick Swayze in The Outsiders. Now there's a MAN, he'd say. Auntie Ronnie Anne agreed...kind of. They're dorks but not as bad as those Monkey Crew people - that's what she called Motley Crue. She knew their real name, she just did it to pick on Bunny. From what they said, Uncle Bobby used to look like that - someone from The Outsiders, not someone from Motley Crue. He had a leather jacket and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans, she told them. Ew, gross, Alex said. Jessy would have liked to have seen that. The fifties seemed pretty cool.

Like Mark. He's pretty cool.

Sigh. Back to this again.

As Jessy tried to get her mind off her boyfriend, Lincoln reclined in his armchair and watched Night Court on NBC. If he wasn't mistaken, that big bald guy was in that movie Alex rented a few months back, the one about the haunted house. Some guy was trying to write a book about his experiences in Vietnam so he moved into his dead aunt's house and all kinds of strange shit started to happen. The bald guy was in a flashback...he got shot and begged the other guy to kill him but the other guy was a quivering pussy and ran off: When Charlie popped out of the bush and started dragging bald dude off to God only knows what fate, Lincoln got up and left the room; he couldn't stop thinking about it for a week. It also had that fat guy from Cheers. He was the annoying neighbor. If anyone deserved to be dragged away by the VC, it was him.

Really, though, nobody deserved to be pulled into the brush by gooks. The guy was screaming and thrashing and the look of terror on his face...

Lincoln changed the channel. Alright, Dynasty it is.

"Hey," Ronnie Anne said sharply from the couch, "I was watching that."

He took a deep breath. He hated doing this, it made him feel weak, but Dr. Jenner told him it was for the best. "It was triggering me."

"Oh," she said, her tone softening, "are you okay?" She scooted to the edge of the couch and reached out, laying a hand on his knee.

He smiled, took it, and looked at her. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" she asked, her brown eyes pooled with concern.

"Yes."

She gazed into his eyes for a moment, then got up, came over, and sat in his lap, his fingers grazing through his hair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not much to talk about," he said dismissively, "that bailiff, the big one...he was in that dumb movie Alex rented. The one about the house."

Ronnie Anne nodded understandingly. "I told you to leave the room after the guy's first flashback." She ran her hand lovingly down his cheek.

"I know," he admitted, "I thought I could handle it."

She caressed his face softly, and Lincoln made an effort to focus only on her eyes and on the sensation of her touch. He smiled, and she smiled back,she leaned in and kissed him, and he kissed her back, quickly losing himself in the taste of her mouth, the sweet smell of her breath, and her fingertips running lightly down his chest, massaging him through the front of his shirt. He ran his own fingers up her bare arm, and she laughed against his lips. "That tickles."

"Sorry."

She brushed her teeth across his bottom lip. "Hmm. That's okay. You ready for bed?"

From the tone of her voice, Lincoln inferred that she was not thinking of sleep.

"Always," he replied. She slipped out out his lap and he started to stand, but froze when someone knocked on the door. Seriously? I can never just make love to my wife, there ALWAYS has to be a distraction. Goddamn.

His eyes met Ronnie Anne's, and he saw a mirror reflection of his own disappointment. He also detected a tinge of worry. It was awful late for visitors, and their daughter WAS out somewhere...hurt, maybe.

Suddenly anxious, Lincoln went to the door, trailed by Ronnie Anne. His stomach knotted as he opened it...then released when he saw who it was. "Mark?"

"Hey, Mr. Loud," Mark said. He was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans; a black backpack hung from one shoulder. He turned to Ronnie Anne. "Mrs. Loud. I realize it's - " he glanced at a clunky digital watch on his bony wrist " - 9:18pm and you'll be going to bed soon, but I was wondering if I could spend an hour or even half an hour with Jessy. I brought her something to make up for our being unable to go on the camping trip." The boy's tone and expression were dull and monotonous, reminding Lincoln of the teacher in that Farris Butler movie Alex liked so much. When he spoke next, however, Lincoln saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. "Please?"

Lincoln sighed and looked at Ronnie Anne, who shrugged slightly. Alright with me, she seemed to say.

You know...any other time he'd tell the kid to get lost, but he did feel kind of bad for not letting Jessy go camping. It was the right thing to do, but still.

The hardest thing he had ever faced as a parent was dating, because on the one hand, parents aren't supposed to be a-okay with their kids possibly being sexually active (and he really wasn't), but on the other, he felt like a giant hypocrite because he and Ronnie Anne were at that age. How do you handle that? So far they'd decided to not go out of their way to stop it, but also to not go out of their way to encourage, support, or facilitate it...say by letting their sixteen-year-old spend a whole weekend unsupervised with her boyfriend in the middle of bumfuck Michigan.

He knew it bummed her out and he was genuinely sorry, but hey, that's parenting.

Suffice it to say, he was feeling generous that night. "Alright," he said, "you guys can hang out for a while - in the living room."

Mark nodded. "I was planning on the living room."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne parted to let him enter. As he passed, Lincoln couldn't help but notice the way his backpack bulged. What the hell does he have in there, rocks?

Ronnie Anne went to the foot of the hall. "Jess?"

A moment passed. "Did you call me?" Jessy's voice came back. She must have had her headphones on.

"Yes. Come here, please."

While they waited, Mark stood in the middle of the living room and gazed off toward the kitchen. Lincoln tried to think of something to say to the guy, but couldn't, so silence prevailed.

Jessy appeared and looked at Ronnie Anne. "What's up?"

Ronnie Anne nodded to Mark, and Jessy turned; when she saw him, her face lit up. "Hi!"

"Hey," Mark grinned, "I was in the general vicinity of your house and thought I'd stop by for a minute."

That was unlikely; Mark lived on the outskirts of Elk Park, a good seven miles away. Kid walked everywhere, too, even though his parents were well off enough to afford a car. He said 'I like to walk.' Alright, then, to each his own.

Presently Jessy giggled girlishly. "I'm glad you did." She came forward and they hugged. Ronnie Anne nodded down the hallway. Come on, lame-o.

Lincoln begrudgingly went over. "We'll be in our room," she told the kids, "with the door open. Behave."

Jessy blushed. "We will."

When her aunt and uncle were gone, she threw her head back. "They can be so embarrassing sometimes." She was smiling though, because Mark was here! If she were sappy, she'd say his heart heard her heart's call or something.

"Yeah. That's parents for you."

She looked over her shoulder, and seeing that they were alone, she risked a kiss, standing on her tippy toes, her lips meeting his, his tongue meeting hers. "I'm really glad you're here," she said seriously. "I was just sitting in my room and missing you." She laughed nervously. "Pathetic, huh?"

"I'm the one who walked 7.3 miles with a heavy backpack," he said, "so I think I'M the pathetic one."

She smiled. "We're both terrible. What's in the backpack?"

"Well," he said and unshouldered it, "it's a..." he trailed off. "I have to show you. Can you bring me two kitchen chairs and a sheet?"

Jessy blinked. "Uh...okay?"

Mark grinned. "I know, it's kind of a bizarre request, but bear with me."

"Alright," she piped. First she went into her room and grabbed a spare sheet from her dresser - it was solid pink and kind of on the thin side. She brought it into the living room and dropped it on Uncle Lincoln's chair. She scrunched her brow: The coffee table was pushed against the couch and Mark was arranging stones in a circle on the floor. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting on two kitchen chairs."

She snorted. Okay. She went into the kitchen, grabbed two chairs, and dragged them in. Mark got up, took them from her, and situated them roughly three feet apart. Next, he grabbed the sheet and draped it over. Suddenly it clicked, and Jessy smiled widely.

"I figured if we couldn't go to the campsite, the campsite could come to us." He nodded at his handiwork and looked at her.

Jessy didn't know what to say...this was literally the sweetest thing ever; she felt like she was turning into a puddle of warm jelly. "It's beautiful," she managed.

Mark dropped to one knee and rummaged in his bag. "I brought marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars," he said as she walked over. "We obviously can't build a fire in your living room, but I have THIS." He pulled out a plastic handheld spotlight with a wide, cylindrical body. He sat it in the middle of the circle and clicked it on: A bright white beam of light shot against the ceiling. "This might actually get hot enough to at least soften the marshmallows. I'm pretty sure it'll melt the chocolate." Jessy knelt and laid her hand on his shoulder. "What do you think?"

"I think it's wonderful...are so are you."

She meant that with the fiercest, deepest, from the bottom of her heart sincerity. He WAS wonderful.

And she was hopelessly in love with him.

* * *

"It's cold!" Alex squealed. And that's what it was, an unashamed, outright girlish squeal. To be fair, though, the water was FRIGID. Jeez, you'd think it was November or something, not June.

She was standing by the shore, submerged to the ankles. Tim was a little farther out, the freezing liquid reaching past his knees and lapping at the hem of his shorts. His face was screwed up in an expression bespeaking pain.

"It's not that bad," he chattered.

"Bullshit," she called and crossed her arms. "It's worse than the Arctic Circle."

Tim waved his hand. "You're being dramatic. It's fine."

"Dive in, then," she said and walked out a little more, the water licking her calves. The lakebed was soft and muddy; it squished between her toes and made her shiver.

"I don't wanna," Tim said.

Alex held her arms out to steady herself; she did NOT want to fall in. "How convenient."

He shrugged. "I like to wade."

"You're full of it," she said as she approached.

"No I'm not," he said...then splashed her; freezing water broke across her chest, and she gasped.

"You bastard!" She cupped her palm and shoved a handful of water at him: He twisted and threw up his arms with a cry.

She went for another because he REALLY deserved it, but before she could, he lunged, shot out his arms, and pushed. Alex lost her balance and fell back in slow motion, her life flashing before her eyes (man, I was cool). She landed on her butt, the water closing around her neck. "You fuck face butt munch asshole!" she wailed.

Tim laughed and trudged over. "Not so tough now, are you?" He held out his hand. Alex took it...and yanked. His feet slipped out from under him and he pitched forward, falling next to her but saving himself from going under by throwing out his arms. He screamed like a little sissy girl and jumped up. Goosebumps raked his body glistening body.

Alex snickered.

"I KNEW you were going to do some shit like that," he said and hugged himself.

"Payback's a bitch, huh?"

"Just like you," he stuttered.

"Me? You splashed me first, prick." She got to her feet and shuddered violently as the cool air needled her heatless flesh. She crossed her arms and bent slightly at the waist, trying and failing to make herself a smaller target.

Tim trudged forward, and she tensed. Instead of splashing her, however, he took her in his arms and pulled her to him. His skin was just as cold as hers, and she jumped a little. "This was a bad idea," she said as she huddled against him, her face buried in the crook of his neck, "I'm a bunny not a penguin."

He chuckled and stroked her hair. With his other hand, he rubbed her back, his nimble fingers tracing the outline of her shoulder blades. Heat ballooned in her stomach and her heart began to pound. She kissed his neck, and he faltered before continuing, his hands gliding over her wet skin and going to her hips. She stirred, and kissed his neck again, her lips lingering on his crazily throbbing pulse. She reached out with one hand and cupped his bulge: Hmmm, he was hard as a rock, heat rolling off of him in waves. His breathing caught and a shuddery sigh ripped from his throat. It twitched in her hand; she giggled.

He slipped his fingers into the waistband of her bikini bottoms and kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her ear, his teeth grazing it now and making her shiver delightedly. He was shaking as passion overcame him, and so was Alex. He pushed her bottoms down, and she wiggled her hips to assist; it dropped to her knees, and the cool air touched her scortching sex. She slid her hand into his shorts and gripped his length; it pulsed and burned in her palm, making her heart race even faster.

Tim's fingers crept around to the small of her back and then up the curve of her spine. He fumbled with the ties binding her top. She stroked and squeezed him; she panted heavily, wet heat pooling in her center.

"Here," She said huskily and drew back. Tim watched with hazy eyes and parted lips as she reached behind, undid the ties, and pulled the bra off, revealing her pert breasts. The way his eyes caressed her body, from her knees to her head, made her blush; she felt like the most beautiful girl in the world, like the only girl in the world.

She lifted one leg and slipped the bottoms off, then stood before him naked, her heart slamming and her breathing unsteady. Tim swallowed hard. "Y-You're beautiful."

She ducked her head and smiled. She knew...not because she saw it in the mirror, but because she saw it in his eyes. She looked up at him. "Your turn."

She didn't have to tell HIM twice. He peeled out of his shorts and threw them carelessly aside: They hit the surface with a plop and started to float away. Alex's heart stopped at the sight of his rigid erection. She'd seen him hard before, but never THIS hard.

She giggled in the back of her throat. "You're beautiful too." She stepped into his arms and they kissed deeply, her body melding to his and his penis pressing into the top of her pubic mound. His hands squeezed the soft flesh of her butt, and her hands squeezed his. Their tongues wrestled in mindless passion, their hips rocking unconsciously together as nature called. Alex's body, so recently cold, was hot, the spot between her thighs burning painfully. She had never been so turned on in her life; it hurt so bad...but felt good too.

She pulled away from Tim and caught her breath. "I want you," she said.

He nodded dumbly. "I-I want you too."

She grinned. "Let's go."

Her idea of going involved her and Tim walking back to camp together - not Tim scooping her up and carrying her like an oversized baby, one arm under her head and the other under the backs of her knees, but that's what he did. She screamed and laughed. "What are you doing?"

"Carrying you," he said simply.

"No shit, Sherlock." She wrapped her arms around his neck and stared dreamily up at him as he kicked through the shallow water, then across the rocky shore. She might have a reputation for being tough and cool, but being in his strong arms, not in control and trusting him entirely, made her feel really good. Safe. Loved. Protected.

She nestled her head against his chest and sighed contentedly. They reached the campsite just as darkness fell; the crackle and glow of the fire filled the world, lending the scene a dreamlike quality. Tim laid her on a sleeping bag next to it; its warmth bathing her flesh. She opened her legs and Tim mounted her, his tip brushing up through the valley of her folds; she shivered and squirmed. Tim hitched and planted his hands on either side of her; he quaked all over and his dark eyes sparkled in the firelight.

Alex reached up and touched his face; her hand shook and her body smoldered. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

"Show me."

He shifted, and his head prodded her. "Lower," she whispered.

His hips moved down, his body trailing hers, making her dizzy. When she felt him touch her wellspring, she purred. "There."

Tim's breathing was ragged as he rocked forward; his head sank a fraction of an inch into her, and she winced at the alien sensation. Her hips lifted as of their own accord, and another inch slipped in.

Tim bowed his head and fought to catch his breath. Alex was shivering, her entire being consumed with the flames of desire. "Do it," she panted, "make love to me."

Tim pulled back slightly, then surged forward, his length spearing her core and spreading her virgin passage. She cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain, her eye narrowing to slits. Lynn was right: It stung, but the feeling of his crowned head raking her walls was heavenly, and as he fell into a steady pace, she arched her back and moaned deep in her throat, her mind scrambling as each thrust kicked embers of passion into her brain. Her toes curled and her hips lifted to meet each of his pumps. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, and her nails pinched his flesh as he went faster, grunting and gasping. She could sense that he was close, but she was too, her orgasm gathering strength in the depths of her loins.

He began to swell in her, the way he did in her hand when he was about to go. He yanked out, and sudden wet heat splattered her stomach, the feeling, and the knowledge of what it was, knocking her over the edge and into a deep, roiling chasm of nirvana.

When she came back to herself, Tim lie limply against her, his lips planting soft kisses on her throat. She could feel his seed drying on her skin, and it sent a pleasant tingle down her spibe. She laughed and ran her hands over his back. "That was pretty fun."

Tim hummed sleepily.

"Wanna do it again?"

"Absolutely not," he said.

He was being sarcastic. He DID want to do it again.

* * *

Jessy stuck a marshmallow onto the tines of a fork and held it over the spotlight. Next to her, Mark laid a semi melted piece of chocolate on a graham cracker and sat it aside. They were sitting with their backs to their 'tent' and dividing their attention between each other and MTV, where a group of guys sat inside a barn, playing their instruments and looking as though they were having the time of their lives.

"Love can make you weep

Can make you run for cover

Roots that spread so deep

Bring life to frozen ground"

Jessy reached out and took Mark's hand, her fingers weaving through his. He looked at her, grinned boyishly, and squeezed, his touch making her heart do funny things.

"Something so strong could carry us away

Something so strong could carry us today"

She scooted closer and rested her head against his shoulder. He let go of her hand and put his arm around her; she laid her palm on his chest and smiled hazily at the strong, warm beat of his heart. "I think you just sat on melted chocolate," he said.

Jessy hummed. "I don't care. I like this."

"I like it too."

"I've been feeling so much older

Frame me and hang me on the wall

I've seen you fall into the same trap

This thing is happening to us all, yeah.

He twisted his head and looked down at her. His heartbeat sped up under her hand. "I know it might be a little premature, being just over a year into our relationship, but I love you."

Jessy's heart clutched in pleasant pain, and the air left her in a rush. She looked up at him, and he smiled.

For a moment she was stricken...she didn't know what to say, she was NOT expecting this. Her brain told her to pretend she wasn't home (please leave your message after the beep), but her heart told her something different, and she listened to it instead.

"I love you too," she said, and giggled. "I love you so much."

They leaned into each other's lips and kissed slowly in consummation. Jessy pulled away first, and snuggled happily against him, the side of her face rubbing his chest, her closed eyes and Cheshire smile lending her the appearance of a content cat. Like a loving master, Mark ran his fingers through her hair, and she purred lowly, playfully.

Something so strong could carry us away

Something so strong could carry us today.

"What's all this?"

Jessy looked over. Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne were standing by the head of the hall, both with bemused expressions on their faces. "We're camping," she said.

Auntie Ronnie Anne chuckled and swatted Uncle Lincoln's chest with the back of her hand, then gestured at the makeshift campsite as if to say isn't that the cutest thing ever?

Uncle Lincoln put his hands on his hips and leaned forward. "I expressly forbid you to go camping, young lady," he said with a jocular lift of the brow.

"We have s'mores," Mark said and held one up in a placating gesture.

Uncle Lincoln seemed to think it over for a moment before shrugging. "Alright."

He and Auntie Ronnie Anne came over and sat down while Mark threw four chocolate squares onto the lens. "Interesting set up," Uncle Lincoln said and nodded to the spotlight.

"Yeah, it's not optimal, but it's better than burning down my girlfriend's house. Don't expect them to be gooey like they would be if cooked over a real fire. They get...MAYBE a quarter of the way there."

"As long as there's chocolate involved, I don't care," Auntie Ronnie Anne said.

Jessy smiled to herself.

This was the best camping trip ever.


	124. June 1987: Part 4

**The site has been glitching the past few days, which is why chapters kept disappearing. I think it's over now.**

* * *

Rita Loud woke from a nightmare on the morning of Saturday, June 13. It was about Leni, as all of her nightmares were these days; the guilt of murdering her own daughter was finally catching up with her, she supposed. In the beginning it was easy to tell herself that she did the right thing - Leni was dying...and suffering as she did it.

Almost six years later, that didn't matter as much as the simple fact that she stuck a needle into her baby and filled her veins with poison. She sat up in the dawn's early light and hugged herself fiercely against the chill in her blood.

In her soul.

Tears streamed down her wrinkled face and dropped onto the bosom of her nightgown. She sniffed and blinked, but they kept coming, and she was powerless to do anything but let them fall.

The last minutes of her daughter's life may not have been pleasant, she reflected, they may have been downright awful, but they were precious, God-given moments...and she took them away. Some people might rage at Him over the death of a loved one, but she couldn't, because He didn't kill Leni...SHE did.

A tight band wrapped around her chest and she took a deep breath. She regretted it. She regretted it every single day and every single night. She was weak, though; she couldn't stand to see Leni suffer. If it was a test, she failed. She failed miserably.

When the rising sun had cast the shadows into the corners, she got out of bed, stepped into her slippers, and dragged herself to the bathroom, her body singing a chorus of aches and pains. Her back was sore, her knees were sore, her ankles were sore, and her fingers were stiff; she winced as she ripped off a length of toilet paper, pain streaking up from her inflamed joints and striking into the center of her brain like lightning bolts. The doctor gave her exercises for her arthritis long ago, but she no longer did them because they hurt too much; most of the time, her fingers stayed curled against her palms like dead spiders, and every time she had to open them, she ground her teeth at the hot, sickening agony. She didn't complain, though, not to Lynn and not to Luan: Complaining is useless. Instead, she bore her cross with stoic silence, just as her savior had on his way to Calvary. Emulating Him was not easy; she often failed because she was human, but she did try, and isn't that all you can ask of a person? Were not His own disciples, who saw His majesty with their own eyes, often weak? If Peter himself could falter, what chance did Rita Loud from Royal Woods, Michigan have?

Not a very good one, that was for sure.

She flushed the commode and got up. In the bedroom, Lynn was flat on his back and snoring. Russel, who slept between them, stood at the foot of the bed, this tail wagging and his tongue hanging out. Rita crossed to the bedroom door, petting the dog as she passed, and opened it; he leapt down and raced into the hall. She pulled on her bathrobe and followed, taking the stairs slowly, since the motion of climbing and descending hurt her knees. She heard movement in the kitchen, which told her Luan hadn't left for work yet. Rita paused at the bottom of the steps to rest her knees, then went toward the noise: Luan was brewing a pot of coffee, her back to Rita. She wore her waitress uniform (pale pink button up dress and white shoes), and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She turned at the sound of Rita's shuffling footsteps and smiled. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, honey," Rita said. Her knees grated like rusty hinges with every step, and instead of getting a cup like she planned to, she sat heavily at the table. "How'd you sleep?"

Luan nodded. "Good." She took a mug down from the cabinet over the sink, "Do you want a cup?"

"Yes, please."

She took down another and sat it next to the first, then closed the door. She went to the coffeemaker, picked up the pot, and poured some into both cups. She picked one up and brought it over, setting it carefully in front of Rita. "Here you go."

"Thank you, dear," Rita said and kissed her daughter's cheek.

"You're welcome." She took her own mug and sat across the table. Rita lifted the cup to her lips, blew, and sipped gingerly.

Rita enjoyed morning coffee with her daughter, even if she could typically only have it after a nightmare. On days that she didn't, she slept sometimes until 8:30 or even 9, which she hated; nearly half of the day was wasted. In her youth she may have slept that late, but for over thirty years she rose at 5:30 with Lynn; you'd be surprised how much you can get done before noon if you get up at a decent hour.

Luan took a drink of her coffee and sighed. "What should we get Lincoln for his birthday?"

Rita furrowed her brow. She honestly didn't know, and hadn't for a long time. Her gifts tended to be generic (slippers, a bathrobe) or highly personalized (a mug with his name on it, a family portrait from 1959 that she found in the attic and had copied) because Lincoln didn't particularly care for many things. He liked guns...and that was all she could think of off the top of her head. He wasn't even only enthusiastic about those: He believed in self-defense and enjoyed occasionally going to the range and target shooting. The only thing he really cared about was family.

Then again, was it really fair to expect a forty-one-year-old man to get excited over material things the way a child gets excited over toys? She herself couldn't remember feeling that way over something in a long time. Her first vacuum, maybe. Oh, that thing made life SO easy.

"I'm not sure," she said now. "You're around him every day, has he mentioned anything he'd like?"

"A tax break."

Rita laughed richly. Her point exactly: Her baby was a fully grown man, and most of the things fully grown men want can't be wrapped and handed to them. A tax break. She remembered a time when he'd ask for comic books or toys or bicycles; his eyes would light up, his face would glow, and his little body would tremble with excitement. Now he wanted to pay less money to the government.

Forty-one years. They passed just like that...then again, they seemed to have dragged. When you get right down to it, so much had happened: Eight presidents, two wars, the advent of television...other things she preferred not to think about.

"We can write to President Reagan for him."

Luan sipped. "Lincoln's not a millionaire or a corporation, so Reagan wouldn't care."

Perhaps not. "He likes guns."

"He's not an Iranian or a Contra, so Reagan wouldn't care about that either."

Rita chuckled. She was right about that. Can you believe President Reagan came on TV and said we weren't trading weapons for hostages...then came on again and admitted we were? Why would he lie like that? They were saying he didn't know the extent of it, but Rita wondered. She also wondered if that North man wasn't taking the blame so President Reagan wouldn't have to.

Were politicians always lying scoundrels, or was that new? She couldn't remember President Hoover or President Roosevelt blatantly lying to the nation. President Coolidge either, though she could only recall the tail end of his presidency: Her father liked him. From what she'd read, President Harding was a crook...so maybe it wasn't new after all.

Something completely unrelated occurred to her. "Are you coming home tonight?"

Luan's shoulders tensed slightly and her eyes flickered down to her mug...which told Rita she probably wasn't.

Over the past year, Luan had taken to spending Saturday nights with her 'friend' and coming home late Sunday afternoon or early Sunday evening. Rita was well aware that this friend was a man; Luan was a grown woman and could do what she liked, but Rita couldn't help be curious. Grown woman or not, Luan was still her daughter.

She reached across the table and touched the girl's hand. "I don't mean to pry, dear, but you've been seeing this man for a while, and I'd like to know something about him. A name, what he does for a living, is he tall? Short? Colored?"

Still staring into her coffee, Luan started to speak, but hesitated. "It's complicated," she said.

Rita blinked. "Why?"

Luan sighed. As a mother herself, she understood Mom wanting to know about the man she was "seeing". She would feel the same way in her shoes. Talking about her relationship with Fred wasn't something she particularity wanted to do, though. One, if she was completely open, Mom wouldn't understand...and Luan would feel terrible about herself because if she told the truth, it would make her sound pathetic: I'm a lonely middle aged woman hugging, kissing, and sleeping with someone I'm not in love with because I need affection...from a man...and I need to give affection TO a man. Two...it WAS complicated. She wasn't in love with him, but she did feel for him...a warm, tender something that she couldn't quite name. If she thought too much about it, she wound up confused and conflicted. Did she even know what real love WAS? What if her feelings for Fred WERE love, and everything she felt for Clyde and Ted weren't? What if it was a different type of love? How do you know when you feel love? How can you separate it from lust, infatuation, and fondness? When she was with Clyde, every moment away from him was an agony; she didn't feel that way with Fred, though she was happy to see him when she did. She never caught herself staring off into space with her chin in her hand, wondering what he was doing. She never felt giddy at the prospect of spending time with him...but she did enjoy it, though.

It made her angry that she was an adult but didn't know her own emotions...her own heart.

Presently, she could feel her mother's gaze on her, and she felt the sudden urge to squirm like a child who'd done something wrong. She didn't want to talk about this...but her mother had a right to know. "It's Lincoln's cook. Fred."

Her mother's brow pinched slightly. "I don't think I've met him. Lincoln's mentioned his name though. He was in the war too, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Luan said. She knew from things she overheard him say to Lincoln that he was in Korea and was a drill sergeant afterwards, beyond that his life was a mystery...save that he was married and divorced. He didn't really talk much about himself, but neither did Luan.

Mom hummed. "How old is he?"

"Fifty-six."

"What kind of man is he?"

Luan opened her mouth but closed it again as she grasped for a meaningful description. He was affectionate - when they were together he was always touching her, and when they had sex, it was slow and sweet and passionate. He kept his apartment immaculate - his bed neatly made, his things obsessively organized and placed just so. He bore himself with the inborn pride of a military man; he struck her as the type of man who wouldn't surrender or be dissuaded...if he set a goal for himself, he would meet it or die trying.

Most importantly, Luan felt safe with him...at ease. Beyond that, the superficial facets of his personality really didn't matter.

"He's...he's a good man. He's gentle and...and kind. He's great. Really great."

Mom nodded. "That's nice. I still don't see why it's complicated, but that's none of my business. You should have him over to dinner one night so we can meet him."

"Maybe," Luan said and got up. "I'll talk to him." She finished her coffee, took the cup over to the sink, then came back and kissed her mother's cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too, honey."

"I'll be back early tomorrow."

"Don't rush," Mom said. "Your father and I are fine."

On the drive to work, Luan thought long and hard about her relationship with Fred, her life, and her many, many shortcomings. She was a murderer, a piss poor mother, emotionally fragile, and ultimately selfish. A real piece of shit. When Fred looked at her and touched her, she didn't feel like a piece of shit, though, and when she touched and held him, she didn't feel selfish. She wasn't lying when she told her mother it was complicated, it was. VERY complicated. Or maybe it wasn't...maybe it was painfully simple: They each had something the other needed. Case closed, end of story. Luan didn't know. She DID know that she liked feeling good, and she liked making him feel good, not just physically but emotionally too. If that's so wrong, well...send her back to jail.

She probably belonged there anyway.

* * *

When Lola came into the kitchen that Saturday morning, she found her daughter strapped into her high chair and throwing her little body from side to side as she sang a high, wordless tune. AHH-AHH-AHHHHH! She wore a light purple dress and her sandy blonde hair was held up in pigtails. Her mouth, wide open in song, was smeared brown.

Bobby sat at the table and sang with her as he carved a pancake with his fork: He stabbed a hunk and offered it to the little girl. She leaned forward, took it in her mouth, and let out a long, happy ummmmmmmm.

Lola smiled. "Chocolate, Bobby, really?"

Bobby turned his head, saw her standing in the doorway, and grinned sheepishly. "She needed a pick-me-up. She was VERY groggy this morning."

Stephanie slapped the tray. "Mmmmmmm!"

Lola laughed and went to the counter. "She's going to be bouncing off the walls ALL day now."

"Nah," Bobby said, "only half the day. She'll crash at two and take a nice, long nap." He forked another piece of pancake and held it out to his daughter. "Won't you, baby girl?"

She reached up, took the pancake in her hand, and pressed it to her lips.

It was true, but until she conked out, she would be a holy terror, ripping through the house like a bullet through a body...and doing just as much damage. Lola liked having nice things around the house - vases, figurines, plants - but Ms. Stephanie Nicole Santiago did not...she liked having broken things around the house. As soon as she learned to walk, she was getting into things, knocking things over, smashing things against the floor. Eventually they had to pack all of the surviving vases and figurines into boxes and put them in the attic. That little girl wore Lola out.

But she loved her to pieces.

Presently, she poured coffee into a mug, went over to the table, and kissed her daughter on the top of her head. "Morning, baby."

Stephanie rocked back and forth. "Mmmmm!"

"Apparently pancakes are more important right now," Lola said and kissed Bobby on the cheek. "Did you make any for me?" she asked and playfully batted her lashes.

"Of course I did. They're on the stove."

"Hmmm. Thank you."

She sat her coffee down, grabbed a plate and a fork from the drying rack, and went over to the stove, where a stack of chocolate chip pancakes waited. She slapped three on, then sat across from Bobby. "These look really good," she said as she poured a measure of syrup on.

"Mmmmm!" Stephanie agreed.

"Daddy did a good job."

Bobby blushed.

After Stephanie was born, they spent the whole summer and part of the fall in Royal Woods. During that time, Bobby took it upon himself to learn how to cook among other things. His mom spent hours in the kitchen with him, teaching him to make everything from pancakes to Sunday dinner...it took a while because Bobby was bad at focusing, but it was important to him, so he knuckled down and eventually got it. Lola appreciated his efforts very much, and in those five months, her love for him only deepened.

She took a bite and chewed. "It tastes even better."

Bobby waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, stop. It's just pancakes."

Stephanie slapped her tray and leaned forward, her lips pressed together and her eyes wide. "Mmmmmmmm!"

Lola laughed. "Stephy says otherwise."

Bobby shrugged. "Okay, yeah, I AM pretty great."

"Yes you are."

Later, as they were finishing up, the phone rang. Since Bobby was cleaning Stephanie's face and hands, Lola answered it, sitting on the couch and lifting the handset to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hi, hon!" Lana cried.

Lola grinned. "Hey. How's it going?"

"It's going good," Lana said, "I actually need to talk to you about something."

Her tone was suddenly serious, somber even, and Lola's heart jagged. "What?" she asked worriedly, "what's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing," Lana sighed heavily, "it's just that me and Jed are, you know..."

No, Lola DIDNT know. "Are you fighting?"

When Lana spoke next, Lola could hear a mischievous smile in her sister's voice. "Nope. We're pregnant."

For a moment the concept didn't compute, then it clicked and she gasped. "Really?"

"Umhm. A month and a half."

"Congratulations!"

"Thank you. We're really excited."

Lola smiled archly. "Maybe it'll be twins."

Lana laughed. "Honey, I don't know if I can handle THAT. Jeez, three little ones at the same time? You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"Mrs. Loud did it. All of her kids were a year apart."

"Yeah, well, Jesus walked on water, honey, something tells me I can't do that either."

Lola shrugged. "Eh. You never know until you try. How's Jed taking the news?"

"He screamed like a little girl seeing her favorite band," Lana laughed.

"Good, I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, hon. Is my niece around? I wanna talk to her."

"Yeah, she's here." Lola put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Bobby? Can you bring Stephy here, please?"

"Yeah!" Bobby called back. A minute later he carried Stephanie into the room and sat next to Lola.

Lola took the girl and sat her in her lap. "Talk to Aunt Lana?"

Stephanie blinked as Lola held the phone to her ear. "Hi, honey!" Lana said. "What'cha up to?"

"Lana's pregnant," Lola said.

Bobby's eyebrows raised. "Really? Going back for seconds, huh?' He leaned over his daughter. "Congrats, Lan."

"Thank you, Bobby boo boo bear!"

Bobby blushed. You know, he could barely take Lola calling him that, but anyone else? Forget about it.

Stephanie looked confused - she could hear her aunt but not see her. She tilted her head. "Uh?"

"Thank you too, honey! Me and Uncle Jed are hoping for a little girl, which means y'all can do make up and whatnot together. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Uh?"

Lola laughed and stroked her daughter's cheek. Truth be told, she'd been considering another one for months now. She didn't know how good a mama she was, but she did know this: She enjoyed being a mother.

She thought of Mrs. Loud and all her kids. Yep...she could see herself having six...or more...maybe even, say, eleven?


	125. May 1988

**Lyrics to _Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car_ by Billy Ocean (1988); _Kokomo_ by The Beach Boys (1988)**

Jessy peeked anxiously through the curtain: The auditorium was so packed with people that they were standing in the aisles and along the walls. Gulp.

Large crowds were one of the admittedly many things that made Jessys nervous: All of those eyes silently watching you, tracking your every move, waiting for you to slip up and stumble. There goes Jessica Loud, she could hear them say, she fell down at her own graduation in front of EVERYONE. The biggest and most monumental moment of her life, the most SACRED moment, and she embarrassed herself. Tsk.

She drew her head back and turned to her classmates. They were lined up and ready to walk out and receive their diplomas just as soon as their valedictorian, that smug, self-congratulatory bastard Chuck Spencer, got tired of hearing his own voice and ended his speech.

In other words, they were going to be here a while.

Not that she minded. She was not looking forward to going out there.

"Ah, reminds me of my own high school graduation," Alex said beside her; it was her turn to look through the curtain. "Seems like it was only last year."

"That's because it was," Jessy pointed out. She reached up, took her ponytail in her hands, and started to twist it.

Alex pulled away from the curtain and looked at her. "Was it? Huh. Time drags when you're not having fun."

Last summer Alex started waiting tables at Flip's. Tim was taking auto engineering classes at a technical school in Detroit and commuting back and forth; Alex told her he was thinking about dropping out because he already knew everything they were teaching. He wanted to get back to working for his father and get a place with Alex. Alex was on the fence - she loved Tim, but was she ready to live with him? That's probably a bigger step in a relationship than sex.

Not that Jessy would know...she and Mark hadn't gone all the way yet. In fact, they hadn't even gone most of the way yet; the farthest they ever went was making out. Jessy was ready to advance to the next level - they'd been together two years by now and their relationship had enough depth as far as she was concerned. Soon, it WOULD happen (quit rushing me!), but for right now, she had bigger fish to fry.

Like going out on stage and accepting her diploma without making a fool of herself. God, what if she tripped on her gown? It was really long and she wasn't used to having fabric covering her feet. She saw it vividly; she goes out, steps on it, and the material rips away from her body. She was wearing her clothes underneath, but in her vision she wasn't, and everyone saw her vulnerable nakedness. The thought of showing it to Mark made her feel a little warm, but the thought of showing it to anyone else made her feel a LOT cold.

Alex was looking through the curtain again. "Hey, there's Dad! And Mom! And Grandma and Grandpa and Bobby Jr. and Nikki...and I think that woman with the sunglasses and hat pulled real low is Lola. Auntie Luan, Auntie Lori...hm, must be her day off. Oooh, I see Mark. He's skipping, isn't he? Bad Mark."

Jessy's heart started to race and she twisted her ponytail so hard tears sprang to her eyes.

"All of Royal Woods is here."

Jessy's stomach clenched.

"And half of the surrounding communities, too." Alex pulled back and shook her head. "Makes my graduation look..." she trailed off and frowned. "You alright?' she asked softly.

Jessy shook her head. "No," she squeaked, "I'm very nervous."

Frowning even more, Alex came over and put her arms around Jessy's shoulders. Jessy was trembling slightly, her face drawn and pale. "Don't be nervous, Jess, you're gonna do fine."

Jessy took a deep, shuddery breath and turned to her sister; her big hazel eyes were moist with worry. "What if I look stupid?"

"You won't," Alex said. "You're going to look like a beautiful, intelligent girl who's graduating high school and starting down a bright path."

"What - ?"

"If you fall down I'll come out there and fall with you. I'll make sure to get a running start and take out the podium."

An image came to mind: Alex crashing into the podium and falling off the stage with it, her eyes wide and her arms flapping like impotent wings as a shocked gasp ran through the crowd. Despite herself, she chuckled. "You wouldn't do that."

Alex let go of her and pulled off her denim jacket (this one had sleeves). She tossed it aside, carefully removed the golden hoops from her ears, and threw them on top of the coat. "Yes I would, and I'd yell like an Indian as I did it."

Jessy laughed. God, that'd be so humiliating; people would tell their grandkids about it. Yeah, some weird girl rushed out on stage during my graduation hooting and hollering, then speared the podium right off the stage. She broke a bunch of bones and spent a couple weeks in the mental institution in Stanton.

Alex grinned. "I'm dead serious, I'll do it. I can't say I particularity WANT to, but I will."

"Thank you," Jessy said and hugged her.

"Anytime," Alex replied and hugged her back. "I love you, Jess."

"I love you too, Bunny."

Alex kissed her sister's cheek and backed up...then sighed. "Is that dude STILL talking?"

Jessy nodded sadly. "Chuck's really full of himself."

"I can tell." She parted the curtain and looked out, then glanced at Jessy with a devious smile. "Watch this."

Jessy's heart dropped. "Bunny, d -"

Before she could finish her thought...Bunny did it: She cupped her hand to her mouth and leaned through the gap. "Let's hurry it up."

Chuck whipped his head around, a shadow flickering across his face. Alex fell back and pulled the curtain closed. "I think he saw me," she whispered, and for some reason it all stuck Jessy as so funny she laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

Perhaps spurred by Alex's call to wrap it up, Chuck ended his speech shortly after, and the principal began to call students out according to the first initial of their last name. Thunderous applause filled the arena every time one went through the curtain; the threshold to adulthood. Jessy's heart started to throb as her turn approached; her hand crept into Alex's, and Alex squeezed reassuringly.

"I'm telling you, Jess. If you embarrass yourself I'll embarrass myself ten times harder...even if I have to show everyone my butt to do it."

Jessy shook her head. "It's not that. It's just...once I step through that curtain, I'm an adult. Kind of intimidating."

Alex snorted. "You've always been an adult."

"I mean it," Jessy said seriously.

Alex shrugged. "Well...technically you're not an adult until you're eighteen, so you've got a couple months."

That was true, but in a literal sense. In a symbolic sense, she would be a grown up the moment that diploma touched her hand. She wasn't afraid of adulthood, but once you realize that you are literally standing at childhood's end...and that life as you know it is about to drastically change...you're apt to feel a LITTLE apprehensive, right?

Onstage, the principal called her name, and her heart skipped a beat. "There's your cue," Alex said. She squeezed Jessy's shoulder. "Don't worry. This is supposed to be a happy day."

Jessy nodded. "You're right." She worked very hard to get here and now she was going to bask in the glow of her accomplishment. She turned to Alex. "Wish me luck?"

"Luck."

Jessy took a deep breath and went through the curtain. She put on a brave smile, walked to the principal, and took her diploma. She glanced at the shadowy gallery of faces, but they were backlit against hot floodlights and it was hard to see.

"Congratulations, Jessica," the principal said.

"Thank you," Jessy replied. She hurried across the stage and ducked through the curtains without embarrassing herself. Whew, THAT'S a relief.

When the ceremony was over, she and Alex met up with the others outside; the day was bright and warm with a fresh spring breeze that smelled like flowers. Mom was the first to hug her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and kissing her forehead. "I'm so proud of you," she said tearfully and stroked Jessy's hair. Jessy felt her own tears welling in her eyes and blinked them back. "Thank you," Jessy said and hugged her back.

Grandma was next. "I'm proud of you too, dear."

Grandpa put one arm around her shoulder and patted her back, his other arm leaning heavily against his cane. "You're a grown woman now, do you know what that means?"

Jessy shook her head. "No, what?"

"In no time at all you'll be as old as me."

Auntie Ronnie Anne came forward, but Bobby Jr. cut her off. "Good job, Jess," he said and swept her into a warm embrace.

"Thanks," she laughed and hugged him back. The anxiety was wearing off and she was starting to feel really good. Either she was getting over the initial shock of jumping into adulthood - like jumping into VERY cold water - or her family's love was lifting her up. She suspected it was the latter.

"You're my favorite cousin, you know that?" he asked. "You never once hit me...or shot me in the face with metal polish."

Alex sighed. "That was ten years ago, Bobby, get over it."

Auntie Ronnie Anne finally got her turn; she held Jessy at arms' length and fixed her with misty eyes. "You're all grown up now," she said. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and she blinked rapidly. She sucked her quivering lips in and hugged Jessy to her breast. "I'm not ready for this."

Uncle Lincoln came after. His eyes, too, were misty. "I'm very proud of you," he said simply.

"Thank you," Jessy beamed. Of all the praise she'd gotten so far, his meant the most.

"You're going to go be a great teacher. Better than your aunt." He glanced over his shoulder at Auntie Ronnie Anne, who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. "She didn't set the bar very high, though," he said loud enough for her to hear. In an instant, her tears burned away as her brow flattened. Uncle Lincoln turned back to Jessy and squeezed her shoulder. "When she's sad I make her mad; it always snaps her right out of it."

Jessy grinned. She knew. Uncle Lincoln had his ways; he was a very wise man.

Auntie Lori hugged her so tight her eyes bugged out. "You were wonderful. I'm proud of you too."

Lola was next to last. She held Stephanie in her arms. Jessy smiled at the little girl, and she smiled back. "Esssss!"

"That's right," Lola said, "Jessy graduated school. She's officially a big girl now." She smirked and pulled Jessy into a one armed hug. "Congratulations. How does it feel?"

Jessy nodded and took a deep breath. "Overwhelming," she admitted.

"New things usually are, but you got this."

"Thanks."

Last but certainly not least was Mark. He came forward and hugged her. "That was pretty impressive, the way you took that diploma. Solid 9.5 out of 10."

Jessy giggled. "Why not a 10?"

"Well, there was a delay between your name being called and you coming out, so I had to deduct half a point. Otherwise it was perfect."

Jessy kissed him. "You could have just given it to me, you know. I AM your girlfriend after all."

Mark shrugged. "Sorry, I don't engage in favoritism."

"Hmmm. I do." She kissed him again, and he kissed her back. When they pulled apart, Jessy was warm and quivery. Tripping over your gown as you go to accept your diploma is embarrassing, but you know what's even MORE embarrassing? Being turned on in front of your whole family.

* * *

Tim Underwood was torn: He wanted an automotive engineering degree, but he also wanted to drop out of school and start his life. Every day debated the pros and cons of both options with himself until his mind ached. His father owned a mechanic shop and wanted to pass it on to him. It didn't make a fortune, but it made enough. His old man was fifty-three and really looking forward to retiring in a couple years, which meant that by '91 or '92 at the latest, the shop would be his.

On the other hand, he was terrified of not having something to fall back on in case things went south. They say not to put all your eggs in one basket...because if you do and that basket gets knocked off the table or squished by a freak asteroid...well, you're shit out of luck. No business lasts forever. Oh, it might last fifty years, or a hundred, or even a thousand, but if mountains can be worn away, so too can a small town auto garage.

He was fairly sure that he could find a decent job if he had to, but he didn't want 'decent', he wanted 'great'...because he planned to marry Alex Loud and have children with her.

Of course it was all up to her (you can't marry someone and reproduce with them if they're not willing...maybe you can, but you'd need soundproofing and lots of locks on the doors). If it were entirely up to him, though, they'd already be married.

He wasn't an outwardly emotional person. In fact, he was a lot like Mark: Non-expressive, un-animated, maybe even a little monotonous. He didn't try to be that way, he just was. You might not think he felt deeply, but he did...especially when it came to Alex. Now, the phrase "madly in love" always struck him as kind of girlish - you don't hear very many dudes saying that - but it described how he felt about Alex perfectly...he was madly in love with her. He loved the sound of her voice, the cute way her brow pinched when she was angry, how bright and silly she was, how determined and competitive she could get...you know, it'd be easier to list the things he DIDN'T love about her. Actually no, it wouldn't, because he couldn't think of a single thing. Sure, he'd probably find some after they were married, but no one's perfect. His Mom was kind of religious so he knew the Bible pretty well, and though it never said, even Jesus had to poop, and after a long day in the hot Mideast sun, he HAD to be sweaty and smelly.

Where was he again? Oh, yeah, so Alex wasn't perfect but he couldn't come up with anything about her that he didn't like. He loved her and he wanted to make her his wife because come on, Alex is grade A marriage material. You'd have to be an idiot not to put a ring on her finger.

And kids...he never thought he'd want children, but he really, really, REALLY liked the idea of having a baby with Alex; he thought about that a lot, you know, them raising this cute little kid together. It always sent a ripple of longing through his stomach. Always made him happy.

He wanted the best possible job so he'd always be able to take care of Alex and their children. That meant sticking it out.

He didn't want to stick it out, though. He wanted to get his life started already.

It'd be worth it, though.

These thoughts and others swirled through his mind as he drove to Royal Woods from Detroit on the afternoon of May 16, two days following Jessy's graduation. Usually his classes ended about six, but today the teachers were having a huge orgy (not really) so afternoon courses were canceled; it was two'o'clock and he had the whole rest of the day to himself. This didn't happen very often and he really didn't know what to do. Alex was at work, and with her is where he wanted to be, so...a movie? Nah, probably not. The only movie out right now worth watching was Friday the 13th: The New Blood, but he wanted to see that with Alex. The arcade? He hadn't been there in forever, why not stop in for a round of Pac-Man or something?

Eh. The arcade was boring without Alex. EVERYTHING was boring without Alex. Including life itself, which is why he asked her to move in with him. He had his own place (kind of...it was an apartment above his parents' garage) so...there you go. She wanted to 'think about it' though. Okay. That's fine. It's not like he dreamed of waking up next to her every morning, and falling asleep next to her every night. Nope. He didn't want her to say yes so badly it hurt, and if she said no he sure as shit wasn't going to beg. Pffft. Not him. He might say 'please' though.

When he got to Royal Woods, he decided on lunch. It WAS that time, and what better place to go than to Flip's? For the burgers, of course, they're, uh, they're really good this time of year. Quality beef.

...

Nah, he was going because of Alex.

A couple minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot and slid into a spot between a Ford pick-up and a red Chevy. Through the front window, he saw a bunch of people eating chicken and stuff. You know, typical restaurant scene. He got out, went inside, and looked around, spotting Alex taking some old guy's order, her pen poised over her note pad and her head tilted forward. His eyes went instantly to her butt; her uniform was REALLY tight across it. He grabbed a table and watched her. When she turned to take the order to the kitchen, their eyes locked, and she grinned in that cute little closed lip way of hers. He grinned back and nodded.

She took the ticket to the window and then hurried over, slipping in across from him and leaning forward. He reached out and took her hands, the soft brush of her slender fingers making his heart race. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied.

"You're out early. Skipping? Really?"

Tim snickered. "No, Mom, I'm not skipping. They canceled classes. Some kind of teacher lovefest or something."

Alex's eyes sparkled. "I could go for a lovefest."

"Me too. This place have a store room?"

"No!" Alex gasped. "I'm NOT doing that at work."

Tim shrugged. He didn't figure she would. She was actually pretty conservative when it came to sex. Oh, she liked it, but she wasn't too keen on getting weird, you know? Like doing it in public or anything. I'm not a slut, Underwood, she told him once, I just like having sex with you. Okay. Great. Never said you were, and if you don't, there's a problem...with you or me.

"When I get off, though, we can go back to your place and do it." She giggled girlishly.

"Alright," Tim smiled, "sounds like a plan. You wanna see the new Jason movie afterward?"

Alex's jaw dropped. "Yes, I do. Meagan said it was REALLY gross and bloody." She laughed and threaded her fingers through his. "Then we can go back to your place do it AGAIN."

The fire in her eyes made him stir. She loved doing it, which was awesome, because he loved doing it too: There was nothing better in the world than making love to Alex Loud. Slow, sweet, lots of touching and kissing and giggling like little schoolgirls when someone says 'tit mouse'. Yeah, they were dorks, but they were dorks together.

He opened his mouth to ask her if she'd given the idea of them moving in together anymore thought, but stopped. Don't want to heavy up the mood; he'd ask her later.

"Then we can go out to eat," he said, "and then do it again."

Alex grinned. "Then go to a club...and do it again."

"Or...we could rent a movie, order pizza, and stay in bed."

She smiled widely. "I like the way you think. Now what do you want...besides me?"

* * *

Lynn Loud Jr. sat the box on the kitchen table and took a moment to catch his breath. He was twenty pounds shy of three hundred, his cholesterol was high, and his blood pressure made his doctor shit. Lynn, he said and put a concerned hand on Lynn's shoulder, you need to lose some weight.

Lynn's first instinct was to tell doc to buzz off, but...yeah, he WAS kind of fat, and being at an increased risk for heart attack wasn't exactly his idea of a good time: He was almost forty-four and being fat at forty-four is a good way to die. Lynn didn't want to die; he wanted to retire and enjoy his grandkids once his daughter got around to having some.

Which probably wouldn't be too long now, since she was taking the first step to domestication: She and Ritchie were moving in together. From there, kids were only a hop, skip, and a jump away.

With that in mind, Lynn had taken to exercising and eating better. Well...he couldn't say it was 'better' but it would help keep him from heart attacking his way into the grave at forty-six. He hadn't been at it long, and carrying all these heavy boxes was really taking its toll.

"You alright?" Lynn asked as she came into the kitchen. She sat a box of plates and silverware on the counter next to the sink.

"Yep, just taking a break."

He turned to his daughter; she put her hand on her hip and signed. "Almost done," she assured him. She was wearing jeans and a plaid button up with the cuffs rolled over her forearms and the hem hanging sloppily over her waistband. She called it her 'moving uniform.' Lynn himself wore dark slacks and a lime green polo shirt. He should have worn old clothes: He was covered in dirt and sweat.

"MY part's almost done," he said, "yours is just beginning." He looked around at all the boxes that needed to be unpacked...all of the things that needed to be put away. Shiver. He hated moving; he and Kathy were still in the same house they'd lived in for twenty years mainly because the idea of packing, moving, and unpacking made Lynn's dick retract into his stomach. Also...they didn't really NEED to move. The house was big enough for them...in fact, with their little girl gone, it was too big.

Sigh.

"Eh, it's not THAT bad," Lynn said and leaned against the counter. "It's a one bedroom apartment."

A fairly big one bedroom apartment; it was in a nice building on a shaded side street with a big park across the street and an elementary school two blocks down.

"You say that now, but just wait."

In the living room, Ritchie and Slater sat the couch against the wall, Ritchie on one side and Slater on the other. "Easy, easy," Ritchie cautioned.

"I'm BEING easy," Slater panted.

Kaufman came in with the TV, his back bowed and his knees bent. His teeth were clenched and his face was red. He carefully sat it on the floor and let out a burst of air. "Holy Jesus fuck," he panted. "Why are these things so heavy?"

Lynn Jr. laughed. "In my day it took three people and a forklift to move a television. Once you put it down, you weren't moving it again."

Lynn III leaned forward and slapped his arm. "I didn't know they had TV back then, old man."

He chuckled. "Yeah, they were made of stone and got half a channel."

"That explains why they were so heavy."

Outside, Lynn found his wife going through a box perched on back of the moving truck, her dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and her blue summer dress fluttering around her body in the harsh desert breeze. Lynn slipped an arm around her waist and she turned her head. "This one's ready to go. Be careful. It's fragile."

Lynn looked into the back. All that remained was the bed, the bed frame, and a long waist high dresser. Now THAT looks like a job for Slater and Kaufman. "You know, once this truck's unpacked, our baby's officially a woman."

Kathy sighed. "I know. Depressing, isn't it?"

"Yep," Lynn said, "but on the bright side, we can finally walk around the house naked."

Kathy laughed. "I am NOT walking around the house naked, Lynn."

"Oh...can I?"

"If you want."

Lynn lifted a victory fist. "Yes."

He carried the box in and put it on the kitchen floor at his daughter's direction. She stood by the threshold to the living room with her arms crossed, Ritchie next to her, his arm around her shoulder. "Wow, we have a lot of stuff," Ritchie said.

"That's what I said," Lynn Jr. pointed out.

Lynn III rolled her eyes. "You're both wimps."

After Slater and Kaufman brought in the bed and their services were no longer needed, they left, and Lynn insisted on making dinner ("We gotta break this bad boy in," she said of the kitchen). Since she wasn't the cook her mother was, it was only frozen pizza, but she delighted in making it, even though she wasn't the domestic type. Lynn remembered the heady rush he felt during the first week he and Kathy were on their own...there's nothing quite like it, and he grinned now as he watched his daughter experience it for herself.

"Lynn, stop opening the oven," Ritchie said the tenth time she peeked in. "The pizza's never gonna cook at this rate." He was sitting at the table across from Lynn and Kathy; they sat all the boxes on the floor to make room, now the kitchen was a non negotiable jumble with two narrow passageways.

"Can it, Haveman," Lynn said and slammed the door shut, "I'm the woman, I know what I'm doing."

She didn't: She turned the temp too high and the bottom of the pizza came out black. They ate it though, and when it came time to leave, Lynn hugged his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. "Congrats, honey."

"Thanks, Dad."

Lynn felt like he was going to cry, but he managed to hold back his tears, even as memories washed over him: Lynn at the age of four in her little overalls, a ball in one hand and a mitt on the other, glowing with excitement because they were going to the park to play baseball; Lynn at eleven, coming home dirty and scraped up from playing with her friends and wearing a big shit eating grin; Lynn at sixteen, a beautiful young woman now and no longer the kid he always thought of her as. He didn't cry, but he did come damn close.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow." He said this to confirm to himself that he would still see her...that he would still have her even if she lived across town, even if she had her own life.

"I'll be there," she vowed.

While Kathy took her turn and hugged her daughter tightly, Lynn stuck his hand out to Ritchie. "Well, she's your problem now," he joked. As Lincoln says: You either laugh or cry and I don't feel like crying.

"Pray for me," Ritchie said, and Lynn laughed.

"I'll do that if you do something for me." He leaned close. "Please take care of her."

Ritchie nodded solemnly. "I will."

Lynn had no choice but to trust him. He always liked Ritchie, don't get him wrong, but Lynn was his little girl, and she was precious to him. With something like that, it's hard to trust ANYONE...even, sometimes, yourself.

Lynn and Ritchie stood on the walk and waved as her parents' car pulled out and disappeared down the street. Ritchie meant what he said to Lynn's father. He would always take care of her, because she was his world.

Even if she WAS a lousy cook.

She back handed him across the chest, startling him from his thoughts. "Alright," she said, a glint creeping into her eyes, "we broke in the kitchen...how about we break in the bedroom?"

And they did.

Twice.

* * *

Waaaay in the back of her heart, Alex Loud had always felt adrift, aimless, like she was just hanging out in life, leaning against the counter by the chip bowl while everyone else contrived to DO something - get drunk, get laid, you know, things. It's a metaphor. Jessy had known for a long time what she wanted to be, so did Tim and Mark and Meagan, but her? She just be bopped along with her Walkman around her neck, lah-de-dah-do-dah, I'm Alex Loud and I'm so cool. La-la-la-LAAAAAAA!

She didn't know she felt this way until she started working at Flip's. Dad talked about making her the manager and eventually passing the place onto her one day, which was great, you know...being handed a business. Over a period of time, though, she came to realize that as totally tubular as that was, she was just kind of...going along. She did some soul searching and, whoa, holy shit, girl, you have no goals or ambition.

You know how that made her feel? Like a fucking loser, that's how. She needed to forge her own path and not just run a restaurant because eh, I got nothing better to do. She needed to grow the hell up and find a calling or something.

But what? For a while there she thought she wanted to be an awesome metal musician, but she couldn't sing, had no rhythm, and when she tried to play the guitar, the strings tore her fingers to fuck. She didn't want to teach or be a nurse or the first female president, she wanted to...I don't know, have fun.

Then one day it hit her. She was sitting in bed after a long day at Flip's and reading the new Stephen King book The Tommyknockers.

It sucked. Sorry, Steve, I love ya, but crack a window the next time you fart, okay? Really, it was a lame-o experience from start to finish; she WOULD have stopped, but she didn't like starting a book and not finishing, so she was pretty much locked in. Sigh. "You know," she said to Jessy after a particularly boring chapter, "I could write a better book. Dude's losing it."

Jessy was writing a letter to her aunt Barbara; still putting off going to see her. Tsk, tsk, tsk. "Do it," she said absently.

Those two words were like a bullet to the floodgates of her mind or something. That's it! A horror writer! It made such sense, she loved horror and she loved reading. Boom. She could see it now: A SPINECHILLING NEW NOVEL FROM ALEX LOUD, THE BEST HORROR WRITER TO EVER PUT PEN TO PAPER. SERIOUSLY, SHE MAKES STEPHEN KING LOOK LIKE A JOKE. It'd be a big, thick hardback too, with a glossy cover depicting a monster so horrifying grown men would piddle and cry home to their mothers.

She wasn't dumb; she had to start small. That very night, she embarked on her very first short story, writing longhand in a notebook balanced on her knees. Today, Sunday, less than half an hour before Nikki's second birthday party, the wrote THE END with a flourish and nodded appreciatively at her masterpiece: It was ten pages of monsters, dead people, blood, guts, and horny teenagers dying in painful ways. She was especially proud of the scene where the girl's getting it on with the guy in the dark, then a moonbeam comes through the window and reveals his dead, rotted face. She screams and tries to get away, but he holds her down and "totally injected his cold, gunky zombie-sperm into her horrified vagina." If that didn't give you nightmares, brother, you got issues.

She sat her pencil aside and glanced at Jessy, who was sitting cross legged on her bed and wrapping their present to Nikki while humming "Faith" by George Michael. Heh. This girl has no idea what's about to hit her. "Oh, Jess," she said in a singsong voice.

"Hmmm?"

"When you're done with that, can you help me with something?"

Jessy ripped off a length of tape, pressed down a fold of paper with nimble fingers, and looked up. "What?"

"I need a first reader for my story. You know...for feedback." She smiled innocently.

For a moment Jessy stared at her. "Uhh, I don't know. Something tells me it's not my kind of story."

"No, it is. It's a coming-of-age romance about kids at a summer camp." That wasn't TOTALLY false. There were kids, it was set at a summer camp, they were, uh, all ages, and there was come. Well...of the three letter variety. She wasn't lying, she was just neglecting to mention all the other stuff. Hey, you can't put ALL the details of your story on the back cover; if you do, who's going to bother to actually READ it?

Jessy's brow furrowed with skepticism. "Alright, let me see it."

Jumping up, Alex crossed the room and handed the manuscript to her sister as though it were made of glass. "Be VERY careful with it," she warned, "it's my only copy."

"I will."

Alex retreated to her bed and keenly watched Jessy's reactions: She winced, she gaped, she clutched her chest, she gagged at one point (must be the zombie sperm part), and she paled.

Over the years, Jessy had seen a lot of horror movies with Alex, and had even read a few horror novels, but this...THIS was bad. As in, she felt queasy reading it.

"We're leaving!" Auntie Ronnie Anne called out. "Are you coming?"

Jessy couldn't have replied if she wanted to.

"We'll catch up!" Alex replied.

"Alright, but hurry."

"We will."

Finally, thankfully, Jessy came to the last paragraph: "Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened the creepy crypt door...and oh shit, monsters everywhere! I'm talking scary ass monsters with big fangs and stuff. He threw his hands up and screamed like a bitch. His hair turned completely white just like my dad's, and he went totally insane. Then the monsters ate his face off. THE END."

Jessy sat the manuscript aside and stared into space, traumatized.

"So?" Alex asked excitedly.

Jessy collected her thoughts. Oh, God, that girl had sex with a zombie! And that guy, the one who had his ribs ripped from his chest...shiver. "Well...it's not what I expected."

With a pfft, Alex waved her hand. "Yeah, I lied."

Yes...you did. "You...you certainly built suspense and...kept me interested." That wasn't a lie, Alex DID write some pretty suspenseful scenes. "Your narrative voice, though..."

Alex blinked. "What about it?"

"It..."

"What?" Alex pressed. "What's wrong with my narrative voice?'

How should she put this? "It's really unconventional."

For a moment Alex stared blankly. "Yeah? So?"

"I doubt it's what publishers are looking for. Pick up one of your Stephen King books and reread some of it. Look at how he writes. Emulate his style."

Alex blinked. "But I'm Alex Loud...not Stephen King."

"I know, but just...pay attention to how he writes a scene."

Alex sighed. "Alright." She was kind of bummed; she hoped Jessy would love it.

"It was a pretty good story overall. Very good for a first effort." She smiled warmly.

That dulled the sting a little.

"Now come on or we'll be late." She grabbed the gift and got up. Alex swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled on her shoes. She was going to write a story so good Jessy would be blown through the bedroom wall and wind up in a heap of rubble in the bathroom with little birds floating around her head. She was going to make her sister swoon with how great it was. She was going to write a story that Jessy could find no fault whatsoever with. THAT was her goal.

But for now, Nikki's party.

She got up and followed Jessy outside; she was loading the gift into the back of her Beetle and humming again, this time a tune Alex didn't recognize. She slammed the hatch. "Ready?"

"Yep," Alex said and got into the passenger seat. Jessy slid in behind the wheel, put on her seatbelt, adjusted the mirror, and a bunch of other stuff. She was like a fighter pilot doing a preflight check; Alex rolled her eyes. "Come on, Jess."

"Safety first," Jessy piped. She started the engine, tuned the radio to WKBBL (WKBEEBEEELLLLLL), set the volume, and rolled down her window. "Seatbelt, please."

Alex put her seatbelt on.

"Thank you." She looked into the mirror, put the car in drive, and backed into the street.

"The Soviet Union has announced it is withdrawing troops from Afghanistan after eight years of fighting in that country..."

Alex snorted. "Really? Way to get beat by a bunch of camel jockies." Dumb Russians. If it was us, we'd be in and out.

Like sex.

"You realize we weren't much better when we beat the British, right?"

"Well...yeah...but we had help from the French. Who's helping the rebels in Afghanistan?"

"Us."

Oh.

For a while they drove in silence as an endless stream of commercials played. Bor-ing. When they finally ended, she breathed a sigh of relief. A song started: A revving engine and synthesizers filtering from the speakers. Alex and Jessy looked at each other, both grinning a little. When it came to music, there wasn't much they both liked, but this was one of those rare cuts they agreed on. Alex had the tape at home, and they both sang along to it...just like they did now, Alex bobbing her head back and forth and Jessy tapping the wheel.

"Who's that lady coming down the road

Who's that lady

Who's that woman walking through my door

What's the score"

It sounded like a chorus of cats was being brutally murdered.

"I'll be the sun shining on you

Hey Cinderella step in your shoe

I'll be your non-stop lover

Get it while you can

Your non-stop miracle, I'm your man"

As the music swelled, Alex and Jessy's voices rose to an ear-piercing pitch: Dogs whined and covered their faces with their paws, babies screamed, and windows up and down the street spontaneously shattered. Alex danced in her seat, and anyone who was unfortunate enough to see her non-rhythm-having ass in action went instantly and irreparably blind. Jessy was more subdued because safety first, of course, but her head bobbled pathetically and her fingers beat an offkey tempo.

"Get outta my dreams

Get in to my car

Get outta my dreams

Get in to the back seat baby

Get in to my car."

They glanced at each other, neither realizing how totally lame they looked. The guy walking his dog did, though; he fell to his knees and heaved the contents of his stomach onto the ground in a steaming pile. Later he hung himself in his garage.

"Lady driver let me take your wheel

Smooth operator

Touch my bumper

Hey, let's make a deal, make it real"

A cop parked at the curb pulled down his sunglasses as they passed, his brows knitting. He'd go after them, but one more police brutality charge and he'd be on permanent desk duty. Fuck THAT.

"Like a road runner

Coming after you

Just like a hero outta the blue

I'll be your non-stop lover

Get it while you can

Your non-stop miracle

I'm your maaaaaaaan"

They were at a red light now, Alex throwing herself against her seatbelt and tossing her head, Jessy moving her shoulders up and down like a scale. Alex glanced out the window, and stopped dead in her tracks. Her father was staring at her from behind the wheel of the station wagon, his arm resting on the door and his brow lifted quizzically. Her mother was leaning forward and smirking.

Jessy saw them, and quickly turned the radio off, her face turning bright scarlet. Music drifted from the wagon...sounded like old people stuff.

"Aruba, Jamaica, oh I want to take you

Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama

Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go"

Alex smiled sheepishly and gave a stiff wave. "Hi."

Her mother snickered. "We raised you better than that."

Dad shook his head slowly. "Tsk. Tsk. Tsk."

The light turned green, and Jessy punched the gas, leaving them behind. "Well, THAT was embarrassing."

"They can't dance either, Jess. They look like two epileptics."

That was true; they caught them dancing more than once and it was NOT a pretty sight.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of the Franklin Ave house and parked next to Bobby and Lola's rent-a-car. It was from Enterprise - they'll pick you up. Jessy cut the engine, grabbed the keys from the ignition, and got out. Alex followed, stretching and yawning. Nothing like writing a good horror story and belting out a good song to tire you out. Which actually was not a good thing, since they were walking inside now, where Nikki waited like a small, caffeinated mammal. Seriously, this girl was hyper. They found her standing at the coffee table in a pink dress, her sandy blonde hair in pigtails. She was playing with a Barbie, making it jump and dance. Lola was sitting on the couch next to Bobby Sr., who watched his granddaughter with a bemused smile...that turned to a snort when she slammed the Barbie face first into the table. "Baaaa BAHbee!"

"Honey, Barbie didn't do anything wrong," Lola sighed.

Nikki cocked her arm back and launched Barbie at the TV: She struck the screen and fell to the carpet. The little girl leaned over the table. "Uggy BAHbee!"

Grandpa chuckled from his chair. "You girls are just in time," he said to Alex and Jessy, "Stephy's on her last toy."

Nikki looked up and grinned widely at them. She started babbling as she came around the table. Alex knelt and held her arms out. "Nikki!"

Jessy held HER arms out. "Stephy!"

The little girl hesitated, looking back and forth between her cousins, not sure which one to go to first.

"Here," Alex said and wiggled her fingers.

"No, HERE," Jessy said.

Alex shot out her elbow and hit her sister's leg. Jessy responded by shoving Alex's shoulder: She toppled over and landed on her side with a breathless oof.

That's when Nikki decided: With a shriek of laughter, she sprang, her feet leaving the floor. Alex glanced up and paled. In slow motion, Nikki's little body fell through the air...then she landed, her knees driving into Alex's side and her elbow hitting her breast. The little girl cried out in joy...the older girl in pain.

Jessy's hand flew to her mouth. Lola winced. Bobby Sr. shook his head. Grandpa laughed. "Be careful what you wish for, sweetie."

Alex sat up and pulled her cousin into her lap; Nikki thrashed and kicked her legs with a high pitched giggle. "You hit my boob," Alex said, "that hurt REALLY bad."

Nikki threw her head back; it landed between Alex's breasts and knocked the air from her lungs. Ow! Felt like a goddamn cannonball.

"Okay," Alex said and released her, "go to Jessy."

Nikki grinned deviously, and Jessy gulped.

It was going to be a long day.

And it was. First, Nikki wanted to play her favorite game: Chase me. Since it was a nice day, Jessy and Alex took her into the backyard so they'd have space; can't play a real game of chase me inside, can you? As soon as they hit the back door, she took off like a shot, streaking across the lawn toward the fence, then following its length before angling back and then veering away with a giggle when Alex leapt off the bottom step and went after her. Jessy watched from the porch. She and Bunny had a system: When one got tired they'd tag in the other. They'd tried both going after her at once, but they wore out at the same time while Stephy would still be pumped up and raring to go.

"I'm gonna get you!" Alex cried as she caught up to the toddler, who screamed laughter and ran faster, her little legs lumbering stiffly. Alex leaned forward...and her feet tangled: She went down with a sharp cry.

Jessy winced. "Are you okay?" she called.

"Fine!" Alex replied and got to her feet. She didn't have rhythm...and she also didn't have grace. I'm the worst girl ever, she thought. Nikki was running along the fence again, her pigtails streaming behind her. She reached the end, went right, and passed the porch, where Jessy was sitting on the top step now, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. Alex went after her cousin, and finally caught her. "Now it's Jessy's turn!"

Jessy's turn lasted fifteen minutes, and the whole time Alex watched, Nikki never stopped running: Jessy would catch up to her and fall back, catch up to her, and fall back. "I'm trying to tire her out," she explained when Alex raised an eyebrow.

"Like THAT'S gonna happen."

It didn't. A half an hour later, Nikki burst through the back door and tore through the kitchen; Alex and Jessy followed, their shoulders slumped and their chests heaving. One was totally white and the other was half Hispanic, but both were red faced. Bobby Jr. and Lincoln were sitting at the kitchen table with Grandma. They all turned as Nikki screamed into the living room and disappeared around the corner.

"She does not QUIT," Alex huffed and went to the fridge. She needed a drink.

Lori, who was standing at the stove, nodded. "She's worse than her father."

"She gets it from her mother," Bobby Jr. said.

Lola's voice drifted in from the living room. "I heard that!"

A second later, a loud crash filled the house, and everyone jumped.

"Stephanie Nicole Santiago!" Lola yelled.

Alex cracked open a Coke, took a sip, then handed it to Jessy. "Let's go see what she did this time."

She knocked the end table over and it broke into splinters. She stood over the mess with wide eyes, her mouth open in a perfect O of surprise. Apparently she had no idea that knocking something over would make it fall down and go boom.

"That table survived forty-five years of kids," Grandpa said from his chair, "and you did it in."

Lola stood by the arm of the couch, her arms folded sternly over her chest. "You broke Grandpa's table. Are you happy with yourself?"

Nikki shook her head slowly.

"You fix it?"

Nikki nodded.

Lola grinned and glanced at Lynn over her shoulder. "You better get your tools."

After the table incident, Jessy and Alex tried to interest their cousin in a quiet game of I spy, but she wanted to play hammock...that's where Alex grabbed her arms, Jessy grabbed her legs, and they swung her back and forth, like a hammock. Get it? She wailed with delight, and asked to go faster...and faster...then disaster struck: Close your eyes and picture chalky white milk curds bubbling up from a hole in the ground, and you'll get an idea of what happened. Vomit spurted past her lips and dribbled down the creases of her neck.

"Stop, Bunny!" Jessy cried. "She's puking!"

They ceased their swinging, and let Nikki down. She lay on the floor covered in vomit, panting...then she laughed.

"Her diaper bag's in our room," Lola said, "since you made the mess, you can clean it up."

Surprisingly, Nikki let them wash her up and change her into a new dress. Huh. Alex thought it'd be a lot harder. Downstairs, dinner was almost ready. Lola had Nikki sit next to her on the couch and called Lana on the phone. "Hey!" Lola said.

"Hey, hon," Lana replied, her voice staticky with distance.

"How's the baby?"

Lana laughed. "Oh, he's fine. Still really gassy, though. That boy's done nothing but fart since he came out. Doctor says it's okay, though. Where's my niece?"

After the phone call, dinner was served, presents were opened, and cake was eaten.

A good time was had by all.


	126. September 1988: Part 1

Lincoln knew something was up with Fred and Luan; he wasn't dumb, he saw the way they looked at each other. A few times he saw more: A fleeting hand touch, a shoulder squeeze...once he even saw Fred pat Luan's butt while she was standing at the counter and he was passing behind. Lincoln's first reaction was to break the son of a bitch's hand. See, he immediately assumed it was harassment, then he looked at Luan's satisfied little smile and knew. Hm. Talk about an odd couple: Fred the drill sergeant and Luan the leftist. Wonder what their kid would be if they had one. Black and white make gray, so probably a moderate. Half Reagan and half Carter. Who would they vote for on election day? Would they just flip a coin and be done with it? Or would they resort to eeny, meany, miney, mo?

When it came to...whatever Fred and Luan had going on, it wasn't his business. When it came to what his cook and his waitress had going on, however, it kind of was. What if they get into a little bitch fight and couldn't (or wouldn't) communicate? What if...hell, he didn't know. He never had two people who were together working for him, but he figured it would be real easy for their personal relationship to affect their business relationship, which he couldn't have. Part of him wanted to sit them down and give them a taking to, make sure they knew what he expected of them (fight? Argument? Leave it at the door...and no fondling each other in front of my customers). Part of him, though, did not, and for a while he sat on his hands...avoiding the topic. Today, however, he made up his mind to do it.

But first...

"I'm watching you," he growled.

Blades glanced up from his plate, his cheeks bulging with burger and his big blue eyes full of innocence. He said something that came out as a garbled mess, and bits of chewed up beef and soggy bread sprayed the counter. Lincoln flicked his eyes from the mess to his friend.

1988 was an election year. This time it was Vice President George Bush against Massachusetts governor Michael Dukakis. Bush was ahead in the polls thanks to a strong economy and Reagan's popularity, and Dukakis looked silly in a helmet. Seriously, this guy had a photo taken of him sitting in an Abrams tank wearing a helmet and a dopy little grin. It was pathetic. Lincoln would rather have Big Bird in office. Oh, and his state had a furlough program that let killers out on day passes to kill again. Swell guy.

Bush and Dukakis weren't the problem, though, it was Blades: The last two presidential election cycles, this greaser son of a fuck super glued Reagan bumper stickers to Lincoln's car.

"One Bush sticker," Lincoln said and held up his index finger, "and they will never find your body."

Blades lifted his palms in a gesture of supplication and swallowed. "I learned my lesson the last time."

Lincoln nodded slowly. "I'm still watching you."

"You're not gonna see much." He picked up his burger and took a bite. "In fact, you might see me not even vote this year."

Oh? Finally, this guy grew some brains. Only took...how old was he? Forty-eight? Yeah, he was in the same grade as Bobby and Lori. "You wisened up," Lincoln said.

Blades shook his head. "Me and the missus are thinking of taking a cruise in November so we might not be here."

Damn. Lincoln really thought Blades came to his senses this time. "Where to?"

"Caribbean. Jamaica, places like that. I'm waiting on my passport. If it comes through soon, we're gonna do it."

Lincoln sat back. "Me and Ronnie Anne were thinking of taking a cruise. Still might. You ever been on one before?"

Blades shook his head. "This will be my first."

Hm. No one he knew had ever been on a cruise. One of the other teachers at the high school had and she told Ronnie Anne it was miserable - the food was bad, the on-board band broke up on the first night so there was no live music, and there were prostitutes everywhere. Guess even on the high seas a man needs a little lovin' now and again. They WERE going to book one for their twentieth anniversary, but decided not to...the idea of it all was kind of draining. Travelling? Really? Sure, sounds like fun. Maybe they were lazy and boring, but lying in bed and watching TV between bouts of sex and sleep was WAAAY more their speed.

"Tell me how it is."

Blades nodded. "Sure. Speaking of, how's Jess? She'll be eighteen or something soon, right?"

"Yeah, couple days," Lincoln said. Jessy was turning the big 1-8 the day after tomorrow. And the day after THAT she started at RWCC. She was going to teach fifth grade. Wasn't that long ago SHE was in fifth grade.

Yeah, yeah, time flies, I get it, I don't need it rubbed in my face every couple years.

Blades finished his burger and got up. "Now where's your car parked?"

Lincoln chuckled. "Get out of here. Where's my car parked? In your driveway when your wife's at home and you're not."

"That explains those extra small condom wrappers I keep finding under my bed. Here I thought she was a pedophile screwing around with a four-year- or something."

"Speaking of kids, tell James his real father says hi."

Blades laughed. "Yeah, okay, I'll tell him. Want me to tell Ronnie anything when I see her?"

"Yeah. We need milk."

After Blades was gone, Lincoln's mind drifted. Let's see...I gotta order more plates, new stuff for the jukebox, I don't like the hand soap in the bathroom, it stinks, so I need to order something else, did I pay the power bill? Oh, shit, I didn't. No, wait, yes I did. He felt like he was forgetting something. He ran through his mental check list. Nope. Nothing.

Luan ripped a ticket off her order pad and stuck it in the window. Oh, that's right, Mr. and Mrs. Let's be coworkers and then some. He looked around the dining room. It was fairly empty; might as well do it now.

"Luan?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Can you meet me in the kitchen?"

Her brow knitted. "Okay. Why?"

"Nothing bad. It's a...staff meeting."

Luan shrugged. "Alright." She shoved the notepad into her apron and went into the kitchen, Lincoln following. Fred was at the grill with his back to the door, and Joey, the new dishwasher, a tall blonde kid, was balls deep in the sink (elbows deep, but you get my meaning). Luan turned and leaned against the prep table.

"Hey, Joey?" Lincoln asked.

"Yes, Mr. Loud?"

"Go smoke a cigarette or something."

The boy looked from him to Luan, realized Lincoln wanted privacy, and nodded. He took his arms out of the water, shook off the suds, and scurried through the door like Lot away from Sodom (don't look back). Luan looked even more confused than before.

"Sarge, debriefing."

Fred turned, a grease coated spatula in his hand. He and Luan both looked a little puzzled. Join the club, I'm kind of puzzled too.

Gee, how do I do this?

Without pussyfooting around, that's how. "I know there's something going on between you two."

Fred's expression didn't change in the slightest. Nice poker face, too bad Luan's blushing ever so slightly and looking for all the world like a girl who's been caught doing something wrong (I've seen that exact same look on Jessy's face a thousand times, heh). She started to speak, but Lincoln held up his hand. "I don't know, I don't care, you're both adults, do whatever, I just wanted to make sure you both know not to let your personal relationship get in the way of your business relationship. I don't need my cook and my waitress refusing to speak to one another because someone forgot an anniversary. And no groping each other. This is a family place...goddamn it."

Fred nodded. "Yes, sir."

"At ease."

The old man turned back to the grill like the conversation had never happened. Luan looked...embarrassed? Well, Lincoln would be too if his little brother gave him the kind of talk he just gave her. He cocked a questioning eyebrow, and she nodded that she understood; she didn't meet his eyes, and her hands nervously smoothed out her apron.

The bell in the window rang and Alex's face appeared. "This burger's for me," she said as she laid a ticket down, "I'm starving. That white haired slave driver..." she glanced at him, the corners of her mouth curled up. "Oh, hi, Dad."

Lincoln nodded. "The door's right behind you, honey."

"I was taking about a different white haired slave driver."

There was ANOTHER white haired slave driver? Hm. Lincoln would have to beat him up; can't have someone moving in on his turf.

While he went into the storage room to do inventory, Alex slipped her notepad into her apron pocket, blew a puff of air, and crossed to an empty booth, where she sank down like a stone, her shoulders slouching and her chin loling against her chest. Sweet mother of Stephen Pearcy, her feet were sore. Her back, too. Oh, can't forget her arms, lifting heavy plates all day. Seriously, the plates here were so thick you could...do something you do with thick things, I don't know. I'm tired and I hurt. Leave me alone.

Yawning, she reached into her apron and brought out her notepad. Not the boring Flip's notepad she took orders on, her PERSONAL notepad, which contained the half finished manuscript of her latest exercise in the macabre. Reading her own stuff always cheered her up (that sounds vain, but it's true). She flipped to the first page and scanned the inaugural paragraph:

"Bill Johnson had more money than God. He looked better too. His wallet was fat, his dick was big, and he had it all. But Bill had a secret: He was a grody ass pedophile. This guy LOVED kids. Seriously, he'd diddle them all day if you let him. One day, he was walking through the park looking for a sexy kid to molest when a scary bat thing swooped outta nowhere and snatched the toupee offa his head. "My toupee!" he screamed like a faggy little girl, "give it back!"

Alex snickered. This was good stuff. She wondered who they'd get to play Bill when they inevitably turned it into a movie. Michael J. Fox? Yeah, he could probably do it, though she pictured Bill being a little on the older side.

She couldn't wait to see this shit on the big screen. Heads would explode from coast to coast, and every knee would bend in recognition of her greatness. She would occupy a throne built from the bones of lesser writers; Stephen King would be her foot rest and Dean Koontz would be her servant. More Coca-Cola, Queen Loud? Why, yes, Koontz, I would LOVE more Coca-Cola. Writing the best stuff to ever live is VERY thirsty work. She turned to the scene where Bill gets gang raped by a gigantic group of ten-year-olds:

"Bill squealed like the dude in Deliverance as little dicks assaulted him from every angle. "Take THAT, pedophile!" a boy said as he filled Bill's butt with raging prepubescent meat. "Yes, please!" Bill said gayly."

She smiled. Oh, man, this is the best story EVER; as soon as it was done she was going to make a copy and send it to The New York Times or something. She could see the editor reading it now, his jaw slack and his eyes wide behind his pretentious little glasses. "Such rich use of language! Such deep characterizations! This writer is the best to ever write!"

Damn right I am.

No. Damn WRITE. Hahahahaha!

How many awards would she win? Wait, that's a trick question: All of them!

She sat back and nodded to herself. I should really think about moving in with Tim.

That thought came like a shot in the dark, a bullet of cold reality penetrating the blissful cocoon of her fantasy. Tim had been pestering her all summer about moving into his place...well, not really pestering, but he asked her a couple times and she kept putting him off because...well...don't say anything, but even Alex Louds get scared from time to time, and the idea of moving in with him made her piddle. Come on, it's virtually the same thing as being married! It's not a big step, it's a giant leap. She loved Tim, and she didn't see herself being with anyone else, but jumping into cohabitation like that...it intimidated her, okay? I mean...what if they started living together and found out they couldn't stand each other? What if she found his habits annoying, or he found HER habits annoying? What if...what if they just couldn't make it work?

So, yeah, it scared her, but it also kind of excited her...not in a dirty way, though being under the same roof DID mean they could knock boots whenever they wanted. She couldn't live with Mom and Dad forever, that's what people with no ambition do; Alex Loud didn't want to be like that...not anymore. That alone REALLY swayed her in the MOVE IN WITH THE TIMINATOR direction. It also made her want to go to her father and say, "Alright, asshole, show me the ropes and make me manager." She wouldn't really call him an asshole, though; he was her Daddy and she wuved him.

She WOULD really approach him, though, because you know what? She wanted to be ambitionful, no more screwing around.

"Here you go," Auntie Luan said and sat her plate on the table. "Are you really going to eat this thing?"

Alex feasted her eyes on the burger before her: Two melty-cheese drizzled patties, two strips of hickory smoked bacon, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onions. She swiped the tip of her tongue across her upper lip. "Yep!"

Auntie Luan chuckled and shook her head. "Alright. You want me to get you a drink?"

"Yes, please."

While she did that, Alex picked up her burger and looked for a way in; Damn thing was so big she couldn't even wrap her lips around it. She turned it in her hands. Maybe if I...nope, that won't work either. Hm, how about...no. Shoot. I wanna eat my burger, damn it! Sighing, she sat it down just as Auntie Luan brought her her Coke. "I got you this too," she grinned and held out a steak knife. Alex took it with a thanks. Seriously? Who cuts their burger up?

Alex Loud, that's who!

* * *

When Clyde McBride was elected governor of New York, it was to finish his predecessor's term, which expired in 1988; that meant he was up for reelection this year. His challenger was a white Democrat named David Hart, and from the few brief meetings Clyde had had with him backstage after debates, he seemed like a nice guy. Politically, however, he was a goddamn idiot...and probably a closet socialist. When the election cycle started, Clyde's approval ratings were at fifty-one percent and polls showed Hart losing by ten points. Over time, however, the liberal son of a bitch started gaining ground, and Clyde started losing it. Fast. Why?

Tawana goddamn Brawley.

In November 1987, a fifteen-year-old black girl named Tawana Brawley was found naked in a New York City dumpster, covered in excrement and racial slurs. She claimed that four white men, including a prominent prosecutor, held her hostage in a wooded area for several days and sexually abused her. She was administered a rape kit, but no sign of ANY sexual assault was found, and she showed absolutely no signs of having been kept outside and exposed to the elements, which she would have, given that nighttime temperatures routinely dip below freezing during November.

The case gained national attention, and before you could say 'oh shit, here comes Al Sharpton' Al Sharpton's fat ass showed up and started agitating. You never see him when something good's happening (he didn't even call to congratulate Clyde on his victory), nope, he only comes out when there's someone to be yelled at or preached to. Pretty sad. Last year a black doctor named Ben Carson (the director of the pediatrics department at John Hopkins, if Clyde remembered correctly) led a seventy member team that completed the first successful separation of twins conjoined at the back of the head. Clyde personally called to congratulate him, you think Sharpton did too? Clyde didn't know, but he doubted it: Asshole was probably too busy screaming obscenities through a bullhorn and whipping people into a racist frenzy. Reverend. Ha! What kind of reverend calls people faggots? Certainly no reverend HE'D ever take seriously.

At first, Clyde didn't comment on the Brawley case because even though her story had more holes than a slice of Swiss, he didn't know. He wasn't there. Personally, he thought she decided to spend a few days with a boy, then concocted the rape story so she wouldn't get in trouble at home, but maybe he was wrong, maybe she really WAS assaulted. He couldn't say.

So he didn't.

Big mistake

See, in this day and age, it's hip to have strong and comprehensive opinions about matters you are largely - or even totally - ignorant of. Opinions, they say, are like assholes: Everybody's got one, and most of them stink. The liberal media, black leaders, celebrities in Hollywood, and black folk on the street expected, nay demanded, him to come out with both barrels blazing in support of Brawley...and the Republicans expected him to come out AGAINST Brawley. He did neither. How could he? Maybe everyone else was comfortable going off half-cocked, but not him; doing so would be wrong and unfair to everybody involved. The AG was convening a grand jury in November, and that was good enough for Clyde. Let them get to the bottom of the matter...as is the American way.

It wasn't good enough for everyone else, though. Hart called him "cowardly", Sharpton referred to him as "That do nothing GOP Uncle Tom in the state house", and his support among Republicans and in the black community was steadily eroding. At this rate, Hart was going to win, and you know what? Clyde was getting to the point where he didn't care: He always knew politics was a dirty game, but this was ridiculous. Once upon a time he vowed to be clean. Ha. You can't be a politician AND be clean, it's impossible; the clean ones either get thrown out on their ass or go dirty just to stay alive.

By now, the middle of September, Clyde wasn't even sure he wanted another term. It was business as usual at HQ, though, and when New York City's Channel 13 News expressed interest in interviewing him, his campaign manager, Tom Price, jumped at the opportunity. "We can turn this thing around," he told Clyde. Tom, a tall white man with sandy blonde hair and glasses, was sitting on the edge of Clyde's desk, the cuffs of his white shirt rolled up. Clyde was reclining in his chair, his fingers laced over his stomach. He, too, had taken his coat off. Behind him, the city of Albany fell away from the capital building, ceasing at the banks of the Hudson River, which was lined with ancient structures dating back to the 1820s, when waterways carried more freight (and people) than roads.

Tom shifted his weight. "It's going to be a fluff piece. They wanted to talk about Tawana Brawley, but I haggled them down to one question." He held up a single index finger as though Clyde were deaf. "And with that one question, you need to take a position."

Clyde drew a deep breath. He had a position now...he went over witness statements, preliminary testimony, and physical evidence with the AG, and for better or worse, he made up his mind: Tawana Brawley was a lying little bitch; she routinely ran away from home and got her ass whipped by her parents when she came back. That told Clyde she made this whole rape thing up to cover for her slutting around. He'd probably lose the black vote if he came out and accused her of lying, but to hell with it; if the people of New York state wanted someone to whisper sweet lies into their ear, they could vote for David Hart.

"Alright," Clyde said, "we'll do it."

Presently, he sat in a straight back chair in one of the state house's reception rooms and waited for the Channel 13 reporter as a technition attached a tiny microphone to the lapel of his black suit coat. Hot lights were pointed at him, and he could feel beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow; when the tech was finished, he wiped them away, then glanced at the camera: It was black with the News 13 logo on the side.

A moment later, a door opened and a tall woman in a pink skirt and blazer came in; her blonde hair was permed and her shoulder pads were big. She hurried over to the chair across from Clyde, an apologetic expression on her face. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, Governor," she said, "I had a little bit of an emergency."

"Don't worry about it," Clyde said as he took her proffered hand. "It happens to the best of us." He remembered shitting his pants once when he was stationed in Vietnam. He was sick with some tropical malady and, well, he didn't make it to the latrine. The woman sat and Clyde frowned slightly. Apparently she doesn't have a name.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the tech came over and attached a microphone to her lapel much the same way he had to Clyde's.

"Miss?" Clyde asked.

"Yes?"

Clyde couldn't help but smirk. Something told him she hadn't been at this long.

"I'm Clyde."

She blinked in confusion.

"And you are...?"

Her brow pinched, then she realized her mistake and uttered an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry. I'm a little new at this, so I'm kind of nervous. Carol Pingrey."

Clyde nodded and sat back. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," she said and crossed her legs. "Before I came up here I did a little homework on you, and it turns out we have something in common."

You crashed your helicopter into the water too? No way! "What's that?"

"I grew up in Royal Woods too."

Clyde blinked. Did hear that right? "Royal Woods, Michigan?"

She laughed and nodded. "Royal Woods, Michigan."

Wow. "That's a heck of a coincidence."

"I know," she drew, "when I saw that it kind of threw me for a loop. Of all the towns in the United States for you to have grown up in, it was Royal Woods. I thought it was just the coolest thing ever. Where did you live?"

"Ridgecrest Avenue," Clyde said, a nostalgic smile creeping across his face. In the rush and whirl of life, he rarely had time to think about Royal Woods, but when he did, a warm, fuzzy feeling flooded his chest. Sometimes, he almost wished he never left, and every once in a while he considered going back...just to visit. He didn't because no matter how unchanged it might be even twenty-three years later, that town that he saw in his memories only existed in his memories. That town was unrealistically perfect; the sun always shone, the air never stank, and everyone was friendly and happy. Colors were brighter there, smells richer, and not a pebble or blade of grass could be found out of place.

The real Royal Woods wasn't like that, and never had been. It was a town like any other...it had faults, bigots, bad days, and eye sores. In remembrance, however, these flaws tend to fade away. Clyde cherished his memories of that little village, and he did not want to tarnish them.

The same with his memories of Lincoln Loud. And Luan Loud. When he moved to New York City in 1965, he fully intended to visit, but things in The Big Apple didn't turn out as planned. His father's shop failed miserably, then he and his partner Howard ran off together, leaving Clyde and his mother on their own in Harlem, which was really beginning its descent into not such a nice place anymore. Clyde worked two jobs to help support them, then, in 1968, he joined the Navy because they'd pay for college, and the only way he saw out was through education. He learned to fly helicopters and retired in 1980, after flying missions in Vietnam and Iran (that last one was still classified, so shhhhhh). He was aware that Lincoln was held captive and escaped (way to go, Linc!), but that was that. By the time he got out of the Navy, he was kind of ashamed that he hadn't gotten in touch with Lincoln and the others. He figured it was too late...fifteen years too late. Somewhere along the way, Lincoln, Luan, Ronnie Anne, and everyone else he knew and loved took on a sort of mythical quality, and deep down, he didn't want to ruin that image. They were people, like him. They had flaws and different interests. Lincoln never much cared about politics, neither did Ronnie Anne. Luan was a democrat, at least at twenty-two, and it had been so long...much longer than they knew each other in the first place. They might as well be different people entirely. He was. After what Lincoln went through, he figured he was as well.

Currently Carol grinned. "Wow, I lived two blocks from there. I used to pass it every day on my way to school."

"Has it changed much?"

Carol hummed. "When did you leave?"

"'65."

"I don't think so. It hasn't changed since I was a kid. 1969, 1970."

Clyde didn't think it had. Small towns rarely do.

Momentarily, the cameraman turned on his rig and the interview began. Carol's voice softened and took on a contrived 'casual' monotone that Clyde found maddening and even a little mocking. They must teach them that at college. She stole glances at a notepad resting in her lap, her eyes darting from him to it and back again.

"You are the first African-American governor in the history of New York state, and right now the only African-American governor of ANY state. To what do you attribute your victory, and do you think your victory has broken barriers for African-Americans?"

Clyde was taken aback by how quickly she jumped into it. Chances were only clips of it would be shown anyway, so why not?

"I think my victory had more to do with my ideas than it did with the color of my skin. New Yorkers are honest, hard working people, and they're tired of failed economic policies, high taxes, runaway spending, and senseless government regulations. During my time in office we've cut taxes, slashed spending, and added over 1,800 new jobs."

He was a little surprised by how effortlessly the pitch rolled from his lips. Tom Price told him to touch on those subjects, but he didn't realize he was doing it right this moment until it was coming out.

"As for knocking down barriers, yes, it has in a way. It sends a clear message that the American people are more concerned with the issues facing them and their families than they are about someone being black or brown or white."

Carol's eyes flicked down to her notepad. "Wouldn't you agree though that African-Americans still face numerous challenges in today's world?"

Clyde shifted his weight. This was one of his favorite topics, as it hit close to home. "Of course. Black people in the United States continue to deal with a very specific set of circumstances, including obstacles that aren't present for white people. Our experience, as blacks, isn't exactly the same, but we've surmounted many hardships over the past one hundred and thirty years, and our lot improves with each passing generation. Many are frustrated with how slow progress moves, and while I understand that, we must realize that true social equality will not be achieved for a long time. It was only thirty years ago that we were forced to use separate facilities and to sit at the back of the bus. The legal framework that propagated Jim Crow might have been dismantled, but you cannot purge lingering prejudice over three decades. Not entirely."

"What can you do?" she asked, and Clyde got the impression that it was a genuine, spur of the moment question, and not a prepared talking point.

"Give people time," he said, "time to live together and work together, time to grow up together, time to share common experiences. It might take longer for some, and some may NEVER come around, but eventually, we won't be two races, but one people. You can legislate all you want, but while you can make a white boy sit next to a black boy, you cannot make them like each other. When I was growing up..." here he paused as a sudden flood of emotions washed over him..."my best friend was white. In fact, we met on the day the Royal County, Michigan schools were integrated. We became friends not because we were forced into close proximity, but because once we were able to talk to one another, once the barrier between us was removed, we discovered that we weren't so different. We liked the same things and had similar personalities. If you hold two groups apart, mistrust, suspicion, and downright hatred will inevitably begin to fester, but once you let them mingle, they'll find that more unites them than divides them. Especially if they're countrymen with a common culture."

Carol nodded quickly and consulted her notes. "You've been criticized by many in the black community for your handling of the Tawana Brawley case. What-What are your thoughts on that?"

Here it was, the part of the interview where he'd lose probably all of the black vote and very likely not gain back enough Republican support to cover it. In the instant before he started to talk, he realized he had a choice: Try to save himself by flip flopping or speak his mind.

"I've been working closely with the attorney general's office, and have closely reviewed all of the evidence available at this time." Last chance, McBride, you can still blow it off.

Instead, he leaned slightly, defiantly forward. They wanted him to speak his mind, well here it was, in no uncertain terms. "Tawana Brawley is being dishonest. She is also being used by racial agitators who want only to enrich themselves by capitalizing on fear and anger, people who seek to divide rather than unite. The people of New York, and indeed of America, are being lied to. This attack did not happen, but an attack on truth DID, and is ongoing at this very minute. We as a people must stand up to bigots, opportunists, and identity politickers. If we don't, mark my words: The progress we've achieved over the past thirty years will...be...undone."

Clyde McBride won the election of 1988, but just barely. His support among blacks in 1986 was 58%. This time around, it was scarcely 18.


	127. September 1988: Part 2

**Having trouble uploading files to my doc manager so I can't say when the next chapter will be posted.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _Wild Wild West_ by The Escape Club (1988); _Nothing But a Good Time_ by Poison. **

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. never would have thought his calling in life would be stay-at-home parenthood, but it was; he adored spending one-on-one time with his little girl. He liked playing with her, reading to her, cooking for her...he even liked changing her diapers. He also loved teaching her new things and going places with her, like the park. Stephy was a park rat; she'd stay there all day if you let her. Bobby stayed by her side the entire time party because maaaaybe he was a little overprotective, but mainly because she'd bolt and laugh when you yelled at her. She thought it was a game. Look, Daddy, I'm running toward the street, catch me if you can!

She was a handful sometimes, but being a father to her was the most satisfying thing in the world, and absolutely nothing he could think of sounded half as appealing.

Even so, there existed a part of him that was ashamed of being a househusband. He was a man, he should be working and at least contributing; hey, nothing wrong with a woman working, his mom worked his whole life, it's not like he had to be the only one with a job, but he should do something, right? Lola made all the money and to anyone looking from the outside in, he looked like a bum or something...maybe even a henpecked beta male. That wasn't the case, of course, but...he was self-conscious sometimes.

Right now, however, was not one of those times: It was Saturday morning and he and Stephy were snuggled on the couch watching cartoons, Stephy still not fully awake, which was the only reason she was sitting still; her head swayed back and forth and she fought to keep her eyelids from falling closed. Occasionally she yawned, and at one point she buried her face into his side. He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Maybe next time you don't go to bed until midnight you won't wake up at five the next morning."

Stephy dug her face deeper and he laughed. "Hey, that tickles."

The previous night, like too many nights for Bobby's liking, Stephy would NOT go down. They put her in bed at nine, and half an hour later, as they were curled up in front of the TV, a loud crash rang through the house, followed by a screaming cry. Jumping up, they rushed into the little girl's room with frozen hearts: The light was on and she sat in a heap in the middle of the floor, her big brown eyes shimmering with tears. As best they could figure, she was jumping on her bed and fell; she had a nasty lump above her right temple that Bobby could clearly see even now.

After that, they brought her into the living room with them, the plan being to calmly and quietly watch television.

That didn't happen. In five minutes she slipped off the couch and started tearing through the house and giggling like it was the middle of the day. She ran in circles around the couch, blazed into the kitchen, screamed into the hall and then back again, ran full force into the front door and fell back onto her butt, whereupon she laughed like a loon, then climbed onto the coffee table from which Bobby snatched her with a stern "No." He held her in his lap, and she fought him tooth and nail for over an hour, kicking, crying, throwing her head from side to side, and thrashing before finally passing out, her chin lolling against her chest.

"She needs to see a doctor," Lola said with a long suffering sigh and crossed her arms.

Bobby blinked. "Doctor? Why?"

"Because she's too hyper. Do you think that's normal? She runs in circles, Bobby."

"Okay, she's hyper," Bobby admitted, "but some kids are. It's just...people being different, you know?" He wasn't dumb, he kind of figured Stephanie's level of energy wasn't the norm, still, like he said, people are different: Some can sit still and read books all day, others can't; some are really interested in learning, others aren't; some are good with their hands, others aren't. Hell, look at Lana and Lola. Lana could fix just about anything you put in front of her...Lola could barely change the batteries in the remote. They were both intelligent women, their brains just worked in different ways.

"Not like that," Lola said, "there's hyper and then there's Steph. She ran into the door on purpose, for God's sake."

He knew, he watched her do it.

Lola continued. "She never stops, she goes full bore from the moment she wakes up to the moment she conks out at night. She can't sit still, she doesn't listen...I'm worried about her."

The poignant concern in her voice quashed any further protest Bobby may have had. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Alright," he said, "we'll take her to the doctor."

Yeah, he may have given in...or maybe deep down he knew that something very well COULD be wrong with his daughter, and if there was a way to settle her down a little, great, because if she was still like this when it came time to start school...oh boy.

He put her to bed just before midnight, expecting her to sleep late, but nope, she was up at six jumping on their bed and laughing.

Presently, she started to snore, and Bobby glanced at her with a bemused smile. She was such a little angel when she was sleeping.

"Oh, Bob-by!" Lola called from the direction of their bedroom, a playful hilt to her voice.

"Yeah?" he asked, and winced when Stephy stirred.

"Could you come here, please?"

"There's a two-year-old using me as a pillow."

"But it's important."

From the sound of her voice, she wanted to have sex, and having sex with Lola WAS pretty sweet. Holding his breath, Bobby carefully slipped out from under his daughter and gently laid her head on the couch, then slowly backed away, his hands held up in front of him. Stay asleep, stay asleep...

When he was certain she wouldn't wake, Bobby went into the bedroom. He expected Lola to be on the bed in a sexy pose, wearing nothing but pink stockings, maybe, and a tiara, a seductive come hither smile on her face. Instead, she was in the bathroom, standing at the sink and looking at him. "Come here," she said and gestured him over. She was grinning.

Okay, if she wanted to do it on the floor, find, but she was going to have to be on top; his knees couldn't take it.

He crossed the room and went into the bath. Lola's eyes sparkled. "I have a present for you." She held something up, and Bobby frowned. It was a slender white stick with the words CLEARBLUE Easy on the side in blue, obviously.

"What is it?" he asked.

"One of those new one step pregnancy tests," she said, "and its poooositive."

* * *

Saturday morning, Luan Loud came into Flip's two hours earlier than usual, not because she needed to catch up on work or anything like that, but because that's when Fred came in, and they kind of spent Friday night together; when they left the previous afternoon, they took his truck and left her car, so coming in early made more sense than him dropping her off at home or her walking over later, even though he lived fairly close by.

Normally they didn't visit on work days, but she needed to be held; the past couple weeks had been rough on her. For one, her daughter was turning eighteen on Monday and that really highlighted how much of her life she'd missed. For two, she'd been having a lot of nightmares lately, about Harold Manning. She'd dreamed of him a lot over the years, but for some reason they'd come almost every night since the beginning of August, leaving her cold and shaky on waking. For three, it hit her the other day that she would be fifty in a few years.

Fifty.

Fifty was old...the beginning of the end when you got right down to it; the summit of the hill. The average lifespan of a woman in the United States was roughly seventy-seven. From fifty, she'd have only twenty-seven years left. Fifty minus twenty-seven was twenty-three; from twenty-three to fifty was barely a hop-skip-and-a-jump. God, it seemed like she was twenty-three only a few years ago...now she was nearly fifty, wrinkling, and starting to gray; she lived with her parents, she wasn't married, and though she enjoyed a fairly good relationship with her daughter, so really wasn't a mother at all...she was a spinster aunt Jessy had really only known for a couple years.

So yes, she needed to be held, and if that made her a bad person, oh well.

When she got to Flip's, she put on her apron, clocked in, and thoroughly swept so she'd have something to do. Meanwhile, Fred rattled around the kitchen, prepping for the upcoming rush. As she worked, she considered the question that had been trembling on her lips for almost six months: What are we? She almost asked him that the night before, as they lay in bed. She stopped herself because she was afraid of what he would say...afraid he would say 'just friends' and afraid he'd tell her he loved her or something: Some days she wanted to hear the former, and others the latter, some days she thought she'd be perfectly happy married to him, and others the concept of commitment terrified her. She didn't know WHAT she wanted, and to be honest, she didn't even know what she felt anymore. She felt a great deal of affection and tenderness for him, but was it love?

She didn't think they were simple 'friends' anymore: They went out together, they talked, they made love (and that's what it was), she introduced him to her parents. They were more than sexual partners, and always had been, really. She didn't know how to feel about that...then again, she made no attempt to break it off or step it back; in fact, like last night, she proactively sought it.

Confused, that's what she was. She was certain about one thing, though: She didn't want to be alone...she didn't want to DIE alone.

Done sweeping, she wiped the tables even though they didn't need it. She was nearly fifty, but she didn't feel like it; she felt like a conflicted little girl.

She needed to decide, and she thought she knew what her decision would be...even though it scared the shit out of her.

On a whim, she dropped the cloth onto the table she was currently cleaning and went into the kitchen. Cold fear coiled in her stomach and her heart raced. She might be making a huge mistake, but better that than nothing at all. His answer might not be what she wanted to hear, but better to be disappointed than to wonder.

Fred was scrubbing the grill with his back to her, his arm muscles flexing as he worked. She watched him for s moment, took a deep breath, and went over. She put her arms around his waist and threaded his fingers across his stomach. He tensed for the briefest of moments, then relaxed. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied.

"How's it going?"

For a moment he didn't respond. "Uh, alright. I'm really starting to regret not cleaning the grill last night."

Luan chuckled. "I told you." And she did. In fact, her exact words were you're going to regret not cleaning the grill.

"I know," he said. He sat the scraper in the grease trap and rested his hand on hers, his fingertips brushing her knuckles in softhearted greeting. "I figured I would too, but I was in a rush."

"Yeah?" she asked. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Just was."

Something told her there was more to it than just that. "I need to ask you something."

"What?"

I'm almost fifty, she thought to herself, I don't have time to beat around the bush. "Have you thought about us? About what we are?"

Fred didn't immediately respond. She couldn't blame him if he hadn't.

"Yes," he said at length; his tone was cautious, his voice navigating a minefield.

"And?" she asked.

He sighed. "Well...I like being with you, and I like you, and I...I care very much about you."

A smile that she wasn't expecting touched her lips and her stomach pinched just a little.

"Could you ever see us...being together?"

Fred turned his head. "Like married?"

Luan shrugged. "That or living together."

Fred took a long second to reply. "Yeah, I could. Do you want to get married?"

"I don't know," Luan said honestly. "I'm a little intimidated by the idea, but...I like you and I think I'd be happy with you." She sighed. "And I'm afraid of dying alone."

Fred hitched with a chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I am too. I think I'd he happy too. What about your parents?"

Luan considered her reply. "I'm not going to leave them, but...one day they won't be around. And Jessy's going to have her own life and...and I won't have anything." Hot tears welled in her eyes and she clung desperately to him. She could see herself now, old, white haired, her life thrown away and her daughter rarely visiting, haunted by her past, and by what could have been. A house somewhere, a career, a man who loved her and lots of children who loved her too. Instead she was alone and unloved, a sixty-year-old waitress with nothing to her name but the murder of another human being. "I don't want that," she said, her voice low and thick with emotion, "it scares me so bad."

Fred softly stroked the back of her hand. "I know the feeling. I already have nothing. No family, no friends, I flip burgers." He chuckled humorously. "Nightmares, I have those. And flashbacks. Hooray. You know how many times I put my gun to my head and tried to pull the trigger?"

Luan's heart skipped a beat, and she unconsciously held him tighter, the image of him sitting alone in the dark with a gun pressed to his temple making her cold...and sick.

"I don't wanna sound mushy or overdramatic or something, but you're the only thing I do have. The only thing I really care about." He turned and draped his arms over her shoulders. Their eyes met and held. "You won't be alone," he said, "I'll be there. Just...be there for me too. Okay?"

Luan nodded solemnly. "I will," she vowed.

* * *

After work, Alex Loud clocked off, hung her apron up, and bid Flip's farewell for the week. As she stepped into the warm September sunshine, she sucked a big ole noseful of air and let it out through her mouth with an "Ahhhh." What a BEAU-TI-FUL day. She finished the pedophile story last night and came up with an awesome idea for her next piece, she had a date with Tim tonight, and, most importantly, she talked to Dad about learning the ole ropes. Ambitionless? ME? Ha! Surely you jest. I'm the most ambitionful person I know; while Jessy's going to school and passing notes to her mister-ess Chuck Spencer, I'm going to be out here gaining valuable life experience and preparing to take over a successful business while ALSO composing enduring works of literature.

How much more ambitionistic can you get?

She went over to the station wagon, slid in behind the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition, a commercial for The Wonder Years flitting from the speakers. That was a cool show. Married...With Children was a cool show too. Hahaha, Al Bundy is so miserable. Probably kind of...ya know...the other way too. Come on, every time his wife wants to do it he vomits in disgust. And he's always talking about how that neighbor woman looks like a boy; I bet he wishes she was so he could molest her. Err, him. Yep. Cool shows, cool shows. Everything is cool when you're in a good mood, though, even the WKBBL callsign. DOUBLE-U KAY BEE BEE ELLLLLLL! ELK PARK, ROYAL WOODS. PLAYING TO-DAY'S BEST HITS!

A song started and she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. This is a cool song even when I'm NOT in a good mood.

"Forty-seven dead beats living in the back street

North east west south all in the same house

Sitting in a back room waiting for the big boom

I'm in a bedroom waiting for my baby"

Alex sang along to the chorus, bobbing her head from side to side. Imagine the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail and you'll get an idea of what it sounded like.

"She's so mean but I don't care

I love her eyes and her wild wild hair

Dance to the beat that we love best

Heading for the nineties

Living in the wild wild west

The wild wild west

WILD WEST."

Heh. Tim said this song was about her. You have wild hair, sexy eyes...and you're mean as fuck. She blushed...then punched him in the shoulder. He had it coming, though! He said she was mean, and she was assuredly NOT mean. She just liked to roughhouse. Hey, SOMEONE had to provide a counterbalance to Jessy's girliness growing up. You see anyone else their age living in that house? Nope, didn't think so. It was forced upon her, really, a burden she did not ask for, but bore with grace and silent dignity.

Nah, she just liked hitting people...and Tim was her favourite punching bag.

She turned onto her street and slowed as she passed a black van parked at the curb. A man had a woman shoved up against the side, and they were sucking each others souls out through their mouths, the dude with his hand thrust down the front of the woman's pants. Whoa! I know all about nature taking its course, but how about you do that IN the van?

The couple pulled apart for air, and Alex gasped. That wasn't a woman at all, it was another dude!

Gay people DO exist.

She knew they did, obviously, but she couldn't say she'd ever seen one. At least one that was out.

Hm.

"Heading for the nineties, living in the eighties

Screaming in a back room, waiting for the big boom

Give me, give me wild west, give me, give me safe sex

Give me love, give me love, give me time to live it up"

Alex pulled into the driveway and waited for the song to end before cutting the engine and jumping out. Gonna have me some safe sex tonight with my boyfriend, she thought and started to hum. Kind of safe. They didn't use condoms anymore because Tim could hold his load until withdrawal and neither one was fucking anyone else, so no yucky diseases.

Inside, the house was empty; Mom was still at work and Jessy was...somewhere. Probably with Mark. Alex wondered if they'd done it yet. I know, I know, weird because she's my sister, but I'm curious. It's like a romance movie: You follow a couple for two hours and get really invested in them, so you gotta know if they 'consummated' things.

In her room, she kicked out of her shoes and stretched out on the bed. It was just before six; Tim would be here at eight-thirty. She'd take a quick nap, shower, and make herself look totally sexilicious before he got here.

Yeah, that didn't happen. The nap part did, though; she passed out and didn't come awake again until Jessy was shaking her shoulder. In her groggy, disoriented state, she had no idea what was happening (earthquake? Tsunami? Burglar couldn't find what he needed and was politely waking her up to ask where it was?)

"Bunny," Jessy said firmly. "Wake up."

Ugh! "Leave me alone!"

"Tim's here."

THAT woke her up. "Oh, shit." She jumped out of bed and nearly collapsed. "I overslept."

Jessy nodded. "Yep."

"Fuck," she said. "Put him off." She hurried over to the dresser, grabbed a pair of jeans and a back T-shirt, and went into the bathroom, where she took a VERY quick shower - under twenty minutes, like a philistine or something. She didn't get to primp, but oh well.

When she went into the living room, she found Dad in his chair and Tim on the couch, his arms crossed. A lame-o news program was on TV, an anchor sitting behind a desk and being dumb. 'Strong words from the governor of New York in the Tawana Brawley case, durrr.' Tim glanced up as she came in and rolled his eyes. "Finally."

"Can it, loser," Alex said. "You ready?"

"I've been ready."

First up on the itinerary was the arcade. Man, I haven't been here in for-EVER. Look at all these new games.

"Why'd we stop coming here?' Alex asked. They were standing in line for a game she picked at random.

Tim shrugged. "I dunno." He looked around, and grinned. "See that game over there?" he asked with a nod.

She followed his line of sight. "Yep. Ms. Pac-Man. The classic."

"That's where we had our first kiss."

Alex's brow pinched. "No it's not."

"Yes it is," Tim said.

"Pfft. No. We were playing Mario."

Tim blinked. "No we weren't, Mario wasn't even out yet."

"Yes it was."

"Seriously? You really don't remember the details of our first kiss?" He looked not wounded but genuinely baffled.

Alex grinned and swatted his chest with the back of her hand. "Of course I do. Relax."

When it was their turn on the game, Alex read the writing on the cabinet. "Altered Beast. Huh. Sounds cool."

Oh, man, it was: You play as this dude in ancient Greece who got raised from the dead to fight monsters...and he could turn into a werewolf! When Alex and Tim played arcade games, they took turns. When one died, it was the other's go. Simple. Logical. Alex liked Altered Beast so much she stole Tim's turn. Sorry, buddy. It also gave her a new idea for a story: A dead guy comes back to life to clean up the mean streets of New York City...with a rifle affixed with a chainsaw bayonet.

After the arcade, they had dinner at the Chinese buffett on Route 29, down from the road house. Alex LOOOOOOVED Chinese food, she could eat it every day; she especially liked sushi, which was technically Japanese, but this place had it so there. Tim liked Chinese too, but he was a welterweight. He made three trips; she made seven. On the last go around, Tim shook his head. "What?" she asked and shoved an egg roll into her mouth. Ummm, so good.

"You eat like Jabba the Hutt."

She swallowed. "No I don't." She took a bite of rice, then pounded another egg roll.

"Yeah...you do. Why don't you gain weight? It doesn't make any sense."

Alex shrugged. "High metabolism," she said through her food. She didn't know if that was right or not, but she DIDN'T gain weight and she DID eat kind of a lot. She must be lucky; she could very well be five hundred pounds right now. And you know what? She wouldn't give a fuck. Well, she would about, you know, dying, but as far as being depressed and having a poor body image or something? Pfft. Super size that, please.

"I guess," Tim said.

"Would you still fuck me if I were fat?" Alex asked.

Tim blushed. "Uh...yeah. I mean, I love you and all, so..."

Awww. Alex's heart flooded with warm fuzzies.

"I might pretend you were someone else though."

Aaaaand he ruined it. She picked up a piece of sushi and threw it at him. He jumped and laughed.

Real smart, Bunny, now you're down one.

"I'll be right back," she said and got up.

Make that eight trips.

Finally, the night ended with a double feature at the ole drive-in: Night of the Demons followed by Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers. In the first movie, a woman took her shirt off, and Alex squinted. "Wait a minute...I KNOW those breasts."

"Yeah, that's the girl from Return of the Living Dead," Tim said, "I think."

"They still look funky," Alex said and crinkled her nose.

Tim nodded. "I agree, yours are MUCH better." He slipped his arm around her shoulders and cupped her boob in his hand.

She snickered and snuggled against him. "They're smaller; less rope to hang themselves."

In the second movie, Michael Myers rammed the barrel of a shotgun through someone's stomach and pinned them to the wall with it. "Holy shit!" Alex cried; she had never seen anything so cool in her life, and she was a connoisseur of cool.

"Eh. It'd be more impressive if it was his dick."

Alex laughed heartily at the image of Michael Myers literally spearing someone with his five foot schlong. "That's going in my next story."

After the movie, Tim drove them to his place; it was late and the highway back into Royal Woods was empty save for them. Alex fiddled with the radio (it was on some lame-o country station Tim SWORE he didn't listen to) and stopped when she found a station playing Poison. Eh, she wasn't a huge fan but they were alright. That kind of metal was getting really cookie cutter and overproduced; everyone looked the same and every other song was a ballad. This one was cool, though; real party music.

"I'm always working slaving every day

Gotta get away from that same old same old

I need a chance just to get away

If you could hear me think this is what I'd say"

Tim lowered the volume. "Have you thought any more about us moving in together?"

Alex nodded. "Yes, I have."

He glanced at her. "Yeah?"

"Umhm."

"And?"

She drew a deep breath. "Let's do it."

"Really?" Tim asked with a smile.

"Yeah."

The way she saw it: She loved Tim, he loved her, she was nineteen and still living at home (what a loser, right?)...moving in together made all the sense in the world. She was going to miss her parents...and Jessy...but you gotta grow up and make your own life; you can't stay home because you'll miss your mommy and daddy and your sister. Pfft. Who does that?

"That's awesome," Tim said and looked at her; he was grinning from ear to ear, and that made her grin too.

Yeah, it was kind of intimidating, but suddenly, she was REALLY excited.

* * *

Saturday morning, Lynn Loud III walked into the dealership showroom on a cloud; a goofy smile was plastered to her face and her eyes shone with happiness. She probably looked like some kind of dork or something, but she didn't care.

Inside, her father was standing by a 1987 Bronco with his arms crossed while Geo the rodent faced bubble boy, cleaned the windshield. "...I'm pretty proud," Dad was saying as she walked up.

"Congratulations, Mr. Loud," Geo replied.

Since Lynn wore heels to work (awful, hellish heels), she clicked wherever she went, which announced her presence as surely as a bell. Dad looked up, saw her, and smiled widely. He had the same look on his face that she had when she glimpsed herself in the rearview mirror. "Hey, honey!"

"Hey!"

"I have something to tell you."

Lynn smirked. "I have something to tell YOU."

"Okay, you first."

Hmmmm. Her thing was PRETTY big. "No, you first."

She didn't have to tell HIM twice. "I'm down fifteen pounds."

Lynn blinked. "Wow. Really?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

She hugged him. "That's great, Dad. I'm really proud of you."

"I'm proud of me too," he said. "What's your thing?"

She smiled and pulled away. "Well...it's nothing, really," she said and lifted her hand to her temple as though she had an itch.

Dad chuckled. "It looks like something, alright. You're glowing. Are you pregnant?"

Lynn moved her hand slowly across her forehead. "Nope."

Dad's eyes pooled with confusion. "Well...what is it?"

Really? Was he blind? She held her hand up, the back of it facing out. "Engagement ring?"

Dad's eyes widened. "You're getting married?"

Lynn nodded. "Umhm."

"Honey, that's great!" He swept her into a hug so tight her spirit flew out of her mouth and floated away. "When?"

Lynn strangled.

Dad winced and let her go. "Sorry."

"We don't know yet," she said, "some time in the spring or summer."

Dad laughed. "That's really great. Oh, wait until your mama finds out. She's been dreaming of planning your wedding forever."

"I know," Lynn said. Mama was the type of woman to get excited over flowers and dresses; Lynn wasn't, but she was really looking forward to it. She loved her mother and they had a good relationship, but they'd never really BONDED. She was a tomboy (she hated that phrase, by the way) and mama was a girly girl; they didn't have much in common. Planning for this wedding, however, would be the perfect chance for them to come together over mama's favorite things, and that pleased Lynn.

Dad kissed her forehead. "I'm really happy for you, sweetie. You're working on grandkids, though, right?"

A little blush colored Lynn's cheeks. "Well...we've talked about it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. One day. Not right now, though. We want to get settled first."

Faint disappointment flickered through his eyes. "Oh. Well...okay."

Lynn snickered and patted his stomach. "Don't worry, big guy, it'll happen. Now come on, I'm in the mood to sell some cars."


	128. September 1988: Part 3

**Lyrics to _Chains of Love_ by Erasure (1988)**

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, Jessy Loud was served breakfast in bed by her loving sister: Bacon, eggs, toast, and oatmeal. Sure, the eggs were rubbery, and the bacon was burned, and the oatmeal was soupy (come to think of it, even the toast had something wrong with it - it was underdone), but Jessy happily ate every bite; that Bunny went through the trouble to cook for her touched her deeply...Bunny HATED cooking, yet she got out of bed extra early to do it before work.

As she ate, Alex sat on the edge of the bed and read her latest piece of fiction...a 'special birthday story for Jessy'. It was a romance with no blood or gore. "Then they totally kissed, and their tongues were all flopping around and stuff. 'Oh, Bartholomew, you kiss divinely,' she said. 'So do you, my love.'"

Jessy clapped her hands at the end. "That was really good. You should write more stuff like that."

Alex blew a raspberry. "Do you know how hard it was to write that story? I almost broke down and turned Rosedale into a cannibal vampire."

Jessy tilted her head. "So...he would eat other vampires?"

"No, he'd eat flesh instead of drinking blood, but that DOES give me an idea." She pulled a pencil out of her dress pocket and jotted a note down in her book, then snapped it closed and got up. "Thank you!"

"Happy to help."

Before she left, Alex bent over and hugged her. "I love you, Jess," she said into Jessy's ear, and Jessy's eyes welled with emotion. "Happy Birthday."

"I love you too," Jessy said.

Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne both came in before leaving, each one giving her a hug, a kiss, and a 'happy birthday.' When they were gone, she took her dishes into the sink, washed them, and put them away; warm September sunshine bathed the kitchen floor, and Jessy considered a walk, but ultimately decided against it. She'd walk to Flip's later and visit her mother, for now, though, she wanted to be lazy.

In her room, she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up. What time did Uncle Lincoln say her party was? Eight? It had to be after he got out of work, so probably. She wondered if Mark would be able to make it; today was his first day of classes in Detroit because of course it was. Sigh. She wished they could spend the day together. In fact, she wished he was here right now, next to her in bed.

That thought alone was enough to make her feel warm. She hummed as she imagined them kissing passionately as he brushed his fingers slowly along her inner thigh, getting closer and closer to her center, her body beginning to twitch in anticipation, her heart slamming, her hips rocking...

Alright, maybe I should read a book or something, she thought as she sat up; her breathing was heavy and she was trembling. Yeah, she definitely needed to get her mind off...that.

In the living room, she dropped onto the sofa, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and turned on the television: A morning newscast was on, and while she loved current events, she wasn't really in the mood, so she changed the channel to MTV, where a blonde guy in a white T-shirt was swinging through the air in a harness and singing while multicolored lights twinkled in the background.

"Come to me, cover me, hold me

Together we'll break these chains of love

Don't give up, don't give up

Together with me and my baby

Break the chains of love"

Hm. That looks kind of fun; she'd be afraid of falling, though. As she watched, she remembered that she wanted to ask Lola how music videos were made. Sure, lights, camera, action, but what about the singing? Every music video she had ever seen had the same audio as the actual song, meaning it was dubbed in. When they were filming the video, were they only pretending to sing and play their instruments, or did did they really sing and play, only to have the master track used instead? She pictured a band filming a video in absolute silence as they mimed the words, and snickered. She doubted that's what they did, but who knew? It seemed strange to her, though people did strange things all the time.

The video ended and after a Daily World Record bumper (Elvis was a space alien! Psychic triplets wed TV in Hindu love triangle!) another started: A band played in front of a spinning psychedelic background, the camera far away at first but slowly zooming in. When it stopped, the singer stepped up to the microphone, and Jessy instantly recognized her: Auntie Luna.

Her eyes widened. She knew they made 'music videos' way back and that MTV played them from time to time, but she'd never seen any of Auntie Luna's stuff.

Oh, wow, this is so cool!

She slipped off the couch and went around the coffee table, kneeling in front of the TV to get a closer look.

In all of the photo albums, Auntie Luna wore normal clothes (at least normal for the fifties and sixties), but in her video she was wearing loose fitting purple pants with flared cuffs, a billowy purple top, and a mess of necklaces: Beads, chains, and a cross. One of the guitar players wore a western jacket and a cowboy hat and the drummer was in one of those sixties coats with the high neck. The footage was grainy and old, jumping here and there.

Jessy grinned. REALLY cool. She studied Auntie Luna's face, her eyes squinting in concentration. She looked thinner than she did in the pictures, and older. She was twenty-eight or twenty-nine when she died (Jessy couldn't remember which), but she looked like she was in her forties. She was a year older than Mom, so if she was still alive she'd be forty-six. Still really young.

The video ended and an MTV news break came on; Jessy got up and went back to the couch. She felt sad now, like she did after looking at pictures of Auntie Luna; she really wished she had the chance to meet her and get to know her. Uncle Lincoln said she was a beautiful person, and if he said so, it must be true.

She no longer felt like watching TV.

* * *

Lori Loud had worked as a typist for over twenty years, and she was pretty good, too, if she did say so herself. Well, she WAS good until the traded her typewriter for a big, clunky Apple Macintosh SE computer. Oh, that thing was a headache. Typing wasn't bad, the keyboard was laid out in standard fashion, it was navigating it. So confusing; every day she did something wrong and needed someone to help her. Heck, once she even made it 'crash'. She didn't know what that meant exactly, but it stopped working completely and Mr. Rainier, her boss, was NOT happy. "If you fry another computer, you're paying for it, Loud." Well, excuse me for not knowing how to operate a piece of equipment that I wasn't hired to use. Seriously, you can't just spring new technology on someone and demand that they instantly become proficient in it. Jeez Louise, that's like hiring someone to mop floors and then expecting them to run a nuclear reactor.

Once upon a time she liked her job, she honestly did, but now she hated it, and she was considering quitting; Bobby made enough at the warehouse as floor manager that she didn't need to work...she did it because she didn't want to sit home on her butt all day. If she DID quit, she'd look for something else because she wasn't ready to retire, and it would most likely be the same thing she was doing now...which meant she'd STILL have to deal with computers.

Hating her job, she relished her days off like she never had before; on that Monday morning, she sat on the couch in her bathrobe and watched The Price is Right, her arms and legs crossed and the corners of her mouth turned up in contentment. She couldn't do this every single day, but here and there was nice. Sleeping in was nice too. You know, maybe if she got a hobby she COULD retire. What, though? She knew how to sew and knit, but she'd never been particularly enamored of either pursuit. Those were Leni's things (poor, sweet Leni). Perhaps she could volunteer at the homeless shelter, or at a church. She and Bobby went to Christmas Eve mass at St. Anthony's on Maple Street, and from what she knew, they did a lot of charitable work.

Hm. That was certainly something to think about; she'd much rather work with the elderly and the disadvantaged than with computers. Shudder.

During a commercial, she got up and went into the kitchen, where she poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip; she spit it back into the mug. Oh, gross, it was cold. She put it in the microwave and leaned against the counter as she waited for it to warm. It was just after eleven now; at noon she'd get dressed and go over to Mom and Dad's for a visit. Jessy's party was at eight (at their house, of course, like all birthday parties) and she promised Lincoln she'd come over around six-thirty and help him decorate. Full evening ahead.

The microwave dinged and she took her coffee out, then started for the living room but stopped when the wall phone rang. She took a sip and crossed to it, picking it up and pressing it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom."

She smiled. "Hey, honey." Something occurred to her. "It's really early out there."

"Not really. Eight-thirty."

Oh, she didn't know why but she always thought the time difference was greater; she figured it was closer to six-thirty.

She took another sip. "That's not bad. How are you doing?"

"Good. I'm actually in the mood for a game."

Lori blinked. "A game?" she asked.

"Yeah. You wanna play one?"

Lori squinted in confusion. Her son called to play a game...over the phone. "I-I guess," she said with bemusement.

In the background, Stephy yelled. "Put that down!" Bobby said sharply. "Hold on, Mom." He sat the phone down and Lori listened with a smile as he disciplined his daughter. "No, you can't have that."

"Want it!"

"No."

"Peez!"

"No."

"PEEZ WANT IT!"

Bobby came back and Stephy screamed in frustration. "Sorry," Bobby said, "she had the TV remote and when she has the remote, it has a bad habit of getting broke."

Lori laughed. "I remember you breaking the remote once. You were...two or three. You knocked it off the table and stepped on it."

"Yeah, that sounds like an accident. She throws it against the wall and laughs when the batteries fly out."

Lori nodded. "She's like you. Well...maybe a little worse." She was a lot worse, come to think of it. Bobby wasn't particularly hyper as a child, at least beyond what was normal for a boy; his problem was his mind...it wandered.

Presently he sighed. "I know. Me and Lola are going to take her to see a doctor this week."

Lori's brow knitted. "A doctor?"

"Yeah. Lola doesn't think it's normal, and...I think she's right. Stephy's non-stop off the walls. It's crazy."

"Well...some kids are just hyper," Lori said. "Your Uncle Lynn was a nightmare."

"Yeah? Did he run circles around the couch and throw himself against the front door?"

Lori faltered. "She did that? The door part?"

"Yep. The other night. Ran full force into it on purpose."

A ripple of concern went through Lori's stomach. "Is she okay?"

In the background, Stephy yelled in what sounded like frustration. "BAH TOY!"

Bobby sighed. "Now she's mad at her teddy bear. She's fine, but...I dunno. Anyway, this game...still wanna play?"

For a moment she didn't reply. She wasn't the type who believed that being a kid was a disease (as many doctors these days seemed to), but maybe there WAS something wrong with her granddaughter. Suddenly she was very worried. "Y-Yeah. Sure."

"Alright," Bobby said, a grin in his voice, "it's called 'guess who's pregnant again'."

Though she didn't like to admit it, Lori could be a LITTLE slow on the uptake. Bobby's words hit her brain but bounced off and ricocheted through her skull. On the second pass, however, they penetrated, and she jolted. "Lola's pregnant again?"

Bobby laughed. "Yep. We were going to wait to tell everyone, but she decided she wanted to avoid what happened last time. You're officially the first to know."

Lori went to cover her mouth with her hand but wound up sloshing lukewarm coffee onto her robe. She sighed.

"You're not happy?" Bobby asked, a little wounded.

"No, no, I am," Lori said quickly, "VERY happy. I just...spilled coffee on myself."

Bobby laughed. "Alright, go get cleaned up. Stephy's running around the house and if don't get her to the park soon she's going to start leaving burning tread marks on the floor."

Lori snickered. Hyper or not, she missed the girl and would take her son's place in a heartbeat. "Alright. You're coming out soon, right?"

He was silent for a moment. "Uh, yeah. I don't know when. Lola's going on tour in Europe next month and she's talking about me and Stephy coming with her. We'll definitely be out for Christmas."

"Okay," Lori said, "I love you. Congratulations."

"Thanks. Love you too."

When the line went dead, she started to hang up, but she was bursting with the good news, so she dialed the warehouse and asked for Bobby. When he came on, she beamed. "Hey, Bobby, wanna play a game?"

* * *

It was just past noon when Jessy walked into Flip's: The TV in the corner was turned to the Channel 6 news and doo wop music drifted softly from the jukebox. It was hot because Uncle Lincoln never had air conditioning installed; a fan on the counter oscillated back and forth, barely stirring the stagnant air. Speaking of Uncle Lincoln, he was sitting behind the counter with the paper; Alex was reading over his shoulder, a plate heaped with fried chicken and French fries in her hands. Uncle Lincoln sensed her presence and turned to his left, but she ducked to the right, and he went back to reading with a dismissive shake of the head. Alex grinned and tapped his left shoulder; he turned, saw nothing, and chuckled. "That you, Flip?" he asked. "I'm keeping the place clean. Alright?"

Jessy laughed to herself and dropped into one of the booths.

"Nope, it's me," Alex admitted.

"I thought Flip came back again."

Alex's brow lifted. "Again?"

Uncle Lincoln nodded. "Yep. He dropped by the house once and told me you needed an asswhipping. Stupid me, I didn't listen. I wish I had."

Alex snorted and came around the counter. She dropped the plate off at a table and started back, but saw Jessy and changed directions. "Hey!" she said and pulled abreast of the table with a bounce.

"Hey," Jessy said, "I wanted to see if Uncle Lincoln actually makes you work."

"I don't," Uncle Lincoln said over the top of his paper, "I pay her to goof off."

Alex smiled sheepishly and hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Such a kidder."

"I'm not kidding."

Jessy snickered and Alex sighed. "It's like this every day. Drives me crazy. So...what can I get for the birthday girl?"

"A burger," Jessy said. "Is my mom here?"

"Yeah, she's in the can. You want anything else? Shake? Ice cream? Money from the register?"

"Nope."

While Alex put in her order, Jessy glanced around the half empty dining room then stared up at the TV. Hm. Looked like working for Uncle Lincoln wasn't much different from staying at home.

Not for the first time, she considered asking him for a job. She started classes on Wednesday, so she wouldn't be able to work much wherever she went, but here she'd be with Uncle Lincoln, Alex, AND her mom, which would be pretty cool. She really wanted a tutoring job, though, and she was also a little intimidated by the requirements of waitressing...mainly carrying heavy plates and cups around. Oh, my God, she'd be SO scared of dropping someone's food or spilling coffee on somebody's lap that she'd probably quiver and shake, thus CAUSING it to happen...like some kind of awful self-fulfilling prophecy. She would probably be a terrible waitress. No, best to find something related to teaching. That's where her heart was, after all; nurturing the minds of tomorrow.

She looked away from the screen just as Mom came out of the women's room and smoothed the front of her apron. She started down the hall, and Jessy waved to her; she saw, and waved back, a shadow of excitement flickering across her face. She hurried over, and Jessy stood up. "Hi, honey," Mom said hugged her. "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you," Jessy said and hugged her back. "You wanna have lunch with me?"

Mom drew back and stroked Jessy's hair. "Of course I do." She glanced at Uncle Lincoln who, without looking up, made a circular 'go ahead' motion with his hand.

Mom patted her shoulder. "What do you want?"

"Bunny took my order."

Jessy sat as her mother went to the window and talked to Fred. Done, she came over and sat across the table. She rested her forearms on the edge and leaned in conspiratorially. "Eighteen," she said with a touch of wonder.

"Yep," Jessy laughed, "I'm an old woman now."

Mom laughed too. "What does that make me?"

Jessy shrugged. "The mother of an old woman?"

"I can live with that," Mom said. "Are you excited for school?"

Jessy nodded. "Very. Auntie Ronnie Anne said she went for four years, so by this time in the year 1992 I'll be ready for the big time."

"That's so far away," Mom kidded, "you'll probably be teaching robot children by then."

Jessy giggled. "It's only four years, Mom. I'm sure my students will be flesh and blood."

"I don't know," Mom said, "you might wind up teaching bionic kids at some point. If you stay with it until you retire."

Hm. Jessy started doing mental calculations, but her mother beat her to the punch. "If you retire at sixty-five, it'll be 2035."

Dang it. Mom could be worse than Chuck Spencer sometimes. "That IS a long way off."

Mom tilted her head and pursed her. "Not really. I was your age in 1961...that was twenty-seven years ago."

Wow. She never really sat down and thought about her mother's age. She knew, of course, but you can know a lot of things and still be a little taken aback when you really ponder them. "What was 1961 like?" she asked. It had to be different from today.

"I was happy," Mom said instantly. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she had blurted something that shouldn't have been blurted. "I mean...I was young and going to college and I thought I was going to be somebody one day."

The shame stamped across her mother's face broke Jessy's heart, just like it did every time she glimpsed it. "You ARE somebody." She reached across the table and took her mother's hand. "You're my mom. And I love you."

A sunny smile broke across her mother's face and she twined their fingers. "I love you too, Jessy." She lifted Jessy's hand to her lips and kissed it. "You're perfect, do you know that?"

Jessy blushed. "I'm not perfect."

"Yes you are," Mom said. "You're perfect and I really wish I was there when you were growing up." Her throat bobbed and tears welled in her eyes. "It hurts me every day that I wasn't." She squeezed Jessy's hand and Jessy squeezed back. She wanted to say something (it's alright, Mom, maybe, or we have now), but she knew that wouldn't help.

Mom took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you."

"Don't be," Jessy said lowly.

Mom nodded and laughed humorlessly. "It's your birthday and here I am making it about me. Are you excited for your party?"

Jessy nodded. "Umhm. I'm a little disappointed that Mark probably won't be there, but he has school, so I understand. It still sucks, though."

"That DOES suck," Mom agreed. She opened her mouth, but hesitated. "Are you...are you two..." she looked around and leaned in, her cheeks turning red..."sexually active?"

Horror filled Jessy's breast. Oh, she HATED this topic; talking about...that...with someone like Mom or Auntie Ronnie Anne was so embarrassing. "No," she said, her own cheeks burning, "we...we haven't done anything like that."

Mom nodded. "Are...are you ready?"

Jessy's face blazed even hotter. She really didn't want to tell her mother the truth, but she didn't want to lie either. Slowly, not meeting her mother's eyes, she nodded.

"That's nothing to be embarrassed about," Mom said and squeezed her hand. "When it DOES happen, just be safe, okay?"

Jessy nodded. "I will."

Alex came over and sat a plate in front of Jessy, then Mom, then sat next to the latter. "Don't mind me, Auntie," she said, "I'm just taking a break. My dogs are barrr-king."

Mom laughed. "You're fine. You should have gotten something for yourself."

Alex held up her hand. "Nope, I'm saving myself for cake and ice cream." She grinned at Jessy, a glint of mischief in her eye. "I know what kind of cake Grandma's making you."

Jessy plopped a fry in her mouth. "What kind?"

"I can't tell you that," she said and leaned back, "it'd ruin the surprise."

Jessy shrugged. "That's okay. I don't wanna know."

Alex lifted her brow and cocked her head to the side. "Are you using reverse psychology on me?"

"Nope," Jessy said and ate another fry. That wasn't the truth, she kind of was.

Nodding, Alex crossed her arms. "Good. Because it's not going to work."

"Okay," Jessy said.

Alex opened her mouth, but closed it again and frowned when someone called out. "Waitress? I'd like my check, please."

She sighed and slumped her shoulders. Mom patted her on the leg. "Back to the old grind."

"Yeah," Alex said heavily and got up, "back to the old grind. Workin', slavin' everyday."

After she was gone, Jessy took a bite of her burger. Now she was curious: What kind of cake did Grandma make her? Thanks to Auntie Leni, she loved sweets and wasn't really picky about what form they came in: Chocolate cake, strawberry cake, pineapple upside down cake, cheesecake, bunt cake, coffee cake...Jessy was a cake slut (blush): Any cake, anywhere, any time.

"What's your schedule look like?" Mom asked over her burger.

"Packed," Jessy said and laughed nervously; she was going for her masters degree like Auntie Ronnie Anne suggested. She said you needed it if you wanted to advance from teaching to administration, and that even if you didn't think you wanted to, having it on hand was good; Jessy agreed. Why turn your nose up at the master key in favor of the...non...master key? "I have classes from eight to five Monday through Thursday and nine to three on Friday."

Mom's eyes widened a little and she swallowed her food. "Wow. I was usually done by two or three. Of course I wasn't going for a master's, just a bachelors. Are you interested in joining any clubs?"

"Um...not really. Were you in any?"

Mom nodded. "I was in the Young Democrats and in the Society for Nuclear Disarmament."

Hm. That was pretty interesting. "What did you do in the nuclear club?"

"Mainly held rallies and wrote to our representatives. It wasn't much but we wanted to do something. This was right after Cuba and we were still pretty shaken up."

She remembered Mom telling her how scared she was during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Nuclear war was a remote threat these days, with Russia becoming freer and less bellicose, back then though it was a looming danger, and Jessy figured she'd be scared and want to get rid of all the bombs too.

Something occurred to her. "I saw Auntie Luna on MTV this morning."

Mom blinked. "You did?"

Jessy nodded. "It was a video from the sixties." She hesitated to continue because she knew it was a painful subject that no one liked to talk about, but she was really curious. "W-What was she like?"

Mom sat down her burger and drew a deep breath as though she were attempting to steel herself. "She was...very carefree. She was always smiling and always so...relaxed. Nothing really bothered her." Nostalgic longing filled Mom's eyes, so raw and sad it made Jessy's heart hurt. "We shared a room so we were really close. She helped me with my problems and gave me advice. If I needed someone to talk to or an opinion, I'd go to her instead of your grandmother. She just seemed to have it all figured out. I really...I looked up to her."

"I'm sorry," Jessy said. "For asking."

"Don't be," Mom said. "It's hard to talk about but you can't ignore something just because it's difficult."

Jessy nodded slowly. No, she supposed, you can't.

And you shouldn't.


	129. September 1988: Part 4

**Lyrics to _Red, Red Wine_ by UB40 (1982); _The Way You Make Me Feel_ by Michael Jackson (1987); _Wishing Well_ by Terrence Trent D'Arby (1987)**

* * *

When Lincoln got to his parents' house, it was just before 6:30 and the light was draining from the sky, leaving cold, ashy purple in its wake.

Lori's car was parked in the driveway, and Bobby Sr.'s sat behind it; Lincoln pulled to the curb and killed the engine, cutting The Big Bopper off in the middle of Chantilly Lace (oooh, baby, that's what I like!). He died in the same plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, didn't he? He thought so but maybe it was a different one; rock stars are always falling out of the sky. Kind of funny...what are they doing up there, playing their music so loud it distracts the pilot? Turn that noise...MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Once upon a time Buddy Holly was Ronnie Anne's favorite singer, and the day he died Lincoln spent the whole day consoling her; she said she was fine, but he knew deep down she was upset. Years later she admitted it. I really appreciated how you stayed with me, she told him, I think that's the day I fell in love with you.

Yet when his all time favorite singer, Elvis, died, where was SHE?

Lincoln Loud, always giving and never getting back. Sheesh.

That wasn't true, of course. She gave plenty, though he couldn't lie: He DID feel a little salty every time he opened his birthday card and there was no money in it. Oh, I see, that blowjob you give me this morning was supposed to soften the blow of how cheap you are. Nice. I can TOTALLY buy things with a bj. Here ya go, Uncle Sam, this should cover my taxes for the year.

Inside, Dad was sitting in his chair and squinting at the TV, where Dan Rather was reading the evening news and not getting into a shouting match with George Bush over Iran-Contra like he did in January. Boy, that was a sight to see: They reminded Lincoln of an old gay couple bickering over what color curtains should go in the sitting room. No, Dan, pink. But George *foot stomp* Dad glanced up. "Hey, Linc."

"Hey, Dad," Lincoln said and closed the door. "Where's everyone else?"

"Kitchen," Dad said. "You should see that cake. Man alive." He chuckled and shook his head.

Oh, yeah? He crossed the living room and poked his head in: Lori stood at the stove stirring a pot, one hand on her hip. Smelled like Swedish meatballs, one of Jessy's favorite dishes. Mom sat at the table carefully frosting a massive chocolate cake, Bobby across from her and blowing up a red balloon, his face red with exertion; a dozen or so of varying colors covered the floor around him, stirring with the slightest of movements. He pulled his lips away from the business end of this one and tied it off with a pant. Your sister makes the same face when she's blowing ME up.

Lincoln cringed. Great. Now I'll never be able to look at my wife as she 'services' me again. Thanks a lot, Bobby. Don't you have a sock hop to crash, you greaser shitheel?

"Good, you're here," Bobby said, "you can take over." He picked up a can of beer and took a long swallow; from the look of that beer belly forming above his waistband, he should be drinking something better for you...like whiskey. Lincoln had never seen a fat whiskey freak...they were all lean and trim.

"Not happening," Lincoln said. He bent and kissed Mom on the cheek.

Bobby's shoulders slumped. "Aw, come on, I'm dying here."

Taking pity on his brother-in-law, Lincoln dropped into a chair, grabbed a balloon, and started to blow. Bobby grinned mockingly and nodded his head. Lincoln narrowed his eyes darkly. "They teach you that in the army?"

Lincoln tied the balloon off and dropped it to the floor. "Yeah. Step outside and I'll show you what else they taught me."

Bobby smirked. "Sorry. I didn't bring any raincoats."

Mom sighed and sat back from the cake, giving it an appreciative once over before pronouncing herself satisfied with a nod.

"I was expecting something with a little more pizzazz," Lincoln said as he tied off his second balloon.

"There's chocolate pudding inside," Lori said, sitting a lid on the put and laying the ladle aside, "and the icing is Dutch fudge."

"Sounds rich," Lincoln said and grabbed another balloon. How many of these things were there, anyway? He was starting to run out of breath. Hey, he DID smoke for fifteen years.

Sitting between him and Mom, Lori hummed. "It is, but you only turn eighteen once."She picked up a balloon and started to blow. Good. Back up.

They were almost done with the balloons when Alex and Luan came into the kitchen, the former in jeans and a black T-shirt and the latter still in her uniform. When Alex saw the cake, she came to a crashing halt, her eyes expanding and her pupils dialating.

Uh-oh.

She came reverently to the table like a Republican approaching Ronald Reagan. "It's even bigger than I imagined," she breathed. She started to reach for it, but Mom smacked her hand.

"No," she said, "this is for the party." She picked up the spoon she used to spread the frosting and held it out. "This is for you."

Alex's eyes lit up. "Thanks, Grandma!" She took it and began happily licking like a little girl with a lollipop.

When all the balloons were blown up, Bobby and Lincoln grabbed a couple chairs and went into the living room, where they taped them to the gap where the wall and ceiling joined. Lori took it upon herself to micromanage - er, supervise. Lincoln no longer saw Dr. Jenner, but after Lori barking orders and throwing him into a flashback he was seriously considering calling the guy. Heh. How would THAT conversation go? Hey, doc, I need to come in...my older sister told me to move something a little to the left and suddenly I was back in basic being screamed on by Sgt. Hellman. Jenner would probably call him a bitch and tell him to grow a set.

Once the balloons were up, they hung the banner (HAPPY 18 JESSY) and multicolored streamers. Done, he ran out to the car and got Jessy's present. Back inside, he sat it on the end table with the others; two were long and stacked...when he tried to move them, his arm nearby broke. Goddamn, what's in there, bars of gold? He checked the nametag. FROM: MOM. He tracked Luan down in the kitchen. "What'd you get Jessy? It's heavy as hell."

She laughed. "A set of encyclopedias."

Oh, she'd like that; she'd complained more than once that theirs were outdated. Lincoln thought she was being melodramatic until he picked one up recently and looked at the cover: It was from 1973. Huh. Guess she WASN'T nitpicking.

Then again, 1973 wasn't THAT long ago...

* * *

After leaving Flip's, Jessy drove aimlessly through the streets of Royal Woods, not really wanting to go home but not quite in the mood to do anything in particular. She felt kind of restless, which wasn't like her; she figured it had to do with school. She was really looking forward to starting, but the more she thought about it, the more nervous she became: This was her future on the line, and there was VERY little room for error. She was fairly confident that she could grasp the material, but you never know what may or may not happen in life, and having no wiggle room bothered her. She was the type to show up ten or fifteen minutes early just in case, and if she didn't, she felt all out of sorts.

She eventually wound up passing the elementary school; buses idled at the curb and kids streamed through the front doors, some getting on and others walking. She stared as she passed, smiling a little as a memory came suddenly and unbidden from the ether of her mind: Six-year-old Alex shoving a little boy to the ground by the flagpole because he said Jessy looked like a beaver and made her cry. How does it feel NOW, buttface? As she recalled, the little boy jumped up and ran sobbing into the sunset.

Ahhh...the first of many assaults Bunny committed on her behalf. Or was it? Jessy couldn't remember...there were a LOT. Let's see: There was the girl she literally kicked in the butt for inviting everyone in class to her birthday party but Jessy; the boy whose face she shoved into his lunch for saying Jessy was a crybaby; the girl whose hair she pulled because she called Jessy a 'freak nobody likes' (all I did was get an A-!); the...well, more, let's just say that. One time Jessy yelled at her. Stop beating up my classmates! She didn't, though, and deep down, Jessy didn't want her to; she liked knowing that Bunny was looking out for her. It made her feel protected. And loved.

Then there were the times she got her in trouble, like when they went looking for their Christmas presents that one year, and when she got them kicked out of White Elephant. Oooh, she was so mad; if it had been literally anyone else she probably would have hit them.

But it was Bunny, and she couldn't bring herself to hit her no matter HOW much she might deserve it.

Plus...she never meant to get her in trouble. Actually, come to think of it, Jessy DID remember being really little and Alex telling her that drawing on the walls was 'good' and 'Daddy likes it when you draw on the walls.' When she did...DADD-EE! JESSY DRAWING ON THE WALLS! When Jessy turned to look at her (in fear and confusion), Alex smirked and crossed her arms. 'That's for hitting me.'

Jessy giggled at the memory. She was going to miss her sister when she moved in with Tim at the end of the month. She was going to miss her A LOT. Not having Bunny would be like not having her right leg, only worse: She could manage without her right leg.

That's part of growing up, she guessed. What did she think she was going to do, live with Alex, Uncle Lincoln, and Auntie Ronnie Anne forever?

Well...no...she just...she wasn't quite ready for it to be over; transitioning to adulthood is a process that takes each person a different amount of time to complete. Some are ready before they're even eighteen and others aren't ready until they're forty...if ever. She doubted she'd take THAT long to acclimate, but yes, she wasn't exactly itching to not have her aunt, uncle, and sister around.

Pretty juvenile, huh?

She turned on the radio as she took a right onto Main Street, passing Flip's and making a circle; she nodded absently to the mellow reggae melody even though she didn't understand most of the lyrics.

 _"I'd have sworn_

 _That with time_

 _Thoughts of you would leave my head_

 _I was wrong_

 _Now I find_

 _Just one thing makes me forget_

 _Red, red wiiiinnnnneeee"_

It wasn't like Bunny was going far; Tim only lived halfway across town, and Royal Woods was NOT a very big town.

They'd see each other all the time.

Every single day, even.

 _"Stay close to me_

Don't let me be alone

It's tearin' apart

My blue, blue heart"

Jessy sighed and turned down Colvin Avenue. She got home ten minutes later, pulled into the driveway, and cut the engine, making no move to get out. Her eyes drifted to the Garbage Pail kids stickers on the dash, and a faint, nostalgic smile touched her lips. Bunny's dash had flowers and hearts on it; just because Jessy loved her sister didn't mean she was above exacting a little revenge.

She unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door, and slid out. On the porch, she stopped and turned back: Might as well get the mail. She paused at the box, opened it, and reached in, her fingers closing around a thick stack of postmarked goodies. In the house, she stood just inside the door and flipped through it. Bill, bill, Uncle Lincoln, bill, junk, Bunny, Jessica Loud...ooh, that's me. She checked the return address: It was from her father.

She sat what wasn't hers on the end table and took what was into the living room, where she dropped onto the sofa, pulled her legs up under her, and tore open the envelope.

In her last letter, she asked him why he got a longer sentence than Mom, since she was the one who physically put the bomb in place, and she was really interested in his response: It didn't really make sense to her, and seemed kind of unfair. Not that she wanted her mother to still be in prison, but if they gave her fifteen years, Dad should have gotten ten or something.

Holding the sheet in her hands, she scanned his tight, cramped writing until she found it:

"...as to why I was given a stiffer sentence, I think it has to do with your mother being a woman. The justice system has long been more lenient with women (especially in cases where there is a male co-defendant) owing to the sexist notion that women are weak willed, cannot think or act for themselves, and are the gentler (read: Less threatening) sex. Not that I'm complaining, I didn't want her to serve any time. If I had my way she would have been out there with you. I don't know what kind of life you two would have had with her being a single mother, but I know she would have preferred anything to being separated from you for so long. It kills her that she missed your life, and it kills me too. I have two years still until my sentence is up, and by then you'll be twenty and I'll have missed everything. I know I've never been a father to you and nothing I could ever do will make up for that, but when I get out I would very much like to see you. I'm going to be on probation until the year 2010, so I'll have to see if they will even let me leave the state..."

When she was done reading, she folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Of course she wanted to meet him; he was her father after all. They might not share the same father-daughter bond she had with Uncle Lincoln, but she was ready to love him the same way she loved Mom.

Currently, she got up and went into her room, where she sat on her bed and divided her attention between Bunny's side and writing a response to her father. With Alex gone, the room was going to be a lot bigger...and darker, too.

She was NOT looking forward to it.

* * *

Lynn let herself into the apartment she shared with Ritchie just after nine on Monday evening: Her feet ached so bad from these goddamn heels they felt like they were going to explode. She was seriously thinking about ditching the businesswoman look and wearing her jeans and her high tops to work. I mean, we're selling cars, we're not lawyers or anything, do we really have to dress like those losers on L.A. Law?

Inside, Ritchie was stretched out on the couch watching football, dressed only in jeans and a pair of socks, one arm behind his head and the remote resting on his bare chest. "You're home early," he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

Lynn blew a raspberry as she tossed her purse onto the end table. Ritchie moved his legs so she could sit; as soon as she was off her feet, she kicked those dumb heels off.

"I expected you to be out until midnight," Ritchie said.

"Eh, I begged off."

After work, she went to her parents' house and spent three hours going over wedding stuff with Mom. Oh, she was so excited she practically shivered with it; she wanted carnations and roses and pink dresses for the bride's maids and all kinds of other stuff. Speaking of bride's maids, who the hell was she going to get? She wasn't exactly drowning in female friends. There was Polly, and that was pretty much it. She couldn't get Slater and the others to do it; she didn't think they'd look very good in pink.

That reminded her. "Who's going to be your best man?" she asked, turning to Ritchie.

"Uh...I don't know. I was thinking of making Slater, Kaufman, and Ben fight for it."

Lynn snickered, but cut herself off. This was serious. "You have to decide. Soon."

"I know. I'll give it some thought."

"We also have to decide WHERE we're doing it. A church? Outside?"

Ritchie's brow pinched and he looked at her, his eyes narrowed in thought. "You think you could get married when you're skydiving?"

"What?"

"Like...the groom, the bride, and the priest are all falling and they perform the ceremony right there."

An image of a man in a tux, a woman in a white dress, and a priest in a Roman collar dropping through the air came to Lynn's mind: The man and woman held hands, the priest opposite them and reading from a book. She snorted. "You're a dumbass."

"That doesn't answer my question. Could it be done?"

Lynn thought for a second. "I guess. I'M not doing it, though."

"I didn't say we should, I was just wondering. Be kind of a cool way to do it."

Yeah, it would be unique, but Lynn wasn't too hot on the idea of jumping out of an airplane with nothing between her and the hard, unforgiving ground but a backpack parachute. Jesus, what if it didn't open? Can you IMAGINE that? Falling toward the ground from fifty million feet up over...three, four, five minutes knowing the whole time that you're going to die...and there's nothing you can do about it? A shiver went down her spine. Nuh-uh.

"Anything else we need to decide?" Ritchie asked.

Lynn flicked her eyes to the ceiling and went through her brain meat for an answer. "Nope." An idea occurred to her, and she grinned. "Well...there WAS one thing but I decided for us."

On TV, a player was tackled clean out of his cleats. Heh. That wouldn't have happened if you chose baseball instead.

"What?"

Lynn glanced at him. "Nothing, just who's taking whose last name." She nudged his leg with her elbow. "You're taking mine."

"Bullshit I am."

"You're gonna be Richard J. Loud."

A medic rushed onto the field and bent over no-cleats, who lie unmoving on his back while commentator Dick Enberg speculated on what was wrong with him. He probably has cancer.

"Not gonna happen."

Lynn turned to him. "Yeah? Then the wedding's off."

Ritchie stared at the TV. "Alright. Wedding's off."

"Good. You can sleep out here tonight."

"Fine with me," he said, "least I won't have to smell your sweaty onion feet all night."

Lynn's brow darkened. "Fuck you, bitch. Your dick is small."

"No, you're just loose. Fucking you is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway."

Lynn punched the shit out of his knee, and he yelped. "I was joking," he laughed.

"I wasn't, baby dick. Slater's bigger."

She was. And if Ritchie had a baby dick...God, she'd hate to see a grown man dick.

Ritchie laughed out loud. "I'm sure he is."

No-cleats was carried off the field on a stretcher. Lynn's stomach rumbled. "What's for dinner?" she asked.

"I dunno. Ask Slater."

"I'm asking YOU. You've been home all evening, why didn't you cook? I expect food on the table when I come through that door."

"Are you sure you want me cooking? I'm worse at it than you are."

That WAS true. Ritchie was the kind of chef who served plates of failure. He could burn water. Hell, he could burn a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Between the two of them, they'd starve to death long before they were married.

Luckily a good chef just happened to live down the street.

Leaning over her fiancee, Lynn grabbed the phone from the table and dialed a number.

Ritchie watched her quizzically. "Who are you calling?"

On the other end, a voice spoke.

"Yeah, I'd three meatball subs for delivery, please," Lynn said, and smirked when Ritchie rolled his eyes.

The place was called Willie's, and their meatball subs were delicious. Seriously, those things were like a drug, and she was a strung out junkie living in a cardboard box. Every time they ordered from there (which was at least three times a week), she got two subs for herself - ostensibly to have one for lunch the next day, but more often than not she wound up pounding down both of them and then blowing the toilet to kingdom come. It was sooooo worth it, though.

As she put her order in, Ritchie reached up and cupped her breasts through her shirt, his thumbs rubbing lazy circles against her nipples. The padding of her bra muted his touch, but she shuddered in pleasure nonetheless. She cocked her head and lifted her brow, their eyes locking. "...okay, thank you." She hung the phone up and mounted him, her knees caging his legs and her hands pinning his shoulders to the couch.

"You know it's not nice to touch a girl's tits without permission, right?" she asked playfully.

A contrite look crossed his face. "Sorry. Can I touch your tits?"

She bent and brushed her lips against his. "Yes, please." She flicked her tounge out and traced it along his bottom lip, the corners of her mouth turning sharply up as lust filled his eyes. He laid his hands on her butt and squeezed as they kissed; he stirred between her legs, and she hummed as his fingers slid under the back of her dress and tugged at her underwear. She pulled away and looked him with a dizzy grin. "I thought you wanted to touch my tits."

Shrug. "Eh, your butt's good too."

Lynn chuckled. "Yeah? Why don't you kiss it?"

"I'd rather rather put a finger in."

Lynn's face screwed up in disgust. "Oh, hell no." The only thing that had ever gone in her butt was a doctor's finger and even THAT was too damn much.

"You might like it," Ritchie said and dipped his finger between her cheeks. Her entire body tingled unpleasantly: She cried out and jumped up, nearly tripping and falling over her heels.

Ritchie laughed like a madman and clapped his hands. "Jerk," she said and slapped the piss out of his arm. "Stay away from my ass."

"Come on," he teased, "don't knock it 'til you try it."

Trying something in her butt was below even skydiving on her list of things she was wet to do. She sat on the couch and crossed her arms. Just a moment before she was ready to go, now she was dry as a desert in August. "You killed the mood, dick," she grumbled.

Ritchie swung his legs off the couch and sat up. "Bet'cha I can bring it back."

"Nope," Lynn said.

"Yep. I'll have you begging for me in two minutes tops."

A harsh laugh escaped Lynn's mouth. "Yeah? I bet you won't."

Ritchie slipped off the couch and knelt in front of her, a sinful grin on his lips. He put his hands on her knees and tried to pry them apart, but she squeezed them together. "No," she laughed. He pulled harder, and she pressed harder. "Get lost, you'll spoil your dinner." Her heart was racing now and she could feel herself beginning to slicken; she REALLY liked when Ritchie went down on her. She couldn't let him know he was getting to her, though. "You suck at that, go away."

He pushed and Lynn's legs came open...not because of him, but because of her. Oops. Guess you win, Ritchie. Wink-wink.

Smirking, he shifted between her legs, and snaked his hands under her dress, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her underwear. He yanked, and they rolled down her thighs just a little. "Lift up."

"No," she said, and was not surprised that her voice was barely above a whisper; she was hot all over and had to fight REALLY hard to regulate her breathing.

Ritchie pouted. "Please? I make you feel good."

Lynn rolled her eyes and lifted her hips as though she didn't want to even though she really, really did. Ritchie smiled in triumph and pulled her underwear down over her legs, the scrape of the soft fabric against her fevered flesh making her breath catch. Heat raided from between her thighs in sickly waves and she was no longer dry. At all.

He slid the underwear over her ankles and tossed them away. Scooting forward, Lynn lifted one leg and rested it on his shoulder, then the other, her inner thighs pressing against the sides of his head. He turned and kissed her skin. "You're turned on, aren't you?" he asked.

Lynn shook her head.

Ritchie nodded. "Yes you are. Your face looks like you just played nine innings."

He trailed soft kisses up the inside of her leg, Lynn's breath hitched. She whined in the back of her throat and closed her eyes. Yes, alright, she was turned waaay the fuck on, and the closer his lips got to her leaking center, the more on she was turned: If he didn't stop putzing around down there, she was going to melt into a puddle and soak into the couch. Ritchie would NEVER get her out, and he'd have to eventually throw it away.

His head pushed the hem of her skirt up and he kissed her leg just bare inches from her womanhood. Oh, nothing is better than this.

Knock-knock-knock.

Lynn's eyes flew open. The subs!

Quicker than you can say crossover stoppy, Lynn leapt up and streaked to the door, her tongue practically hanging out at the promise of sweet, sweet meatball subs. Ritchie was left kneeling in her dust, his mouth open in a perfect O of shock. "Really?"

She ripped the door open, and the delivery boy jumped back a step, his eyes widening. "Uh...hi."

The good smells of yummy meatball subs drifted to Lynn's nose, and she swooned against the door frame, the tip of her tongue swiping unconsciously across her upper lip. The delivery boy gulped. "Uh...that'll be seven-fifty."

Lynn reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a crumpled ten. "Keep the change. Now give me my subs."

The delivery boy took the money and handed Lynn a brown paper bag. "Have a good ni -"

She slammed the door in his face, went over to the couch, and dropped onto her butt. Ritchie was where she left him, staring at her with a quizzical expression. "What?" Lynn asked as she took one of the sandwiches out. "I'm hungry."

He sighed and shook his head.

"Oh, quit huffing like a bitch," she said and tore the wrapper off, "we'll have sex after we eat."

They did, but all that thrusting and bumping really upset her stomach, and she almost came out of BOTH ends.

"I'm never eating another meatball sub again," she moaned after fifteen minutes on the toilet. When it came time to leave for work the next morning, though, guess what she grabbed from the fridge for lunch.

* * *

Jessy sat in the middle of her bed with her legs crossed and one of her new encyclopedias open in her lap: The others were on her bookshelf where she neatly and alphabetically arranged them immediately upon getting home. She read by soft lamplight, her hair held back in a ponytail and her slender body clad in a silky white nightgown that stopped just above her knees: If she moved the wrong way, God and everyone would see that she was not wearing anything underneath, but it was the most comfortable piece of sleepwear she owned, so that was a risk she was willing to take.

Across the room, Alex snickered, and Jessy glanced at her: She was sitting ramrod straight and writing in her notebook, an evil smile playing at the corners of her lips. Jessy could only assume that she was composing a scene where someone was being brutally and horrifically murdered. Jessy was going to miss Bunny's little chuckles when she read or wrote something gruesome. Heh heh heh. She was going to miss...well, there was a laundry list of things she'd miss...even things that got on her nerves.

On the bright side, she could walk around the room naked now. Wahoo. Yep. She could let it allll hang out.

Sounds fun.

Totally.

She drew a deep breath. "What do you think Bobby and Lola's new baby is going to be?" she asked to make conversation.

"I dunno," Alex replied without looking up, "probably a girl."

"You think?"

Alex nodded. "This family can't produce anything BUT girls. Every time you turn around there's a new one in your face."

Well...they DID have a lot of girls, but there were boys too. "What about Uncle Lynn and Uncle Lincoln and Bobby Jr.? Plus, on Lola's side there's Justin and Josh. And on Bobby Jr's side there's Uncle Bobby. It's just as likely it'll be a boy."

For a moment Alex scribbled furiously. "Maybe," she allowed, "although half the people you just named aren't really boys...they're lame-os." She scanned her notebook and nodded appreciatively to herself. "You wanna hear selected excerpts from my latest masterwork?"

Jessy cringed. Oh, God, no. "Does anyone die?" she asked.

"Ooooh, yeah," Alex said.

Sigh. If it was literally anyone else, she would have said no...and if her time with Bunny wasn't so short...she would have said no. Instead, she nodded reluctantly. "Sure."

"Great," Alex said. She got up and crossed to Jessy's bed (stepping over her own shoes and a mess of tapes, some in cases and others not), then sat across from her, folding her legs and shifting her butt into a comfortable position. Jessy did likewise and put her hands in her lap; I am ready to listen even though I will probably have nightmares.

Clearing her throat, Alex glanced down at her notebook. "It's called Legend of the Fat Fuck."

Jessy blinked.

"What?" Alex asked.

When Alex first started reading her stuff to Jessy, she said, and I quote: "Give it to me straight. Brutal honesty. I need constructive criticism, not a simpering yes man." Jessy wasn't always one hundred percent honest because she didn't want to hurt Bunny's feelings, but she was where she could be...like now. "I don't think that's a good title."

"Why not?" Alex asked in puzzlement.

Jessy took a deep breath. "Well, because no one will publish a story with...that word right there...in the title. Call it Legend of the Fat Man or something."

Alex started to protest, but shrugged. "Alright. Here's the first paragraph; it's where I introduce the protagonist. 'Dave Evans was a fat fuck. This guy was so big that when he sat around the house, he sat AROUND the house. He made Fat Albert look slim. He had more chins than a Chinese phonebook, more rolls than a bakery, and bigger breasts than my sister Jessy."

"Hey!" she cried and instinctively glanced down at her chest. Her breasts WERE on the smaller side...A cups...barely a handful. She wasn't too self conscious about her bust size because Alex's weren't much bigger...and neither were Mom's, Auntie Lori's, or Auntie Ronnie Anne's, but she didn't particularly like them being so puny.

"Sorry," Alex said, "I was just emphasizing how big this dude's breasts are." She looked back down at her story and continued. ""In high school, they called him Tits. In college they called him Lunch because it was the only class he didn't fail. He had one girlfriend in his whole sad, pathetic life, and she was REALLY scummy. She worked as a lot lizard at the local truck stop and didn't make her customers wear raincoats.'"

Jessy tilted her head in confusion. Lizard? Raincoats? "What?"

"Lot lizard," Alex explained, "it's a truck stop prostitute. She let truckers do her without using protection."

Jessy gasped in horror.

Alex nodded gravely. "Umhm. I told you, this bitch is scummy."

A shiver raced down Jessy's spine. Why did Bunny like such yucky stuff?

"'One day, this dude was huffing and puffing his way to the store to buy more Twinkies when the KKK rolled up and started beating his ass.'"

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why did the KKK show up? Is he black?"

Alex blinked. "No, they just don't like fat people."

That gave Jessy pause. She wasn't an expert on the Klan, but she'd never heard anything about them disliking fat people. Maybe they didn't. Who knew? "Continue."

"'They left him in a quivering heap in the gutter; looked like a beached whale and sounded like a little girl...crying and sniffling because she just got fucked up by a bunch of racists."

Jessy snorted laughter and Alex grinned. Her stuff was funny, Jessy would give her that.

"'As he lay there, Fat Fuck began to plot his vengeance. First, he lost a bunch of weight in an exercise montage set to Eye of the Tiger, then he went out and bought a handgun but had to wait seven days thanks to that crazy bastard who blasted Reagan. When he had his gun, he drove to Royal Woods and took lessons from my Dad. My Dad's really good with guns because he was in Vietnam and shot people or something, I'm not too sure WHAT happened; he doesn't like to talk about it.'"

No, he didn't. Jessy knew that he was shot and held prisoner before escaping, but that was it. She was kind of curious, but it REALLY bothered him, and she couldn't bring herself to even speak the word 'Vietnam' around him.

Alex flipped a few pages ahead. "I won't make you listen to the bloody stuff since it's still kind of your birthday. This is the big climax. 'The head racist fell to his knees and begged Fat Fuck not to kill him. Fat Fuck laughed. He was never going to kill him; he had something else in mind. He knocked him out, cut him open, and shoved all of the fat he cut out of the other racists into the head racist's body. When he woke up, he was the new Fat Fuck. The end.'"

Alex looked up with a smirk. "So?"

For a moment Jessy collected her thoughts. "Well...it was really funny," she said honestly. "Where you said his nickname was Lunch…" she giggled. Something about that really amused her. "You should try to get something published."

Alex nodded. "Yeah, I'll get around to it. No need to rush things." She flashed a tight-lipped smile that struck Jessy as just a little...anxious? The younger girl frowned. Alex Loud anxious? that didn't make sense. She started to say something, but something slapped against the window and she started instead, her heart shooting into her throat. Alex's head whipped in that direction, her brows angling down. "What the fuck was that?"

It happened again and Jessy cried out. "That's definitely a person."

Someone was trying to break in.

Alex narrowed her eyes and slipped off the bed. Jessy tried to move, to jump up and run, but she was frozen. Moving cautiously, Alex crept to the window, her fists balled and her body tensed.

"B-Bunny, stop," Jessy hissed. Why was she going to the danger instead of to Uncle Lincoln? Was she crazy?

SLAP.

Alex pulled the curtain back, and her shoulders relaxed. "Oh, Jessy," she said playfully and turned her head. "It's Maaaaark..."

Jessy's heart burst in her chest. Mark? Wait a minute, what's he doing here?

Who cares!

Jessy got up as Alex unlocked the window and lifted the sash, a burst of cool night air filling the room. Mark poked his head in and looked around, smiling as Jessy came over. "Hey," he said with a nod.

"Hi," Jessy piped through her own smile.

Mark rested his arm on the sill and leaned casually forward. "Sorry I wasn't at your party. The workload from my various classes is a little heavier than I anticipated."

Jessy grinned giddily. "That's okay," she said. She was disappointed that he couldn't make it, but that's life. She was extremely happy that he was here now, though; she was starting to think she wouldn't see him at all today.

"I brought you some stuff," he said, "I have it in my backpack."

"What kind of stuff?" Alex asked archly and crossed her arms.

Mark swung his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it. "Well...we got whips, chains, ball gags, pliers, jumper cables..."

Alex laughed and Jessy blushed. Gee, none of that sounds like stuff I want, but...it's the thought that counts?

"I'm joking, none of that stuff's in there."

Oh, thank God.

"I do have..."

Alex cut him off. "Why don't you come in and show us?"

Jessy's stomach clenched. "Uh, I don't know if that's such a good idea," she said and glanced over her shoulder, her voice instinctively lowering. "We might get in trouble." The door was closed, but at any second it could crash open with Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne's wrath. Boys in the house after midnight, Jessica? Really?

Oh, that would look bad. What would they do to her? Hanging? Chinese water torture? Keelhauling? Do you even know what keelhauling is? Oh, it's awful: They tie you up and drag you along or across the bottom of a ship. Doesn't sound too bad, right? Well...the bottoms of ships are covered in barnacles...hard, jagged, sharp barnacles. They might as well drag you across a giant cheese grater.

With a sigh, Alex shook her head and looked at Mark. "Come in."

Mark hesitated. "I'm not trying to get anyone in trouble, I just wanted to drop by and..."

"Get your ass in here. You're my guest so I'd get in trouble, and you know what?" She bent over and shook her head slowly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't care about getting in trouble."

Mark looked from her to Jessy then back again. Jessy was torn...she didn't want to get in trouble, but she did want him to come in.

"Alright," he said and shrugged. He lifted his backpack over and sat it on the floor. Next, he gripped the sill and jumped; Alex and Jessy both stepped back as he planted his hands on the floor and pulled himself in.

"Be quiet," Jessy worried; she was absently wringing her ponytail.

Mark got to his feet and fixed his glasses, which had come askance. Jessy glanced at the door, her heart thundering and her stomach twisting in dread. She turned back to Mark, hesitated, then hugged him, the warm, happy feeling of his embrace melting the ice in her bones: Getting in trouble and being slowly dragged across the crusty keel of a ship suddenly didn't scare her quite as much.

Mark let her go and knelt next to his backpack. Alex looked at her and nodded, a suggestive grin skipping across her lips. Jessy blushed.

"I didn't really know what to get you," he said as he opened his backpack. "You didn't exactly give me much to work with."

That was true. She didn't give anyone much to work with. There just wasn't much she wanted. Money, of course, not because she was a greedy material girl, but because...it's money, you can use it for a multitude of things. Really, it's a practical and pragmatic gift, and Jessy was a pretty pragmatic person.

"Luckily," he continued, "I'm pretty creative." He took out a glass bottle and sat it on Jessy's nightstand. She squinted at the label. B&J. "The guy at the liquor store wouldn't sell me champaign, so I picked these up at the gas station."

Jessy knew kind of what it was: They were those fruity wine drinks from the commercials with those two old men, Bobby and James or something. She'd never had one. In fact, she'd never had any alcohol, and just looking at it made her kind of nervous. She did not want to get drunk. From what she had seen, being drunk did not look like fun.

Alex, arms crossed, leaned over his shoulder as he sat another one on the table. "Bring one for me?"

"Yes, actually, I did," he said, pulling out a third and handing it behind his back.

"Oh, sweet!" Alex cried and snatched it. "These things are yum." She twisted the cap off and sat on the edge of her bed, looking for all the world like a happy little girl with a lollipop. Jessy turned to Mark as he took something else out and held it up: A cassette tape. "A little bunny told me you like mix tapes so I made you one."

Jessy grinned and looked at Alex, who shook her head. "Wasn't me."

He sat it next to the wine coolers and then took out a picture frame. In it was a photo of them from her seventeenth birthday, the sides of their heads pressed together and matching grins on their faces. Jessy took it and smiled down at it, her heart swelling.

Mark got to his feet, grabbed the tape, and sat on her bed; he adjusted his glasses and squinted down at the case. "I didn't know the names of some of the songs, so I wrote down lines that stood out to me." He glanced at her. "You gonna drink your wine?"

Jessy faltered. "I don't really want to get drunk."

Alex laughed and Mark snickered. "It's fruit punch with a splash of wine," Alex said, "if you get drunk on it you have a serious medical condition."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, it's weak. I don't really drink either but even I can have one and feel absolutely nothing."

Well...okay. She picked one up and studied the label: It was pina colada flavor. Ooooh, just like the song. She held it out to Mark, who took it and twisted the cap off. She grabbed the other and sat, then opened it: Before taking her first sip, she lifted it to her nose and sniffed. Hmmm. It smelled good. She took a tentative sip, and her eyes widened. It was good.

"Can I have your radio, please?" Mark asked.

Setting the bottle down, Jessy reached under her nightstand and passed him her radio.

Alex polished off her cooler and sat it on the floor, then got up. "I'm in the mood for some TV," she said, "of the M variety." She started toward the door, and when she winked, Jessy flushed. "I'll be in the living room if you need me." She slipped into the hall and closed the door behind her; she turned the thumblock on her way out, Jessy noted.

Now she was alone.

With Mark.

In her bedroom.

Her heartbeat sped up and her stomach clenched sickly. She picked up her wine, and the bottle trembled in her hand.

Mark opened the tape deck, slipped the cassette inside, and closed it. "I've never made a tape from the radio before," he said as he pressed the PLAY button, "and it took me a few tries. I didn't want any commercials or anything. There're a couple spots with station identification, I'm sorry."

"I-It's okay," she said, "I don't mind."

The first song started. Michael Jackson. He was the king of pop, can't have a modern romantic mixtape without him.

Go on girl!

Hey pretty baby with the high heels on

You give me fever

Like I've never, ever known

You're just a product of loveliness

I like the groove of your walk

Your talk, your dress

I feel your fever

From miles around

Jessy giggled and bowed her head. Her very own romantic mixtape, just like the one Bobby made for Lola. "I love it," she said and looked at him.

"Good," he said and took her hand, making her heart skip. "How was your party?"

Jessy nodded. "It was good. My grandma made me a pudding cake."

Confusion flooded Mark's eyes. "What?"

"A pudding cake," she said, "it has pudding inside of it. It was really good, but kind of rich too. I didn't eat very much of it. Bunny had three pieces and then finished the rest of mine." She laughed. "She can be such a pig."

I like the feelin' you're givin' me

Just hold me baby and I'm in ecstasy

Oh I'll be workin' from nine to five

To buy you things to keep you by my side

I never felt so in love before

Just promise baby, you'll love me forevermore

Mark squeezed her hand. "Get anything good?"

Jessy hummed. "Well...I got a mix tape from my sweet boyfriend."

"You're seeing someone else? We're through." He started to get up, but she yanked him back to his butt with a laugh. He grinned and brushed his thumb across her knuckles, which made her shiver. "I knew you were talking about me."

"Of course I was," she said and gazed into his eyes. "You're the only guy I like."

Mark nodded. "I feel the same. Except for the guy part...and the me part."

She laughed. He could be such a dork sometimes, and it was the cutest thing ever. She scooted closer and put her fingers through his. "I missed you at the party," she admitted. "I understand why you couldn't come, but it still sucked."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I feel bad about that." His eyes flicked down to his lap in something like shame, and Jessy was sorry she brought it up.

She touched his face and he looked up at her. "It's not your fault. I just really wanted to spend my birthday with you."

Michael Jackson ended and gave way to another song, but not before station identification. Mark reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, the soft warmth of his flesh against hers making her heart sputter. Their eyes locked, and Jessy felt herself beginning to stir, heat enveloping her body from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It felt like she was falling...literally falling.

Kissing like a bandit, stealing time

Underneath a sycamore tree

Cupid by the hour sends valentines

To my sweet lover and me

His thumb gently stroked her cheekbone, sending electric tingles down the length of her spine. "I love you, Jessy," he said earnestly.

"I-I love you too," she stammered.

They leaned into each other and their lips met, the tips of their tongues swirling around one another. Jessy's heart was slamming harder than it ever had before, and a strange mixture of terror and passion flooded her stomach. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as ardor swept through them.

Slowly but surely

Your appetite is more than I knew

Sweetly, softly

I'm falling in love with you

Jessy lost herself in the hot rush of her rising desire: She fell back and Mark fell with her, his body pressing gently against hers, their tongues moving in time and his fingertips creeping up the outside of her leg, brushing the hem of her nightgown higher and higher. His bulge rubbed along her aching sex, and she drew a sharp intake of breath as crackling sensation burst in her stomach.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked quickly.

Jessy's chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath. Her body burned with fever, especially the spot between her legs; she trembled all over, and her throat was dry, her lips quivering.

She nodded.

"If you want me to stop..."

She shook her head. She didn't want him to stop...she wanted him to keep going, to run his hands up and down her body, to kiss her all over, to unite their bodies as one...to make love to her.

"Are you sure?"

She took a shuddery breath. "Yes."

"Absolutely?"

She sat up and looked into his eyes, then slowly pulled her nightgown over her head, revealing her fevered skin inch by inch, the cool air painful against it. She tossed the gown aside and locked eyes with him; she was naked...and vulnerable, her body bared totally before him.

Quickly, but quickly

The blood races through my veins

Quickly, loudly

I wanna hear those sugar bells ring

Mark caressed her with his eyes, his lips slightly parted and his breathing ragged. "Do you like it?" Jessy asked anxiously.

He nodded dumbly. "You're beautiful."

She broke out in a sunny smile. She would blush if it were possible to blush anymore. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said.

She giggled and rocked forward. "Now kiss me."

Mark chuckled. He slipped off his glasses and dropped them onto the floor. Next, he stripped off his shirt, and Jessy's eyes were instantly drawn to his chest. "These are my breasts," he said.

Jessy laid her palms on him; his ripping skin was warm, smooth. "They're smaller than mine," she said.

"And not as nice."

She was so close the tips of their noses touched. "I wouldn't say that," she said, and welded her lips to his.

They kissed slower this time, their hands drifting over each other's bodies. Mark kissed her mouth, her cheek, and her neck, the feeling of his fingers trailing along her hips and breasts making her light headed.

Moments passed, maybe hours. Somehow she wound up on her back again, Mark on top of her and the head of his penis prodding her center through the thin fabric of his underwear. She moaned softly as pangs of pleasure spread through her stomach like ripples on the surface of a pond. Mark reached down, then suddenly the heat of his flesh touched her, and she hissed through clenched teeth. The feeling was indescribable, unlike anything she had ever felt or would ever feel. Mark danced his fingers along the underside of her thrown-back arm, over her palm, and then threaded them through hers as he slowly sank into her.

She gasped and squeezed his hand against the pain of penetration. "Easy," she moaned.

He slid his hips forward with agonising slowness until he filled her entirely. He pulled back, his length scraping along her walls, then fell back into her.

Over time, he established a gentle, steady rhythm, and the pain gave way to pleasure. He rocked down and she rocked up, her heels digging into the mattress for leverage; trembled grunts and mindless words fell from her lips as his speed increased.

Her orgasm welled inside her like a balloon, expanding slowly, teasingly, growing with every stroke until it threatened to tear her in half. She bit her bottom lip hard to stifle her cries and crushed Mark's hand in her own.

It was coming, rising, swelling, beginning to shake as it reached critical mass.

Mark thrusted more deeply this time, and it exploded, her body jerking and her eyes narrowing as it surged through her like a destructive tide. She moaned in the back of her throat and arched her back, taking him to her limit. He gasped and yanked out of her, his head falling onto her breast as he jammed himself against the mattress and pumped; his body shuddered violently and he groaned out a weak "Fuuuucccckkk" that made Jessy giggle even as her own climax continued to flow through her.

After the final spasms ceased, she hummed contentedly and ran her fingers through his hair; she felt warm, tingly, and tired, her mind fuzzy with euphoria and her muscles quivering. "Wow," she said and laughed.

"Yeah," Mark panted, his hand finding hers. "Sorry about your sheets...you're definitely gonna have to change them."

It occurred to her then that, whoops, they didn't use protection. That wasn't enough to dispel the warm happiness swirling inside, but it certainly gave her pause. "Did you...get any in me?"

Mark shook his head. "No. I got it all over your bed, though. Seriously, we should probably get up."

Get up? That's the last thing she wanted to do; she'd much rather lay like this forever, his head on her chest, her fingers twined through his, the soft heat of their cooling passion swaddling them like a blanket on a cold, winter day...nope. She was not getting up, no way no how.

Then she felt something warm and sticky against her inner thigh; gasping, she jumped up like a Pentecostal preacher at a tent revival. Okay, nevermind.

"What?" Mark asked.

"It touched me," she said and dipped her hands between her legs, her fingers brushing the inside of her leg. There was a very small tacky patch well away from her vagina. Whew. "How long is sperm active after ejaculation?"

Mark sat up and rubbed the back of his neck as he thought; he looked cute without his glasses...his eyes all little and squinty. "I'm not sure off the top of my head. The ones I spent on your sheet are probably still viable, so getting up was a good idea. Where did it touch you?"

She stooped, picked up her nightgown, and turned. "Right here," she said and pointed. Mark squinted even more and leaned forward. "You should be fine." He slipped off the bed and pulled his pants and underwear on as Jessy got back into her gown. She was kind of worried now. Why didn't they use a condom? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Thank God had the presence of mind to pull out.

Suddenly she wanted to shower...just in case. She looked at him, then at the sheet. Oh wow. There was a very big went spot...and not all of it came from him.

"I hate to kick you out," she said, "but I want to change my sheets and take a shower."

Mark was bent, putting his shoes on. "I understand," he said and tied one, then the other, "I'd feel the same way if it were my bed." He picked his glasses up, slipped them on, and looked at her. "If this happens again, we might might to lay a towel down."

Jessy laughed. Oh, it would happen again...and again...and, oooh, again. "Or," she said and went over, bending at the waist, "we can use protection."

He kissed her lips and got up. "That as well." He wrapped his arms around her and she hugged his hips; she buried her face in his chest and took a deep breath, his scent filling her nostrils. He rested his chin on the top of her head and held her close. "I love you," he said.

How can three simple words make a girl feel so good? "Hmmm, I love you too."

"Happy birthday."

After he was gone, Jessy pulled off her sheets and replaced them: Some of their mingled love had soaked into the mattress, and she covered it with a quilt. Next, she unlocked the door and eased it open, sure that if Uncle Lincoln or Auntie Ronnie Anne heard her they would instantly know she was on her way to take a post coital shower. She glanced down the hall; blue TV glow flickered across the living room walls.

She made it to the bathroom without being accosted, locked the door, and turned the water as hot as she could stand. She stood under the spray and slowly turned in a circle, letting it beat down upon her.

As she washed, her mind drifted back to hers and Mark's lovemaking, to the way his hands felt as they glided across her breasts, to the way he felt inside her, his penis straining against her walls...she was starting to get turned on again.

Whoa, down girl.

Done, she cut the water and toweled off, then got dressed and went back to her room.

Alex sat on the edge of her bed, her arms crossed and her brow lifted quizzically; she wore a tight, lipless smile and her eyes danced with an elfin light. Jessy felt a rush of embarrassment, but it was muted: She just took her clothes off in front of a boy...after that, Bunny picking on her was nothing.

"Hi," Alex said.

"Hi," Jessy replied as casually as she could. She shut the door and went to her bed, where she sat.

Alex sucked her lips into her mouth in what Jessy recognized as an effort to keep from laughing. "You have new sheets."

Jessy nodded. "Yes, I do."

"Cool," Alex said, "did Mark, uh, spill his wine cooler on the old one?"

Jessy couldn't help but smile: She ducked her head. "You could say that."

Alex laughed. "Did he...spill it early?"

Jessy shook her head. "I spilled mine first."

"Nice!"

"Thank you," Jessy preened, then slipped under the covers. "I had a very nice time."

"Good," Alex said, "I'm glad. How does it feel to be a woman?"

For a moment Jessy considered. Did she feel any different? She should, because Alex was right: She became a woman tonight, a full-fledged member of the Adults Only Club. She didn't, though. She felt like the same old Jessy. "Well...I'm tired."

"Get used to it...you'll never feel well rested again."

Oh, lovely. Could she put her virginity back together and be a little girl again? She did not like feeling tired.


	130. May and June 1989: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Heaven**_ **by Warrant (1989);** _ **Love Shack**_ **by The B-52s (1989);** _ **Blame it on the Rain**_ **by Milli Vanilli (1989)**

* * *

Lynn's wedding was the by far the most extravagant Lincoln had ever been to: White dress, ice sculpture, five tier cake...flowers; it was fancy, let's just say that. Alex and Jessy were both bridesmaids and looked so adorable in their pink dresses that he would have pinched their faces off if he wasn't afraid of Alex fighting back: That girl's a spitfire, and the last thing Lincoln wanted to do in the middle of his niece's wedding was break out hand to hand combat maneuvers on his daughter. He supposed he could corner Jessy when she was alone, but the entire trip to Arizona they were stuck together like glue; neither one said so outright, but they missed each other very much...so much that three hour phone conversations happened as frequently as Lincoln changing his underwear. Alright, the phone calls happened a LITTLE more frequently, but you get the idea.

Let's see...oh, Lola was a bridesmaid too, but she didn't look adorable; she looked fat and miserable. I know, that's a terrible thing to say about your niece-in-law (is that even a thing?), but it was true: Standing up there with Jessy on one side and Alex on the other, her face red and her back bowed, she looked like the poster children for safe sex. She was due in less than three weeks (a boy this time...the magic of ultrasounds). Lincoln honestly didn't think she should even be up there, but she insisted. God, are ALL women so hardheaded, or just the ones he knew? Did he attract them like a lighting rod? Hey, I love stubborn girls, come here...marry into my family.

Speaking of stubborn girls, during the service Lincoln sat between Ronnie Anne and Bobby Jr.; the latter held Stephanie in his lap, and the whole time she kicked, squirmed, fussed, and slapped. At one point she reached out and scratched Lincoln's arm through the arm of his suit coat, five little pink polished nails raking across light black fabric. He turned to her and furrowed his brow.

She furrowed hers back. "Bah In-Kin."

"I didn't even do anything."

Stephanie leaned against her father's arm and tilted her head slightly down...just enough for a dark shadow to cross her face. Holy shit, this kid's possessed. "Bah In-Kin."

Once upon a time, Lincoln was kind of a wimp: He let some shit-for-brains in a leather jacket punch his guts out THEN let a nearly seventy-year-old man in a campaign hat boss him around for eight weeks. Oh, he was pathetic. H-H-H-Hi, R-R-R-Ronnie Anne, will you go to the d-d-d-d-d-d-dance with me? Then he went to Vietnam, got plenty of iron and protein (bullets and maggots, yum) and turned into that guy from Rambo.

In other words, he wasn't going to take this sitting down. He pressed the tip of his index finger against Stephanie's forehead. "You're bad," he said lowly.

"I NAH BAH!" she screamed, her voice filling the nave and reverberating off of the walls. At the altar, Lynn and Ritchie were holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes, but turned, along with everyone else, when Stephanie yelled. Lincoln did his best to look innocent, but his niece scratched him again, then spit.

"Knock it off," Bobby Jr. said firmly and tapped her mouth. Her eyes went wide with fear and she thrashed again.

Good. It's about time that kid got some dis - that thought cut off when Ronnie Anne drove her knuckles into his side. "Leave her alone, square-for-brains."

Lincoln threw up his hands. Alright, alright. He crossed his arms but watched her from the corner of his eye: She glared evily. "Nah bah," she whispered.

He ignored her.

"Nah. Bah." She leaned toward him and clicked her teeth together like she was going to bite him.

That's it. He got up, shuffled past Ronnie Anne, and sat on her other side; human shield. He ducked forward to gloat, but the little girl was too busy smiling and cooing at Ronnie, as though she were her favorite person in the world. Really? How come I get the violent treatment?

The reception was held at a community center across the street: There was food, booze, balloons, and music...just like at the weddings on TV. No tuna casserole, though, thank God, though there were lobster rolls, which was just as bad. No, he liked lobster rolls, but only when he was on the coast...where they were fresh...and not in the middle of a desert.

At the reception, Alex started to chafe: She REALLY wanted to take this dress off. It didn't feel right; maybe some girls like having breezes blowing up between their legs, but not her. Jessy, of course, didn't mind; they were sitting with Bobby Jr., Lola, Stephanie, Auntie Lori, Uncle Bobby, and Grandma, her eyes zeroed in on the cake. Lynn and Ritchie were cutting it and Jessy winced when one of them brushed the table and it shook. "That cake looks really good."

Alex nodded. And how, sis, and how. Man, this dress is bugging me. She looked around as though she could spot some relief, but nope, nothing. She'd just have to suck it up; she knew for a fact that Lynn didn't like wearing dresses either but look at her, that thing was heavy duty. Veil. Long sleeves. Trane from here to Timbuktu. When she first got a load of her in it, she laughed so hard her knees buckled; Lynn told her to eat her ass. If I could find it under all that lace.

She looked really beautiful though, and Alex made a point of telling her that.

Jessy looked beautiful in her dress too, and Alex could only assume that SHE looked beautiful as well. Too bad she didn't want to look beautiful; she wanted to look comfortable. Ugh. She needed a distraction. She glanced over at the table across the way: Mom, Dad, Auntie Luan, Uncle Lynn, Aunt Kathy, Ritchie's parents, Grandpa. They were all staring straight ahead as Lynn and Ritchie ground cake into each other's faces - hard. Dad's arms were crossed and she could only see the profile of his face.

Could I peg it with a meatball?

A wicked grin scurried across her face. She bet she could.

Buuut she wouldn't; it was Lynn's special day and she didn't want to ruin it.

After cake, Lynn and Ritchie had their first dance as a couple...to Heaven by Warrant.

 _How I love the way you move_

 _And the sparkle in your eyes_

 _There's a color deep inside them_

 _Like blue suburban skies_

 _When i come home late at night_

 _And you're in bed asleep_

 _I wrap my arms around you_

 _So I can feel you breathe_

 _I don't need to be a superman_

 _As long as you will always be my biggest fan_

 _Heaven isn't too far away_

 _Closer to it everyday (Ah, ah)_

 _No matter what your friends might say_

 _We'll find our way, yeah_

Jessy frowned at her. "Are you CRYING?"

Alex nodded and dabbed the corner of her eye with a dirty napkin. "Yes, yes I am."

Following that, it was everyone's turn to dance; since Alex couldn't dance her way out of a wet paper bag, she went and hung out with Grandpa while Jessy and Auntie Luan kept Grandma company.

"Happenin, party, huh, gramps?" she asked as she dropped into a chair next to him; he looked out over the dance floor with droopy lids and hazy eyes.

"Sure is," he rasped.

"You tired?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "A little bit. It's the food coma...starting to set in."

Alex nodded and slapped her stomach. "Tell me about it. I almost fell over when I got up. I had...gee, I had a good four lobster rolls."

Grandpa whistled. "Where do you put it all?"

Suddenly Alex's stomach gurgled and she threw a hand against it. "In another ten or fifteen minutes it's going in the toilet."

Actually, it only took five.

On the dance floor, Bobby Jr. held his daughter's hands while she jumped, swayed, and swiveled her hips. Lola got tired and went off to find a chair somewhere. She was due anytime, you know.

Anytime wound up being ten minutes later; she stood up and water gushed from her crotch. Grandpa's shoes were soaked. "Son of a bitch," Lola mutterd and hanged her head.

You know something funny? Bobby was nowhere near as nervous this time around. He sat in the waiting room with Mom and Dad, Stephy on his lap, and simply WAITED, humming to his daughter when she got cranky, then rocking her, and eventually laying her in an empty chair once she fell asleep.

It didn't take as long, either; three hours MAYBE before the doctor came out and grabbed him. Lola lay in bed looking limp and drained, their son cradled against her breast. He was fast asleep. God, let's hope he's ALWAYS this peaceful - his sister is chaos enough.

"Hi," Bobby said and leaned over the rail.

"Hi," Lola said tiredly and offered a weak smile. "I have your son."

Bobby giggled like a schoolgirl. "I see that. Can I hold him?"

He took the boy and stared down into his angelic face, his heart swelling with love and joy just as it had three years ago - almost exactly; their birthdays were less than a week apart. May was also his parent's anniversary and Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne's anniversary. Fitting, because May is spring and spring's all about rebirth and new life and all that other gay stuff.

Soon everyone else got to come in and meet him. "What name did you go with?" Uncle Lincoln asked.

"Valentino," Bobby said, "'cause he's gonna be a heartthrob and make all the women cream their panties." He smiled and clapped the older man on the back. "In other words, he's gonna be just like me."

* * *

On the morning of June 28, Alex Loud came awake in a tangle of sheets and drew a deep yawn...that almost turned into a puking fit when her stomach lurched and tried to escape. Uh-oh. She clamped her hand to her mouth and sat up as she tried to decide whether she was going to hurl or not. She didn't, but she WAS queasy. Ugh. What did I eat last night?

Oh, right, heh, she and Tim got into a taco eating contest at Tippy's, where every Tuesday tacos are 25 cents a pop; she didn't win, but from the noises he was making in the bathroom last night, neither did he.

Speaking of Tim, he must have left for school already. Gee, don't wake me up and kiss me goodbye or anything. Inconsiderate jerk. I wanted to let you sleep, she could hear him say. Pffft.

Yawning, she got out of bed and padded to the bathroom on bare feet; she wore one of Tim's shirts but it didn't cover her very much...if she stood up straight you'd see everything she had. Guy needed to gain some weight or grow a few feet or something.

In the bathroom, she stripped naked and took a quick shower, standing under the spray and letting it beat down on the back of her head. Uh. Another long day of waiting tables lie ahead of her. She was getting REALLY tired of doing that; working with the public's such a drag: People are dicks. Just last week a guy got mad at her and didn't leave her a tip because the chicken wasn't 'what I was expecting.' Yeah. Totally my fault. Sorry. On the upside, Dad was working with her on general management stuff; not too long now and she'd be the big boss lady, spitting out orders like Chuck D spits out rhymes on Yo MTV Raps.

Also on the upside, it was Saturday, which meant no work tomorrow...which meant she could stop by the house and hang out with Jessy all night. She already picked up a couple movies from the video store, they just needed some popcorn and candy. She'd get that after work.

Clean as a whistle, she cut the water, jumped out, and toweled off. She was just slipping into her dress when her stomach clenched and hot bile filled her mouth. Uh-oh. She raced to the toilet, lifted the lid, and dropped before it just as all those tacos from the previous night spilled forth, splattering the bowl and the rim. She gripped the edge and heaved, the world going gray. Uhhhhh!

For a long time she stayed there just in case, but it seemed to be over, so she got up and finished dressing. Suddenly she felt like shit; if she wasn't trying to turn a new leaf and be ambitious, she'd call in, but she was, so she didn't, she left, got in the car, and drove to Flip's, her stomach in knots and her head pounding.

That's it, Bunny, no more tacos.

No matter how yummy they are.

* * *

Lincoln was paging through the latest issue of TIME when Ronnie Anne came in: A big, glossy photo of a man standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square stared back at him. WHO IS TANK MAN? the headline asked. The story provided no answers; no one knew his name or where he went afterwards. Probably got dragged off to some commie torture dungeon where even as we speak he's eating...well, you know.

The protests in China were a good sign, though: From what Lincoln could tell, 1989 was the year people were finally getting sick of Communism. It was already on it's way out in Poland and the citizens of all the other Eastern Bloc nations were starting to rise up. Give it another year or two, and Europe might actually be free.

If they had the stones to handle freedom, that is.

He glanced up when someone sat across from him.

"Hey, lame-o," Ronnie Anne smiled. She wore a pink summer dress and her hair was held back in a ponytail. She crossed her arms on the counter and leaned over.

"Hey," he replied, closed the magazine, and tilted his lips into hers. "Come to keep me company?"

"Actually," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "I have something to tell you."

Lincoln reached for his Coke and took a drink. "What's that?"

Ronnie Anne's grin widened, and she took his hand. "Well...remember how Principal Davis retired and Vice Principal Stewart took over?"

"Yes."

"Well...I applied for the Vice Principal position...and got it."

Lincoln's eyes widened. "Really?"

She nodded.

Vice Principal? Holy Jesus. Her becoming a teacher was strange enough, but an administrator? He saw her standing in the hall and glaring at misbehaved kids, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing, it's just...Ronnie Anne Loud...the Vice Principal."

"I'll make a great Vice Principal," she said defensively.

"I know you will. When do you start?"

"September."

That would be the...1989-1990 school year. "Exactly twenty years since you started teaching."

"I know," she said, "imagine where I can be in another twenty years."

He tried but all he could think of was Principal. That was the top of the heap, right? Can't go much higher than that. Superintendent maybe. What IS a superintendent anyway?

He'd have to look into that. "I'm proud of you," he said and squeezed her hand.

"Thanks, I'm pretty proud of myself."

They gazed into each other's eyes, neither one of them noticing Alex until she dropped into the stool next to her mother with a sigh. "Mommy," she moaned, "I don't feel good." She leaned her head against Ronnie Anne's shoulder.

"If you wanna go home, go," Lincoln said.

Alex grunted.

"What's wrong?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"I ate too many tacos last night," Alex pouted.

Ronnie Anne laughed and slipped her arm around her daughter. "Only you."

A fat man in a plaid shirt came over to pay his bill, and Lincoln took care of him as Alex repeated the story of how she totally kicked Tim's ass at eating tacos. When he was done, he went back into the kitchen to make sure they weren't running low on anything, then checked the bathrooms. He came back and sat down just as she finished. "You know," Ronnie Anne said, "you COULD be pregnant."

Alex snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Could be."

"We're safe," Alex argued, "there is no way I'm pregnant."

Right?

* * *

Jessy backed into the street and turned left. Next to her, Mark was methodically going through the radio dial, looking for 'vacation music': They were on their way to the river and he wanted to 'set the mood.' Unfortunately, there wasn't much out there.

"Just pick something," she said.

Country. Oldies..."Oooh, this."

Mark grimaced but left it.

 _I got me a car, it's as big as a whale_

 _And we're headin' on down to the love shack_

 _I got me a Chrysler, it seats about 20_

 _So hurry up and bring your jukebox money_

Jessy tapped the steering wheel and nodded her head. Her car could NOT seat twenty...her and Mark were pretty much it. Any more and it would start to get pretty cramped.

When Mark laid his hand on her bare leg, she turned and smiled. "You're pretty when you're attempting to keep time to music," he said, and that made her laugh.

"Thank you," she said, "I guess it just comes naturally."

 _Sign says stay away, fools_

 _'Cause love rules at the love shack_

 _Well, it's set way back in the middle of a field_

 _Just a funky old shack and I gotta get back_

She turned onto River Road and followed it for a mile before pulling to the shoulder across from a trail. She killed the engine and they got out. The day was hot and overcast; cicadas whined from treetops, their ear piercing buzz setting Jessy's teeth on edge. She HATED those things. They were so noisy and gross looking, and they left brown husks EVERYWHERE.

Mark grabbed their things from the back and they crossed the street after a line of cars passed. In the forest, it was several degrees cooler and somewhat dimmer. Her hand crept into his and their fingers threaded together as they walked to the river.

It was nice being able to spend time with Mark: They'd both been so busy with school over the past year that they had precious few moments for each other. They were both doing well in their studies, and Mark had already brought up the idea of getting a place together after they graduated. 'Maybe,' Jessy told him. She could see that...but it was a concern for another day.

At the riverbank, they stretched out a towel and lay side by side, their hands still clasped. "How's school?" Mark asked.

Jessy hummed. "Good. I'm still learning the basics, though; I'm really looking forward to when I can advance and get to the real meat and potatoes. You?"

"Pretty much the same," he said, "I know most of the stuff they've been teaching and what I didn't I could have figured out on my own." He let go of her hand, scooted closer, and slipped his arm around her shoulder. "It's kind of frustrating sometimes."

Yeah, she could see how it would be. She got frustrated here and there as well. She told him now what she told herself then: "It'll all be worth it in the end."

"I know," he said, "that's why I'm sticking with it."

"Good."

For a while after that neither spoke, then Mark asked, "How's the job hunt?"

Jessy, who had begun to daze, shrugged one shoulder. "Not too great," she admitted.

Her plan was to find a tutoring job while she went to school. Unfortunately there wasn't much in the area.

"Just keep at it," Mark said, "there has to be someone in this town who needs help with calculus or civics."

Jessy sighed. "Well, I sure can't find them. Maybe the teachers are just too good."

* * *

Lana pulled into the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly on the corner of Church Street and Virginia Avenue and glanced into the rearview mirror: Josh was asleep and Justin was gazing out the window at passing traffic, a half dozen French fries jutting from his mouth.

"You be careful and chew," she admonished as she turned into a spot facing the street, "Mama doesn't want you choking."

"Okay," he piped around his fries.

Lana put the car in park and listened to the radio while she waited for him to finish. "McDonald's fries are the best," she said. "Back in my day we didn't have McDonald's...wait a minute, yes we did. We didn't have the drive thru, though. You had to walk up to the window."

Justin kicked his legs and munched his fries.

Twice a week, Lana took the boys to the garage to see their father, then to McDonald's, then to the supermarket. Josh was a little too young to enjoy these outings yet, but Justin loved them; to him going to the shop was the greatest thing in the world. Twenty bucks said he was going to be a grease monkey like his parents.

Lana hoped so, she really liked the idea of teaching him to work on cars; hell, between her and Jed, Justin and Josh had the two best instructors in all of Bristol...Tennessee AND Virginia.

When he was done, she cut the engine, got out, and went around to his door. She unbuckled him and held his hand as they went to the other side and grabbed Josh, car seat and all. A line of carts sat in a metal corral by the front door; she put Josh in the back and Justin in the front; Josh's car seat rocked back and forth as Lana wheeled the buggy into the store.

Alright, she needed ground beef, green peppers, onions, chili beans, stewed tomatoes, diapers, laundry soap, milk, and...shit, what else? She navigated to the end of an aisle, stopped, and dug through her pockets for the list she drew up before she left the house, finding it, taking it out, and unfolding it. Coffee. She needed coffee.

"Candy," Justin said. He was gazing at a display to his right.

"We have candy at home," Lana said and returned the list to her pocket. She pushed the cart out of the aisle and pulled up next to the meat cooler along the back wall. She grabbed a big package of hamburger beef and sat it in. "Alright, now produce," she said mainly to herself. She started in that direction just as, ahead, a short, plump woman with bushy gray hair appeared from one of the aisles. For a second, Lana didn't recognize her, but then she did, and she froze in her tracks.

Mama.

She wore house slippers and a brown muumuu that showcased her flabby arms; glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. She went over to a soup can display and picked one up, then slipped her glasses on and closely studied the label, her tongue flicking out and swiping her bottom lip in lizard like contemplation.

Standing there along the back wall of a Piggly Wiggly in Bristol, Tennessee, in the year 1989, Lana was a little girl again, and afraid, her mother's wrath looming over her like a towering behemoth...or a twister, an implacable force of nature that cannot be bargained with or appealed to. The dread she felt in the pit of her stomach every single day,to the point of puking, came back to her in a flood, and her knees went weak.

Justin coughed, and Lana's paralysis broke; coming alive, she wheeled around and hurried in the opposite direction, glancing once over her shoulder to make sure Mama hadn't seen them.

"We'll go shopping later on," she told Justin as she picked him up; her voice wasn't entirely steady, and she hated herself for it.

* * *

'Oh, you might be pregnant.'

Alex snorted as she climbed into the station wagon at the end of the day and started the engine. Music cascaded from the speakers...it wasn't her type but she was too preoccupied to bother changing it.

 _And you feel like such a fool_

 _You let her walk away_

 _Now it just don't feel the same_

 _Gotta blame it on something_

 _Gotta blame it on something_

Me? Pregnant? Not likely. Tim pulled out every single time; can't get pregnant if the guy doesn't finish in you, right?

Well, actually...

She turned left onto Main Street and drove toward Tim's through the soft purple twilight. It was POSSIBLE she was pregnant, she figured, but unlikely.

Before going home, she stopped at the pharmacy and picked up a box of pregnancy tests. She felt kind of self conscious buying them, and couldn't meet the clerk's eyes as she paid for them. It's just a precaution, perfunctory really. If I AM pregnant, though, you can rest assured it'll be with the coolest kid ever.

At home, she sat on the edge of the toilet and carefully read the instructions on the back of the box. Alright...I have to pee on it. Interesting. Can't you use a drop of blood or something?

She lifted the lid, hiked up her dress, and sat again. She dipped her hand between her legs and held the test under her spray, getting pee on it, her fingers, and her butt. Oh, gross. Dumbest set up EVER.

Well...at least she didn't have to poop on it.

When she was done, she held the test up and looked at; it was taking longer to develop than a Polaroid. She sat it on the counter, got up, and went into the kitchen. Anything in the ole fridge? Yes, there were: Tacos!

She took them out and ate them cold, then went back to the bathroom. Alright, let's see. She studied the test...and her stomach dropped.

She WAS pregnant.

Oh wow.

For a second she was stunned, flabbergasted, taken aback...then a big, goofy grin spread across her face. I procreated...I'm going to have a baby.

She laughed merrily.


	131. May and June 1989: Part 2

**Your old pal Flagg has pneumonia. It started off as the flu two weeks ago and got worse. I haven't done much writing over the past fourteen days...in fact, the very next chapter following this is the chapter I'm writing now. See, I've been far ahead of myself this whole time, now I've finally caught up with myself.**

* * *

Lola laid Valentino in his crib and crept silently out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her and wincing when it caught. This was a force of habit left over from Stephanie; Valentino went down easily and didn't wake at the drop of a hat, his sister, on the other hand, did. Lola couldn't count the number of times she went to put Stephy down only for the faintest jostle to snap her out of it. It was enough to drive you mad sometimes, especially when you really wanted some adult time with your husband.

Speaking of which, she and Bobby hadn't been frisky in a while. MAYBE God would smile upon them and Stephy would pass out so Mommy and Daddy could play.

Lola doubted it, though. Last year they took her to see a doctor in Hollywood and he suggested that she might have something called attention deficit hyperactive disorder. He couldn't be sure, but he said he'd seen a lot of kids with it recently. Medication was really the only thing they could do for it, but Stephy was far too little for that, so at this point all they could really do was wait and see if she got better...or worse.

In the living room, Bobby was stretched out on the couch in front of the TV while Stephy stood at the coffee table with a headless Barbie doll: She made it dance back and forth in grotesque fashion and hummed. Lola had been trying to take that stupid, creepy thing away from her for nearly a week, but she threw a fit if you so much as went near it.

Sitting, Lola drew her legs underneath herself and crossed her arms; Bobby rested his socked feet in her lap, and she cocked a playful eyebrow at him. "Rub?" he asked.

"Uh, no."

"Please?" he asked and stuck out his bottom lip. "Being a TV actor is REALLY hard."

Lola laughed, and Bobby frowned. "You make it sound like you're on a set fifty hours a week instead of three times a month."

"Well...still."

Over the past year, Bobby had picked up incredibly minor roles on a dozen shows: He was a gardener on Knots Landing for one episode; a street tough on In the Heat of the Night; a travelling salesman on Growing Pains; and a face in a crowd on Dallas. It wasn't much, but it was enough that he had his own agent now, and a thick stack of black and white headshots that got passed around to studios and directors.

Lola was proud of him, and the wounded expression now in his eyes made he regret her words.

"Alright," she said and started to rub his feet, "but only because you're a famous actor."

He smiled stupidly. "That's me. By this time next year I'll have more than one line of dialogue a pop."

The longest Bobby had ever spoken on-screen was as the drug dealer on Miami Vice. He had...what was it? Twenty, thirty words? The shortest speaking role he had was on Growing Pains: He managed "Hi," before someone slammed a door in his face.

"Maybe you'll get your own series," Lola said and winked.

Bobby snorted. "Yeah. The Bobby Santiago Show. Starring Bobby Santiago. I play a guy named Bobby Hernandez." He laughed and clapped his hands.

"That doesn't make any sense," Lola said, "why would they call it The Bobby Santiago Show and have your name be something other than Santiago?"

Bobby shrugged. "I don't know. They did it with Andy Griffith. And someone else, I think."

Lola opened her mouth to reply, but Stephy cut her off. "BAH BAH-BEE!" She growled and slammed the doll against the coffee table as hard as she could: Its arms and legs flew off and landed four corners to the wind. Her shoulders tensed and she drew a gasp, as though this were a shocking and unforeseeable development.

"Yeah," Lola said, "ya broke it. Good job."

"Bah-Bee," Stephy muttered mournfully. She turned to her parents with big, tearful eyes. "Bah-Bee...boke." She started to cry in ernest. Sighing, Bobby sat up and scooped her into his lap.

"You have to be more careful with your toys, honey," Bobby said and stroked her hair. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and wept bitterly.

Lola started to get up to get a new Barbie from Stephy's room but the phone rang. Ugh. She sat back down and picked up the handset. "Hello?"

"Hey," Lana said.

"Oh, hey," Lola said and crossed her legs. "How's it going?"

"Alright," Lana replied. There was a hesitancy in her voice that told Lola otherwise.

Suddenly concerned, Lola sat forward. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Lana said, then, "well...I saw Mama today."

Lola's nose crinkled. "Ew. What was she doing?"

"Shopping at Piggly Wiggly."

Hm. "I get even soulless bitches need to eat."

Lola had not seen her mother since 1980, when she and Lana moved out, and as far as she was concerned, if she ever saw her again it would be too soon.

Lana hummed. "Doesn't look like she's missed many meals. I just...every time I see her, I feel like...like I'm a little girl again. You know? Defenseless and scared."

Bobby rubbed lazy circles in Stephy's back; her crying had tapered off to sniffles.

"Well...next time you see her, march right up to her and punch her in the face."

Shocked laughter escaped Lana's throat. "I can't do that."

"Sure you can," Lola said.

"No, I'd go to jail or something. She's not worth it."

"I guess not," Lola said. "I bet it'd feel really good though."

"Probably," Lana replied. "How're the kids?"

"Stephy's upset because she broke her Barbie and Valentino is asleep."

"Yes, Justin just went down a few minutes ago so it's me and Josh. He's holding his head up really good now. He's gonna be an early crawler."

Lola smiled. "We need to get together this summer. Have a cookout or something."

"That sounds nice," Lana said, " just say the word. We're ready any time."

"Let me check my schedule and get back to you. I THINK Bobby and I are both free in August."

"Alright. I'm looking forward to it. Right now, I gotta get dinner started. I love you."

"I love you too, Lan."

* * *

Alex passed the afternoon in an agony of suspense, pacing the floors, shifting in her seat, crossing her legs one way, then another: At one point she sat upside down on the couch, her legs hooked over the back and her head dangling over the side, but she didn't know if that was really smart since she had a baby in her stomach now, so she sat up straight. Ugh. Hurry up and get home so I can tell you the good news, Tim. Damn.

How should she tell him? 'Hey, buddy, your sperm works.' She could hide the pregnancy test in his dinner, or put on a puppet show. Maybe she could drop hints over a period of days. Oh, man, I'm feeling really pregnant today, or Gee, I'm really tired, it's almost like there's a tiny human being growing in my stomach.

She really hoped he was happy. Right now was not the best time for a baby, but she was ready. Would he be too?

She watched a little TV but couldn't get into it, so she took out her notebook and wrote a little. That always made time go by quickly.

"Twenty years ago some dude killed a bunch of kids at a summer camp and ate their faces off. The police caught him, pumped him full of lead, and left his body in a marsh to decompose...now he's back and horny for vengeance."

That's an awesome title! She snickered at how clever she was. Good job, Bunny. You have to really up the ante in this one, though; more blood, more death, more sex. Hell, maybe his dick is his primary weapon, like he sharpened it so it's like a spear or something. Oh! And when he stabs you with it, he injects his sperm into you and it's all corrosive and shit, like acid.

Heh. Why am I so good?

She was just starting on her fifth page when Tim came through the door and kicked out of his shoes. She looked over her shoulder and grinned. "Timbo!"

"Hey," he said and came over, dropping next to her. She kissed him and her slipped his arm around her shoulders, "what's this? A new story?"

"Yep," she said and snapped the notebook closed. She turned to him and took his hand. "That's not the only thing I'm creating at the moment, though. There's something else."

Tim glanced into the kitchen.

"No," Alex said patiently, "it's not food."

"What is it then?"

"A person."

Tim stared at her blankly for a moment...then understanding dawned in his eyes. "You're pregnant?"

Grinning, Alex nodded. "Yep."

He laughed and swept her into a tight hug; Alex moaned as he crushed her body against his. "Down, boy, down," she strangled.

"Sorry," he said and released her, his lips curled up in a big smile, "that's awesome, you're really pregnant?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm really pregnant."

Tim laughed again and laid his hand on her stomach as though he would be able to feel his child within. Alex giggled. "That tickles."

"We have to tell everyone," he said, "my parents, your parents..."

"I'm telling them tonight," Alex said and looked at the clock. "In fact, I'm leaving in a few minutes."

Tim chuckled softly and shook his head. "Wow. We procreated."

"That's what I said," she laughed, "it might not be the best time but..."

"It's the perfect time," Tim said and squeezed her hand.

Alex grinned. "If you say so."

"I do."

A half an hour later, she was in the living room at home; Dad was in his chair with a book and Mom was on the couch. Jessy was on the living room floor with pillows and blankets heaped around her: She and Alex did this every family movie night; sometimes they wound up falling asleep together and staying there until morning, and sometimes they switched the Nintendo on and played video games until sunrise. Hey, things got wild, anything could happen.

Alex turned the VCR on and slipped in the tape she brought. The Lost Boys...one of her favorite movies ever.

"What's this about?" Dad asked.

"Vampires," Alex said over her shoulder.

Dad sighed and glanced at Mom, who shook her head.

"It's not scary, is it?" Jessy asked as Alex settled down next to her.

"Nope. Just watch."

Thirty minutes in, her favorite scene started: The punk metal vampires, led by David who wore an awesome black coat, lured Michael, a human, into their lair, a cave by the seaside. David handed him a container of rice from a Chinese restaurant, and Michael reluctantly took it and started to eat.

"How are those maggots?" David asked.

Michael furrowed his brow.

David sat forward. "Maggots, Michael, you're eating maggots, how do they taste?"

Michael looked down at his container, and sure enough, it was filled with squirming, writhing maggots. Gross.

"Aw, Jesus," Dad moaned.

Alex glanced over her shoulder just as Dad got up from his chair. Mom watched him with concern. "Last time I'm ever watching one of these goddamn movies," he said and left the room.

"What's his problem?" Alex asked.

"Nothing," Mom said and followed.

"That's so yuck," Jessy said, her face screwed up in disgust.

In his room, Lincoln sat heavily on the edge of his bed and put his face in his hands. Ronnie Anne came in and sat next to him, her hand fluttering softly to his shoulder. "You alright?"

"Looked just like my dinner plate in Vietnam," he said and tittered. She rubbed the back of his neck comfortingly. "I'm fine. It just...grossed me out. That's all."

"You sure?" she asked.

He smiled and took her hand. "Positive."

An hour later, as they sat up in bed, Alex and Jessy came in. "Look at this," Alex said, "not even ten on a Saturday night and you guys are in bed. What's wrong with you?"

"We're old," Lincoln said.

Alex snickered. "Well...you're about to feel even older." She turned to Jessy and motioned her to the bed; she crossed to it and sat, her hands on her knees. Alex stood before them like a woman with important news to impart. "I'm pregnant."

Jessy and Ronnie Anne's jaw dropped in similar expressions of astonishment. Lincoln jerked a little, as if struck by a bullet. Wait a minute. Did she just say...?

"Pregnant?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Alex nodded.

Squealing, Ronnie Anne got up and hugged her daughter, rocking her violently back and forth. "Holy shit, Mom, take it easy."

Lincoln stayed rooted where he was for a moment, his head still trying to wrap itself around the concept. His daughter was pregnant?

Jessy joined the hugfest, and Lincoln got up to participate as well, a lopsided smile spreading across his face.

"So I was right," Ronnie Anne said. "I was just joking but I was right." She laughed.

"Congratulations," Lincoln said. "You making a doctor appointment?"

"At some point," Alex said.

"You need to do that soon," Ronnie Anne put in.

"Very soon," Jessy added.

"Like tomorrow," Lincoln said, then remembered that tomorrow was Sunday. "Or Monday."

"Alright, alright, sheesh. I'll make an appointment. Relax."


	132. November and December 1989: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Satisfied**_ **by Richard Marx (1989)**

* * *

 _ **We didn't start the fire**_

 _ **It was always burning since the world's been turning**_

 _ **We didn't start the fire**_

 _ **No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it**_

 **(We Didn't Start the Fire, Billy Joel, 1989)**

* * *

Rita Loud never imagined that anything could hurt as badly as losing a child...but she was wrong; losing her husband of fifty-one years hurt just as much.

Sitting in a wooden folding chair at Lynn's graveside, Lincoln to her right and Lynn Jr. to her left, Rita shivered against the damp November chill. Raindrops beat a rhythmic tempo on the canvas awning erected to keep the mourners dry, and the longer Rita listened to it, the more it sounded like a voice...Lynn reaching out one final time from beyond to tell her he loved her.

A hot rush of tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Lynn Jr. rubbed a comforting circle between her shoulder blades, and Lincoln held her hand like he hadn't since he was a little boy. Both of them stared straight ahead, focused on the casket suspended above the grave, a gleaming silver box heaped with white flowers; a blue ribbon reading DAD fluttered limply in the breeze. Rita glanced around at her surviving children: Lori sat between Bobby and Bobby Jr., her eyes red and her lips a tight, bloodless slash; Luan sat with her arm around Jessy, her eyes downcast and tears dribbling down her lined face; then Lynn and Lincoln. Lynn was thinner than he was the last time she saw him, and his crew cut was grayer; Lincoln looked the same as always...at least as he always had since coming home from Vietnam. His eyes were harder and his nose was slightly misshapen...you'd never know the latter if you had just met him, but she did; she kissed it a thousand times when he was a baby, she knew it better than one knows the back of their own hand.

Four children. The other two were feet away, their presence denoted not by flesh but by stone, two beautiful girls gone far before their time. The day they died, Rita herself nearly perished...had it not been for Lynn, she would have. When she needed him most, he was there, his arms around her and his lips pressed lovingly to her cheek; when the world seemed dark and the path uncertain, he was there to hold her hand. _I can't lead you...but I can walk with you._

And walk with her he had...through five decades, six children, four grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Their life together wasn't perfect, but it was a beautiful life nevertheless, and by the end of it, he was her sun...steady, reliable, rising every morning and setting every evening, something that simply _was_ , without question or condition.

Now he was gone.

Rita wiped her eyes. There was no telling how much longer she had on this earth - weeks, months, or even years - but the idea of continuing as she had the past week, waking without him, going to bed without him, _existing_ without him...she shivered again.

At least it was quick and painless: He died in his sleep, and when Rita found him the next morning, his expression was one of serenity. He didn't suffer...at least she desperately hoped that he didn't. You can never tell, though.

Beyond the casket, the preacher, a tall man with glasses and graying hair, read from a small leatherbound book, the murky white light shining like quicksilver on his lenses. Rita realized she hadn't heard a single word he said; did it matter, though? She knew where Lynn was - with Leni and Luna. A wan smile touched her lips at the image of them together in a place of eternal light, their arms thrown around each other and their faces radiant with joy; they watched the proceedings with no trace of sadness, though she did see faint longing in their eyes. Soon, she thought, soon.

The preacher finished speaking and closed his book; everyone filed past the casket one last time, starting with Alex (who was showing under her black dress) and ending with Rita herself. She stood beside it for a long time, staring down at her murky reflection and steeling herself; this was it, her final good-bye.

She lifted a trembling hand, curled with arthritis, to her lips, kissed it, and laid it on the coffin. "I love you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She forced a smile then allowed Lynn and Lincoln to escort her to the car; the ground was a boggy mess, and she stepped very carefully to avoid falling. Lynn helped her into the back while Lincoln went around front and slipped in behind the wheel; Rita hugged herself and gazed out the rain-sluiced window, her thoughts already drifting to the big empty house on Franklin Avenue, where she and Lynn had made so many happy memories over the years. There, she was surrounded by his presence, the way she was Leni's, and that was a beautiful thought; in a way, it was like he was still with her.

"I'm getting really sick of this rain," Lynn said absently.

Lincoln threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. "Welcome back,"

Lynn snorted. "Yeah, hell of a welcome."

He, Kathy, and Lynn III had been in town for going on three days, and come to think of it, it _had_ been raining non stop. Better rain than snow, Rita thought.

The conversation petered out after that; somehow talking didn't seem right, so they drove the rest of the way in silence, arriving at the house ten minutes later just behind Lori and just ahead of Ronnie Anne. Lynn and Lincoln helped Rita inside; Russel was standing in her chair, his tail wagging and his front paws planted on the armrest, He gave a sharp greeting bark when they came in.

"Down, dog," Lincoln said and shooed Russel away.

Rita sat, and Russel leapt into her lap; she laughed despite herself. "I missed you too, honey." Lynn's loss had been especially hard on him, poor thing; he spent hours sitting at the foot of Lynn's chair and looking up at it, his head cocked quizzically to one side as if trying to make sense of the fact it was empty. Dogs, Rita had learned, are much smarter than people give them credit for...the corgi knew something was wrong, and when he curled up on the floor, you could see the sadness in his eyes. She stroked the dog's flanks and scratched along his spine.

Shortly, the house was filled with activity: Lynn III, Alex, and Jessy sat on the couch passing Russel among them (he was so excited he kept whipping his head from one girl to the next and then back again); Lynn sat in his father's chair and sipped from a can of beer while Bobby Jr. stood over him with his own; Lola sat on the floor with Valentino in her arms; Stephanie toddled here, there, and everywhere, a Barbie doll dangling from her fist; Kathy, Ronnie Anne, and Lincoln were getting dinner ready...so many people Rita honestly had a hard time keeping track of them anymore. A memory came to her then, one that she hadn't entertained in many, many years: Her and Lynn on Christmas Eve shortly after they were married sitting by the tree in the corner of their one bedroom apartment. There were no presents because they couldn't afford them...there was hardly any furniture because they couldn't afford that either...they had very little...only each other, really. Now, fifty years later, their home was filled with love and family, a family that kept growing with every passing year.

That was hers and Lynn's legacy, and she was so happy to have built this with him.

No, their life together was not perfect, but it was a beautiful life nevertheless.

* * *

"I really miss him," Jessy said later. Most everyone had gone home, leaving her, Alex, and Lynn alone on the couch. Soft lamplight bathed the room, and on TV, _Dallas_ played unwatched.

Lynn nodded, "Yeah," she said glumly, "I miss him too." Like her cousins, she was still in the black dress she wore to the funeral, her shoes off and sitting nearby. Since coming home, none of them had moved very far. She absently scratched behind Russel's ear; the dog was curled asleep in her lap, his little side slowly expanding and contracting. Every so often, his legs thrashed, as though he were chasing dream rabbits. Presently, she glanced at her grandfather's chair: It stood empty and cold.

She didn't know Grandpa the way Jessy and Alex did, but she felt his absence just as acutely: The house seemed...darker without him.

Next to her, Alex shifted positions. "So do I." She unconsciously rubbed a circle in her growing stomach, the movement of her hand over the material of her dress producing a soft rustling sound. She started to speak again, but cut herself off; saying _I'm sad he's not going to get to meet my baby_ sounded kind of selfish, but it was true...she was really upset he wouldn't be around to see little Alex Jr...or whatever they wound up calling it. She had an appointment for an ultrasound on the fourteenth so hopefully they'd at least know what it was...not that that would make choosing a name any easier; she and Tim had been racking their brains for months now and could _not_ agree on anything,

Jessy reached over and stroked Russel's side. Like her sister, she was going to say more, but didn't. What was the point? Grandpa was gone and nothing was going to change that.

Alex shifted again, and moaned. She wasn't even six months along yet and already she was sore and achy, her lower back especially; she was _not_ used to carrying around so much extra weight.

"You alright?" Lynn asked and turned to her, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"I'm fine," Alex said.

"You should go home and go to bed."

Alex snorted. "It's _way_ too early for bed."

To be honest, though, bed sounded kind of nice; the baby sucked up so much of her energy there was hardly any left over for her. _Mommy's little vampire,_ she thought fondly and patted her stomach.

"I should probably go to bed," Jessy said, "I have a _long_ day ahead of me."

After months of searching, she finally found a tutoring job; her student's name was Zack Johnson and he was in the sixth grade. His weak point was history and from what his mother said, he was 'rambunctious"...which told Jessy had was probably rowdy; she was nervous as all get out, but excited too, because she was _finally_ going to be teaching someone.

She just hoped she didn't mess it up.

"Yeah," Alex said with a stretching yawn, "you better run along; you have school tomorrow. Don't want to be cranky."

Jessy cocked her head, her ponytail swishing dangerously across the back of her neck. Alex _loved_ teasing her about going to school. _While you're twiddling your thumbs in class,_ she said once, I'm _out here doing grown woman stuff...like being pregnant._ Jessy retorted with _I've noticed...fatty_ then rubbed her belly like she was Buddha. Oooo, she did not like that.

"I _also_ have work tomorrow," Jessy said, "for your information."

Alex blew a raspberry. "Oh, yeah, hanging out and reading history. That's a heck of a workload, Jess; do you think you'll manage?" Jessy lifted a playful fist, and Alex threw up her arms with a cry of mock fright. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Not in the baby!"

"I wouldn't hit my niece or nephew," Jessy said and got to her feet.

"Damn right," Lynn put in, "because I'd have to bounce ya...but as soon as the kid's out, she's fair game," She punched her hand and flashed a shark-like smile at her cousin.

"Shaking," Alex said, "I'm shaking."

Jessy bent and hugged Lynn, then Alex, then gave Russel a farewell scratch behind the ears. As she left, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, her gaze instantly going to her grandfather's empty chair. A rush of sadness washed through her as she stepped into the chilly, rain-swept night. When Leni died, it took her a long time to come to terms with it...as in the simple fact that she was gone and she would never see her again. She _knew_ it on an intellectual level, but deep down, she had trouble accepting it. It felt kind of the same now. She knew her grandfather was dead (she watched them lower his casket into the ground not twelve hours ago), but she was certain, in a way, that if she went looking for him through that house, she would find him, napping or reading the paper or simply sleeping. She felt this so strongly that it was almost literally staggering,

Pulling her coat closed at the throat, she hurried down the walk and slipped into the Beetle. She turned the key in the ignition, and the motor caught, the radio coming on and filling the car with sound. Ouch. Why did I have it so loud? She turned it down, backed into the street, and started home, where she hoped to get to bed fairly early; that wouldn't happen, she knew...she would lie awake long into the night thinking about Grandpa and worrying about her first day tutoring Zack Johnson.

In the living room of the Franklin Avenue house, Lynn crossed her legs and threw one arm over the back of the couch. On TV, The Ultimate Warrior and The Honky Tonk Man were grappling in the middle of a ring while screaming fans looked on. Nothing to brighten your day like watching two grown men beat the ever loving shit out of each other; Honky broke and threw a punch that sent Warrior reeling. Lynn grinned and glanced at her grandfather's chair; when she was here, they watched wrestling together, even though he didn't like it much, and she delighted in color commentating, her goal to make him laugh.

Only this time he wasn't there.

She sighed and turned back to the TV; Warrior flew off the top turnbuckle and caught Honky with a devastating elbow to the face. Alex noticed and frowned. She'd been doing the same thing, starting to talk to Grandpa or walking around looking for him only for it to hit her, Duh, he died, dumbass.

That made it worse every time, because it was like he kept dying again and again every time she did it. "Who's the guy in the face paint?" she asked to distract her cousin.

"Ultimate Warrior," Lynn said, "he's a fag."

Alex snickered. "They're all fags."

"No they're not," Lynn said,

"Yes they are. They wear tight little shorts and hug each other. It's gayer than baseball." She ginned smugly when Lynn shot her a withering glance. Pretending to ignore it, she continued. "I mean...they should combine the two and call it "Heeeeeeeyyyyy!""

Lynn's lips twitched into a smile that she hurriedly swallowed. "Fuck you, bitch," she said and crossed her arms. Heeeeeyyyy. That _was_ pretty good; she wouldn't give Alex the satisfaction of knowing that, though. "Speaking of gay things, how's Tim?" she asked and favored the younger girl with a challenging sidelong glance.

Alex surprised her by shrugging. "Eh. Gay. As always."

"He excited for the baby?"

Alex nodded. "Yep. Sometimes when we lay in bed at night, he'll keep touching my stomach until I yell at him. Like...dude, come on, give me five minutes." She chuckled and shook her head. It was true that she yelled at him once (in her defense, she was bloated and sore and tired), but by and large, she loved the attention he gave her bump: Petting it, resting his head against it, talking to it...she really, really enjoyed evenings in bed with him.

Speaking of which, if she kept goofing off and watching Heeeeyyyy with Lynn, she'd miss out: He worked for his father now in addition to going to school, so most of the time he was out like a light by ten, so tired he could barely move even in his sleep. Poor dude. He was doing everything he could for her and the baby, and she really appreciated it. Yes, she made sure to tell him. Just the other night she laid her hand on his shoulder and said _Timbo...you're a good guy._

Then she put his dick in her mouth and pumped until he called her mommy.

He didn't _really_ , but she made sure he knew how grateful she was...twice. Guy's balls had a habit of filling quicker than a ditch in a goddamn rain storm. Luckily, her pussy had a habit…nevermind. If she started thinking that way she'd get super horny (pregnancy hormones, you know), and she wasn't particularly in the mood for bumping and grinding...she was in the mood for sleeping and...uh...more sleeping.

She pushed herself forward and stretched. "Well, I best get going too. I have work tomorrow."

Lynn rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, waiting tables…"

Alex held her hand up. "Can it, bitch. I'm five months pregnant, every step is becoming a chore."

"Eh."

Alex pushed herself up and struggled to her feet. "Tell me that when _you're_ the one filled with a baby." She made an effort to bend over, but her back locked up. Ugh. This is bullshit. Why does being pregnant have to suck so much? How did women back in the hunter-gatherer days even do it? Oh, look, here comes a pack of woolly mammoths bent on rape and murder...better waddle my nine months pregnant ass to safety….aaaaaaand I'm dead.

For some reason she shivered.

Lynn met her the rest of the way and slipped her arm around her shoulder. "Drive safe," she said seriously.

"I will," Alex replied just as genuinely and hugged her cousin back. "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

Lynn took a deep breath. "I don't know. Later, I think, like five."

"Stop by Flip's before you go."

"I will," Lynn said.

Alex patted her shoulder...then dug her claws into it because come on, you gotta trim your TLC with a little tough love, right? Lynn yelped, grabbed Alex's hand, and bent it back; hot pain streaked up Alex's arm. "Ow, bitch!" She yanked away and shook the damaged appendage.

"I think you broke my shoulder bone," Lynn said, tugging her dress aside and examining the wound. It looked fine.

"Drama queen," Alex said.

Outside, a damp breeze crashed against her, and she shivered: Rain fell sideways from the sky, lashing the sodden ground with monotonous fury. A week...it had been raining a freaking week. If this kept up, Royal Woods was going to float away.

Behind the wheel of the station wagon, she started the engine and pulled her seatbelt over her chest. Since finding out she was pregnant, she made every effort to be safe and, like, healthy and stuff: She started wearing her seatbelt, she ate two tacos instead of six, she looked both ways before she crossed the street...she was basically turning into The Church Lady from _Saturday Night Live_ or something; by the time it was all said and done, she'd probably hate horror movies and rock music too.

Heh. She could listen to oldies with Mom and Dad. _Gee willikers, that's a real swell record, father. Can we go to church now? Please?_

Not that there was anything wrong with church, of course...it just wasn't her scene. Churches reminded her of funerals, like Grandpa's and Auntie Leni's, and to be honest, funerals and death kind of scared her. I know, I know, big brave Alex Loud blah blah blah, but it was true: In her short twenty years of life, she lost two people she loved dearly. One minute they were there...the next they weren't. Just like that. What did they feel? What did they see? Were they really in heaven the way Grandma thought they were? She didn't know...and that bothered her so much sometimes she could barely breathe. Death is like the final frontier...you have no idea what's going to happen until you're there.

If she dwelled on that too long, she would get _really_ creeped out.

Shaking her head, she found a station playing light, poppy music and backed into the street.

 _We work our bodies weary to stay alive_

 _There must be more to living than nine to five_

 _Why should we wait for some better time_

 _There may not even be a tomorrow_

 _Ain't no sense in losing your mind_

 _I'm gonna make it worth the ride_

 _Don't you know, I won't give up until I'm satisfied_

 _Don't you know, why should I stop until I'm satisfied_

Hm. You know what would be _really_ satisfying right now? Ice cream. Was there any place open that sold ice cream? She looked at the soft green glow of the dashboard clock and frowned.. 9:04. Probably not.

Oh, wait, the Meijer by the apartment. Duh. She chuckled to herself and shook her head. Way to forget something so simple, Bunny.

Eh, it was the baby's fault, not hers. No, really, it's called 'pregnancy brain.' Your kid sucks up all your brain juice like a thirsty alien, and wah-lah, you're a retarded husk of your former self. Sometimes Tim made fun of how ditzy she could be, and with the pregnancy hormones, it really hurt her feelings and she'd start tearing up and shit.

Yeah, being pregnant sucked; she probably was _not_ going to do it again.

Five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the Meijer supermarket and cut the engine, killing New Kids on the Block in the middle of _Hanging Tough_. Ugh, those guys _really_ got on her nerves. If baseball players and professional wrestlers are gay, NKOTB is...like, super gay. They're so gay that even gay dudes are like 'Dude, you're gay. Reel it in a little.' For a minute she studied the big lighted front windows, trying to determine if they were open or not before a fat woman in a shower cap grabbed a cart and went through the doors, which told Alex that yep, they were open.

She got out and hurried across the parking lot, the rain pelting her shoulders and wetting her hair. Inside, it was bright and cold; one register was open (manned by a bored looking girl with heavy make-up and an even heavier perm), and a gangly teenage boy in a red apron walked the aisles with a big broom, sweeping up bits of trash and cigarette butts. In the freezer section, Alex carefully studied each brand and flavor, weighing their pros and cons before settling on Dutch chocolate. Yum!

She got in line behind a girl in an oversized white sweater, black stirrup pants, and neon green socks pulled over her pants cuffs. Heh. Nice outfit. You have pregnancy brain too? She looked around and grabbed a few Slim Jims and some candy. Hey, the baby wanted sweets and Church Lady or not, you can't say no _all_ the time.

The clerk rang her purchases up while loudly smacking a piece of gum, which really grated on Alex's nerves. She almost reached across the counter and ripped her hair out, but stopped herself: If she went to jail they wouldn't let her have her ice cream.

Forget _that_.

Outside, she tossed the bag into the passenger seat, climbed in behind the wheel, and pulled the door closed. "You're lucky Mommy loves you," she said as she reached in and pulled out one of the Slim Jims. "If I didn't, I'd have said no." She ripped the package open and took a crisp bite.

By the time she got home ten minutes later, her lap and the seat were both littered with wrappers. Oh, great, more for me to clean up, along with the napkins and fast food bags and god knows what else on the floor. Shrugging, she brushed them away and got out; that was a worry for another time.

Tim's parents' house was a one story ranch with big front windows and a fenced in backyard: It sits to the left of the driveway. The detached garage sits directly at its head, a two story structure with a set of external stairs that leads up to the kitchen. The light above the door was on, and Alex only had to employ minimum caution as she climbed: The steps were rickety and every time she set foot on them she was certain it would be the _last_ time. At the top, she fished in her purse for the keys, found them, then unlocked the door: The kitchen was dim but the living room was bathed in warm lamplight, the sounds of canned laughter filtering in from the TV. She dropped her purse onto the kitchen table, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and went in: Tim was stretched out on the couch asleep in front of _Roseanne_. He snored like armageddon...which told Alex he was _really_ tired.

Being quiet, she sat at the foot of the couch and slowly ate her ice cream while staring at the TV: She was vaguely aware of the baby moving in her stomach. Good stuff, huh, kid? Don't get too hyper, though; I'd like to sleep tonight.

When she was done, she sat the container on the coffee table and rubbed her hand up Tim's leg; he snorted and stirred. "Hey," she said softly, then again, louder. He opened his eyes and blinked. "Let's go to bed."

"...bed _this_ early?" he muttered.

"You," she said.

"I guess." He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "How're you doing?"

She nodded. I buried my grandfather today. It's not the end of the world, but it's not exactly happy happy fun time either. Out loud: "Okay. Ready to get today over with."

He yawned. "Me too."

Twenty minutes later, they did, Tim falling fast asleep and Alex lying awake for a long time thinking about death, ice cream, and the hyper baby in her stomach.

You're going to be another Stephanie, aren't you?

She shivered.

God, I hope not.

Please?

* * *

Lincoln sniffed deeply and coughed, a wad of yellow phlegm flying from his throat and landing on the blanket in front of him. "Goddamn it," he growled. He grabbed a tissue, wiped it off, and tossed it into the wastebasket between the bed and the nightstand: He put it there for just this purpose.

"You need to see a doctor," Ronnie Anne said.

It was pushing eleven and they were sitting up in bed watching the Channel 5 nightly newscast; the lamp on Ronnie Anne's bedside table painted the room in a warm amber hue, Lincoln grabbed another tissue, blew his nose, and tossed it away. "I'm fine," he said, even though he wasn't sure if he was or not. When he first got sick a week ago, it was routine flu stuff: Fever, chills, headache, dry cough. Now it was turning into shortness of breath and hacking mucus.

Ronnie Anne snorted. "No you're not. You probably have pneumonia or something."

Yeah, he was beginning to suspect the same. "I'll go to the doctor tomorrow," he said and shifted uncomfortably. He was exhausted but he knew the moment he laid down he'd be wide awake, probably until an hour before he had to leave. Part of it was being sick, of course, but he also buried his father today...maybe some people can jump right into bed after that, but not him.

"You better," Ronnie Anne said and got up, "or I'll kick your ass."

Lincoln chuckled. "Love you too."

She made a kissy face over her shoulder and went into the bathroom. Lincoln crossed his arms and stared at the TV screen. He felt restless. He wanted to get up and pace, but at the same time he just didn't have the energy.

He missed his old man.

He sighed and grabbed another tissue. He wished they had been closer; they had plenty of father/son moments over the years, but life often kept them apart: Dad worked fifty hours a week when he was growing up and they never really got the chance to just...hang out. Then he retired, but Lincoln himself was working and raising his own family. Circle of life.

Speaking of, Alex was really starting to show now. For the first couple months you couldn't really tell, then, seemingly overnight, her stomach ballooned. It was still surreal: His little girl was going to have a baby...and he was going to be a grandfather. That happened _quick_ : Just a few years ago he was a twenty-year-old kid stalking through the jungles of Vietnam, now he was in his forties and expecting his first grandkid.

They say time flies, and it might be a cliche, but it's true: It accumulates a little at a time, like rainwater in a barrel, and you scarcely realize what's happening. You get caught up in life and before you know it, one year has become two, two has become ten, and ten has become twenty. When you step back and look at the flow of history, two decades is _not_ a long time...at all. Twenty years more, and he'd be in his sixties. Retirement age. At the end of the line.

Ronnie Anne came back in and climbed onto the bed; while in the bathroom, she let her hair down, and it spilled now over her shoulders, strands of gray prominent throughout. At least he didn't have to worry about _that_...though he _did_ have to contend with wrinkles: They were starting around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He didn't know whether they were natural or if they had something to do with Vietnam. He didn't have nightmares the way he used to, but given the shit he went through, it wouldn't surprise him if he aged a little more quickly than the average fry cook.

"You done watching TV?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I'm done."

She plucked the remote off of the nightstand, hit the OFF button, and snapped out the light. They settled down, Lincoln taking her in his arms and Ronnie Anne snuggling close to him, her butt wiggling against his crotch and her hair brushing across his face, its warm smell filling his nostrils.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he replied and kissed the back of her neck.

She giggled girlishly. "That tickles."

He did it again. "Cut it out, lame-o. I need my sleep. Vice Principaling requires lots of rest."

"Right," Lincoln said, "sorry."

He was wrong: He didn't lie awake that night, though he didn't sleep very deeply, and when it was time to get up, he was still exhausted, so...was he _really_ wrong?


	133. November and December 1989: Part 2

At four the next afternoon, Jessy pulled onto Elm Street and slowed the Beetle to a crawl as she consulted the directions: 1012 ELM was written in her flowery script. Below that was: WHITE HOUSE, BLUE DOOR. That struck her as odd: A blue door? She tried to remember if she had ever seen one of those, but couldn't, which told her that at the very least it was uncommon.

Setting the paper in her lap, she followed the street to the end, turning her head left and right and scanning the structures flanking the sidewalk: Many of them were two and three stories and looked expensive. Of course, Elm was on the upper middle class side of town: It was only a few blocks, but it did exist. She finally spotted it on the corner: It had a vine-covered lattice along one wall and a big stone chimney flanked by dormers. A tall oak tree dominated the front yard, its remaining leaves a dull, washed out shade of orange. She started to turn into the driveway, at the head of which sat a detached garage, but thought better of it: She didn't want to be in anyone's way. Instead, she parked at the curb and killed the engine, cutting Tom Petty off in the middle of Free Fallin'.

Alright, Jess, here it is, your first teaching gig. It might not be much, but it's a start, please don't mess it up, okay? She stared up at the house's facade, her fingers curling anxiously around the wheel. Beyond that strange blue door was a little boy who needed her help, and she would do her very best to render it. She _kind_ of trusted herself...it was him she was worried about. What if he was a Dennis the Menace and when her head was turned he cut off her ponytail and then smoked a cigarette? What if he crossed his arms and absolutely refused to work with her? What could she do...aside from flee in tears?

 _Stop being such a worrywart._

Okay. Fine. She unbuckled her seatbelt and slid out: Rain drops pelted her head and shoulders, sending a shiver down her spine. She slammed the door and hurried up the walk, her arms crossed over the front of her sweater: It was white with a pink and seafoam green pattern across the chest. It was casual without being unprofessional. As she approached the door, she caught a flicker of movement in an upstairs window, and her step faltered. Suddenly, she felt as though she were being watched...by someone or some _thing_.

Knock it off! You're a grown woman, stop being so nervous!

On the front step, she took a deep breath, drew back her hand, and knocked.

For a moment, the only sound was the perpetual hiss of rain in the street, but then she detected muffled footsteps. Okay, okay okay...deep breath, smile, speak slowly (but not _too_ slowly!), don't stumble over your words…

The lock rattled, and a woman in a pink dress appeared: She was tall, about forty, and wore her black hair in a perm. Her skin was the color of faded leather, and her lips were _very_ red; a strand of pearls hung around her neck, and a wide belt circled her midsection. Needless to say, her shoulder pads were big enough to land a helicopter on. Well, two helicopters...one each.

"Yes?" she asked.

Jessy smiled as brightly as she could. "Hi, Mrs. Johnson, I'm Jessica. We spoke on the phone."

Reconition flickered across the woman's face. "Oh, I nearly forgot you were coming." She uttered a sharp laugh and extended her hand. "I'm Helen." They shook. "Come in."

She stepped aside, and Jessy crossed the threshold into a vestibule lit by the spill of a lamp on an end table. To Jessy's left was a set of stairs, and to her right was the living room, its furnishings tastefully modern: Black leather sofa, glass coffee table, pieces of art on stands. "I just got home. Zack is upstairs playing a video game or something. I'll get him."

While the older woman went upstairs, Jessy stood awkwardly in the hall. She caught sight of a framed photograph on an end table and leaned in to study it: A boy about ten stood in front of a tree, his hands in his pockets. He wore a green blazer with a golden crest over the heart, tan slacks, and black shoes. His features were soft and his skin fair: High, delicate cheekbones, pouty lips, wavy blonde hair and glasses. Hm. That must be Zack. He diidn't look very much like his mother. She was darker and her eyes were brown: Zack's looked hazel or pale blue. She couldn't tell which.

When she heard footsteps on the stairs, she stood up straighter. Helen appeared with Zack in tow: His shoulders were slumped, his head was bowed, and he didn't walk, he _trudged_. From the looks of it, he was being led to the electric chair, not to a tutoring session. "Stop dragging your feet," Helen said sharply, "you're acting childish. Jessica, this is Zack."

Jessy smiled. "Hi. You can call me Jessy. It's nice to meet you."

Zack stared down at his shoes and muttered something that may have been _you too_.

Okay...now what?

Thankfully, Helen spoke then. "Zack does not like history. He's very intelligent but when he dislikes something, he tunes it out...much to his own detriment." She looked down at her son with something approaching disappointment. "His books are in the living room. You can do it there or at the dining room table...wherever you're most comfortable."

Jessy nodded. "Okay." She looked at Zack, who still found his shoes endlessly fascinating. "Uh...why don't you lead the way?"

Zack grunted and brushed past her into the living room; Jessy followed. At the sofa, he threw himself down and picked up a thick book from the coffee table. "This is it," he said as Jessy sat beside him, "sixth grade American history." He looked down at the text and frowned.

Wow, he _really_ didn't like this subject. "Can I see it?" she asked and held her hand out. He passed it to her, and she opened it: The first thing she saw was a doodle on the inside cover. It depicted a boy who looked very much like Zack screaming and ripping his hair out. A chuckle escaped her lips. "Is this you?" she asked and tapped the drawing.

He nodded. "Yeah, that's me."

"It's good," she said honestly, "do you like to draw?"

He shurgged one shoulder. "Kind of."

"That's cool," she said and started flipping pages. "Where are you?"

"Chapter eight," he said and shuddered.

Jessy turned to chapter eight: It was headed FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA. "Ah," Jessy said, "manifest destiny." She glanced at Zack, who nodded heavily. "Do you...understand the basic concept?"

Sighing, Zack nodded again. "Yeah. They wanted to take over the whole country."

"Kind of," Jessy said. "It was the beleif that expansion of the United States across North America was justified and inevitable."

Zack rubbed his knees. "Cool."

He didn't sound impressed.

Floundering. She was floundering.

Deep breath, Jess. She read the first paragraph of the chapter then looked at Zack again. "Do you know who opposed manifest destiny?"

"No," Zack said.

Jessy frowned. "Can you guess?"

For a moment he thought. "Democrats?"

"No. A different party."

"Republicans?"

Nope. That wasn't it either. She thought for a minute. "When you're bald, what do you wear on your head?"

Zack shifted. "I don't know. A wig?"

"Right. The Whigs opposed manifest destiny. They saw America's moral mission as one of example and not conquest."

"Ah."

Was that too formal? She was dealing with a sixth grader, after all. "Basically, they thought it should be quality over quantity."

Zack nodded. "Cool."

Alright, she needed to find a way to engage him or else this would be what every one of their sessions looked like. She hummed in thought. How can you get a child to pay attention when they're utterly and totally disinterested?

She didn't know...but she had to find out and fast.

"Why don't you like history?" she heard herself blurting.

Zack didn't reply for a minute, "It's boring."

Jessy nodded. Okay. That was a common complaint. Not one that she ever had herself, but a lot of people seem to think that. "Well...what _isn't_ boring?"

"Horror movies," he said instantly, "I like horror movies."

Jessy chuckled. "You sound like my sister. She _loves_ horror movies."

"They're awesome."

Okay. That's something. "There's a lot of horror stuff in history," she said, "like...people getting blown up and killed and stuff."

Zack blinked. "Yeah?"

Jessy nodded. "Oh, yeah." She searched her mind for a particualtly gruesome historical event or fact, but being on the spot, of course, she couldn't, and she panicked. "Like...Abraham Lincon. He was a vampire."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she tensed. Oh no, why did I say that?

Zack's brow furrowed. "What? No he wasn't."

"Sure he was." _Why did I do it again?_ "He, uh, ate a bunch of rebel necks. And when John Wilkes Booth killed him, he used a silver bullet."

Zack tilted his head, a flicker of hope crossing his face. "Really?"

Jessy nodded. "Umhm."

"Cool," Zack grinned.

* * *

Lincoln sat stiffly on the examine table and waited for the doctor, his legs crossed and his arms folded. An eye chart was pinned to the wall opposite him, and he read it again and again...or the first four lines, rather; everything after that was blurry. Whoops. Guess I need glasses...like the ones on my nightstand.

He _always_ left those things behind somewhere, usually at home but sometimes at Flip's. Once he sat a pair down on the table while he and Ronnie Anne were having dinner at a restaurant and completely forgot they even existed until he needed to read an order form at work two days later. He could read without them, but all the squinting and straining gave him a headache.

Like the one he was developing now.

Sighing, he looked away from the chart and focused instead on a poster depicting the human nervous system. Next to it was an anatomically correct woman with her arms out like wings and her legs planted far apart. Lincoln squinted and leaned forward. Did she have a vagina? It didn't look like it, but her crotch was kind of blurry, so he couldn't say for sure. Eh, she probably did.

Where is this guy? It's been fifteen minutes already. I've literally been in this room longer than I was in Vietnam.

And at least _they_ had the decency to feed me.

He balled his fist to his mouth and coughed; sour tasting phglem rolled wetly across his tongue, and he forced himself to swallow it. Jesus pleaseus, it's worse than maggots...not as bad as tuna casserole, though. That stuff is awful, and it gets worse with every passing year. He yawned and rolled his neck. Hurry up, doc, I'm tired.

How long had he been here...all told? He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was ten and he got here about eight. Holy God, two hours? This is why Ronnie Anne had to chase him to the doctor; does the wait time really need to be this damn long?

Better than the wait times at the VA, though. Not that that was much comfort: His butt hurt, his back was sore, and he was starting to get cold.

If this cough wasn't starting to really bug him, he'd get up and leave. _Screw this, I'm going back to Vietnam._

Speaking of Vietnam, how long until the people over there started protesting like they were in Europe? The war ended and the commies took over in...what, '75? Fifteen years. It took the Warsaw Pact denizens almost forty-five. Jesus, that's a long time to have a central committee throwing its weight at you. He'd last maybe a year before he snapped and either smashed a truck through the Berlin Wall or walked into a crowded store and opened fire. Not that stores were crowded over there; the sidewalks in front of them were, though, since everyone had to wait in line for everything.

Presently, the door opened and Dr. Faraday came in. A short, stocky man with graying hair and a mustache, Faraday reminded Lincoln more of a construction worker than a doctor. He was an army medic in Vietnam and spent most of his two tours patching boo boos and giving VD shots in Saigon, well away from the front. He took over the practice when Dr. Hartfield retired in 1977. "Mr. Loud," he said with a nod.

"Am I dying?" Lincoln asked archly.

"Nope," Faraday said and glanced at the clipboard in his hand, "but you do pneumonia in the lower left lobe."

Lincoln sighed.

Faraday held up a forestalling hand. "It's not the end of the world, Linc. In fact, it's a really mild case. I'm going to perscribe you an antibiotic and an inhaler for when you feel short of breath. In a week or two you'll be one hundred percent."

But I wanna feel better _now_. "Until then?"

Faraday shrugged. "Take your meds, drink plenty of fluids, and get lots of rest. That's pretty much all you can do. You're healthy otherwise and realatively young, so it's not as big a deal as it would be for an older person. Or a baby."

Relatively, huh? I'm only forty-three. Two whole years younger than you, by the way. "Alright. Can I go now?"

"Yes, just let me write you that script."

That wound up taking another half hour. By the time he left, Lincoln was convinced the asshole did it on purpose. _My youth threatens him,_ he told himself as he climbed behind the wheel. _If I was any younger he'd probably kill me._

* * *

Luan Loud sat a heaping plate of fried chicken before a fat man in a vest and green John Deere cap, nodded when he thanked her, and then scurried back to the counter, her phony smile falling as soon as her back was to the dining room. Fred sat behind the register and counted the money from the drawer, looking up and nodding when someone passed by, bid him farewell, and went out the door. From the kitchen, the sound of sizzling meat drifted forward. Joey, Lincoln's new dishwasher, could handle himself on the grill just as well as anybody, which made it easier for Lincoln to take time off. Speaking of which, she really hoped he came in after his appointment. She was worried about him; he sounded awful when he coughed, and it was all too easy imagining something terrible happening to him.

Behind the counter, she leaned against the edge and took a deep breath. She wasn't feeling too great herself, though hers had less to do with her lungs and more to do with her heart. She really missed her father, in other words. So did her mother: The past week had been so hard on her, and it killed Luan to see her so upset. She cried at night, and during the day she just seemed...lost, like she didn't know what to do with herself.

Luan felt the same: Not having Dad around was so damn _strange_ : Every time she came down the stairs or through the front door, she expected him to be in his chair napping or reading the paper, and every time he wasn't, she was briefly thrown for a loop. Then it all came crashing back to her and she felt worse than she did before.

Sighing, she crossed her arms and glanced up at the clock. 10:35. She hoped Lincoln was okay. She glanced over as Alex went to the window with a dirty plate and sat it down. She was moving more slowly than usual; Luan vividly remembered being pregnant with Jessy and as much as she loved her daughter she wouldn't trade places with her neice for all the money in the world. Sore feet? Achy back? Bloated tummy? No thank you.

Although...sometimes she did kind of wish…

Well...nothing, she didn't wish anything. Sometimes she just thought that _maybe_ it would have been nice to have met Fred earlier and _possibly_ something something children. She liked kids, after all, she just wasn't too crazy about carrying them.

Alex slumped her shoulders, took a deep breath, then turned away from the window: Her cheeks were red and a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. Luan frowned. "You alright?"

Leaning her back against the edge of the counter in a posture identicial to Luan's, Alex nodded and crossed her arms. "Yeah, it's just kind of taking a lot out of me. It feels like I'm carrying around a bowling ball or something."

Luan nodded in symathy. "If you feel that way now, wait a couple months."

Alex blew a puff of air. "I know. I am _not_ looking forward to it." She glanced at Luan, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. "I _am_ looking forward to actually holding it though."

"You have an ultrasound appointment soon, right?"

Alex nodded. "Yep, the fourteenth. Hopefully we'll find out the sex."

"When I was pregnant with Jessy, you had to wait until it came out to see what it was."

Alex threw up her hand. "I know, that's so lame. How'd you baby shop if you didn't know what you were having?"

"Neutral colors," Luan said and patted her niece on the shoulder.

After that, they got busy and Luan lost herself to the blur of a steady rush, forgetting that she was worried about her brother's health until he came through the doors at half past eleven. She was jotting down an order when he walked in and went back behind the counter. When she walked up a few minutes later, he was talking to Fred, his arms crossed and his head thrown back. He sensed her and turned.

"Hey, Linc," she said and smiled cautiously, "how do you feel?"

"I'm fine. It's just a little pnuemonia…"

Luan's heart clutched. "Pneumonia?" When she was in prison, a girl across the hall got peunmonia and almost died; she could still remember the way she hacked and gurgled in the night. It sounded like she was drowning.

Lincoln sighed long-sufferingly, as though she made a habit of worrying over him, which she didn't. "Yes, really, it's no big deal. I have medication and I'm going home to rest right now, okay?"

"Drink plenty of water," Luan fussed.

"Yes, mother, I will. Thank you."

Luan smiled. "Good. I want you happy and healthy, Linc."

"If you want me happy," he said, "get out there and wait those tables." He snaked one arm around her shoulders and hugged her. She hugged back.

Later, after he left and the rush fell off, she put in an order for a burger and fries for herself, then another for Alex after asking her if she was hungry. While she waited, she read the paper over Fred's shoulder. "You're turning into Linc," she teased. He was even wearing reading glasses; all he needed to complete the impersonation was a full head of white hair.

"I taught him everything he knows," Fred retorted and turned the page.

"I doubt that," she said suggestively and leaned close to his ear; his clean, masucline smell filled her nostrils and she felt a tingle between her legs. She kissed the side of his face and ran her fingers over his shoulder.

He chuckled. "Maybe I held a few things back."

"Later on...when it's just you and me...don't hold back _anything_."

At the ticket window, Alex gaped at her aunt, an order forgotten in her hand. She knew Auntie Luan and Fred were together, but gross, in front of little baby Jesus and everyone? Joey, who had come over to grab the order, poked his head out and frowned. "Ew, old people sex," he said.

An imagine of Fred and Auntie Luan...together...flickered across her mind, and she threw up...just a little. "Yuck," she said, "take your ticket and shut up."


	134. November and December 1989: Part 3

Bobby Santiago Jr. pulled up to the gate, and a secuirty guard in a blue uniform leaned out of a booth, the lower half of his face hidden by a thick brown mustache. Bobby propped his elbow on the door and pulled down his sunglasses with a flourish. "I'm here to see Mr. Farris."

"Name?" the guard asked and picked up a clipboard.

"Roberto Santiago Jr."

The guard scanned the paper then nodded. "Alright. Have a good day, Mr. Santiago." He pushed a lever, and the gate lifted.

"Thank you," Bobby said, feeling important. _Mr._ Santiago. You hear that? He pushed his sunglasses back onto his nose and drove onto the lot: Hanger style buildings flanked the narrow service road, doors open here and there to reveal elaborate TV sets. People, mainly technitions, hurried back and forth between them, crossing in front of the car with little to no warning. This was _their_ domain, and the burden of caution fell entirely to the driver.

At an intersection, Bobby hung a right and pulled into a tiny parking lot facing a building with stucco and a terra cotta roof. He cut the engine, got out, and went inside. At a reception desk, he checked in with the secretary, then dropped into an overstuffed armchair flanked on both sides by end tables. Potted plants stood in the corners, and a lamp across the room threw out a spill of warm amber light. He glanced to his left, spotted an issue of _Newsweek_ with President Bush on the cover, _,_ and picked it up.

You might not know it by looking at him, but Bobby was nervous...so nervous, in fact, that he kind of felt like he was going to be sick.

This role, if he got it, would be his biggest to date; he would play an actual character and not just pop up in the background like a Mexican-American Jack-in-the-box. This was the big time...actually freaking _acting_. No pressure.

He opened the magazine and scanned the headlines: Mass protests in East Germany, the stock market suffered a 'mini crash', a typhoon devestated parts of Thiland, Muslims wanted some guy named Rushdie dead for writing a book...sheesh, it's always something awful, you ever notice that? Day after day, year after year. What kind of world were they making for their children? What kind of world would Stephy inherit? God alone knew, but Bobby had the sneaking suspcion that it woudn't be a good one.

Sigh.

"Mr. Santiago?"

Bobby glanced up: A woman in a blue power suit stood by the reception desk, her red hair permed and her wrinkled face heavily made-up. Bobby got to his feet and went over. She offered her hand with a tight, prefunctory smile, and they shook. "My name's Olivia and I'm Mr. Farris's personal assistant. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to him."

"Alright, sure," Bobby said with an anxious hitch.

She led him down a long hall to an elevator: Inside piped music played through a speaker. Bobby was familiar with the tune, but couldn't place it. Two floors up, the doors slid open on a wide reception area. He followed Oliva through and to a door, where she knocked.

"Come in," a voice called gruffly from the other side.

She opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for Bobby to enter. Bobby nodded and went inside.

The first thing he noticed was the giant window behind the desk: It commanded a sweeping view of the lot and the rugged hills beyond. Loma Peta Drive bordered the complex before veering left, its broad sidewalks flanked by tall, wavering palms. The second was the desk itself: It was massive and gleamed in the light of the California sun. The third was Mr. Farris, a fat man with a bald pate and glasses. He had to weigh over three hundred pounds, and his broad forehead was sheened with sweat. His suit was gray and rumpled, his undershirt stretchng tightly across his gut. He smiled at Bobby and gestured to a chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat."

Bobby came over and they shook across the desk, then he sat. Mr. Farris shifted his bulk and drew a heavy sigh. "So...Bobby? Is that what you like?"

"Yeah," Bobby said, "yeah, Bobby's fine." He chuckled. "That's what everyone else calls me."

Mr. Farris nodded. "Good, good. You can call me Dean. Stone says you did a reading and he liked what you have." Stone was Porter Stone, a driector Bobby had worked with in the past.

Bobby didn't know how to reply, so he nodded politely. "I'm certainly interested in the part. I...I think I could really knock it out of the park."

That wasn't a lie, he did...from what little he knew of the character.

Mr. Farris was nodding. "I trust Stone's judgment. Let me ask you something: Have you ever seen _The Brash and the Bountiful?"_

That was the name of the show; it was one of those daytime soap opreas his mother and grandmother liked so much. Gross, I know.

 _Had_ he ever seen an episode, though? It had been on since the early seventies, and there were days when he was growing up that he was home sick and wound up watching that crap with Mom. He couldn't remember titles, though; only abiding boredom.

"Yeah," he said, "I've seen it once or twice."

Mr. Farris nodded. "I hate soaps. They're easy to produce, though. What do you know about this role?"

Bobby flicked his eyes to the ceiling in contemplation. "Uh...his name is Richard Parker, he's Susan Parker's long lost son...and he's an asshole."

Mr. Farris laughed. "That's pretty much it."

Susan Parker was one of the main characters in _The Brash and the Bountiful_ : She was a middle aged rich woman who connived, backstabbed, and drank copious amounts of wine. From what little backstory Porter gave him, her son Richard was born out of wedlock and given up for adoption,, but his apple didn't fall far from her tree: He was smug, smarmy, and sadistic...just like his mother.

Sounds fun, huh?

"There _is_ a little bit of a.." Mr. Farris made a circular motion with his hand as he searched for the word, "...twist. With soaps, we tend to wing it. If this storyline takes off, we could milk it for two or three seasons. If it doesn't, we'll end it as soon as possible. Richard Parker...well, there's more to him than meets the eye."

Bobby blinked. Uh...okay. Sure. He smiled. "Sounds like my kind of part."

"Alright," Mr. Farris said, "you got it."

Bobby's heart jerked against his ribs. "I-I have it?"

"Yep. We start filming in January. You won't come in until about half way through the season, so we probably won't need you back until February or even March. When we do, we'll call you."

Bobby grinned and shook the man's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Farris. You won't be dsappointed."

"I don't think I will."

All the way to the car, Bobby walked on clouds.

He was moving on up.

* * *

Lincoln was sitting up in bed and watching TV, a tray sitting across his lap and a box of tissues at his right hand. Ronnie Anne sat next to him in her nightdress, her hair pulled back into a bun and her arms crossed. It was late evening, dark, and the room was lit by soft lamplight. "She should be back already," she said without looking away from the screen. Lincoln glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 6:35pm. Jessy's first tutoring session started at four and was supposed to last an hour, which meant she should have been home an hour ago. He dipped his spoon into his soup, picked it up, and let it fall back to the bowl with a wet plopping sound. Jessy was a grown woman, and as far as he and Ronnie Anne were concerned, she could stay out as long as she liked: She had her own life of course, and she went places, but she knew they worried, so she usually called or came home before heading out again. Tonight, nothing.

"She probably lost track of time," Lincoln said. This _was_ her first session, after all, and the first day of something (tutoring a kid...basic training) almost always runs longer than it should. WIth that in mind...he still felt a twinge of apprehension. The roads were slick, and all it would take for disaster to strike is some asshole not watching where he was going and…

He cut that thought off. Is it normal for a parent's mind to turn to such morbid thoughts? _Gee, Billy's ten minutes late, he's probably dead._ He honestly didn't know if it was or not. He always assumed that it wasn't and that he was just a morbid person because boo-hoo Vietnam. Then again, Ronnie Anne wasn't there and she could be just as dark as him.

Currently, she sighed. "I hope. The roads are slick and…"

Lincoln chuckled, and she shot him daggers. "What?"

"Nothing," he said and shook his head, "I just had the same thought. Word for word." He lifted his spoon again and looked at what it bore: Split pea soup, thick and green just like baby poop. It tasted funny, but since getting sick _everything_ tasted funny. His stomach rumbled hungrily, but the idea of eating made him sick.

"At least I'm not alone."

"I thought that too," Lincoln pointed out. He swirled his spoon in the soup and stared down into the bowl. Hm. Wonder if I can divine the future with this? The only thing he saw were bits of pink, rubbery ham. They reminded him of tuna. Ugh.

Ronnie Anne looked at him and frowned. "Are you going to actually eat, or are you going to keep playing with your food?"

One of the reasons Lincoln absolutely dispised being sick was Ronnie Anne: She turned into a real Mother Hubbard, hovering, constantly checking his temperture, fretting, making him soup despite his protests, etc, etc. It was sweet and on some level he appreciated it, but come on, he was a forty-three year old man who fought in a war...being babied as the last thing he wanted. Well...maybe not the _last_ , but it was pretty damn close.

He skimmed his spoon across the surface, collected a mouthful, then shoved it past his lips with an exaggerated _ummmm_. "Good boy," she said and patted his arm.

"Bark," Lincoln said.

"Don't be a smartass," she chuckled.

Lincoln scooped another spoonful into his mouth. "Sorry, mother."

She slapped his shoulder and he winced. "One of these days," he said, "right to the moon."

Ronnie Anne snorted. "It'd be the last thing you ever did, lame-o."

"I'd come looking for you," Lincoln said and took a bite, "once I had my fill of peace and quiet."

"Umhm," she said and turned back to the TV.

Lincoln ate a few more bites before he started to feel queasy. He took a drink of water and blew his nose. He was just about to set the tray aside when the front door opened and closed. Unless Jehovah's Witnesses were becoming more foreceful, that was Jessy.

A moment later, she stuck her head in the door. "Hi," she said, "sorry I'm late. My session ran a little over."

Ronnie Anne glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "Oh, you're late? We didn't even notice."

Lincoln chuckled. "How'd it go?"

Jessy nodded. "Really good. He didn't want me to leave."

Ronnie Anne lifted a brow. "Oh? I thought this kid hated history."

"He does," Jessy allowed, "but I found a way to make it more interesting."

A proud little smile crept across Ronnie Anne's lips. "How'd you do that?"

For a moment Jessy looked at her aunt, then her eyes flicked down. "I lied," she said heavily.

"You _what?"_ Ronnie Anne asked sharply and tilted slightly forward. Uh-oh. Ronnie Anne took teaching pretty seriously.

Jessy nodded, shamefaced. "Yeah. I panicked, though. He just wasn't interested, but he likes horror movies, so I kind of told him a bunch of stuff about pioneers fighting werewolves."

Lincoln laughed, and Ronnie Anne shot him a dirty look. "That's not funny." She looked at Jessy, who bowed her head. "Honey," she said, her tone softening, "you can't do that. You're supposed to be teaching, not...lying."

"I know," Jessy moaned, "but it gpt him interested. I think it might be the right approach."

"Telling him things that didn't happen? Jess, that's not how you teach. You have to give children the facts."

Jessy sighed. "I know, I feel bad, but I panicked. I didn't mean to. You should have seen him, though. He was listening one hundred percent, and I made sure to get as many facts in as I could. I really think this is how to reach him."

Ronnie Anne drew a deep breath. "Fine," she said, "you're a smart girl. If you _really_ think this is how to proceed, okay."

"I do," Jessy said.

When the girl was gone, Ronnie Anne sat back against her pillow and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm actually kind of disappointed in her."

Lincoln didn't know jackshit about teaching, so anything he said would be hot air. He thought back to basic, though, and tried to imagine Sgt. Hellman lying. _Charlie has wings and fangs, Loud. You better watch yourself or they'll swoop down and bite your head off._ He smiled. That would have been terrifying. "Live and learn," he said simply.

"I just hope she knows what she's doing."

On TV, an ABC newsbreak started. Peter Jennings sat behind an anchor desk, his eyes two narrow slits. Was this guy Chinese or something? The camera slowly zoomed in as he spoke; the volume was low and Lincoln could barely hear him over the rattle of fluid in his lungs. " _...astonishing news from East Germany, where the East German authorities have said, in essence, that the Berlin Wall doesn't mean anything anymore."_

Oh? Well...it didn't mean anything six months ago if you had the balls to climb it.

Ronnie Anne grimaced and crossed her arms even tighter; she was no doubt still thinking about Jessy.

" _...built in 1961 to keep its people in will now be breached by anyone who wants to leave…"_

Lincoln tilted his head and listened as best he could. He couldn't say he found the news "astonishing" like Jennings did; all year people in East Germany have been making noise about wanting more freedom, especially the freedom to travel...in many cases permanantely. From what he understood, East Germans _were_ crossing into Chezoslovakia, which opened its borders to the west earier in the year, but the government stopped that, which pissed everyone right off. The Warsaw Pact nations were a clusterfuck of protests, demonstrations, and people sick and tired of their countries being overgrown prisons; it was kind of hard to seperate various greviences, but suffice it to say, Eastern Europeans wanted freedom, and the liberal leadership of Gorbechev in the USSR emboldened them to ask for it.

"Are you done with your soup?" Ronnie Anne asked.

On TV, Jennings spoke to a correspondant in West Berlin via phone.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "I'm done."

She grabbed the tray, got up, and took it into the kitchen. Lincoln blew his nose and tossed the tissue away. Now if only the wall of mucus in his lungs would fall…


	135. November and December 1989: Part 4

**Lyrics to _Standing in the Shadows of Love_ by Britny Fox (1989)**

* * *

Alex Loud started the morning of November 10 with a container of cold, leftover Chinese food - yum! Sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, she watched the morning news and ate her prize. Blah blah Berlin Wall blah blah Germany; she'd care if Germany had better food. As it stood now, they only had sauerkraut and sausage, two things she wasn't particularly fond of. Now if the Great Wall of China fell, _that_ would be news. She imagined it in her mind: It crumbled and a flood of delicious lo mein and stuff swept across the world, ten feet deep in places. Ummmm, that'd be a _wonderful_ way to go.

When she was done, she looked mournfully down at the empty container. Why isn't there more, damn it? She got up, tossed it into the trash, and went into the bedroom, where Tim was flat on his back and snoring. She glanced at the clock: had six minutes before the alarm went off. Poor schlub.

I know, I'll wake him up the _right_ way!

She pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside; it landed on the nightstand and knocked the lamp over. Alex winced and Tim stirred, his eyes fluttering open and his lips mumbling silently. He saw her and winced sleepily. "What are you doing?"

Alex smiled sheepishly. "I _was_ going to wake you up with sex, but I knocked the lamp over."

Tim blinked, and when he realized she was as naked as the day she was born, the corners of his mouth curled slightly up. Alex crossed to the bed and knelt, the edge of the mattress dipping down. Tim sat up in a rustle of sheets, and she pecked the tip of his nose. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning," he said and kissed her nose back, his hand going to her breast and cupping it; the heat of his palm soaked into her flesh and made her heart skip. She purred in the back of her throat and their lips melded, his tongue slipping into her mouth and moving gently over hers. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, and a pang of pleasure rippled through her center. She shoved him back against the pillow and giggled at his shocked expression. Next, she hooked her fingers into his underwear and yanked them down, freeing his rapidly inflating penis.

"Release the Kraken," she said, and they both broke out in laughter. She swung her leg over his hip and settled onto him, his head grazing her clit and making her breath catch. He looked up at her with a boyish I;m-about-to-get-some grin that never failed to look both incredibly cute and incredibly dorky at the same time. She shifted her hips and leaned forward, his member scraping down between her folds. When she felt him knocking at her enterance, she pushed down, and his tip parted her.

Tim hummed and ran his hands up her flanks; she shivered and giggled. "That tickles," she said. He did it again, and her walls tightened painfully against him. "Ouch!"

He hissed through clenched teeth.

"Told you," she said, and thrusted down; his rod speared into her core and they both gasped.

"Just don't cough."

Oh, yeah, now _that_ was painful. She made the mistake of doing it once when he was going to town and it hurt so bad they were both thrown instantly out of the mood.

She put her fist to her mouth and took a deep breath.

"Don't even."

She laughed and threaded her fingers through his. She leaned over as far as her baby bump would allow (which wasn't very far at all) and rocked her hips against his. "I'll do whatever I want, bud; I'm Alex Loud."

"I can do it too," he said smugly.

She pushed up then down, her hands squeezing his. "Do it then," she said.

Instead, he thrusted up, and Alex gasped...partly in pleasure and partly in pain. "You bumped into my bump," she said.

"Sorry."

She pushed down again, and her stomach pressed against his. Ow!

Sighing, she climbed off of him and spun: She was on her hands and knees now, her butt high in the air and everything she had spread for Tim to see. Wordlessly, he got into position behind her, grabbed her hips, and sank himself into her. She moaned and threw her head back. "Muuuuuch better," she said.

Tim dug his nails into her soft flesh and thrusted, slowly at first then gaining speed as his passion rose. Alex bowed her head and bit her bottom lip; her black hair fell across her face and veiled her eyes. Her fingers gripped the blanket and trembing exhalations dropped from her lips as each stroke sent embers of pleasure into her brain.

Her orgasm formed quickly in her stomach, a ball of electricity that expanded and consumed her entire being. She cried out as her body clenched around Tim's dick; in response, it swelled then spurted deep into her womb, the sensation of being filled with hot lead knocking her over the side and down into an abyss of ecstacy. Tim grunted as he thrusted one last time, his tip slamming against her cervix and making her moan.

For a moment they remained in position, both of them panting and tingling in the afterglow of their shared climax. Over the sound of her own ragged breathing, Alex heard the alarm. Wow, we're minute men, she thought.

Tim pulled out, reached over, and slapped the OFF button; the moment he was gone, his cum started to spill out of her. Sorry, guys, she thought and brushed her hair out of her face, it's already occupied.

"I could get used to that," Tim said and sat back against the headboard.

Alex pushed off the bed and got to her feet, wincing as he coursed down her inner thighs. "That's easy for you to say; you don't leak afterward."

He said something she didn't catch as she went into the bathroom. Since she had over a half an hour until she had to leave, she decided on a shower, reaching in and turning the water as hot as she could stand. She slipped in and held her head under the spray. Nothing like a little sex followed by a barrage of scalding water to get the ole blood pumping. She reached for her loofa, lathered it up, and spread her legs. As she washed, she started to sing.

 _In the dark, there's a love that hides_

 _Is it true, we are blinded by._

 _Face the words, it's not in your eyes._

 _Tell me now, that I'm the one for you, yeah._

That song was cool. Who sang it again? Eh, it didn't matter. Her version was better anyway.

"You okay in here?" Tim asked from the door.

"Never better," she chiruped and squeezed a measure of shampoo into the palm of her hand.

"Oh. Sounded like you were dying."

Alex snorted.

When she was done, she cut the water, grabbed her towel from the rack above the toilet, and dried herself off, paying special attention to her stomach. Don't want little man or woman to be cold. She got out and went into the room where Tim was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his boots on. He looked up and nodded apprecatively at her body as she passed. "Nice."

She wiggled her butt eaggeratedly and went over to the closet. "You really think I'm still hot?" she asked as she selected a uniform dress. "Even with my bump?"

"I think you've never been hotter," he replied and got up. He went over and slipped his arms around her hips from behind, his fingers lacing over her stomach where, even now, their child grew.

Alex uttered an involentary gigge and leaned her head back into the crook of his neck. "Really? She asked.

"Really," he replied, and kissed her cheek. "I gotta go. I'll be home early today...I hope."

Alex hummed. "So do I."

After he was gone, she got dressed and went looking for her shoes, but couldn't find them. Uh...where are they? She searched high and low, from the back door to the living room, but those babies were _gone_.

Well...what the fuck?

In the bedroom, she put her hands on her hips and looked around as though she would be able to spot them making a break for the exit, but, of course, she saw nothing. Shoes don't walk around by themsleves.

Or do they?

Heh. She'd have to write that down on her idea pad: GHOST SHOES WALK AROUND BY THEMSELVES AND KICK PEOPLE IN THE BUTT.

But seriously, though, she needed her kicks. She rummaged around, but, nope, no shoes. Finally, she knelt by the bed and pulled the cover back. "Aha," she said when she saw them. Reaching underneath, she grabbed them and pulled them out. "Thought you could fool me and play hooky, huh?" She slipped one on then the other. "Not happening. If I have to go to work, so do you."

Neither lefty nor righty replied, but she didn't expect them to: They were going to be sullen because 'oh no, we have to work for a living!' Lazy ass bitches. She struggled to her feet, grabbed her purse and her keys, and went outside: The sun was high and bright in the sky, and the wet, glistening world was beginning to dry. She locked the door, went down the stairs, and started for the car, but a voice stopped her. "Alejandra?"

She looked up to see Tim's mother standing on the porch. A tall, thin woman with messy brown hair and clear blue eyes, she wore a simple blue dress with black heels. She worked for a bank and was super formal: She was the only person in the world who called her Alejandra...but Alex could tolerate that because she called Tim Timothy, which for some reason struck her as funny. Heh. Tim-o-thy. Say it three or four times and it loses all meaning. Then again, so does Alejandra. "Yes, ma'am?"

Tim's mother came down the steps and held something out: A metal lunch pail. "Timothy left this in the driveway. Could you drop it off before you go into work?"

"Sure," Alex said and took it. Dude forgot his lunch? Pffft. Food was the _last_ thing in the world she would leave behind.

"Thank you," Tim's mother replied. "How do you feel?"

"Pregnant," Alex said.

Tim's mother laughed. "Just hope your baby's not as big as Timothy was."

Tim was a pretty small guy, but baby Tim was apparently a monster weighing nine freaking pounds. Nine pounds! Can you _imagine?_ Alex always wondered what shape Mrs. Underwood's vagina was in following _that_ ordeal. Like...was it all flabby and ripped up?

Bile rose in the back of Alex's throat and she swallowed it. "I pray everyday that it's not."

"I doubt it will be. By the time I was five months I looked like a building. You're still not showing very much, which means it'll probably be on the smaller side."

That'd be nice.

Tim's mother bid her farewell and went back into the house. Alex tossed Tim's lunch onto the passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition: The engire coughed and sputtered, but then caught with a roar. Stupid station wagon had been nothing but trouble over the past six months. Just three weeks ago it broke down in the middle of the street and a bunch of guys had to push it into the parking lot of a nearby gas station. Tim and his father took a look at it, but it was still acting up.

Better not break down today, dickweed, she thought, I'm not in the mood to walk.

The engine coughed as if in indignation.

Okay, okay, you're not a dickweed. Relax.

She put it in reverse and backed into the street, pausing to fiddle with the radio and settling for a station playing one of those annoying morning zoo variety shows. Now how's _that_ for a job? You sit behind a microphone, talk, and play music. Hell of a lot better than waiting tables, though she imagined your butt must get mighty sore. And your back, too. Then again, you can always put on some long as song like Stairway to Heaven, get up, and exercise a little. Hell, with some records you could go have lunch, pick up your dry cleaning, go home, bang your husband or wife, then come back and it'll _still_ be playing (looking at you, _In A Gadda Da Vida_ ).

Five minutes later, she pulled up to the garage: It was a cinderblock building with a big rolltop door wedged between an empty, overgrown lot and an L-shaped storage facility. A tow truck looking older than God was parked by the door leading into the office, and she spotted Tim's father kneeling next to the front tire, his back bowed and his arms moving as he presumably fixed something.

Leaving the engine on, she grabbed Tim's lunch pail and got out just as he emerged from the office; his face was covered in grease and he absently wiped his hands on a dirty rag. Jesus, dude just got here and already he looked like he'd been put through the wringer. He saw her, smiled, and came over; she met him half way, handing him the pail and cocking her eyebrow. "I'm disappointed in you. Forgetting your lunch? Really?"

He shrugged sheepishly.

"I could understand if it was something unimportant like all your tools, but your food? Come on."

"I was in a rush, okay?" he said. He leaned it to kiss her and all Alex could do was turn her head to the side and take it to the cheek. He pulled back and grinned. "You got a little somethng…"

"I know I have something on my face," she said, "it's from my grease monkey boyfriend." She pressed her fingers to her cheek and they came back black. He tried to kiss her again, but she pulled back with a laugh. "Get lost, creep. You gotta bathe before you get any of _this_."

Tim laughed. "Alright...I'll get it somewhere else."

Alex raised her eyebrow. "Go ahead if you think you can. I'm sure Jessy wouldn't mind sharing Mark."

After a few more minutes of banter, Alex got back into the station wagon and drove to Flip's. When she walked through the door, Fred looked up from his post by the register and furrowed his brow. "Uh...what's wrong with your face?"

Alex's step faltered. Did this guy just call her ugly? She was about to hit him with Bruce Lee move...then she remembered the smudge on her cheek. Damn it. She meant to wipe it off in the car but forgot. Stupid pregnancy brain.

"Nothing," she said and turned toward the bathroom. Inside, she ripped a paper towel from the dispenser, wetted it, and rubbed her face. You're lucky I love you, Tim; you made me look stupid in front of little baby Jesus and everyone. If you were anyone else I'd knock you out.

Done, she examined her reflection, then nodded. Alright, she thought, I am ready for my day. She left and entered the dining room just as a huge stream of people came through the door.

Gulp.

Actually...maybe I'm not.

* * *

Lincoln coughed and spat into a tissue, which he then dropped into the wastebasket. He was producing a lot of mucus, which told him the medication was working. That was boss...what _wasn't_ boss was the feeling of it coming up from deep in his lungs. It was a strange, alien sensation that made him wince every time.

It was just past six and the NBC Nightly News was starting. Being Friday, Ronnie Anne was working late and Jessy was out with Mark. Lincoln was alone, then, stretched out on the couch with his fingers laced over his chest and his head resting on a pillow. He'd been here most of the day, and he was starting to go stir crazy; much more of this and he'd wind up running around with an ax like Jack Nicholson. _Here's Lincy!_ He grinned at the image of him hacking down the bathroom door and shoving his face through. In the movie, Jack Nicholson's wife stabbed him in the hand with a butcher knife when he did that. If _he_ tried it, Ronnie Anne would go right for the face.

Tomorrow, he was going into work whether he felt up to it or not; going crazy and getting his eyes carved out of his head didn't sound very appealing.

On screen, Tom Brokaw stood in front of the Berlin Wall in a green coat; people were standing and sitting on it while below others attacked it with sledgehammers and pickaxes.

" _...on the east side of the Berlin Wall, something new tonight,"_ a voice intoned as the camera cut to a man straddling the wall and hitting it with a hammer, " _soldiers dismantling it instead of guarding it with rifles."_

Lincoln coughed deeply and snatched a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

" _And on the west, the fire department doing its part to open a road closed twenty-eight years by morning."_ Men rushed around while someone operated a saw, the blade producing a shower of sparks as it ground against graffito covered concrete.

Had it really been twenty-eight years since they put them damn thing up? He remembered watching on the news as people leapt from buildings on the boarder in a final desperate attempt to flee communism. It made him sad then, now, thinking back, it pissed him off. Didn't those assholes in charge realize something was wrong with them when people literally chose to jump to their deaths rather than stay? Any normal person would say, "Gee, maybe we should try to be less awful," but not the East German government. They doubled down and got worse.

Another cough rose in his chest, and he pressed his fist to his mouth to keep spittle from flying out. Goddamn it. This pnuemonia bullshit was starting to get really fucking old. If it didn't clear up soon, he was going to cut his chest open and suck the mucus out with a goddamn turkey baster. He remembered something he read once about a Soviet doctor stationed on some godforsaken base in the Antarctic who removed his own appendix. Shew. He bet that hurt like _hell_. It's not like the guy could be medicated, he had to be alert, so he probably felt every little slice. Tough son of a bitch, commie or not.

On TV, the camera cut back to Brokaw: Yellow text to his left proclaimed this as FREEDOM NIGHT. Must feel like Christmas to those poor, dumb East German bastards. _Hans, look at that...what_ is _it? Why, it's food, my dear Schmidt_. _Food? What is food? We don't have that in the east._

Cough.

Damn it.

Cough-cough-cough; the edges of his vision grayed and his temples throbbed. He sat up and hacked into another tissue, but froze when he heard the key in the lock. Shit, it's Ronnie Anne, he had to stop coughing or she'd worry.

He sucked a deep breath and held it, letting it out slowly. The front door opened and his beautiful vice principal of a wife came in, her head thrown back and her feet dragging. "Hey, honey," he said innocently. His chest burst and for an awful second he thought he was going to launch into another fit, but thankfully the center held.

Ronnie Anne grunted, came over, and dropped onto the couch. She kicked her shoes off and tossed her head against the back.

"Tired?"

She nodded. "There was a fight," she said, "in the caferteria. Twenty kids were involved."

"Goddamn," Lincoln said, "sounds more like a riot."

"Yep," she said, "I spent the whole afternoon sitting with the little bastards in detention and filling out paperwork. My eyes feel like they're going to explode."

He cupped the back of her neck in his hand and rubbed; she winced and glanced at him. "You're not very good at that."

Lincoln shurgged one shoulder. He knew. His talents lie in...other...directions. He could still disassemble an M16 and then reassemble it in four minutes (maybe); he could kill a man twenty different ways with his bare hands; and he could make love like a Grecian god...but he could _not_ give a good massage.

Ronnie Anne smiled warmly anyway; even if he didn't have magic fingers, she liked being touched as much as he liked touching her. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Great," Lincoln said, "I haven't coughed in hours."

Her eyes flicked to the overflowing wastebasket. "You're a goddamn liar, I see fresh phlegm on that tissue right there." She nodded toward it.

"That's not phlegm," Lincoln said, "that's...uh...my semen. I got really aroused and masturbated."

"To _what?"_ she snorted. "Tom Brokow?"

Lincoln shook his head slowly. "The way that man reports the news...hmmmm."

Ronnie Anne burst out laughing, her hand waving as if to say she couldn't take it. Lincoln lifted his brow, and she laughed even harder. "You're a dork," she said fondly...then slapped him upside the head. "Why'd you lie?"

Ow, goddamn. "So you wouldn't worry."

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. "Good reason. You're still a liar and if you lie to me again I'll beat the mucus right out of you."

"You can do that?" Lincoln asked.

"I can damn well try."

Hm. "Jessy came by earlier and said she's moving to Europe with Mark. They're leaving tomorrow."

Ronnie Anne squinted her eyes and shook her head. "No. See, you _want_ me to beat you up so I'm not going to."

Oh? Lincoln reached out, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked as hard as he could. Ronnie Anne yelped. "You son of a bitch!" She threw herself at him, but he caught her by the wrists and held her back.

"I'm gonna knock your head off!" She struggled, but he was too strong.

"You're cute when you're mad," he said.

Her eyes narrowed to slit and Lincoln grinned. "Yeah, like that." He leaned forward to kiss her, but she whipped her head away.

"Piss off, square for brains." A ghost of a smile touched the corner of her mouth. Lincoln, not one to be detered, pressed his lips gently against the side of her face and puckered them. "No," she protested, "you don't get a kiss. You pulled my hair."

Lincoln smiled against her cheek. "I thought you liked having your hair pulled."

She turned, her lips brushing against his; he felt her grin deviously. "Only when you're dick's in me."

He slipped his tongue into her mouth, and she caressed it with her own, her hands breaking from his loosening grip and her fingers weaving through his. He pulled back and smirked. "Want your hair pulled?"

She nodded. "Umhm." She turned away from him and got onto her hands and knees, the side of her face resting against the arm of the couch. Lincoln admiired her backside for a moment before standing up on his own knees and pushing her dress up; she wore pale pink panties that clung lovingly to the swell of her butt. He yanked them down and unzipped his pants, his fingers beginning to tremble. When did they first have sex? 1962? That was...twenty-seven years...twenty-seven years and he still felt like a hormone drenched virgin every time he went to make love to her.

He supposed that was a good thing.

Taking her hips in his hands, he prodded himself against her moist opening. "Don't tease me, lame-o," she said, "I'm a grown woman."

Slowly, he sank himself between her folds, her wet heat enveloping him and making him tense. She let out a long, low moan and wiggled her butt higher. His heart began to slam and his breathing came in short, hot gasps. When he reached her limit, he pulled back, then thrusted forward; her body molded around him in warm familiarity, her contours matching his own, as though they were made for each other. Bowing his head, he fell into a steady pace, each forward stroke making her moan. "Y-Y-You're f-forgetting s-something," she stammered.

Lincoln cocked his head. Uh, no I'm not.

Then it hit him. He let go of her hip, reached out, and grabbed a handful of her hair, drawing back the way a driver would draw back on the regins of a horse.

"Like that," she said breathelessly.

Lincoln pulled back as he pushed forward, and she gasped.

They were so caught up in each other that neither one heard the key in the lock...or the door opening...neither knew they had been caught until Jessy gasped. "Oh my God!"

Like a shot Lincoln jumped back, his heart rocketing into his throat. Jessy stood in the doorway with her jaw against her chest. Mark stood next to her, his pupils ten times their normal size. He blinked, then covered Jessy's eyes with his hand...and his own eyes with his other one. "We didn't see anything," he said and slowly pulled Jessy back through the door like a gunman with a hostage. "Uh...well, _I_ didn't."

Lincoln yanked up his pants, his face so hot with embarassement you could fry an egg on it.

"It's not what it looked like," Ronnie Anne said, "he was giving me a massage."

Mark gave them a thumbs up. "G-Great. Keep it up." They disappeared, then Mark reached out and pulled the door closed behind them, his face turned pointedly away.

Oh, God, she saw them. Lincoln buried his face in his hands. Mark too. They were probably scarred for life.

On the couch, too! It would have been one thing if they were in bed, but they weren't - they were out in the open on a piece of funrtnature that _everyone_ used. That made it ten times worse.

"I've never been more humilited in my life," Ronnie Anne said seriously. Her voice had a hollow, haunted quality that reminded him of disaster survivors on the news. She crossed her arms and stared forward, her cheek redder than a patrotic Soviet.

Lincoln drew a deep breath.

The next few days...or months...or decades...were going to be _very_ awkward in the Loud house. He could already feel it.


	136. November and December 1989: Part 5

**Lyrics to _If I Could Turn Back Time_ by Cher (1989)**

* * *

Every morning on her way to work, Lynn Loud III stopped at the Dunkin Doughnuts on the corner of Desert Street and Palmdale Ave for breakfast: Large coffee, black, and a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on an English muffin. Ummmm. She loved those things; a few times she even snuck away from the dealership on her lunch hour and went back for seconds. They tasted like sex and baseball.

Okay, that sounded awful. She _liked_ them as much as the two aforementioned pastimes, let's say that. On the morning of November 11, she pulled into a parking spot facing Desert and cut the engine, killing Paula Abdul in the middle of Straight Up. Don't tell a fucking soul, but she liked that song, and for three blocks she'd been singing along and doing a terrible job of it, too. One thing the Loud girls all shared in common: A lack of musical talent. Guess what was allotted for the whole family wound up going all to Luna.

She got out, waited for a Bronco to pass, then crossed the parking lot to the front door, which she held for a little old lady with a cane. "Thank you, honey," the old lady trembled.

"You're welcome," Lynn said.

At the counter, she scanned the menu as though she didn't know what she was going to order. When the old lady finished talking to the clerk, Lynn went to the register. "Let me get a large black coffee and a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, please," she said.

"2.50."

2.50? Goddamn, that's highway robbery. Mentally grumbling, she pulled a five out of her purse and handed it over. It was a lot but _soooo_ worth it.

While she waited, she scrunched her lips to the side and crossed her arms. Did she have something important to do today? She seemed to think she did, but the more she searched her brain for answers, the farther away they fled. Damn it. She was _convinced_ there was something. Tax work, maybe?

Eh, she'd figure it out once she got there.

Across the dining room, an Asian guy sitting at a table reached for his coffee but fumbled; it tipped over and splashed across the surface and onto the floor, the cup falling after. He hung his head in shame, and Lynn chuckled. I been there, buddy, she thought: One time I knocked a whole plate of food onto the floor at a restaurant and had to order more. It wasn't her fault, though; she twisted around to grab something from her purse, her elbow caught the plate, and...well...you know. Man, that was embarrassing.

The clerk returned to the register with a Styrofoam cup and a brown paper bag, his brows lifting as if to say _come and get it_. She went over, grabbed them with a thanks, and hurried to the car. Did she have time to eat now or did she have to rush? She turned the key in the ignition and checked the clock on the dash: 6:57am. Ehhhh….she could spare a few minutes. She blew a curl of steam away from her coffee and took a tentative sip, the boiling liquid burning her lips. Ow, shit. If I wasn't awake before I am now.

She sat it in the cupholder, pulled her sandwich out of the bag, and unwrapped it, her lips unconciously smacking in anticipation. Come to mama. She brought it to her mouth but paused and took a big, foreplay-esque whiff. The smell of hot bacon filled her nose…

...and her stomach clenched.

Uh-oh..

Suddenly hot bile shot up her throat and she clamped her lips closed. The sandwich dropped from her hands and landed in her lap, where it fell apart, cheese, bacon, and bits of egg splattering her black pants. Her fist flew to her mouth and she struggled to swallow: It was hotter and grosser going back down than it was coming up.

Panting, she looked at the mess in her lap. Aw, man, I got cheese and grease all over myself. Shit.

Her stomach clenched again, and this time there was no saving herself. She jerked the door opened, leaned out, and splattered puke against the pavement; her movements caused the majority of her sandwich to fall onto the ground, but she didn't care.

When the storm passed, she moaned and drew back into the car, her head bent and her chest heaving; her stomach rolled sickly and she felt so lightheaded she almost toppled over. She gripped the wheel and took deep, even breaths. After a few minutes, she started to settle.

Great, she thought and angrily slammed the door, I'm covered in food _and_ I have a stomach bug. Just perfect.

Sighing, she drove to the dealership and parked next to her dad's town car. Inside, he was talking to Gene, a new hire. He looked over when she came in and nodded. She nodded back and went to the bathroom. She grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, wetted them, then scrubbed the worst of the mess from her pants. She still felt icky but she didn't think she was going to puke again, and she didn't feel like she was going to have diarrhea, so...she could power through.

Wasn't there some Pepto in the kitchen? She remembered seeing a bottle at some point. She'd take a shot and hope for the best.

That's all you can do with a stomach bug...

* * *

Jessy crept from her bedroom and slunk down the hall, her car keys in her hand and her books tucked under one arm. She tread with light, fleeting steps, and when she reached the living room, she breathed a sigh of relief: It stood empty. Whew.

She started for the door, but winced when Uncle Lincoln called out to her from the kitchen. "Morning, Jess."

"Good morning," Jessy said without turning. Ever since last night, she hadn't been able to bring herself to look at her aunt and uncle: When she came back inside, she hurried to her room with her head down. As she lay in bed trying to sleep, the memory of what she saw replayed over and over again in her head. She was so embarrassed she could _die_. She was embarrassed for them...for her...and for Mark.

God, how many times have they done...that...on the couch? She shivered, then froze. What if they've done it other places...like the kitchen? Images of them...together...on the table and the counter, where food was prepared _and eaten_ filled her head, and her stomach turned.

She was _hoping_ to avoid them this morning, but here she was, shoulders hunched and eyes screwed shut, her teeth bared and her cheeks blushing.

For a moment Uncle Lincoln didn't say anything else. "Can...can we talk for a minute?:

Oh, no! She didn't think she could face him. "Uh...I'm kind of late. Can we talk later?"

"Please?" The plainative quality of his voice made her frown. He sounded upset.

Darn it. Now she felt bad; he probably thought she hated him or something. "O-Okay." She turned, and he was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Eyes downcast, Jessy scurried in and sat across from him, still unable to look at him.

For a long moment they sat in awkward silence. Uncle Lincoln picked up his mug and took a sip as if simply to busy himself with something. "I, uh, I want to...apologize for what happened yesterday."

"It's fine," Jessy said quickly.

Uncle Lincoln sighed. "No, it's not."

"No, really, it's...it's okay. I didn't see anything."

That was a lie. She didn't see anything of Auntie Ronnie Anne's (except for the lustful expression on her face...which was bad enough), but she saw _everything_ of his; she would kick herself in the butt for the rest of her life for freezing up and not turning away.

"Yes you did," he said, "and I'm sorry."

She stole a quick glance at his face: For probably the first time she could remember, he was blushing, his cheeks the color of blood. She looked back down at the table. "It's alright. I...it was awkward but I'll get over it. I'm sorry I walked in like that."

Uncle Lincoln missed a beat. "You didn't do anything wrong. You walked through the front door. Most normal thing in the world. It was us."

Well...he had a point.

"Okay," she said, "can I go now? I'm really late."

She wasn't, but she really didn't want to talk about this.

"Yes," Uncle Lincoln said, "you can go. Have a good day."

She got up.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she said earnestly. She still didn't look at him, though.

Outside, the sun was high and bright and birds sang from treetop perches. She slipped in behind the wheel and started the engine. Though she wanted that conversation to end as soon as humanly possible, she kind of regretted not asking him whether they'd ever done anything next to their food supply, but he probably wouldn't answer truthfully and she probably wouldn't _want_ him to.

She shuddered and backed into the street, pausing at the end of the driveway and fiddling with the radio; some music would help get her mind off it. She found a station playing Cher and left it. She liked Cher.

 _If I could turn back time_

 _If I could find a way_

 _I'd take back those words that hurt you_

 _And you'd stay_

 _If I could reach the stars_

She wished _she_ could turn back time, or find a DeLorean and go back to November 10 and stop her stupid past self from opening that door. Shiver.

Ugh, she was still thinking about it!

Gross!

And they weren't even doing it normally...they were doing it 'doggystyle.' Uhhhhh!

Suddenly she wondered what position her parents were in when they conceived her. She'd never given it much thought, but she would like to imagine it happened conventionally...in a bed with soft candlelight and romantic music, her father on top and…

 _OH GOD PLEASE STOP!_

At a red light she bowed her head over the wheel. I'm scarred for life now.

On her way home, she'd have to stop at the store for bleach. Lots and lots of bleach. And an eye dropper.

* * *

Ahhh, nothing like having the day off. You can sleep in, watch TV, walk around in your robe with nothing underneath and not put on shoes, uh...watch TV...eat...oh, and write. You can do lots and lots of writing.

If you don't have writer's block...which she currently did. Sitting on the couch with her legs crossed and _The Price is Right_ on TV, Alex tapped the eraser of her pencil against her chin and stared down at the notepad in her lap. Come on, dillhole, make words.

Nope. Nada.

Sigh.

How long had she been here? She looked up at the clock on the end table. It was almost 10:30. Two hours. Two frickin' hours and she hadn't put down a single word. No blood, no sex, no death, nothing. It was really frustrating. Usually she could blaze through three or four pages in no time at all, but today...uh-uh.

She threw her head back and groaned. Was it her passenger? He or she was sucking up her brain juice, after all (her sweet, frothy brain juice) so it stood to reason. She looked down at her stomach and poked it with her finger. "Hey..can I have some of my mojo back? Please?"

No reply.

"Just enough for _one_ story?"

She felt a faint flutter and gigged stupidly. "Is that a yes?"

No, actually, it was not; she sat there for another twenty minutes before finally giving up and getting to her feet. "You know what time it is?" she asked her stomach as she ambled into the kitchen. "Time for breakfast part two...the _second_ most important meal of the day."

The baby did an excited backflip and nearly knocked her off balance. "I know," she laughed, "you're an eating machine. You better not be as big as your daddy when you come out. I will _not_ be happy."

No reply. Uh-huh. She opened the pantry door and scanned the shelves. "What do you want, kid? Cereal? That sounds good. So do cookies, though. And soup. And rice." She pursed her lips. To be honest, _everything_ looked good. At least little one wasn't picky. Thank God for that; a picky ass kid who didn't want to eat anything did not sound like her idea of a good time.

She settled for cereal. She grabbed a box of Cap'N Crunch and then went to the drying rack, where she selected a bowl and a spoon. Next, she got the milk from the fridge, poured it on, and went back into the living room. Sitting, she kicked her feet up onto the coffee table and ate slowly, her eyes pointed at the TV but not really seeing. She hated game shows. And soap operas. Come to think of it, daytime TV as a whole was just...bleh. Nighttime TV wasn't much better, though.

When she was done, she took her bowl into the kitchen, dropped it into the sink, and went back to the living room. Sitting, she picked up her pencil and notepad. "Alright, Mommy wants to write, okay? Give me just enough so I have something to do here. I'm bored outta my mind."

Fifteen minutes later, she tossed her head back and sighed. There was nothing on the page. "Uhhhh, I'm gonna go crazy!"

Then she had a eureka moment.

Her Gameboy!

She got up and went into the bedroom; it was sitting on her nightstand, a small square device with a tiny green screen, red buttons, and a black directional pad. Come here, you; mama's got cabin fever and the only cure is _Super Mario Land_. She snatched it up and dropped onto the mattress, hitting the power button and turning it on. She loved this little thing. The only sucky thing about it was that the screen wasn't lighted, so playing in the dark was something you could only do if you were a cat. They have righteous night vision, you know. She rested her arms against her stomach and held the Gameboy up to her face. The title screen popped up, and the game started.

Little one kicked her arm.

"Dude," she said, "are you _trying_ to make me lose?"

Kick.

"Come on," she moaned. "You won't let me write, now I can't even play my Gameboy? You're a terrible tenant. Four months and you're evicted."

Nothing.

"That's what I _thought_ ," she said.

* * *

Rita Loud sat alone in the living room of the Franklin Avenue house, a ratty pink blanket draped over her shoulders and another folded in her lap. Both were made by Leni and were old long before she died. Also in her lap was a framed black and white photo from hers and Lynn's wedding. It depicted them kissing, her in a white dress and him in a suit. Since the funeral, this photograph had been her constantly companion. She carried it everywhere she went, and at night she laid it reverently on his pillow and slept facing it, every once in a while reaching out to touch it as if to confirm that it, too, hadn't left her.

She drew a deep breath and stared sightlessly at the television screen, where Bob Barker stood aside as a man spun the wheel on _The Price is Right._ Luan was at work, and she, Rita, was alone in the house...completely and utterly, save for the smiling pictures staring down at her from the walls, some of them depicting the living, and others the dead. Whether the subject was alive or not was irrelevant: They were all phantoms, ghosts out of the past.

The man on TV jumped up and down in excitement, and Rita shifted slightly. Next to her, Russel chuffed and stirred in his sleep. She had him, at least, she thought as she laid her gnarled hand on his soft side. His eyes opened and he regarded her tiredly. "Go back to sleep," she said gently, and the dog obeyed, its eyes falling closed again and its breathing evening out. She glanced down at the picture and smiled wanly. It had always been one of her favorites, sitting for decades in a place of honor on the mantle. They looked so impossibly young: Lynn had a full head of hair and she was as thin as a rail, her blonde hair styled up with curls. Her eyes flicked to the date across the bottom: March 15, 1938. Almost fifty-two years ago. Hot tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away. "I miss you," she said and ran her thumb over Lynn's face, aching for his gentle warmth but touching only cool glass. She pursed her lips and breathed through her nose. "I can't wait to see you again. Take care of our girls."

She looked up and the world was blurry. She sat the photo down and laid her hands in her lap; she fought against the storm and won, but just barely. Lynn wouldn't want her to mourn - he would want her to be happy for the fifty-one years they had together. She knew this as surely as she knew her own name, but it was hard; she loved him so much and he wasn't here. She thought back to all the quiet evenings they'd spent here in the living room, him in his chair and reading the paper and her on the couch, knitting or watching television or petting Russel, and she regretted not touching him more, kissing him more, holding his hand and simply enjoying his presence, his smell, the comforting sound of his breathing. If she could have him back for five minutes, God, just five minutes…

If only.

Soon enough, though, she would have him for all eternity. And Luna and Leni too. She'd never have to let them go again, and that thought made her smile through her tears.

Reaching over, she took a tissue from the box on the end table and dabbed her eyes. Her bladder panged, and she struggled to her feet, her old body protesting in a flurry of aches and pains. She stood where she was for a moment, her shoulders hunched under the weight of years, and caught her breath; sometimes walking or simply standing left her winded.

When she trusted herself to walk, she shuffled to the bottom of the stairs, gripped the railing, and began to climb, her face screwing up in an expression of pain as her knees grated. Apparently, as one gets older, the cartilage in their joints, which forms a cushion between the bones, deteriorates, and when it is gone, the bones rub painfully together. Hers was nearly non-existent, and the ends of her bones scraped when she walked, especially up the stairs. She paused halfway to rest, her head bowed and her knees screaming. Once upon a time, she could ascend with ease, now it took her so long she was in danger of missing the lives of her great-grandchildren. _If I wasn't old before,_ she thought as she reached the top and started toward the bathroom, _I am now_.

But she was old; she'd be seventy-two in a few short months. She sure felt it in her body, but not always in her mind. _Luan, why are you coming over to help me get up? I can do it my - oof, help me_. She smiled to herself as she shuffled into the master bath and snapped on the light. Speaking of Luan, Rita wanted to talk to her.

About Fred.

She gripped the tile toilet paper holder and lowered herself gently onto the seat.

Luan mentioned a while back that she and Fred had discussed getting married 'but not for a while.' Rita didn't give it much thought, but now that Lynn was gone and husbands were perpetually on her brain, she wondered if perhaps she was holding Luan back from marrying him. Luan wouldn't want to leave her (and she honestly didn't _want_ her to leave), and she may not have ever considered having Fred move in with them. Well...Rita wouldn't mind; Lincoln and Ronnie Anne lived here for two years after Lincoln came home from the war, and she would have been perfectly happy if they stayed forever.

She didn't want to stand in the way of her daughter's life. She wanted her to be happy and to have somebody the way she had Lynn, someone to love and to love her, someone to support and hold and cherish, someone to love and cherish her. Everyone deserves that; everyone deserves fifty-one wonderful years with someone who makes them happy.

Done, she grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wiped, and got to her feet, her spine popping and sending a bolt of pain into the center of her heart. How in the world did people older than her _do_ it? There were eighty-five and ninety-five year olds walking around out there who had endured ten, fifteen, or even twenty years of this. How, she didn't know; the thought of spending even another full year like this made her tired.

Going down the stairs was even harder than going up, and by the time she sank onto the couch, unshed tears of pain stood in her eyes. Russel got up and jumped into her lap like an overgrown cat. He laid his forepaws on her stomach and tilted his head slightly to the left. _Are you okay?_ He seemed to ask. Rita smiled and stroked his side. "I'm fine, dear, getting around just isn't as easy as it once was." Russel panted as if in agreement. He was no spring chicken himself, after all; he would be ten next year, ten being, if she remembered correctly, fifty-five in dog years. She chuckled; oh, to be fifty-five again. "You'll see yourself soon enough."

Russel uttered a short, sharp bark.

"Time waits for no man, honey," Rita said, "and no dog either."

Russel whimpered and curled up against her as though the thought of aging depressed him. Rita laughed and scratched behind his ear. "I know, it's not fun. It's part of life, though. You get old. Could you imagine living forever? In Heaven, but here?"

Russel blinked as if to say he hadn't given it much thought.

"We all get old," she mused. "One day Lincoln will be old, Alex will be old, her baby will be old...but you know what?"

The corgi glanced up at her. _What?_

She cupped the side of his furry face in her hand. "There will always be new life to replace the old. Alex's baby will have a baby one day, and its baby, and its baby, on and on and on."

Russel lifted his brows.

"That's life. It's a never ending cycle."

 _Interesting,_ she imagined Russel saying.

* * *

Lincoln sat behind the register and fought to keep himself upright. His arms were crossed, his chin lulled against his chest, and his eyes were glassy and bloodshot with sickness. A few people commented on his sallow complexion and his sweaty forehead, and he was starting to think he made a mistake coming in: Who wants to eat at a place where the first thing they see when they walk through the door is some sick guy sitting behind the counter? He did _not_ feel like sitting at home anymore, though; if they didn't like Sick Linc, they could fuck off down the street to McDonald's and have some teenager spit on their patty before throwing it in the microwave.

He made a fist, lifted it to his mouth, and coughed. On the wall-mounted TV, _The Young and the Restless_ played; a handsome man in a dark suit swept a red-head into his arms and gave her the fakest looking kiss Lincoln had ever seen. Hey, buddy, are you even using tongue? You're supposed to make her knees shake. Kiss her like you mean it. Grab her breast. Grab her butt...aaaaaaand it's time for a commercial: A disembodied voice touted Wendy's new line of toys from the cartoon movie _All Dogs Go to Heaven_. A cashier leaned over the counter and handed one to a little black boy, and the black boy's jaw dropped as though this fucking hunk of plastic shaped like a dog was the greatest thing he had ever seen.

Art from the movie depicted a bunch of dogs and a little girl standing on clouds. " _Collect all six...something, something, something."_

Are they all dead? Jesus God, that's dark. Who wants to take their children to a movie about dogs and kids fucking _dying? Hey, Jimmy, let's go see that film where the little girl gets cancer and her dogs get put to sleep. It's a family friendly good time._

Uh, that's hideous.

The next comercial was lighter in tone: A man in a white suit hobbled toward the curb only for a car to zoom through a puddle and splash him. Ha. Next, a waitress passing a table dropped a serving tray (and the plate it bore) onto some guy's head. It happened in slow motion and you could see the tray hitting the guy's cranium. Looked like it hurt. Hahaha. What is this, _America's Funniest Home Videos?_ Oh, he'd fire the hell out of that waitress.

Turns out it was an AT&T commercial. Hm. What that stuff had to do with telephones was beyond him.

He grabbed a tissue from under the counter and blew his nose; the dining room was largely empty and the sound echoed. Imagine an elephant...roaring or trumpeting or whatever on the savanna and you'll get the picture. People turned their heads to look at him, a woman in a green dress furrowing her brows as though she had _never._ McDonald's is that way, lady.

On TV, an ad for the station's 'TGIF' lineup played; clips of _Full House, Family Matters, Perfect Strangers,_ and _Just the Ten of Us_ flashed across the screen. He hated all of those shows, especially _Just the Ten of Us_. Eight kids? Come on, that's _way_ too many. There were six in his family and that was almost too much. That girl in the ad, the one brushing her hair...every time he saw her he got this niggle in the back of his mind like he knew her from somewhere. Did they serve in Vietnam together? She was so damn familiar it drove him crazy. That's another reason he hated that dumb show.

"Here," Luan said, and Lincoln started. He turned, and she held out a glass of Coke.

Lincoln looked at it suspiciously. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," she said, "you need to drink something. Cool your throat."

Well, he _was_ kind of thirsty. He took it with a nod and lifted it to his lips. Luan leaned against the counter and sighed; a few strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and stuck out at odd angles. Her eyes were red; not as bad as his, but bad enough. "You alright?" he asked, concerned, and sat his glass down.

She nodded. "Yeah. Just tired." She yawned as if in punctuation. "I didn't sleep very well last night."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "It happens from time to time. I lay down but my mind doesn't turn off."

Hm. He didn't have that problem; he could close his mind down just as surely as he could Flip's, and within ten to fifteen minutes he was solid gone, daddy-o. "Have you tried getting drunk?"

She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with an expression that said _Really, Linc?_ "No, I haven't. I'd like to make it through the night without becoming an alcoholic."

Lincoln waved her off. "Oh, it takes more than that to become a drunk."

"Drinking every day turns you into a drunk," Luan pointed out.

"Do you have trouble sleeping every night" he asked.

She shrugged. "Not _every_ night, but enough."

Lincoln couldn't say he was surprised, given her past and her abiding regret over not being there during Jessy's childhood. You could say what you want about Luan - that she was a murderer, that she deserved to miss her daughter's life - and while you might not be necessarily wrong, she was fundamentally a good person and what happened bothered her deeply. She didn't really talk about it, but he could see it in her eyes, that same haunted hollowness he first noticed in 1970.

It probably weighed on her the way Vietnam weighed on him. The only difference was that he only spent eight months in captivity and came back to lead a normal life, she was gone for fifteen years and did not get the same chance at normalcy that he did. His time as a POW may have been rough, but at least he got to come home to his wife, have a beautiful daughter, and start a career.

You know...Luan may not have had to eat maggots, and maybe she wasn't beaten and mock executed, and perhaps she didn't fear for her life every single day...but she had it harder than he did. Much, much harder. And even though she had been out for three years, it wasn't a simple matter of 'getting over' it. It took him years to get over Vietnam; it would probably take Luan twice as long to get over murdering someone and being absent during the majority of Jessy's life.

Lincoln loved his sister dearly, and he was known for being the kind of guy who'd do anything for his family, but you know what? He wouldn't trade places with her...at all. If given the chance to, he'd turn and walk away. Maybe that made him weak or selfish, but the thought of not being there for Alex's childhood - the thought of missing all the things that he was there for - turned his stomach. Nope. Sorry. I'll be weak and selfish.

An old couple came in and Luan went to take their order. Lincoln coughed into his fist and glanced up at the TV. A rerun of _The Golden Girls_ was in full swing. Blanche was being a whore again and Bea Arthur waved her big, mannish hands at her in a dismissive gesture. He hated this show too. Now, if you put those old bags in Vietnam...he'd hate it even more. He grinned at the image of them in fatigues and helmets, big packs on their backs and rifles in their hands.

He took a drink from his glass and sat it down just as the bell over the door rang. He glanced over and saw Blades, dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and a gray Members Only jacket. He saw Lincoln, nodded, and came over. Oh, better check my car for bumper stickers. "Hey, Linc," he said and sat. "How you feeling?"

Blades had been in several times since Lincoln took off. Every day, in fact. Fred said he looked 'worried.' _I'm touched,_ Lincoln said sarcastically, but he honestly was. No one else seemed to care that he was knocking on death's door - no one outside of his family, that is.

"I'm alright," he said, "getting over it, I think."

"That's good to hear," Blades replied, "that pneumonia no joke. They been saying on the radio how this flu season's already the worst in years and people are dying left and right."

Lincoln nodded. He'd heard. Each year the flu kills babies and old people, but this year it was getting adults, too: A thirty-year-old man in east Texas, a fifty-year-old woman in Maine, a college student in Boulder, wasn't worried, though; he didn't fight his way out of a POW camp just to come home and die of a fucking glorified cold.

"I was kinda...kinda concerned," Blades said, not meeting Lincoln's eyes.

Lincoln chuckled. "Don't worry about me. I'm a tough son of a bitch."

"That's good to hear. Can I get a burger and fries?"

Lincoln jotted down his order, ripped the ticket off the pad, and handed it to Fred through the window. He sat back down and took a sip of his soda.

"Anything new?" Blades asked.

Lincoln sat the glass down. "Well, me and…" he trailed off. Uh, I didn't mean to say that.

Blades lifted his brows. "What?"

Lincoln sighed. "Jessy caught me and Ronnie getting, uh, frisky."

For a second Blades simply stared at him...then the corners of his mouth turned up and he started to laugh. Then harder. Tears streamed down his face and he bowed his head. Lincoln nodded to himself. I shouldn't have said anything. Why did I say something?

Shaking his head slowly from side to side, Blades wiped a tear from his eye. "Yeah, laugh it up, asshole," Lincoln.

"I'm sorry," Blades said and held up his hand. "Hey, it's happened to me. James walked in on me and his Mom a couple times. Goddamn kid forgets you're supposed to knock on the door when it's closed."

"Well...we weren't in our room. We were...we were on the couch."

Blades' jaw dropped. "The couch?"

Lincoln nodded.

A black woman came up to the register and Lincoln cashed her out with a smile and a nod. When she was gone, Blades shook his head. "You're not supposed to do it out in the open like that, Linc. That's teenager shit."

Luan came behind the counter with a ticket and Lincoln delayed his response. She grabbed a glass, filled it with Coke from the fountain, then took it to a table. "What can I say? Our relationship still runs hot."

Blades chuckled. "I'll say. I mean, that's a good thing. You haven't lost that fire. Me and the Missus haven't, I think, be we're not like a couple of horny kids anymore."

"We are," Lincoln grinned.

"You're also younger."

Lincoln snickered. "By what, six years? That meant something when we were kids but not anymore."

Fred stuck his head out the window. "Order up."

Lincoln got up, grabbed Blades' plate, and sat it in front of him. "Now hurry the hell up and eat. You're getting on my nerves."

* * *

Lynn Loud III got home at six that evening, and to her unending horror, Ritchie was still at work. Goddamn it; she was starved half to damn death and was hoping for a quick dinner of meatball subs. She dropped her purse onto the table by the door, kicked out of her heels, and went over to the couch, where she sank with a weary sigh. She picked the remote up and turned on the TV: The ABC nightly news was starting and she rolled her eyes. She flipped through the channels and found World Championship Wrestling on channel twenty. Al-right! She tossed the remote aside and leaned back.

On the screen, a hefty man with short brown hair and clad in a tan colored suit spoke into a blue microphone over the sound of an enthusiastic crowd whistling and cheering. " _Hello again, everybody, and welcome to World Championship Wrestling, I'm Jim Ross and this is going to be a great two hour broadcast here today."_

Two whole hours of wrestling? Oh, boy! Today was going to be a good day. She settled back into the couch and crossed her arms. Oh, the Steiner Brothers were gonna wrestle? Damn straight, those dudes were awesome. She liked Rick, the Dog Faced Gremlin. Scott was kind of boring, but a good technical wrestler.

 _Grumble-growl._

Sigh. Come on, Ritchie, I'm hungry.

The first match started and she glanced at the door. You know what, screw this. She picked up the phone, dialed, and ordered four meatball subs: One for Ritchie and three for herself. She was _hungry_.

When the show went to commercial, she got up and went to the bathroom. Back in the kitchen, she opened the fridge and looked around; she just needed a little something to hold her over until the subs got here. Hmmm...she saw pickles and whipped cream.

Ooooh.

She grabbed both of them, turned, and sat them on the counter, closing the door with her foot. She unscrewed the pickle jar cap, pulled one out, peeled the lid off the whipped cream, and dipped the pickle in. She brought it to her lips and took a crisp bite.

She hummed in delight, the mixture of cream and vinegar transporting her taste buds to a place of nirvana. She grabbed the jar and the container, went into the living room, and sat just as WCW came back on. She pulled another pickle out, dipped it in the whipped cream, and ate it slowly, relishing it. Wow, this was really good, why had she never tried it before?

Ten minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. She sat her pickles and whipped cream aside, got up, and went to it, grabbing a twenty from her purse. She opened it, and the delivery boy nodded. "Got four meatball subs," he said.

"Yep," Lynn said. Give me my goddamn food.

"10.50."

She handed him the twenty and took the bags. "Keep the change."

The delivery boy's face lit up. "Hey, thanks."

Lynn shut the door and went back to the couch, where she sat and pulled one of the subs out. Yum. She took a big, beefy bite, marinara sauce smearing across her face. You know what would make this even better?

Whipped cream!

She put her fingers into the container and spread them over a meatball, then sampled it.

Ummm, so good.

She was just starting on her second sub (heaped with whipped cream) when Ritchie came through the door. "Hey," she said, sparing him a glance.

"Hey," he said and came in. "What are you eating?"

"Meatball sub," she chirped, "I got you one."

His brows furrowed. "What's that white shit?"

"Whipped cream."

His jaw dropped. "What?"

"Whipped cream," she replied casually, "it's really good."

Ritchie tilted his head and regarded her as though she had lobsters crawling out of her ears. She glanced up at him and frowned. "What?"

"That's a really weird combination."

Lynn shrugged. He wasn't wrong, but, hey, life's about trying new things, right?

Shaking his head, Ritchie sat next to her, picked up one of the bags, and slipped his sub out. "You're a nut," he said.

"But you love me."

He nodded and elbowed her arm. "I do."

She grinned and kissed him, and despite the sauce all over her face (and the whipped cream), he kissed her back.


	137. November and December 1989: Part 6

**For the first time in this story - really, for the fist time since last summer - I am caught up with myself. See, when I first posted this story, I had ten to fifteen chapters written and ready to go, and this whole time I've been ahead of the game, but now I am back to having to write a chapter before I can post a chapter. Sucks, I know. This means I won't be uploading twice a day anymore or one a day (at least until The 'Cest Kids is done).**

* * *

Monday afternoon, Ronnie Anne sat dropped into the chair, propped her elbows on the desk, and steepled her fingers. Across from her, Kevin Jenner, a tenth grader with a fondness for black, sat slouched in a chair and gazed off to her left, his lips a tight, angry slash. He was a slight boy with delicate features, pale, porcelain skin, and pouty lips; his eyes were dull gray, like dishwater, and his black bangs swept lightly across the plane of his forehead. He was dressed in a camouflage pants, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket with studs along the collar.

He also wore black eyeshadow and black lipstick.

The school did not have a policy on make-up beyond nothing "outrageous, unreasonable, or distracting," so he had every right to wear it if he so wished, but Ronnie Anne personally thought he should be made to wipe it off. Call her old fashioned, but boys don't wear makeup, and when you get right down to it, isn't a boy in eyeliner and lipstick 'distracting'?

In her opinion it was; the sidelong looks he got from his classmates, the snickers, and the taunts distracted both him _and_ them. She felt badly for him because he got so much crap from the other kids, but it's a fact of life that people who are different will _always_ be the target of their peers' derision...especially when their peers are high school students. High school students, like younger children, could be endlessly cruel. Standing _too_ far apart from the pack led only to trouble. Sad but true. She remembered being in high school; she was her own person and if people didn't like it, they could fuck off. The thing is, now she was second-in-command of a high school with 685 students, and had to worry about things like this. She thought the kid was weird, but so what? Let him be. His weirdness, though, made things difficult, and it was Ronnie Anne's job to keep the peace and to keep the good ship Royal County High on track.

Presently she sighed. "Why did you have the knife?" she asked.

Kevin scratched his nose but did not meet her gaze. "Like I told Mrs. Goldsmith, I forgot it was in my pocket."

Ronnie Anne hummed. In second period American History, Kevin bent over to pick up a pencil he dropped when a switchblade fell from his coat and landed at the teacher's feet. When it came to knives on school property, she was personally conflicted: People carry pocket knives for general use, they always have and they probably always will, but the type of knife Kevin was carrying - sharp point, smooth blade - has one purpose and one purpose only: To stab someone's guts out.

The school policy, unlike her, was _not_ conflicted: Knives were prohibited on school property and at school related events, functions, trips, etc. The first infraction carries an automatic one week suspension. The second will result in a one week suspension. The third...expulsion.

"I think you're lying," she said, and Kevin's eyes narrowed so slightly she _could_ have been imagining it...but she knew she wasn't. "I think you had it in case someone messed with you."

Kevin shook his head and pursed his lips. "I'm not worried about anyone. And if someone wants to mess with me, I'll fight 'em fair."

Ronnie Anne flicked her eyes up and down: He was scrawny, his arms and legs like twigs. She couldn't see him fighting...but she _could_ see him getting his ass kicked.

She sighed. "I know some of the kids give you a hard time. Has anyone...thrown you in a locker? Beaten you up? Anything like that?"

Kevin shook his head. "Nope," he said.

She didn't believe him. "Well...if someone ever _does_ , tell one of your teachers.

He nodded. "Aright."

Ronnie Anne stared him for a minute, then turned silently to the clunky Macintosh computer that dominated a good quarter of the desk. She hesitantly pecked at the keys and drew up her files. "You will be suspended," she said as she keyed his suspension in. She did something wrong and wound up in a different part of the system. Goddamn it. Stupid computers. "Starting tomorrow," she added as she clicked back to the previous screen. "Three days. During that time you will not be allowed on school property or to attend school events." She called up his schedule and checked it over. "You have study hall fourth period. I will have your teachers give you the assignments you missed and you will use that time to complete them."

Kevin didn't reply.

She moved the mouse and clicked the box marked SUSPENSION next to his name. A drop down menu appeared. She moved the cursor down and clicked the POSSESSION OF CONTRABAND option. In the blank box, she typed KNIFE. Done, she pressed the ENTER key and waited as the changes uploaded. When it was done, she turned back to Kevin; his elbow was propped on the arm of the chair and he chewed his thumbnail, her brow angled down and his colorless eyes like flecks of ice. An inexplicable chill went through Ronnie Anne, and she suppressed a shudder; in that moment, he looked evil.

"Can I go back to class now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Can I have my knife back? After school?"

"You can have it at the end of the year," she said.

Kevin sighed deeply but didn't say anything. Ronnie Anne watched him go out the door, through the outer office, then disappear around a corner. The look on his face when she turned away from the computer troubled her; she couldn't say exactly why, but it did, and for the rest of the afternoon, her stomach was a slimy pit of disquiet.

During lunch, she walked the halls looking for kids doing something wrong - if they weren't on their way to or from the bathroom or didn't have a hall pass, she busted their asses… 'busting' usually just telling them to go to the cafeteria. She took her work seriously, but she wasn't a ball busting bitch on wheels who threw her weight around; she was more likely to let you go with a warning than to drag you kicking and screaming to detention. School administration, someone once told her, was like police work; you needed the respect of the community,, and you don't get respect by coming down hard on everyone.

Take the boy and girl she found making out in the little payphone alcove by the basement stairs; she could have hit them like an A-bomb but didn't. Maybe she should have (he had his hand up her shirt and was kneading her breast as he pillaged her mouth with his), but, damn it, she didn't have the heart. Not too long ago, that was her and Lincoln (not long ago as in the other night, heh). They never necked in school (she thought) but they did everywhere else. She wasn't a hardcase, but she did delight in the way they both jumped when she walked up and yelled at them. "Get your hand out of her shirt!" They both emitted a high pitched, girlish cry. "Get in the cafeteria!"

"Yes, ma'am," she said in unison and scurried off. She looked after them with her hands on her hips and a grin on her face.

She continued down the hall, and stopped when the acrid smell of cigarette smoke washed over her. She hadn't smoked a cigarette in nearly twenty years (whoa, wait, really?), but every once in a while she still got a craving, and the scent of fresh smoke either made her mouth water or her stomach turn.

Today it made her stomach turn.

She found the culprit in the boys' bathroom, a metalhead with shaggy hair, ripped jeans, and a leather jacket. He sat on the sink top with one leg drawn up and puffed like he was in his favorite chair at home, not at school. A thick cloud of smoke hung in the air like steam. Really, guy? When he heard the door, he glanced over and sighed. "Yeah, busted," she said and put her hands on her hips. "No smoking in the bathroom. Go outside."

"It's raining," he said.

"Too bad. When I was in school I went outside in snowstorms."

His brow crinkled. "You smoke?"

"I used to," she confirmed, "outside."

He held up his hand. "Alright." He hopped off the counter, took one final drag, then crossed to a toilet and threw it in. Ronnie Anne crossed her arms as he passed.

Damn kids.

The smoke found its way into her lungs; she coughed and waved her hand in front of her face. Jesus, it's worse than mustard gas.

After lunch, she went into the teacher's lounge, bought a can of Coke from the machine, and grabbed the Tupperware container bearing her lunch from the fridge: Cold pasta. Yum. She selected a fork from the drawer and sat at one of the tables.

She studied the Coke can as she ate, frowning at the Batman logo on one side: Black bat inside a yellow oval. They did a Batman movie earlier in the year with Jack Nicholson, the crazy guy from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. God, they made such a big deal about it; for months she was barraged with radio and TV ads, ads on cereal boxes, ads on cans and packages and everything else imaginable. By the end of it, she _hated_ Batman, and she hoped it lost so much money that no one ever did another superhero picture ever again. Just her luck, it made a boatload of money and they were probably going to do a million of them.

Sigh.

When she was done, she washed her container and the fork, and put both of them in the drying rack, then grabbed her soda and went back to her office. She had a dozen employee evaluations to do this week, and she was _not_ looking forward to them.

As she made her way down the hall, she did not feel the cold, hateful eyes boring into her back…

* * *

Alex laid back on the examine table in a dimly lit room while an ultrasound tech squirted clear jelly from a tube onto her bare stomach. She winced, and her hand clamped on Tim's ever so slightly. "It's cold," she said.

"I know, this stuff's awful," the tech, a woman with shoulder length blonde hair and dressed in light blue scrubs, said. She picked up a paddle attached to a monitor and pressed it against the gunk on Alex's stomach. Firmly. She winced again and Tim gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. A steady _duh-duh duh-duh_ filled the room as the tech pushed the handpiece even deeper into Alex's stomach. "That's your baby's heartbeat," the tech said, "it's strong and healthy."

Alex listened intently, her head cocking slightly to one side.

 _Duh-duh. Duh-duh._

She smiled and looked up at Tim; he was fighting back his own big, dorky smile, his eyes flickering from her to the screen and back again. Alex craned her neck to see, but the machine was angled in such a way that she couldn't. "Do you see it?" she asked, her chest starting to ache with excitement.

Tim squinted his eyes and leaned forward. "I see a bunch of gray and a little bit of black." He stood up straighter.

"He or she is hiding," the tech said as she moved the probe left, right, up, and down in search of Little One. Alex laid as perfectly still as she could; her heart pounded in anticipation and the pit of her stomach tingled. She _really_ wanted to know the baby's sex, and if this lady didn't hurry up and find out, she was going to take the damn probe out of her hand and do it herself.

After a minute, the tech hummed. "There we go."

Tim leaned forward and squinted again; Alex studied his face for a reaction, as though she could see in his eyes what it was. Maybe she could; she _was_ Alex Loud, after all, and she was awesome.

"It looks like a kidney bean," Tim said. The tech chuckled and Alex rolled her eyes. He said the same thing the last time they were here.

Gotta come up with new material, Timbo. I'm planning on sticking around a while, and I do _not_ want to hear the same tired shit over and over again.

 _Duh-duh. Duh-duh._

Their baby's heartbeat, strong and regular. She smiled at the sound and listened attentively. Suddenly she couldn't wait until to hold her baby and feel its heart beating next to hers as she stared down into its eyes. _Hurry up and come out of there, Mommy wants to hold you!_

Actually, no, you're not done cooking yet. Stay.

"Ah, got it," the tech said.

Alex's heart fluttered and she looked at Tim. "What is it?" she demanded.

"I don't know what I'm looking at," he said, "it's like a Picasso painting or something."

The tech laughed. "Do you see this thing right here?" she asked and tapped the screen. Tim bent at the same time Alex sat up, and their skulls almost connected. She shooed him away and he pushed her back against the pillow.

"Dillweed," she said.

Tim ignored her and stared at the screen, his eyes darting left and right and a thoughtful expression on his face. Alex sat up and crossed her arms. Come on, come on, I'm really excited here! "Yeah," he finally said with halting uncertainty.

The tech nodded. "That means it's a boy."

"A boy?" Tim asked hopefully. "Wow." He crawled onto the bed to get closer to the machine and Alex shoved him off.

"Get outta here." She was smiling so big it hurt her face though, and there was this strange, hot wet shit in her eyes that made everything all blurry. The tech took the probe away and Alex's hands went instantly to her stomach; greasy jelly smeared her palms, but she didn't care. Her baby was no longer a genderless Little One, he was Little Man. She looked up at Tim and he had that strange wet shit in his eyes too. Heh. At least Alex wasn't alone. She reached out her arm and he hugged her tightly.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she replied.

A half an hour later, they left the hospital through a side door, their hands clasped. The afternoon had turned chilly and overcast; a cold wind swept the parking lot, pushing dead leaves along the pavement with a dry _scritch-scritch-scritch._ Alex shuddered, and Tim put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. She snuggled into him and breathed deeply of his scent. In the hustle and bustle of life, it's easy for the scenery to flash sightlessly by. She never really stopped to think about things...like Tim not being just her boyfriend but the father of her child. You know who much that meant? They were going to have a baby together...a child that they made, they created, a child that was both him and her, a new life spun from the loom of their love. They were bound inextricably forevermore, in heart, soul, and body, and…

God, she sounded like a mushy idiot or something.

And you know what? She was okay with that.

In the car, Tim backed out of the spot, hung a right, and drove to the access road filtering onto Pine Street. A line of cars passed, and Tim reached across, grabbing her hand. "You got those pictures?"

"No, I threw them away," she said sarcastically and held up the folder containing the glossy ultrasound photos: Little Man's penis was circled because it was kind of hard to see (don't worry, so's your Daddy's...kidding, kidding!). They hadn't decided yet if they wanted to reveal the baby's gender now or if they wanted to wait. Alex kind of liked the idea of a gender reveal party: That's where everyone gets together and the parents either cut a cake (the inside being pink or blue depending on what they're having) or open a box of balloons (again pink or blue). The thing is, from what she read, most parents who have those don't know the gender themselves, so they find out along with everyone else (who bakes the cake or puts the balloons in the box?). So...they kind of blew _that_. Oh well, she wanted to know and she wanted to know _now,_ damn it.

They could still do it for everyone else, though. That'd be cool.

She brought the idea up to Tim as he turned right onto Pine. He hummed. "That does sound pretty cool."

"Right?"

He nodded and pulled around a slow moving pick-up from the 1850s with wooden sides and a sloppy white FARM USE ONLY splotched across the door (hey, dick breath, farm use only...not Royal Woods use only). "If you wanna do it, we can. It can be a baby shower, too."

Alex grinned and socked him in the arm. "I like the way ya think, Underwood."

Up ahead, two cars were pulled to the curb, the front of one and the back of the other smashed to shit; broken glass and bits of metal littered the road. A stone-faced cop stood aside and provided traffic direction that wasn't needed. As her father would say _Your tax dollars at work._ Which meant your tax dollars were being wasted. But what's new, right?

Eh, she didn't know; that was Dad's area of expertise.

"So...we have something else we have to do," she said.

"Yeah?" Tim asked and glanced at her. "What?"

She patted her stomach and grinned down at it. "Give Little Man a name."

* * *

Jessie pulled into the driveway of 1012 Elm Street and cut the engine. It was one of those drab autumn days where the sky is gray and leaden and everything looks dim and washed out. A cold breeze rustled the few leaves remaining in the skeletal treetops, and the crisp edge of approaching winter seasoned the air. She got out of the car and shivered as a gust of wind washed over her. She crossed her arms over the front of her floral print sweater and hurried up the walk to the front door. She knocked and waited, rocking back and forth against the chill. _Open the door, please, I am very cold._

Mrs. Johnson appeared and smiled. "Oh, hi, Jessica."

"Hi, Mrs. Johnson," Jessie said; she was bouncing on bending knees. "I'm a _little_ early. I apologize."

The woman waved her hand. "Don't worry about it; in fact I appreciate it." She stepped aside. "Come in."

Jessy nodded her thanks and entered the house, Mrs. Johnson closing the door behind her, then going to the bottom of the stairs, where she cupped one hand to her mouth and called Zack's name. "You can go into the living room," she said. Jessy nodded and went in, crossing to the couch and sitting. Zack's history book sat on the coffee table next to a notepad filled with his tight, crooked handwriting. She leaned over and scanned it, but saw nothing...lurid.

She felt a rush of guilt over having lied to him during their last session. She felt guilty immediately afterward...and then worse after Auntie Ronnie Anne was done with her. She honestly thought that this was the best way to teach him, though. She looked at it like this: She could use the yucky horror stuff to get him listening...and then hit him with the cold, hard facts. It was unconventional and maybe kinda sorta like playing with fire, but honestly, the kid hated history and if telling a few teensy weensy white lies got him to pay attention and absorb information, so what? They say you do what you have to do, and that's what she was doing here.

Right?

Momentarily, Zack came in from the vestibule. He was wearing a white button-up shirt and green uniform trousers, his yellow and green striped tie loosened at the collar. He saw her and grinned. "Hey, Jess!"

"Hi," she said and patted the cushion next to her, "are you ready to learn?"

"Darn right I am," he said and dropped down beside her. "That werewolf battle you told me about last week was the most awesome thing I've ever heard." He leaned forward, picked up his notepad, and started flipping through the pages. He found what he was looking for, smiled widely, and held it out. Jessy took it, and her eyes widened: Before her was a beautiful and painstakingly realistic drawing of a pioneer man standing in a forest clearing by the light of the moon. He held a musket, the butt in the crook of his shoulder and the barrel pointed at an approaching werewolf. A woman and a little girl in accurately depicted period dress cowered behind the man, the woman covering her head with her hands and looking up at the advancing creature with an expression of mind bending horror.

Jessy was no art critic, but she could easily mistake what she held in her hands as the work of a seasoned professional artist.

"You did this?" she asked and looked at Zack.

He nodded eagerly. "Yep. It took me _forever_ , though. Like...two days."

Jessy blinked. "You did this in _two days?"_

He nodded again, shamefaced this time. "I know, don't rub it in."

She glanced back at the drawing, her eyes sweeping across the page and lingering on every little detail. Two days? There's no way he could have done this in two days; he was obviously trying to impress her.

Too late. She was already impressed. "This is really good," she said and handed it back to him.

He took it with a shrug. "It's okay. I should have spent more time on it but I got bored and wanted to move onto other things."

"It's really very good," she said, "it doesn't look like you rushed at all."

"Thanks," he said.

"I really like the detail you put into their clothes. How did you know what to draw?"

He glanced down at the paper in his hands. "I got a book on pioneers from the library," he said, "it had lots of pictures and stuff. Well, mainly drawings because they didn't really have cameras back then. I basically copied."

Jessy couldn't suppress a grin. She inspired him to check a book on history out from the library? That was amazing! Yeah, she may have done it with a little white lie, but still, wow. She would have patted herself on he back (good job, Jess) if doing so wouldn't make her look self-congratulatory. "Did you read any of it?" she asked hopefully.

He shook his head, and her smile faltered just a little. "Nah, not really. I tried but I got bored. They weren't talking about the good stuff."

Well...of course they wouldn't because the 'good stuff' didn't exist.

Suddenly, she remembered something, and her spirits brightened. "So...you _didn't_ read about the Donner Party?"

Zack's face crinkled. "Donner Party? Uh, no. Weren't the pioneers too busy dying and stuff to have parties?"

"No, it wasn't a party-party, it was a group of people. They had a wagon train and they got stuck in the mountains during the winter." She bent forward and smiled. "Then they _ate_ each other."

Zack blinked. "They ate each other?"

Jessy nodded. She couldn't remember much about the Donner Party because while she paid attention, horrible things happening to people wasn't something she enjoyed commiting to memory. She was going to have to wing it; more white lies. But white lies are alright in the name of the greater good, right? What's the name of that philosophy that states _the end justifies the means?_ Well...that was _her_ philosophy now. Call it Jessyism. "Some people say a wendigo got to them."

"What's that?" Zack asked, his eyes big and curious behind the lens of his glasses.

"It's a Native American monster," Jessy said, "like a zombie. It's all dead and yucky. And it eats people." She only knew that because she read a book on Indian folklore when she was a little girl; for a while she was fascinated by the indigenous people, and she devoured as much on the subject as she could lay her little hands on. "It can possess people too, and turn them into cannibals."

The corners of Zack's mouth twitched up. "Yeah?"

Jessy nodded solemnly. "The survivors said their dead kept getting up and trying to walk around, so they had to cut their heads off and burn their bodies." Jessy's voice was low, ominous. Zack leaned forward, enraptured. "And they heard creepy voices and stuff in the woods at night. Laughing. Screaming. And a long, hollow, eerie moaning…"

Something dropped in the kitchen, and Zack jumped with a tiny cry of alarm. "Darn it," Mrs. Johnson hissed.

Zack threw a worried glance over his shoulder, then chuckled nervously. "T-They really said all that?"

"Umhm. The search party thought they were crazy so no one listened. Personally, I think they were telling the truth. A lot of strange things happened in the west during the pioneer days."

"LIke?"

Jessy scrunched her lips to the side and flicked her eyes toward the ceiling. Hmmm. "Well...a lot of fur trappers said they saw ghosts and stuff in the woods, and one guy even said a Bigfoot tried to get him."

Zack leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. "They had Bigfoot back then?"

"Yep. And aliens, too. People saw lights in the sky all the time. And people went missing all the time. It's really creepy."

Zack laughed. "I'll say. Did they ever catch any of the aliens?"

"No," Jessy said quickly, "but they _did_ catch a lot of fur…"


	138. November and December 1989: Part 7

Tuesday morning, Luan pulled into her usual spot at Flip's and killed the engine. Her hands gripped the wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white, her heart palpitated sickly, and her stomach knotted with nerves. She took a deep, even breath and let it out slowly through her flicked her eyes to the front window and tried to find Fred, but he must have been in the kitchen. She _did_ she her brother, though; he sat by the register and scanned the paper, his reading glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He absently lifted a fist to his mouth and coughed. Luan frowned. She really wished he would stay home until he was better; traipsing around in the November cold with pneumonia was a good way to get even sicker. He wouldn't listen, though; one thing about Linc, he thought he knew it all. Luan smiled fondly and shook her head. He was stubborn like a mule, and you couldn't make him budge unless your name was Ronnie Anne.

She sighed and tried to force herself to get out, but her muscles wouldn't respond to her brain's command.

 _Come on, Luan,_ she told herself, _woman up and go in there._

Yeah...easier said than done. On an ordinary day, sure, no problem, but today was _not_ an ordinary day. Last night, when she got home from work, her mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee. That wasn't unusual - she and Mom often sat down and had a cup of coffee in the evening - what _was_ unusual was the serious expression on her face. "I need to talk to you," she said.

Luan's heart skipped a beat, and a thousand calamities ran through her mind. _I found a lump on my breast...Jessy was in an accident, she's dead...we're losing the house and everything else too._ "About what?"

"Nothing bad, dear," Mom said and lifted the cup to her lips; it trembled slightly in her hands.

A sigh of relief burst from Luan's lungs, and she dropped into the chair across the table. "You scared me," she said and laughed, "I thought you were going to tell me you were dying."

"Oh, I am," she replied serenely, "we all are."

Luan frowned. While that was true, it was kind of morbid. Not for Mom, she supposed, since she believed in God, but Luan didn't, so the idea of dying wasn't a pleasant one. It wasn't overly terrifying either, which was a fair trade; she didn't believe in hell, so no eternal torment and or damnation. Yay.

Mom took another sip of her coffee, her eyes downcast. "You told me you and Fred were considering marriage"

Luan blinked. Well, _that_ was unexpected. She _did_ tell her that, though, several times, actually.

"Have you talked any more about it?"

"Yeah, we've talked," she said at length.

Mom looked up at her. "And?"

"We're still planning on it," Luan replied, "but not right now."

"Because of me."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement...a statement that hung heavy in the air between them like thick, noxious smoke. If you wanted to put it bluntly...yes, she had decided not to marry right now because of Mom. Luan felt no bitterness or resentment, she loved her mother dearly...it wasn't as though she saw her as some kind of living obstacle standing in the way of her happiness...but Mom _was_ the only reason she and Fred weren't married right now. What was Luan to do, leave her seventy-one-year-old mother alone in a big, empty house with no one to care for her, or talk to her, or hug her goodnight and good morning? Luan would sooner break up with Fred entirely than run out on Mom. God knows she made mistakes in her day, but that was one she absolutely _refused_ to make.

Mom stared directly at her, and she chafed under her gaze. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "No, it's not that," she started.

"Yes it is," Mom said. "I understand, dear, I honestly do."

"I-It's not a big deal," Luan assured her. "We're fine where we are. I just…" she trailed off and sighed. "I can't leave you."

Mom nodded deeply. "I know." She raised the mug to her lips. "And I don't want you to go." She took a drink, then turned her eyes up to Luan's. The younger woman saw a vulnerable earnesty that she couldn't ever remember seeing before. "I don't want to be alone. Since your father…" she hitched and a single tear cascaded down her sunken cheek.

Luan's throat constricted, and she reached out, taking her mother's hand in her own. "I won't leave you," she vowed, tears welling in her own eyes now. Mom had been there her entire life to love, support, protect, and encourage her. even as she sat in jail after killing another human being. When she needed a guiding hand, Mom was there to offer it; when she needed a hug or a shoulder to cry on, Mom was there to give; when she needed someone to take care of her - pregnant and a fugitive from the law - Mom was there to provide it. "I'll never leave you, Mom. I promise."

Mom nodded and wiped the tears from her eyes. "I feel like I'm a burden sometimes."

"No," Luan said softly and brushed her thumb across her mother's knuckles. "You're not, Mom."

Mom drew a deep, leaden breath. "I don't want to stand in the way of your life, Luan."

"You're not, you -"

"Do you think Fred would move in with us?"

That question, uttered in a placid manner, caught Luan completely off guard; so much so that for a second her brain failed to process it "Move in with us?"

"Yes," Mom said. "If you were to marry, would he move in with us?"

Luan opened her mouth but snapped it closed. She had never considered that before. To her, it seemed wrong to move a man into her parents' home - even if they _were_ married. As far as Fred was concerned, she didn't know how he would feel. Uncomfortable, probably; he'd met Mom many times over the past few years and they got along well, so she didn't imagine he'd mind on that front, but...he'd be moving into someone else's home, a house that wasn't his filled with things and memories that weren't his. She put herself in his shoes; she wouldn't be entirely comfortable either.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't care.

"I want you two to get married...if that's what you want," Mom said and threaded her fingers through Luan's. "I want you to have someone the way I had your father...someone to love and face life with. I don't want to hinder that."

A pang went through Luan's chest; she wanted that too. Very badly.

"Tell him to please think about it."

Later, as she lie in bed struggling to sleep, Luan ran her mother's words through her head again and again: _Someone to love...someone to face life with_. A partner. Someone to be there for her, someone to share her everything with: Her heart, her soul, her body, and her tribulations.

She rolled onto her back and stared up into the shadows; a street lamp outside cast a bar of murky orange light across the ceiling. She was keenly aware of how cold and empty her bed was, of how lonely and forlorn. She wished Fred was here; she would snuggle close to his warmth and rest her head on his chest, her arm draping over his stomach and his circled around her shoulders. She curled up on her side and burrowed into the mattress. At some point, she slept,, and in the morning, she made her decision: She was going to ask Fred to marry her.

Yes, women can do that. It's 1989.

Would he say yes, though? He was onboard with getting married one hundred percent...but every time they discussed it, they did so with the vague understanding that they would be on their own, just him and her. She worried herself all through the morning and now, as she climbed out of the car and into a stiff November wind, her stomach was a pit of bubbling anxiety and her heart pounded against her ribcage like a drum. She slammed the door behind her and hurried inside where it was warm.

She knew it was 1989 and all, but maybe this kind of thing _was_ best left to the men; she was so twisted with worry that she felt as though she would double over.

Lincoln glanced up from the paper as she came over to the counter, slipping out of her jacket as she went. "Two minutes late," he said and turned back to his reading. "I'm gonna have to dock you a whole two months' salary for this."

Luan chuckled harshly. "You barely pay me as it is."

His head whipped up, and she laughed. "Didn't expect me to dish it back, huh?" He probably did; during her three years working for her brother, she had developed a quick tongue and a surly set of retorts. With Linc, you had to, otherwise he'd knock you down like the surf and drown you.

He made an indignant _humph_ in the back of his throat and crisply snapped the paper.

She hung her coat up and stowed her purse under the counter. She turned to the window, and saw Fred at the grill; the sizzle of frying eggs and the faint smell of bacon washed over her, and her stomach growled.

Okay, she _was_ going to do it now but...you can't propose on an empty stomach. She'd just wait until after lunch.

Whew. That bought her some time.

A group of teenagers came through the door, and Luan went to take their order; one wore his baseball cap backwards, which made Luan want to roll her eyes. She'd seen a lot of boys doing that lately, and each time irritated her more than the last. It looked so dumb. She smiled cheerfully and jotted down what they wanted to drink, then brought it to them on a serving tray. Her steps were sure and steady, her movements automatic and reflexive. When she first started, she shuffled in dread that she would make a wrong move and send everything crashing to the floor...or worse, onto someone's head. Now, though, she was a professional and it came second nature.

Next, she took their orders, crossing one boy's out three times as he tried to decide between bacon, eggs, and toast, or eggs, sausage, and an english muffin. By the time he was finally settled, her hair was whiter than Lincoln's and she had been collecting social security for fifteen years. She turned, and spotted Alex standing behind her father; she held a hair tie between her lips and busied herself with twisting her hair into a ponytail. It hit Luan then that in all the stress of the past twelve hours, she had totally forgotten that yesterday Alex and Tim found out the gender of their baby.

Snapping her order pad closed, Luan rushed to the counter and swung onto an empty stool; Alex slipped the hair tie on and set it to rights, her eyes meeting Luan's. "So?" Luan asked eagerly.

"Buttons," Alex said.

Luan cocked her head and frowned. "You're funny. What's your baby?"

Alex glanced at Lincoln, who flipped a page. "She's not saying," he said without looking up. Alex nodded curtly to Luan.

"Why?" Luan asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Because," Alex said, "we're going to have a gender reveal party/baby shower. Until then, it's top secret." She leaned over the counter and pressed her finger to her lips and nose with a nearly inaudible _shhhh._

"What's a gender reveal party?" Luan asked, her brow crinkling.

Alex brightened, which told her it was something she liked talking about. "It's this awesome party where the parents of the baby cut a cake that's the color of the baby's gender on the inside or open a box of balloons with pink or blue balloons in it depending on the sex and everyone finds out and then gives me things."

Luan snorted at the last part. "So...when is it?"

"We haven't decided yet," Alex said, "probably early next month. You'll be invited, don't worry." She touched the tip of Luan's nose, and Luan winced. This little girl must have forgotten that she was a hardened convict.

And a mad dog killer.

Sigh.

* * *

Clyde McBride spent most of Tuesday morning in cabinet meetings. Budget this, deficit that, tax, tax, tax, gotta raise those taxes, Governor McBride. Fine, cut spending, too. Uhhh, we can't do that...welfare, you know. Sigh. Of course. Spend like there's no tomorrow, and when you start getting low on funds, run to the people with your hand stuck out. _Geez, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, we gotta ask you for more; if we don't meet our target, our people won't be able to use the private jet - they'll have to fly, gulp, commercial._

Here's a dirty little secret: The government (on both the state and federal level) can't manage money. It just can't. Every year, hundreds of millions of dollars go toward the study of cockroach mating habits, into the pockets of crooked lobbyists, and into programs that are inefficient, outdated, redundant, or just plain stupid. Do you know why conservatives love the private sector so much? Because the private sector is careful with money...because they don't have an endless fucking supply the way the government does.A private contractor will buy what he needs and _maybe_ a little extra just in case; the government will buy three times what it needs and then trash the leftovers...because why the hell not? If we need more dough, we can always raise taxes.

Yes, taxes are necessary to fund things like roads and bridges, but it is _not_ necessary to research the lifecycle of batshit or to send government officials to Hawaiian resorts. That's where he, Clyde McBride, '..the black Ronald Reagan' was coming from. (He hated being called that, by the way. He admired Reagan, and the framed picture hanging in his office of them shaking hands was his most prized possession, but he was his own man).

One thing the government is _very_ good at is convincing a certain segment of the population (coughliberalscough) that it is some kind of cure-all tonic in legislative form that can make sunshine and rainbows shoot out of the ground if only it had a _little_ more money. In fact, it was getting so good at it that they were starting to convince the lesser republicans, you know, the limp-wristed Northeastern/New England two-steps-to-the-right-of-being-democrats-anyway types. Everyone around him was one of those...the kind of republican who falls over in a stiff breeze and presents his ass to the DNC for a quick pump-and-dump-with-no-reacharound. Once upon a time, he thought these people were true conservatives...he thought they gave a fuck about the average American...but nope, he was wrong. _Never_ trust a republican north of Pennsylvania; they're a closeted democrat who eats Bibles and shits out government regulations.

It was pretty sad how spineless the New York GOP was; they might as well be Diet Democrat. He sat at a big oaken table, his elbow propped on the surface and her chin resting in his hand, his index finger tapping impatiently against his cheek. He only half listened, his eyes aimed at a bust of Nelson Rockefeller in the corner. He usually paid close attention during meetings such as this, but today he was one, not in the mood for RINO bullshit (that stands for **R** epublicans **I** n **N** ame **O** nly), and two, he was still smarting over yesterday's op-ed in the _New York Times_ (the most left-wing publication in the world after _Pravda_ ). Can you believe they insinuated he was gay? Clyde personally had no problem with gays, but it pissed him off that the _Times,_ and other media outlets, kept questioning his manliness. _Oh, he's not married, he must be a fruit_. No, he wasn't; he spent twelve years in the Navy then went straight into politics. He didn't have _time_ for women. Well...he had time for...ahem...certain things, but not slowly building a strong, lasting relationship over a period of months or even years. He thought back to his old friends in Royal Woods, Lincoln Loud and Ronnie Anne Santiago. They took their relationship _s-l-o-w_. Granted, they were kids and couldn't exactly rush to the altar, but holy God, how many years did it take them to build their union? Hell, were they even together anymore? Eh, he figured it didn't matter. The long and short of it was this: It took them years to build something, and he just didn't have that kind of time.

That didn't make him gay, though. He _loved_ women. Maybe a little _too_ much. Now to be sure, he'd never harassed or assaulted one, but it would be a lie to say that he didn't always have one eye open for a pretty face...and a well-shaped butt. And if a woman - say, an intern - seemed interested, well _he_ certainly wouldn't turn them away.

Speaking of women, he was seeing one later, and he was seriously considering hiring a private investigator to take photos of them meeting. _Hey, NYT, how's_ this _for gay?_ That seemed sneaky and underhanded, though, especially if he did it without her knowing. Yeah, no, that would be disgustingly dishonest. Sigh. Not that they were doing anything wrong, mind you; he was single, she was single; he had conventional male genitals and she had conventional f _emale_ genitals; he didn't pay her and she didn't ask for expensive taxpayer funded gifts. Nothing improper was happening, just two adults having sex and spending time together.

Of course, his more socially conservative supporters wouldn't like it, but you know what? They could go fuck themselves. He was all for living as you want, but he also believed in letting other people live the way _they_ wanted, which is a pretty radical concept these days. Left, right, it doesn't matter, they all think that their way is _the_ way, and any deviation is sacrilege and should be met with a mighty Old Testament smiting. _Oh, my, he's having sex with a woman AND THEY'RE NOT MARRIED!_

Oh well. Price of admission.

He'd already decided he wasn't going to run for a second term anyway, though he couldn't lie, he was considering a presidential run in '96, '92 if Bush didn't go for a second term himself...which he probably would, most of them do. '96 was a fairly long way off, maybe he'd change his mind by then, who knows?

After the meeting (which ended with him declining a tax hike), he had one of his aides run to Ichiban Chinese Restaurant on Central Avenue and pick up his lunch: Lo mien, white rice, and an eggroll. He went over pardon requests as he ate. Look at this guy: He shot a cop in 1978 and put him in a wheelchair. _Please, Governor McBride, twenty-five years for attempted murder is so unfaaaaaaaair. Let me go._

Denied.

And this one, from a former advisor to Governor Mitchell who embezzled thousands of dollars of taxpayer money. _I'm so sorry, I learned my lesson. I found Jesus, hallelujah_.

Clyde laughed at that one...deeply and genuinely laughed.

Denied.

Now _this_ one gave him pause. It was from a woman named Yolanda White who was convicted in 1974 of murdering her husband. She claimed self-defense; he was drunk and beating on her, she ran to their bedroom, he followed, she got his gun...the jury didn't buy it despite a wealth of evidence that he was indeed abusive, and despite the fact that when the police arrived, her clothes were ripped, her nose was bleeding, and her face was covered in bruises.

Alright, this required some thought. It's possible that she killed him in retaliation for past abuse and then inflicted the injuries herself, but it seemed just a _little_ more plausible that she really _did_ act in self-defense.

He put her request in the 'maybe' pile, and finished his lo mien, thinking the matter over very carefully as he did so. He didn't want to let her go if the murder took place without immediate provocation (if he wasn't attacking her at the time), but he also found the thought of a battered woman killing an abusive son of a bitch in self-defense and then being sent to prison for 25 to life simply hideous.

When he was finished, he tossed his trash into the wastebasket, got up, and went into his private bathroom. He washed his hands, dried them, and went back to his desk, where he sat. He drew Yolanda White's pardon request to him and stared down at it for a minute, his lips pursed and his brow crinkled in thought. Finally, he approved it.

The rest of the afternoon passed at a crawl. At six, he left the state house and climbed into the back of a black Lincoln. He stared out the window at the drab, overcast day as the driver drove him home - 138 Eagle Street, a sprawling forty room Italianate style mansion with towers and bay windows set well back from the street and guarded by an ornate wrought iron gate.

Inside, he shrugged out of his coat and hung it from the rack by the door, then ascended the main stairs, stately portraits of past governors staring haughtily down at him: Grover Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, Malcolm Wilson, Hugh Carey. Some of them were democrats and others were republicans, but regardless of their party, Clyde couldn't help feeling a sort of kinship with them. Presidents, out of office, tend to become close friends, even if they were once bitter enemies. Why? Simple: Shared experience: Oftentimes, that guy is the only person in the world you can relate to. Him being a democrat or a republican doesn't mean as much anymore.

Beautiful, huh?

In his private chambers, he changed into a polo shirt and went into the sitting room, a wide space with rafters, a stone fireplace where a roaring fire crackled, its glow casting shadows into the corners, tall, looming bookshelves, and busts on pedestals. He dropped into his leather armchair and threw back his head. He might nap until she got here...though naps usually left him groggier on waking than he was on going down. Maybe he would read instead; he was in the middle of a novel called _...And Ladies of the Club_ about a group of women who start a literary club in the 1860s. It was one of those family saga epics that follow multiple characters over decades. He knew that going in, but he expected it to be a _little_ more interesting; if he didn't like not finishing what he started, he'd toss it into the fireplace and read something else.

He closed his eyes and didn't open them again until a soft rapt at the door roused him from the twilight world of fitful rest. The light streaming through the widow across the room was softer than before, weaker. The fire, too, had grown low. He stirred and rubbed his temple. "Come in," he called.

The door opened, and Edward Heston, the head of mansion staff, peeked in. "You have a visitor, sir."

"Send her in," he said, already knowing who it was.

Heston nodded respectfully and withdrew. Clyde crossed his legs and watched as she entered, the faint glow of firelight flickering across her soft features. She wore a light green pantsuit and open toed shoes despite the cold. His eyes traveled slowly up her body, from her shapely legs to the gentle curve of her hips, from the swell of her breasts to her crystalline blue eyes. Blonde hair framed her angular face. Her pink lips pulled back in a salacious closed mouth smile. Clyde pushed himself up, and they kissed.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," Carol Pingrey replied.


	139. November and December 1989: Part 8

**Sorry there was no update yesterday. I was working on a scene and it was giving me a lot of trouble and I just couldn't pull myself away to edit and upload this chapter. Better late than never, though, right?**

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. massaged his achy temples and winced at the sound of Stephanie's angry screaming. "Stupid toy!"

 _BAM!_ The aforementioned toy (sounded much bigger than a Barbie doll) smashed into the wall. Bobby sighed. What was it with this kid and her toys? From the time she was a baby, she and they were on uneasy terms: At the best of times, there existed a shaky truce...and at the worst, open warfare. Rattles, Barbies, cars, even her favorite pink ball that wound up deflating when she got mad at it and squeezed her little nails deep into its soft flesh.

God, _that_ was fun; once she realized it was broken, she _flipped_ ; first she started hyperventilating, then crying, then by the end of it she was kicking and screaming on the floor like a girl possessed. It was so bad, that Bobby had to run to the store and buy her another ball...but there was a catch: He had to pass it off as the one she murdered, but they weren't identical. Stephy's had a big white flower emblazoned on it, the new one had a rainbow. She wasn't stupid, she'd notice, but it was the closest he could get. Surprisingly, she accepted it without complaint, happy, he guessed, to have a ball, even if it _wasn't_ the same one. "Be nice to this one," he told her firmly as he handed it to her. She looked up at him with big brown eyes and tilted her head as though she didn't quite understand. "If you break this one, you won't get another, okay?"

She nodded cautiously.

Fifteen minutes later… "Stupid ball!"

Presently, Stephy came into the living room from the hall with a SImon in her hand - an electronic light up game where you have to memorize patterns. It was just a _little_ too advanced for a three-year-old, but Lola insisted. _Oh, she won't care; she'll only be interested in the lights._ Well, she _did_ care: She tried her best to repeat the patterns the game threw at her, and did fine at first...until it got faster, then she fumbled and got frustrated, which led to Simon taking a header into the wall. Already the plastic casing was cracked in several places, and one of the buttons no longer lit up. As Bobby watched, she tossed Simon underhand at the wall; it hit the ground just short of its target.

"Stephanie," Bobby said sharply, and the little girl jumped. She whipped around and fixed him with the gaze a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar. "What have I told you about throwing toys?"

She blinked. "It make me mad, Daddy."

"I understand that," he said, "but you don't throw toys."

"It bad Sideman."

Bobby chuckled and held out his hands. "Come here."

Stephy favored him with a blank stare. "Come on," he said and motioned with his chin. Slowly, her feet dragging as though she were on her way to the guillotine instead of to her father's embrace, she came over, and he picked her up and sat her on his lap. 'You know, you make me mad sometimes, but I don't throw _you_ against the way, do I?"

She shook her head.

"Because I don't want you to get broken," he said and rested his hand on her stomach. "I'd be really sad if you got broken." He dug his fingers in, and she jerked, her eyes lighting up and an ear piercing squeal issuing from her lips.

"Tickles!"

"I know," Bobby said as she threw her little body left and right in an attempt to escape his grasp

"Stop! Let me _down!"_

Bobby tickled even faster.

"STOP!"

Sighing, Bobby pulled his hand back. "Alright. Happy?"

Stephy glared cutely, then climbed angrilly down from his lap and stood before him in a challenging posture: Shoulders squared, fists balled, brow knitted. Bobby felt the sudden urge to pinch her cheek between his thumb and forefinger and squeeze. "You bad, Daddy!" she screamed, then whipped around and pounded off, her ponytail bouncing.

Well...if she meant 'bad' the way Michael Jackson did, then yep, he was bad. If…

A thin, warbling cry drifted down the hall. Ah, great, Stephy's screaming woke Val. Bobby pushed himself up and went off to collect his son.

The nursery was next to his and Lola's room, a wide space painted sky blue with green shag carpet. VALENTINO was spelled out over the crib with multicolored foam letters, the first red and the last pink. The infant lay in the middle of his crib in a light blue sleep sack (literally, it was a little sack with arms and zipper) and a matching blue cap, his tiny legs kicking and his cries getting louder and more desperate as he, presumably, came to the conclusion that he was suddenly alone in the world and would never have a bottle full of yummy formula ever again. Bobby gripped the railing, bent over, and beamed down at his son. He was six months old and already big for his age; everyone said he was going to be a football player when he grew up, and Bobby couldn't discount it, kid was solid.

"Hey," he said. Lost in his grief, Val didn't hear him; his head continued whipping back and forth, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his mouth open to reveal his pink, toothless gums. Bobby leaned over, scooped the baby up, and held him to his chest. Val's eyes opened and his bawling instantly stopped; he regarded his father with slack-jawed amazement, his little body jerking spasmodically.. _You_ didn't _leave me to starve to death?_

Bobby smiled. "Hey. What's with all the crying? You coulda just called me."

Val squirmed and twisted his head around, his gaze falling to the crib. Bobby squeezed his son's butt, a frown crossing his lips at how squishy his diaper was. "I j _ust_ put this on you twenty minutes ago, man, come on," Bobby teased as he went over to the changing table and laid him down. Instantly, his legs began to kick. Kid _loved_ to kick. "You're more of a linebacker, my man," Bobby said and opened the top drawer, where the supplies were kept: Diapers, wipes, rash cream, baby powder, and a thousand other things that Bobby couldn't name. _The point is to keep him from_ getting _a diaper rash,_ Lola helpfully pointed out once. Oh? I never would have guessed.

He grabbed a diaper and his eyes fell onto something he _did_ recognize: The thermometer. The _rectal_ thermometer. A shiver raced down his spine. He hated that damn thing. _It provides the most accurate reading, duh,_ Lola said, and she wasn't wrong, but every time he had to do it he was terrified he'd hurt him: Butt walls are sensitive and babies don't really like staying still...one wrong move and something might wind up getting ripped.

Shaking his head, he unzipped Val's sleep sack, reached in, and pulled his legs out. He opened the tabs of the diaper and stole a quick peek inside to make sure there was no poop. There wasn't. He plucked a single wipe from a plastic container and looked at the baby. "Don't pee on me this time, okay?"

Val retorted with a big, gummy smile.

"I mean it," Bobby said,

Val didn't pee on him _every_ time he changed his diaper, but he did it enough that Bobby didn't trust him as far as he could throw him; when he did diaper changes, he moved faster than an Indy 500 pit crew.

Now, he slipped the old diaper off, tossed it onto the floor (it landed with a dull _plop_ ), and slid the new one under Val's butt. He did a quick but thorough wipe, then pulled the front over and stuck the tabs in place. Ha. I didn't get pissed on. He shoved Val's legs back into the sack, zipped it, then picked him up. "You want some lunch?" he asked.

Val squirmed.

"I guess he does," Bobby said to himself. He went down the hall and into the living room. Holding Val with one arm, he picked up the playmat they kept folded next to the TV when not in use, carried it over to the center of the room, and knelt. He laid Val on the floor, opened the mat, and set it up: It was a simple padded...uh...pad with a plastic arc from which hung baby dazzling danglies: A see through ball filled with smaller balls, a red stuffed bird with stretchy legs, a blue ball that crinkled when you squeezed it, and a yellow star with a mirror for a face. Heh. When you looked into it, it was kind of like he had _your_ face.

...Which was really fucking creepy when you stopped to think about it. _Hey, kid,_ I'm _the baby now._ He slid Val onto the mat and he instantly reached up and slapped the plastic ball. That was his favorite: He loved the way the little balls rattled.

Baby occupied, Bobby went into the kitchen, took a can of formula from the cabinet, sat it on the counter, and then rummaged around in the overful drying rack for all the little bits and pieces that constitute a botte. Nipple, rim...well, that's really all, but that was a lot when you have to shift through plates, pots, pans, dinosaur bones, the ruins of an ancient civilization, and the hell-burned souls of the damned. He found a rim, snatched it up, and then set off in search of a nipple, finally finding one hiding under an overturned bowl. There you are, dick. He reached in and carefully extracted it. He really had to put these dishes away. He should have done it while Val was napping.

He tossed a glance over his shoulder; Val's legs kicked excitedly as he swatted the ball. Eh, he could do it now. He moved the bottle stuff and the formula can to the kitchen table, snatched a pot from the rack, and stowed it in the cabinet over the sink. As he worked, he listened for Val, and spared the occasional glimpse back. Each time, the baby was happy and…

"STUPID TOY!"

BAM!

Oh, God, rea -?

"HATE YOU!"

BAM!

Alright, she was going to literally tear the house down. He tossed the plastic container he was holding back into the rack and went into the living room, where Val happily pulled on the parrot's legs and cooed to himself. See? It _is_ possible to get along with your toys. You should be more -

He cut himself off. He _was_ going to say _You should be more like your brother,_ but that was wrong and harmful to a child's psyche. Lola said so, and Lola knew what she was talking about 9.5 times out of ten. Hell, it made sense: Would _he_ like it if he had a sibling and _his_ old man kept comparing them? No, he'd hate it and he'd probably wind up hating the sibling too.

Still...he wished she'd make peace with her goddamn -

BAM-BAM-BAM!

"Stephanie Nicole!" Bobby yelled.

Silence crashed down like a fallen pane of glass. Bobby went to her bedroom door and stuck his head in: The toybox (pink and wooden with STEPHANIE'S TOYS across the front in white) lay on its side like a dying animal, a trail of toys leading from its yawning maw to the bed, where Stephanie stood, looking up at him with fear. Headless Barbies, wheeless cars, a stuffed teddy bear whose leg dangled by a thread, and a broken dollhouse were strewn across the pink coverlet like the after effects of a latter day Viking rape-and-pillage party. Bobby glanced at the wall the bed was pushed against, and his jaw dropped: The white plaster was cracked and dented. He turned back to his daughter, and she trembled.

Deep breath, Bobby, it's just a wall.

"Go in the living room," he said with contrived calm.

She bowed her head and dug her chin into her chest, her eyes like those of a chastised puppy. "Don't wanna."

"Now," he said, stepped aside, and pointed.

For a moment Stephy simply looked at him, then, slowly, she slid out her bottom lip in a cute pout. Bobby felt his heart beginning to warm...but doused it with cold water. "Now, Steph."

Her expression of castigation turning to one of anger. She grabbed a Barbie for the road and sulked past, her head down. Shaking his head, Bobby followed her into the living room; she froze at the end of the hall and Bobby nearly ran into her.

Suddenly, her entire mood changed. "Baby," she said with breathless wonder. "You up."

Val flopped his head to the side and stared at her...then smiled widely. With a giggle, Stephy went over and got down flat on her stomach next to him, her face hovering over his. "Seep good?" she asked. Val made a wet gurgling noise in response. Bobby couldn't make out Stephy's reply; it fell from her in a torrent of rapidfire words, some of which sounded like it could possibly almost be English. Watching his daughter prattle happily to her baby brother, his heart swelling with love and pride, Bobby figured that sometimes, words don't really matter; it's the simple fact that they are spoken that does..

* * *

Luan dropped onto the stool and pulled a wad of cash from her apron pocket. Alex stood next to her, leaning heavily against the counter with her arms crossed over her bosom and her head thrown back. Luan didn't make a habit of studying her niece's body, but it was really hard not to notice how big her bust was getting. The same thing happened to Luan when she was pregnant with Jessy; for a while there her A cups were C cups. It was actually kind of nice: She wasn't one to worry about the size of her chest, but sometimes she still did anyway. Curse of being a woman, she supposed. She imagined men felt the same way about their penis.

"You can go if you want," Luan said as she began to count her tips. It was a half hour to close, and the dining room was empty save for a black man in a rumpled brown suit, a teenage couple, and a couple kids standing around the Pac Man cabinet while their buddy kept fruitlessly trying to get past level one.

Alex blew a puff of air. "I might," she said noncommittally. She rolled her neck and winced. "God, this kid's worse than Dracula. I'm so _drained_."

Luan laughed. "Jessy was the same way." An edge of fond nostalgia crept into her voice. "Sometimes I spent the entire day in bed. Just getting up to pee was mission impossible."

In the back, something metal clattered to the floor with a sound like armageddon. Luan glanced over her shoulder at the window, but she was too low to see through, so she got up and peeked her head in; Joey bent over and snatched a baking pan off the ground and tossed it into the sink. Her eyes flicked worriedly to Fred. His back was turned but his shoulders were tensed...so slightly that you wouldn't notice, but she did.

Like Lincoln, Fred suffered from shell-shock, or post-traumatic stress disorder as it was coming to be known. Loud, sudden noises frightened him; at best, he'd start and his heart would begin to race...and at worst he'd shout and throw himself to the ground. Then, of course, there were the nightmares; she'd been trying for over a year to get him to open up about them, but he wouldn't. When she was with him and he had one, she'd hold his head to her breast and stroke his hair. When she wasn't...she didn't know, she didn't like to think about it, though she did...she worried herself sick sometimes, imagining him alone in the dark, shaking and afraid, his arms crossed and tears standing in his eyes.

That was another reason to get married, she figured.

Presently, Fred's shoulders relaxed and he went back to scrubbing the grill. Luan opened her mouth to ask him if he was okay, but turned away instead. It was obvious that he was, and smearing his face in it ( _you okay, hun? Is your war-related PTSD acting up? Are you remembering all the bombs and gunshots and the constant, crippling fear?_ ) would only make things worse. Alex was still leaning against the counter, only now she was flipping through her own stack of money, her lips moving silently. Luan spared a glance over her shoulder, just to make sure Fred really was okay, then took her seat.

"Alright," Alex said, "if you're cool with it, I'll go."

Luan nodded. "Okay. See you tomorrow."

Alex made no move to leave. "You sure? I don't wanna -"

"You're fine."

The younger woman pushed away from the counter and stretched her back. 'Alright. See you tomorrow."

When Alex was gone, Luan started to count her tips again, but then noticed that the black man was done with his meal and looked as though he was ready to leave. Oops. She shoved the wad back into her apron and got up, going around the counter and crossing to his table. He looked up at her and she smiled. "How was everything?"

"Excellent," he said, "it was very good."

She took his plate, carried it over to the window, then went to the register as he walked up; she cashed him out, then went to take care of the teenage couple.

Fifteen minutes later, the dining room was empty, and even though they were technically open for another ten minutes, she flipped the sign to CLOSED and locked the door.

Well, here we are...the end of the day...no longer could she put this off. A pang of anxiety rippled through her stomach and cold, iron fingers squeezed her heart in a trepidacious grip. She sucked a deep breath and let it out slowly. Stop fretting, Luan, she told herself, just do it.

She dropped onto the stool and pulled her money out.

Just as soon as Joey left.

She was halfway through with counting her tips when the bell over the door dinged. She looked up as Joey went out; he wore a red letterman jacket with white sleeves and FUCK YOU across the back in frilly white cursive. You know, Fred and Lincoln both told him not to wear that damn thing to work but he did anyway. She didn't hear Fred yelling at him, so he either didn't notice or didn't care anymore. She smiled fondly as she finished counting her tips (39.42): Fred was working on 'not being such a drill sergeant.' _It's a restaurant, not the army,_ she teased once, _relax_. She expected him to be stubborn and wave her off, but to her surprise he agreed. _I was really hard on Bobby when he worked here,_ he confided, _and I still feel kind of bad about it. It's just hard switching gears, you know?_

Putting her money away, she got up, went to the door, and locked it. She turned, slipped her hands behind her back, and leaned against it with a deep breath. Alright, Luan, it's time to do this thing.

After she peed.

She went into the bathroom, sat on one of the toilets, and...nothing happened. Hmm, my bladder feels empty but I _know_ there's something in there. Guess I better wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And...I'm stalling.

With a sigh, she stood and pulled her panties up. Alright, no more messing around. She washed her hands, left (snapping the light off behind her), and went into the kitchen, where Fred was squatting before the grill and wiping its metal facade with a damp rag, a can of polish standing at the ready beside him. She stood in the doorway for a moment and simply watched him work, a fleeting smile skipping across her lips. When they first...got together...she did not love him. She liked him, and she did care for him, but she couldn't use the proverbial 'L' word. Now, three years later, she could confidently say that she _did_ love him. It wasn't the burning, all-consuming teenage love she felt for Clyde, and it wasn't the wide-eyed, cultish devotion she felt for Ted at the very beginning...it was a low, warm fondness and tender affection that she supposed was normal for a woman her age. She was forty-six, after all, no longer a giddy girl. Maybe it wasn't normal, maybe it was, she honestly didn't know, but she didn't care. She could see herself spending the rest of her life with Fred and being happy. Case closed.

He picked up the polish, pointed it at the oven door, and depressed the button, spraying white foam across already gleaming steel. She grinned. When he said he was trying to stop being such a drill sergeant, he meant screaming and jumping down people's throats, not being anal retentive. He still made the bed so tight you could bounce a quarter off of it, he still neatly folded his dirty clothes before putting them in the hamper, and he still kept his apartment and the kitchen cleaner than a surgical theater. It was one of those quirks that become so ingrained in a person that it morphs into a permanent trait. She had some left over from her time in prison: She couldn't sleep later than 6am, even on the weekends, and sometimes she found herself slipping a dinner roll or something into her pocket 'for later.' She also _may_ have a touch of agoraphobia - fear open spaces. She wasn't really afraid of them per se, but being, for example, at the park with nothing but wide expanses of sky and land, she felt just a _little_ apprehensive.

Fred was used to her flaws by now, and she to his.

They understood each other.

She crossed to the prep table and leaned against it, her arms crossing. "It looks clean to me," she said.

Fred sat the polish down and wiped the door in a circular motion. "Almost," he said.

Luan didn't reply. Her heart pounded and her stomach rolled. Do it quick, Lu, like ripping off a Band-Aid. What's the worst possible thing he could say? No? It's not like he'd dump her and leave her to live and die alone; he never said outright, but she knew that the idea of not having someone bothered him just as much as it did her. Even if he didn't want to marry right now, she would still have him.

The thing was, now that she'd been really thinking about it...she didn't want him from a distance anymore, she wanted him with her when she fell asleep and again when she woke up, every day.

She took a deep breath. "So, I talked to my mom last night."

He rocked back on his knees, inspected his work, and found it lacking. He picked the can up, shook it, then sprayed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Well...she talked to me."

Fred virgorusly scrubbed, wiry muscles flexing under his white T-shirt. "What about?" he asked.

Luan drew breath through her nostrils. "Us."

Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she saw him stiffen ever so slightly. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Yep," Luan said, "she, uh...she proposed something."

Fred stopped and twisted around, his brows knitted. "What?"

"Well...she said that if we want to get married now, she'd be okay with you moving in with us."

There. It was out.

It had been done.

Fred's expression was inscrutable. He could be feeling - or thinking - anything. He scrunched his lips thoughtfully and tilted his head slightly. He didn't speak though, and the silence began to bother her. "I know it might be kind of weird for you to move into someone else's house, but...I've been thinking and...I-I want to do it...soon."

There was a needy quality to her voice that she didn't like, but she liked sleeping alone even less. She glanced up, and he was chewing the inside of his lip, a habit he had when he was carefully considering something. It was one of those ingrained traits; he smoked during his time in the army and when he quit, he started doing that instead. "If she's okay with it...I don't see why not. I don't want to...intrude or anything."

Luan shook her head.. "No, it's not like that. She actually...I think she'd like having you around. It gets really lonely with just the two of us. Since Dad died."

Fred nodded slowly. "Okay." He cracked a ghost of a smile. "Will you marry me?"

Luan's heart bounced against her breast and the pit of her stomach dropped out. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't through the stupid grin that her face muscles decided on without informing her brain. She nodded. "Yes," she said, and her voice was thick with emotion. Fred got up and came over. She stepped into his arms, and he held her close, his warm lips brushing her temple. His heart beat against hers, and she smiled dreamily. "I love you," she heard herself saying. Fred slipped his fingers into her hair and kissed her forehead.

"I love you too," he said.


	140. November and December 1989: Part 9

**Lyrics to She Drives Me Crazy by The Fine Young Cannibals (1989)**

* * *

After finishing with Zack, Jessy drove home through the gathering gloom. She had plans to go out with Mark for dinner later and she was really looking forward to seeing him; since his schedule was more hectic than hers, they rarely got the chance to be together, which made Jessy really sad. She saw him more now than she did when they were in high school, but it still wasn't enough; after every date she felt like a starving woman who had eaten just enough to keep herself from dying for one day more, and that wasn't a very good feeling at all. You know what was a good feeling? When Mark held her in his arms and they drifted off to sleep together. She knew from personal experience: Every once in awhile, on a Friday or a Saturday, he would walk to her house and she'd sneak him in her bedroom window. Auntie Ronnie Anne told her once that if she wanted Mark to 'spend the night' she was welcome to...much to Jessy's unending horror; she'd be so embarrassed to have him over with them knowing that she would probably die.

But yes, she very much liked falling asleep in his arms...almost as much as she liked waking up in them. If money wasn't an issue, she'd suggest they get an apartment together. As it stood, though, he didn't work, and she made very little tutoring Zack Johnson. Pocket change, really; she could hardly afford to put gas in the Beetle, contribute toward the grocery bill, and buy personal things like school supplies and tampons. Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne both told her she didn't have to worry about buying groceries, but she insisted. She was a grown woman now and if she didn't pay for anything she'd feel like a freeloader.

At Grove Street, she turned left, falling in behind a big yellow school bus. When it stopped and a group of middle schoolers tumbled off, she turned up the radio.

"...addressed a joint session of congress this afternoon, receiving a standing ovation."

The bus turned onto a side street, and Jessy accelerated. Where should they go tonight? She was kind of in the mood for Italian, but Chinese sounded good too. Oh, there was that new restaurant near the courthouse where Pasamero's used to be: It served British and Irish food. Technically it was a 'pub' (which meant public house...in other words a bar); neither she or Mark drank, but she was really curious to see what kind of stuff they ate over there. She heard English fare was really bland...when it wasn't totally gross, like blood pudding. Yuck.

As she reached Main Street, the news report ended and a song started. Oooh, I like this one. She turned it up even more and nodded her head.

I can't stop the way I feel

Things you do don't seem real

Tell me what you've got in mind

'Cause we're running out of time

Won't you ever set me free?

This waiting 'round's killing me

Ahead, a homeless man pushed a shopping cart across the street, heedless of traffic and moving at the speed of government (as Uncle Lincoln would say). You might not think a small town like Royal Woods would have a significant homeless population, but you'd be wrong. A couple were probably locals, but many of them were from somewhere else; they hopped freight trains and jumped off...or were kicked off. They had a camp in the woods a couple miles outside of town, but the cops raided it last year and made them leave; after that they started cracking down, but even so, Jessy still saw a lot walking the streets. She felt bad for them, but they kind of scared her too.

She drives me crazy like no one else

She drive me crazy and I can't help myself

She turned onto her street and slowed to a crawl; ahead, a group of kids were playing baseball in the street, and when they saw her coming, they scattered, disappearing between cars parked at the curb. Every day they did this, turning the road into a playing field and impeding traffic. Their parents should really have a talk with them; hanging out in the street is dangerous.

Turning down the radio so it wouldn't be too loud and startle her next time she started the engine, she pulled into the driveway and parked behind Auntie Ronnie Anne's Acura. Great, it looked like both she and Uncle Lincoln were here, which meant double the awkwardness. Maybe she was taking it a little harder than she should, but, oh God, they were having sex on the couch and she saw everything; it was kind of hard to look at them without flashing back, Auntie Ronnie Anne, face flushed, eyes closed, her lower lip clamped between her teeth...Uncle Lincoln's twitching, reddened penis, his wrinkly testicles, his snowy white pubic hair.

Jessy gagged. Literally.

She had to face them though, and that meant getting over it. Jeez, of course they had sex, they were married, something would be wrong if they didn't.

Okay, but that didn't make seeing it any better.

And on the couch too!

Sigh. She was sick of thinking about it. She killed the engine, got out, and slammed the door behind her. A stiff breeze washed over her and almost knocked her against the car. She crossed her arms and hurried up the walkway. On the porch, she paused, took a deep breath, and turned the handle.

She eased the door open and listened; the TV was on and she heard the word Berlin, but no yucky sex sounds. Squish squish, grunt, grunt...shudder. She hazarded a peek through the crack. Uncle Lincoln sat in his chair and gazed at the screen. Auntie Ronnie Anne was stretched out on her back on the couch, her eyes closed and her chest gently rising and falling.

Whew. She opened the door all the way and went in, shutting it behind her and hoping against hope that Uncle Lincoln wouldn't hear...but he did and glanced up, then back to the TV. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied and scurried around the couch to the foot of the hall...then stopped. "I'm going out with Mark in a little while," she said, and fought to keep from adding if that's okay.

"Alright," Uncle Lincoln said, "are you eating dinner here or…?"

"We're going to a restaurant."

"Okay."

She waited for him to say something more, but he didn't, so she went to her room and closed the door. Well...that wasn't so bad. Her mind didn't immediately flash back to his...you know...when she saw him. That was something, right?

Kicking out of her shoes, she went over to her bed and dropped down, her body sinking into the ultra soft pillowtop she bought from K-Mart the other day. It was really comfy, and once she laid down, getting up was very hard. She couldn't let herself fall asleep, though; she had to pick Mark up at 6:30, which was...she turned her head and glanced at the clock on the nightstand...in one hour and five minutes. She could technically nap (after setting the alarm, of course), but naps always left her feeling even worse than she did before. She required the full recommended eight hours, not a minute less Okay, she didn't require it, but she liked to have it; you can't learn when you're falling asleep in class. Ask Alex, she knew from first hand experience. Once, when she was in...tenth grade, she thought, and Alex was in eleventh, she was walking down the hall on her way to the bathroom when she glanced through an open door...and there was Alex with her chin resting in her palm, her eyes closed and the teacher looking down at her with his arms crossed. Jessy didn't stop because she was on a strict schedule, but as she hurried down the hall, his voice followed. Am I really that boring, Ms. Loud?

She giggled as she remembered Alex's shocked Huh? She flopped her head to the side and stared longingly at her sister's half...former half: The bed was neatly made (gee, from that alone you knew Alex wasn't here), the wall was bare, and the dresser was empty, forlorn, even. Sometimes she still missed not having Alex here; she was better than when Alex first left, though...for a while there she had trouble sleeping and got so lonely sometimes in the afternoon that she went out into the living room and hung out with Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne, even though the TV distracted her from her school work. These days she didn't lie awake or constantly look over at Alex's bed with the vague and irrational hope that this time she would be there, reading a book or writing in her notepad. Progress. Wahoo.

The phone rang, and Jessy jumped a foot.

Every time! Jeez, Jess, can you try to get it together? You're nineteen for freak's sake, stop being a spaz.

She reached over, picked up the handset, and pressed it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Did I scare you?" a familiar voice asked; it sounded like she was smiling.

"No," Jessy said, "I was just thinking about you, though."

"I know," Alex said, "I'm awesome. I think about me a lot too."

Jessy laughed. She didn't realize how much she needed to hear her sister's voice until now. She saw Alex about as often as she did Mark, and like with Mark, it wasn't enough; she needed her Bunny time.

Okay, that sounded weird.

"How's school?" Alex asked, and something crinkled in the background.

Jessy sat up and rested her back against the headboard. "Good," she said. "I'm doing really well. My professors all say I might be as good as they are one day." She beamed. She wasn't egotistical or anything, but she was very proud of herself.

"You probably already are. How's that tutoring gig?"

Jessy hesitated. "Well, actually, that's kind of...an interesting story."

There was that crinkle again. What was Alex doing? When she spoke, Jessy got her answer: Eating...and something crunchy at that. Cookies, maybe, or crackers. "Tim's working late so I got nothing but time," she said muffledly around her snack.

Jessy glanced at the clock. One hour and one minute. It wouldn't take that long to tell Alex about her little white lies. "Okay," she said, and shifted, "so his name is Zack, he's eleven, and hates history."

"I don't blame him, history is kind of boring."

Ignoring her, Jessy continued. "I kind of...I kind of lied to get him interested. I told him a story about pioneers fighting werewolves and yucky stuff like that because he likes horror movies. I think I told him Abraham Lincoln was a vampire too."

Alex gasped and started to cough. Jessy frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Alex said and coughed again, "that's just the funniest thing I've ever heard. You really told him that?"

A hot blush colored Jessy's cheeks. "Yeah," she said heavily, then brightened, "but it inspired him to get a book on pioneers from the library. He didn't read it but he used it as a reference for a picture he drew. He's really good. Like professional level good. I feel really guilty for lying to him, but I think it's the right thing to do...I think." She sighed and her shoulders slouched. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know what I'm doing. I thought I was ready but I just don't know anymore."

Crunch. Smack-smack-smack. "Well," Alex said and swallowed, "if my teacher said stuff like that I'd have paid attention. You said he likes drawing, right?"

"Yeah."

"Have him do something with that. Give him...a lesson then have him draw a picture about it."

Jessy scrunched her lips to the side in thought. "But he doesn't like history, so having him draw it won't do anything; it'll just be more work he doesn't want to do."

The line fell silent as Alex thought. "I don't know. Have him add monsters to it. Give him a pop quiz and for every answer he gets right…" Alex gasped. "I have a brilliant idea!"

Oh, no; Jessy had heard that one before. I have a brilliant idea, Jess. Next thing you know, they're both grounded.

Alex sensed Jessy's trepatation. "Hear me out. He likes horor stuff, right?"

"Yeah. Movies. I don't know if he likes books, though, or comics or anything. What do you have in mind?"

"Bribery."

Jessy's brow knitted. "Bribery?"

"Yeah. If he's good and does he lesson, give him a movie."

The light had been draining from the day for some time now, and Jessy realized that the room was deeply pooled with gloom. She reached over and snapped the lamp on; warm, muted light bathed the bed. "That sounds expensive," she said as she settled back.

"No, it sounds free. Remember all the video tapes under my bed?"

When she moved in with Tim, Alex was forced to leave some of her things behind because there wasn't enough room, among them stack after stack of VHS tapes with scary, yucky covers.

Alex was really bummed that she couldn't take them with her.

"Use those."

Jessy blinked. "Uh, no, that's okay, those are yours. I don't know if -"

"You can have them," Alex said, cutting her off. "I have more grown up things to worry about than school and video tapes." There was a faux haughty edge to her voice that made Jessy roll her eyes fondly. "We can't all still live at home, you know."

Jessy laughed. "Bunny...you wait tables and live rent free in an apartment over your boyfriend's parents' garage."

Silence filled the line. "Well," Alex stammered, "I-I...screw you. Go do your homework."

"It's already done," Jessy said smugly, "I did it after class. I don't wait until the very last minute because I like getting good grades and not being in the principal's office three times a week."

"No, you'd rather be up your teacher's butt," Alex shot back.

Jessy furrowed her brow. "Better than being in detention because I'm bad and don't listen."

Alex blew a raspberry. "Geek."

"Juvenile delinquent."

"Nerd."

"Bitch."

Alex was shocked into laughter. "I miss you, Jess," she said.

"I miss you too," Jessy smiled tightly.

"I'll come over Sunday and we can hang, alright?"

Jessy's smile became less tight. "Yeah, that sounds good."

When Alex hung up, Jessy dropped the phone into the cradle and looked at the clock: Forty-seven minutes. Hmmm. She had a lot of time to kill and nothing to do, except shower. She was going to wait, but oh well, no time like present.

She got up, went into the hall, and then into the bathroom. You know...she was in the mood for a bubble bath. She went over to the sink, knelt, and opened the cabinet door. Inside, a bottle of liquid soap stood next to a jar of lavender vanilla bath beads. Ooooh, don't mind if I do.

Grabbing both, she stood, toed the door closed, then went over to the tub. She put the stopper in the drain, fiddled with the handles until the temperature was just right, then added the soap and beads. Setting the bottle and the jar on the counter, she pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it aside, then reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and dropped it on top of her shirt. Next, she pulled down her pants and underwear, then stepped out of them. Before she got in, she gathered her clothes and shoved them into the hamper; it was kind of full and she had to jam it all down to make it fit. Whew. She'd have to do laundry this weekend.

Done, she crossed to the tub, stepped in, then sat, the warm water caressing her skin and instantly going to work on her tense muscles. When the water level was to her liking, she leaned forward, cut the flow, and leaned back. Ahhh, nothing like a relaxing soak. She skimmed the surface with her hands and ran them over her breasts, slick soap suds smearing across her skin. She lifted one arm, then the other, gently massaging her armpits.

She laid one arm along the ledge and rested her head against the wall. As she soaked, she thought over Bunny's suggestion. She didn't like the idea of bribing Zack to learn, but it was probably better than lying. Would VHS tapes be enough incentive for him to do better, though? Hm. Only one way to find out, she supposed; she'd get a couple and bring them to his house the next time she was there. He could pick his favorite and she would give it to him provided he could correctly answer a predetermined number of questions following the lesson.

For a long time, she sat in the water with her eyes closed. The water gradually cooled and she got out, grabbing her towel from its place over the curtain rod and drying off before wrapping it around herself. At the sink, she let her hair down and brushed it while looking at herself in the mirror...left cheek, right cheek, straight ahead; she'd never been one to primp, but she liked looking pretty for Mark.

Should she wear makeup?

Uhhh...that might be a little much, though a touch of eyeshadow would look nice. She dragged the brush through her hair until it was long and silky smooth, then laid it on the sink and took the eyeshadow out of the medicine cabinet. She rarely wore this stuff because she hated putting it on: Every time she did her heart raced as she imagined one wrong move skewering her soft, tender eyeball. I know, anxious Jessy, but there was this movie she saw with Bunny where a woman's eye is impaled on a long, jagged shard of wood and it was so awful that since that day Jessy was kind of weird when it came to eyes. She applied the shadow with exaggerated care, and by the time she was done her heart crashed. The results were worth it, though.

Holding the towel to make sure it didn't fall off, she went into her room and closed the door. She checked to make sure the curtains were closed tight, and when she saw that they were, she tossed the towel aside and, naked, went to her dresser, settling after a long, chin touching moment on a pair of black slacks and a light, black long sleeved shirt. She went to the closet, stepped into her dress shoes, and grabbed a coat, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the clock.

Yep. It was time to leave.

In the living room, Auntie Ronnie Anne was sitting up, the couch blanketed with papers. A big hardback book sat in her lap and served as a makeshift table; her head was bent and she held a pen poised over a form. Uncle Lincoln sat in his chair where she'd left him, his legs crossed and his eyes focused on the screen, where Alex Trebek of Jeopardy! Spoke to a contestant standing behind a podium. Jessy liked Jeopardy! She got most of the questions right. Uncle Lincoln liked it too, even though he got most of them wrong.

"I'm going," Jessy said.

Auntie Ronnie Anne looked up. "Where?" she asked.

"To dinner with Mark," she said, "and maybe to a movie. I'm not too sure yet."

"Alright," Auntie Ronnie Anne replied and turned back to her work, "be careful and drive safe."

Jessy rolled her eyes. I'm not Bunny, sheesh, she thought. Out loud, "I will."

In the car, she started the engine, set the radio to a reasonable volume, and backed into the street. It was full dark now and was beginning to drizzle. Sigh. Jessy didn't like driving in the rain, it was really dangerous.

She reached Mark's house fifteen minutes later; it was a large two story with a pitched roof, bay windows, and a rustic, cabinesque facade. It stood on the corner deep in the heart of a subdivision and looked slightly out of place among its cookie cutter neighbors: Mark's parents designed it themselves, but had to make changes because the Homeowners Association didn't want it to be too different. She thought it was pretty.

She pulled into the driveway and started to cut the engine, but the front door opened and Mark came out in a pair of jeans and a denim jacket with sheepskin lining. He came down the stairs and hurried around the front of the car, his head ducked against the intensifying rain. He opened the door and slid in, slamming it behind him.

"Hey," Jessy smiled.

"Hey," he replied and leaned over. She met his lips with hers and they kissed, their tongues caressing in fond greeting. She pulled back and they both grinned at each other. "How was your day?"

She nodded. "Good. A little tiring but rewarding nonetheless." She put the Beetle in reverse and backed up.

"Pretty much how my day was," Mark said and slipped on his seatbelt. "More exhausting than rewarding, though." He ran his fingers through his lank hair.

Jessy spun the wheel and started down the street, driving under the speed limit as the rain picked up. "It'll all be worth it when you're running Apple at forty-five and making a million dollars a year."

Mark laughed richly. "I doubt that'll happen. It's a possibility, but a distant one."

On the highway back into Royal Woods, Jessy hummed. "I was thinking we could try that pub."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I'm pretty curious to see what kind of food they serve. I'm not too familiar with British cuisine, but I've heard some fairly interesting things about it. I like shepherd's pie, but that might be, uh, kind of pedestrian, like going to an amazing restaurant and ordering chicken nuggets."

Jessy giggled. "That's true, but it might be the only normal thing on the menu."

"Yeah. I'm not trying blood pudding."

Jessy's face crinkled. "Yuck, me either."

They pulled to the curb in front of it five minutes later. A green wooden sign, cast in the glow of a directional light, read KING GEORGE'S PUBLIC HOUSE in raised yellow lettering. Next to it was a graphic of a man in a powdered wig and red coat drinking from a frothy mug of beer. To one side, a Union Jack fluttered in the breeze. Mark craned his neck and read aloud. "I wonder which King George they named it after."

"Probably the crazy one," Jessy supplied and killed the engine. Rain beat a hollow rhythm on the window.

"I don't know," Mark said uncertanly, "I think they're ashamed of him. It was probably King George II. He was a much better ruler."

From what Jessy remembered, that was true: A lot of people think King George III (the crazy one) 'lost' the colonies. It wasn't as cut and dried as that, though. The Revolutionary War was basically the 1770s equivalent of Vietnam; unpopular at home and almost impossible to fight as the Americans employed a lot of guerilla tactics, just like the Vietcong. It wasn't his fault, it was Parliament. They're the ones who pulled the plug.

Not that it really mattered.

She was being a geek again.

Sorry.

They got out and rushed inside, the cold rain splattering theirs heads and foyer was warm and dim. Green vinyl booths lined oaked paneled walls bearing framed photos and paintings. Low, ambient light, green carpeted floors, the smell and haze of cigarette smoke in the air, and low Irish flavored music filtering from an unseen source confirmed Jessy's image of a pub: This was pretty much what she expected it to look like.

A woman in black pants and a white shirt led them to a booth by the front window and laid two menus on the table. When she was gone, Jessy opened hers and studied it closely, her eyes squinting to see in the dimness.

Pub burger.

British fried chicken.

Fish and chips.

Welsh meatballs.

Corn beef and cabbage.

Bangers and mash.

Steak and kidney pie - Oh, God, it had actual kidneys in it! Yuck!

Scotch egg.

Shepherd's pie.

That was it, aside from an admittedly impressive selection of British and Irish beers. Jessy hummed and bunched her lips. "What are you thinking?"she asked.

Across from her, Mark scanned his own menu, his eyes slowly flicking left to right. "I'm not sure. I kind of want to go with something really traditional, though. Maybe the steak and kidney pie."

Jessy gagged. "Oh, gross."

Mark glanced up at her. "What?"

"It has kidneys in it! That's major yuck."

For a moment he stared blankly...then shrugged. "Life's about new experiences."

Jessy stuck out her tongue. "Yuck. If you get that you can't kiss me for the rest of the night." She turned her head and favored him with a knowing half-smile. He looked troubled for a moment, and she giggled. "I'm playing, you can kiss me, but you have to chew some gum first."

The waitress came by and took their drink order, then went away again. Jessy looked at her menu some more and ticked her head from side to side in thought. The bangers and mash looked good; it was sausage with mashed potatoes. It was traditionally British but not gross like kidney pie. "I think I'm going to get the bangers and mash," she said.

Mark nodded. "I was thinking that too, but I'm leaning more toward the Welsh meatballs, the description sounds promising...despite the sexual slur."

Jessy blinked. Sexual slur? She looked at her menu, found the listing, and read it. Faggots with onion gravy.

Her jaw dropped. "Oh, wow," she said.

Mark laughed. "My reaction exactly. I was a little perplexed when I first saw it. I know, obviously, that the word 'faggot' means other things, but I associate it with homosexuality, so...that's where my mind instantly went."

The waitress came back, and they ordered: Jessy bangers and mash, Mark the meatballs. "I'll have the faggots," he said, and Jessy noticed a twinkle in his eye.

To her credit, the waitress didn't miss a beat. "Would you like the gravy, too? It's optional?"

His lips curled up in a mischievous smile, and Jessy shot him a warning look. Do not make a sperm joke, mister. "Yes," he said simply.

After the waitress was gone, Jessy held her hand across the table, and he took it, their fingers threading. "You sounded really excited to be ordering faggots," she teased, "is there something you want to tell me?"

Mark chuckled. "Well," he said, "every once in a while...a man need meat."

Jessy laughed so hard she cried.


	141. November and December 1989: Part 10

**Guest: Actually, Lisa was mentioned way back in the sixties as having been a high school classmate of Lori's. Funny you should mention her now, though, because...well...you'll see.**

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 **Lyrics to** _ **Suspicious Minds**_ **by Elvis Presley (1968);** _ **She Sells Sanctuary**_ **by The Cult (1985)**

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There comes a point where you gotta sit back, look at what you're doing, and admit that maybe, just maybe, something is wrong. For some people, it happens after a drug overdose, or getting so drunk at their six-year-old nephew's party that they puke on the cake. For Lynn Loud III, it came after she stood next to a potted plant at the dealership and surreptitiously stole handfuls of dirt...which she then shoved into her mouth.

Eating dirt isn't normal, and as far as Lynn could remember, she had never felt the desire to do it...until today. The plant stood in the hall next to the breakroom, a green, leafy fern her father called Myrtle because who knows, that's guys a dork. She passed it twenty thousand times a day and never so much as looked at it. This morning, however, as she carried her lunch (meatball sub and a container of whipped cream) into the breakroom, the smell of rich, irony earth found her nostrils and caressed her senses like phantom smell fingers from a cartoon or something. Ummm, what is _that?_ She stopped, sniffed, and turned to the plant. Is that _you,_ Myrtle? She leaned in and drew a deep breath through her nose.

It was.

She wafted the aroma into her face with her hands and moaned in eyerolling pleasure; she didn't question _why_ this damn plant smelled so good, and she didn't question why her mouth was watering. She took it in stride. That's what you do, roll with the punches, take it as it comes, uh...more vaguely sports related expressions. She didn't try to eat it, though, that came later, after the tantalizing scent had been working its magic on her for a few hours, driving her crazy the way the warm smell of a roasting chicken would drive a particularly hungry dinner guest crazy...sitting there, smelling it, waiting, impatient...GAH, I NEED THAT DIRT!

Looking around and making sure no one was watching, she got up from behind the counter and moseyed into the hallway, moving _reaaal_ causal...don't look over here, I'm not doing anything, la-de-dah. As soon as she was out of eyeshot (is that even a thing? Oh, who cares?), she hurried over to Myrtle at a crouch. Alright, you tasty pot of dirt, come to mama…

She was just about to dip her hands in when the men's room door opened and her father came out wiping his hands with a paper towel. Lynn shot up to a standing position and shoved her hands behind her back. Dad was looking down when he came out, but glanced up and startled when he saw her. She flashed a big, cheesy smile. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, honey," he said, "what'cha doing?"

Lynn shrugged, her mind blanking. "Just...taking a break." The sweet fragrance of Myrtle's dirt tickled her nose and she started to sweat. She swallowed a mouthful of excess saliva and her stomach rumbled.

Dad noticed and chuckled. "Sounds like it's lunchtime. Come on, I'm hungry too."

He went into the breakroom and Lynn followed, but not before sparing a longing glance at Myrtle. Later...later.

In the breakroom, Dad went over to the fridge, opened it, and whipped out a Tupperware container. "Tuna casserole?" Lynn asked.

"Nope," he said and closed the door. "Steamed veggies and a chicken breast." He sat at one of the tables and pulled the lid off.

Lynn leaned over his shoulder and frowned. "That chicken had tiny boobs."

Dad nodded in agreement. It was _tiny._ Seriously, Lynn would need fifty of those suckers just to get a food buzz on. "I gotta watch my weight."

Lynn tilted her head to one side in acquiescence. "True." She turned and went to the fridge. "You look really good," she tossed over her shoulder. That wasn't a lie, either; he was much, much slimmer than he was when he started out, and he didn't pant when he walked.

"Thanks," he said, "it's not easy, but I'm Lynn Loud Jr. I can do anything."

Lynn chuckled as she pulled out the brown paper bag bearing her sub and the whipped cream. She bumped the door closed with her hip and came around the table, patting her father on the shoulder as she went. "That's right," she said and sat across from him, "you can do whatever you set your mind to."

Dad grinned. "I remember when I used to tell _you_ that."

"I know," Lynn said smugly and drew her sub like a sword from a scabbard. She opened the wax paper to reveal the yum within, then took out the whipped cream.

Dad took a bite of broccoli and watched her as she took out a plastic spoon, dug it into the cream, and then smeared it over her sub. His brows furrowed and he swallowed. "What's that?" he asked.

"Hmmm?" Lynn asked, spreading cream from end to end.

Dad nodding at her sub. "That…"

"Meatball sub."

"No, the white crap."

"Whipped cream." She glanced up at her father; his face was crinkled in disgust and his eyes darted from her to it and back again. Oh, great, he was going to be another meatball-and-whipped-delight hater just like Ritchie. Men...so narrow-minded...so blind to things around them, even, oftentimes, to what their own body is telling them. Pfft. Not her, she was entirely self-aware. She picked her sub up and looked at him over it. "It's good." There was a note of playful defiance in her voice.

Dad shook his head and pursed his lips.

Lynn ignored him and enjoyed her sub; when she was done, she licked her fingers clean, then started to do the same to the wax paper but stopped herself. Okay, that was a little much. Dad watched her with his brows raised the entire time, remembering to occasionally fork a piece of broccoli or chicken into his mouth and chewing slowly. Lynn crumpled the wrapper and shoved it into the bag...then finished off the whipped cream because why not? She moaned in delight as she scraped the edges of the container with her spoon, and Dad looked at her like she was a nutcase. Poor guy didn't know what he was missing.

After lunch, Lynn went back to the counter and did paperwork for a while. At first, she was content, but over time, her thoughts started drifting...around the corner, down the hall, and to that damn plant. Her mouth started to water again and she swallowed.

Alright, this is getting stupid; it's dirt, Loud...you're not eating dirt. Whipped cream and pickles-slash-meatball-subs are one thing (as in...both are _food_ ), but dirt? Come on, what's wrong with you?

She took a deep breath.

No dirt.

Bad Lynn.

She bowed her head and focused on the form in front of her. Insurance, insurance...such a pain in the ass. She tapped her pen against her chin and hummed: It was days like this she'd rather be somewhere else...like hanging out with one of her friends, Polly...Bertha...Myrtle…

Lynn sighed. Stop thinking about that stupid plant. Weirdo. What would the guys say if they saw you eating dirt?

Her lips puckered up in a little smile. They'd rank her so hard her bones would break. _What, you don't get enough dirt in your piehole on the field, Sir Falls-a-Lot?_ They called her that because when she was younger (seven, eight) she didn't tie her shoes very tightly, so a few times they came undone and she tripped on the laces while running from one base to another. Like true friends, they would always rush over to make sure she was okay...then tease the shit out of her if she was.

Nostalgia pressed against her chest like a thousand pound weight. She really missed those long, sunburned days on the diamond, drinking Cokes, trading barbs, and playing so much baseball she could barely crawl away at the end. She and Ritchie needed to round those assholes up and play a game for old time's sake...maybe two.

Hopefully she fell down and ate some dirt.

She tossed her pen away and leaned back in the chair. Fine, alright, we'll eat dirt, happy? She got up, glanced around, and then went into the hall. Myrtle waited ahead, looking so good Lynn couldn't help but swipe her tongue across her upper lip. She reached it just as Bill Jefferson, the human resources guy, came out of the breakroom. Lynn froze. Goddamn it!

He glanced up, saw her, and grinned. "Hiya, Lynn."

Bill was a nice guy, but so fat he could barely walk. A few times Lynn would nod toward him as he wadded past and tell her father, "That's gonna be you if you aren't careful." Thinking about it, she felt like an asshole - again, he was a nice guy - but it was true. She wasn't his doctor so she sneeze away from giving out.

Her eyes darted from his rosy face to the scrumptious, yumtastic dirt, then back again. So close...so, so close. "Hey, Bill," she said. Her voice sounded even to her own ears, but it didn't _feel_ even. "How's it going?"

Bill shrugged. "Alight. Same thing different day."

Lynn forced a chuckle; she tried really hard to keep her eyes locked with his, but they were starting to drift and she couldn't help it. "I hear that," she said.

"Gives me a headache sometimes," he said with a jovial laugh, "but that goes with the territory."

Lynn's tongue datrted out ad wetted her lips. She took a deep breath through her nose, and the beautiful smell of fresh, earthy, iron rich dirt tantalized her senses. "S-Sure does."

"You take care, I gotta get back to it."

"You too."

He turned ad ambled down the hall. When he disappeared into his office, Lynn slided close to Myrtle and shoved her hand in. Alright, no more messing around. She got a nice big handful, brought it to her nose, and breathed deeply.

Oooooh, mama, that's the stuff. She looked cautiously around...then crammed it into her mouth.

For some reason, she was expecting it to be rich and moist...like the innards of a cake. Instead, it was dry and thin.

Still good, though.

She ground it between her teeth and swallowed. She looked around again...then took another handful and pushed it past her lips. Ummmm…

Okay, that was enough. She blotted her hand on her pant leg and went into the bathroom since she was in the neighborhood. She licked her chops and savord the lingering flavor of dirt as she peed. Done, she wiped, got up, and went to the sink. In the mirror, her face was smeared brown, and for some reason, that really brought it all home.

Alright, something's not right here.

Now, three hours later, she sat on the closed toilet lid in hers and Ritchie's bathroom, a positive pregnancy test in her hand and a stupid little smile on her face. In the living room, Ritchie was watching _Murphy Brown._

Wow.

Pregnant.

She figured in the back of her mind that it would happen eventually (they didn't use protection...at all), but to actually _be_ here with it not just a vague possibility but a distinct reality...wow. She felt dizzy, giddy, nervous, scared, happy, and gobsmacked all at once.

Getting up, she went out into the hall and the passed through the kitchen. She was still smiling like a loon when she sat next to Ritchie. "So," she said, "I got good news."

He glanced at her. "What?"

She held out the test. "Your sperm works."

He looked at it for a moment, his expression blank...then it clicked and his eyes widened. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded. "Yep."

He surprised her by sweeping her into his arms and squeezing her so tight her spine nearly broke. "That's great!"

She let out a strangled laugh.

Yeah, it was, wasn't it?

* * *

Monday morning dawned cloudy and cold. Ronnie Anne Loud woke to the radio as she did every morning, today to Elvis's _Suspicious Minds._ She creaked one eye open and stared at the digital clock face, hoping against hope that the damn thing malfunctioned and cut on before it was supposed to.

5:30am.

 _We can't go on together_

 _With suspicious minds_

 _Suspicious minds_

 _And we can't build our dreams_

 _On suspicious minds_

She sighed and snuggled deeply into the pillow; she was warm, comfy, and Lincoln's arm rested in the crook of her hip. Get up? Ha. How many sick days did she have? She hadn't used very many (just one - the day she had that really bad stomach bug in September). That meant she had four left...after that she'd have to start calling in dead. Imagine everyone's faces when she came to work the next day like nothing happened. _Uh...I got better._

No, she wasn't really going to take a sick day, even though right now getting out of bed and going to work sounded as appealing as a root canal. Jeez, if she called in every time she woke up tired she'd never work a day in her life.

 _We're caught in a trap_

 _I can't walk out_

 _Because I love you too much. baby_

 _Why can't you see_

 _What you're doing to me?_

 _When you don't believe a word I say?_

No time like the present, she thought and wiggled out from under Lincoln's arm; if she didn't get up now she'd be in danger of falling back asleep and then she really _would_ miss a day. Actually, Lincoln would wake her when he got up, so she'd only be late...very, very late, which was even worse. She sat up, stretched, and got to her feet just as Elvis went off.

" _WGOL 96.1, solid gold. The time is 5:32 and the temperature is 35. There -"_

She slapped the off button. Thirty-five? Ugh. It was happening...the cold season was here and she had six months of freezing her ass off to look forward to. Yippie. Maybe she should try and convince Lincoln to move to Florida when she retired. That would be in...what, twenty-two years? She was forty-three and sixty-five is when you retire, right? So...2011. Eh, maybe she wouldn't, she'd miss her kids too much, and by then they'd have kids of their own, and possibly grandkids of their own...best to just endure as she had the past forty-two winters.

Ugh.

In the bathroom, she stripped out of her nightgown, tossed it into the dirty clothes hamper by the door, then climbed into the shower. She turned the water as hot as she could stand, then squatted slightly and peed as she lathered up her loofa. Come on, it's all pipes. Don't look at me that way.

She washed slowly, starting with her neck and working her way down over her breasts; maybe she was paranoid, but she was pretty sure that they were beginning to sage - just a little. Hey, aging is natural and she wasn't going to worry about it (if she did she'd drive herself crazy), but to be perfectly honest, she was terrified of one day having to tuck her tits into her pants. She'd seen some _saggy_ women in her day, and she wasn't vain, but...no. She'd rather her hair go entirely white this second. Some women might be aghast to see their locks turned to snow, but not her; having white hair never hurt Lincoln. He had a fairly successful business, a great daughter, and the best wife in the whole world. Guy was really lucky when you got right down to it, he should really show a little more appreciation by, say, taking her on a tropical cruise and going down on her.

Her cheeks turned red and her iips screwed up in a girlish smile. She could have sex a billion times, she could _talk_ about sex with Lincoln, but when she was alone and thought about it she always felt like a coy little girl. Kinda dumb, huh?

Turning, she let the water beat down on her back and scrubbed as far down as she could, reaching her shoulder blades before her arm cried out in protest. Ow. She rinsed and turned again, running the loofa over her stomach and then between her legs. Next, she wetted her hair, squeezed a measure of shampoo into her hand, and then massaged it into her scalp, her mouth watering at the good, fruity smell. _Wonder how this stuff tastes…_

Like shit, probably.

When she was done, she cut the spray, grabbed her towel from its place over the rod, and dried as thoroughly as possible, fingers of cold air creeping in through the gaps between the curtain and wall. She shivered, threw the towel over, and got out, goosebumps raking her chilled flesh. Gah, that's the worst.

She crossed to the sink, picked her brush up, and then rubbed a circle in the condensation on the mirror; the reflection staring back at her looked tired...bags under its eyes, the corners of its mouth turned slightly down. She noticed a few faint frown lines and her lips drooped even more. Better start smiling more. She turned her head...and was that a laugh line? Aw, man, come on, I smile, I get wrinkles, I frown, I get wrinkles. What if I don't do anything, just walk around with a blank expression?

Yeah, nevermind. Wrinkles don't mean anything anyway.

After brushing and putting up her hair, she brushed her teeth and gargled with mouthwash. Finally, she applied deodorant to her underarms and went into the bedroom in a puff of steam. At the dresser, she got a pair of underwear, slipped them on, then grabbed a bra. She took a purple dress from the closet and stepped into it, then did the buttons carefully, making sure not to get any in the wrong hole - it was dark still and once or twice she went the whole day before realizing she looked like she dressed in a drunken haze. On its own, that wasn't _so_ bad, but she knew how gossipy things got in the teacher's lounge, and the last thing she needed was the faculty thinking she was an alcoholic. _Welcome to your first day on the job. That's the lounge, that's the private teacher's only bathroom, and that woman down the hall is Mrs. Loud, the Vice Principal. She's a drunk...and probably a communist too._

Sieg heil.

No, wait, that was a Nazi thing. Eh, same difference; murderous dickhead bastards with a stupid symbol on their flag. A hammer and sickle? A swastika? Lame. What did they even represent, anyway? _Zis is ze hammer and sickle ve kill people wid, comrade_.

She knew what they _really_ represented. Jeez. It's a joke, lame-o.

Dressed, she sat on the foot of the bed and pulled her shoes on, then glanced over her shoulder. 6:15. She needed to get a move on; the VP being late sets a bad example. Heh. Never in a million years did she think she'd be in a position to set a bad example. Life's funny that way. She got to her feet, went around Lincoln's side of the bed, and got down on her knees. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. Awww, he was like an angel.

She leaned in until their noses were almost touching. She opened her mouth to yell "Morning, lame-o!" but stopped herself at the last minute. Twenty years...it had been twenty years (twenty-one, actually) since he came home from Vietnam...twenty-one years of dealing with his shell-shock, of comforting him and talking through his episodes...and she _still_ did dumb shit like this. _Hey, let me wake up my veteran husband by screaming in his face...because he's_ never _jumped or started or yelped at a loud, sudden noise._

Sigh. She might be a vice principal, but she was stupid as sin

Oh well, at least she caught herself. She leaned in the rest of the way and pressed her lips gently to his; his warm breath filled her mouth, and her heart started to race. She smiled and kissed him. Did she make him feel the same way he made her feel? Like a giddy adolescent? She hoped so, because it was a _really_ good feeling and she wanted him to share it. Oh, her boobs might be starting their descent to her belly button and she might have every kind of line you can imagine forming on her face, but it's hard to _feel_ old when you're giggling and blushing like a fifth grader with a crush.

Presently, Lincoln's brow pinched and his eyelids fluttered. Her smile widened and she ran the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip. His eyes opened and he stared at her with befuddlement. "Wakey-wakey, lame-o," she said.

He blinked in confusion.

Like he did every morning. It was part of their routine: She woke him with a kiss and he spent twenty minutes trying to remember who she was. In her kiddie days, the idea of having a never changing daily program sounded maddening: Really, the same thing at the same time every day? Hop off the conveyor belt and live a little! Now, she relished the sense of structure and familiarity...especially when her routine included sucking face with Lincoln Loud.

Like the princess kissing the frog and turning him into a prince, Ronnie Anne's smooch turned Lincoln into...an awake person. He kissed her back and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles lightly brushing her skin and sending quivers down her spine. She rocked back on her knees and grinned. "Morning, square."

"Good morning," he croaked and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Is it time to get up?"

Ronnie Anne hummed and leaned over to see the clock. "No, you have half an hour. I just wanted to say bye."

Lincoln grinned sleepily. "Bye. I love you."

"I love you too, lame-o."

They kissed again, then Ronnie Anne got up, grabbed her purse from the dresser, and went into the hall; light spilled from the kitchen and the smell of coffee (and the rattle of the coffeemaker) drifted forth. Her step faltered and her chest twinged just a little.

Jessy was in there.

Ever since the other day, things had been _really_ awkward between them. Maybe Jessy was taking it a _little_ harder than she should, but, honestly, Ronnie Anne would take it pretty hard too if she came home and found her mom bent over on the couch and her father going to town behind her. See...children build a larger-than-life personality cult around their parents, and walking in on them all naked and sweaty kind of shatters the illusion. Think of it this way: Can you imagine your grandmother having sex with your grandfather? No, because they're beyond things like that.

She could completely understand where Jessy was coming from...and she was ashamed too...she just wanted the tension to fade.

Taking a deep breath, she went into the kitchen. Jessy stood at the coffee pot with her back to her. She wore a pale pink bathrobe and slippers, her head bowed, shoulders slumped. "Good morning," Ronnie Anne said as she went to the cabinet and opened it.

"Morning," Jessy muttered in response; her voice was low and thick.

Hm. Strange. She was usually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning...unlike Alex. God, getting that girl up and out the door was the _only_ thing she didn't like about being a parent.

Why the hell did she suddenly miss it, then?

"You feeling alright?" she asked and took down a mug. It was white with a red heart. BEST MOM EVER. Jessy and Alex got it for her for Mother's Day nine or ten years ago, and Ronnie Anne made damn sure to drink her coffee out of it every morning. Once, Lincoln wasn't watching what he was doing and grabbed it by mistake. When she saw, she took it right out of his hand. _Nope, this is_ mine. He shrugged and fetched his: It was identical except MOM was replaced by DAD.

Jessy slipped the pot out and poured some into a green mug. "I'm just tired," she said, "I couldn't get to sleep last night."

Ronnie Anne nodded understandingly. Sometimes Jessy's brain had a hard time shutting down at the end of the day. Ronnie Anne always told her it was because she was so smart, but that was a lie because the same thing happened to her dumb ass every once in a while: No matter what she did, her mind stayed lit up like a neon sign. "Did you count sheep?"

"I stopped at twenty-one-hundred," Jessy said and took a sip.

Ouch. She always stopped at six-sixty-five; 666 is the devil's number and she didn't want to think it in the dark; even though she was pretty sure he didn't exist, it's better to be safe than sorry. "Did you take a sleeping pill?"

Jessy shook her head. "No. I didn't want to be groggy."

Ronnie Anne smiled as she took the pot and filled her cup. "How _do_ you feel?"

"Groggy."

They looked at each other for a second, then laughed. "I tried," Jessy said.

"Medicated groggy _is_ worse than sleepy groggy," Ronnie Anne replied. She leaned against the counter, blew a puff of steam away, and took a cautious sip, the boiling liquid burning her lips. Jessy did likewise, then glanced at the clock on the microwave.

"I have to hurry," she said heavily. She sat her mug down.

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah, me too."

Jessy started to walk out, but Ronnie Anne stopped her. "Hey! You're forgetting something!"

Sighing playfully, Jessy turned on her heels, slumped her shoulders, and walked over. She couldn't hide the little smile playing at the corners of her mouth, though. Ronnie Anne turned her head to the side and Jessy pecked her cheek. "I love you," the girl said, "have a good day."

She turned her head now, and Ronnie Anne kissed the corner of her eye, which made her wince. "I love you too," she said and missed her niece's hair.

Alone now, she finished her coffee, grabbed her coat from the rack by the door, then went outside: Purple twilight colored the sky, and a frosty wind swept along the street, pushing dead leaves into the gutter. She zipped her coat, slipped her purse over her shoulder, and hurried to the car. She had a _long_ day ahead of her.

Longer than she knew…

* * *

The flat, gleaming edge of a knife slowly carved across the tip of a dull brass cartridge. Others stood close by, bearing silent witness to the macabre ceremony; each one of them had been etched with a tiny, painstakingly rendered swastika. The craftsman, sitting at the desk and working with surgical precision, was not a Nazi, but to him swastikas were a physical representation of hatred, and if there was one thing Kevin Jenner had a lot of, it was hatred.

He tossed his lank black hair out of his eyes and refocused on the round clamped in the vise he took from the garage. Music wafted from a stereo surrounded by empty soda cans and crumpled balls of paper, high vocals and melodic guitar backed by a steady, driving beat.

 _Oh, the heads that turn_

 _Make my back burn_

 _And that heads that turn_

 _Make my back, make my back burn_

Finished, he unclamped the round, sat it with the others, and drew another from the box at his right hand. He put it in place and turned the handle, stopping when the bullet was lightly held between the sliding jaw and the stationary jaw. He reached for a can of Pepsi, took a drink, and went back to work, digging the blade into the tip lengthwise, then across, forming a crucifix.

 _The world_

 _And the world turns around_

 _The world and the world, yeah_

 _The world drags me down_

Next came the right angled arms. Little known fact: The swastika is an ancient Sanskrit religious symbol and was once a fairly common design/decoration piece before being appropriated by the NSDAP (National Socialist German Workers' Party - Nazis to you braindead conformists). Hitler inverted it (turned it slightly to the side) and _that_ iteration, rather than the upright one, totally and completely meant _I hate your fucking guts_.

He made sure his were inverted.

 _The fire in your eyes_

 _Keeps me alive_

 _And the fire in your eyes_

 _Keeps me alive_

 _I'm sure in her you'll find_

 _The sanctuary_

He grinned darkly. He had a _her_ : Her name was Siouxsie after Siouxsie Sioux from Siouxsie Sioux and the Banshees and she was a Remington 722 bolt action rifle attached with a black scope and a shoulder sling - she was brown and smooth and shone in the light like a radiant smile. His father enjoyed target shooting and sometimes Kevin went with him. At first, he was apathetic and stood on the sidelines with his hands shoved into his pockets and a scowl on his face, but over the past few months, he found himself becoming very interested in firearms...and in what they could do. His father owned a lot of guns, from Mossberg pump-action shotguns to Heckler and Koch automatic handguns, but for some reason he couldn't explain, Kevin was drawn to Siouxsie: She had a rustic beauty, like the proverbial farmer's daughter...and he was the leering summertime ranch hand.

She was his sanctuary, and today, she would avenge the wrongs that had been done to him - every punch, slap, spitball, and KICK ME sign, every "Faggot!" catcall and every insulting eye roll. The dictionary definition of the word _sanctuary_ is 'a place of refuge or safety', and he would be safe behind her. It was everyone else who'd be in danger.

 _Oh, how the tables have turned. How does it feel? How does it fucking feel?_

Visions of fright-filled eyes and terror twisted faces danced through his head, and his lips twitched in evil delight. He nodded to the music as he turned the handle, plucked the bullet out, and sat it aside.

 _And the world_

 _The world turns around_

 _And the world and the world_

 _The world drags me down_

He reached into the box, but it was empty, the second such box he'd cleared since last Monday afternoon, when that bitch Mrs. Loud took his knife away and suspended him. _You can have it back at the end of the year._ Little did she know, the end of the year was coming early.

Leaning over, he picked the purse up from the floor with a strained grunt and swept the rounds in with the others. He held it up by the strap and jiggled it, the metallic clinking of bullets like music to his ears. Would the strap hold? He'd look really stupid if it broke and spilled all of his ammo across the floor: More people would die slipping on loose slugs than in the actual shooting. He didn't have anything else to hold them, though, and he didn't want his pockets weighed down in case he needed to run or physically fight some dumb jock wouldbe hero.

Eh, he'd chance it but keep a few rounds in his pockets just in case. He also planned to take the knife; he was going to go down swinging...no more sitting there and taking it like a pussy, no more letting them tease and mock and taunt him without fighting back, no more bending over and letting them fuck him in his ass. This dog's day had come round at last, and they would tremble before his wrath like Jews before the majesty of Yahweh.

Sitting the purse back on the floor, he reached across the desk and drew a black leatherbound notebook across the scarred surface: A white pentagram in a yellow circle was emblazoned across the front, and underneath was SLAYER'S BOOK OF DEATH in red. He opened it like God opening the Book of Life, the tome in which the names of all good little boys and girls are recorded. The first page was a confusion of scribbled messages and doodles: A man in a wide brim hat with a shadow for a face; an anarchy symbol (an A in a circle); a body hanging from a noose, its neck stretched and its head lolling; PEOPLE = SHIT. He flipped to the next one, and there it began, a long, descending line of names headed HITLIST. It included jocks, cheerleaders, bullies, teachers, metalheads, neighbors, that cranky old woman down the street who peeked through her curtains every time he walked by, and anyone everyone else in Royal Woods who had ever annoyed, irritated, hurt, or cheated him. He picked up a fountain pen and wrote _VP LOUD_ , _MOM, DAD._

The Final Three.

He stared up those four words for a long time, then, satisfied, closed the cover. He pushed away from the desk, got up, and went to the closet, from which he took a long black trench coat. He laid it reverently on the neatly made bed, then, standing on his tippy toes, he picked up black hat with a broad brim. He turned, dropped it on top of the coat, and then went to the head of the bed, where he sat and pulled on his cowboy boots. He was humming now, a tune he couldn't quite place. It was religious, something his father listened to because it reminded him of his beloved zealot of a mother.

It came to him, and he chuckled sardonically. It was certainly fit.

 _Up from the grave He arose,_

 _With a mighty triumph o'er His foes,_

 _He arose a victor from the dark domain_

Up from his bed, he arose, pulled on the coat, and slowly buttoned it. Next, he pulled the hat on and went to the desk. He felt large, powerful, like a deity, as he picked the purse up and slung it over his shoulder; if he wiggled his little finger, mountains would crumble, and if he blew a puff of breath, entire cities would be consumed in flames. The last shall be first and the first shall be last, the good book said, and today, he was first...the alpha and the omega...the beginning, and the end.

He snapped the table lamp off and opened the drawer: A Smith and Wesson Model 586 revolver sat atop a copy of _The Satanic Bible_. Its body was black as night, and its handle was brown. He picked it up, cracked the cylinder, and made sure it was loaded, then snapped it closed and put it in one of the trench coat's oversized pockets. He took it from the gun cabinet last night because it made less noise than the Remington, and he needed less noise if he wanted to murder his parents without attracting attention. He left Siouxsie; he'd get her out after they were dead. No big deal.

In the hall, he listened and didn't hear anything, but that was par for the course in his family; Mom and Dad were both so locked in their own minds that they rarely made external noises...rarely even moved. He crept quietly to the living room and peeked around the corner into the kitchen. His mother, a tall, thin woman with glasses and messy brown hair, stood at the counter with her head bowed, a flood of papers fanned out before her. She silently scanned them while sipping her morning coffee.

Anger gripped his chest. It was _her_ idea to move here from Cape Canaveral. _I suggest we return to the town of our origin,_ she told his father one night in that maddeningly pretentious, sesquipedalian way of hers; talk like a normal person or SHUT UP! He didn't _want_ to move; he had friends in Cape Canaveral, people who shared his tastes and interests, people who, like him, understood the blank, meaningless existence of modern life - the bullshit vapid consumer culture, the bland drudgery of conformist suburbia. Here, he was an outcast, a misfit; he had nothing but his own rage. Rage at his parents, rage at his classmates, rage at having rage and not being able to find happiness in metaphorical shiny objects the way the stupid fucks he went to school with did.

Rage at everything.

Mom sensed his presence and spared him the briefest of glances."Greetings, offspring."

Not honey, not Kevin, offspring, the most technical, emotionless fucking word she could possibly use. She wasn't a human being, he'd decided long ago, she was a robot, a cold, unfeeling, hunk of steel with a brain and nothing else...aside from an ass hole to keep her head in.

Sometimes - hell, most of the time - it was like she wasn't his mother at all. Calling her 'Mom' felt strange, just as being held by her did when he was little. She wasn't warm and soft like a mother, comforting, she was stiff and galacial. She didn't smile at him, didn't touch him, didn't speak to him with affection or intimacy...she treated him as though he were a piece of furniture a set piece in the background of her life, a life that revolved around sending time with her widdle chemistry set instead of him.

"Greetings, female parental unit," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm that she,of course, didn't notice, "where is male parental unit?"

Mom shuffled papers and hummed thoughtfully to herself. "Currently engaged in the lavatory," she said at length. "Do you require pabulum?"

He reached into his pocket and gripped the handle of the revolver, his finger brushing the trigger guard. "Negative," he said, "I require nothing of you."

Mom didn't respond; she was poring over her precious paperwork again, her head moving almost imperceptibly from side to side as she read. He was calm and cold as he crossed the kitchen...without emotion...she didn't see him coming, didn't turn - he might as well not have even existed. He took the gun out of his pocket, pressed it to the back of her head, and pulled the trigger.

The report was deafening in the small space. She jerked forward with a reflexive gasp, blood, bits of brain, and shards of broken skull spraying the papers. She slumped against the countertop then toppled over, crashing limply to the floor in a rough fetal position.

Like a bug.

Standing over her, he felt nothing...nothing save for a heart-beat elevating rush of adrenaline. He did it...he actually did it.

His chest twinged ever so slightly. This was it. He was committed; he couldn't turn back now even if he wanted to.

Good thing he didn't want to.

A tacky pool of blood spread out from under Mom's head, staining the linoleum and reminding him of a halo in a Renaissance painting. He tucked the gun into his pocket, knelt, and lifted her hand, finding her pulse with his fingers. It was faint and erratic, like the heartbeat of a frightened rabbit. He cupped her chin and turned her head: The whole top half of her face was a red mess of gore and jagged bone fragments. Blood gushed out and flowed freely down her wan face in red rivulets. Her glasses flew off with the impact of the slug, and her bare eyelids fluttered rapidly as her dying brain went through the process of shutting down; synapses misfired, gray matter died...that's all he knew, he fucking _hated_ science.

He let her hand drop and got to his feet just as his father called down the hall, a note of concern in his voice. "Lisa? What was that?"

Dad taught English Literature 101 at Central Michigan University in Detroit. He was a dull, plodding man with light red hair, a beard shot through with gray, and a monotonous way of speaking that reminded Kevin of the teacher from _Ferris Bueller's Day Off._ In keeping with his boringness, he kept the same routine every day down to the very minute: When Kevin shot his mother, he was probably just getting out of the shower.

Taking the gun out of his pocket, Kevin went into the hall and started toward his parents' bedroom. He was almost there when Dad came out, his chest bare and a towel wrapped around his waist. "What was that?" he asked, his brow crinkling.

Kevin's face was hard, stony, as he spoke, a snippet of Dylan Thomas.

" _And you, my father, there on the sad height,_

 _Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

 _Do not go gentle into that good night._

 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_

Dad's forehead pinched in confusion. "Wh -?"

His words died and his eyes widened when Kevin lifted the gun. "Kev -!"

 _BLAM!_

Dad fell violently back, landing hard on the floor, a breathy exhalation bursting from his chest. Kevin, face flat and dispassionate, walked up and loomed over him; his features were twisted in pain, his hand clawing at the wound just below his heart. His eyes opened as Kevin aimed at his head. A flicker of fear went through them, and Kevin grinned in satisfaction.

 _BLAM!_

A hole appeared above his right eye, and his head slammed back against the floor. Kevin stared down at him for a long time, then went into the bedroom. His father's keys were on his nightstand. Dropping the revolver onto the bed, he snatched them up, went back into the hall (stepping over Dad's carcass), and then into the living room. The gun cabinet stood against the wall facing the TV. He flipped through the keys, found the correct one, and inserted it into the lock, turning and opening the door. His gaze went instantly to Siouxsie: She greeted him from between two shotguns the way a bride greets her groom on their wedding night. He took her out with exaggerated care, his hand unconsciously stroking her smooth flank.

In his bedroom, he took a black canvas bag from under his bed, laid her in, and zipped it. He slung it over his shoulder and left the house, shutting the door behind him. He initially planned to boobytrap the house with pipe bombs so that the cops, when they eventually went in, would have a little token of his affection. Unfortunately, he wasn't a scientific genius like his mother (not that he wanted to be), and he found the process frustratingly complicated.

The morning was gray and cold. He walked languidly, his stride unhurried, the heels of his boots clonking against the pavement like a harbinger of death. He passed groups of his classmates as they made their way toward their doom; their incipient laughter and inane chatter grated his nerves. He felt them stealing snotty glances at him, and he smiled to himself. Roll your eyes while you can, because soon they'll be closed forever.

Fifteen minutes after setting out, Royal County High appeared on his right, an ancient brick building with vaulted windows. Kids streamed in through the main doors; he spotted Vice Principal Loud standing to one side, watching them enter. He hands balled into fists of fury.

Instead of going in that way, he ducked right and followed the south facing wall to the back, where the employees parked. He looked around, and when he was sure that he was unobserved, he slipped behind a dumpster and knelt. He was flushed and shaky with nerves, his stomach wringing.

He unzipped the bag and took the rifle out, its strength flowing into him, calming his anxiety. Holding her tight, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I do this for thee, Dark Lord," he said. He did not believe in Satan...his prayer was a sign of contempt for society. "Steady my hand, guide my bullets, and help me to kill as many of those motherfuckers as possible."

Lifting his head, he took a deep breath. He would go after the first bell...when the hallways were still full. He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Ten minutes.

Ten minutes until he walked through the back door...ten minutes until he unleashed his fury, ten minute until he made them pay.

Ten minutes that didn't last very long: The bell rang, and his heartbeat sped up. His fingers closed around the rifle; his palms were sweaty, his knees quivery. Nevertheless, he got to his feet and emerged from behind the dumpster, his resolve steeled. He chose his destiny when he killed his mother. There was nowhere else for him to go but into that school.

He started across the parking lot, the door ahead. He was almost there when he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to the left; the janitor was carrying an armful of cardboard boxes in his direction. They blocked his vision, and he didn't see Kevin nestling the butt of the rifle into the crook of his shoulder, didn't see him aiming, didn't know he was fucked until the round smashed into him and knocked him back, the boxes dropping.

The delicious whip-crack of Siouxsie's voice fortified him. He turned and went to the door, the janitor's pained moaning seasoning the damp air. He paused, peered through the rectangular wire mesh window, and found the hallway jammed with morons, jocks, stoners, cunts, nerds, faggots, and losers.

With a smirk, he opened the door and went in.


	142. November and December 1989: Part 11

_**Bang, bang, shoot 'em up**_

 _ **The party never ends**_

 **\- Skid Row (18 and Life, 1989)**

* * *

Lincoln folded the newspaper and scanned the headlines, his head tilted slightly back so that his glasses didn't slide down his nose. It perplexed him: These goddamn things were prescription, tailor made for his face and his face alone, yet they didn't fit. They did when he first got them, but within a week they no longer did. What, did he lose weight? Was he shrinking? He didn't understand, but it pissed him off; keeping his head angled up and back made his neck stiff, and if he read too much he'd wake the next morning all bunched up like Quasimodo. He should really go back to Lenscrafters and get a new pair. The closest one was in Chippewa Falls, though, and he hated driving all the way out there.

Then again, they had a Red Lobster, and he loved Red Lobster. The crabcakes and husb puppies alone were worth the price of admission. He unconsciously licked his lips as he flipped the paper over to the funnies. You know, maybe _he_ should do seafood. Nothing fancy like lobster or anything, just...fish, popcorn shrimp, and definitely crab cakes. The menu could certainly use an update; the last time he added anything was...fifteen years ago? Or was it more recently? He couldn't remember, but it had been a while.

He looked up from the paper and stared thoughtfully out the window; the parking lot stood empty and the dining room was sparsely populated by early diners, mainly seniors who woke promptly at 3am then went to bed at noon. If he did shrimp and crab cakes, he'd probably have to do fish, too. What _kind_ of fish, though? He wasn't a huge fish eater so he didn't know much about it. He liked lemon pepper salmon - ummmm - and cod...he thought. It could be haddock or something else; really, he was ignorant of most sea life. Fish were kind of like people: So many different kinds it was hard to keep track. You had your trout, your Germans, your perch, your North Vietnamese, your...uh...swordfish? Yeah, swordfish was good. He had it at this high end seafood place he took Ronnie Anne and the girls to once. It was expensive as hell but so good that he busted a load as he ate.

Hmm...he'd have to ask Ronnie Anne; she knew what he liked better than he did. _No, lame-o, you don't like beef wellington, you like_ braised _beef._ Oh, okay, and she was right every time.

Benefits of being an old married couple, he supposed with a fond smile; he never had to remember a thing because he had Ronnie Anne to remember for him.

Glancing at the paper, he sighed. Alright...shrimp and crab cakes. That was definitely going to happen. It was just the fish he had to worry about. He laid the paper down just as Alex came through the door, putting her hair up. His eyes went to her growing stomach and his fond grin returned. Wow. It never ceased to amaze him that his little girl was going to be a mother. And already. He and Ronnie Anne were...twenty-three when she was born? Oh, that's not a big difference; for some reason he kept thinking they were older.

"Why don't you do that at home?" he asked as she came around the counter.

"I forgot, okay?" she said and shoved her purse under the counter. "I have pregnancy brain."

Lincoln's brow crinkled. "Pregnancy brain?"

"Yep," Alex said and picked up an order pad, "it's also known as momnesia."

Lincoln twisted in his chair. "I've never heard that. What is it?"

Leaning against the counter, Alex sighed, then began to explain it to him with the patience of a loving parent addressing a particularly stupid child. "Well, you see, Dad, I have a baby in my stomach and my body is…"

"I know how pregnancy works," Lincoln said and held up his hand.

"...basically the baby is kind of sucking up my brain juice, so I'm forgetful sometimes." She mussed his hair with affection. "Got it, Linc-O?"

Lincoln lifted his brows. "Oh, I got it. Call me Linc-O again and you'll get something too. It starts with 'F' and ends with 'ired.'"

Alex pecked his cheek. "Sorry, Daddy."

"That's better," Lincoln said. "Is the baby moving much?"

Going over to the soda machine and grabbing a cup, Alex bobbed her head from side to side. "Kind of. Not really kicking, though, more like...you know..general movement." She held the cup under the nozzle labeled COKE and pressed the button.

Lincoln chuckled. "Wait a month or two. Kid's gonna crack your ribs."

In the corner of his eye, Alex stiffened slightly. "Uh...can babies really do that?" There was a hint of worry in her voice.

"Yep," Lincoln said and turned back to the counter. He picked the paper up and looked for Beetle Bailey,his favorite funny. "I don't think it's common, but it does happen."

"Great," Alex said, "lovely. Now I have _that_ to worry about." She took a drink of her soda, then carried it over to the counter and leaned against the edge.

In the strip, Beetle was standing there with a broom while Sarge chewed him out. _This looks awful._ In the next panel, Sarge snatched the broom and started to sweep himself. _Here, let me show you how._

Beetle's shiteating grin made Lincoln snort. Alex leaned over and swept her eyes across the page. "Hilarious," she said sarcastically. "So funny I forgot to laugh."

Lincoln turned his head and looked her up and down. "Don't you have tables to wait?"

"Nope," she chirped and sipped her Coke.

The bell over the door dinged and they both looked up as a man and woman came in. Lincoln chuckled and patted Alex's back. "You do now."

Alex hung her head, sighed deeply, then shoved away from the counter. "Fine," she said sullenly, "I'll go wait tables. With my big, pregnant belly."

"You got two extra hands," Lincoln said and snapped the paper open; it ripped crisply down the center, and he lowered his brow. "I expect twice the work."

Alex threw up her hand. Something told Lincoln that if they were alone, she would have thrown something _else_ up.

Her middle finger.

She would have flipped him off.

Was it too late to use his belt?

He tilted his head. She was still his daughter, so...probably not. He'd be a stand-up guy and wait until she wasn't carrying his grandchild anymore. It wasn't the baby's fault it's mother was a butthole.

While Alex took the couple's order, Lincoln folded the paper, slapped it onto the counter, and got up, stopping when the bell dinged. He looked over, and his face pinched when Joey walked in...wearing that goddamn fuck you jacket. The female half of Alex's table glanced up as he passed; she saw his little message, and her jaw dropped in shock.

Lincoln hissed over clenched teeth. _I swear to God, I'm gonna kick this kid in his fucking nuts._ Joey turned his head and smiled dumbly when he saw Lincoln. Lincoln guestured. "Come here."

Joey came around the counter, still grinning like a fool. "Hey, Mr. Loud, what's up?"

Lincoln put his hands on his hips, bowed his head slightly, then looked up at the dishwasher. A flicker of uncertainty crossed the younger man's face. "D-Did I do something wrong? I drained the dishwasher yesterday, I made extra sure I didn't forget."

When Lincoln first started here waaay back in 1961, you washed the dishes by hand and liked it. Now, there was a dishwashing machine next to the sink, a metal box roughly dick high with a little door. You turned it on, pressed a button, and filled it with water. At the end of the day, you pushed another button, drained the water, and turned it off. Simple. Joey, however, had a bad habit of just turning it off and leaving it filled. He hadn't done it in a while, though.

Lincoln shook his head slowly. "Not that."

Joey blinked. "Uh...did I leave something on one of the pans or something? I scrubbed them all. I swear."

"Not that either," Lincoln said.

The poor kid looked so confused (and scared) that Lincoln thought he was going to short circuit or something. "It's the jacket...how many times have I told you not to wear that goddamn thing in here?

Joey looked down at himself. _Huh, it must have jumped onto my body all by itself. How about that, boss?_ "Sorry," he said, "I forgot I was wearing it."

"Look, as soon as you walk out that door, put it on, do whatever, I don't care. But the moment you come _through_ the door, I want it off. Alright? Do it again and so help me God I'll strip it off of you, take a pair of scissors, and cut that word out."

The blood drained from Joey's face. He hurried shrugged out of the jacket and folded it over his arm. "That won't be necessary."

Lincoln nodded and clapped the boy's shoulder. "Good."

Joey flashed a nervous smile, then retreated into the kitchen. Lincoln went to the bathroom, then came back out, pausing at the Pac Man cabinet when he noticed something scratched into the plastic. Oh, great.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

Goddamn kids, you can't have _shit_ with them around. He splayed his hands on either side of the joystick and leaned in to read it: NIGGAZ WIT ATTITUDES. What the _fuck?_ You know, it was 1989, why were people still racist?

Stupidity, he figured. If he found the little son of a bitch who carved that bullshit into his game, he'd…

A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped.

"Sorry," Alex said, "now get back to work. Pac-Man's for the customers only."

Nice, now she was throwing his own words back in his face; to be fair, though, she had a bad habit of disappearing in the middle of her shift to play. "Someone carved some racist shit in the plastic," he said and tapped the message.

Alex leaned over and squinted. "That's not racist," she said and stood up straight, "it's a rap group."

"A what?"

"A rap group. They rap."

Lincoln tilted his head to one side. "Rap?"

Alex rolled her eyes. "It's music. 'Yo, livin' in the ghett _o_. Shootin' people in the head, my homie Chuck is dead, gonna hang with my ho, but to work I gotta go.'" She leaned to one side and crossed her arms. "'Peace.'"

For a moment Lincoln stared at her...then burst into laughter. "Shut the hell up and get back to work." He shook his head. _God, my daughter's such a lame-o._ "Your singing's bad but your rap is even worse. Jesus. If that's what it sounds like I don't wanna know anything about it."

"Humph," Alex snorted, "fine." She spun in a swish, and her ponytail smacked his across the face in indignation.

More sirens, swelling and then shrinking as they passed and then drew farther away; in the dining room, Lincoln caught a flash of a cop car shrieking by, its red and blue roof lights flashing wildly. Something big must be happening. He turned to the counter, and spotted Luan standing at the Coke machine filling a cup. See...Luan came in and got right to work. Alex, on the other hand, had to be prodded like a stubborn mule.

He went around the counter, and Luan turned her head. "Hey, Linc," she said.

"Morning," he said and dropped onto his stool. Sheesh, the day had barely started and he was already looking forward to bedtime.

"How are you feeling?"

He considered for a moment. "Alright," he finally said, "still a little tired, but I think I'm getting over it."

"Good," she said, then carried the soda to a table where a fat man in a plaid shirt looked over a menu. Lincoln picked up the paper, realized he'd read pretty much the entire thing, and laid it back down. Luan came over, ripped a ticket out of her book, and sat it in the window, then leaned against the counter much as Alex had done earlier. "So...Fred and I are getting married."

Lincoln's ears pricked, and he looked up at her. "Oh?" He wasn't surprised - they'd been together three years now - but he was a little...what's the word? It was unexpected, let's go with that.

She nodded. Her eyes shone with what he could only assume was happiness. "Yep. We're going to get the marriage licence next week and probably have the JP do it that day."

"Congratulations," Lincoln said earnestly and pulled her into a one armed hug. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," she said, "better late than never."

Another cop car zipped by in the street, followed by an ambulance.

What, did a plane crash somewhere?

Lincoln didn't know, but he didn't like it.

He didn't like it at all.

* * *

On a normal day, Ronnie Anne Loud stood by the main entrance as the initial rush of students arrived for the day, then went to the cafeteria, taking the long way, walking toward the gym then cutting through the library. The point was to make her presence known, kind of like a sheriff striding through the lawless streets of a town in the Old West. She tried to be in the halls every time the kids were (beginning of the day, class changes, end of the day) because if she wasn't things had a tendency to get out of hand.

Today, however, was not a normal day. After greeting the first wave of students, she went into the main office and found Frank Lawson, the gym teacher, sitting in one of the chairs facing the counter like a child who had been sent for punishment. He was a beefy man with a thick brown mustache and a bald head perpetually hidden under a blue baseball cap with the Royal County High mascot (a golden tiger) emblazoned across the front. He wore a gray sweatsuit, white sneakers, and a whistle around his neck. His arms were folded against his chest and his legs were crossed. He stared straight ahead with a blank expression. He could have been angry...or happy...or nothing at all.

"Frank," she said, and he looked up. She nodded toward her office, and he got to his feet. In her office, she stood aside and he brushed past her, sinking onto one of the chairs in front of the desk. She shut the door, crossed to her own chair, and sat. The gym teacher regarded her with a faint trace of dread curiosity; he knew something was wrong, and had most likely been sweating bullets since yesterday afternoon, when she asked to see him 'in my office first thing tomorrow.' The vice principal only said that when there was a problem.

Ronnie Anne laced her fingers, rested her forearms against the edge of the desk, and fixed him with her gaze. Frank had been here almost as long as she had; he started as an assistant coach for the boys' basketball team and eventually wormed his way onto the facility proper. She knew him fairly well...he was gruff and a little overzealous at times. He was known to shout obscenities at students when they weren't performing push-ups or running laps to his liking, though he'd gotten better since being dressed down by Principal Stewart a few years ago (back when he occupied Ronnie Anne's position). As far as she could tell, he was a stand-up guy overall...then again, she thought back to that killer who was all over the news ten years ago, John something. He was a successful business owner, dressed as a clown for kids in the hospital, and was active in local politics. Meanwhile, he raped and murdered a good thirty young boys and buried their bodies in his crawl space. Sometimes, things aren't what they seem.

In this case, she thought that maybe they were.

She watched him watching her; he looked like he was beginning to chafe a little. She took a deep breath. "Yesterday, Cassie Sommers, whom you have in third period, came to me and claimed that you touched her inappropriately."

The color drained from his face. "That's a damn lie!"

Ronnie Anne held up her hand. "Calm down. She says you put your hands on her hips. Is that so?"

His eyes flickered with recognition, and Ronnie Anne instantly knew that he had. "Well...yes, I did _but_ she was struggling with chin-ups. I put my hands on her hips to lift her up and show her the correct way. I didn't do it to be sexual."

That matched what Cassie told her the previous day. "I didn't think that you did," Ronnie Anne said, even though she didn't entirely discount the possibility, "but putting your hands on a student is, in fact, inappropriate."

He looked at her as though she just told him the moon was made of cheese and that fairytales were real. "But...i-it's gym. Sometimes it's necessary to touch a student to -"

She cut him off. "I understand. There were times my gym teacher touched me in order to demonstrate proper stance or form. Things are different now."

Over the past several years, dozens of teachers, coaches, and scouts leaders had been accused (and convicted) of sexual misconduct. When she was growing up, you _never_ heard about that sort of thing, but now it was becoming commonplace, and parents were on red alert for impropriety. The school district, in order to head off any possible misunderstandings...and lawsuits...decided that the best course of action would be a literal hands' off policy. No teacher was to touch a student unless said student required medical intervention (say, the Heimlich Maneuver) or were an active threat and needed to be physically restrained.

She explained this to him as succinctly as she could, and he listened intently. When she was done, he shook his head. "How am I supposed to do my job?"

"By not touching the students," she said.

Frank sighed. "Alright," he yielded. "I apologize. I honestly didn't mean to make her feel uncomfortable." He shifted in his seat, looking mighty uncomfortable himself. She searched his eyes for any traces of deceit, but saw honesty...and just a hint of frustration. She couldn't blame him for that. Things were changing, and people their age were being left in the dust; and being told that you're wrong, especially for doing something you've been doing for almost twenty years or more, can be irritating. You have to keep up with the times, though.

"That's all," she said, "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

"We are."

"Good. You can go now."

He nodded, got up, and hurried out of the office without looking at her. Poor guy was probably embarrassed...and dreading the rumors that would no doubt make the rounds: By the end of it they'd be saying he raped and murdered Cassie Sommers then ate her body whole like a snake.

Too bad she couldn't fire people for gossiping; she'd clean house if she could. Hiring and firing, however, fell to Principal Stewart, and whispering about your peers isn't a firable offense as far as she knew; you'd have to make something up. _He's a communist. He hates America._

God, no, you couldn't do _that;_ that's discrimination. She wasn't prejudiced (she was a Hispanic woman married to a white man, after all), but communists could go fuck themselves. After all, it was communists who…

She cut that thought off and reached for her datebook, opening it and studying the page headed by that day's date; she had a lot to do today but she couldn't remember what. Curse of aging, her memory wasn't so great...which was a little worrying. Hell, she was only forty-three. That's not really old at all. Maybe…

 _Pop-pop-pop._

Her head whipped toward the door and her eyes narrowed. Oh, not _this_ shit again. Another report sounded, faint and muffled, followed by screaming.

Two months ago, two seniors thought it would be _hilarious_ to light a string of firecrackers in the hallway...during class change, when the corridor was jammed with students. No one was hurt, thank God, but a lot of people were so startled they almost pooped themselves. She was one of them.

Now it sounded like there was a copycat on the loose.

Pushing roughly away from her desk and putting on her sternest expression, she got up, opened the door, and went through the outer office; one of the secretaries was leaning over the counter and craning to see down the hall, a worried expression on her face. "Firecrackers again?" Ronnie Anne asked as she stode by.

"Sounds like it," the secretary replied.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. Pranks were par for the course with kids, she pulled a few in her day - spiking the punch at the winter dance in fifth grade for example, heh - and she tried to be as good humored about it as her position allowed, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, being on the other end of them was such a pain in the ass. Something like salt in someone's coffee was harmless (though irritating), but lighting firecrackers in a crowded hallway? Now, that was bullshit. These kids weren't babies, they knew damn well that someone could be injured. A lot of them just didn't care.

See...in her twenty years of teaching (and her three month of vice principalling), she'd come to believe that the majority of kids are sociopaths...at least until they hit nineteen or twenty. She'd read a lot on child psychology and it was generally acknowledged that babies and toddlers are technically sociopathic, but many psychologists didn't extend that to older children and teenagers. Dumbasses. She looked at it this way: Kids mature at their own rate. Some eleven-year-olds have breasts, and some sixteen-year-olds don't, some boys grow six inches over the summer, others take three or four years. Some fifteen-year-olds are mature, others are _immature_. Some kids develop a fully-formed consensus by the time they're ten or eleven, and others don't until they're adults. Did those big shot shrinks even spend time around kids? They could be exceedingly cruel.

Another series of pops echoed off the tiled walls, followed by screaming; her step faltered and her forehead crinkled. You'd expect a fair amount of frightened screaming in a situation such as this, but there was a keen note to it that instantly made her heart race. She stepped into the lobby just as a group of students ran up the hall from the left, their eyes wide with fear. A ripple of dread went through her stomach.

 _Pop-pop-pop._

"What's happening?" she demanded, a sharp edge of worry creeping into her voice.

"He has a gun!" a girl said in breathless horror. "H-He shot Mr. Hendricks."

An icy grip of fear clutched Ronnie Anne's heart. " _What?"_

A boy nodded. "He shot Mr. Hendricks then started shooting everyone else."

Mike Hendricks taught tenth grade math. This was his first year teaching at Royal County high. In fact, he was the one who took Ronnie Anne's old job.

 _Pop-pop._

Screaming.

More students hurried down the hall in a confused rush of humanity. For a moment, Ronnie Anne was completely frozen...then she came alive, her heart slamming crazily as adrenaline pumped through her body. "Go outside," she said and pointed toward the door, "everyone out. Go. Now." She turned, and the secretary gaped at her in. "Call the police!"

She nodded, then picked up the phone, dialed, and pressed the handset to her ear; her face was pale and suddenly haggard.

Ronnie Anne turned back to the lobby; it was filling with frightened students and teachers making for the door. She felt panic beginning to creep in. What did she do? She was trained to handle fires, tornadoes, even earthquakes, but not someone with a gun: Shootings at schools happened, she was sure, but it wasn't so common that there was a protocol in place.

Her hand fluttered to the side of her head and she fought hard to quell her racing heart. Mr. Erickson, the shop teacher, rushed past in the direction of the door, and she grabbed him by the arm. "What's going on?"

Mr. Erickson's face was a bloodless mask of horror, his eyes pooled with shell-shock. "I-I don't know," he stammered, "someone has a gun. I heard the shots and went to see what was going on. T-T-There are people hurt."

Ronnie Anne's heart dropped into her stomach. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. "Alright," she said, her voice shaky, "get everyone out. Across the street." She looked over her shoulder; the secretary was talking animatedly into the phone. "Wait for the police." A shot echoed down the hall, and Mr. Erickson jumped. "Treat it like a fire drill."

Kids were streaming through the doors and spilling into the street now. Mr. Dick, the guidance counselor, and Mrs. Rasmusson, the science teacher, stood on either side of the exit, waving students on and looking afraid. More shots resounded through the building.

Mr. Erickson nodded jerikly, then turned and hurried into the frantic crowd; kids pushed and shoved, some screaming and others crying in fear.

Going toward the gunfire was not a conscious decision, it was a reflex...where _else_ could she have gone? Kids were in danger, and as she passed fleeing students, she could think of only two things: Alex and Jessy, her own children. Every face she saw was theirs, every scream she heard came from their throats, every single student in that school was now hers, and she would do whatever it took to protect them.

Ahead was an L-shaped intersection. A boy in a sweater stumbled into it and dropped to his knees; as she got closer, she saw this his fingers were laced over his stomach and that thick red blood gushed through them. She rushed over and dropped to her knees, her hand going to his back.

 _Pop-pop-pop._

A high, feminine cry of pain rang through the hall, piercing Ronnie Anne's heart. She threw a harried glance over her shoulder, then looked back down at the boy. His eyes were squeezed closed and he drew hissing breaths through his teeth. She looked in the direction from which he came. Stragglers hurried away from the shooting. "Help him out," she said to a pair of boys. They both looked nervously back, then helped the wounded boy to his feet, slipping their arms under his shoulders. Ronnie Anne got to her feet and pressed on. Lockers flanked her way, many of them standing open as their owners fled. Papers, pencils, abandoned backpacks, and other debris littered the floor. She paused at another intersection and listened: She didn't realize how heavily she was breathing or how rapidly her heart was beating. She heard the faint sound of moaning coming from her left. She turned, and a boy and girl were running toward her, the boy bent slightly at the waist and holding his bleeding arm; red droplets splashed onto the floor, leaving a trail of gore in his wake.

"Go out the front door," she told them and pointed down the hall, "hurry."

She brushed past them and went down the hall. Another shot sounded, and it was so close that she could hear the round ricocheting off the walls. Someone cried out in pain, and she broke into a run. Ahead, a black boy darted out of the library, his shoes skidding on the tiles, then turned in her direction. "Go!" she shouted.

He nodded and ran past, his arms and legs pumping. She watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared, then went into the library, a wide, dimly lit space flanked by corridors on either side. Bookshelves dominated the middle of the room; to her right was the check-out desk, and to her left was a reading/study area dotted with tables and chairs. She started toward the rear entrance, but stopped when she heard someone moaning. She turned, and a boy was curled up under one of the desks, his arms crossed over his stomach. His body trembled and blood soaked into the carpet under him. She went over and dropped to one knee: His face was twisted in agony and tears streamed down his cheeks. Her brow pinched in concern and she laid a tender hand on his forehead. "Where are you hurt?" she asked, then looked over her shoulder to make sure the shooter wasn't sneaking up on them.

"M-My arm," he sputtered. He bared his teeth and began to hyperventilate. "It hurts so bad."

Ronnie Anne's eyes flicked down to his hand; it was clamped over his upper arm just above the elbow, blood oozing through his fingers. She was no expert on the human body, but she did know that the brachial artery, a major blood vessel, runs through the area he was injured. Depending on the damage, he could bleed to death.

She had to get him out of here _fast_.

A shot rang out, and glass shattered. It sounded like the gunman was moving away from them...thank God. The boy sucked great, shivering lungfuls of air and quivered all over. Another report, more shattering glass, definitely farther away. The boy's breathing quickened and a low groan issued from his lips; blood spurted from his wound and splattered the front of her dress.

Ronnie Anne stroked his forehead and stole another worried glance over her shoulder, then looked back, her mind working. She needed to stop the bleeding. She needed a...a...she couldn't think of the name, goddamn it, she was a _little_ overwhelmed. "I need you to calm down," she said, her voice low. She looked around for something to use, but didn't see anything. "J-Just don't panic."

 _I'll do enough of that for us both._

She needed something cloth...a length of fabric or...or…

It hit her then, and she sat back on her butt. Moving quickly, she kicked off one of her shoes and pulled down her pantyhose, then got back onto her knees.

 _Pop._

She moved his hand away from the wound and he moaned. "I know it hurts, honey, I'm sorry," she said absently as she assessed it: She couldn't be sure because of all the blood, but it looked like the bullet entered just above the armpit. "I'm going to move your arm now," she told him, "I need you to be - "

 _Pop-pop-pop._

"...quiet."

Before the boy could reply or protest, she pushed his arm away from his side, and he bore down on his teeth to stifle a yell. She threaded the pantyhose around, making sure to directly cover the wound. He slammed his heel against the floor in an impotent display of pain and wobbled like a turtle on its back. She scooted closer and pulled the pantyhose as tightly as she could, her face contorting with exertion. A strangled sob burst from his throat, and she shushed him as she tied the tourniquet off.

"Alright," she said and squeezed his shoulder, "I need you to get up and go toward the office. Go out the front door…"

The boy shook his head. "I can't."

"You _have_ to."

"I can't. It hurts."

She didn't want to frighten the poor kid...but he didn't to realize just how serious his injury was. "If you stay here," she said, "you will die."

His eyes, hitherto closed, flew open, and the raw horror in them broke her heart. "You have to go. I know it hurts but you can't stay here."

For a moment he didn't move, then he slowly nodded. "O-Okay." He tried to roll onto his side, but flopped back with a grimace.

Sirens rose in the distance, so faint that she could almost believe she was imagining them. The boy rocked, and turned onto his stomach with a groan. "Shit," he muttered, then slowly dragged himself out from under the table. Ronnie Anne stood and helped him to his feet. "Go on," she said, "and hurry.'

He nodded and lumbered into the hall, his back stooped.

 _Pop-pop-pop._

A high, blood-curdling scream reverberated through the building. Without thinking, Ronnie Anne started toward it, realized she was lopsided because she forgot her heel, kicked the other off, and, barefoot, rushed down an aisle. At the back entrance, she came to a crashing halt: A body lie on its side before the threshold, blood soaking into the threadbare industrial carpet beneath it. She went to it, knelt, and rolled it over: Mrs. Clarke, the librarian. Her face was white and splashed with blood. Ronnie Anne's eyes went to her chest, and her stomach knotted: There was a jagged hole in the valley between her breasts. It was large...very large. That meant it was an exit wound (those are bigger, right? Didn't Lincoln tell her that once?).

If so, she was shot in the back.

As she ran for her life.

A cold chill swept through Ronnie Anne's soul. She pressed her fingers to the woman's neck and felt for a pulse, but there was none. She was dead.

The scream came again, closer this time, a throat ripping howl of terror. Ronnie Anne got to her feet and stepped over the dead woman. In the hall, she looked left and right, unable to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. Her heart was crashing and she felt panic trying to close in again. At a guess, she started right. To her left, a series of windows looked out onto the employee parking lot, muted sunlight falling through and bathing the corridor dirty gray. She had used this passageway a billion times in her life, first as a student and then as a teacher. She knew it just as well as the hallway in her own home, if not better. Before, it was utilitarian and pragmatic: A simple corridor starting at the gym and running the length of the school to the cafeteria. Now, though, it was different, darker, more sinister, like a hall in a crumbling, vampire haunted castle high in the craggy mountains of Transylvania. The atmosphere was black, heavy, and as she approached the last intersection before the cafeteria, she found it hard to breathe, and as in nightmares, each step was slow, cumbersome, as though she were trying to run underwater.

She was almost to the end of the hall when a girl with long, curly hair and wearing a heavy white sweater stumbled into the junction and fell against the wall. She was shaking and sobbing hysterically. Ronnie Anne rushed toward her as she pushed away and turned. "Help me," she whimpered and staggered forward, falling to her knees.

Ronnie Anne reached her just as someone else stepped into the crossroads, a figure clad in black, boot heels clicking on the floor like the slow, inexorable approach of one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. She saw the barrel of the rifle before she saw anything else, a shark fin gliding through still waters. The girl twisted her head around and screamed. Reflexively, Ronnie Anne put herself between the girl and the gunman, her arms flying out and down, her body pressing against the weeping child.

Kevin Jenner sneered. He wore a long black trench coat and a black hat that crazily reminded Ronnie Anne of the Quaker oatmeal guy. _Nothing is better for thee than me!_ He glanced from her to the girl cowering behind her, then back again, his eyes cold and dead, like the eyes of a fish. Ronnie Anne's heart slammed painfully against her ribs and her stomach clenched, but she stood her ground, pushing herself back against the girl as if by doing so she could fully shield her. Her eyes went to the gun, and her mind blanked save for one thought...one certainty.

 _I'm going to die._

The back of her neck pricked as though the Reaper himself was standing behind her, breathing heavy, waiting to wrap his arm around her and drag her off into eternity. She was going to die here in front of the cafeteria, gunned down like a dog. Her whole life, every day, every moment, every breath had been leading to this, her end, shot and killed by a teenage boy with a hunting rifle. She'd heard it said that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. That didn't happen; she was too petrified with fear to think - fear that writhed cold and greasy in her stomach. In that moment, only three things existed in the entire world: Her, him, and the rifle.

Presently, he locked eyes with her, and the corners of his lips turned up in a slow psychopath smile. Ronnie Anne's throat bobbed as she tried to swallow. "P-Put the gun down," she said. She did not notice the tremble in her voice, or the way it cracked, barely above a whisper.

He chuckled darkly and shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm not gonna do that."

The girl wept openly now, praying between sobs, her hand clutching blindly at the hem of Ronnie Anne's dress.

He held the rifle up so that the barrel pointed at the wall. "I've put up with enough shit from you people," he snarled. Ronnie Anne's eyes darted from the gun to his chest. If she was quick…

Without warning, he swung the rifle around and pointed it directly at her chest. Her blood froze in her veins and icy fingers clawed at the lining of her stomach. She was stiff with fear, unable to move or even to breathe. The barrel was bigger than it should have been, blacker and more evil, like a cannon. When he pulled the trigger, she would be obliterated, completely vaporized as though she had never existed in the first place. Her family would have no body to bury, no ashes to scatter. At best, the police _might_ find a quivering chunk of her in a tree two miles away, or a scrap of bone fragment blown clean into the gym and sticking out of the wall.

Kevin squeezed one eye closed and stared down the scope with the other like a hunter sighting his prey in a forest. He was seven feet away, maybe eight. She should have thrown herself at him when she had the chance, but she choked and now it was too late...the distance between them was enough that his bullet would hit her before she hit him.

The girl moaned, the sound faint and pitiful over the crashing of blood in Ronnie Anne's temples. In her own terror, she'd totally forgotten she was there.

"Wait," she said, and was it wishful thinking, or did Kevin tense slightly as if in consideration? She licked her dry lips and continued. "Let her go," she jerked her chin in the direction of the girl. "Y-You can shoot me but just...don't shoot her."

Kevin stared blankly, no emotion on his face whatsoever - no pity, no anger, not even hatred now. "No, thanks," he said, "I'll just kill both of you."

Ronnie Anne's heart squeezed.

So this was it.

She took a deep breath. The girl was sobbing hysterically, tiny, broken "No's," trembling from her lips. Kevin took a half step forward, and Ronnie Anne could see his finger tightening on the trigger. She calculated the trajectory of the bullet: If his aim was straight and true, it would hit her square in the chest, maybe, if she was lucky, the heart. She would die quick and bloodless.

Her life didn't flash before her eyes even now, but she _did_ see the faces of her loved ones: Lincoln, Alex, and Jessy, her beloved husband and daughters.

She pursed her lips and fought down the desperate panic welling up within her. She wouldn't die crying and begging. She _wouldn't._

Yet tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

Kevin started to take another step, but, so quickly Ronnie Anne nearly missed it, a gray blur slammed into him from the side, knocking him off balance. A sound like armageddon filled the world, and something hard and flat punched her in the shoulder. She cried out in shock and half-spun, falling back over the weeping girl and landing on her side. Numbness spread through her body, and she was suddenly cold.

Confusion filled her. What happened?

She pushed herself to a sitting position, and hot pain shot up and down her right arm, making her moan. Somehow, Kevin was on his stomach, Frank Lawson on top of him, his hand pushing the boy's face into the floor and one knee planted between his shoulder blades. "Get the fuck off of me!" The shooter's voice was strained and cracking. "Get off, fat bitch!"

Ronnie Anne blinked. She felt...strange, as though her brain were mired in cold mud and her body was a chunk of ice. Her heartbeat was slow and sick, and every one of the killer's grunts and exclamations echoed like sounds underwater. Something brushed against her back, and she turned slowly. The girl was on her knees, her hands covering her face and her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. Sirens swelled in the distance, getting closer and closer until they were all around her, one high, monotonous wail. She put her arm around the girl's shoulder and drew her close. "It's okay," she said dazedly, each throb of her heart spurting blood from her wound, "it's okay."

She started to cry.


	143. November and December 1989: Part 12

After the morning rush, Lincoln slipped into the kitchen and leaned back against the doorframe, his arms crossing over his chest. Joey was vigorously scrubbing a pan and Fred was scraping burned bits of food from the flattop. Twenty years ago (really, no, it wasn't that long...wait, yes it was) a hippie named Robert worked here and had a bad habit of not cleaning the grill enough...this guy had the _opposite_ problem: He scraped it so goddamn many times during the day he was surprised that people weren't getting sides of metal shavings with their eggs.

Joey redoubled his efforts, leaning over and grimacing as his arm flew from side-to-side in a blur. He looked up, saw Lincoln, and shot up to attention like a recruit on the advent of his drill sergeant...or a boy who had just been caught fingering his girlfriend...by her 6 foot 4, 250 pound kickboxer father. "H-Hey, Mr. Loud, I'm not wearing the jacket." His face was drawn, white...he was afraid he was going to get canned. Poor kid.

"I see that," Lincoln said with a slow, patient nod.

The boy hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the back door. "I hung it up. I-I turned it inside out first."

Lincoln couldn't help but chuckle. Joey stared at him with a hopeful expression. _Can I stay? Please?_ "You're fine," Lincoln said, "get back to work."

Joey nodded and fell onto the pot with renewed gusto, fueled, presumably, by his elation at not being summarily fired. Aside from the jacket (and forgetting to empty the dishwasher), he was a good worker and seemed like a good kid overall; he was safe.

Lincoln turned his gaze to Fred's humped back. Alex slipped a ticket into the window, and he grabbed it with one hand without missing a beat...err...scrape. "So," Lincoln started, still trying to decide exactly what he wanted to say, "I heard something up front a few minutes ago. Sounded kind of like bells."

"I didn't," Fred said and stuck the ticket into the metal clamp over the grill.

"Funny," Lincoln said, "'cause they're ringing right over the top of your head."

Fred whipped his head up and looked around, then turned to Lincoln, his brow crinkling in confusion. "What?"

Heh. He was clueless. "Wedding bells," Lincoln clarified.

Understand pooled in the older man's eyes, and he turned away, embarrassed. He wasn't quick enough to hide the fond smile that came to his lips. "Yeah," he said, and slapped a patty on the grill, "we're getting married."

Joey twisted his head around. "You're getting married?"

Fred nodded. "Yeah, I'm getting married."

"Oh, wow, you're tying the knot?" Alex asked, startling Lincoln. Her grinning face filled the window, her arms crossed and her chin resting on top. "Congrats." She smiled playfully and leaned forward. "Uncle Fred."

Though Lincoln couldn't see the cook's face, he knew it was twenty shades of red. "Thank you," he said just a little too gruffly, as if he were trying to remind everyone that he was a tough guy even if he _was_ getting married. He was weird like that; kind of reminded Lincoln of Ronnie Anne. Just a little. She never had a problem with showing him affection or admitting her emotions or anything (she was the one who came outright and said "I want to be your girlfriend"), but she did have it in her head that being open, in front of other people, makes you look weak. Hell, maybe it does, Lincoln didn't know; he didn't care if people thought he was weak because you know what? He wasn't.

He pushed away from the door and leaned against the prep table. He was going to mess with this guy. "You gonna wear a white dress, Sarge?" he asked.

In the window, Alex snickered. "You should wear flowers in your hair, Unc, you'd look _beautiful_."

Lincoln snorted. "Good one, honey." He looked at Fred; the man's head was bowed and his shoulders were hunched. He looked like a poor sap weathering a storm. To be fair, he was. "I'm gonna have to change the name on your checks to Fred Loud."

Fred shook his head longsufferingly as Lincoln and Alex both laughed. "Because he's going to be the wife," Alex said, and slapped the counter. "Mr. and Mrs. Luan Loud."

Speak of the Devil, Luan appeared next to Alex, ripped a ticket from her order pad, and sat it down. "Order…" she started, but trailed off. "What's going on?"

"We're teasing your fiance," Alex said.

Luan smiled knowingly. "Don't go too hard on him or he might cry like a little girl." Fred looked at her as if so say _oh, really_ , and she winked at him. He sighed and flipped the patty; he was smiling, though.

"What did I get myself into?" he asked himself and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

"Only the most awesome family _ever_ ," Alex said, "now can I have my order...auntie Fred?"

"Anything for my nephew."

Alex's jaw dropped and a mischievous light filled her eyes. Lincoln snorted, and she shot him a dirty look. "I am _not_ a nephew. I'm a niece."

Lincoln tilted his head to one side. "Well, actually…"

Just like he knew she would, Alex took the bait. "Actually what?" She lifted her brow and pursed her lips, and in that moment she looked so much like her mother at that age that it was like looking into the past. She even had the same dimples. She wasn't identical, though. He joked that she looked nothing like him but she did resemble him here and there, mainly her jaw and nose. Put it this way: She got her good features from her mother and her bad ones from him. Luckily for her, she had more of the former than the latter.

"Well what?" she pressed.

He shrugged and glanced over at Joey, who was currently absorbed in scrubbing a cooking sheet. "Nothing."

"Don't make me come in there," Alex said.

Lincoln laughed and turned to her. "When you were born...you were a boy. Your name was Alex. They fucked the circumcision up and...instant daughter."

Fred laughed richly, and Joey snickered. Alex's face turned a rare shade of red, and she looked around for something to throw but couldn't find anything, so she pulled her pen out of her apron and chucked it. Lincoln instinctively threw his hands up with a laugh, but it missed him by a mile and landed by the door. "I need that back," she said.

Oh? Lincoln bent, scooped it up, and looked at it.

"Please," Alex said and slumped her shoulders exaggeratedly "I gotta take orders."

Lincoln considered the pen for a moment longer, then slid it behind his ear. "Here's an order for you: Memorize them."

Alex's brow hardened...then she disappeared. Uh-oh. A moment later, the batwing doors flew open and she entered; Lincoln offered no resistance as she plucked the pen from behind his ear and settled it behind her own with a smug smile; she was like Ronnie Anne...don't fight back. Wait until you're alone and no one's around...then get her. _Remember that snide comment you made at the restaurant?_ *POW* right in the kisser. No, Lincoln had never hit his wife, and no, he never would. That wasn't to say she didn't deserve it from time to time. Hell, most everyone needs to be punched in their face here and there...even him.

"Don't steal my pen ever again," Alex said, "I need it." She tapped a stern finger against his arm.

Lincoln held up his hands, palms facing out. _Hey, you got me, I won't do it again._ She narrowed her eyes as if to say _I'm watching you_ then turned and went through the doors. At the grill, Fred grabbed a plate and laid two halves of a bun side-by-side. He slipped the edge of the spatula under the patty and, carefully, like a man handling nitroglycerin, he transferred it from the grill to the bun. "It's a work of art, Fred," Lincoln said as the old man added the toppings.

"Thanks."

He added the top bun, sat it in the window, and slapped the bell which was supposed to alert the waitresses that they food was up...only it didn't work this time; Alex was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm really happy for you guys," Lincoln said as the older man began on the next ticket.

"Thanks," Fred said. He seemed to hesitate, then added, "I'm really happy myself."

Lincoln grinned. Fred had been working here...what, nine years? Ten?...and that was the first time he'd ever admitted to feeling a certain emotion other than anger, annoyance, or...no, that was about it. Anger and annoyance. He looked happy, though, and so did Luan, and that was really nice to see; both of them were always so...he didn't want to say 'down' but pretty much, yeah, they were both always so down before they got together, now they were up and Lincoln was glad for it. He leaned forward and tried to spot Luan through the window; he caught a glimpse of the top of her head, she was taking an order and not within earshot.

"Luan's really great," he said. "She had a rough time for a while, but...she's a good person."

Fred laid a burger on the grill, then dropped a batch of fries into the deep fryer; the grease began to hiss and bubble loudly. "I don't know exactly what happened," Fred said, raising his voice to be heard over the din, "and I haven't asked. I just know she was a hippie and went to prison for doing _something_."

Hm. Now that kind of surprised Lincoln; he figured she would have told him by now. Not that she positively had to, he guessed, but what happened had such a massive impact on her life, and on who she ultimately became, that he thought it would come out fairly early.

Sensing this, perhaps, Fred added: "I don't really need to know. The past is the past and I'm worried about now."

Lincoln bobbed his head from side-to-side. Not a bad philosophy to have. Then again, in a marriage, it helped to be completely open and honest with one another. He understood Fred and Luan both had painful things in their past that they didn't want to talk about, but opening up to one another, confiding in one another, would strengthen their bond. He knew first hand: He told Ronnie Anne what happened to him while he was a POW in Vietnam, and though he didn't want to do it, he was glad he did. She knew what he went through, and she understood him better because of it. She supported him, and he _loved_ her better because of it.

"The past is important, though," Lincoln said, "it makes us who we are." He pushed away from the table and stood to his full height.

Fred tilted his head to one side in acquiescence.

Lincoln started to leave, figuring a deep philosophical note was the best to exit on, but he stopped. "Be good to my sister," he said, "I'd hate to have to kick your ass."

He was only half joking.

Fred chuckled. "I'll take good care of her, Linc," he said, "she's...she's really special to me."

Aw.

 _That_ was the note to leave on.

In the dining room, he went behind the counter and brushed past Alex, who was bent over with her elbows on the surface and her face in her hands, her eyes pointed at the wall mounted TV. Lincoln dropped onto his stool and followed her gaze: _Geraldo_ was on, one of those trashy TV tabloid talk shows that were suddenly all the rage. The handsome face of a young man with blonde hair filled the screen. Text appeared under him, and Lincoln squinted to read it, just barely making out JOHN METZGER, DIRECTOR WHITE ARYAN RESISTANCE YOUTH.

What?

He glanced over at Alex; she watched with captivation, her teeth grazing her lower lip and her eyes wide. He looked over his shoulder, and her order still sat in the window. "Hey," he said, "I'm paying you to wait tables, not watch TV."

She sighed, pushed away, and grabbed the plate, her eye never leaving the screen. Luckily, it cut to commercial and she snapped back to reality, otherwise she would have walked into a wall or something. A fat man with a bad combover came up to the register, and Lincoln cashed him out with a nod and a "please come again." Alex brought a stack of dirty plates into the kitchen, then returned to the table from whence they came and started to clean it, her neck craning up when _Geraldo_ came back on. Her wiping slacked, and she leaned heavily to one side to see better, putting all of her weight on one foot and kicking the other sightly up behind her. This happened every time something she liked was on, which is why he usually kept it on CNN. Speaking of, where was that damn remote? He glanced around, didn't see it, then bent over and checked the shelf running under the counter. Hey, there was his and Ernie's radio, his .38 ( _does that thing even work anymore?)_ , a stack of napkins, a stack of paper menus, straws...but no remote control.

Sitting up straight, he fixed a knitted-brow gaze onto Alex's back. "Hey," he called, and she started. Still on one foot like a flamingo, she began to lose her balance, and Lincoln's heart skipped a beat...but then she grabbed the edges of the table and saved herself. "Be more careful," he said...out of fatherly concern. She was pregnant after all, and taking a header into the floor while pregnant...let's change the subject. "Come here."

Alex glanced up at the screen, then came over. "What?"

Lincoln stuck his hand, palm open and facing up.

She grinned and slapped it. "Now up top," she said and held her own hand up like an Indian. _How._

Lincoln tilted his head to one side and gave her the best _cut the shit and pony up_ expression he could muster. "My remote?"

She met his expression with confusion. _Contrived_ confusion, her forehead wrinkling and her eyes narrowing. "I don't have it," she said and raised both of her hands. "See?"

Oh, he saw alright. He lifted off of the stool and bent over the counter. "Let me see your apron."

"It's not in there, either," she said quickly and took a step back. Lincoln flicked his eyes to hers, and the lie was so painfully obvious that even if he was angry (which he wasn't), he'd wind up taking pity on her because come on, how can you take _that_ face serious?

"My remote," he repeated.

Alex took a step forward...and balled her hands as if to pray. "Please don't change it, I wanna see the Nazis. Wait until it's over. Okay? Please?"

Nazis? Lincoln glanced up at the screen: Three men, including the blonde, sat in chairs on a stage as Geraldo interviewed members of the audience. One of them wore what certainly looked like a Nazi uniform (black shirt black pants, black tie, black jackboots) and the other had a shaved head. The only problem was, they were all under thirty. How the hell can you be a Nazi when you're twenty-six? Hell, that's Bobby Jr.'s age. The Third Reich was _not_ around in 1961. "Those aren't Nazis," he said.

"Yes they are. Neo-Nazis."

Lincoln blew a raspberry. "Fake Nazis." He couldn't lie, though, he was vaguely intrigued. "Turn it up."

He didn't have to tell her twice: She whipped the remote from her apron, pointed it at the TV, and pressed down the volume button, green bars marching across the camera was focused on the blonde now; his two Nazi buddies sat to his right, while a black man and a man who was pretty obviously Jewish sat to his left; the black man stared daggers at the blonde.

" _...reason that_ I _do that,"_ the blonde said and held up his index finger, " _is because I get sick and tired of hearing the sob stories from_ kikes…"

Lincoln gaped. You can say that on TV now? Holy God, in his day you couldn't even show a toilet on TV. Hell, remember _Leave it to Beaver?_ You think kids really talked like that in the fifties? A little, yeah, but you'd be much more likely to hear a twelve-year-old boy say 'son of a bitch' than 'golly-gee-willikers.' He knew, he was there, and while he didn't make it a habit to cuss when he was young, he still had his moments.

" _...and I'm sick of Uncle Tom here…"_ he gestured to the black man.

The black man got to his feet.

"Oh, shit," Alex said with a little smile that was just a _tad_ bloodthirsty.

A few of the diners were looking up at the screen now, their attention drawn by all the racial language. Onscreen, the black man walked up to the blonde. " _...let me tell you…"_ One of the other Nazis pointed a warning finger at him, and the black man made a fist. The blonde tried to get up...and like a lightning bolt from the heavens, the black man grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.

The camera jostled as someone bumped into it, and suddenly the stage was flooded with people kicking, punching, and shoving in a tangled confusion of humanity. Someone threw a chair and it landed in the crowd before being swallowed up like a shoe in quicksand. The blonde guy (or at least it looked like him, they switched to a camera at the back of the audience to catch every violent detail and Lincoln didn't have his glasses) landed a couple solid punches on the side of the black guy's head, and Geraldo was getting his ass kicked in a corner. The din of three dozen voices filtered from the speakers,every other word a annoying _beep_. Oh, you can say 'kike' on TV but not fuck. Got it.

"Yeah," Alex said sharply, and threw a quick jab at the air, "get him, kill him, kick his butt."

The black guy took a fist to the fast, and Alex cheered; a Nazi fell back onto his ass and caught the business end of someone's shoe, and Alex cheered. Lincoln looked at her quizzically. "Who's side are you even _on_?"

"Nobody's," she said, "I just like watching people beat each other up."

Lincoln nodded to himself. Made sense; ever since she met her cousin Lynn when they were kids, she'd been a fan of professional wrestling. Not a huge ohmigod-I-watch-it-every-night type of fan, but when it was on, she was glued to the screen. And what was happening on television right now was no different...only in pro wrestling, there's usually a cage involved when there are _that_ many people going at it. Gotta keep 'em contained somehow.

The stage began to clear as security got the situation under control. Geraldo staggered out of the wings looking dazed, his nose bloody and puffy. Looked broken.

Good. That's what you get, you dumb shit. _Hey, I have a_ brilliant _idea: Let's get two groups of people who hate each other's guts and put them onstage together_. _What could possibly go wrong?_ Oh, I dunno...maybe a full scale riot?

Of course, that's probably what they wanted. All those daytime talk shows cared only about ratings, and if it'd bump them up, they'd gladly bring in Nazis and Black Panthers, give them swords, and let them go. Hell, if they didn't have to worry about the FCC, they'd probably host televised orgies and executions. _Next up, we cut the dick of a child molster clean off his body, then we watch as two eleven-year-olds lose their virginity to each other. Only on Geraldo._

He glanced at Alex; she grinned savagely at the TV, her hands balled into fists.

Scratch that. _Only on The Alex Loud Show._

Lincoln snickered. _That_ would never happen...because he'd whip her ass with his belt. All kidding aside, he'd be horrified if she was involved with something like that. He didn't think she ever would be (God, liking boxing, wrestling, and street brawls is a far cry from a murderer), but, realistically, no parent ever pictures their child doing terrible things. _Gee, one day my son's going to grow up and strangle-rape a bunch of women. He might even get the chair._

No, really, he was certain she wouldn't, come on, he had more faith in his daughter than that.

He didn't realize he wasn't alone until Luan spoke from next to him. "What are you _watching?"_ She leaned against the counter and rested her chin in her hand. Her brow was furrowed in puzzlement.

"Neo Nazi deathmatch," Alex said.

Luan frowned. "Neo Nazis?" she asked distastefully and turned to Lincoln for confirmation. Nope, she isn't joking, sis.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, there was a riot on _Geraldo_. You'd have felt right at home there; just like the sixties."

She turned her head and favored him with a single raised brow. _Oh, you're cruising_ it seemed to say. He smirked and nudged her ribs. She slapped his arm in retaliation and he pulled away with a laugh. Always getting beaten up by women. First his sisters, then his wife, then his daughters. He was kind of surprised he didn't turn into a woman hater somewhere along the way and join the _other_ team, if you know what I mean.

Going gay. He was talking about going gay. At least with another man you can hit back and _really_ let him have it.

He rubbed his arm out of instinct rather than necessity. "You seem to forgot I hold your job in the palm of my hand." He held his hand out, open and facing up, then slowly closed it, as if to crush his sister's career. "Be a shame if something happened to it."

She reached under the counter and pulled a fork from the silverware rack. She held it up and pursed her lips. _You wanna get stabbed, Linc? That's how you get stabbed._ He started to go for the .38, but figured that might be a little much. "I know where you can put that," he said instead. She took a menacing step forward, and Lincoln threw up his arms. "No," he laughed, "please!"

As if on cue, the phone rang. Luan dropped the fork onto the counter and went to go answer it. Whew, saved by the bell. "You better watch it, Lincoln Loud," she said over her shoulder, "I don't care how old you are, I'm still your big sis and I will beat you." She picked up the handset and pressed it to her ear as Lincoln waved her off. Beat me? I'm a war hero, lady. You got no chance.

"Hello?"

A group of construction workers in plaid shirts and hardhats had come in and occupied two booths. Alex stood by with her pad open and her pen in the ready; _Geraldo_ was off and the noon newscast was coming on, so she was actually focused on her job now and not the screen.

"Sure, he's right here," Luan said, and Lincoln prickled. It was either for him or Fred, and in the nine years Fred had worked here, no one had ever called him. Poor guy. Guess that made Lincoln the popular kid in class. He reached behind him and held out his hand. Luan slapped the phone into it, and he pulled it to his ear. It reached comfortably now; he finally got around to having a new cord installed, which meant no more bending over. Nice work, Linc. It only took you seventeen years. "Hello?"

The connection was staticky, and until a familiar voice filled it, he thought it was broken. "Hey," Ronnie Anne said.

Lincoln instantly knew something was wrong. Her voice was slow and thick, like she was drunk and trying really hard not to slur. A sharp blade of worry pierced his heart and cold dread flooded his stomach. "What happened?" he asked, a crisp edge in his voice.

He heard voices in the background...a lot of them, and his worry only intensified. "Nothing," she said, her voice listless, "I'm fine, lame-o, I just...kind of hurt myself at work. I'm at the hospital."

Across the room, Alex threw a punch at the air, then kicked an imaginary shin while the construction workers looked on in wide eyed amazement, one of them shaking his head and laughing. She was no doubt telling them about the fight on _Geraldo_.

Lincoln fought hard to keep down the panic welling within him. He took a deep breath. "What happened?" he asked.

More voices. Beeping. Something plastic crinkling. "Nothing," she said, and from the slight inflection in her voice he ascertained that she didn't want to tell him.

And that scared him even more.

"What happened, Ronnie?" he asked. His tone was firm, demanding, one that he rarely used, but wasn't afraid to when necessary.

She didn't immediately reply, and when she finally did, she spoke with the reluctance of a thousand year old crypt door grating open. "I got shot."

" _What?"_

"I'm fine," she said tiredly, "it was just the shoulder. It went right through...they're...patching me up now. I'm on meds. It's fine."

A raging tempest of emotions swept through him like a nor'easter through the coastal New England countryside: Horror, terror, shock. He was suddenly sick, light-headed, and cold. Shot? Did he hear that right? Did she really say she was fucking _shot?_ He tried to speak, but stammered instead. "W-W-What happened? H-H-How'd you get _shot?"_

Luan, who was standing at the window talking to Fred, whipped her head around, her ponytail cracking like a whip and slashing her cheek. "What?" she asked, her features scrunching. He waved her sharply off.

"It's fine," Ronnie Anne mumbled, "don't worry...I'll tell you later." She sounded like she was in danger of drifting off...forever. "Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm gonna be fine. Just...don't run out of there like a woman."

"You're goddamn right I'm going to run out of here like a woman. You...you got _shot."_

The words fell from his lips in a jumble. He was leaning over the counter, one hand splayed on the surface and the other gripping the handset so hard his knuckles were white. He was coiled like a spring, and if you laid your hand on his shoulder, he would explode into a million little pieces. Behind him, the blood drained from Luan's face and her hand went to her throat.

"Alright," Ronnie Anne sighed, "I figured you would. I...I do want you to come here, though. Please."

"Royal Woods General?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Ten minutes."

"Thanks, lame-o," she said, a faint smile creeping into her voice, "I love you."

Emotion welled in Lincoln's throat. "I love you too."

The line went silent. He jumped up, turned, and noticed Luan and Fred both watching him; both looked concerned. "What happened?" Luan asked.

"Nothing," Lincoln said as he passed, his mind already at Ronnie Anne's side. He handed Luan the phone. When he spoke next, it was a reflexive act almost completely devoid of thought. "Sarge, you're in command. Establish a parameter and post a watch."

"Yes, sir," Fred replied without missing a beat.

Lincoln went around the counter and strode to the door, just self-aware enough to know that he shouldn't run. He pushed through the door, and a cold wind washed across his sweat slicked brow, bringing him back just enough to realize he should probably bring Alex with him. Her mother was in the hospital, after all.

Shot.

He went back in and looked around, but no Alex. Goddamn it, where was she? Fucking off again?

As if on cue, the door to the women's room opened and she came out. "Alex," he called, and she looked up. "Come on," he jerked his chin toward the door.

She frowned as she came over. "What?"

"Move out," he said, and ducked back through the door.

For a moment she stood where she was, a puzzled expression on her face, then she hurried after him, reaching his car just as he slipped behind the wheel. She pulled the passenger door open and bent over. "Where are we going?" There was a note of apprehension in her voice.

"Get in," Lincoln said firmly, and Alex obeyed instantly; she was a grown woman, but it doesn't matter how old you are, when your father busts out the Dad voice, you listen. She slid in and buckled her seatbelt, barely getting the tongue into the clasp before her father threw the car into reverse and hung and sharp left. His face was hard, set, and his eyes were filled with perturbation.

Though she'd never say so out loud (out loud he was a dork), her father was a tough dude; he was big, strong, confident, and never let anything get under his skin. Seeing him in such a fluster scared her. Something _major_ was going on. "What's wrong?" she asked soberly. He whipped out onto the street in a squeal of tires and jostled over the curb; they both bounced, the top of her head hitting the roof and the seatbelt pulling painfully across her stomach. "Ow!" she yelped. "Slow down."

He stole a quick glance at her, then looked ahead again. "Sorry," he said earnestly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said...with more snap than she meant. "But what's wrong? You're freaking me out."

Dad pulled to a rolling stop at a red light and sighed. "Your mom hurt herself at work. She's fine but she's in the hospital."

Something sharp and cold stuck into Alex's chest. "What?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I talked to her on the phone. She's going to be alright she just...she had to go to the hospital." The last part came in a rush, as though he wanted it out and forgotten. His flexed his fingers on the wheel and took a deep, calming breath. The light changed and he pressed on the gas, the jarring acceleration pushing her back against the seat.

Alright. He said he talked to her on the phone, so it couldn't be _too_ bad, right? He said she was okay, but he was acting like she was de..sudden tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them away. Jeez, get it together. He said she was okay and he wouldn't lie about something like that. She probably just sprained her ankle or something. Those stairs are a bitch; she went to RCH for four years and she must have fallen on them a thousand times. "What happened?"

At the next intersection, he took a right. "I don't know," he said, and there was something in his voice, something that Alex didn't like, something that told her he _did_ know, but wanted to keep it from her because it was _that_ awful.

Her stomach tightened and her heart started to crash against her ribs like Rick Allen's drum kit. Visions of her mother lying blood-splattered in a bed, her face drawn and white and her eyes rolled up to the ceiling like a dead fish flitted through her head, and the tears came back, hot and stinging. Dad glanced over, and his features softened. "Hey," he said lowly and put his hand on her leg, "she's fine, I'm just...I'm a worrywart. You know that."

Yeah, she _did_ know that, but so was she. How can you _not_ worry about the ones you love, especially when they're in the hospital and you don't know why and maybe they're dying alone and afraid and...

She broke down, her head bowing and her hand flying to her face. "Honey," Dad said softly, "really, she's fine. You know what she told me?"

Her only reply was a wet sniff.

"She said 'Don't run down here like a woman, lame-o, I'm fine."

Alex grinned despite herself. Yeah, that was Mom for you. "I'm sorry. I just...I was thinking morbid stuff."

They were pulling into the hospital now, a complex of tall brick buildings connected by walkways and surrounded by parking lot here and well-manicured gardens there. Most of it was new, added in the mid-seventies. A line of ambulances sat by the emergency entrance, their lights flashing lazily against the gray afternoon.

"I do the same thing," Dad said. He gave her leg a reassuring squeeze and chuckled sardonically, "I guess I passed it down. Sorry."

Maybe it was the nerves - suddenly finding out your mom's in the hospital and might be seriously hurt - but something about that struck Alex as so funny she laughed until she was crying again. Dad slid the car into a slot facing the cancer center, cut the engine, and took her in his arms, his hand threading through her hair and his chin coming to rest on the top of her head. "I swear, Alex, she's okay," he said, and she believed him, because the alternate was to believe something else, something far, far worse. "She's your mom. It takes a lot ot put her down. Like a silver bullet."

She snickered, pulled away from him, and brushed the tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said again. Mom was hurt and here she was making Dad comfort _her_. What a bitch, huh?

Dad flashed a wan smile. "It's fine, he said, "now come on."

* * *

Rita Loud gripped the edge of the kitchen table and slowly lowered herself onto one of the chairs, a wince of pain crossing her face as her back and knees wailed in arthritic protest. She sucked a sharp breath through bared teeth, settled, and groaned lowly. Russel sat on the floor and looked up at her, his head cocked to one side in a cute expression of concern. "I'm okay, dear," she said, her voice strained. She reached for her mug with one shaky hand and attempted to curl her finger around the handle, but gasped as bolts of agony shot up her arm. She pulled back and rested her hands in her lap. "It needs to cool anyway," she told the corgi. That was a lie; in the time it took her her get from the coffee pot to here, right now, it had cooled plenty.

Like any arthritis sufferer, Rita had her good days, and she had her bad days. Today was a bad day; she felt the dull throb in her fingers before she was even fully awake. Come to think of it, she thought she even felt it in her sleep. She felt relatively fine all three times she got up to use the bathroom, but somewhere in the Land of Nod, the pain fairy paid her a visit, sprinkling his hateful dust on her joints like a malicious Johnny Appleseed. Getting out of bed took her nearly twenty minutes, and every step made her hiss. Sitting on the toilet was difficult, but getting up was nearly impossible; she almost called for Luan, but resolved not to: She could do it herself, and she did, though by the end of it she was in tears.

Cold dread bubbled in the pit of her stomach, because she knew it would only be a matter time before she _wouldn't_ be able to do it herself anymore. She would lose her mobility, her independence, and frankly, that frightened her: Being trapped, unable to simply get up and walk across the room, was a fate worse than death. Though most anything was a fate worse than death; at least in death she would be free...she would have a new body and dwell within the house of the Lord.

 _I hope it's wheelchair accessible,_ she thought, and laughed richly, mainly at the absurdity of that concept. Heaven doesn't need wheelchair ramps because, in Heaven, all imperfections, like all tears, will be washed away. In Heaven, your bones won't grate painfully against one another, your brain won't slowly decay, and you won't be addicted to drugs; in Heaven, you will be made whole and consummate.

Unfortunately, that was little consolation on earth, where terrible things happen and your body slowly withers. Some days, when the pain was really bad, she honestly wondered why God was doing this to her. _You already took two of my daughters_ and _my husband. Why my freedom too?_ She knew the answer, though, she just didn't want to accept it. Our world is fallen. In the beginning, all was good and pure, but then the serpent tempted Eve and man was cast from Eden into the harsh, hardscrabble world. Here, in this life, children die of cancer, volcanoes erupt and blot out entire cities, people are treated unfairly, and men are tempted as surely as that long ago woman. Look at Jim Bakker from _The PTL Club_. He was a minister, for crying out loud, and yet, he gave in to sins of the flesh for even the righteous are not spared the lure of evil.

She frowned. She was rambling. Again. It was bound to happen at her age; if she kept long enough, her mind would start to go as well.

That was a concern for another day, though. Right now her main worry was her coffee. How was she going to drink it if she couldn't even pick it up? Perhaps if she used both hands like a child…?

Or a straw. She didn't think there were any, so she reached out and took the cup in her hands, her forehead pinching at the red pain streaking up her arms. She lifted it to her lips and tilted her head back; the lukewarm liquid filled her mouth and cascaded down the back of her throat, some dribbling down her chin. "I have a hole," she told Russel as she sat the shaking mug on the table with a muffled clunk. She smiled fondly at the memory of saying the same to the kids when they were small and spilled things. _Do you have a hole in your chin?_ Every time she directed it at Leni, the poor girl would feel along the bottom of her jaw with her fingers, then pronounce herself hole-free. Poor baby, they had no idea she was sick.

Rita closed her eyes against a rush of hot tears. _No,_ she told herself. She was not going to do this.

Drawing a deep breath, she forced that thought from her mind and opened her eyes again, her gaze going to the window over the sink; it had begun to rain, and beads sluiced forlornly down the glass. She was starting to feel stiff, and when she shifted, her lower back screamed. "I think it's time to go back into the living room," she said and pushed away from the table, grimacing at the pain. She got slowly to her feet, but was not able to stand fully straight; she bent forward like a hunchback and shuffled across the kitchen, afraid to lift her feet lest she lose her balance. Russel trotted alongside her, looking up as if to keep a watchful eye in case she fell.

In the living room, she crossed to her chair, backed up until the backs of her knees were touching the seat, then splayed a hand on each arm and lowered herself gingerly, her arms shaking. At the last moment, they gave out and she dropped roughly. The fall was three inches if it was a centimeter, but it was a painful three inches. She moaned and squeezed her eyes closed, her head shaking back and forth. _No, I did not enjoy that._

When it passed, she flopped her head back and caught her breath.

Growing old was frustrating. And tiring; she closed her eyes, intent on letting herself nap, but the shrill cry of the phone roused her. So much, in fact, that she nearly keeled over of a heart attack. She turned to the end table at her right hand, and her eyes fell across the photo from hers and Lynn's wedding. She flashed a tight-lipped smile and looked away before she could tear up again.

 _Brrrrrrrnnnnngggg._

I'm coming, I'm coming. She picked up the handset and raised it to her ear, pinning a lock of hair between the lobe and the speaker. She used the phone to brush it away. "Hello?"

"Hi, Rita, it's Shirley."

The corners of Rita's lips turned up in fondness. Shirley Breckenridge was one of the very few friends she had who was still alive; a tall, thin woman with snow white hair, she would be seventy-five this summer and was in disgustingly good shape for her age. Envy was a sin, and while Rita did her best not to sin, we're only human, and sometimes we fall short of God's glory. "Hi," she said, "I was wondering if you were going to call today." That wasn't exactly true; Shirley calling was a foregone conclusion, like the sun rising and the moon setting; one day these calls, like the movements of those celestial bodies, would stop, but for now, they were all but assured.

Shirley sighed. "Frank had a bad day and I stayed the night with him. I got home less than an hour ago."

Her husband, Frank, owned the hardware store once upon a time (the building was something else now, but Rita couldn't remember what). He suffered a stroke in '70 or '71 and retired as his mobility was severely limited. A few years ago, he had another, bigger, one, and entirely lost the ability to take care of himself. Shirley couldn't do it (she was in good shape but not _that_ good), so she was forced to put him in a nursing home. She spent the night with him sometimes when he had a particularly rough day - confusion, mainly. He was developing Alzheimer's and some days were harder for him. Like Rita with her arthritis.

"How _is_ he?" she asked.

There was a pregnant pause on Shirley's end. "...He's doing well," she said haltingly, "all things considered. Yesterday he was confused and upset but once I got there and we spoke, he calmed down."

Rita hummed in sympathy. "Poor thing."

"It's hard on him," Shirley admitted. It was hard on her as well, Rita knew, but she was too proud to admit it or to complain. Rita could only imagine what she was going through, watching her husband of fifty years slowly fade, and in a nursing home at that. Losing Lynn was a soul-shattering blow, but at least he went quickly; she didn't know if she could have taken standing helplessly aside as he slowly slipped away.

Like she did with Leni.

"He's in my prayers," she said.

"Thank you," Shirley said, "I appreciate it." Her tone lowered conspiratorially. "Did you hear what happened?"

The sudden shift in topic did not faze Rita in the slightest. Her chats with Shirley touched upon many things, but were always centered around gossip; Shirley _loved_ to gossip...things she saw, things she heard, things she suspected. It was a pastime with her, a hobby, one that she had developed over the last ten years or so, as there was little else for a sixty-plus-year-old woman to do in Royal Woods. When their other friends were alive and well, they would pass entire evenings on the party line trading stories, accusations, and speculation. Rita did not believe in spreading rumors, but she didn't believe in not listening to them. "No, I didn't," she said and shifted the phone to her other hand, the cord pulling tight across her bosom.

"Well," Shirley said, "when I was on my way home, I saw a lot of police cars and a lot of ambulances."

Rita nodded. "I heard them." Sirens weren't uncommon in Royal Woods - it was a small town but people still committed crimes and got hurt - but the apocalyptic din that rose in the distance an hour or so ago struck her as odd...and ominous: It sounded like a whole army of emergency vehicles, which suggested something major was happening. It reminded her of the time a commercial plane crashed outside of town. That was...1948, she thought: Something happened to it and it fell from the sky like a rock, smashing into a farmer's field and exploding into a million pieces. Every policeman, fireman, and ambulance driver in four towns responded, and the wail of a thousand sirens choked the air; she was told people in Chippewa Falls fifteen miles away could hear it, though she was skeptical.

A rustling sound filled the line as, presumably, Shirley shifted the phone to her other hand. "I was just coming through the door when the phone rang. It was Edna."

Edna Mason was the oldest of Rita and Shirley's group: A tiny, shriveled woman with curly white hair, she was 91 this past September, and lived alone in a tiny pink house across from the high school with three cats.

Shirley continued. "She said someone shot up the school."

Rita didn't immediately grasp what her friend had said, but when it sank in, she jolted. " _What?"_

On the other end Shirley hummed. "Umhm. She said there was a lot of shooting and screaming, and that people were running away. She…"

Rita didn't hear the rest.

The high school.

Where Ronnie Anne worked.

"Shirley, I have to go," she said quickly. Shirley started to speak again, but Rita was already leaning over and pushing the switch hook with one shaky finger. Her chest was tight and her mind blank with rising panic. Who should she call? Who _could_ she call? She pressed 0 and lifted the handset to her ear. When the operator answered, she spoke, her voice trembling. "Get me Royal County High, please."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the operator replied, "all calls to that number are being held. There was…"

Rita pressed the hook down again, her anxiety rising. Her daughter-in-law was possibly hurt and with each passing moment that she didn't know her condition her certainty that she was dead grew.

After a moment of racing thought, she dialed Flip's and waited impatiently as the line rang. Maybe Lincoln knew something; maybe Ronnie Anne was okay and called him...or maybe she wasn't and the hospital or someone did. Come on, come on, pick up…

The line clicked, and a woman's voice answered. "Flip's. How can I help you?"

"Laun," Rita said, "it's me, Mom. Is Lincoln there?"

Ominous silence filled the line, and Rita's heart stopped.

"No, something...something happened with Ronnie Anne. I t-think he went to the hospital."

Rita's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God," she muttered.

Suddenly she was very, very cold, and very, very shaky.

"W-What happened?" Luan asked. "He said she was shot."

Rita's heart clenched painfully, and the phone dropped from her hand.

"Mom? _Mom?"_


	144. November and December 1989: Part 13

**1: Someone said in a review a while back that they were sick of rock and pop music and wanted to see rap. Well, it just so happens that your old pal Flagg likes old school rap and was planning to incorporate some anyway.**

 **2: I mentioned weeks and weeks ago there being an upcoming fork in the road: One path would lead to a happy ending, and one would lead to a dark ending. You might assume it had something to do with the school shooting. It didn't. That was a last minute decision since nothing exciting or suspenseful had happened in a while. The dark ending, which I am not going to us, was going to be this: Jessy and a few of her friends (maybe Mark too) would have gone to a cabin by a lake during the summer of 1989 for a little R &R. Long story short, someone was going to break in and rape and murder the girls, including Jessy. Lincoln was going to have a mental breakdown since she's basically his daughter, Lynn Sr. was going to have a heart attack and die shortly after getting the news, Luan would hang herself, Fred would shoot himself over losing Luan, and Rita would lose all faith in God and renounce her faith. The killer would be caught a year or so later out of state and flown back to Michigan via Detroit. Lincoln would somehow find out, get his gun, and wait for him in the terminal. When he saw him...bang, you're dead. I decided not to go that route as it struck me as not just dark but outlandishly dark, and this has never been, and never will **_**be,**_ **an outlandish story.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _She Wants to Dance With Me_ by Rick Astley (1989)**

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._

Lincoln sat in a waiting room with puke green carpet and cream colored walls, his back curved forward and his hands balled at his mouth, his chin resting upon his thumbs. A table lamp cast muted yellow light across the floor in a long, expressionist rectangle that reminded him of a slanted window in a nightmare. Alex sat next to him, her hands wringing in her lap and her eyes downcast. The atmosphere between them was heavy; Ronnie Anne was in surgery and even though the doctor assured them that the procedure was _comparatively routine,_ they were both worried sick. Lincoln's stomach roiled with dark nerves, and Alex occasionally chewed her thumbnail. She was a _little_ upset with him that he didn't tell her what happened to her mother...she found out when the doctor said _It was a clean wound, the bullet went right through._ Her eyes widened and her face went white. _Bullet?_ She asked, her head whipping toward Lincoln. _Bullet?_

Holding that back was shitty, okay? But he wanted to keep it from her as long as possible. She was worried enough as it was _without_ knowing Ronnie Anne was here because she was fucking shot.

A cold shiver went down his spine. God, no matter how many times he ran it through his head, he just couldn't grasp it. Someone shot her. His Ronnie Anne. Hot rage bubbled up inside of him, and he sneered against his hands. In the hour and a half that they had been here, he'd pieced the story together as best he could from overheard conversations: Some asshole kid brought a gun to school and shot a bunch of people. A dozen were here at RWG, some of them in critical condition...and others were dead.

What could possess someone do run around fucking shooting people? How fucking crazy do you have to be?

Crazy or not, if he got his hands on that little punk, he'd pop his head off like a tick. So help him fucking God.

He sighed in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure building in his chest, but it remained, pressing against him like a pile of stones. He glanced over at the hall, which was abuzz with activity, doctors and nurses rushing this way and that. RWG was a fairly large hospital, but they had to be strained under the sudden influx of so many patients at once. There were also a not entirely unsurprising police presence; just now a cop in black made his way down the corridor and pushed through a set of doors at the end. Lincoln didn't know what lie beyond, but that's where the doctor came from earlier, and somewhere past them was Ronnie Anne, his sweet, beautiful Ronnie Anne.

Impatience flooded through him, and he began to tap his foot. The PA system paged a Doctor Howard, and the clock pinned to the wall ticked maddeningly on. _Tick. Tick. Tick._ He drummed his fingers and sat up straight. He needed to get up and walk around or he'd explode.

Jessy. That's right. He had to call Jessy. He glanced at the clock. It was almost one in the afternoon; she was in class, if he remembered her schedule correctly. He got to his feet, and Alex glanced up at him; was it his imagination, or was there a flicker of something in her eyes...something that didn't want him to go? "I'll be right back," he said softly, "I have to call your sister."

"Okay," she said lowly, and looked back at her lap. Lincoln bent and squeezed her shoulder. "It's gonna be fine. You heard the doctor. Enjoy the peace while you can, because your mom's going need us to wait on her hand and foot for a while."

She nodded but didn't reply.

Lincoln gave her another squeeze, then set off down the hall to look for a payphone. He knew there was one somewhere, he saw it when he came in, he just wasn't in the state of mind to commit its location to memory. Or anything else, for that matter.

He eventually found it in the main lobby, a wide, vaulted space with windows along one wall, faux stone flooring, and skylights which let in cascades of cold winter sunshine. A black cop stood by the doors leading outside, his arms crossed over his chest and his chin jutted out. Another cop paced back and forth in front of the reception desk, where a blonde woman in blue scrubs busied herself with paperwork. Lincoln fished a dime out of his pocket, dropped it into the slot, and whipped out his wallet. He had the number to the college in here somewhere.

Cradling the phone between his neck and the side of his head, he dug through his billfold until he found it on a crumpled scrap of paper. He shifted the phone and dialed, his fingers hesitantly punching the buttons. They trembled, just like the rest of him.

As he listened to the muffled ring, his eyes travelled across the lobby to the cop by the door; he looked constipated and like he'd rather be somewhere else. Lincoln knew how he felt.

When the front desk secretary answered, he asked for Jessy. "It's a family emergency," he explained. Since the college had no public address system, someone had to be sent to her classroom. Lincoln found the payphone's number on the plastic casing, recited it, then hung up. Something _else_ to wait for.

Sighing, he turned, leaned against it, and crossed his arms. Until she called back, this phone was officially his, and if anyone tried to take it, he'd kick their ass, then he'd kick the cops' asses if they tried to be heros. _Two police officers were given wedgies by a disgruntled army veteran today,_ he imagined a news anchor saying and glancing at a sheaf of papers in their hands, _the veteran was shot and killed._

He chuckled. Laugh or cry. He drew a deep breath and looked around. A few people sat in a little alcove waiting room to his left. A woman, about sixty, was bent over a paperback while a girl roughly fifteen sat next to her with her arms crossed and a dull expression on her freckled face. Strands of her reddish brown hair fell across her acne studded forehead. She stuck her bottom lip out and blew a puff of air, rustling them. Aside from the hair color, she looked nothing like Jessy, but for some reason she reminded him of her. If he was totally honest, he really missed her being that age. He missed Alex being young too; they were no longer his little grls, but women with their own lives...lives that kept him from seeing them as much as he wanted to.

That was his problem, though; he could be too goddamn needy sometimes.

He leaned forward and looked down the hall he had just come down: He could _just_ make out the double doors, and he watched them intently, ready to hurry back if they opened and the doctor came out. How fucking long did it take to patch a bullet wound? From what they said, she was shot in roughly the same spot he was, and it took that Cong doctor five minutes to take the slug out, throw a bandage on, and send him back to his cage. With as slow as they were being, you'd think they were taking a dozen bullets out.

An image of Ronnie Anne full of holes danced mockingly through his head, and he shoved it away. She was fine. She said it herself, the doctor said it ( _your wife is a very lucky woman_ ), there was no reason to worry. Well, of course there was reason to _worry_ but not to drive himself crazy with it. Still, his wife was fucking shot, how could he _not_ worry? How could he _not_ be scared and upset and shaking and so impatient to see her that he could kill a man? She wasn't in grave danger, though, she was going to live, she was going to be fine, it was all alright.

Even so, acid gurgled in his stomach and threatened to rise up his esophagus. He pried his gaze away from the doors and stared down the hall ahead of him; the second cop walked halfway down, turned, came back to the lobby, then spun and did it all over again. He reminded Lincoln of a royal palace guard in London, you know, the ones with the tall, furry hats and red coats. Keeping endless watch over Buckingham, making sure the Queen doesn't escape and indulge her insatiable bloodlust. He looked down the hall. The doors remained firmly shut, his wife hidden away beyond.

He never wanted to hold her so bad in his life.

The phone rang, and he turned, snatching the handset up. "Hello?"

"Hey," Jessy said, her voice wary and uncertain, "what's up?"

Lincoln didn't speak for a moment. He wanted to phrase this in the best possible way so she didn't go to pieces like he and Alex. "Hey, honey," he said, and was surprised by how steady his voice was, "look, your M - Aunt Ronnie Anne got hurt at work and she's in the hospital. She's alright, but I just wanted you to know."

"What happened?"

Should he tell her? He already made the mistake of not telling Alex and kind of pissing her off. Then again...he didn't want to say it...for her sake _and_ his. "Well...there was a...a shooting…"

" _SHE GOT SHOT?"_

Lincoln winced. "Yes. She's fine, though, it was just a flesh wound. She's okay, I promise. If she wasn't I'd be crying."

"I'll be right there."

"Drive the speed limit, honey."

 _Click._

He sighed and placed the phone back on the hook. He really hoped she drove the speed limit. _Don't come running down here like a woman._ Did _he_ drive the speed limit? He tried to remember as he walked back to the waiting room. He thought so. He may have driven erratically, though.

Damn it. He should have lied to her, now he was going to worry until she got here. In the Beetle, hopefully, and not the back of an ambulance. Alex looked up when he appeared, then away. "I called Jess," he said and sat. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, "it's just taking a really long time."

"Well...they have to patch her up right," he said even though he agreed.

She glanced at him. "Do you think...like...she'll lose the use of her arm or something?"

Lincoln considered for a moment. He supposed it was a possibility. "I don't think so," he said at length. He twisted in his seat and pulled down the front of his T-shirt. "I got shot right here." He tapped a lumped mass of scar tissue near his armpit. "And my arm's never been stronger." Alex sat forward and craned her neck, her brow furrowing in concentration. She'd seen it before, but now she looked at it with critical appraisal instead of mild curiosity.

Her eyes darted to his. "How did it feel?" she asked.

"At first," Lincoln said, "I didn't feel it." He thought back to that sticky, humid day in the jungle of South Vietnam, running from the oncoming enemy and leaving Lee, his friend, behind. He remembered the bullet slamming into him and knocking him down, remembered the numbness that quickly settled over him. "When you get shot, your body goes into shock." His eyes had drifted from Alex's and gazed into the distance. He turned to her. "After the shock wore off, it felt like someone stabbed me with a curling iron."

A flicker of sympathy crossed her face. "Did it go out the other side?"

He shook his head. "Nope. It hit the bone and stopped. They had to take it out with a pair of tweezers." At least he thought they did; he was sitting with his head bowed and his hands bound, the doctor working behind him, a cigarette jutting from his mouth and his dirty hands ungloved. The only sensations he could remember were red hot pain, then an alien and unpleasant _pulling_ ; the memory was so keen that even now, twenty-one years later, he winced. "It wasn't very fun."

She looked down at her hands. "How long were you...a prisoner?"

Alex and Jessy knew next to nothing about Lincoln's time in Vietnam, just that he was a POW and escaped. Ronnie Anne told them early on not to ask him about it, and in their minds, he imagined, it was the proverbial eight hundred pound gorilla in the room: You know it's there, you want to know more about it, but if you approach it you might get your head ripped off. Not by him, but by its handler. Ronnie Anne.

He was glad they didn't push the topic, but they deserved to know. If they wanted to.

"Almost nine months," he said.

"What was it like?" she asked, perhaps emboldened by his newfound candor.

Lincoln sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Hell. It was like hell."

Alex started to speak, but hesitated. He assumed she wanted to know more, but at the same time didn't. "How'd you escape?"

For the briefest of moments, he was back - literally back - in that flatbed, artillery fire booming in the distance and his heart slamming wildly in his throat. Henderson was across from him, his eyes narrow and his shoulders tensed in expectation. He jerked to his left, and the guard was there, his face drawn with worry. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was back in the waiting room, Alex looking at him with a trace of concern. "Nevermind," she said.

"No, it's fine," he said. "I -"

She plugged her ears. "Not listening."

He snickered. There was his playful Alex. Muted and subdued, but still alive and kicking. He was secretly glad that she didn't want to hear, because he didn't want to tell. He would, though.

He would.

For a while, they sat in silence. The doors opened several times and they both tensed, but it was never Ronnie Anne's doctor, and they both sat back in identical gestures of disappointment. Lincoln propped his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers against his face. He knew she was going to be okay, but worry gnawed at his stomach nevertheless. Memories wound through his mind...the day he asked her to the dance, their first kiss, the first time they made love to one another, their wedding day, Alex's birth...so many warm, happy snapshots, so many beautiful moments.

How close did he come to losing her?

A vise of dread tightened around his heart. He didn't know, and he frankly didn't _want_ to know, but he also did: One inch, one step to the right or left, one moment slower...and he could be sitting here waiting to identify her body, and when they drew the sheet back and he saw her pale, bloodless face, her staring brown eyes, once so warm and loving but now cold and dead, he would lose it..he would go crazy and never come back. He liked to think he was tough, and he liked to present himself as tough - worlds away from the anxious little boy he once was - but he wasn't tough, he was weak, fragile...a quivering pink core coated by a thin veneer that might look strong, but would crack and shatter if struck too hard. Ronnie Anne was the same. She'd never said so, but he knew it...he could see it in her eyes. When he was missing in Vietnam, she was close to suicide. When he thought she was going to die in childbirth, _he_ was close to suicide. He didn't know if that was normal or not (something told him it wasn't), but when someone means _that_ much to you, how can you go on without them?

In this case, of course, he would go on for his girls, but goddamn, he'd be a miserable son of a bitch.

He didn't have to worry about that, though. It was a what-if and there are so many what-ifs in life that you can spend all your days wondering and going slowly insane. She was going to be okay. The doctor said so himself and doctors know more about bullet wounds than some guy who was shot once. Being shot doesn't mean shit. You can be electrocuted...doesn't make you Thomas Edison. Still, she wasn't entirely out of the woods. What if the operation went wrong? What if her body went into shock or something? What if she was fine for a week...then got an infection and died? He didn't know fuck about medicine or the human body. Anything could happen and he'd never see it coming.

He sat up straight and crossed his arms just as Jessy appeared, a harrowed expression on her face and unshed tears standing in her eyes. "How is she?" she asked in a breathless whisper.

"The doctor says she'll be fine," he said as she sank stiffly into the empty seat next to him. "They're patching her up right now." He slipped his arm around her because she looked like she really needed it. He sure knew he did.

"What happened?" she asked and turned her face to his. There was an almost childish pleading in her voice and eyes that made his heart ache. "The radio said something about people dying…"

Lincoln drew her close. He started to speak, but stopped himself. He was going to say _some piece of shit brought a gun to school_. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath. "Yes. There was a shooting. At the school." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to and he didn't want to.

Jessy took a deep, watery breath and held her hand to her forehead. Alex slipped out of her seat and came over, kneeling in front of her sister and taking her free hand. "Hey," she said, "Mom's gonna be fine. She's Mom. It takes a lot to but her down, like a silver bullet."

Really? Lincoln thought with a snort. You're stealing my material now?

"Where did she get shot?" Jessy asked, and threaded her fingers through her sister's. Alex face strained sightly at the discomfort of her position, but she made no move to get up. Lincoln slipped out of his chair and into the one next to it; wordlessly, Alex took his place.

"In the shoulder," he said.

"Yeah," Alex added reassuringly, putting up a front for Jessy the way he had for her, "it's not like she got hit in the chest or anything. You can't die from an arm wound."

Jessy sighed. "Yes you can."

"She's not going to die," Lincoln said, "she _is_ going to need us to take care of her until her arm heels, though." It was his hope that talking confidently about the future - and its inclusion of Ronnie Anne - would allay Jessy's fears. _She's coming home and our life will continue the way it had before._

A doctor in blue scrubs came down the hall and went through the double door.

If only they'd hurry the fuck up. Where was that Cong doctor? He could be done and halfway back to Vietnam by now. Seriously, he was expected to _not_ think that something terrible was happening when it was taking _this_ long?

Alex and Jessy held each other's hands and talked lowly, something Alex said eliciting a forced, tired chuckle from her sister. Lincoln watched them with a fond smile, his heart swelling with love and pride for both of them. Alex putting on a brave face for Jessy when she was scared just as shitless as he was...that was sweet, really, really sweet.

In that moment, he felt the old aching loss of not being able to have more children with Ronnie Anne. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted a whole house full of Alexs. Oh, God, they'd drive him up the wall...but he'd love and cherish every single moment of it. Every. Single. Moment.

The doors opened, and when Lincoln saw who it was, he jumped to his feet: Ronnie Anne's doctor, a short, stooped man with glasses and reddish brown hair named Peterson. His shoulders reminded Lincoln of the Hunchback of Notre Dame...and his jowls reminded him of a hound dog. Alex and Jessy both looked up as he approached, Alex tensing a little; her agitation affected Jessy, who squeezed her sister's hand so tightly that she winced. Lincoln resisted the urge to snatch the man by the front of his smock and third degree him.

"Mr. Loud," he said with a nod.

"How is she?"

Dr. Peterson nodded again. "She's in the recovery room. The procedure went as well as expected. It does not look like there will be any lasting nerve damage but she _will_ most likely need to undergo physical therapy. That's for another day, though."

Jessy and Alex huddled close on either side of them; his slipped an arm around either's waist and drew them close. "Can we see her?"

"Yes, you can."

Holding fast to one another, Ronnie Anne's family went to her.

* * *

Lynn Loud was in a good mood...a _really_ good mood. How good? _So_ good. When she woke that Monday, she greeted the day with a happy smile and stretched. Usually, she was a bear in the morning, but not today...she was a pussycat. Meow.

Next to her, Ritchie was humped on his side and facing away, sawing logs like he did every night. Seriously, this guy sounded like _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. That didn't faze her, though; she rolled over, wrapped her arms around him, and hooked her leg over his. He was her teddy bear, so fluffy and stuffy and warm. She kissed his bare shoulder and he snorted. One thing about the Rich man, he was a _deep_ sleeper; she was pretty sure you could chop his arm off and he wouldn't notice until he woke up. _Where's my arm? I had it last night_.

A thought occurred to her.

Could he sleep through a blowjob?

She scrunched her lips to the side and thought. She was exaggerating about the arm thing, but just barely. It'd be kind of hot if he could...though she couldn't say exactly _why._ Hm. She ran her hand down his side, slipped it under the blanket, and cupped his crotch: Like every healthy male of a certain age, he met the morning with a raging erection. Today was no different; he was hard and rigid under his boxers, and the excess blood in his member made it _hot._ Ummmm. She pushed her fingers past his waistband and through the tangle of his pubic hair, moving them slowly up his length. Breakfast time: I'll take the sausage with white gravy, please!

Grinning at how witty she was (hey, mopping up at baseball and selling cars like a pro wasn't _all_ she was good at), she shifted onto him, then off, coming to rest between him and the edge of the mattress. His meat poked her stomach and his eyelids fluttered. Hi, sexy! She started to scoot down, then something occurred to her and she froze. Okay, you know how when you're pregnant (like she was), the baby is hooked to you via the umbilical cord? That's so it could eat what you eat. If you swallowed, say, something, you know, sexual, would the baby eat that too?

Her nose crinkled in disgust. Uh, yeah, from now on I spit. Sorry, guy.

She dipped beneath the covers and tugged his boxers down just enough for him to pop free; in the shadows (you could say she was _under the cover of darkness,_ ha!), it was a vague but yummy shape. She molded her lips around his head and pushed slowly down, the tip of her tongue dancing along his shaft. You might not know if from talking to her, since she kind of came across as a tomboy or something (apparently), but Lynn liked sucking dick; making Ritchie feel good brought her a great deal of satisfaction because she loved the shit out of him, and if making the guy you love feel so good he calls you mommy doesn't do it for you, do you really love him? Do you _really?_ She knew he loved her, because when he went downtown, brother, he played to _win._ She thought he was good on the baseball field, but he was better on _her_ field. If ya know what I mean.

When she reached his base, she pulled back up, then stroked down, his tip hitting the back of her throat. Alright, she didn't love _that_ part, but she could deal with it. She lifted up, then down, up, then down. Ritchie's breathing was heavy now, and his hips rocked forward ever so slightly - it could have been a conscious movement or it could have been _sub_ conceous movement. Lynn couldn't really tell, and she didn't really care: The ragged sounds of his exhalations was really starting to turn her on. She slid her hand down the front of her shorts and lazily rubbed herself; pangs of pleasure rippled through her stomach and she hummed as she reached his head and went down again.

His fingers wove through her hair and he thrusted gently upward. Yep, he was awake. Darn, she wanted to tease him. _You slept through a blowjob. Spit in my face, why don't you? I oughta pound you._ His nails grazed her scalp and thin, sticky precum coated the inside of her mouth. She rubbed faster and stopped bobbing her head; Ritchie continued thrusting, fucking her mouth. God, she loved that; it was a very mild way of giving up control, and sometimes she liked that. Don't fucking tell a soul, though.

Sudden pressure began to build in her depths and she moaned. Ritchie's hips froze and he grew in her mouth before releasing, his seed shooting down her throat. Her orgasm hit her, and she convulsed. She completely forgot that she was now a spitter, and swallowed every last drop with a satisfied moan.

He pressed her head roughly down and speared her throat; she gagged but in the throes of her climax, she didn't care...she was too warm, shaky, and hazy to care about _anything_ but the pulsated waves of pleasure washing over her.

When the tide recedes, she spat him out with a plop, tossed the covers off, and propped her elbows on his legs. He stared down at her with slitted eyes. He was awake...but just barely.

"I wanted to see if you'd sleep through it," she said.

He grunted. "I almost did"

She crawled on top of him and tried to kiss his lips, but he whipped his head away. "No," he said.

Lynn pouted. "Why not?"

"You just sucked my dick," he said, "you got cum mouth."

She couldn't blame him for not wanting a kiss - she didn't like kissing him after he went down on her...i mean, who wants to taste themselves? That's nasty - but she was Lynn Loud the motherfucking Third, so of course she leaned in for a big old smooch. He threw his forearm up and held her back. "No," he moaned.

"Gimme a kiss."

"Go away."

She strained against his arm, but he was too strong. "C'mon," she said, "kiss your wife."

"Go fuck yourself."

Lynn snickered. "I already did, now stick your tongue in my mouth."

Instead of sucking face with his beautiful wife, he rolled over and got out of bed, pulling his boxers up as he did. Lynn watched him as he made his way to the bathroom, a tiny grin on her face. "Nice ass."

He slapped it and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. After a moment, the toilet flushed and the shower cut on. Lynn glanced at the clock on the nightstand; she had a few minutes before she absolutely _had_ to get up, so she snuggled with Ritchie's pillow and breathed his scent. Ummm. Smells like hot dude. And sweat. A strong, masculine aroma that made her damp.

While she waited for her self imposed time limit to expire (five minutes...now four…), she wondered for the millionth time since Friday how she was going to tell her parents that she and Ritchie were 'in the family way' as Mama would say. She didn't wanna do a generic _I'm pregnant, squee!_ Lame. She wanted to do it with style. But _how?_ Hmmmmm. She'd think on that more later, for right now she had to get up.

She slipped out of bed and started to hum a meaningless tune that she made up as she went along. At the closet, she selected a black pantsuit and carried it over to the bed; she laid it down carefully so that it didn't crease or wrinkle, God, wouldn't want that. You know what this morning routine needed? Some music, and not Lynn-made music either, _real_ music. She went over to the nightstand, bent, and turned the clock's radio on, turning the dial until she found a station playing music. There, that's better. She bobbed her head from side to side as he pulled down her shorts. She stepped out of them, took off her shirt, and then tossed it onto the bed.

That's when she first noticed it. _Wow, I am in a good freaking mood_. She figured it had to do with the baby; her emotions had been up and down a lot lately. She and Ritchie were watching the ABC Movie of the Week the other night, and there was this od guy whose wife died and...she cried, okay? Something sad happened and she cried like a bitch. She wasn't proud, but, hey, it happened. It was funny, though; she knew about pregnancy hormones, but damn, already? What was it going to be like in eight months? Cry, cry, cry, laugh, laugh, anger time.

Pfft. That sounded suckish.

She took a bra and a pair of panties from the dresser and put them on, first the former then the latter. Next, she pulled on her pants. Pretty soon, these wouldn't fit anymore. They have maternity dresses, but do they have maternity other stuff? Like something she could wear to work? She'd have to check into that, all of the maternity dresses she'd seen looked like something a fat old woman would wear to the grocery store; she couldn't sell cars in one of those. She also couldn't play baseball in one, but come to think of it, her baseball days were over...at least until she was done being pregnant.

Man, that stinks.

Oh well.

Dressed, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her shoes.

They weren't there.

She threw her head back and groaned. Really? _Really?_ She took them off and sat them in front of her nightstand last night like she did _every_ night, now they were missing in action _again._ You know, her tennis shoes never did this to her. Her tennis shoes stayed where she left them. Her work shoes, on the other hand, had a bad habit of walking away. Why, she didn't know. They must hate her.

With a disappointed shake of the head, she got back up and went on a shoe hunt...a shoe hunt that nearly made her late. Ritchie came out of the bathroom, got dressed, kissed her goodbye, and left, and still, she was looking for these damn shoes. Gah, they're nowhere! How could this happen?

Finally, at the end of her rope, she dropped to her knees and checked under the bed, already knowing that they wouldn't -

Oh, here they are.

She grabbed them, put them on, and got up. In the car, she buckled her seatbelt and backed up, then turned left onto the street. It was a bright, sunny day and her mood soared. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, off to sell used cars we go. She drummed her hands on the wheel and bobbed her head. When she came to a red light, she turned on the radio just as a jockey wrapped up giving some lady two tickets to see Rick Astley in Phoenix. Of course, they played a Rick Astley song afterwards.

Feeling a rush of self-conscious shame, Lynn turned it up. It was cheesy and poppy, but she liked it. Alright?

 _There's a girl I've been waiting to see_

 _And I really get the feeling that she likes me_

 _'Cause she said so, but not in so many words_

 _I've got to tell you what I heard_

The light changed and she pressed the gas, her fingers beating an offkey tempo on the wheel and her shoulders lifting and dipping like a scale.

 _She don't want no wild romance_

 _When she's with me she only wants to dance_

 _She wants to dance with me_

 _'Cause I hold her so tight next to me_

 _She wants to dance with me_

 _'Cause I let her be what she wants to be_

She loved this dude's voice. It was really deep. Funny thing, she always imagined him being this big, barrel-chested black dude, but she saw him on MTV and he was this scrawny, pasty English guy. _Whoa. Where do ya keep that big ole voice, mate?_

 _Now I know I've been out of touch_

 _But I never meant to hurt my baby oh so much_

 _'Cause I love her and i think she loves me_

 _And that's the way it's got to be_

 _When we're together we never fight_

 _We've got better things to do tonight_

Lynn was convulsing like an epileptic now, her head tossing this way and that and her shoulder knocking against the doorframe. She came to a rolling stop at another red light.

Sax break!

She threw her head to the right, then to the left, her eyes closed and her lips mumbling. "She wants to dance with me!" she cried, "something-something next to me!" She turned her head to the window; her eyes fluttered open and she froze. In the next car over, an old woman with curly white hair sat in the passenger seat of a town car and glowered at her. Lynn's face flushed even as the blood drained from it. Uh...I can explain, it wasn't what it looked like.

The light changed, and the old woman's car pulled slowly ahead. In the back, a little boy about ten pointed and laughed, then held his other hand to his forehead, the finger and thumb extended in the shape of an L. Lynn didn't know what that meant, but it made her feel lousy anyway.

People are assholes.

She finished her commute stock still. Her good mood was so great, however, that by the time she reached the dealership she was happy and bouncy again. She parked in her usual spot facing the building, hopped out, and grabbed her purse. Alright, let's do this thing. She slung it over her shoulder and went inside. Dad was behind the counter, his back bent and one hand splayed on the surface. He held the phone to his ear and talked curtly into it...sounded like someone was calling out sick. Pfft. Pussy. _I sneezed a couple times last night, I better stay home. Boo-hoo-hoo._ Suck it up, I got a baby in my stomach and _I'm_ here.

A grin played across her lips. Yep. She was gonna be a mama and the more she thought about it, the more excited she became. Knowing her, you might not think she's the maternal type (and you'd be right), but...I dunno, I guess a switch got thrown somewhere because now she was _really_ looking forward to holding her baby, and playing with it, and loving it, and teaching it to baseball. She fisted her hands enthusiastically as she came around the counter. Oh, this is gonna be so cool. I hope it looks like Ritchie. Ritchie's hot. I'm kinda plain. Though my personality is awesome, so I hope it has _that_. Oh, man, that kid'll be the total package.

Dad hung the phone up, slapped his other hand on the counter, and drew a deep sigh, his head bowing. "What's up?" she asked and unshouldered her purse.

He glanced up, then back down. "Geo," he said. "He had a heart attack."

Lynn stopped in her tracks. "Is he okay?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah, he's fine. It wasn't major or anything, he didn't even know until after. He's gonna need a couple weeks off, though, which leaves me short a janitor."

While that was certainly an inconvenience, she was glad to hear he was alright, and if he needed a couple weeks to come back from it, well, okay. "You gonna call in a temp?" she asked as she sat her purse on the counter.

Dad ticked his head from side-to-side in thought. "Uhhh, no, I'm not."

Lynn blinked. "Well...who's gonna clean up around here?"

When Dad clapped her on the shoulder and squeezed, she knew. Fifteen minutes later, she was wiping the windshield of a '69 Ford Galaxie with a dirty rag and grumbling to herself. _Be a team player, Lynn,_ he said, _step up to the plate, Lynn._ I'm carrying his grandchild and he makes me the mop up guy. How do you like that? She was still in a ridiculously good mood, though. Wiping windshields and taking out the trash wasn't _that_ bad. Yeah, plus doing this, she wasn't cooped up behind the counter all day; she had sun, fresh air, and wide, open spaces - three things a delicate, pregnant flower such as herself required to thrive. She took a deep breath...then coughed. Oh, man, did the air in Tucson _always_ smell like diesel and butt-crack? She didn't know, but she heard somewhere that pregnant women has super senses. Was that kicking in already? Wow, kid, you're an early bloomer; you're gonna come out with a full head of hair and a pension check in your hand.

Her stomach clenched, and her eyes went wide. Uh-oh. She tried to make it inside, but, uh, yeah, that didn't happen: She wound up puking on the front tire of a red Nova, her hand lying on the hood and her nails digging into the paintjob. I was joking about coming out old, okay? Sheesh. Butthurt much?

No, she didn't really think her baby was butthurt. It was this nasty city air. Uncle Lincoln was in the army, right? Maybe he could FedEx her his old gas mask or something...just until she gave birth and wasn't a pansy anymore.

Feeling slightly better (but still nauseous), she crossed the parking lot, grabbed the hose from its place by the entrance to the garage, and went back to the Nova. She aimed the gun nozzle (is there a technical term for it?) and sprayed the tire clean, chunks of last night's dinner (and, presumably, Ritchie's swimmers) slucining into the gutter running along the street. Lynn crinkled her nose, and her stomach clutched again. Oh, no, not again, I am _not_ puking on another car. I have enough work already without making more for myself. You need to suck it up, little boy-or-girl, we're not moving away so this air is all you got.

Done, she took the hose back and spent the next ten minutes trying to coil it nicely but failing; somehow she got hopelessly tangled, and threw her head back with a frustrated sigh. This is dumb! She finally freed herself and left it in a heap. Let Sparky deal with it, give him something to do _other_ than botching simple repair jobs. _He_ deserved to have some kid make a weird forehead-finger-L-thing at him, not her. _She_ deserved a forehead-thumbs-up. Look at her, like, ten days pregnant and doing janitor work.

Actually, she deserved Ritchie going down on her when she got home. Ummm. That would be _really_ nice...his hands on her stomach, his tongue lightly...she shut that thought off when she felt herself starting to get squishy. If she kept it up, she'd squelch with every step.

Suddenly, though, she was kind of really horny. Hm. Was it time to go home yet? Because when Ritchie came through that door, she was going to pounce him like a hungry lioness. She glanced at her watch. Oh, almost...in seven hours and forty-five minutes. She sighed heavily. Well...if she kept busy, the time would fly.

Yup.

 _Fly._

It didn't.

It _drrrraaaagggggeeeeedddd_. First, she had to wipe every windshield on the lot (all fifty-freaking-eight of them), then, after that, she had to sweep the showroom, clean up after someone's explosive diarrhea in the women's lavatory, mop up a coffee spill in the kitchen (she smacked her lips when she caught a noseful of Myrtle's delicious aroma), and then take out the trash...the bulging, overfull trash. That was bad enough, but the dumpster was clear on the other side of the lot, past a shimmering sea of hand-me-down automobiles. Great. When she struggled out the door with this huge, heavy bag, she could barely walk. As she made her way across the lot, though, she got used to it, and by the time she reached the dumpster, the load felt feather light. Heh. Guess I built up my muscles. She went to throw it in, but stopped, her eyes narrowing n confusion.

The bag was empty.

Huh? B-B-But...she turned around, and her face dropped. A trail of trash - empty cans, paper towel wads,, banana peels, coffee grounds, chunks of food, cardboard - lead _alllll_ the way back to the showroom.

Lynn was still in a good mood. She was in a good mood as she flung the limp, trash juice soaked bag to the ground, in a good mood as she kicked the dumpster, and in a _really_ good mood when she screamed "SON OF A BITCH!" at the top of her lungs. Her red face? Flush with joy. Her balled hands? Holding onto happiness. Her shaking frame? Bursting with a lust for life that only grew as she picked up each individual piece of litter. By the time she reached the showroom again, she was in such a good mood that she was considering going in and telling her father a bunch of exciting new ideas regarding the dealership...like he where he could put it.

Deep breath, Lynn, you're better than this; only little girls throw fits. You're a grown woman.

Slumping her shoulders and pouting, she carried the new bag across the lot. Right now, she didn't _wanna_ be a big girl...she wanted to be home, in bed, with her husband.

Oooh, and a meatball sub.

Ummm.

Now _that's_ a three way I can go for.

If only she could get Ritchie to agree to it…

* * *

Clyde McBride spent the majority of Monday closed away in his office. For a while, he spoke to the chair of the New York Republican Party on the phone, then he spoke to a representative from the Bush administration about fundraising for the '92 election (he hadn't mentioned his intention not to run, but hey, whoever did would still need money, right?). At noon, he signed a piece of legislation strengthening hate crimes laws; the press was there, members of the state assembly, blah-blah-blah, he'd done a hundred of these and by now it was just another day in the office...except he had to wear his suit coat for the cameras. His shirt cuffs were still rolled underneath, and it was really uncomfortable: As soon as he was alone, he took it off and tossed it onto the floor.

It was past one when Tom Price, his chief of staff, arrived with his lunch: A ham and cheese sub on Italian bread with lettuce, tomatoes, jalapeno peppers, banana peppers, and onions from Luke's. Clyde was bent over a document that required his _immediate attention_ and grunted his thanks when Tom sat the bag on the desk. "Do you have a minute?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, sure," Clyde said. He reached the final line, flipped the page, and sat back, his hands lacing over his chest.

Tom dropped into a chair facing the desk and plopped a cigarette into his mouth. He lit it and inhaled. "A friend of yours," he started, "and a very vocal supporter did something today that you're going to have to address."

Clyde rolled his eyes. This shit again? _Hey, someone did something that you know absolutely nothing about - give us your opinion, Governor._ "What?" he asked, then held up his hand, a better question occuting to him. "Who?"

"Roy Innis."

"Aw, Jesus," Clyde said and bowed his head. He pressed his fingers to his temple and rubbed. He didn't have a headache now, but he suspected he'd have one by the time Tom was done talking. Roy was the National Director of the Congress of Racial Equality, a black democrat who shifted the organization to the right and supported Richard Nixon in 1968 and 1972. He was a staunch supporter of private gun ownership (even after two of his sons were killed by gun violence) and, Clyde suspected, would be an open Republican if he didn't believe that New York was a one party state - despite Clyde's election. For the most part a good guy. However, when he took over CORE in the sixties, he continued his predecessor's policy of removing white members, which Clyde had a hard time getting over. Really? You're going to eject people who support our cause... _because of their race?_ What the fuck is wrong with you? Congress of Racial Equality my ass.

That was the past though. His main problem _right now_ was his temper: He was a very passionate man, and sometimes his emotions got the better of him. Last year, he was debating Al Sharpton on _The Morton Downey Jr. Show._ Long story short, it devolved into a shouting match, and Roy jumped up and shoved Sharpton onto his fat ass. Clyde couldn't lie, watching that bastard topple back in his chair, his face a perfect O of shock, gave him the biggest erection he'd ever had, but at the end of the day, and it hurts to say this, Sharpton was in the right. He didn't put his hands on Roy Innis, Roy Innis put his hands on _him_.

Clyde kind of reamed him out for that the next time he saw him, because it made Sharpton look good and them look bad. Roy...well...you know that saying 'with friends like these, who need enemies?' Yeah, that's kind of how Clyde felt about Roy Innis. "What did he do this time?" he asked, a long-suffering note in his voice.

Tom gathered his thoughts for a moment. "Well...he was on _Geraldo_ and...he choked someone."

A humorless snicker burst from Clyde's throat. "That's nice."

"But…" Tom said, "it was a Neo Nazi."

A Neo Nazi? What the hell kind of TV show has Nazis and black people hanging together? Don't people know those two groups aren't on the best of terms? Being black himself, he wasn't a big fan of their work, at all, which meant he didn't really care beyond the fact that...goddamn it, something told him Roy started it.

"Tell me exactly what happened."

Tom obliged and told him everything, from the 'Uncle Tom' comment (Clyde knew how that felt...at least when it was thrown at him it was by another black guy) to the pandemonium that followed Roy's little laying on of hands. Just as he suspected, his temple was throbbing by the time his chief of staff was finished. Good job, Roy, good job, now _I_ have to come out and say something. I didn't have to when it was Sharpton, but now it's _racial_ and every time something _racial_ happens, they come running to _me._

He oughta shove him onto _his_ ass then throttle _his_ throat. See how _he_ likes it. He wasn't some rolly-polly lard ass like Sharpton or a limp-wristed Nazi homo like that Messinger guy or whatever, he was a goddamn navy vet and while the navy didn't train its people quite the same way that the army did, he could still handle himself against a balding, middle-aged DINO ( **D** emocrat **I** n **N** ame **O** nly).

Reaching for his sub, Clyde said, "Well, have Donnie draft something about violence and racism both being wrong." Donnie was his speechwriter. He also, Clyde had discovered, wrote erotic fiction under a female name and published it in porn magazine, which would be a scandal if anyone found out. Clyde was really considering canning his ass.

Tom nodded. "Alright."

Clyde unwrapped the sub. "Is that all?"

It was. After Tom was gone, Clyde ate in silence, the only sound the roar of traffic in the street below and the occasional honking horn. On warmer days, he ate his lunch on the roof, which the previous governor had turned into a virtual botanical garden complete with fountains, trees, and a stream that cut it in two and was forded by an arched footbridge. Only thing the guy ever got right, if you asked him. During the cold months, however, he was forced to stay cooped up in his office like a dirty little secret because where _else_ could the most powerful man in the state eat his sub or reuben in peace? The break room on the fifth floor?

Eventually, he got sick of listening to the symphonic offering of Central Avenue, so he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV by the door. He didn't make a habit of watching it, but he did sometimes use it for background nose. CNN was talking about a shooting somewhere. Oh, the gun grabbers are going _love_ this. _See! Someone used a gun to kill people! Take them away!_ Yeah, what about people using cars to kill? You gonna take those away too? Make us all ride horses again? I worked with horses for years, you will _never_ catch my black ass on one. Dirty, nasty, hateful creatures, they'll kick you and spit in your face like you're a jerk. And knives...better round all those up too. Get the pencils and pens while you're at it...you know, just to be safe.

He shook his head and took a bite of his sandwich; a glob of mayo spurted onto his shirt. Even governors can be slobs.

For some reason that struck his as funny, and he laughed. A bit of bread or cheese went down the wrong pipe, and his laughter turned into a coughing fit.

Some politicians die by the bullet, and others die of old age...the first black governor of New York died choking on a ham and cheese on Italian. Not really. Could you imagine, though? That'd be a pretty humiliating way to punch your ticket. Who was that singer who choked to death years ago? Some woman. Must have weighed 350 at least. Mama something. Guys in the navy used to make fun of her all the time: Anytime someone coughed or choked it was _you're gonna wind up like Mama Cass._

That's it! Cass.

He finished the sub and wiped his face with a napkin.

" _...live to Royal Woods…"_

Now. to -

Wait. Did they saw Royal Woods? He looked up at the TV, and damned if a reporter wasn't standing in front of Royal County High, yellow police tape fluttering in the wind behind her and cops going in and out the main doors.

Oh.

He picked the remote up and raised the volume. The reporter, a woman in a long brown coat, spoke woodenly into her microphone, the breeze playing in her permed red hair. " _...are not saying whether it was a student who opened fire here this morning or not, but they_ do _say that the gunman has confessed and hinted that there may be more victims. So far we know that seven people were killed and a dozen injured before the gunman was subdued."_

Clyde's jaw hung things happen...and so do good things for that matter...but rarely do we expect them to happen close to us: A spree killer shooting fifty people in a shopping mall or a man winning millions of dollars in the lottery are things that occur miles and miles away, never right next door, and if it _does,_ we're always stunned.

Just like Clyde McBride.

Seeing the vaulted facade of his old school on the news -CNN, the big time - sent him reeling. Someone shot up the high school? _In Royal Woods?_ He was seeing it, but brother, he wasn't believing it. Jesus Christ, why would someone _do_ that?

The scene cut back to an anchor. A red box with the words SCHOOL MASSACRE in white filled the upper right hand portion of the screen, because when a tragedy strikes, you can count on CNN to create scary bumpers and graphics. _Two inches of precipitation? RAINMAGEDDON: 1989 DUH-DUN-DUH. "Three people are in critical condition. Police are currently…"_

Clyde sat heavily back in his chair and took a deep breath. God, what's this world coming to? You couldn't even go to school anymore. What's next, a movie theater? A daycare center? Pretty sad. We should all go Amish or something. You'll never see one of their schools get shot up. _A disgruntled farmer named Jedidiah opened fire at a one room schoolhouse in Lancaster with a musket today. He missed his target and was subdued during the twenty minute reload that followed._

Jesus H. Christ.

He should probably send a letter of condolence or make a donation to the Royal County school board. It was only right; Royal Woods was his hometown and he graduated from the same school that...wow, someone went on a shooting rampage at his old school. He just couldn't get over that. God, those poor kids.

Suddenly, Roy Innis and his bullshit didn't matter all that much.


	145. November and December 1989: Part 14

**I don't say this often enough, but I love and appreciate all of you. Thank you for reading, commenting on, and supporting my work, whether you love it, hate it, or something in-between.**

 **Also, I created a Flagg1991 Facebook page because I have artwork (some fan made, some commissioned) for both Reeling in the Years and The 'Cest Kids I really want to share with you guys. I have one or two pieces up now and I plan to add more later. Typing Flagg1991 into the FB search bar should bring you there.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Funky Cold Medina**_ **by Tone-Loc (1989);** _ **Just a Friend**_ **by Biz Markie (1989)**

The recovery room was a large, open space off a hall of rooms. Lincoln held his girls as they followed the doctor past a bustling nurse's station and down a long corridor that smelled strongly of disinfectant and vaguely of piss. TV sounds drifted from open doorways, canned audience laughter here, peppy commercial jingles for hamburgers there. The walls were serile white, the floors were sterile white, and even the lights were sterile white; for some reason he couldn't name he was reminded of an alien spaceship like the ones in the comics he used to read when he was a kid. If (and when) the hero ventured into one (or was dragged into one kicking and screaming), they were always gleaming and utilitarian, the surfaces chrome and otherworldly, the lights so bright they blinded and dazed you (making it easier for them to sneak up).

For that reason alone, he didn't like hospitals.

He also didn't like them because they reminded him of the first couple weeks following his escape from that fucking death camp - the first restless, torturous weeks. The nightmares, the paranoia, and the fear came flooding back, and he took a deep, shuddery breath. Alex and Jessy both looked up at him with questioning expressions, but he stared straight ahead; he didn't trust his eyes not to betray his anxiety.

Also...hospitals, to him, represented sickness and death; you don't go to one when you're hale and happy, you go to one when there's something wrong...something serious. That Ronnie Anne had to be here...in this house of misery...made him feel awful, frankly. Fucking awful.

God, he'd like to get his hands on the little bastard who did this to her; just two minutes, that's all he'd need...hell, one and a half. He didn't _need_ to see him die, he'd be happy just crushing his windpipe and walking away.

A set of doors opened onto the recovery room, and the smell of disinfectant was stronger here. Lincoln's eyes darted nervously around: A row of beds stood along the far wall, each separated from the others by thin pink curtains. There was nothing else. No chairs, no TVs, no tables to put flowers on, no contrived decorative touches like you'd find in a personal room...just beds, cold and forlorn, surrounded by emptiness. It didn't look like a place for the living...it looked like a place for the dead.

Lincoln shivered.

"You okay?" Alex asked, her voice soft with concern.

Lincoln forced a smile. "Fine," he said, "just cold."

That wasn't entirely a lie, it _was_ cold in here. Like a morgue. Why? Why did it have to be so fucking cold in here?

Ronnie Anne was on the end near a set of double doors with porthole windows that lead God only knows where. As they came up to her bedside, Lincoln's stomach twisted painfully. She lay stock still on her back, a white blanket pulled up to her chest and her arms resting atop it. Her black hair was down and pooled around her head, her eyes were closed, and her brow with smooth with the peace of oblivion. One shoulder of her blue gown was pulled down to reveal a thick white bandage closely adhered to her bronzen flesh, and a piece of gauze was held in place on the back of her right hand by a strip of medical tape.

She looked dead.

Sudden tears welled in his eyes and he blinked them back. _She's not dead,_ he told himself. Even so, he his heart slammed painfully against his ribs and his stomach throbbed like an abscessed tooth. She wasn't dead..but how goddamn close did she come?

Jessy's body tensed, and he suspected she was entertaining roughly the same thoughts as him. He pulled her against him and then did the same to Alex; she made no outward signs of distress, but he knew she felt it.

They were standing at the railing now, Lincoln's arms around his daughters' shoulders and his lips pressed tightly together lest they began to quiver; if that happened, he'd start crying like a woman, and his girls didn't need that...they needed him to be man and stay strong. He ached to reach out and hold Ronnie Anne's hand, but right now, he wasn't going to let either Alex _or_ Jessy go, so he simply looked down at her, the corners of his lips dipping in a frown.

A strangled sob burst from Jessy's throat. She whipped her head around and burrowed her face into his side like a small, frightened animal. He grazed his hand up and down her arm in a comforting motion and kissed the top of her head. Hot tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt, and her body trembled like a leaf on a tree. He glanced at Alex to make sure she was okay; she watched her mother with a drawn expression, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Presently, she wiped it away and sniffed. She looked up and him, her eyes watery and sad. He kissed her forehead. "She's okay," he told her, then to Jessy, "it wasn't a silver bullet. Just a regular one."

His voice broke on the last word and he started to cry, his head bowing and hot shame spreading across the back of his neck. He was weak, he couldn't even be strong for his girls when they needed him most. He was weak...but he couldn't help it. The woman he loved, his life, his joy, his everything, was laid up in a fucking bed with a hole in her fucking shoulder.

She was hurt.

And he wasn't there to protect her.

She was scared, terrified - had to be, he sure as fuck was when the guns were on _him_ \- and he wasn't there. She was alone.

All alone.

An image came to mind: Her on the ground, sitting, her legs curved to the side in a rough check mark shape and her hands up, shielding her weeping face from the Killer - a ten foot tall angel of death with a grinning skull face and an AK-47 like the NVA used. The look of primal fear in her eyes - her pupils contracting as her death approached - made her cry harder.

Jessy and Alex both held him tightly and rested their heads against his sides, their arms snaking around his back. Their hands brushed, and their fingers unconsciously locked. They both huddled as close to their father as they could, each one thinking the same thing: So many times in the past, he was their rock...when they needed him, he was there, when they scraped their knees or needed a shoulder to cry on, he was there, when things were rough and the world felt unsteady and uncertain...he was their stabilizer...he was always strong for them, now it was their turn to be strong for him.

Both wanted to speak, to utter some magic word to calm him, but neither knew what to say, so they remained silent.

Jessy was the first to hear the soft rustle of fabric. She looked up, and Auntie Ronnie Anne's eyes were open to watery slits. She squeezed Alex's hand at the same moment she noticed. She signaled her father by letting go of Jessy and and touching his back.

"You act like I died," Ronnie Anne mumbled. The sound of her voice, thick with sedation and hardly a croak, was the sweetest music Lincoln had ever heard, and he cried even harder, smiling now through his tears. He let go of Jessy and Alex and took Ronnie Anne's good hand in both of his. It felt smaller than it should, more fragile. His brushed his thumb gently across her knuckles and smiled wanly. "Hey," he said.

"Hi," she said. She tried to shift and winced in pain.

"How are you feeling?" Jessy asked. She curled her fingers around the railing and leaned slightly forward.

Ronnie Anne swallowed, her throat making an audible click. "Thirsty," she said.

"Do you want a Coke?" Alex asked quickly. "I saw a Coke machine. I can get you one. My treat."

Slowly, Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah. That sounds good. Thank you."

Alex fished in her skirt pocket and pulled out a pair of quarters. "I'll be _right_ back," she said and started away, "don't go anywhere." The earnest way she said it, as though she honestly believed her mother was going to get up and mosey on down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat before she returned made Lincoln snort. Tears still stained his cheeks, but he was in a good mood now, almost as good a mood as his niece was 2,000 miles away. Ronnie Anne blinked tiredly and licked her chapped lips. She tried to move again, but a spike of pain stopped her: She gasped over clenched teeth and turned her head to regard the lumpy bandage on her shoulder.

"The doctor said there's no permanent damage," Lincoln said, "it missed everything except the bone, and it only nicked it."

"Good," she said and turned to him. "How's everyone else? I saw…"

"Don't worry about that right now," he said.

Presently, Alex returned with a can of Coke. Lincoln took it, opened it, and took a long drink to drain it a little so that none would spill on Ronnie Anne. He held it to her lips and she drank greedily, some of the brown liquid dribbling down her chin and staining the front of her gown. "How long do I have to stay here?" she asked.

"A couple days," Lincoln said at a guess. The doctor didn't say, but he was sure they'd keep her at least tonight, and probably tomorrow too. They'd want to make sure the wound was healing properly before turning her loose. They weren't the Vietcong, and while Lincoln appreciated how quickly that Cong doctor operated, he'd rather accuracy than speed when it came to something as precious to him as Ronnie Anne.

She sighed. "I don't want to."

"I know," Lincoln said. "But you have to."

Her eyelids were starting to droop. "You stay with me?" she asked, her brows lifting just a little.

He threaded his fingers through hers. "Of course," he said. After such a close call, he wasn't leaving her side any time soon. He glanced at Jessy. "Will you be okay on your own for a night or two?"

Jessy's eyes widened slightly and she started to speak, but Alex cut her off. "She won't be alone. I'll stay with her."

"You sure?" Lincoln asked.

Alex waved him off. "Of course. I've been wanting to spend time with her anyway." She bent forward and looked around Lincoln. "You wanna hang, Jess?"

For a moment, Jessy looked uncertain. "S-Sure," she said, "after I'm done visiting Auntie Ronnie Anne, though."

Alex rolled her eyes. "Well, duh."

They visited for a long time.

* * *

When Luan burst through the door ten minutes after leaving Flip's, she found her mother sitting in her armchair and weeping desolately into her shaking hands.

Luan's hand fluttered her her breast and she breathed a shuddery sigh of relief. Almost twenty minutes ago, Mom called Flip's asking for Lincoln, and when Luan told her about Ronnie Anne, she dropped the phone and Luan was _certain_ she had a heart attack: She ran out the front door without a word and drove home as fast as she could, running two red lights and doing sixty in a twenty-five; she was lucky she didn't get pulled over...not that she would have stopped anyway.

Pushing away from the door, she crossed the living room and dropped to her knees next to Mom's chair, her hand going tentatively to the older woman's shoulder. She wept bitterly, her ample body quivering like Jell-O under her threadbare pink bathrobe. Luan's chest, alright tight with worry, knotted even more, and she could barely breathe. It was clear that the old woman knew something that she didn't...something awful.

Like that Ronnie Anne was dead.

A cold ball of dread formed in her stomach. "What's wrong?" she asked, a desperate edge to her voice, "Mom, what is it?"

"She's dead," Mom sobbed, and Luan's heart skipped, "I just know it, she's dead like your father." Her voice broke and she blubbered something that may have been 'sisters.'

"What happened?" Luan asked more sharply than she meant to. She was scared and starting to panic.

Between sobs, Mom told her about the shooting at the high school, and Luan's face dropped; her free hand slapped against her mouth and the dread in her stomach broke, cold filling her like ice water. She felt herself beginning to tremble, but pulled herself away from the edge. Worrying was fine, so was being scared, but falling to pieces wasn't. Mom said 'she's dead...I just know it.' From that, Luan inferred that she _didn't_ know. Also, it was her Lincoln talked to, not someone else, and unless her brother had supernatural powers he hadn't gotten around to mentioning yet, he couldn't have talked to her if she was dead.

Luan pointed this out, her voice soft and her fingers stroking her mother's thin white hair. "If she was well enough off to call him, she couldn't have been hurt _that_ bad."

She wasn't an expert on medicine and hospitals (everything she knew about them came from _St. Elsewhere_ ), but she was pretty sure that they wouldn't let you make a phone call if there was a bullet lodged in your head or chest. Then again, maybe she was dying and wanted to call Lincoln to say goodbye. They wouldn't deny a dying woman that, would they?

Mom sniffed and wiped her eyes with the heels of her palms. "She's going to die," she said, "I can feel it."

"Don't say that," Luan said gently, "she talked to Lincoln, that means she's okay."

She thought she sounded convincing, but she didn't _feel_ convinced, not entirely. She still didn't think she would have called if she was seriously wounded, but she couldn't be certain.

Mom was calmer now, so Luan got up, went around the chair, and picked the telephone handset off the floor. "We'll call the hospital," she said and dialed. Hopefully she could speak to someone who knew Ronnie Anne's condition. Given what happened, though, she didn't think it was likely; they were probably swamped with calls from worried friends and relatives of the wounded...and the dead.

The bottom of Luan's stomach dropped out as the line began to ring. What if she _was_ dead? How would Jessy take it? For all intents and purposes, Ronnie Anne was her mother...if she died, Jessy would be devastated, and that thought brought tears to Luan's eyes.

The line clicked. "Royal Woods General," a brisk, businesslike voice replied.

Mom was bent forward, her arms wrapped around her chest. Her face was drawn and washed out, her wrinkles somehow deeper, more pronounced; her puffy, pink-rimmed eyes glistened with tears and her lips trembled as though she were cold. Luan laid one hand on her shoulder. "Yes, my...my sister-in-law was at the high school and…" here her voice faltered... "I think she was shot. Is there any way I can check on her?"

"Name?"

"Ronn - Ronalda Loud."

Papers shuffled. "I'll have to get back to you, ma'am. We're a little overwhelmed at he moment. Can I have your number?"

Luan recited it.

"Someone will get back to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you."

She hung the phone up and sighed. "They're going to call us," she said. Anxiety gnawed at the lining of her stomach and her heart palpitated sickly. She hoped they called back soon.

Mom was praying now, her hands balled in front of her face and her lips silently moving. Luan watched her uncomfortably. "How about some coffee?" she asked. Mom didn't reply, so she went into the kitchen on her own accord. She could use a cup herself. Or two. She put a pot on to brew, and went back into the living room, where Mom was still speaking to her god. She did not disdain her for this. In fact, she wished that she too had faith, because at least then she could pray like her mother and feel like she was doing something instead of sitting idly by and waiting. Mom thought prayer could change things, Luan did not; she believed that things simply happened, and once they did, no amount of mumbling into your hands could change them. The revenant - Christians, Jews, Muslims - believe they can guide life; Luan believed that all you can do is hang on and hope for the best.

And that's what she was doing now.

She sat on the edge of the couch and put her hands in her lap. On TV, a group of young girls played volleyball on a beach...then started playing with Barbies while an annoying jingle played. _Beach Blast Barbie. Barbie doll, friends, party set, and buggy each sold separately._ Next came an ad for McDonald's that touted its fries and Big Mac as _America's Meat and Potatoes_. She should call Fred. He might be worried. She reached for the phone, but remembered that she had to keep the line clear and drew her hand back. Mom still prayed. Maybe Luan should try it just to have something to occupy her mind.

Instead, she got up and went to check on the coffee. It was almost done but not quite; she leaned against the counter and crossed her arms.

Ronnie Anne had to be okay. She thought that maybe she called to say goodbye, but that didn't make sense on further inspection. The whole point of an emergency room, or an intensive care unit, or wherever they take gunshot victims, is to save lives, and the doctors and nurses won't stop until the end - whether it's a happy one or a sad one. If Ronnie Anne was seriously wounded, would they have stopped everything to let her call Lincoln? _Eh, she's a goner even though she's with it enough to rationally speak, let's take a lunch and come back when she's dead._ No, Luan didn't think they would; they would work on her until her heart stopped and it was clear it would never start back up again. No amount of her complaining or yelling would make them stop if she was hurt _that_ bad, that they _did_ let her make a call told Luan that she was okay. She might lose a limb or be crippled, but she wasn't dead, and right now, that's what mattered.

Feeling slightly better, she took two mugs from the cabinet and filled them both with coffee. She added milk to her mother's (she took hers black - a habit left over from prison) and carried both into the living room. Mom was no longer praying. She stared at the television, her hand resting on her legs and her eyes dry. Luan went over and held out the cup. Mom took it. "I turned it over to God," she said, the mug jittering in her hand, "I will let Him do what He will."

Luan flashed a tight smile and sat. "That's all you can do," she said. "I think she's okay, though. They wouldn't have let her call if she was really hurt."

Mom nodded. "You're right. I don't think they would either. I...I suppose I overreacted. I just...thought of your father and your sisters." She hitched, and Luan reached out to lay a calming hand on her arm. Mom looked at her "I don't want to lose anyone else, Luan. I've lost three of the most important people in my life and it killed me every time." Tears filled her eyes and she turned away. "I can't do it again."

Luan started to speak, but didn't know what to say. How do you answer something like _that?_ In less than twenty years, Mom lost Luna, Leni, and Dad - two children and a man she'd loved for fifty plus years - and each time must have hurt more than the last, like ripping open an old, unhealed wound and dumping salt on it. Losing Luna, Leni, and her father hurt Luan too, but as much as she loved each of them, none were her child...she didn't carry and birth them, didn't hold them when they were minutes old and stare lovingly into their eyes. Mom did...and hers was a special grief, an endless and pressing burden that comparatively few ever know; in the normal course of nature, children outlive their parents, but sometimes...sometimes...they don't.

Long ago, Luan begrudgingly accepted the fact that while Jessy was her daughter in body, she was not in heart or mind. Even so, Luan loved her with the fierce intensity of a mother, and the idea of seeing her die made her feel as though she were being strangled. If that happened...she didn't think she could go on. How Mom did it twice, she would never know, but she knew this: Rita Loud was a strong woman...a strong, strong woman.

"I know," Luan finally said. "Neither do I."

Mom took a sip of her coffee. "I will trust in God to watch over her."

Because He watched over Luna and Leni so well, Luan thought with a hint of bitterness, then felt a rush of shame. There _was_ no god, why blame him for what happened to Leni and Luna?

She might as well blame Count Dracula.

Mom took a deep breath. "How was your day?"

Luan blinked at the sudden shift in topic. "Good," she said.

"That's good."

They made small talk for nearly an hour until the phone rang, jumping from one subject to another in an attempt to outpace their worries. When the call came, they both cast leaden gazes at the telephone, their hearts beginning to race.

Here it was.

Luan picked up the handset and put it to her ear. "H-Hello?"

She listened, nodded, and said 'Thank you.' When she hung up, she glanced at her mother; the old woman's gaze was fixed straight ahead and her lips were pursed tightly. She looked like she was braced for the worst.

Luan smiled. "She's okay."

"Thank God," Mom exhaled, her shoulders untensing. "Thank God."

* * *

Lincoln laced his hands over his chest and stared at the wall mounted TV. Next to him, Ronnie Anne ate her dinner from a tray, her movements slow, drugged. Outside, night pressed against the window: The room overlooked a stand of forest, and if you stood at it, you would see nothing but dense, unbroken black like a sea of dread.

They'd been here since four that afternoon when an orderly in a white uniform wheeled Ronnie Anne up from the recovery room, bed and all. It was on the fifth floor, two rooms down from the elevator; every time the car arrived, the ding and rumble of opening doors grated on Lincoln's nerves. What, the suite next to the boiler room was taken? Well...you couldn't put us in the parking garage? He had half a mind to bitch the nurse out, but he had to be on his best behavior: It took a lot of begging to get them to let him stay with Ronnie Anne. And one threat. _No, sir, I'm sorry visiting hours end at nine. Nine? What a coincidence, that's when my lawyer gets to work. He's a real night owl._ If he made his presence known, they'd probably call his bluff and have security toss him on his ass...which is why he hadn't left the room since they got there, even when Ronnie Anne was out cold, he got bored, and a walk around the building sounded ace. Then again, he was content to simply hold her hand and stare at her face; when his legs started to _really_ itch for a stretching, he reminded himself that he came _this_ close to not having her anymore, and they shut up.

For a while, Jessy and Alex were with him, but they left around six. Bobby and Lori came by a half hour later. Luan called Lori at work; in the heat of the moment, Lincoln forgot to call Bobby even though he really should have right after he called Jessy. Hey, his wife was in surgery with a goddamn bullet in her shoulder and he wasn't exactly in a stable frame of mind. In fact, he was pretty sure he was using military jargon at some point but he couldn't remember exactly when.

She was barely awake when they were here, and drifted off a few minutes after they left. That was about 7:30. It was just past 11 now and her dinner (turkey, mashed potatoes, peas, and red Jello because it's not a hospital stay without Jell-O) had been sitting on a wheeled, L-shaped table, covered, since six. He offered to have them heat it up, but she turned him down. _It's fine, lame-o. I don't care. I just want food._

On TV, the local news was starting: A male anchor and his female cohort (or maybe it was a female anchor and her male cohort) sat behind a desk with a big Channel 7 logo behind them...a 7 in a circle because it's news, not rocket science. " _Good evening, and welcome to Channel 7 action news,"_ the woman said, " _I'm Diane Harris."_

" _I'm Wilson Bryne. Our top story tonight: Terror in the suburbs as a gunman opens fire in an area high school…"_

The color drained from Ronnie Anne's face and her fork froze in mid-stab. Lincoln picked up the remote and changed it. _Night Court_ was on, and a familiar bailiff stood by the bench, looking goofy as all get-out. Lincoln remembered him as the guy from that Vietnam movie who got dragged off by the Cong, just like him, and he started to sweat. Even so, he sat the remote down and turned his head to Ronnie Anne. "You okay?"

For a moment, she was unmoving, her eyes fixed suspiciously on the screen as though to confirm that the news was gone...and not coming back. "Yeah," she said, and speared an anemic piece of turkey, "I'm fine, I just...I don't want to hear about that right now."

She brought the fork to her mouth and pushed the turkey past her lips. Lincoln watched her, examining her movements, studying her face, her eyes. He'd been with her for thirty-two years. He cherished every moment, committed every detail to memory (via his heart). He knew Ronnie Anne better than he knew himself. He saw the way her facial muscles strained as she fought to keep her composure - her lips were pressed so firmly together that they were white, her throat worked as though she were trying and failing to swallow, and her eyes were deep pools of darkness.

Lincoln got up and went to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping his arm around her shoulder. She chewed mechanically, dipped her fork into the mashed potatoes, and swallowed hard, a shivery breath bursting forth when she was done. She regarded her plate with a thousand yard stare he'd only ever seen in the mirror...then she broke down crying, the fork dropping from her grasp and clinking against the plate. She lifted her hands to her face, and Lincoln dragged her into his arms; she melted into him and shook with the force of her sobs, opaque beads of misery coursing down her cheeks. Lincoln pressed his lips to the side of her head and squeezed his eyes closed against his own tears. He tried to muster a comforting 'shhh' but if he did, the dam would burst, and right now, she needed his strength in a way that she never had before, that neither Jessy nor Alex ever had, and he was _not_ going to fall apart.

Her hands fell away and she hid her face in his chest. Her tears burned his flesh through his shirt, and the feeling of them, of her raw pain, nearly pushed him over the edge, but he held firm.

"I...I was so s-scared," she hitched and wept harder. When she spoke next, the words came out in a breathless rasp. "I thought I was going to die."

Lincoln held her tighter as if to protect her from the death that had so recently brushed past. The broken quality of her voice made it really hard to hold on, and tears were beginning to fall down his cheeks as well.

"But you didn't," he said, his voice as close to even as it would be for a long time, "you didn't die."

She sniffed. "I thought I'd never see you again."

He slid his fingers under her chin and tilted her head back; her big, wet, brown eyes fell upon him, and his heart ached with longing...longing to dry her tears, and just plain longing; even now, in a hospital gown with messy hair, sallow skin, and red-rimmed eyes, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and the love he felt for her ran so deep that even if they lived a thousand years - no, a _million_ \- he would never be able to fully express it. Words and hackneyed phrases could never convey how much her cherished her; not even the most lyrical of poets or the most saccharine romance writer could ever hope to articulate the freverancy of his devotion. No arrangement of characters could translate what resided in his heart into language; he was confined to preexisting notions and expressions that fit as well as the the clothing of a very small man on a very, very large one.

Suffice it to say, he loved her. He loved everything about her - even the things he didn't love. He loved her voice, her eyes, the taste of her lips and the beat of her heart, he loved the feeling of her hand in his, he loved her laugh, her loved that she loved him, he loved that she gave him a wonderful daughter so much like her, he loved that even thirty-two years later, he felt the exact same way about her that he did on that long ago day he asked her to the dance. Call him overly sentimental, say he was putting her on a pedestal, say _everyone has flaws, Linc, no one's perfect_ , say whatever you want, but you know what?

You don't matter.

Fuck you.

Ronnie Anne was his angel, and she _was_ perfect, even when she was wrong and deserved a swift kick in the ass.

All of these thoughts passed through Lincoln's mind in a single instant, then flowed though his heart on their way out. He grazed his thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone stared deeply into her soul. "I'm right here," he said softly, then leaned in and kissed her forehead, "and so are you."

Her hand went to his face, and her fingers curled weakly against his flesh. He drew back, and she rested her head on his shoulder; she was no longer crying, but silent tears continued dripping down her cheeks. She snuggled into him, needing desperately to feel his warmth, his closeness, his protection. Her hand jerked to his chest, her palm laying itself flat against his heart. Its beat was strong and regular, as it had been for the past thirty-two years, a steady, her _only_ steady. Her mother was gone, her childhood home was gone (replaced by an apartment block), her life today was so _different_ (and better) than it was three decades ago, but one thing remained unchanged: Lincoln. He was always there for her when she needed him.

And right now, she needed him. Badly.

She was safe now, she knew that, but the terror remained, and every time that stupid elevator opened, her heart skipped a crazy beat and she was so hysterically sure it would be Kevin Jenner, dressed in black like the Grim Reaper and carrying a rifle, that panic closed around her chest like an iron fist. It was over...but it wasn't: She was still in that hallway, the barrel of a gun pointed at her like the possessive finger of Death itself, only now, the adrenaline was gone and she was no longer numb, her mind no longer raced. She was like a woman running over an uneven surface, kept aloft by momentum alone; her pace was slacking now and she was starting to lose her balance.

She fisted the front of Lincoln's shirt and clung to him as though she were drowning, and he was her life preserver. "Please don't leave," she said, and the needy quality of her voice made her wince...but she couldn't help it. "Please."

"I won't," he said, and rested his chin on her head, "I promise."

And he didn't.

* * *

Alex dropped onto the couch and sat the big wooden bowl on the cushion between her and Jessy, who sat with her arms crossed and her legs drawn under her; there was a turtle-in-its-shell quality to her posture that made Alex frown. She'd been there most of the evening, staring blankly at the TV and occasionally shuddering. Alex tried to get her to open up, but she didn't want to. She didn't have to, though, Alex knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling, because she was kind of thinking and feeling the same. Mom was alive and fairly well, but still, she got flipping shot today, and seeing her like that - all sallow and drugged up in bed - was so hard it could cut diamond. Every time she thought about it, she started to get leaky-eyed. The only thing keeping her from dwelling on it and moping was Jessy; Jessy needed her and...you know...she let her sister down a lot in the past, but she was _not_ going to let her down now. Nope. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.

She pushed the bowl toward her. "Jess? Popcorn."

"I'm not hungry," Jessy mumbled. She said the same thing at dinner - Alex ordered pizza with some of the hundred Dad gave her - but she wound up eating anyway. Probably, Alex suspected, to please her and not because she actually wanted to. Well...that wasn't ideal, but it was good enough; as long as she filled her belly up, Alex didn't really care.

She grabbed a handful and tossed it into her mouth like a mother showing her baby how yummy her num-nums were. _See, Jess? It's tastalicious._ "You sure?"

Jessy's nod was so slight you could barely notice it. Normally, Alex wouldn't mind, more for her, but tonight she did. "Are you _sure_ you're sure?" she pressed.

"I'm sure."

Alex scrunched her lips to the side and turned away. Alright, Jess-a-less. By the end of the evening you will be happily munching popcorn or my name isn't Alejandra Carman Loud. She kicked her feet onto the coffee table, picked up the remote, and changed the channel. Let's see, what can improve a Jessy's mood when she's down? I know, music! She flipped to MTV where a black man sat a bar in sunglasses and a black tank top revealing his muscular arms. A woman in a tight black dress leaned against the counter next to him, a glass full of green liquid in her hand; smoke/steam/something rolled off of it as though it were really, really hot.

Or really, really cold.

 _Cold coolin at a bar, and I'm lookin for some action_

 _But like Mike Jagger said, I can't get no satisfaction_

 _The girls are all around, but none of them want to get with me_

 _My threads are fresh and I'm lookin def, yo, what's up with L-o-see?_

Oh, she knew this song. It was the same dude who did that other one about 'the wild thing.' You know...sex. When she wanted to 'be intimate' with Tim, she'd say something like _Hey, Timbo, wanna do the the wild thing?_ Hey, some girls like to make guys chase them around, but not her: She'd rather put all that wasted time toward...other things.

 _The girls is all jockin at the other end of the bar_

 _Havin' drinks with some no-name chump, when they know that I'm the star_

 _So I got up and strolled over to the other side of the cantina_

 _I asked the guy, "Why you so fly?" he said, "Funky Cold Medina"_

She stole a sidelong glance at Jessy, who still stared into space like a zombie. Hmmm...she was going to have to bring out the big guns. Bobbing her head back and forth, she threw up her hand and starting making random, nonsensical gestures. "Yeah," she rapped, "funky cold medina, it's good stuff, buddy, tastes really good...fruity and kind of nutty."

Jessy looked at her from the corner of her eye, then back to the TV, her facial expression unchanging: Flat, listeless...sad.

 _So I took her to my crib, and everything went well as planned_

 _But when she got undressed, it was a big old mess, Sheena was a man_

 _So I threw him out, I don't fool around with no_ _Oscar Meyer wiener_

 _You must be sure that the girl is pure for the Funky Cold Medina_

 _You know, ain't no plans with a man_

 _This is the 80's, and I'm down with the ladies, ya know?_

"Uh,uh, yeah," Alex agreed, "1989...it's lady time."

Jessy snorted. Ha. Am I amusing you, Jess? Are you...maybe...going to stop being a sad sack?

"Yeah, y'all, funky cold yumminess...comin' your way...grab a glass a drink some today."

Jessy's lips quivered and the corner of her mouth turned up just a little. "Stop," she said.

Whew, it wouldn't take as long as she feared, which was awesome, because she was starting to run out of rhymes. Hey, she was a writer, not a poet, though what rhymes she _did_ come up with were pretty ill. Maybe she should think about adding 'poetess extraordinaire" to her business cards.

 _I took my date to the Hilton for Medina and some dinner_

 _She had a few drinks, I'm thinkin soon what I'll be gettin_

 _Instead she started talkin 'bout plans for our wedding_

 _I said, "Wait, slow down, love, not so fast says, I'll be seein' ya"_

 _That's why I found you don't play around with the Funky Cold Medina_

"Mark loves the median, son, he puts it in Jessy's Pepsi so he can get some."

Jessy was shocked into laughter. "No, he doesn't."

"Oh?" Alex asked through a roguish grin, "he doesn't have to?"

The younger girl's cheeks turned a deep pink color that told her sister she was embaaaarrassed. Only one thing to do: Tease her harder. "You give it up whenever, huh?"

"No!"

She reached over and poked Jessy's arm; Jessy yanked away. "Stop!" she cried indignantly.

"Jessy _loooooves_ having sex with her boyfriend. 'Oh, Mark, talk mathematical theory to me!'" She leaned over farther, and Jessy drew against the armrest.

"Go away," she said and slapped Alex's hand, "we don't talk about math when we have sex."

"What _do_ you talk about?" Alex asked as she moved the popcorn bowl to the floor. She needed it out of the way for what she was going to do next. The climax. The coup de grace, the final act.

Jessy stared straight ahead, ignoring her even as she drew herself up onto her knees, the soft ,cushiony surface making her wobble. Whoa! One wrong move and me and the floor and gonna be on a first name basis. She walked forward on her knees, and Jessy turned her head, her brow pinching. "What are you - oh no, back up."

But Alex didn't listen. She shot out her arms and dug her fingers into her sister's stomach. Jessy jumped with a girlish squeal and threw up her hands. "Stop!" she laughed and tried to squirm away, but Alex hooked her leg over hers and shifted into her lap. "Stop!" She whipped her head from side-to-side so violently that her hair tie flew out and her hair came free in a reddish brown mess. She was screaming laughter, and Alex giggled like a schoolgirl, happy that she accomplished her goal...and even happier that Jessy wasn't sad anymore. "You're gonna make me pee!"

Instead of pulling back, Alex push forward, tickling harder. She was like a shark with the scent of blood in its snout, losing control and unable to stop even if she wanted to. Jessy thrashed like a caged animal. "Bunny! Get off!"

Nope. Uh-uh. Bunny is _not_ here, there's only -

That thought cut roughly off as Jessy's palms crashed into her chest. She began to topple backwards, and her eyes widened. In that moment, her life flashed before her like a movie (wow, I was so cool) then, with a sharp cry, she fell like a diver flopping backwards off a boat. She landed on her back with her legs in the air in a V and her feet kicking.

After a shocked moment, she started to laugh, and Jessy joined her, the both of them shrieking laughter until tears streamed down their faces. You know, in the hustle and bustle of being a grown woman with a baby on the way, she'd forgotten how much she enjoyed goofing off with her sister. "You bitch," she hitched. She planted her hands in the carpet and pulled herself to a sitting position. "I almost died."

"Well, _I_ almost peed," Jessy said

"Dying's worse than peeing yourself, Jess," Alex said.

"I would have peed on you too," Jessy pointed out.

Eh...she had a point. Alex loved her sister, but she didn't want to be covered in her piss. That was gross to the max. "Well...you're too rough. You seem to have forgotten I'm carrying your nephew." The words had barely left her lips when she realized her mistake; her hand flew to her mouth and a breathy "Shit" burst through her fingers. Maybe Jessy wasn't paying attention.

"It's a _boy?"_ Jessy asked excitedly.

Damn, she _was_ paying attention. Of course she was, she _always_ paid attention, she was Jessy after all; how do you think she did so well in school? Not by propping her book on her desk, putting her head down, and taking a nap like her older sister.

Alex briefly considered denying it. _What? I didn't say anything_ , but what was the use? Jessy wasn't dumb like Tim (sorry, babe, still love you, though); she couldn't get away with telling _her_ a lie. "Yes," she said, "it's a boy." She jabbed a finger at her. "Don't. Say. Anything."

Jessy grinned prettily and mimed zipping her lips closed.

"Not even to Mom or Dad. I want everyone to be surprised at the party, okay?"

Jessy nodded.

Metaphorically kicking her own butt for letting it slip (gotta be more vigilant, Bunny), she got up and dropped onto the couch. On TV, Biz Markie sat behind a piano in ruffles and a powdered wig, looking like an overweight Amadeus, if Amadeus was a rapper and didn't suck.

 _You, you got what I need_

 _But you say he's just a friend_

 _And you say he's just a friend, oh baby_

 _You got what I need_

 _But you say he's just a friend_

 _But you say he's just a friend..._

Jessy twisted around and slapped her hands onto her knees. "What are you going to name him?" Her eyes danced with light and her lips were arranged in a happy half-smile that kind of reminded Alex of the Mona Lisa.

Alex ticked her head from side-to-side. "I dunno. We haven't decided yet." She leaned over, picked the bowl up off the floor, and sat it between her and Jessy. She took a handful and shoved it into her mouth. "We can't find one we both like," she said, spraying bits of wet popcorn. "We don't want him to be a junior - we wanna be original, you know."

"Yeah," Jessy said and scooped her hand into the bowl. "What about Michael, like George Michael?"

Alex's nose crinkled. "Yuck. He's fruity."

"No he's not!" Jessy gasped and threw her popcorn into her mouth. "He's cute. Not as cute as Mark, but cute nonetheless," she added quickly.

On the screen, Biz Markie was being interviewed by someone from _Yo MTV Raps_. " _The Biz never sleeps,"_ he said.

Alex rolled her eyes. "Poor, benighted Jessica. She _still_ thinks Boy George is straight." She grabbed another handful and tossed it in. Yum. She preferred hers with salt and pepper (a culinary habit she filched from Timbob), but Jessy thought it was gross. Eh, whaddaya gonna do?

"He's bisexual," Jessy said, "he likes both men _and_ women" She picked up another round of popping corn and happily munched. It hit Alex then: She got to keep her name. Oh, thank God, she was _really_ struggling to come up with a new one. Nothing sounded right. She even considered Ronnie Anne Part 2: The Better Ronnie Anne, but nope, she was Alex and Alex alone.

Following her sister's lead, Alex munched too. "That's what they all say, Jess. They can't say they're straight because it's obvious they're not, so they try to half it, that way bigots only hate one half of them and not the other."

Jessy snorted. Since they were little, Alex said every singer she liked was gay. The Bee Gees were gay, Leif Garrett was gay, Rick Springfield was gay, Boy George was gay. Jeez, was _anybody_ straight?

"I'm telling you, Jess," Alex said, "George Michael is a full time man lover. Now that I think about it, though, Michael's not a bad name." She mulled it over further as she chewed. Yeah, Michael wasn't bad. She and Tim considered it before, but Tim said he wasn't 'sold' which was a passive-aggressive way of saying he didn't like it. He did that sometimes, got all wishy-washy and stuff. She didn't get it: He wasn't a passive-aggressive person. He could be just as aggressive as her, though he said it was 'tiring.' Well, yeah, it was, but you gotta stay on your toes, Tim-o-thee, otherwise you get wrecked.

Where was she? Oh, yeah, Michael. Maybe.

"What about Nick?" Jessy asked.

"Nick," Alex repeated, rolling the word over her tongue the way a wine snob would taste a fine French cabernet. She and Snap-into-a-Slim-Tim hadn't gotten around to _that_ name yet. She couldn't say she was over excited about it, though; Nick sounded like the noise your earring made when it fell into the sink and disappeared into the drain, never to be seen again. "I don't know." An idea struck her, and she grinned evilly. "I could always name him Gage after the little boy in _Pet Sematary._ "

The blood drained from Jessy's face. "Don't you dare, Bunny."

Pet Sematary was a Stephen King book Alex had when she was, like, fourteen (whatever happened to it, anyway? It was a hardcover and those don't come cheap). It was about this ancient Indian burial ground where if you bury dead stuff (like people) it comes back to life. The main character is this doctor and his two-year-old son Gage gets hit by a truck and dies. He buries him there and he comes back and kills people. Jessy read the book and it scared her silly, but the movie that came out earlier this year? Alex actually felt kind of bad for bringing Jessy with her to see it; it really messed her up, especially the part when the old guy's walking past his bed and this little white hand clutching a scalpel creeps out…

Alex hummed. "I think I will. Gage Creed Loud."

Jessy opened her mouth, then closed it. "Uh, it'd be Gage Underwood."

"Nope."

"Yes it would because Tim's the father and Underwood is his last name."

"That's not how it works."

"Bunny, yes it is."

Alex plucked a single kernel from the bowl. "Tim's taking my last name the way Fr -" Alex snapped her mouth shut. Goddamn it, she almost spilled the beans about Auntie Fred and Uncle Luan. That would have been _bad_ ; Auntie Luan was her mom, so it was only right for her to tell Jessy about the marriage.

"What?" Jessy asked, her brow furrowing.

"Nothing," Alex said quickly, "I just...Alex is taking _my_ last name."

Jessy's head tilted in confusion. " _You're_ Alex."

"Yep. That's me. Alex Loud."

Jessy stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. "You're weird."

"But I look good doing it," Alex winked and pointed a finger gun at her sister. She tossed the kernel at her mouth.

And missed.


	146. November and December 1989: Part 15

**Sorry it's been so long since I updated. I'm not going to lie, I'm kind of burning out on this story and after the next chapter, I plan on taking a break and focusing on other projects. I'll come back to this one because, the more I think about it, the more I realize how much I love it. I have ideas for future storylines and I want to write them, I just need a vacay. Thank you to everyone who has read and supported this story. I hope you've gotten as much out of it so far as I have.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **The Toxic Waltz**_ **by Exodus (1989)**

Lincoln woke in a bright bar of morning sun, his gummy eyes tearing open with an almost audible _riiip._ The first thing he saw was a strange wall painted green. That's funny, the walls in his and Ronnie Anne's bedroom were brown and had been since they bought the house in 1970. Plus...where the hell was the dresser? And the TV? And why was he sitting up? He tried to move, but his neck was stiff and his back cried out in protest. He sucked air through clenched teeth and slowly, ever so slowly, turned his head to the left: Ronnie Anne was propped up against a mess of pillows, her head lolling to one side and her eyes closed. Her brow was furrowed and she breathed through her nose, each exhalation producing a whistle. When he saw her gown and the bandage on her shoulder, it came back to him: They were in the hospital...because some punk faggot kid shot her.

Anger flared in his chest and he took a deep breath. She was alive and well, that's all that mattered. Fuck that piece of shit.

Even so, he couldn't help it; the bastard shot his wife. She was so traumatized that she whimpered in her sleep and woke up every time he let her go. She didn't deserve to be scared and scarred, but she was...just like he was when he came home from Vietnam.

He never, ever, _ever_ wanted her to feel that way...but now she did and he was powerless to put her at ease the way she was powerless to put _him_ at ease then. He could only be there for her, and while that would help (it did with him), it wouldn't stop the fear and anxiety.

 _I hope they give that bastard the chair,_ Lincoln thought as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rolled his neck. _And I hope they let me throw the switch._ He stood and walked across the room on socked feet to the bathroom, where he pissed then checked his reflection in the mirror: Pasty skin, dark bags under bloodshot eyes, messy hair...yep, you could tell _he_ spent the night in the hospital. A yawn escaped his lips, and he scratched his butt as he went back into the room. Ronnie Anne was awake now, but just barely, her head turned in his direction and her eyes two watery slits.

"Good morning," he said with a smile.

"Morning," she muttered and shifted, a grimace of pain crossing her face. He went over, bent, and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Brushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead, he offered a melancholy smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Alright," she said, "a little achy. What's that noise?"

Lincoln blinked. He didn't hear -

Then he did, and he remembered. "It's the phone." He glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm that it actually was: The handset lay on its side, the droning dial tone drifting from the earpiece.

The thing about acting heroically, Lincoln discovered years and years ago, is that when what you did comes out, everybody wants to talk to you. Apparently, the eleven o'clock news broke the story of the brave vice principal and the valiant gym teacher. Lincoln didn't know _what_ Ronnie Anne did (she hadn't volentteered it, and he hadn't asked), but it was enough that news outlets from NBC to CNN wanted to talk to her. The phone rang so much last night that he eventually took it off the hook. Apparently "No comment," "leave us alone," and "fuck off, you piece of shit, we're trying to sleep" wouldn't cut it with these types. Unbeknownst to him, Frank Lawson was getting his across town: An army of reporters were camped on his front lawn, and every time his curtains so much as fluttered they whipped into a feeding frenzy like a school of sharks.

"It's just the phone," he said and stroked her hair, "remember all the calls?"

She hummed tiredly. "Vaguely. I was pretty out of it."

That she was. She was given pain medication before bed, then again around five in the morning. She spent much of the night asleep, and when she was 'awake' she wasn't really awake at all.

It was a hard night for both of them, but on the bright side, they were _probably_ going to let her go today. Her arm would have to be put in a sling and Lincoln would be responsible for changing her dressings every couple hours (which scared him because what if he fucked it up and she developed an infection?), but that was a small price to pay to be home and comfortable.

He sat on the bed and took her hand in his. She seemed calmer than she was in the night, and he wanted to believe that her anxiety was gone, but he suspected that it wasn't. "Did you have any dreams?" he asked casually. He dreamed every night for a good two months after coming home: Intense, hyper realistic nightmares about...you know.

"I don't think so," she said and weakly threaded her fingers through his, "if I did I can't remember."

He processed her tone and inflection, scanning them for notes of deception, but there were none; she was telling the truth. "You know," he said, needing to brush the topic but not really wanting to, "like with me, be open, okay?"

She didn't reply for a minute. "I will," she finally said and squeezed his hand.

"How do you feel?"

"Better," she said, "still a little...nervous, though. I mean, it's dumb, but…"

He lifted her hand to his lips. "It's not dumb. It's…" he trailed off. He was going to say _normal,_ but did that really fit? In the context it was...he thought. "Natural. I felt the same way."

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, her eyes darting away. "I should probably get help."

Lincoln blinked. Help? Already? Jeez, it took him sixteen years to reach the conclusion that he needed professional help...though he didn't really _need_ it per se. The doctor said he was AOK, except for obsessing over maggots, which he didn't do anymore. In fact, the last time he thought about the little bastards was when he saw that dumb vampire movie with Alex. _How are those maggots treating you, Michael? Want some more?_

An involuntary shiver went down his spine even now. Whose fucking bright idea was that anyway? _You know what vampires like to do? Eat maggots._ No, they like to drink blood. They've always liked to drink blood and they always _will_ like to drink blood. Dumbass.

Anyway, back to reality. "Maybe," he said noncommittally, "if you feel like you need to."

She considered for a minute, and Lincoln could see the uncertainty on her face. Ronnie Anne was a proud woman, and she didn't like admitting to needing help or support. That was largely nature, but it was also nurture. People might be more open about their emotions in the eighties, but they grew up in a generation where you suffered in silence and put up a strong front whether you felt strong or not. You didn't let your step falter in their day and age, you kept walking. Younger people might not understand that mindset, but it was so deeply ingrained in him, and her, that simply stopping wasn't an option even when they realized it was for the best. "Maybe," she said. "I'll see how I feel when I get home. Can you help me sit up better?"

Lincoln held his hand out; she clasped it with her good one and pulled herself up, her teeth gritting in pain. When she let go, she leaned back against the pillows and fought to catch her breath. Lincoln watched her with worried eyes. With her wounds, both physical _and_ mental, it was going to be a long road to recovery.

* * *

Before going to bed the previous night, Alex Loud called the hospital to check on her mother. She didn't get to talk to her because she was asleep, but she talked to Dad, and he said he was closing Flip's for the day, which meant Alex would have a whole Tuesday to herself. Right on, daddy-o (she actually said that because her father came from the fifties and that's how they talked. Gotta speak his language, you know?). She _was_ planning to sleep in, but Jessy woke her up when she got out of bed to get ready for school. Oh, yeah, they slept in the same bed because, well, you know, when you're alone in the dark and you've had a bad day...snuggling with your sister helps. Don't for a minute think Alex was switching teams. She wasn't Tone Loc; she was down with the fellas, not the ladies.

Anyway, Jess woke her up and she couldn't get back to sleep; she laid there for a while with her hands laced over her chest and tried to drop back off, but after a while gray sunlight began to flood the room and that was it. She got up, visited the john, and went into the kitchen to find something to eat...for the baby, the baby was hungry. Yep. The baby and not her. Okay, she was hungry too. She started in the fridge and moved to the cabinets, but nothing looked good. Jeez, without me around these people have _no_ cool food on hand. No cookies, no crackers...this place was Lamesville. (She got that from _A Pup Named Scooby-Doo_...not that she watched it with Tim every single Saturday morning while eating cereal...pffft, what am I, six?). She turned, and her eyes went to the half counter flanking the living room. It was a counter but with a big open space so that you could see into….that doesn't matter. She saw a pizza box, alright? And it hit her: Oh sht, that's right, there's leftover 'za! What-what.

Patting herself on the back, she strutted over and lifted the lid.

It was empty.

She sighed heavily and threw her head back. She knew for a _fact_ that there was at least one slice hanging around when she went to bed. Jessy must have gotten her grubby little mitts on it. Hm. Jess wasn't usually the type of eat pizza in the morning. _That's not breakfast, Bunny._

Back at the pantry, she grabbed a packet of pretzels and munched them as she went back into the room; she'd have something when she got home...unlike her parents and her sister, _she_ knew how to shop: Her cup runneth over with cookies, crackers, chips, cereals, and all sorts of yumminess. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, she pulled her shoes on and finished off the pretzels. She got up and shoved the package into her dress pocket (yes, she slept in her uniform because what else was she going to sleep in? She didn't exactly pack a bag yesterday morning). She started to leave, but stopped at the door, her head turning to the bed, which was a mess of sheets. She should probably make it. It wouldn't be nice of her to leave Jessy's nesting place looking like a pigpen.

She slumped her shoulders. She didn't _like_ making beds, from scratch. She and fitted sheets were mortal enemies the way she and Jiffy Pop were once were. Every time she tried to put one on, the ends kept popping off the corners and...ugh, it was enough to make her nuts. She trudged back over and hurriedly made the bed, working as quickly as she could because the sooner it was over the sooner she could do something else, like go home and have a banquet of cookies and chips. When she was done, she stepped back and put her hands on her hips. It looked like shit, but, hey, she put in the effort, and it's the thought that counts, right?

In the kitchen, she grabbed another pack of pretzels and left the house, holding it between her teeth as she locked the door behind her. It was cold and cloudy, like most days lately, and the grass seemed really green for some reason, like, it put her in mind of Ireland.

Alright, time to go eat. She ripped open the package and dumped the whole enchilada into her mouth as she crossed the front lawn to the driveway - the whole enchilada save for the one that fell on the ground. Come on, she wasn't _that_ hard up.

Shoving the empty in with the other, unlocked the driver door, and slid in behind the wheel with a weary sigh. Hey, being five months pregnant _everything_ makes you weary, even simple stuff...like bending over and washing your groin area. _Bending over?_ She could hear an imaginary audience of men who didn't know shit about pregnancy asking, _why do you have to bend?_ Uh, stomach? Full of baby? Bulging? A couple times she had Tim do it for her, but, uh, that always led to them having sex and her getting even dirtier than she was when she got _in_ the tub. Kind of counterproductive if you asked her. What they _needed_ to do was get one of those detachable handheld showerheads. That would make cleaning Alex Jr. a breeze. Tim was cheap as hell though. _We caaaaaan't afford it_...he says as he flaps his hand gayly. Well, we can't afford to have sex anymore, how about that, buddy? She didn't actually say that; she didn't like to admit having things like 'flaws' or 'weaknesses' but she'd probably cave before he did.

Her stomach growled. "Alright, alright," she said and clicked her seatbelt, "we're going, Mr. Impatient., jeez. You act like you _didn't_ have a butt ton of pizza and popcorn last night." She felt a faint flutter, and she smiled warmly. She loved it when Little Name to be Determined moved. She was a _little_ disappointed that he wasn't really kicking, but she read somewhere that first time mothers sometimes don't get the full effect, ya know? Why, she couldn't say. Sigh. I want my baby to kick me, damn it.

 _Growl._

"Okay, going." She started the car and reached instinctively for the radio. Gotta have my jamz. Madonna was on WKBBL, and Alex wrinkled her nose. Ew. She preferred Lola. Not her music (Lola's music sucked), but the person. True, she didn't _know_ Madonna, but she bet Lola was cooler. She pushed the tape button, and Exodus blasted from the speakers, all driving guitars and slamming drums. She turned the volume up until the windows were shaking. Oh yeah.

 _..._ _You aim for someone's head_

 _To stain the floor red_

 _Give someone a kick_

 _To prove you're truly sick_

 _Bounce back from some blows_

 _And blood runs out your nose_

 _Flailing round and round_

 _And you're injury bound_

She nodded her head as she backed out of the driveway and pointed the car toward home. When she was done pigging out on junk food, she should go see Mom. Dad said she'd probably be home today, but Alex didn't want to wait. She really wanted to check in on her and make sure things were alright.

 _Everybody's doin' the toxic waltz_

 _Kick your friend in the head and have a ball_

 _Come on and do the toxic waltz_

 _And slam your partner against the wall_

 _Everybody's doin' the toxic waltz_

 _Good friendly violent fun in store for all_

 _Get up off your ass and toxic waltz_

 _If you hit the floor you can always crawl_

Shew, sounds like a violent dance. She remembered seeing Chubby Checker on one of those MTV flashback things: He was wearing a suit and dancing like the world's second biggest dweeb (Dad was permanently number one). She imagined his twisting and singing with a bunch of women around him...then he shoots out his arm and clocks one in the face. _Toxic waltz, bitch!_ She snickered and turned left. If oldies singers did _that,_ she'd listen to them all the time. They didn't, though. Why Mom and Dad liked them so much baffled her. _Hey, lame-o, it's our song_. Ew, _that's_ your song?

Ten minutes later, she was sitting on the couch in front of _Good Morning America_ and shoving empty calories into her mouth, Doritos to the left of her and chocolate chip cookies to the right. On the screen, Joan Lunden and Charlie Gibson talked to some guy about this other guy named Rushdie that Muslims wanted dead or something. She wasn't really paying attention. _GMA_ was boring, like all the other little morning news shows. Yawn.

When she was done eating, she took a long, hot shower then dressed in fresh clothes: A pair of jeans and a black long sleeved shirt that was just a little baggy. Was it Tim's? Maybe. Kind of hard to seperate what's yours and what isn't when you and your boyfriend wear a lot of the same kinds of things and then mix them together on laundry day. That reminded her, he still had her Metallica shirt.

She went to the dresser and rummaged around for it, finding it under a stack of plaid work shirts. Ha. There you are. This is my special birthday shirt, buddy; Jessy got it for me. You are _not_ allowed to wear it.

After putting in in one of her drawers, she dropped onto the bed, pulled her shoes on, and got up. Alright. Let's go see Mom.

* * *

Jessy passed much of Tuesday in a restless state of anxiety. She had difficulty focusing and found her mind uncharacteristically drifting. In the afternoon, she had an hour between classes that she often used for lunch. Today, she went straight to the payphone outside the English room and dialed the hospital. As she waited for the switchboard operator to patch her through to Auntie Ronnie Anne's room, she watched kids pass in the hall: A boy with a pink button up shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, a girl in sleeveless denim jacket over a blue shirt, a guy in a suit who reminded her of Chuck Spencer for some reason, and...wow, that guy has a lot of holes in his pants. Doesn't he get cold?

When the line clicked, she was only mildly surprised to hear Alex's voice. "What?" she asked sharply, making Jessy jump.

"Uh...I wanna talk to Auntie Ronnie Anne, please."

Alex's tone changed instantly. "Oh, hey, Jess. Sorry to snap, I thought you were another reporter. Those assholes have been bugging us all day." A rustling sound told Jessy Alex was handing the phone over. "Mom?"

Auntie Ronnie Anne came on sounding sleepy, but not as sleepy as she had the night before. "Hey."

"Hi," Jessy said. "I just wanted to check on you and make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine, honey, thank you," she said, the ghost of a smile in her voice. "How are _you?_ "

A girl with permed hair hair cried out right next to Jessy as her boyfriend, a big blonde guy in tan slacks and a blue Izod grabbed her waist from behind. "Knock it off, Phil!" she laughed. Why were her classmates so loud? "I'm okay," she said, "just kind of worried. A little."

Auntie Ronnie Anne laughed. "Don't be. I'm okay. They're sending me home.'

Jessy blinked in shock. "T-They are?"

She'd never known anyone who suffered a gunshot wound (aside from Uncle Lincoln) so she didn't know what was normal procedure, but releasing someone so soon...really? Twenty-four hours ago she had a bullet in her body and had to have surgery, now you're letting her _go?_ That didn't seem right. Shouldn't such a serious injury warrant at least a couple days for observation?

"Yeah," Auntie Ronnie Anne said, "they're doing my paperwork now."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Jessy asked. "You just got shot. Maybe you should stay a few days...just to be safe."

Auntie Ronnie Anne was shocked into a laugh. "Really, sweetie, I'm fine. The doctor said there's no reason to keep me. He also said 'You'll recover more quickly and happily at home.'"

Well...she _guessed_ the doctor knew best, but, then again, doctors make mistakes all the time. Twenty-four hours _really_ didn't seem like enough time to her. What if he was a quack and wound up getting Auntie Ronnie Anne killed with his bad advice, and what if Jessy just stood by and let it happen and…?

She was starting to hyperventilate. Carried away, Jess, you're getting carried away. She took a deep, even breath and forced herself to let it out slowly. "Jess?" Auntie Ronnie Anne asked worriedly. "Are you okay?"

No, she wasn't: Her heart was slamming, her stomach was in knots, and she felt like she was going to have a full blown panic attack. "I'm fine," she forced, and her voice sounded steady to her own ears. "I'll see you at home."

"Okay. I love you."

"I love you too."

She hung up the phone and leaned against the wall, her breathing still heavy but gradually calming. Sometimes, she let her anxiety get the best of her. It usually wasn't this bad, though. Could you really blame her? She loved Auntie Ronnie Anne and she was worried. One day in the hospital? That's like running a steak through a warm room instead of actually cooking it. It's like putting a cake in the oven, waiting five minutes, then taking it back out. It's like...it's like…nothing. It was like nothing. She pushed away from the wall and glanced at her watch: She had forty-five minutes of her break left. She really wasn't hungry (nerves), so she'd go to the library on the second floor; it was tranquil and silent, just the thing to calm her down before her next class.

She climbed the stairs, walked down the hall, and entered through a door propped open by a thick hardback book (she turned her head to the side to read the title as she passed.. _.Poor Fellow My Country_ ). Kids sat at circle tables and read, browsed aisles, and silently did classwork. A few worked at the computer terminals along one wall. An absent smile flickered wanly across her lips as she crossed to an empty table; computers reminded her of Mark. He was _really_ good with them, so good that he was teaching her to use them. She was catching on...slowly. They could be very frustrating; if she didn't see it as a challenge to her intelligence, and if it wasn't her boyfriend's favorite thing (aside from her, she hoped), she would have given up.

 _You're going to need to know how to use these things,_ he told her, _because in five years they'll be in every classroom and if you don't know what you're doing, you'll be left behind._ She doubted that, but maybe he was right, so that made _three_ reasons she couldn't give up.

For a while, she simply sat there, basking in equanimity, her frayed nerves slowly healing. Auntie Ronnie Anne told her once that she should 'see someone' about her anxiety; that made Jessy sick with nerves because _she thinks there's something wrong with me_. She realized on some level that that kind of proved Auntie Ronnie Anne's point, but she was afraid of going to a doctor; what if they found out something was _really_ wrong with her, like she was crazy and needed to be put away? She didn't _think_ she was crazy, but can you ever really be sure? She didn't know how everyone else's minds worked, so she didn't have anything to compare hers to.

The human mind is a funny thing. None of use see things exactly the same way - our perspective is colored by our nature, disposition, past experiences, and other things. Where you see a six someone else will see a nine.

Another thing that really interested her was how two people can read a book and come away with two totally different ideas of what a character looks like; sometimes she and Bunny talked about books they'd both read, and they always seemed to have conflicting images of the characters. Some things were the same, things provided by the author - hair color, eye color, etc, but from there she and her sister almost always parted ways like two women coming to a fork in the road. Everyone had their own thoughts and ideas...no two minds were entirely alike, and you could never know just how dissimilar yours was to 'the norm' until a professional told you.

She didn't think she was crazy, but she could be, and if she was, she'd like to have the peace of mind of not knowing. If she _was,_ she wasn't _that_ bad; she had a good life, she bathed, she genuinely loved her boyfriend and never thought he was trying to kill her or anything weird, she drove, she was smart...it's like one of those latent diseases you can live with your entire life without adverse effects.

Though her panic attacks and anxiety fits _were_ rather irritating, it wasn't like she stripped out of her clothes and ran down the street screaming about aliens and the CIA planting listening devices in her brain.

Sigh. She didn't _know_. Maybe she should see a doctor.

When her free period was over, she went to her next class and did her best to focus and _not_ think of Auntie Ronnie Anne. She largely succeeded, and by the end of the day, she felt better, largely because she had other things to worry about.

Like Zack Johnson.

Her one day a week with him had so far been Mondays. She had to postpone yesterday's session owing to Auntie Ronnie Anne, but told his mother she would see him today instead.

Deep breath.

This was the first day of her new gameplan, and she was anxious to see whether it worked or not. She had three VHS tapes in the car for him to choose from: _Tourist Trap; Nightmares in a Damaged Brain;_ and _The House at the Edge of the Park_. Bunny helped her pick them out the night before. _If he's a normal boy he'll_ love _The House at the Edge of the Park._ When Jessy asked why, Alex just smirked. She _almost_ put it back, but she kept it despite her misgivings.

Would movies _really_ be enough to get him to bring his grades up?

She'd just have to find out.

A half an hour later, she sat stiffly on the Johnsons' couch with her purse in her lap. Zack was in the bathroom, and was getting ready to leave on an errand, for which Jessy was endlessly grateful; she was worried she'd get in trouble if she found out about the movies. She assumed Zack was allowed to watch these kinds of movies, but she'd never asked, and if she did now and he _wasn't,_ her plan would either be ruined or she'd have to hope he didn't get caught with one and tell on her. At least this way she could plead ignorance. _Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't know he wasn't permitted to view such content._ She might be a good girl, but she could be bad when she had to be. _Evil smile._

When she heard Zack thumping down the stairs a few minutes later, though, she didn't _feel_ bad, she felt nervous. _Alright, Jess,_ she thought with a deep breath, _moment of truth...let's see whether or not he can be bri - err - motivated by yucky horror tapes._ He came in from the hall, dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a green polo shirt, and she forced a confident smile.

His face lit up when he saw her. "Hey, Jess, how's it going?"

"Good," Jessy said as he dropped onto the sofa next to her. "You?"

He shrugged. "Alright. How's...how's your mom?"

Jessy nodded slowly. "She's good. She's coming out of the hospital today, so I'm happy."

"Cool," Zack said, then grinned, "guess what."

"What?"

He leaned over, took a folder off the coffee table, and opened it, removing a single sheet of paper. He handed it out, and she took it.

A history test.

He got a 75.

"Oh wow," she said and looked up at him, genuinely impressed. He _was_ averaging a 65. He preened and nodded his head. _Yep, I did well and I know it._ She looked at the paper once more then back to him, a spark of hope flickering in her chest. Was...did _she_ do this? "I-I guess these lessons are paying off," she said.

He nodded in confirmation, and Jessy couldn't help but grin stupidly. Oh wow, she was doing it, she was helping him bring his grades up! She didn't think these sessions were working because, let's face it, she'd been a lousy tutor so far but they _were_ working and she was so happy she could bounce and squee with excitement.

Instead, she reached out and mussed his hair. "That's great, I'm proud of you." _And of myself_ she added with a mental pat on the back.

"Thanks," he said, "I read that book, the one I got from the library. It was pretty interesting; it didn't have any of the good stuff, though."

Jessy winced. Should she come clean? Telling him the truth was the right thing to do, but look at him, he made a 75! _A 75!_ Her plan, though not perfect, _was_ working. She didn't want to keep telling him lies, though; Auntie Ronnie Anne was right when she said it was wrong and not the teacherly thing to do. Then again...what are teensy tiny white lies if they can turn a student from absolutely hating a subject and flunking it to tolerating it and improving their grades?

She'd have to think further on the matter, but for now she had other fish to fry. "You'll just have to read other books if you want _that_ stuff. In the meantime, I have an idea." She opened her purse and looked suspiciously around to make sure Mrs. Johnson wasn't nearby. Zack's brow creased in confusion, then creased _even more_ when she pulled out the video tapes. "My sister gave me some movies and since I don't have room for them" - another lie, you're out of control, Jess! - "I figured I'd give them to you."

Zack's face brightened. "Oh, wow, really?"

"Umhm." She held up a finger. "There's a catch, though."

Zack deflated like a balloon. "There's _always_ a catch," he sighed.

"That is true," Jessy said, and it was. "The catch is: You have to answer a certain number of questions after today's lesson. If you get enough of them right, I will let you pick _one_ movie." She fanned them out on her lap, and he leaned curiously over, his eyes scanning the covers appreciatively. Her chest tightened. Hopefully he didn't already have any (or, gasp, all) of them. Finally, he tapped _The House at the Edge of the Park_ : The cover featured a switchblade cast in the light revealed by a half-opened door. Jessy put the others back into her purse and sat his selection on the coffee table. "Alright. Let's begin."

At the end of the session, she gave him ten questions based on the chapter they read; he had to get six right to earn the movie.

He got eight.

When she was alone in her car, she bounced and squeed.

* * *

There's nothing quite like coming home after being away; Ronnie Anne likened walking through the door to a warm embrace. She had lived in this house for almost twenty years (far longer than she had lived anywhere else); it was safe, familiar, and comforting, from the pictures on the walls right down to the carpet stains...ghosts of soda and cereal spills past. When they first moved in, she was adamant that not food or drinks be allowed in the living room, but the first Saturday morning she found Lincoln and the girls sitting on the floor with bowls of Punch Crunch and cartoons on the television, she didn't have the heart to make a fuss...and it was all downhill from there. Not that she really minded; a home is for living, she had come to realize, and no one lives a good, happy life without making a mess.

When she arrived home from the hospital at three that Tuesday afternoon, her arm in a sling and her head still fuzzy from the drugs, she was overcome with emotion, and it took everything she had not to break down and cry...again. She hated crying, but since yesterday, she'd done plenty of it, sometimes for no reason at all. Lincoln sensed her distress and took her hand in his. It was a gesture meant to pull her back from the edge, but instead it pushed her even closer: He knew her so well it was scary. She could hide things from other people, her own daughters even, but not from him. "You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said weakly, "just glad to be home." That wasn't a lie, she _was_ glad to be here...mainly because even lying in the hospital hours after Kevin Jenner was in police custody and no longer a threat, she was almost _certain_ that she would never see it again.

Lincoln squeezed her hand and led her gently to the couch, helped her sit (she didn't need his assistance, but she accepted it gladly), then went off to fetch a pillow despite her protests. Alone, she felt fingers of dread creeping in, and beat them back; she was home and safe, she had _no_ reason to be nervous. Even though she knew this intellectually, deep in her primal core, she was tense, ill at ease, her eyes darting around the room as if in search of hidden danger. She didn't see any because of course she wouldn't: This was home, not the mean streets of Detroit at 4 in the morning. She chuckled and tried to relax,, but her muscles refused to unlock.

This was normal, she told herself. She was shot just over twenty-four hours ago, and when you have _that_ close a brush with death, you're liable to be on your guard for a while afterwards. Life, we often forget, is a fragile thing, and at any given time, we're but one heartbeat from death: We could be shot, we could be stabbed, or our heart could simply and inexplicably give out. Only when the Reaper passes close by do we sense this, and once we do, we find ourselves jittery with dreadful expectation, sure that he will come back at any moment. Over time that feeling would go away and she would settle back into life. She imagined.

She _hoped_.

Lincoln returned, and she leaned forward so that he could slip the pillow behind her. "Do you need anything else?" he asked. "Lunch? Water? Do you want me to prop your feet up?"

His attentive concern made her smile despite herself. "No," she said, "just you."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

For a long time they sat together on the couch, their fingers laced and comfortable silence between them. She began to calm down, and after a half an hour, she was no longer tense. He'd always had that effect on her: She didn't say it too often, but he made her feel protected, like no harm could come as long as he was with her. She silently thanked God for the billionth time that she had him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, turning his head to her.

She nodded thoughtfully. "Better. Tired."

Before leaving the hospital, Dr. Peterson prescribed her Novril, a codeine based painkiller. The medication they gave her that morning was still in her system, and he cautioned her to 'let it run its course' before taking her first pill. Oh, he didn't have to worry about _that_ because she didn't plan on taking her pills; she didn't like feeling so groggy, and she was _terrified_ of becoming addicted to them. She'd try her best to get through it on her own and only take the Novril if she absolutely had to.

"Do you want to lay down?"

She thought for a moment. "No, but I am starting to get hungry."

"What do you want?" Lincoln asked.

"I really don't care. Soup."

He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed it, and got up. She smiled at his back and took a deep breath through her nose. She was lucky to have him. Did he have any idea how much she loved him, how deeply and totally? She didn't think he did, she didn't think he ever _would_ because she lacked the vocabulary to tell him.

And yesterday, she almost lacked the _time_ to tell him.

A knot formed in her stomach. She very well could have died without telling him how much he meant to her.

Hot tears welled in her eyes, and she brushed them away. She'd tell him just as soon as he came back in, then she'd tell him at dinner, and again tonight. She'd tell him every single moment of every single day until the end of time if that's what it took.

"Lincoln?"

"Yeah?" he called from the kitchen.

"Can you come here?"

Something, presumably a pot, clunked, then he came in, her brow pinched in concern. "You alright?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. I just wanted to tell you I love you."

He smiled warmly. "I love you too."

Fifteen minutes later, he set up one of the little folding TV trays and sat her soup on it, along with crackers and a glass of water because he was endlessly thoughtful. He dropped next to her, and she took his hand with a watery smile. "I really do love you," she said, "more than you'll ever know."

"I love _you_ even more." He leaned in and kissed the bridge of her nose.

A girlish giggle bubbled up from her throat and she touched the side of his face. "Really, Lincoln," she said, sobering, "you mean everything to me."

"And you mean everything to _me,_ " he said, then sighed deeply. "I was really fucked up yesterday."

His eyes flickered away, and in them she saw pain. She knew how he felt: For eight months he was missing in Vietnam, and for eight months she dragged herself through each day with a hollowness inside her soul that grew with each passing week, each passing hour. Those 243 days were the most miserable of her life, and God help her, she would do anything she could to not feel that way again. She leaned into him and they kissed slowly, passionately, their tongues gently caressing. She laid her palm flat on his chest and grinned against his lips. Her anxiety wasn't entirely gone, but it was muted, and for that she was thankful. "When you kiss me I feel like I'm thirteen again."

"Good," he said, "you do the same thing to me."

Her eyes went instinctively to his crotch, and yup, he was hard. She laughed. "Jeez, lame-o, all I did was kiss you." She said this as though her center wasn't more moist than it should be.

"What can I say," he said with a shrug, "it was a good kiss."

She ran her hand down his chest to his bulge, squeezing it between her fingers and smirking at the way his breath caught. "Of course it was... _all_ my kisses are good." She brushed her thumb slowly over his twitching mound, her heart beginning to race and her core going from moist to damp - next stop, outright wet.

Would sex hurt? Riding home on the pothole riddled streets of Royal Woods did, each jostle sending lightning bolts of hot pain shooting into her wound. The motion and vibrations of sex would most likely do the same. Even so, she was starting to get turned on.

Lincoln must have seen this in her eyes. He brushed her hand away and favored her with a crooked smile. "Eat your lunch."

A joke occurred to her, but she didn't crack it; she didn't have to. "I mean the soup," he added.

"Okay," she said with an exaggerated sigh. See how amazing he was? He was splitting the seam of his jeans over there and _still_ put her first. Just as soon as she was done with her soup, he was going to take him into the bedroom, pull his pants down, and give his member the biggest, wettest mouth hug _ever_.

She snickered to herself as she dipped her spoon into the bowl, and Lincoln lifted his brow. "Something funny?" he asked.

"No," she said and shook her head.

As fate would have it, though, she didn't get the chance to express her love and gratitude: She was halfway done when a key rattled in the front door's lock. Her heart crushed and she whipped her head up, but relaxed when Alex slipped in. Who was she expecting, Kevin Jenner?

Ha.

"Hey," Alex cried happily and came over, "you're home! How're you feeling?" Alex left the hospital shortly before Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. Something about the baby needing lunch.

"Alright," Ronnie Anne said. "A little tired."

Lincoln slid over and Alex wedged herself between her parents. "What'cha eating?" she asked and leaned over, her head moving slightly back and forth. "Soup? Pffft. What are you, a rabbit? _I_ just had a Big Mac."

Ronnie Anne cocked her brow dangerously. "Yeah?"

"Umhm," Alex said, "it was yummy. The fries weren't the best, though. The apple pie, on the other hand….ummmm."

"You shouldn't be feeding my grandchild Big Macs and apple pie," Ronnie Anne said, "you need to eat healthier."

Alex blew a raspberry and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"I'm being serious," Ronnie Anne replied. She was, too; Alex had the appetite of a child, and Ronnie Anne often worried herself sick that she wasn't getting the proper nutrition...which is why she and Lincoln invited her and Tim to dinner at least once a week.

Alex sighed. "I eat fine, Mom." Her tone was serious. "I had spinach and lima beans the other night." Her face screwed up in disgust. "I used lots of Tabasco."

"That has a lot of salt," Ronnie Anne pointed out.

"Not that much," Alex said, "it really doesn't have anything in it. It's kind of neutral. Like celery. Did you know you burn more calories eating that crap than you take in?" She kicked her feet up onto the coffee table. "Wild, huh?"

Ronnie Anne looked at her daughter, then at her legs.

"Hey," Lincoln said, "get your legs off the table."

Alex sat up straight. "Sorry. Anyway, I talked to Tim and we're gonna have the party on the fifth. It's a Sunday so everyone's off. You guys don't have plans, do you?"

"No," Ronnie Anne said, "I don't think so."

"Great," Alex said and snatched the remote off the table. She turned the TV and started flipping through the channels. She landed on MTV: A leather clad metal band with big hair brutalized their instruments while pyrotechnics exploded around them. Lincoln rolled his eyes and got up, suddenly remembering that the pot he cooked the soup in needed to be washed...again.

"I'm glad you're okay," Alex said after a few minutes. She glanced at Ronnie Anne and then quickly away. "I was kind of worried."

Ronnie Anne slipped her good arm around her daughter's shoulder, and the girl leaned heavily into her, nestling against her side like the little girl she once was. Twenty-four hours ago, Ronnie Anne thought he would never see her again, and the memory of that horrible feeling brought her to the edge of tears. Lincoln meant the world to her, but he wasn't the only one: Alex did too, and so did Jessy. When she was rushing through the corridors of the school the day before, her daughters were the only thing she could think of; how easily it could have been them in danger, how easily it could be _them_ running in terror for their lives, or worse, lying on the ground with a bullet in their back. "Me too," she said and rested her cheek against the top of Alex's head. "Do you know how much I love you?"

"How much?"

" _Very_ much."

Alex snickered. "I love you very much too. Please don't get shot again." She snuggled even deeper into Ronnie Anne's side, and when she spoke again, there was a needy, desperate quality to her voice that broke Ronnie Anne's heart. "Please?"

She wished she could promise that she wouldn't, but after yesterday, she couldn't: Nothing in life is assured. "I'll make you a deal," she said. Alex looked up at her with big, curious eyes, and for a moment Ronnie Anne saw her as she was when she was little: Bright, inquisitive, and full of energy. Twenty years goes so fast, she thought. "You eat better, and I won't get shot again."

Alex nodded. "Okay. I'll eat better. Promise."

Ronnie Anne smiled and pecked her daughter's cheek. "Thank you."

For a while they sat with their arms around each other and watched television, Ronnie Anne enduring one cheesy, overproduced metal song after another because it was what her daughter liked. Why, she couldn't say; all these people looked and sounded alike...if you've heard one song, you've heard them all. At least in her day there was variety: Elvis, Chuck Berry, Pat Boone, The Ronettes. Now it was all so bland and uniform.

Eventually Lincoln came back in, and put his arm around Alex's shoulder too, his fingers weaving through Ronnie Anne's. She smiled warmly to herself. This was _almost_ perfect: Only one thing was missing.

And fifteen minutes later, that thing walked through the door. "Hey, Jess!" Alex cried.

Jessy looked from one member of her family to the other. "Hi," she said uncertainly. Was something wrong? It looked like something might be wrong. "Is everything okay?"

"It is," Ronnie Anne said. "Come here."

Jessy closed the door and went over to the couch; Alex made room, and the younger girl sat, her knees pressing together in the tight space. Ronnie Anne put her arm around her.

Now it was perfect.


	147. November and December 1989: Part 16

**After two plus months, RITY is back. The bulk of this chapter was written in March; the last two segments were added a week or so ago. I intentionally wrote the final paragraphs to function as an ending in case I couldn't muster the energy to forge ahead, but I did - I'm three or four chapters into the nineties now. I was going to post tomorrow, since it's my birthday and I figured it would be a perfect time to bring it back, but I'm impatient. Sue me.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)**_ **by Darlene Love (1963);** _ **Looking for Freedom**_ **by David Hasselhoff (1989)**

The days and weeks following the shooting at Royal County High were hectic ones for both the Loud family and the town of Royal Woods itself. Reporters from a dozen new agencies as far abroad as Japan descended on the grief stricken community, and shop owners and restaurants responded by quietly raising their prices.

Kevin Jenner was arraigned on eight counts of murder two days after the massacre, appearing in court with a dull, vacant look in his eyes. His defense attorney, a Detroit trial lawyer who took the case pro bono to benefit from the publicity, pled that his client was insane. Journalists, TV cameras, and rubberneckers crowded the courthouse lawn, a thousand cameras flashing when Jenner was led out and to a waiting police van. Microphones were shoved into his face and questions were hurled at him, but he didn't speak; he kept his head down and his face expressionless.

On the Wednesday following the shooting, Luan called Jessy at home and asked her to come over the next day after school. "I have something I want to talk to you about," she said and apprehensively twirled the phone cord around her finger. She was standing in the kitchen, dinner cooking on the stove behind her. In the living room, Mom sat before _The 700 Club_ with Russel in her lap.

"Okay," she said with an anxious hilt, "is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Luan said, "I just want to talk. That's all."

Everything was not fine, though; she was wracked with nerves over how Jessy would take the news of hers and Fred's marriage. It would have no tangible effect on the girl - her life would go on as normal - but Luan was terrified that her daughter would feel like she was building a new life...a new life that _didn't_ include her. That was absolutely _not_ the case. In fact, even though she had never said and tried not to dwell, she often wished that Jessy had moved in with her and Mom rather than stay with Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. She understood her reasoning, but it still hurt. She had no one to blame but herself, though. Our actions, she realized long ago, have far-reaching consequences. Imagine dropping a pebble into a still pond: The ripples go on and on long after the rock has disappeared. What she did in 1970 was even now, nearly two decades later, echoing down through the years. She wished every day that she could turn back time, but outside of science fiction, that just isn't possible.

"Okay," Jessy said.

"Great," Luan said with a wan smile, "I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

That single word made her smile wider, and not as drawn.

The next day, Luan got home at six. Mom was in her chair with Russel, her gnarled hand gently stroking the dog's back. Jessy arrived a half an hour later; Luan hugged her tightly and kissed her on the cheek. "Do you want a cup of coffee?" Luan asked.

"Sure," Jessy said, "it's _really_ cold out there."

She sat at the table while Luan brewed a pot. "How's your Aunt Ronnie Anne doing?" she asked. She and Lincoln came over the day she was discharged from the hospital. Her complexion was ashen and she looked tired. Mom hugged her (careful to keep from hurting her) and tearfully told her how worried she was. _I thought I was going to lose you too,_ she said and stroked the younger woman's hair. _I prayed so hard I thought I was going to bust a blood vessel._

"She's doing okay," Jessy said, "she starts physical therapy on Monday."

Luan took two mugs from the cabinet and sat them on the counter. "That's good. It's going to be rough, though."

"I guess," Jessy said, "I mean, it hurts her just to move sometimes, so exercising will probably be ten times worse."

Filling the cups, Luan sighed, Her stomach was a pit of nerves and her heart throbbed sickly. The wedding wouldn't be until next week, maybe she could get away with putting this off; tonight could just be about mother/daughter bonding, nothing more.

Yeah, what excuse would she come up with the next time?

She carried the cups over, set one in front of Jessy, and sat. She watched her daughter lift the mug to her lips with a fond smile. "Do you know how perfect you are?" she asked.

Jessy chuckled. "I'm not perfect. I'm actually kind of a mess. My anxiety…"

"Some people are just like that," Luan said. "And some people are overconfident. It's just how you are. You're also beautiful and smart, and I love you."

Jessy blushed. "Thanks. I love you too." She took a sip and sat the mug down. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Well," Luan started, "you know Fred and I are...together...right?"

Jessy nodded. Mom told her a year or so ago that she and Fred were boyfriend and girlfriend. She was happy for her; Fred was nice and she seemed really happy, which made Jessy happy. Mom did bad things in her past, but she wasn't a bad person, and she didn't deserve to be miserable all the time, which she kind of was before she started dating Fred. Jessy felt guilty because she couldn't help but think she added to that. She knew how much her mother wanted her to move in with her when she got out of prison, and she felt bad for not doing it, but she couldn't give up everything she'd ever known, every _one_ she'd ever known. Just thinking about it now made her feel antsy.

"We have decided," Luan said and reached across the table, taking her hand, "to get married."

Jessy's eyes widened in what Luan first mistook for horror, but then realized was something approaching excitement. "Really?"

Luan nodded. "Yeah. We're going to get the licence next week and have the justice of the peace marry us that day." She squeezed Jessy's hand, and her eyes darted down to the table. "I don't want you to feel like I'm...starting over and leaving you behind or anything." She looked up and her eyes locked with her daughter's. "I love you with all my heart, Jessy," she said. "You will always be the most important thing in my life."

Jessy gave her mother a sunny smile. "I don't think that at all. I'm really happy for you. What day are you going to do it?"

"We're not sure yet," she said. "We were going to do it Monday but with your Uncle Lincoln taking off and leaving Fred in charge, it might not be until later in the week."

"That's really great," Jessy said, "tell me when you know so I can take the day off."

"You don't have to be there," Luan said, "I know how important school is."

Jessy squeezed her hand back. "I want to be there."

Good. Because Luan _wanted_ her there.

For Ronnie Anne, the first week following the shooting was the hardest: TV and newspaper reporters called nonstop and a few television news vans even parked at the curb, sitting there and waiting like patient spiders in a web. Lincoln wanted to take potshots at them from the front porch, but she told him if he did she'd divorce his ass, and that was the end of it. Reporters might be jackals, but shooting them is illegal, and Ronnie Anne Loud was _not_ about to see her husband go to prison over some asshole ABC correspondent. _Just relax, lame-o,_ she said, _something else will happen and they'll all move on to that._

Worse than the media circus outside her home was the pain: It was a constant, burning _throb_ that flared into a screech at the slightest movement. Getting dressed and undressed was a nightmare of agony, and when Lincoln changed the bandage she spat words through her teeth that she didn't even know were in her vocabulary. Calm and at repose, she could forgive Kevin Jenner in a way...he obviously had something wrong with him...but sitting on the closed toilet lid, her face screwed up in pain as Lincoln worked over her, she could kill the little son of a bitch...literally strangle him until his eyeballs popped out. _I know, I know, I'm sorry,_ Lincoln would say, _hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn't it?_

 _Yes, motherfuckingtitsuckgoddamnshit it does!_

Her colorful mangling of the English language always made him smile even as the look of pain on her face made him sick. _You should really take your medication._

 _I don't want to._

Ronnie Anne had the irrational fear of becoming addicted to the medicine her doctor prescribed. Lincoln had known her for thirty-two years - knew her completely - and if he could say one thing about her, it was that she did _not_ have an addictive personality. Hell, she smoked for a good fifteen years, then, as soon as she found out she was pregnant with Alex, she gave it up the way a woman gives up...I don't know...one brand of chewing gum for another. Quitting wasn't that easy for Lincoln; even to this day he got the occasional craving. Ronnie Anne? It's like she never smoked at all. He seriously doubted she'd suddenly change and become strung out on Novril, but she was a stubborn one. When she made up her mind about something, all you could do was stand back, cross your arms, and watch.

On Friday, she finally gave in and had one: It made her nauseous and lethargic, but, on the upside, she wasn't in pain.

That was also the day the news crews pulled up stakes and moved onto the next story. A few remained until Sunday, but they congregated around the courthouse and the high school, the latter of which was closed until further notice. By Monday, even they had gone, and the darkness of obscurity once more fell over the town of Royal Woods.

Something else happened on Friday as well, something that caught Lincoln like a shot in the dark. It was just past six and he and Ronnie Anne were sitting down to dinner in the living room (Jessy was out with Mark) when the phone rang. Goddamn it. He plugged this stupid thing back in _hoping_ the reporters were done, and here they were _still_ calling. He didn't know whether they were persistent or just plain stupid. "Tell them I'm not here," Ronnie Anne said.

"I'm about to hand you over to them," Lincoln snorted and picked up the handset, "that way I can get some peace."

She sniffed. _Sure you will, lame-o._

He wouldn't. But by now you knew that.

Then again, it _would_ be nice to walk outside without being mobbed. Hopefully those assholes were gone for good.

He lifted the phone to his ear. "Loud residence."

For a moment the line was silent, then a familiar voice spoke, halting and unsure. "Is this Lincoln Loud?"

Lincoln's brow pinched. He _knew_ that voice, but the identity of to whom it belonged danced mockingly just out of reach, like a word on the tip of your tongue. "Yes, it is," he said, and stole a sidelong glance at Ronnie Anne, who watched him curiously from the corner of her eye, her brow raised questioningly.

"Hi, uh, it's...it's Clyde. Clyde McBride."

All at once it hit him. It had been nearly twenty-five years since he heard Clyde's voice, so while familiar, it wasn't the same. It was deeper, smoother, polished by years of public speaking and television interviews.

"Clyde?"

The question came across as an expression of bafflement, which to be fair, it was. The last time Lincoln spoke to Clyde was 1965, when and his parents moved to New York City. He promised to call and to visit, but never did; Lincoln figured that time got away from his old friend the way it did with him: A year later he was drafted and went to Vietnam, then he was captured, _then_ he came home and from there he was too busy raising his family and running Flip's to worry about Clyde. Perhaps it's sad, but childhood friends are like warm spring breezes...soft, fleeting, and one day gone.

"Hey, buddy," Clyde said, a nervous smile in his voice, "h-how's it going?"

Ronnie Anne was looking at him full on now, her head tilted forward and her eyebrows an arch of surprise.

"G-Good," Lincoln fumbled and sat forward, assuming a formal posture as though Clyde were sitting in front of him rather than 700 miles away. "How are you? It's been a while." The vast understatement was completely lost on him, but not on Ronnie Anne, who snickered and shook her head. Wow. Clyde? She never though they'd hear from _him_ again.

"Yeah," Clyde said, "it has. I'm really sorry about that. Things just…"

"Got away from you?"

On the east coast, Clyde McBride nodded. "Yeah." He was sitting in the office he kept at the governor's mansion, his elbow propped on the desk and the phone pressed against his ear. It took him nearly a half an hour to pump himself up to make this call, and a few times his guilt almost got the better of him. He told Lincoln he would call him and come to visit...he may have even promised (he honestly couldn't remember), but he never did; he almost immediately forgot his best friend even existed. How awful is that? When he was all alone in the world, surrounded by strange and hostile faces on his first day in an all white school, Lincoln was there. He didn't _mean_ to be (poor kid wasn't watching where he was sitting), but he was nevertheless, and that meant everything to Clyde, because even though he did his best to act unaffected, he was scared shitless. "I was in the Navy for a while, and deployed, so..you know how it is. I saw you in the news, what you did." He laughed. "I said 'right on, Linc.'"

Lincoln snickered. "Yeah, that was...that was an experience alright. I see you on the news. What's it like being a governor?"

Clyde carefully considered his response. "It has its ups and downs," he said honestly, "it's…" he rubbed the back of his neck as he grasped for the words. "I have a love-hate relationship with it. What are you up to these days?"

"I own Flip's," Lincoln said. He sat back and crossed one leg over the other, his posture relaxing. "He left it to me when he died. Ronnie Anne's the vice principal at the high school."

There was an awkward silence. "Yeah, I saw that . When they said her name on the news, I almost shit myself." He laughed richly. "How is she?"

Lincoln glanced at Ronnie Anne; she'd given up on monitoring the conversation and was enjoying her dinner. "She's stuffing her face with chicken breast. How do you think she is?" She shot him a faux dirty look, and he puckered his lips. "Do you wanna talk to her?"

"Sure," Clyde said, "that'd be great."

"Alright. Here she is." He held the phone out, and Ronnie Anne took it, the cord stretching over Lincoln's lap as she raised the handset to her ear. "Clyde McBride," she said, drawing each word _Cly-de Mc-Bride._ "I thought you I told you to visit."

Almost 700 miles away, Clyde snorted. Some things never change; apparently Ronnie Anne Santiago was one of them. "Hi, Ronnie," he said with a long-suffering inflection. "How's the arm?"

Ronnie Anne shrugged her good shoulder; Clyde didn't see her wince, but Lincoln did. "Alright," she said, "I mean, I _did_ just get shot."

"Right," Clyde said, "you're taking it better than I would; I'd still be in the hospital crying like a bitch."

That made Ronnie Anne laugh because she could see it, only in her mind's eye he was the twenty-year-old she remembered packing up for New York, not the middle aged man she saw occasionally on TV. "It's funny. It didn't hurt when I actually got shot. It took a while to sink in." Her mind flashed back to the hallway, to Kevin Jenner aiming the rifle at her, to the fear, to the flat, hollow _punch_ that knocked her down. Her stomach turned and her heart started to race.

"I've heard that," Clyde said. "I knew a couple guys in the Navy who got shot. One of them was the chief petty officer. He got shot in the leg during Guadalcanal and walked three miles through the jungle without feeling a thing" He chuckled. "The next day he was crying like a little girl."

"It's not quite _that_ bad," Ronnie Anne said, "but yeah, it...it hurts."

Lincoln glanced at her, mildly surprised by her openness. Ronnie Anne admitting to being in pain?

"Are you on medication?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah. I don't like taking it, though. It makes me groggy and I'm afraid I'll turn into a junkie."

"Yeah," Clyde said, "prescription drug abuse is through the roof out here. One day it'll be worse than crack."

Ronnie Anne didn't know much about crack (that stuff was only in the big cities), but she knew from the news that it was the new hot drug. It was cocaine that you smoked; how that even worked she didn't know, and she didn't particularly want to. "'I'll manage," she said, "it's just a little pain."

"Well...I'm really sorry," Clyde said seriously, "if there's anything I can do, let me know."

"Yeah. How about a political appointment?"

Clyde chuckled. "Well...I'll have to fire someone, but okay."

"I'm alright with that," she said.

They talked for a little while longer before she handed the phone back to Lincoln. She'd never said so out loud (actually, she did once, she thought), but she always liked Clyde. He reminded her a lot of Lincoln; it was easy to see why they became friends...both were kind, caring, and so dweebish it hurt. There were times over the past few years that she looked at Luan and found herself mentally shaking her head. _He was a good guy and you let him get away. Pffft. Loser._ Okay, she didn't really think the _loser_ part, but she did everything else.

It wasn't until now that she realized how much she missed him. She meant what she said the day he left; she _did_ want him to visit.

"So you and Ronnie went the distance, huh?" Clyde asked when Lincoln came back on the line.

"Yeah," Lincoln said with a fond girn, "about a year after you left. I got drafted so we decided why not?"

A rustling told Lincoln that Clyde was shifting the phone to his other hand. "Yeah, that's a good time to do it, I guess. Kids?"

"A daughter," Lincoln said, "Alex. Short for Alejandra."

"That's pretty."

"We also have Luan's daughter, Jessy. She's...she's pretty much ours."

Clyde didn't respond for a moment. "What happened to Luan?" There was a hint of worry in his voice. For some reason, he assumed Clyde knew about the bombing. It was as big a news story as his escape from captivity, if not bigger. His actions happened half a world away, Luan's happened right here in the good ole USofA.

"She spent some time in jail," Lincoln said simply.

"Oh," Clyde said. Lincoln could sense that he wanted to ask more. "Is she...out?"

"Yeah, she's been out for a few years. She's actually getting married next week."

"Really? Wow, tell her I said congratulations."

They talked for almost another hour before Clyde begged off, and to be completely honest, Lincoln was a little disappointed. Like Ronnie Anne, he didn't realize how much he missed his old friend until now. Old friend. Ha. More like only friend. No one ever came close to occupying the same spot in his life as Clyde, not even Blades. "I'd tell you to call every once in a while, but knowing you it'll be another twenty-five years."

Clyde laughed "No, I'll definitely call."

When he hung up, Lincoln shook his head Wow. Clyde McBride. _That_ was unexpected.

* * *

Physical therapy wasn't as hard as Ronnie Anne had feared. In fact, she found herself enjoying it despite the pain: She was starting to get sick of sitting around the house. Dr. Peterson said he didn't want her to return to work for at least a month, which meant she wouldn't actually be back until the beginning of January since a month from now schools would be closed for Christmas break. The thought of doing nothing drove her up the wall.

The first session was the hardest: The physical therapist made her lift her arm up and down, then move it from side to side. It hurt like hell but she gritted her teeth and did it, because she was Ronnie Anne Loud, and she would be damned if she was going to give in to the pain. She probably should have, though, because when she got home her arm hurt so bad she had to take a Novril.

Fred and Luan got their marriage license on Wednesday afternoon and were married fifteen minutes later in the same courtroom where Kevin Jenner was arraigned nearly a week before. He wore a black suit that was two sizes too big and she wore a pink dress that matched Jessy's. Seeing them side by side, Ronnie Anne was struck by the resemblance. She thought she remembered seeing a picture of Jessy's father in the paper years ago but couldn't recall what he looked like: Maybe Jessy favored him in ways, but she was unmistakably Luan's.

There was a party at Mrs. Loud's afterwards. Jessy sat on the couch for most of it and talked to her grandmother. At one point, Fred sat next to her and stared awkwardly into the the darkened TV screen, his hands on his knees and back straight: He looked like a man who'd accidentally sat on a metal pole. He wouldn't say, even to Luan, but he was scared as hell. He understood the dynamic of hers and Jessica's relationship, and he realized that while he might be her stepfather in name, he was an uncle, at best, in practice. Still, she was Luan's daughter and Luan meant everything to him, therefore _she_ meant everything.

He didnt't know jackshit about kids, though; they always made him kind of nervous, when you got right down to it, especially girls. He'd known Jessy in a roundabout way since she was nine (or was it ten?), but things were different now, and he was starting to sweat. "So," he said, and spared the girl a quick glance, "how's...how's college going?"

"It's going good," Jessy said with a slow nod. She wasn't as nervous as he was (for once she wasn't the most anxious one in the room), but she still felt a little antsy. He _was_ her stepfather now. "How's..the restaurant?"

Fred tilted his head to one side. "It's okay."

"That's good."

"Yep."

On December 5, Alex and Tim had their gender reveal party at Tim's parents' house: A giant cake sat on a long table. "It's a carrot cake," Alex explained. "Because I'm eating better. Gotta get my veggies." When it came time to cut it, Ronnie Anne's hand crept into Lincoln's. God, she could hardly believe it: She and lame-o were going to be grandparents. You know, she'd normalized it to a degree, but when she really sat down to think about it she was bowled over every time.

In her position, many women might feel old, but not her. She felt nothing but happiness, because before her was hers and Lincoln's legacy; the love and family they created together was growing like a sapling to a tree. What started as a shy boy asking a shy girl to a stupid winter dance thirty years ago had become two souls entwined eternal, a beautiful daughter with a flippant attitude (but a heart of gold), and a new life forming from the dust even now.

Tim and Alex cut the cake together like a pair of newlyweds, both of them grinning. When Ronnie Anne saw what color the inside was, her lips turned up. A boy. Twenty years ago she hoped to give Lincoln a boy. She didn't, but it looked like Alex would succeed where she failed. "A grandson," she said, "pretty cool, huh?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. I'm so used to girls, though, I wouldn't even know what to do with him." He laughed merrily.

"You'll figure it out," she said.

He would. And he would enjoy doing it.

* * *

Red, green, and blue lights twinkled in the semi-darkness of a warm December morning, silvery tensile catching and refracting its warm glow. Lynn Loud III bent over and picked a large box up from beneath the tree and turned to Ritchie, who was dressed in jeans and a gray sweater over a white T-shirt. "Ready," she chirruped.

She went up to him on bouncing feet, pushed up on her tippy toes, and pecked his lips. He smiled and pecked hers in return. "You think your parents will like their gift?" he asked archly.

"Yep," Lynn said, "they're gonna love it."

Outside, the day was overcast and chilly for Arizona at a frosty forty-five. The clouds were leaden and heavy, as if pregnant with once-in-a-blue-moon rain; the closest they would most likely ever get to a white Christmas was a wet one. Lynn had lived her entire life in the desert and the thought of wet, heavy snow blanketing the ground did not appeal to her, even though it looked pretty on TV. Alex and Jessy said it was nice at first but got old quick. _It's like walking in water,_ Alex told her once. _It makes you tiiiii-red._ Even so, she wouldn't' mind seeing it once, just to experience it, and for some reason, she really wanted her baby to see it.

Ritchie climbed in behind the wheel and Lynn slid into the passenger seat, setting the box on her lap and pulling the door closed behind her. She put on her seatbelt and rested her hands atop the gift: It was so big it almost reached her chin, the paper swaddling it shiny silver and smooth, a jaunty white bow on top. It took her _forever_ to get that damn thing right, but she wanted it to be perfect, so she sucked it up and powered through despite the three dozen false starts, two dozen tangles, and countless bangs-rustling sighs of frustration. Several times Ritchie offered to help, and she almost took him up on it - he was good at wrapping and stuff - but this was a point of pride, and when her pride was involved, Lynn Loud _never_ backed down...she didn't fifteen years ago when a group of boys made fun of her for wanting to play with them, and she didn't last night when she somehow managed to tie her own hands to a box with a length of ribbon...though she did ask Ritchie to hand her the scissors so she could cut herself out. Hey, he was her partner after all.

Heh.

Her sidekick.

He didn't like it when she called him that. Truth hurts, huh, babe?

The streets were virtually deserted as they drove across town. A group of carolers made their way down the sidewalk flanking Palmdale Ave, and a black man in a hoodie pumped gas at the BP on the corner, but otherwise, all of Tucson was at home spending time with family and friends. At a red light, Ritchie leaned over and turned on the radio, turning the knob and sweeping the dial up and down the band before settling on a news broadcast. Lynn watched him, and maybe it was the pregnancy hormones in which her growing body were currently steeped, but she felt such a strong rush of love and affection that it _almost_ brought a tear to her eye.

She reached over, grabbed his hand, and wove her fingers through his. He looked at her and smiled quizzically. "I love you," she said.

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles one-by-one. "I love you too," he said.

"I'm really happy we're starting a family."

"So am I."

Behind them, a horn honked, and Lynn glanced up in the rearview mirror to see a police cruiser. "Uh oh," Ritchie said and started to drive, "we better do what he says."

Lynn held his hand tight and stared absently out the passenger window, only half listening to the news of the day.

" _...out of Romania that long-time leader Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife Elena were executed this morning following a brief trial in that country's capital. Ceausescu was deposed Friday after mass protests swept the communist nation, inspired by the reforms taking place in other Eastern Bloc member states…"_

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of Lynn's parents house. Blinking multi colored lights hung from the edge of the roof, and plastic reindeer stood on the front lawn, watched over by a jolly plastic Santa. Ritchie killed the engine and got out, Lynn following with the box, struggling to see over it; maybe she should have gone with a smaller size.

At the door, Ritchie knocked, and a moment later it opened. Her father appears, wearing a godawful red and green sweater with Santa's face emblazoned across the chest. He smiled. "Well, there they are," he said, and his eyes went to the box in Lynn's hands. "And they bought us a new house. How thoughtful."

"It's not a house, Dad," Lynn said, "it's even better."

Dad's brows lifted. "Oh. Season tickets to the Lakers?"

Lynn shook her head and preened. "Nope. Even better."

"Hm. Now I'm curious." He held out his hands and she gave it to him; he grabbed it and nearly threw it over his shoulder. "It's a lot lighter than it looks."

In the kitchen, Lynn found her mother peeking into the oven, a pot holder in one hand. She wore a simple dark blue dress and her graying blonde hair in a ponytail; her lips were deep red and a strand of white pearls hung around her graceful neck. She closed the oven, stood to her full height, and glanced over. "Oh, hi, honey!"

"Hey, Mom," Lynn said.

Mama came over and they hugged. "Merry Christmas," she said and patted her back, then pulled away, holding her daughter at arm's length and looking her up and down as if she hadn't seen her in ages. "You're gaining weight," she said.

"Too many meatball subs," Lynn grinned.

Mama rolled her eyes. "I don't know what you see in those things. They're all bread and sauce."

Lynn shrugged. "They're good though." She looked at the stove, where a pot of sliced potatoes idled. "Do you need any help?"

"Sure," Mama said, "you can finish cutting potatoes. I have to shuck the green beans."

While they worked on dinner, Lynn Jr. and Ritchie sat in the living room, Ritchie on the edge of the couch and Lynn in a leather armchair, his leg crossed over his knee and the cuff of his tan slacks pulled up to reveal his black sock. His arms were crossed and his foot tapped in time to music drifting from a cabinet hifi in the corner of the room. "How are things?" he asked.

In the kitchen, Lynn laughed at something her mother said and the sink cut on.

"Good," Ritchie nodded, "I'm up for a promotion next month, so I'm pretty excited about that."

"That's good to hear," Lynn said, "they gonna give you more money?" He shifted in his seat and glanced at the TV, the volume of which was turned completely down. Scrooge was kneeling in horror before his own grave while the Ghost of Christmas Future looked on.

"Two dollars extra an hour."

Lynn's brow raised. "Wow. That's not bad."

Kathy came in and sat a silver platter of horserves on the coffee table, then laid her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "The low fat ones are on the left," she said.

When she was gone, he leaned forward, picked one up, and popped it into his mouth.

Dinner was served an hour later; they sat at the dining room table and used the good China that Kathy kept hidden away for all but the most worthy occasions.

Afterwards, they rejoined to the living room; Lynn sat on Ritchie's knee, her arm around his shoulder, while her mother rummaged under the tree for gifts, which she then handed out. Music drifted from the hifi, so faint that you'd have to squint to hear it.

 _The snow's comin' down_

 _(Christmas) I'm watchin' it fall_

 _(Christmas) lots of people around_

 _(Christmas) baby, please come home_

"Open ours," Lynn said and nodded toward the box.

Mama picked it up and carried it over to her husband's chair; she sat on his knee much the same way Lynn sat on Ritchie's. "Yes," Lynn Jr. said and put on his reading glasses, "I'm dying to know what's in here."

Lynn III and Ritchie looked at each other and a grin passed between them. Lynn Jr. carefully removed the bow and ripped the paper, tearing a long strip and fumbling to remove the rest without making a mess. "It's so pretty, I don't feel right manhandling it."

 _the church bells in town_

 _(Christmas) are ringing in song_

 _(Christmas) full of happy sounds_

 _(Christmas) baby, please come home_

Lynn Jr. removed the lid and sat it aside, then reached in, a frown of confusion crossing his face. He brought out a glossy 5x7 photograph. He turned it over in his hands and stared at the face.

 _They're singing Deck The Halls_

 _But it's not like Christmas at all_

 _'Cause I remember when you were here_

 _And all the fun we had last year_

Silence as loud as a bomb blast filled the room, then Kathy's hand went to her mouth and Lynn Jr.'s eyes widened. "We're due July 17," Lynn said.

Her mother looked up at her and tears of joy stood in her eyes. She slipped out of her husband's lap and came over with her arms out; she swept Lynn into a tight embrace that made her eyes bug out and nearly crushed her spine. "Oh, honey, I'm so happy for you."

Lynn Jr. stared down at the ultrasound in shock, then a wide grin spread across his face. Have you ever had present envy? Where you get such a wonderful gift that the one you got the giver of said gift looks puny and inferior in comparison? Lynn Loud Jr. had, but never _this_ strong.

And something told him he never would again.

* * *

December 31, 1989, the last evening of the eighties, Lincoln Loud sat in his armchair with his arms crossed. Jessy, Alex, Tim, Mark, and Ronnie Anne sat on the couch, Ronnie Anne going over paperwork from the school (she was set to return on January 20) and the others waiting impatiently for the beginning of the nineties. Alex and Mark both wore little plastic top hats with HAPPY NEW YEAR'S across the front, and Alex occasionally blew into a noisemaker that sounded like a dying elephant breathing its last. Jessy rolled her eyes, and at one point Alex turned and blew into her face, the little paper tongue shooting out and poking her cheek. "Cut it out, Bunny," Jessy said, trying hard to sound serious and suppress her laughter but failing miserably.

"The baby told me to," Alex said, "it's his fault." She did it again.

"Don't blame it on him," Jessy said sharply, "he's innocent."

Alex snickered. "He's my son, no he's not."

On TV, a vast sea of people crowded together at the foot of the Berlin Wall as a man in a leather jacket and scarf, standing high above the din, began to sing. He turned to the camera, and Lincoln recognized him as the guy from that show...the one about the talking car. He never liked that one.

 _One morning in June_

 _some twenty years ago_

 _I was born a rich man's son_

 _I had everything that money could buy_

 _but freedom I had none_

Tiny flashing light bulbs covered the surface of his coat, their illumination ebbing and flowing like the tide and lending him the appearance of a movie theater marquee. For some reason, Lincoln was reminded of the Palace, closed and shuddered now, and a twinge of loss pinched his chest.

Talking-car-man clapped his hands and waved to the screaming audience as generic synth pop music rolled over their heads.

 _I've been looking for freedom_

 _I've been looking so long_

 _I've been looking for freedom_

 _Still the search goes on_

 _I've been looking for freedom_

 _since I left my home town_

 _I've been looking for freedom_

 _Still it can't be found_

"I'm gonna teach my baby to annoy aunt Jessy so he can do it for me," Alex said.

Jessy gasped. "You better not."

"Oh I am."

Lincoln uncrossed and recrossed his legs. On the screen, Talking-car-man swayed from side-to-side, fireworks bursting overhead. Looked like a hell of a party, and all of Berlin was there.

That jacket, though, sheesh. Imagine growing up in East Germany and being told time and time again how decadent capitalists were, not believing it, then...the first thing you see when you come through the wall is some asshole in a jacket with light bulbs on it. _Go back, comrades, they were right._

The camera panned across the crowd; some danced, some hugged, and others simply watched as if trying to decide whether or not they liked freedom. The scene cut to a correspondent sitting at a desk. Behind him was the Brandenburg Gate, the area in front of it flooded with people. He wore a long tan coat and a red scarf around his neck. "And there you have it, jubilation in the streets of Berlin this evening. After forty-five years of communist rule, the city is one again, and the people, too, are one."

A young man in a brown jacket stood with his arm around the shoulders of a very elderly man with glasses and a stooped back. The old man spoke in German, and after a moment, a voice translated. "My wife was pregnant when they closed the borders, she was in the west and I was in the east. I tried to come back but they would not let me." He glanced at the younger man with tears in his eyes. "I spent so long wondering about her and our child. I didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl." He slipped his thumb and forefinger under his glasses and wiped his tears away. "I never gave up hope, and thank God, I have my son now."

Lincoln was reminded of his own father, dead barely a month, and tears filled his eyes too. He blinked against them and looked away from the screen. Goddamn, really dusty in here, bothering his eyes.

"...families reunited after decades apart, and a wounded nation on its way to reunification as well…"

Lincoln glanced at the couch where Alex was blowing the noisemaker in Jessy's face while Tim and Mark conversed easily.

Getting to his feet, he went over and stood in front of Alex; she looked up at him, the paper tongue falling limp and to the side. "I'll stop," she said around the mouthpiece.

Lincoln waved his hand, and she scooted away, making a spot just big enough to fit him. He put one arm around her and the other around Jessy, drawing them both close. "Uh-oh," Alex said, "Dad's feeling sentimental again."

"Yes, I am," he admitted, "deal with it."

She shrugged, "I didn't that that was a bad thing."

On TV, Talking-car-man finished his song and wished the crowd a happy new years.

The eighties, like every decade before it, had its good times and its bad. Their family lost people along the way, but gained others. There were births, marriages, and, yes, deaths. Life, it occurred to him, was a story that was always being written: We all come in at some point and leave at others, but the story keeps going and going. The nineties would bring more of the same: Alex would have her baby, and Lynn too...maybe Jessy and Mark would conceive...Mom would probably pass away...some of these things he looked forward to, others he did not. Even so, he found himself for the first time in a _long_ time actually excited at the prospect of a new year, at the promise it held. Times would not always be good - sometimes they would be bad - but such is life.

He kissed Alex on the cheek, then Jessy. They were both beautiful girls, both intelligent, and one thing he _was_ excited for was seeing how far they would go.

"I love you guys," he said, then he leaned forward to see around Alex. "Hey, knuckleheads."

Mark and Tim both looked at him.

"I love you," he grinned.

Tim blinked, and Mark chuckled. "Love you too, Mr. Loud."

"Ronnie Anne?"

She glanced up. "I love you too. Even if you _are_ a bully."

Ronnie Anne snorted. "Bully?"

He nodded. "Yep. Bully."

Bully or not, he loved her dearly, just as he loved the girls, and in that moment a thought occurred to him:

 _Good or bad, for better or worse...I wouldn't trade this for the world_.


	148. March 1990: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Wolly Bully**_ **by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs (1965);** _ **Cradle of Love**_ **by Billy Idol (1990); _Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?_ by Larry Underwood (1990)**

As she had almost every day for two decades, Ronnie Anne Loud woke on the morning of March 17th to music - today it was _Wolly Bully_ , one of those songs that was _just_ on the edge of the 'solid gold' designation...so on the edge that not many stations even considered it solid gold. Ronnie Anne didn't know what the hell category it fell into, but it reminded her so vividly of 1965 that she was certain she would open her eyes to find herself back in the apartment she shared with Lincoln before he went to Vietnam: The crucifix that hung for years above her mother's bed would be above the dresser, the wall would be splotched with brown water stains, and, God, she could even smell the place. Every house - and apartment - on the face of the earth has its own scent, and right now the ghost of that long ago odor lingered in her nose like an olfactory echo and triggering a thousand memories she didn't even know she had - small ones, seemingly unimportant ones.

For a brief moment, she was nineteen again, madly in love with timid little Lincoln Loud and waiting tables at Flip's. She and Lincoln drove a 1963 Impala, cruised through town in their free time with the radio on and the windows down, and everything was as it should be. No one was dead, no one was sick, and not one pair of American boots was on the ground in a place called Vietnam.

When she opened her eyes, however, she was in the year 1990, and instead of the crucifix, a framed studio portrait hung over the dresser: Her, Lincoln, Alex, and Jessy, Lincoln seated, her behind with her hands on his shoulders, and one girl on either side. It was taken at Sears in the summer of 1982 (no, 1983), and Jessy's smile was metallic in a way that it hadn't been in years.

 _Mattie told Hattie_

' _Bout the thing she saw_

 _Had one big horn_

 _And a wooly jaw_

 _Wooly booly_

She smiled to herself, because despite everything bad that had happened over the years, 1990 was far and away better than 1965. In 1965, she didn't have Alex and Jessy, and she and Lincoln weren't married. Oh, that last one wasn't a big deal then (until you mentioned you were living with a man who wasn't your husband), but now, in retrospect, it made all the difference. They loved each other, yes, but they hadn't _committed_ themselves to one another yet, they weren't inextricably bound. As a girl she didn't realize how vitally important that was, but as a middle aged woman she saw it as clearly as she saw the nose on her face.

 _Matty told Hatty, "That's the thing to do._

 _Get you someone really to pull the wool with you."_

 _Wooly bully, wooly bully._

Another thing that made this year better than that one was the imminent arrival of hers and Lincoln's first grandchild: She was more excited for that than she had been for anything since Alex was born. In a week, two tops, he would be here, and she would drown him in a grandmother's love.

 _I should start baking._

It's not a trip to Grandma's house without cookies, after all. As it stood now, she wasn't very good, but with time and practice, she could improve.

Hopefully.

With a weary sigh, she sat up and hit the OFF button, plunging the room into silence. In the bathroom, she turned the light on, closed the door so as not to disturb Lincoln, and slipped out of her pink nightdress. In the mirror, her eyes went instantly to the lump of scar tissue on her shoulder where Kevin Jenner shot her four months ago. It was very much like the one on Lincoln's shoulder, though fresher and not as faded. It was healed and didn't bother her anymore; the same could not be said of the occasional nightmare. Her anxiety was better than it was, but she still jumped at loud noises, and every time she pulled into the employee parking lot behind the school, her mind flashed backed to that day, to the abject horror she felt as she stared down the barrel of Kevin's rifle.

Going back to work was the hardest part - being surrounded by the memory of her near death experience, walking each day past the spot where her life came close to ending. The kids made it manageable, though: When she came through the door there was a banner hanging over the entrance to the main office with WELCOME BACK, MRS. LOUD written in big gold letters and signed by every single student and staff member. They all made her cards, too, and so many of them hugged her or stopped her in the hall to ask how she was that it brought a tear to her eye. Before returning, she was seriously thinking of retiring at the end of the year, but that first day convinced her not to. She loved her job and there was nothing else she would rather do.

Turning away from her reflection, she climbed into the shower and tuned the water on, adjusting the knob back and forth until the temperature was right. She let the spray cascade over her, and slowly turned to wet her back and her sides. Next, she held her head underneath and massaged her scalp. As she did this, she fought to keep her mind from drifting back to Kevin Jenner, but it did, and for the billionth time since the shooting, she wondered what she could have done differently, what sgn she could have seen that would have warned her of his erratic mental state. A teenage boy doesn't just pick up a gun and go on a killing spree one day because he's bored, he does it because there's something wrong with him mentally, and like any other disease, mental disorders have symptoms - symptoms you can spot.

She didn't, though. She was in a position to, and she could have done something about it, but she didn't, and though she told herself that it wasn't her fault, she knew deep down that it was.

The trial was set, she last heard, to start in September, and the prosecution had already asked her to testify. The thought of sitting in a courtroom and looking into Kevin Jenner's eyes made her feel sick to her stomach, and like Christ in the garden, she prayed for that cup to be taken from her lips, but she owed it to everyone who died that die to see that justice was served. It was the least she could do, it was _all_ she could do.

Done, she cut the spray, grabbed her towel, and dried slowly, wincing when she brushed her shoulder. It hurt now only if she touched it...and every once in a while on rainy days. She remembered Mr. Loud's knee doing the same thing...the knee a Nazi shot on D-Day in 1944. Lincoln's shoulder did it too. Guess being blown away gives you superpowers.

Standing in front of the mirror, she brushed her hair and pulled it back into a bun, then brushed her teeth and gargled with mouthwash. She went into the room and dressed by the first faint strands of dawn, pulling on her underwear then a purple dress that reached past her knees.

Before she left, she kissed Lincoln on the forehead and told him how much she loved him. You never know when a simple 'I love you' will be your last, she learned, so you should make each one count.

In the car, she drove through the morning streets of Royal Woods, everywhere a memory even though the landscape had changed some over the years. The Palace theater stood shuttered and closed, a McDonald's sat on a corner once occupied by a Texaco station, the bowling alley above which Luna and Daggy once lived was gone, replaced by an even bigger bowling alley with an arcade, the skating rink had given way to a strip mall anchored by a grocery store called Food-Lion (strangest name ever). The town square was the same, though, and the bank, and the courthouse, and the Union Hotel, and the elementary school - if she looked at the latter and blocked out everything around it, she could almost pretend that it was 1957 again and that she was a little girl with a crush. Not that she wanted to. 1990 was better than 1957 by a long shot, even if there were streaks of gray in her hair, and even if sometimes she had aches and pains she couldn't explain.

If you gave her a time machine and told her that she could go anywhere she wanted, she would turn you down because she already _was_ where she wanted to be.

* * *

 _Beep, beep, beep, wide load, coming through_.

That's what Alex thought every time she entered a room...and got out of bed...and sat on the couch...and did anything, come to think of it. Nine months pregnant and big as a house, she was perpetually sore and achy; her back hurt, under her boobs hurt (and the boobs themselves), her feet, her legs, even her hair hurt for some reason. She wasn't the smartest girl in the world (only second or third), but she kind of suspected it had to do with mystery baby sucking up all her nutrients - kind of hard not to have hurty hair when the good stuff keeping it _non_ hurty is being slurped by a little boy like a wine snob quaffs vintage Chardonnay or something. She bitched and moaned (literally, she moaned sometimes because _ugh_ ), but she didn't mind as long as little [insert name here] was healthy, and he was. _As a horse,_ the doctor said, _and almost as big as one, too._

Did you just call my son fat? Do you want to get punched? Cuz that's how you get punched.

Anyway, little one was on track to be out by the end of the month...and she and Tim _still_ hadn't settled on a name. They had a few that they _kind_ of liked, but, call Alex crazy, you don't pick a baby name that you _kind of like_ , you pick one that you _love_ ; that name is going to be attached to something precious and good for the rest of your life, so it's _gotta_ be the best. They hadn't _found_ the best, though, sigh. She was _thinking_ of naming him Lynn after grandpa, but Lynn III was going to have a baby too and that name was like a tradition out there; she didn't want to swoop in and take it away. Plus, it'd be kind of weird calling her baby that...she'd think of her cousin every time she said it, and she didn't want to think of her cousin, she wanted to think of her baby, damn it.

Oh well. She had _plenty_ of time to think of one since she had nothing _else_ to do: Dad wouldn't let her come to work since _ooooh, you're nine months pregnant, oooh_. Not that she was complaining, mind you, because, hey, who wants to _work?_ Then again, sitting home all day was _boooor-_ ing. More often than not she drove over to Grandma's house and hung out with her, so it wasn't _all_ bad: They drink coffee, watched soaps, and talked shop - ya know, _baby_ shop. Grandma did this six times, so she was the expert, and whenever Alex needed to gripe, Grandma was there to listen. _Oh, I remember that. Leni was so big I could hardly walk by the end of it_ , She got it, you know?

Today, March 17, she got up just before noon and waddled into the kitchen, her hand pressed to the achy, throbbing, weary small of her back and her body quivering in protest. _Lay back down, Alex, why are you_ moving around? Cuz I'm hungry, that's why, and Tim's at work, so he can't get me food. Gotta fend for myself. Alex Loud, alone in the wilderness with only her razor sharp witts, a Swiss army knife, and -

 _Kick!_

Ow! She stopped, slapped a hand on the counter, and bowed her head against the pain in her gut. She didn't call Baby Underwood _Mommy's little kangaroo_ for nothing: Kid packed a _wallop_. Sometimes, laying in bed at night with Tim, the baby would push his foot out and you could _see_ it, like he was an alien struggling to burst from her intestinal tract: The image of her writhing in bed and screaming as he shot out in a spray of blood always made her laugh. She was morbid. She knew.

When the sensation passed, she went to the fridge, opened the door, and scanned the contents of the shelf, her lips scrunching to the side in thought. Hm, not much in the ol' icebox today. Some Coke cans, a half gallon of milk, eggs…

A metaphorical light bulb appeared over Alex's head. An Egg McMuffin! That would be -

Oh, wait, McDonald's doesn't serve breakfast after ten.

Her shoulders sagged. Well, damn.

What kind of sense does _that_ make? People work nights and stuff, and McDonald's was depriving them of a yummy, nutritious breakfast. Someone should really file a class action lawsuit.

Well...a Big Mac would do. God, don't tell Mom. _Ya gotta eat healthy, Alex_. I know, I know, and I do...for the most part. Plus, the doctor said the baby was doing good, so...it wouldn't hurt to splurge a little.

Mind made up, she went into the room and got dressed, an epic task that involved _lots_ of bending, reaching, grunting, and straining. By the time she was done, clad in a pink maternity dress with vertical white stripes, she was sweaty and tired, and she dropped onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that rustled her bangs. You're lucky I like you, kid.

After a brief rest, she pulled her shoes on, shrugged into her coat, grabbed her purse, and went outside; the day was cold and overcast, and as she locked the door, a gust of wind caught the hem of her dress and lifted it up. Ahhhh! She dropped the keys and held it down like Marilyn Monroe...the only difference is Marilyn was smiling and being seductive, Alex was _not_. Ugh! See why I don't wear these things? _Oh, Alex, you're a tomboy because you wear pants_. No, I just don't like everyone seeing my butt.

The wind died down, and she stared at the keys, a frown touching her lips. Now I gotta pick you up and bending over is _not_ fun.

Sighing, she squatted, her feet scraping the pavement walkway, then snatched them up and stood before she could topple over.

Yeah, I'm probably not doing this pregnancy thing again.

In the car, she started the engine and the radio kicked on at the end of Poison by Bell Biv Devoe. Damn, she liked that song. A newsbreak followed, and she ignored it as she backed out of the parking spot and navigated across the lot. Like Dad said, there's nothing ever good on the news anyway...except for the break up of the Eastern Bloc, Dad liked that. Alex didn't care either way, though it was nice not having to worry about Russians dropping bombs everywhere. _Ve Vill nuke you, comrade._ No you won't because you're not the bad guys anymore, you're just misguided guys making an honest attempt to change. Nothing wrong with that. _I_ don't have to change because I'm awesome, but a lot of people do, so...yay for you.

After what seemed like forever, the music finally came back, and Alex tensed. It was that sad goddamn Heart song she hated; she changed the station so quick the dial went back in time and started playing big band and swing. Not really, of course, but you get the picture. She _despised_ that song; maybe it was her hormones, but just thinking about it made her tear up. See, it's about...sniff, nevermind, just…

Oooh, Billy Idol.

She turned the volume up and drummed her fingers on the wheel.

 _Well rock the cradle of love_

 _I rocked the cradle of love_

 _Yes the cradle of love don't rock easily it's true_

 _Well now_

McDonald's appeared ahead on the left, its golden arches reaching unto heaven and promising a tasty, meaty/cheesy experience.

She licked her lips, and Mystery Baby kicked the shit out of her.

 _It burned like a ball of fire_

 _When the rebel took a little child bride_

 _To tease yeah, so go easy yeah_

Maybe I should get _two_ Big Macs. And an apple pie. And an order of large fries or three. I gotta get Grandma something too. She likes those little kiddie cheeseburgers with nothing on them but ketchup. Ummm, that _does_ sound good. I'll have one of everything, please!

 _'Cause love cuts a million ways_

 _Shakes the devil when he misbehaves_

 _I ain't nobody's fool_

 _Come on shake it up_

 _Whatever I do_

She pulled into line behind a pick-up truck and put the car in park. Her stomach was growling, and the baby was moving around, fully awake now and ready to play...and eat. She smiled softly to herself and laid her hand on her bump. "Relax, you're gonna eat in a minute. I promise. Have I ever starved you?"

 _Kick_.

"I have _not,"_ she said indignantly, "you're a little fibber."

 _Kick_.

"Yes you are!"

The line moved and she pulled forward, pressing the break when she pulled alongside the speaker.

 _Yes the cradle of love don't rock easily it's true_

 _Sent from heaven above that's right_

 _To rob the cradle of love_

 _Yes the pages of love -_

She cut the radio. Shut up, Billy, I'm trying to order food.

" _...McDonald's...you today?"_ a staticky voice issued from the speaker.

Alex leaned out and glanced at the menu even though she knew what she wanted. "Uh, let me get two Big Macs, two large fries, an apple pie, a cheeseburger with just ketchup, a small fry...and a diet Coke." She added the last one to be funny. See...all that food then _I best gets me a diet drink. Gots to watch mah figure._

The voice read back her order. "Yep."

She pulled to the first window, handed her money to a bored looking teenage girl in a McDonald's uniform, then pulled to the _second_ window. Why they needed two she'd never know. Probably laziness. Gotta have window number two because the grill is _soooo_ far away from the first one.

When she had her food, she tossed the bags onto the passenger seat and drove to Grandma's house, slipping fries from the bag and shoving them into her mouth along the way. McDonald's fries were the _best_. Don't tell Dad that, though, he'd throw a fit. _Ya like the fries there so much why don't you work there?_ Excuuuuuse me, Mr. Insecure, maybe you should make better fries. It wasn't her who liked them, though. Before she got preggers she _hated_ them, but now they were the best thing ever, which meant it was the baby. Yell at him, Dad, not me.

FIve minutes after leaving McDonald's, she pulled into the driveway of the Franklin Avenue house and killed the engine. Grabbing the bags, she got out and went up the walk to the porch, taking the steps one at a time. Climbing was _hard_.

At the door, she reached into a potted plant and fished out the spare key, used it, then replaced it. Inside, Grandma was sitting in her chair with Russel curled up in her lap. She glanced over and her wrinkled face brightened. "Hi, honey," she said happily.

"Hey, Grandma," Alex said and bumped the door closed with her hip, "I brought you lunnnnch," she drew in a singsong voice and held up the bags. "Just how you like it. Ketchup _only."_ She came over, dropped onto the sofa, and sat the bags in her lap.

"I do like those cheeseburgers," Grandma said.

Alex rummaged around, sifting through Big Macs and fries. When she found the burger, she yanked it out and handed it over; Grandma took it and thanked her. "How are you feeling today?"

Bringing out one of her Macs, Alex leaned back and blew a puff of air. "Fat and miserable."

Grandma laughed. "That's how I feel everyday, dear." She frowned at the burger in her hands. "And these cheeseburgers you keep bringing me aren't helping matters."

Alex opened one of the Big Macs and breathed deeply through her nose. Yum! "I just don't want you to waste away," she said and stole a sidelong glance at the old woman. She wore a floral muumuu with a large neckline and short, wide sleeves. The bottoms of her arms were flabby and her stomach was round; her gray hair was short and sparse, barely reaching past her ears and beginning to go completely white.

Where was she? Oh, right, Grandma was _not_ in danger of wasting away, but you can never be too care when it comes to someone you love, right? Gotta keep her plump; plump old ladies don't break their hips left and right, after all, only the scrawny, fragile ones nobody gives McDonald's to.

"Is he kicking much?" Grandma asked and took a bite.

Alex ticked her head back and forth in thought. "A little bit," she allowed, "not too much, though."

Nameless Baby loved kicking, and sometimes he'd spend hours battering her insides and swishing around like a goldfish in a bowl. Imagine having a tiny person moving inside of you when you're trying to sleep or have sex and you'll start to understand how irritating it can be.

"All of you," she said, referring to the grandkids, "made such a fuss before you came out. Your aunt Lori did the same." She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "Your father too."

"He _always_ makes a fuss," Alex said. "About everything."

Grandma took another bite of her burger and squinted at the TV. "Can you do me a favor, dear?" she asked and turned.

"Sure. What's up?"

"Can you look around for my glasses? I misplaced them earlier and I don't know where they are."

Alex took a bite of her burger and got up. "No, wait until you're done," Grandma said and motioned for her to sit back down.

"No, it's fine, I'll do it now. My butt's starting to ache anyway." Taking a few fries for the road, she went into the kitchen first, since Grandma liked sitting at the table and having her morning Joe. Why do they call it Joe anyway? Kinda weird. And yuck. Like... _I'm going to have a cup of Joe. Oh, coffee? No, my husband._ Hahaha. Because she's really drinking his...nevermind. She checked the table but didn't see glasses, so she went to the counter.

Still no.

Hm. Maybe she left them in the bathroom?

Sigh. She didn't want to have to climb those stairs, but her grandmother needed her glasses, and while Alex Loud might be a lot of things, she was _not_ the type of girl to let her granny go without her glasses. She crossed through the living room and ascended the stairs, holding onto the bannister and huffing like the little engine who could. By the time she reached the top, she felt like the big Alex who couldn't. Whew. Did Mom really climb these everyday when she was pregnant? Poor woman, no wonder she was so aggressive.

After a brief rest, she went through Grandma's room and into the master bath; she didn't wear glasses herself, but it seemed kind of reasonable that maybe someone who did would take them off when they were peeing or pooping. She checked the sinktop, the back of the comode, the floor on either side (as best she could), and even the medicine cabinet, but nope, no spectacles. Back in the bedroom, she went over to the nightstand, but they weren't there either. Grandma and Grandpa's wedding photo was, though, and she paused to look at it: They stood facing each other and holding hands, matching smiles on their faces and love in their eyes. March 15, 1938, said white script across the bottom. Fifty-two years and two days ago. They both looked so young and happy that it made Alex's eyes fill with strange wet stuff.

She'd been thinking a lot about marriage lately, you know...how sweet and special it is to have someone to love and to love you, someone...she didn't know. She just kept thinking of Grandma and Grandpa and how they built and shared a life together, and how whenever one was down the other would pick them up. It made her think about how cold and scary life can be on your own.

She had Tim...and she loved the hell outta the guy...but they weren't married, and marriage was kind of like sealing the deal, you know? _Whoops, it's official, buddy, you're stuck with me. When I'm sick you have to take care of me, when I stumble you have to catch me, when I'm weary and can't walk right, you have to support me...and I'll do the same for you_. Isn't that beautiful?

Or was she just hormonal?

Where was she again? Oh, yeah, glasses. She went through the room methodically, but they were _nowhere_ , at least nowhere that a giant pregnant woman could look. I dunno, Grandma, it's not looking good. She put her hands on her hips and glanced around as though she would be able to spot them running from one cover to another like a kid playing hide and seek, but nope, they weren't on the move, so...shrug. I've done all I can do.

She went out into the hall and started down the stairs, gripping the handrail tight just in case little one decided to kick at the wrong time and upset her balance. Wouldn't be the first time. Once, she was going down the -

 _Pop._

 _Splash_.

She froze, her eyes widening and her heart skipping a beat. Warm water coursed down the insides of her legs and dribbled into her shoes.

Ooooh.

For a moment she stayed where she was, kind of afraid to move, then she forced herself to descend the rest of the way. "Grandma," she said at the bottom, "I didn't find your glasses but I found something else."

"What's that, dear?" Grandma asked.

"That I'm in labor."

Grandma's head twisted around. Alex kind of expected her to be panicky (like she was trying really hard not to be), but her features were placid, serene even. "Oh," she said, "let me call your father."

* * *

Lincoln plucked a toothpick from the cup by the cash register and dug the point between his teeth, jiggling it up and down and trying to no avail to get that piece of what-the-hell-ever-it-was that had been bothering him since breakfast. He _did_ manage to jab the piss out of his gum, though, and when the coppery taste of blood touched his tongue, he sighed in frustration and threw the toothpick onto the floor. Across the counter, Jessy's brows furrowed quizzically. "Something stuck in my teeth," Lincoln explained, "it's driving me crazy."

"That's why I carry floss," Mark said. He sat on the stool next to Jessy's, the cuffs of his plaid shirt rolled up his forearms and his glasses perched on his beak-like nose. It was spring break and he and Jessy were both on vacation.

Prodding the offending particle with the tip of his tongue, Lincoln looked at the boy. "Do you really?"

He nodded, then sat up and reached into the hip pocket of his jeans, bringing out a square plastic container. He held it up. "This has saved my life, and my sanity, on multiple occasions." He held it out, and Lincoln hesitated: Dental floss is something you don't typically accept from another man...you might as well ask to use his handkerchief. He was desperate, though, and took the proffered case with a muttered thanks.

"You know, if your teeth weren't so crooked, you wouldn't have to use that stuff," the man on Jessy's other side said.

"Shut the hell up," Lincoln said and Blades laughed. "Talk to me about bad teeth, how many goddamn fillings do you have? Five? Six?"

"Eight," Blades said and took a bite of his burger.

Lincoln blew a raspberry, broke off a length of floss, and threaded it through his teeth, pulling back and forth until the morsal came loose and dropped onto his tongue. Ahhhh, sweet relief. He handed the the floss box or what the hell ever you call it back to Mark and leaned over to toss the piece he used into the wastebasket. He propped his forearms on the edge of the counter and glanced up at the TV. Nothing good on, not that there ever was. "When's that wedding?" he asked Jessy.

"Friday," she said.

Mark's cousin (or was it a niece who was older than him?) was getting married and Mark and Jessy were going. Jessy needed a dress - her old one was attacked by moths and if she wore it you'd be able to see her underwear (she said). He planned to take her shopping at some point during the week so he could spend a little time with her; between school, tutoring, and hanging out with Mark, she'd barely been around the past week, and he was starting to miss her the way he missed Alex.

Blades swallowed and glanced at Jessy. "Getting hitched, huh?" He looked at Lincoln and narrowed his eyes. " _My_ invite musta got lost."

"Not them, knucklehead," Lincoln said, "and when they do, your invite won't get lost 'cause you're not getting one."

"That's not for you to decide," Blades said and gestured at Jessy with his head, "it's up to her."

Jessy looked uncomfortable.

"Invite him and you're grounded," Lincoln said.

"Don't invite me and I'm gonna beat your uncle up."

Jessy's eyes widened even though she knew they were kidding. Next to her, Mark ate his hamburger as though nothing was happening. Lincoln still didn't fully understand his condition (assburgers, right?), but from what he was able to gather, the kid was not bothered by _any_ fucking thing. Someone could walk in here with a gun, put it to the back of Blades's stupid greaser head, and pull the trigger, and Mark would just glance over and mutter a mildly perturbed, "Well, shit."

"I'd like to see you try," Lincoln said. "While you were goofing off here in the states, I was fighting a war. I could kill you twenty different ways with my bare hands alone."

Blades rolled his eyes. "Here we go with _that_ shit again. Been listening to it for twenty years." He held his hand behind his head, palm flat and straight to simulate a cowlick. "I'm a big tough guy, I keep a gun under the counter and sleep with a nightlight."

Lincoln burst out laughing. "Shut the hell up. I served my country in Vietnam. Where were _you?"_

"Eh, I was too old to go."

Jessy's eyes darted from one man to the other, a bemused smile playing at the corners of her lips. She never saw Uncle Lincoln kid around with anyone like he did Blades...except for family members, of course, and it was...cute, like he was a little boy or something.

He snorted. "Bullshit. Probably burned your draft card like a goddamn hippie."

Blades snickered. "Yeah, you know me, flower power. Voted George McGovern."

"Yeah, I remember your car having all kinds of Democrat stickers on it a few years ago."

Jessy finished her burger and took a sip of her Coke. She was feeling more nervous than usual today: In one week, her father was getting out of prison and he wanted to meet her. He wouldn't be able to leave California under the terms of his probation, so that meant _she_ would have to go to _him_. She wasn't against that, and of course she wanted to meet him, but still, the prospect of meeting someone she didn't know in a _place_ she didn't know was like an iron band around her chest. She planned to drive out there over the summer and bring Mark with her - he could be her rock.

A smile touched her lips and she turned to him; he was reading the back of a Ketchup bottle with a mildly confused expression on his face. She nudged his arm with her elbow, and he glanced over. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he replied.

She leaned her shoulder against him, and he put his arm around her, which made her feel safe and warm like it always did. She found herself wondering, as she often did lately, what it would be like to fall asleep in his arms, and to wake up in them too. It was funny, she had been with him for almost four years but had never slept in the same bed with him; they 'slept together' but never slept together. Strange, isn't it?

Uncle Lincoln and Aunt Ronnie Anne _did_ say he could spend the night; she was really awkward about it at first, but as time passed, her reluctance lessened. She was now at the point where she was thinking about probably maybe possibly having him over. Yeah, big step.

"You ready to go?" Mark asked.

After lunch, they were going to go for a walk in the park and then to a movie. After that...who knew? They didn't get to spend very much time together during the school year, so they intended to make the most of what they had, even if that meant watching grass grow. "Yeah," she said, her eyes going to her mother as she passed behind Uncle Lincoln on her way to the Coke fountain.

"Little pencil neck geek," Blades was saying. "I remember you sitting right _there_ -" here he pointed to a booth by the jukebox "- with Bobby's sister looking like the biggest doofus this side of lamesville."

"Yeah?" Uncle Lincoln asked. "And I remember you lying on the floor with your jaw broken. Oh, wait, that hasn't happened...yet."

Blades chuckled. "C'mon, you wouldn't hit your old pal, would you?"

Uncle Lincoln seemed to consider for a second, then shrugged. "I wouldn't hit you in the face," he finally said.

"Eh, I'll take it," Blades said and took a bite of his burger.

Jessy was just starting to get to her feet when the phone rang. Her mother picked it up and pressed it to her ear. "Flip's, how can I help you?" She listened a moment then smiled. "Hi, Mom. What's up?" She listened a second more, then held the phone out to Uncle Lincoln. Without turning, he reached his hand behind his back and took it.

"Hello?" He listened, then his brow shot up. "Oh. Okay. I'll be there in ten minutes." He listened again, nodded, and handed the phone back to Mom. He slapped the counter and got up. "Well, Alex's water broke."

For a second his words didn't register, then all at once they hit Jessy like a slap, and her mouth fell open. "Really? Right now?"

Uncle Lincoln nodded. "Yep."

Sudden excitement filled Jessy's breast and a big, goofy grin broke across her face. She whipped her head around and Mark hummed. "I guess he's coming early."

"Congrats, Linc," Blades said and shoved a fry into his mouth, "you made grandpa before I did."

Uncle Lincoln's eye twinkled at the word _grandpa_ and the corners of his lips tugged up in a jerky grin. "Don't worry, buddy, you'll get there." He took off his waist apron and hung it up, then poked his head through the window. "Sarge?"

"Yeah?" Fred's voice came back.

"You're in command."

"Yes, sir."

Uncle Lincoln went around the edge of the counter and stopped. "Meet us at the hospital?"

Jessy nodded eagerly. "We'll be there."

Outside, Lincoln climbed into the car and pulled the door closed behind him, then buckled the seat belt over his lap with trembling fingers; his heart was racing and his stomach twisted like a wet dish cloth. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and was surprised that he didn't look as anxious as he felt. _I'm going to be a grandfather_. _Holy shit._

That was not a new realization - he'd known for nine whole months - but here, now, with the birth of his grandson imminent, it was really beginning to hit home. His little girl was going to be a mother and he and Ronnie Anne were going to be grandparents. As Robert, the hippie who worked at Flip's twenty years ago and never cleaned the grill, might say, what a trip. God, it seemed like just yesterday Ronnie Anne was pregnant with Alex. Saying _just yesterday_ might be cliched, but it was true: Time goes _quick_ , especially once you hit your mid-twenties. The fist twenty years is a hard trek uphill, and everything else is careening down the other side and screaming at the top of your lungs.

Jeez. A grandpa. Him. Lincoln Loud who could remember being eleven so vividly he could sometimes _taste_ it.

He started to back out, then realized he forgot to call Ronnie Anne, hit the brake, and gave himself a healthy case of whiplash. How could he forget Ronnie Anne? She was his partner, his lover, the mother of his daughter and thus far the only constant in his life since he was eleven. He must be going senile.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he jumped out and went back inside, leaving the engine running. Mark and Jessy were talking to Luan and Blades was sucking burger juice off his fingers like the greaser homosexual he was. Luan looked up and furrowed her brow. "Hand me the phone, will you?" he asked and leaned against the counter. "And dial the high school."

"That was quick," Blades said.

"Easiest delivery ever," Lincoln said and took the phone from Luan. He pressed it to his ear and waited as it rang. Man, I hope she's in and not off whipping a kid's ass somewhere.

Jessy looked uncertainly from Mark to him then hooked a thumb toward the door. "We're gonna go," she said at length.

Lincoln nodded. "Alright, honey. See you there."

The line clicked, and Ronnie Anne came on, her voice brisk and businesslike. "Royal County High." When she heard who it was, her tone instantly changed. "Hey, lame-o."

"We have a situation," he said and spared Blades a sidelong glance; he lit a cigarette and laid a five dollar bill on the table for Luan, even though Lincoln was the one who gave him his food (some friend _you_ are, you greaseball bastard).

Ronnie Anne hummed. "What's that?"

Lincoln drew a deep breath. "Our daughter is in labor."

SIlence.

"Oh, shit, really?" she asked in a rush, a smiling inflection in her voice that made Lincoln himself smile. _Our daughter. Our grandchild._ _Ours_. He shifted the phone to his other hand and glanced over his shoulder as Mark and Jessy went out the door and started toward Jessy's Beetle.

"Yep, Mom just called me. Alex is over there now. I'm leaving work to pick her up. Can you get off?"

She didn't speak for a moment. "I should be able to," she said hesitantly, "how is she?"

"Mom said she's sitting on the couch eating McDonald's."

Ronnie Anne sighed. "Yeah, that sounds like Alex alright. I'll meet you at the hospital."

"Alright," he said, then, "I love you."

"I love you too, Lincoln," she replied earnestly.

He handed the phone back to Luan and clapped Blades on the shoulder. "Alright _now_ I'm leaving."

"Congrats again, Linc," Blades said and patted his hand, "tell Ronnie I said hi."

Outside, he got back into the car, backed up, and drove to the street, pressing the brake as a line of traffic passed. Hopefully this would be a smooth and easy delivery and not the nightmare Ronnie Anne's was...and he hoped he didn't sit in the waiting room with his hands tented against his lips and his foot jittering like a nervous wreck. Ha. Like hoping for the sun to not rise - there's no guarantee, but it's been rising every morning for fifty million years, and chances are it'll do the same tomorrow.

He was going to worry himself sick, is what I'm saying. Hey, this was his daughter and grandchild, how could he _not?_ He'd be a pretty shitty father if he didn't.

Seven minutes after setting off, he pulled into the driveway of the Franklin Ave house and put the car in park. He half expected Mom and Alex to come out the front door, but they didn't, and after a literal minute (okay, more like thirty seconds) he got out and went inside, his brow furrowing in mild confusion: Alex sat serenely on the couch eating a Big Mac and watching TV while Mom stood by her chair in her coat, a tiny paper bag of fries in one hand and one jutting from her mouth. They both turned when he entered, and Alex grinned. "Hey, Dad."

"W-What's this?" Lincoln asked, coming into the living room, "let's go."

"Can I finish my lunch, please?" Alex asked.

He faltered. Lunch? Seriously? "You're in labor," he sputtered, "that hamburger can wait."

Mom swallowed her fry. "Calm down, dear, she isn't going to have the baby this minute. Every time this happens you rush around like a chicken with its head cut off. You did it with Lori, Ronnie, and Luan, and did they give birth instantly?"

He started to argue, but she was right, so instead he sighed. "Alright, finish your hamburger but hurry up."

"Okay," Alex chirruped. Thankfully there wasn't much of it left. He put his hands on his hips and glanced absently at the TV, his foot starting to tap. Alex shoved the last of the burger into her mouth...then reached into a bag in her lap and brought out another.

"Oh, hell, no," Lincoln said and waved his hand, "you can eat that on the way. Come on."

Alex rolled her eyes and put the burger back with a sigh. "Fine."

 _I swear to God,_ he thought as they went out the door, _that girl's insane._

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. pulled his blue 1990 Datsun Z into line at the security gate and leaned back against the leather upholstered seat, his fingers reaching up to pull his sunglasses slightly down his nose. At the gate, the security guard leaned out of the booth and an arm shot out from the driver side window. The guard took the ID, scanned it, and spoke to the driver. C'mon, George, don't talk this guy's ear off, huh?

But talk he did. See, that was George's thing: He was a talker. If you weren't careful, he'd drag you into a conversation and never let you leave. Bobby had only been filming for a month, and already he had to firmly (but politely) extract himself from George's clutches three times. He was a nice guy, and Bobby could totally see himself having a beer with him, but sitting in line, late for the day's shoot, was neither the place nor the time for breeze shooting.

The gate lifted and the car pulled in; Bobby tapped the gas and the Datsun surged forward, its motor purring like a big cat catching sight of particularly enticing prey. The gate lowered and Bobby pressed down on the brake, the revving of the engine bringing a boyish smile to his lips.

The car was a Christmas present from Lola - a gift he honestly was not expecting but genuinely loved nonetheless. _You're a famous actor now,_ she said and kissed him on the cheek, _you have to have a famous actor's car._

He wasn't a famous actor, though: He had an upcoming role on the NBC soap opera _The Brash and the Bountiful_ as Richard Parker, the slimy, sleazy, conniving asshole son of the slimy, sleazy, conniving socialite-slash-bitch Susan Parker. He might take off into superstardom like a rocket...or he might crash and burn like that plane in Lockerbie. Hell, he might even get a call before they started filming telling him to stay home. _We found someone better._ Lola getting him this car really put the pressure on, because it was her way of saying _I'm proud of you_ and the last thing he wanted to do was let her down.

Thank God, he did get a call, but instead of telling him to fuck off, they gave him a start date for filming.

His first day was spent meeting his co stars and table reading for his first episode. Susan, his onscreen mother, was played by a woman named Sandra St. John who, he'd heard, was in a bunch of low-budget movies in the sixties...some of them was tall and stately with thick rust color hair and high, queenly cheekbones that lent her a cool, aloof air. _Oh, man, she looks like a bitch_ he thought when she walked into the room that first time, but to his surprise she was a very sweet lady. It was kind of funny seeing her be this total prick on the set then nice as can be the moment the cameras shut off. In fact, even after almost two months of spending five days a week with her, he still couldn't tell how she did it...which he supposed made her a good actress; Emmy, this one, right here *points at Sandy.*

Seriously, though, he watched her a lot and tried his damndest to emulate her because he wanted to be good too. Porter Stone, the director, said he was good, and so did everyone else, but being on the set in front of those lights, so bright you couldn't see past them and so hot your skin burned and liquified, he felt like he was floundering, and everyday he walked out of there sick with nerves, sure that as soon as he got home he'd get a call. _You're fired, Santiago. You stink and you'll never work in this town again._ By this point, he was beginning to relax - a little. The episodes they were filming now would air over the summer, and the plan was for him to return next season, but it was up to the fans: If they didn't like the storyline, or him, the producers would 'correct course' _real_ quick, which meant Bobby Santiago Jr. would be out on his ass, a failure mooching off his rich wife. Again.

"Morning, Mr. Santiago," George said in that friendly way of his. A tall, lanky man with a graying walrus mustache and Droopy Dog eyes, George had been working here, he said, since 1960, which was so mind-bogglingly long that Bobby couldn't wrap his head around it. He was twenty-eight - George had been working _one_ job for longer than he'd even been alive. Imagine that, same house, same career, same routine every day for _three whole decades_. Shew.

"Morning, George," he said, "running late today." He added those last three words to let the old man know he didn't have time to chat.

George nodded deeply. "I was late this morning myself. Goddamn L.A. traffic. Been living here thirty-two years and it still gets me sometimes." He rasped laughter and stabbed a button; the gate lifted. "You have a good day now."

Bobby nodded. "You too." He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, put the Datsun in drive, and drove onto the lot, his hand absently reaching over to turn the radio up.

" _...number fifteen song in the country: Baby, Can You Dig Your Man? Well, baby, can you?"_

Synth-heavy pop music with an R&B flavor filtered from the speakers as Bobby navigated past the hanger-like sets:

 _I know I didn't say I was comin' down_

 _I know you didn't know I was here in town_

 _But bay-yay-yaby you can tell me if anyone can_

 _Baby, can you dig your man?_

 _He's a righteous man_

 _Tell me baby, can you dig your man?_

Bobby drummed his fingers on the wheel and turned into a tiny parking lot flanking Studio H, where _The Brash and the Bountiful_ was filmed before a live audience...if you consider the director, light techs, and the catering guy a 'live audience.' He parked in his spot (ROBERTO SANTIAGO, JR stenciled across the top in yellow...how crazy was that?) and parked.

 _You and me we don't have to pick a fight_

 _Fuss and yell, no, baby, no, now that isn't right_

 _If you're lonely, baby, reach out and take my hand_

 _You want a friend_

 _But then againnnnn_

 _Baby, can you dig your man?_

 _He's a righteous man_

 _Tell me baby, can you dig your man?_

Bobby killed the engine and got out into the harsh southern California heat, the sun bathing the shoulders of his wine colored blazer. He glanced up at the pounding sun and squinted. You know, I didn't like Michigan winters, but I can't say I like California winters either. I get that it's basically a desert, but come _on_.

Shaking his head he slammed and locked the door, then went up a little set of concrete stairs that led inside, where it was cool and dark; he paused a moment to let his sun-dazzled eyes adjust to the change in lighting, then went down the hall, whipping off his glasses as he did and thrusting one temple into the collar of his black T-shirt. He hung a left at a juncture and made his way onto the set, a vast space with concrete floors, high ceiling, and crammed with cameras, lighting equipment, sound gear, and wires everywhere: You always had to watch where you stepped because you might trip and take 20,000 dollars worth of hardware with you. You laugh, but Bobby was scared shitless. He was also scared shitless of touching _anything_. Some of the interior sets - Susan Parker's living room, for example - looked full and complete when you were watching at home, but if the camera zoomed back you'd see that it was really three walls and nothing else. You'd forget yourself, lean against one, and bam, like knocking down a line of dominos. He'd never seen it happen himself, but Porter had.

Twice.

Shrugging out of his coat, he ducked between scurrying techs and went down a brief hall to his dressing room, a simple utilitarian space with a chair, a mirror, and a mini fridge kept stocked with cans of Coca Cola on his request. It wasn't much, but after those lights and all that activity, it was an oasis.

He took off his coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and sat, glancing at his watch. It was 8:12. He had a table reading in ten, then make up at 9:00 followed by a 9:15 shoot that would most likely wrap around 5 or 6: They typically did two episodes a day, and in another couple weeks the season itself would wrap, which gave him a three month break until they next started shooting...if he was asked to come back. Again, all up to how well his storyline was received.

Leaning to one side, he opened the fridge door, grabbed a Coke, and popped the tab. He took a long drink and then sat it on the counter in front of him. He was really looking forward to the time off - since starting, he didn't get to spend as much time with his kids as he liked. He had evenings with them (like a typical working father, you know?) but sometimes it wasn't enough. Couple weeks, though. Then, come September, Stephy was going to be starting school. Can you believe that? His little girl was entering the world already.

Which was scary because she was still a hyperactive nutcase, and while Bobby wasn't a psychic...or especially smart...he had a pretty good idea of where that was going to get here in an academic setting.

Trouble.

It was going to get her into trouble.

Sigh.

He grabbed his Coke and guzzeled it, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and checked his watch again. Might as well get on with the show.

He got up and left the dressing room, turning out the light and closing the door behind him.


	149. March 1990: Part 2

_**Right here, right now**_

 _ **there is no other place I want to be**_

 _ **Right here, right now**_

 **\- Jesus Jones (Right Here, Right Now, 1990)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **All My Ex's Live in Texas**_ **by George Strait (1987)**

Billy Hotchkiss wasn't a nervous sort- at fifty-four, he was pudgy and going gray, but his arms were as powerful as ever and he could easily handle boys half his age; he did almost twenty years in the Marine Corps, saw action in 'Nam, worked eight years at an oil refinery, and spent two years as a bounty hunter in Texas, where he went against the roughest of the rough on a daily basis. Even so, the woman in the passenger seat had him on edge. He'd occasionally steal a sidelong glance only to find her staring at him with those dark eyes, her face flat and expressionless; maybe he was just jumpy, but it looked like maybe she was thinking of what his face would look like if she cut it off and wore it as a mask.

He met her that morning at a TA truck stop on I-10 west of Phoenix: He was gassing up his Peterbilt when she walked over and asked for a ride in that flat, dead monotone of hers. She was mid to late forties at a glance with long black hair and sallow skin. She wore maroon bell bottom jeans that were a size too big and a blue and white striped shirt that lay lank against her tiny breasts. A dusty green rucksack hung from one shoulder.

"Sorry, hun," he said and nodded to the little sign in the driver side window. NO LOT LIZARDS it said.

Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. "What's a lot lizard?"

"Prostitute," Billy said matter-of-factly. Lot lizards made their living wandering parked rows of rigs offering company to lonely truckers - you'd be trying to sleep or relax in the little space behind the seats only to hear a knock at the window...unless you had a sign like his. Even then you'd get the occasional stray who either couldn't read or comprehend the fact that some men don't wanna spend their hard earned money on hookers festering with VD.

That's when you got creative. See, trucking does get boring, and sometimes Billy liked having a little fun with them. He'd roll down his window and start talking out of his head like he was crazy. _Your scalp'll look_ real _good in my collection_. Hahaha. You should their faces when he did that.

"I'm not a prostitute," the woman said, "I just need a ride."

Billy yanked the nozzle out of the tank and sat it back in the cradle. "Sorry, pickin' up hitchhikers is against company policy."

He started screwing the cap back on but stopped when she spoke again, a pleading edge creeping into her voice. "I've been stranded here for six hours. Please?"

Sighing, he mulled it over. "Where are you going?" he finally asked.

"Anywhere."

Ah. Drifter type. Those sorts usually wanna take you as far as they can; he had a delivery to make in Virginia in three and a half days, and something told him this girl'd try to stay the whole way.

Still, he relented and said yes because he felt bad for her: They were in the middle of the desert and it was over 100 degrees in the shade - her face was flushed and her brow glistened with sweat. Leaving a dog out here would be inhumane much less a person.

Now, three hours later, he was starting to regret his decision.

They were currently sailing along the eastbound lane of I-10 twenty miles west of the New Mexico border. Sandy soil dotted with brown scrub brush flanked both sides of the highway, low, time worn hills marching along the westbound lane and defining the horizon to their left. Neither had spoken in over an hour, and, to Billy at least, the silence was tense. _Where're you comin' from?_ He asked at one point to make conversation. _California,_ she said and left it at that, the tone of her voice telling him she didn't have too good a time out there.

He felt her eyes on him and tried to ignore it, but his skin was beginning to crawl. Her gaze was steady, intense...hungry. The only time he'd ever seen that look in someone's eyes, they either wanted to kill him, rob him...or fuck him. His eye darted to her and for the first time he really looked at her. She was a little on the thinner side, her collarbone sticking out like she hadn't had a good meal in twenty years, and the flesh of her face was rough and smattered with faint brown age spots that looked like freckles at first glance. Her lips were thin and her features sharp. Nonetheless, she was a pretty enough gal...and those eyes, like the starry night sky over vast and lightless plains...

Deep in his stomach, something began to stir, and he quashed it, then turned up the radio as if to drown it out once and for all. High, twangy country music: Fiddle, piano, and steel guitar.

 _Rosanna's down in Texarkana_

 _Wanted me to push her broom_

 _Sweet Eileen's in Abilene_

 _She forgot I hung the moon_

Ahead, a Winnebago sat in the gravel breakdown lane, its caution lights flashing. An Arizona state patrol car sat behind it, the cop kneeling by the back tire while an old woman in tan slacks and a short sleeve floral button up looked on. Billy didn't like staties - they were the ones who enforced trucking laws, and most of the ones he'd met were assholes about it. He turned his head instinctively as they passed, and his eyes met hers...then he looked hurriedly away.

 _And Allison's in Galveston_

 _Somehow lost her sanity_

 _And Dimple's who now lives in Temple's_

 _Got the law looking for me_

"How long have you been a trucker?" she asked, her gaze unwavering.

"Eight years," he said,

"Do you like it?" she asked.

He considered for a minute. "Yeah, I like it." He glanced at her, and there was fire in her eyes. He looked back at the road. "I like travelin', seein' places"

She nodded slightly and didn't speak for a long time; he could feel her eyes crawling over him like questing fingers, and his heart started to race.

 _All my exes live in Texas_

 _And Texas is the place I'd dearly love to be_

 _But all my exes live in Texas_

 _And that's why I hang my hat in Tennessee_

"Are you married?" she asked.

Billy's throat went dry and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. There was only one reason for a woman to ask a man that, and it wasn't just to pass the time, if you know what I mean. His gaze went to her collarbone, and suddenly he found himself wondering what it would feel like under his lips, what her skin and mouth would taste like. "No," he said, "I was but we divorced."

The woman nodded again. "Are you single?"

 _I remember that old Frio River_

 _Where I learned to swim_

 _But it brings to mind another time_

 _Where I wore my welcome thin_

"Yeah," he said as casually as he could.

"So am I," the woman said...and laid her hand on his leg, her long, slender fingers brushing the inside of his thigh; even through the heavy fabric of his jeans he could feel her warmth, and a shiver went down his spine. He turned his head and she scooted closer, her cheeks beginning to blush and her teeth grazing her bottom lip. Her dark eyes smoldered with lust, and her nostrils flared as her breathing quickened. Billy wasn't overly cocksure, but he'd been with plenty of women in his time, and he knew damn well when one was aroused, and the one brushing her hand up his leg now was as turned on as they come. He glanced from her to the road; when she reached his crotch, he sucked an involuntary intake of air through his teeth. She hummed in the back of her throat and cupped it in her hand, squeezing and finding his tip through his pants with expert precision. She rubbed her thumb against it slowly but firmly, and crackling sensation spread out from his loins like bolts of electricity.

She added her other hand and unbuttoned his jeans, then pulled the zipper down. He was totally erect now, his dick pulsing hotly against his briefs. She curled her fingers into the elastic waistband and yanked them down; it popped out like a jack-in-the-box. Her breath caught, and for the first time all day the neutral expression left her face; her lips turned up in a huge, sunny smile and her eyes twinkled. "Right on," she said and wrapped her hand around it, making him jump. She looked up at him. "Ever get your dick sucked while driving?"

Licking his lips, Billy shook his head.

"Well, you're about to."

With that, she leaned over, brushed her hair out of her face, and molded her lips to his tip, one hand splaying on his knee and the other resting on his stomach. He was powerless to protest or object as she slowly pushed down, her mouth like warm, wet velvet and her tongue stroking him as she worked his shaft. He tightened his grip on the wheel and eased up on the gas so he didn't hurdle out of control and crash, his eyes darting from the road to the head in his lap and back again.

She reached his base and pulled back to almost the head, then went down again; tiny grunts of desire hummed on her lips and she breathed even heavier through her nose, as if basking in his scent. She kneaded his balls like a playful kitten and increased her speed, her head bobbing up and down, her tongue ficking and savoring his lenght. Fever burned his flesh from head to toe, and his hips were beginning to rock back and forth of their own violation. One hand left the wheel and threaded through her warm hair, guiding her; a mixture of his precum and her saliva oozed down his shaft and balls like hot molasses, the sensation of it sizzling against his skin making him dizzy.

Suddenly, she spat him out and sat up, her eyes flashing and her chest rapidly rising and falling. "You ever _fuck_ a woman while driving?

Billy shook his head; she was already unbuttoning her pants and lifting her butt off the seat to slide them down her legs. She wasn't wearing underwear, Billy noted.

When they were around her ankles, she bent over and pulled them off, her hands shaking with passion. In just her shirt and socks now, she grinned seductively. "You're about to."

She crawled over slowly like a tigress on the prowl, and Billy found it nearly impossible to keep his eyes on the road. She drew herself to her knees and shifted into his lap, his arms on either side. Her dank heat broke against his twitching dick in sickly waves, and when her sex touched his, damp silk on throbbing iron, he sucked a deep breath.

Grinning evilly, she ran her fingers through his hair and sank herself onto his rod, taking it to the hilt and moaning as he speared her fiery center. "Halle-fucking-lujah, I missed that," she purred and began to move her body against his. Her eyes were closed, the lids fluttering in bliss; her head was thrown back, exposing her soft throat, and her lips were spread in a hazy, feline smile. Billy divided his attention between her and the road, craning to see around her and wincing as she thrusted down then up, down then up, her rippling walls massaging his tightening dick and the opening of her womb planting rough kissing on his tip with each downward stroke.

The highway was open and empty ahead, the only other vehicle a station wagon with a roof rack a good mile off. Risking both his life and hers, he took one hand off the wheel and cupped her hip, her flesh smooth and warm. He licked his lips and slipped it under her shirt, his fingers creeping to her breast and holding it. Small, but her nipples were rock hard, her heart slamming under his palm in excitement.

She went faster, breathy exhalations ripping from her throat each time his head hit her cervix. She was bouncing, crying out, her nails digging into his shoulders and her head bowing. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum," she groaned.

"Do it," Billy panted, "cum for me."

Her brow furrowed and her body froze. Her walls clamped down around him, and that was all he could take: He expanded against her and filled her; she yelped and trembled violently. "Shhhhhhiiiiitttt," she quivered and buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers digging into him as if to keep from being swept away on a tide of pleasure. Billy slipped one arm around her and pumped a final spurt; a combination of their juices was leaking all over him and the seat, but he didn't care.

For nearly ten minutes afterwards, he drove with her in his lap, her arms around his neck and her face against the side of his neck. He started to shrink, but she shifted her hips and coaxed another erection from him, and their connection never broke.

Finally, she pushed back and looked at him with a naughty, girlish grin...then swiveled her hips, her body swirling him against her walls. She leaned forward and kissed his lips, her tongue darting out and meeting his. He could taste the saltiness of his essence on her.

She drew back and pulled her shirt over her head then tossed it away; her breasts quivered inches from his face. "We better pull over for this one," she said.

Billy nodded. "Yeah, we best." He scanned the shoulder for a place. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, his jawline, the side of his neck, her lips lingering and her nose smelling. Jeez, he'd never seen any girl as rearin' to go as this one. "You act like you just got out of prison, honey," he chuckled.

"I did," Maggie said.

* * *

 _Come on, come on, I'm sick of waiting already!_

The brown haired woman watched from the corner of her eye as the tech _s-l-o-w-l-y_ pulled on a pair of Latex gloves, pulling each one past her wrist and releasing them with a crisp snap. She did that with the last pair, too; one ripped and she had to replace it, which ate up even _more_ time.

 _Be patient,_ you might say, but she' _been_ patient - she'd been waiting four whole months to find out her baby's sex, so she could be forgiven for being a little impatient _now_. The tech moving so slow she was practically going in reverse wasn't helping matters. Come _on_ , lady, jeez, can't you see I'm bursting with anticipation here?

Apparently she couldn't, but Ritchie could. He squeezed her hand, and when she turned her head to him, he smiled. "Relax."

"I _can't_ ," Lynn whined, "I'm excited."

They were in one of the exam rooms on the first floor of Meza Plata General, an ancient stone building with narrow windows and an Art Deco meets Spanish mission design that made it look schizophrenic. The room was dark, the only illumination coming from the sunshine filtering through a window along the far wall. Lynn lay in a lumpy bed and Ritchie sat in an equally uncomfortable chair next to her.

Presently, he brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "I am too, but if you don't calm down you're going to have a conniption fit."

Lynn wrapped her fingers around his...then grimaced and squeezed as hard as she could. Ritchie winced, then squeezed right back; red tendrils of pain shot up her arm and into the center of her brain, and a tiny cry leapt from her throat. "Bastard," she laughed and pushed his hand away. "Don't touch me."

"Don't worry," he said with a smirk, "I won't."

She started to reply, but the tech cut her off. "Alright, honey, lay back for me."

Giving RItchie her best stink eye ( _this isn't over, bub_ ), Lynn lay back against the pillow and shifted her hips, then durifully pulled the hem of the hospital gown over her swelling stomach. It wasn't very big yet - still only a bump - but she was immensely proud of it, and preened at it every time she stared at herself in the full length mirror on the bathroom door at home...which was often. She'd never been one to gaze at her own reflection, but she loved looking at her stomach - from every angle and in every pose imaginable.

Maybe it was strange, since she'd never been a 'girly-girl' but she _liked_ being pregnant; she _liked_ nurturing hers and Ritchie's baby in her womb; she _liked_ the idea of his flesh and hers forming something new and beautiful and totally _theirs_ ; and she _loved_ the faint, fluttery movements she sometimes felt when she sat or laid completely still. The first time it happened she screamed like a little girl and lit up like a Christmas tree; for the rest of the day she walked around with a goofy grin plastered to her face and rubbed her stomach raw, hoping to coax the baby into moving again, but he or she was stubborn just like his or her daddy (and _maaaaybe_ like his or her mommy too).

The tech squirted jelly into her hand and pressed it to Lynn's stomach, making her jump. "Ow, that's cold," she said.

"Sorry," the tech said, sounding like she really wasn't. She smeared the gloop all over, then sat on a stool and switched on the ultrasound machine. Next, she picked up a handpiece that looked like a paddle and pressed it to Lynn's stomach: The muffled sound of a strong, regular heartbeat filled the room, and Lynn broke out in a dreamy smile that she couldn't have contained if she wanted to. Without turning, she held her hand out, and Ritchie took it and squeezed - gently this time.

Staring at the screen, which faced away from Lynn, the tech glided the paddle over her stomach, searching for the baby. "It's hiding," she said.

That meant that she couldn't find him or her with the scope, not that he or she was literally hiding behind her bladder or something: Babies can't do that. Trust her, she'd read _tons_ of books on pregnancy over the past couple months. The baby lives in something called the amniotic sac, which is filled with fluid; they're kind of like little minnows in a fishbowl. The sac is made up of transparent membranes and there is no room for the baby to 'hide.' _You're just not looking hard enough, lady, now quit screwing around and do your job, I wanna know what I'm having!_ Ritchie slipped his fingers through hers leaned forward as if by doing so he could see the screen. The steady _ba-BOOM, ba-BOOM, ba-BOOM_ of the baby's heart resounded through the room like the opening drum salvo of a fast-paced rock song. That analogy made Lynn smile. "That's our baby's heartbeat," she said, a slow, hazy quality to her voice.

"I hear it," Ritchie grinned.

"Ah," the tech said, "here it is."

Lynn winced. _My baby is_ not _an it! He or she is a perfect little girl or boy._

Squinting, the tech leaned toward the screen. "Its legs are in the way," she said at length. She prodded Lynn's stomach with the paddle and she flinched.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry. It worked though; it's moving." She scanned the screen for a moment, then nodded. "And there we go."

Lynn's heart shot into her throat. Did she see the baby's sex? She did, didn't she? It sure sounded like she did. "What is it?" she asked sharply, her hand unconsciously crushing Ritchie's.

"It's a girl."

Ritchie sucked a sharp intake of breath through his teeth when her hand clamped down even harder. She whipped her head around and beamed, her eyes big and sparkling. "Did you hear that? We're having a girl!" Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why do you look like you're in pain?"

Her eyes went to his hand, and she let go. "Whoops. Sorry. But did you hear? We're having a girl!

"I heard," he said and smiled, then took her hand again, being careful to make sure there was no danger of her clutching it.

"We have to start thinking of names," Lynn said, "and buying stuff, and...we gotta get a bigger place so we can have a nursery and then decide what it's going to look like and make it and then think of names." She was still prattling fifteen minutes later when they left the hospital through the main doors, her words coming a mile a minute and her eyes closed. The day was hot and bright, the faint breeze like the heat wafting from a roaring fire. Ritchie kept his arm firmly around her shoulder partly because he wanted to, and partly because if he didn't she'd walk into a telephone pole or something. "We need to go shopping," she said when they reached the car. "Like...now."

Ritchie chuckled. He couldn't lie, she was really cute when she was excited. "Alright, we'll go shopping, but how about we get something to eat first? I'm hungry and I know the baby has to be too."

When a woman's carrying a baby, she eats a lot. Ritchie knew that going in (it's common knowledge, right?) but he forgot one teensy weensy little fact: This was no ordinary woman, this was Lynn Haveman (nee Loud). She could put away two meatball subs in the time it took him to finish one, she could have dinner, dessert, and _still_ want a sandwich an hour later, when they went to the Chinese buffet on Desert Blvd, she'd bring back two plates at a time, then go back twice. Ever since she got pregnant, her food intake was double, no, triple what it used to be.

And yet somehow, she didn't gain a single pound that wasn't baby. Her metabolism was inhuman.

"Sure," she said, "I can eat. Wanna hit Li Ho Fook's?"

That was the buffet.

She must _really_ be hungry.

She was. In fact, they were there for two whole hours.

* * *

At first, Alex Loud felt no pain. Nope. Nada. Not one little bit. There was _pressure_ (because the baby was weighing against her cervix, you know, getting into position), but other than that, she was fine. So fine, in fact, that when she got to the hospital she chose to walk instead of ride in a wheelchair. Pfft. I don't need that thing. What am I, ninety?

She still felt okay when she got to her room and changed into a johnny. She was a little...numb? Not physically, but mentally, like...wow, I'm actually here about to have my baby, crazy, huh? After nine months of waiting and feeling it kick and dreaming of the day she would be able to hold it in her arms, she was _thiiiiis_ close to the finish line, and her prize would be a little boy who hopefully had blue eyes just like his Daddy. Surreal. Or as Dad and his hippie buddies might say _trippy_.

In the beginning, Dad and Grandma were with her, then Jessy and Mark, and finally Mom. Tim showed up about an hour after she got there, still dressed in his work clothes: Gray zip-up jumpsuit with his name stitched over the left breast. His hair was messy and his face was streaked black with motor oil; he smelled like the rank guts of a '74 Chevy (*sniff* no, '75) and looked so much like a deer in the headlights that Alex couldn't help a giggle. Pale, shaky, wide-eyed, jaw slack. It was cute.

"Hey, Timbo," she greeted happily as he came up to the bed, "I'm having a baby."

That gave him pause. "Don't you mean _we're_ having a baby?"

Alex blew a raspberry. "No. _I'm_ having a baby. You're just standing there."

He missed a beat then shrugged one shoulder. "True." He closed his hand over the back of hers, his palm rough, calloused, and manly (umm, way to turn on the chick in labor, Timmy Baterman). "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she said, "but the baby could use a Coke. Can you go get me -err, him a Coke, please?"

"No, he can't," Mom put in, "you're in labor, you should be drinking water."

Grandma, sitting in the sole chair, nodded. "She's right, dear, you shouldn't drink so much of that stuff anyway, but especially not now."

Rolling her eyes, Alex drew a heavy, long-suffering sigh. "Fine," she said, "I'll drink dumb, bland, tasteless water." _See if I ever bring you McDonald's again, old woman._

Dad, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, snorted. "It's just like your music then." From the way Mom laughed and slapped her knee you'd think he was Sam Kinison or something.

Alex ignored them - they were a couple of lame-os. "Can I have some yucky water, please?"

Springing into action like the good sister she was, Jessy grabbed the plastic pitcher from the nightstand, filled a paper cup half way, and handed it to her. "Thank you, Jess," she smiled genuinely as she took it.

"You're welcome," Jessy said, then leaned in, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you...feel anything yet?"

Alex held her hand up and wiggled it from side to side. "Eh. Just a little pressure. It doesn't hurt or anything."

Jessy took a moment to process what her sister said. "You're going to have drugs, right?"

"Yep." She signed a paper at the doctor's office months ago requesting drugs during the birthing process. Mom kept telling her to go natural - the medication they used back in her day was apparently really dangerous and when the babies came out they were high or something. Well, it wasn't like that anymore. C'mon, Mom, it's not 1969, it's 1990; we're at the apex of human civilization, not being dirty, grody hippies like you and Dad were. She wasn't scared of not having drugs, she just...okay, she _was_ scared, but can you blame her? Something like this O was coming out of something like _this_ o, there's no way in _hell_ it's not going to hurt like a son of a bitch.

For right now, though, everything was hunky-dory sunshine and lollipops.

Then active labor started...and the sunshine _stopped_.

It began as a painful twinge in her lower back that wrapped around her hips and struck deep into the pit of her loins. It was hot, stinging, and _very_ uncomfortable: Moving made it worse, and by the time the nurse made everyone leave, she could barely shift without hissing through her teeth.

She wasn't alone in the room after that, but, not gonna lie, she _felt_ like she was. She was Alex Loud, she was tough, she was cool...and she wanted her mother and her boyfriend so bad that she felt like crying.

Just the hormones. That's all.

Gotta be.

The first contraction hit her at just past noon: Her stomach hardened and it felt like she was having a _really_ bad period cramp. Ow. The pressure in her pelvis and abdomen intensified, but even then it wasn't all _that_ bad; something told her, though, that this was only the beginning, and that by the time she was done here today, she'd have been through the nine circles of hell and back again.

It last just under a minute and then released. The back pain remained, however, steadily going from a dull throb to full blown spasms over the course of fifteen minutes; moving hurt, lying still hurt, thinking hurt, _not_ thinking hurt. "Owwww, this sucks," she moaned at one point. By then her legs were propped up in an M and nurses and doctors paraded past her vagina like they were commie troops marching through Red Square and she was The Dear Leader. Normally she'd blush in shame, but right now, with the contractions coming closer together, and each coming harder than the last, she didn't care _who_ saw her genitals. Hell, put 'em on TV, just make the pain go away.

Nope.

The pain got _worse_ : Each contraction was like electricity coursing through her stomach, and the agony in her back deepened, making her knees and calves tingle. She curled her fingers around the handrail and held on even after the contractions stopped. In-between convulsions, her chest heaved for air and her back went from feeling like hell incarnate to just regular hell. After an hour, she had the strangest sensation in her depths, like they were _full_. You know how your butt feels heavy and filled right before a big, glorious poop? Yeah, it was like that, only in her front instead of her back. Her hips were starting to ache and her pelvis felt almost like it was going to break. That must mean it was expanding to -

 _AHHHH, CONTRACTION, GODDAMN!_ She moaned and gripped the handrail so hard that by all rights it should have crumpled like an aluminium can.

This one lasted a little longer than the previous ones, and the feeling of being full was stronger. "Seven centimeters," one nurse said to another, "she's dilating fast." She sounded impressed. "Try to relax and stay calm, honey," she added to Alex. "It won't be long now."

Well, I flippin' hope not because this hurts _very_ badly and the pressure is getting worse and worse all the time and ahhh, it feels like there's a bowling ball in me. At least it can't get much worse, right?

Right?

Nope. _Wroooong_.

By the time her cervix was nine centimeters dilated, the pain came in crashing waves roughly three minutes apart; each time one broke over her, she clenched and bared her teeth. The weight in her loins shifted lower, and her pelvis felt like it was being pushed completely apart. Soon bones would begin to snap and her skin would tear like moth eaten funeral cloth. _Well, walking days, it was nice knowing ya._

She was vaguely aware of being given a shot, and then after that the pain lessened but didn't go away entirely. Spasms wracked her body, and she threw her head back against the pillow with a loud moan. "Start pushing now," someone said, and when the next contraction hit she clenched her jaw and pushed like she was pooping; her pelvis strained and the heaviness in her center increased. Hot, stinging pain ripped through the druggy veil and her back arched as if her body was trying desperately to spit the obstruction out. "Ahhh I am never having sex again!" she cried once the contraction was past.

The next one was stronger, squeezing her body like a vise. "Push!"

"I'm trying!" she growled through her teeth.

The weight shifted and her bones creaked dangerously. "I'm gonna die!"

"You're not gonna die, sweetie. Just keep pushing."

That voice was so maddeningly _calm_. "Don't contradict me, yes I am!"

Another spasm hit, and she pushed with it, grabbing onto either rail and bearing down on her teeth so hard her jaw ached. "I see it, keep pushing!"

She took a series of deep, gasping breaths and bore down as hard as she could; more stinging as the baby's head pushed against her opening, insistent to get out the same way his father was to get _in_. In both cases, nature took its course, only the first time around Alex actually enjoyed herself.

Excited talking and orders to push. There were a half dozen people between her legs now; the doctor, some nurses, Jesus Christ...she didn't know. The pressure was total, the pain was surreal; her mind was clouded and her back hurt SO FUCKING BAD.

"Push!"

Taking a deep breath, Alex pushed harder than she ever had before; through the haze of drugs and oucheses, she could feel her entrance widening around the baby's head. It stung like a motherfucker and she was _sure_ she was being stretched and ripped to tatters. Her vag would never be the same; her folds would hang low and every time she got dressed in the morning she'd have to tuck them into her underwear like flabs of roast beef. It'd be worth it, though, because she'd have an awesome baby and -

AHHHHHHH, CONTRACTION FROM HELL!

Screaming, she pushed, and with one final blast of skull-cracking pain, the baby slipped out, its warbling cries piercing the fog surrounding Alex's brain and activating her mommy mode. "Gimme my baby," she said in a forceless mutter that no one heard; a bevy of nurses hurried him across the room and laid him on a scale. His cries rose in volume and Alex's chest clenched in parental sympathy.

She watched with eagle eyes as they cleaned him up and swaddled him in a white blanket, the anticipation gathering in her stomach like dense storm clouds until she was shaking. Aftershock contractions rippled through her body and she was suddenly so wiped she could barely keep her eyes open, but she wanted to hold her baby, and there was no way in hell she was going to rest until she had.

A nurse carried him over, and Alex held out her quivering arms, strange wet shit filling her eyes. "Here's you mommy," the nurse cooed and carefully handed him over. Alex held him to her chest and stared down at his wee ittle face through a sheen of tears; he was no longer crying - he blinked his dark eyes against the glare of the light, seeing the world for the very first time and looking intimidated. It was so big, and he was so small.

"Hi," she cooed, and his head turned, those big, beautiful eye meeting hers, his brow pinching cutely. "I'm your mommy and I'm going to love you forever." She held him closer. "I promise."

* * *

Lincoln shifted in his seat and glanced at the boy next to him; he leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees and his fingers steepled against his nose, thumbs hooked under his chin. His breathing was shallow and his distant eyes clouded with worry; every so often they darted toward the double doors at the end of the hall. LABOR AND DELIVERY, they were marked.

Almost twenty-one years ago, Lincoln watched those very same doors with an expression much like his. Tim was nervous, but not as much as Lincoln had been, it seemed. To be fair, Lincoln had just gotten home from Vietnam and still had nightmares more often than he didn't.

"I remember when it was me," he said now. Tim glanced at him then away.

"Hell, me too," Tim's father said and raspd laughter. A tall man with a round stomach, Dave Underwood wore a graying beard and a baseball cap that cast his face in shadows. His skin was rough and leathery, and his blue eyes were faded as if by years of exposure to sun and the elements. He wore a pair of jean shorts and a green pocket T that strained against his gut. Aside from his midsection, there wasn't an ounce of fat on him; in fact, his arms and legs were both muscular and well-defined.

Lincoln could take him, though.

Not that he wanted to. Dave was an alright guy; jokey, down-to-earth, and as friendly as a dog who'd never been kicked. What he needed was a trip to Vietnam - put some hair on his chest.

Apparently, they went to school together, but no matter how hard Lincoln tried to remember the guy, he couldn't. _I moved to town in the eighth grade,_ Dave told him once. _Sat two seats behind you in math class for, hell, three months_. _I remember 'cuz I had to crane my neck to see the board over your cowlick._

 _I kind of remember you now,_ Lincoln had said. That was a lie; he was just being polite.

"And I remember when _I_ was in Alejandra's position," Tim's mother, Connie, said from beside her husband. Slightly shorter than her husband but still tall, she wore a cream colored blazer and a matching skirt that reached her knees. Her curly brown hair was permed and a strand of pearls hung around her neck. Lincoln _did_ remember her...vaguely. She was the kind of girl Lincoln thought of as the teacher's pet's understudy. She didn't sit in the front row, she sat in the second, and she didn't ass kiss, but she was always cool, efficient, polite, and business-like in her dealings with them.

Tim drew a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "It's taking a long time."

Lincoln snorted. "That's what _I_ said."

He remembered sitting in this very waiting room in the year 1969 and preparing to blow his brains out if the doctor brought bad news. The memory was so clear and sharp he might as well have been watching it on a screen. He didn't feel the overwhelming dread that he felt then, but he was still worried; after all, it was his child in there, and though giving birth in the year 1990 was virtually as dangerous as a root canal, there was still a risk of something going wrong.

When Ronnie Anne put her hand on his leg, he turned his head. "If you think it took a long time for you, imagine how it was for _me_."

"I have," he said earnestly and rested his hand on top of hers. It was true, many times over the years he tried to imagine what it was like for her to be alone, afraid, and in distress during her delivery - needless to say, he didn't follow that line of thinking very far.

"She's gonna be fine," Dave reassured his son, "what you need to worry about instead is how you're gonna sleep for the next three months. If your boy's anything like you were, he's gonna be up all night."

Ronnie Anne hummed in agreement. "Alex was the same way at first. You learn really quickly to sleep when the baby does or not at all."

"Timothy would _not_ sleep," Connie said. "He'd take cat naps. Fifteen minutes to half an hour. It was trying."

Dave laughed. "No it wasn't. It was a goddamn nightmare."

"My daughter Lori was like that," Rita said. She sat by the wall, Mark to her right. "It was like she didn't want to miss a _thing_." She laughed, her jolly stomach jiggling under her mumu. "Finally my husband and I put whiskey in her bottle."

Ah, yes, the whiskey in the bottle trick. She suggested they do that when Alex was fussy. _Just give her a little bit, it won't hurt her_. No, Mom, I'm not getting my infant daughter drunk. I'll just suck it up. It wasn't too hard considering he was used to not sleeping well (kind of hard when you're on the ground, half starved, cold, and sore from being beaten). Add in the fear of sleeping because of the nightmares, and boom, better than coffee.

"Jessy kept me up too," Ronnie Anne said and turned to her niece, her brow arching playfully.

"Sorry," Jessy said sheepishly.

"Don't blame her," Lincoln said, "she didn't keep you up, Johnny Carson did."

Ronnie Anne shrugged. "Him too."

"I didn't keep anyone up," Mark said matter-of-factly, "I slept all the time. My mom says she had to wake me up to feed me."

Connie nodded. "Yes she did. You were almost six months old before I saw you awake. You _loooved_ to sleep."

"I still do," Mark said. "In fact, Jessy and I sleep together all the time."

Jessy's jaw dropped and her face turned bright red. Mark turned and noticed that everyone except Tim was staring at him. He blinked in confusion, then seemed to think a moment. Owing to his Aspburger's, he couldn't read social cues, and had made it a habit to remember everything he said so that he could go back and examine it to find the faux paus if need be. He nodded to himself when he got it. _Whoops, I said we sleep together._ "I meant our dates sometimes literally consist of us parking somewhere, talking, and then falling asleep."

Everyone continued to stare, and you could see him beginning to get nervous. "We _do_ have sex, though," he blurted.

"Mark!" Jessy gasped.

Ronnie Anne snorted laughter and Lincoln shook his head, a grin spreading across his lips. Jessy's face burned scarlet with embarrassment and she pointedly held one hand up to shield her face. Mark frowned at her and laid his hand on her leg. "I'm sorry," he said, a contrite inflection creeping into his normally monotonous voice.

Jessy glared at him, her nostrils flaring...then her face softened and she bowed her head. "You're so embarrassing sometimes," she said with an involuntary smile and threaded her fingers through his. "But I love you."

"I love you too," he said. "Thank you for tolerating my shenanigans."

Lincoln grinned and turned away. That boy was a case. Good kid, though. Hopefully they worked out and stayed together; he'd be a-okay knowing his little girl was with a guy like him. Speaking of good guys, he glanced at Tim: His foot tapped a restless tempo on the floor and his body thrummed like a high tension wire moments from exploding. His eyes flicked to the doors, then helplessly away. With a sigh, he got to his feet and started to pace back and forth. Ah, the restlessness is setting in. Lincoln remembered that too. He shifted and crossed his legs. In the seat next to Tim's, Dave leaned heavily against the armrest of his chair and scratched the back of his neck. "Taxes are goin' up," he said casually as he followed his son's course with his eyes.

"Again?" Lincoln asked.

"Yessir," Dave replied. "Bush is lettin' 'em do it."

Lincoln snickered. "Didn't he say no new taxes?"

"Yes he did," Dave confirmed in a tone of mild disdain. "That's half the reason I voted for him."

Ah, got swindled by the conman, did you? _Read my lips...no new taxes_. And if you believe that, brother, I got a bridge to sell you. "Know who I voted for?"

"Who?" Dave asked.

"No one."

Tim went back and forth from one side of the waiting room to the other, his hands on his hips and his head bowed. His mother told him to sit down but he didn't; he was so lost in his own anxiety that he probably didn't even hear her.

"In fact, I've _never_ voted."

"Never?" Dave asked incredulously.

Lincoln's nod turned into a shake. "Not once. They're all lying scumbags. Democrat, republican, doesn't matter, they're the same. Two sides of the same coin."

"You might just be right," Dave allowed after a moment. "I know I didn't vote for no damn new taxes, and I'm not votin' for that son of a bitch next time around."

The double doors opened and a doctor clad in green scrubs slipped out, pulling his white mask down as he approached. Lincoln perked up and Tim froze in place, a reflexive breath puffing past his lips like the last spasmodic exhalation of a dead man. The doctor flashed a calculated smile that didn't fully touch his eyes. "Who's ready to meet the baby?"

Five minutes later, they crowded around Alex's bed; the new mother held her son in her arms and stared down at him with loving eyes, seemingly oblivious to the eight other people in the room. When she finally looked up, she sought out Tim and smiled to the baby at her breast. "There's your daddy," she whispered. "He's the second lamest dude ever after _my_ dad. But I love him with all my heart and you will too." She looked up at Tim again. "Do you wanna hold him?"

Tim's head jerked up and down. "Yes." His voice was faint, croaking. She held the baby out, and his father took him with eggerated care. The baby, hitherto asleep, stirred and fluttered open his eyelids. "Hey, buddy," Tim said, his voice breaking. Tears shimmered in his eyes and the baby furrowed his brows as in in confusion.

"What are you going to name him?" Rita asked. She sat in a chair pulled close to the bed, Jessy and Mark on one side and Ronnie Anne on the other.

Alex looked at Tim, but he was just as wrapped up in his child as she had been. "We were thinking of Blake. That work, Timbo?"

Tim didn't hear her, and she shrugged one shoulder. "Silence gives consent."

Blake slowly made his way around the room, passed from one family member to another. When Lincoln's turn finally came, he grinned down at him tried to wrap his head around it one last time - he was holding his grandchild. Well, his and Ronnie Anne's. She leaned over and stroked his tiny chin with her finger. "You are the cutest baby ever," she cooed. "Oh, my God, and your eyes are beautiful."

The baby simply stared.

"Are you going to have a cowlick just like your mommy and grandpa?" she asked.

Blake's eyes widened slightly, as though the threat of having a cowlick terrified him. Lincoln chuckled. He couldn't blame him.

Ronnie Anne ran her hand over the baby's head and looked up at Lincoln. "Alright, you've had your turn, lame-o. Hand him over."

Rolling his eyes, he passed he baby to her and went over to the bed; Alex was lying limp against a stack of pillows, Tim standing over her and holding her hand. "Congratulations," Lincoln said to them both.

"Thanks," Alex said, her voice thick with exhaustion, "I had to work _real_ hard to get that little boy out."

"Good things come to those who wait," Lincoln said, then looked from Tim to Alex. "Next up is the wedding."

The two exchanged a glance. "Do you want to? Tim asked.

"No," Alex said with a playful glint in her eye, "not at all."

A beat passed.

"I was being sarcastic. Of _course_ I do."

* * *

Luan dropped onto the couch as Fred helped Mom to her chair; the excitement of meeting a new great-grandchild sustained her for most of the evening, but by seven her arthritis began to bother her, and by the time they came through the front door, she hissed and winced with every step. She clutched Fred's arm as she lowered herself into the seat, her face clinched in pain and her flesh the color of spoiled milk. Her breathing was heavy, and when her butt finally met the cushion, she sucked a sharp intake of air. Luan frowned and stared at her with worried eyes: The arthritis was getting worse, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do to alleviate it.

She felt so helpless sitting by while her mother was slowly and irrevocably consumed by arthropathy; she hated seeing her like this, and she felt two inches tall because Mom had always been there to help her when she needed it, but now that Mom needed _her_ , she couldn't do a thing.

"Thank you, Fred," Mom said and leaned against the backrest.

"Do you need anything?"

Mom shook her head. "No, thank you. Just...could you put on the TV, please? Matlock's coming on soon."

"Sure." Fred grabbed the remote off the end table, pointed it at the TV, and clicked the power button: A man in a suit filled the screen, a red box with COADVIL in yellow held in one hand. " _...has what no other cold product has."_

Fred changed the channel and found the right station just as Matlock came on, its jazzy opening theme playing over a montage of Andy Griffith in a courtroom, sitting at a desk with a telephone wedged between his shoulder and ear, walking through a crowd of reporters cramming a courthouse hallway. God, he looked so _old_ , his hair steely gray and his face creased with wrinkles; every time she thought of him she remembered him as he was in _The Andy Griffith Show_ thirty years before: Young, black haired, and not entirely unhandsome. Had it really been _that long?_

Sighing, Fred sat next to her and draped his arm over her shoulder. She snuggled into him and laid her hand on his leg. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

He tilted his head back and thought for a moment. "A little," he said.

"TV dinner okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I can get it myself."

"I know you can," she said and patted his chest. Pulling away, she got to her feet and went into the kitchen, sparing him a playful look over her shoulder. If you told her twenty-five years ago that she would actively want to play housewife, she would have laughed in your face, but after marrying Fred, she discovered that she did. Maybe it was her way of trying to establish normalcy after a chaotic and misspent life, but she actually liked doing domestic things for him, such as cooking, even if it _was_ just popping a tray of frozen chicken into the microwave.

 _God, I'm one of the bourgeois now,_ she thought with an arch smile. Twenty years ago she would have sooner thrown a rock at a police officer than fold a man's underwear. How things change. In 1969 she burned her bra and carried picket signs, now she burned her husband's dinner and carried a purse.

And you know what?

She didn't mind it. That Luan, the hate-filled communist radical who marched on the DNC in Chicago was dead and gone, and a new one, a better one, had taken her place.

At least she was _trying_ to take her place.

When she reached the fridge, she opened the freezer and started to reach in but stopped when she saw something sitting atop the ice tray, something that had no business being there.

Mom's glasses.

Her brow furrowed and she picked them up: The lenses were oqueue and the ear hooks crusted with ice, which told her they had been there a while. She turned them over in her hand like a strange, alien object, then went back into the living room. "Mom?"

"Yes, dear?" Mom asked and turned her head.

Luan held up the glasses. "Why were these in the freezer?"

Mom squinted. "There they are! I was looking for those. Where did you find them?"

"The freezer," Luan repeated.

Mom's brow furrowed. "The freezer?" she asked, tasting the word as though it were foul. "What were they doing in there?"

"I don't know," Luan said, "that's why I'm asking you."

For a moment Mom stared blankly, then shook her head. "I don't know. I must have been distracted and put them in there by accident." She laughed. "Can I have them, please? I can barely see Matlock."

"They need to thaw," Luan said, and the absurdity of that statement made her chuckle. She carried them over and sat them on the table next to Mom's chair. As she went back into the kitchen, she glanced worriedly at Fred, and he shrugged as if to say _what do you expect? She's 72-years-old._ That was true - older people tend to be absent-minded and forgetful. She still didn't like it, though. "Do you want a frozen dinner, Mom?" she asked at the kitchen threshold.

"No, thank you, dear," Mom said, "I'm not hungry."

In the kitchen again, Luan shoved the glasses affair out of her mind and opened one of the boxes. There was something else she'd been thinking of recently, something that she'd been trying to talk herself out of, but wound up talking herself _into._ She'd been planning to talk to Fred about for nearly a month now, but kept chickening out at the last minute because she was afraid he'd say no. It had to come up eventually, though, and after spending part of the evening in the hospital, she decided that tonight was that _eventually_.

She and Fred ate in the living room in front of _In the Heat of the Night._ Mom dozed off halfway through, and Luan nearly made her move, but decided to wait just a little longer.

Well...too soon, longer became now: She and Fred lay in bed, him in only his boxer shorts and her in a white nightgown with lacy fringe around the neck. Fred scanned the day's paper, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, and she stared absently at a Danielle Steel paperback, her stomach knotted in dread and her heart thumping sickly. Finally, she closed the book and sat it on the nightstand, then turned to him. Sensing her gaze, he glanced up, his brow raising. Luan opened her mouth, but didn't know what to say, so she closed it again.

"What?" Fred asked, concerned.

She scrunched her lips to the side as she considered her reply. Fred folded the paper and dropped it onto his nightstand, then put his arm around her. "What is it, Luan?" he asked, looking directly into her eyes. "You look like something's bothering you."

Meeting his gaze directly, her heart throbbing with anticipation, she said, "I haven't gone through menopause yet. We can still have a baby."

He blinked.

"I know we really haven't talked about it," she hastened to say, "but I-I really want a baby."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Do you really think that's a good idea?" His tone was steady and sober. "You're forty-seven and I'm fifty-seven. I'll probably be dead before it's even out of high school."

"We're not too old," Luan said, and there was a pleading edge in her voice that made her inwardly wince, "and you'll be around for a long time, so will I."

Fred sighed and looked away.

"We don't have to," she said, and was surprised by the sudden tears filling her eyes, "I just wanna have your child."

For a long time Fred didn't reply; he stared off into space and chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully Finally. He turned and met her shimmering eyes. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he said, "Okay."

Luan's smile was like the sun cresting through a bank of dark clouds. "Can we try right now?"

Fred chuckled at her enthusiasm. "Yes, we can try right now."

And try they did.

Twice.


	150. August 1990: Part 1

**Don't you know things can change**

 **Things'll go your way**

 **If you hold on for one more day**

 **\- Wilson Philips (Hold On, 1990)**

Waaah! Waaah! Waaah!

A single eye, red and muddled with sleep, creaks open with a rusty sound. The room is shadowy, faint light spilling in from the attached bathroom and painting the far wall a feeble yellow.

Waaah!

The bassiet beside the bed shakes violently, and for a moment Alex is so confused she doesn't even know her own name, then the mist in her brain dissipates and Ugh, he's up again. Next to her, Tim stirs and mutters in his sleep. I have half a mind to make you get up with him this time, Alex thought as she sat up. She wouldn't do that, though, because she was fair: He had to work in the morning, she didn't. Dad had her on 'paid maternity leave.' Making money to stay home? Sounded like a dream job to her, but it wasn't because it made her feel kind of like a charity case or something. On top of that...she couldn't believe she was saying this….she actually missed working. Sitting around the house and watching TV got really old after a while, though Fox was cool; it had all the best shows. The Simpsons, Married...With Children, and her new favorite, In Living Color. It was this dope sketch show with a predominantly black cast. Her favorite skit was The Homeboy Shopping Network - these two black guys selling stolen property in a back alley and taking calls on a broken down payphone. Oh, and Fire Marshall Bill, who wound up starting more fires than he prevented. Hahahaha.

Waaah!

"Alright, alright," Alex said. She leaned over, and plucked the baby up; his eyes were closed and his mouth was open to reveal his ittle pink gums. His head shook back and forth as if to (tearfully) say I can't believe this, I just can't believe this. Yeah, you and me both, buddy, she thought and drew him to her chest. His eyes shot open and he stared up at her, his cries ceasing like flipping a switch. He watched her with something approaching slack-jawed wonder. Wow, you actually picked me up?

Well, duh, don't I always?

"You should not be awake right now, baby bear," she said in her sternest I'm-mom-and-I-have-a-stick-up-my-butt voice, which wasn't very stern at all because every time she looked into Blake's face she smiled like a goofball. She called him baby bear because when she sat him on her stomach, his chubby legs, pudgy belly, and wee bitty feet put her in mind of a teddy bear.

A teddy bear who didn't like to sleep.

Babies wake up every couple hours - she knew that. Mom told her, Grandma told her, Dad told her, even Lynn told her when they talked on the phone (she was super into baby stuff and was doing her homework). She was prepared, then, to be up and at 'em four or five times a night. She was not prepared to be up a dozen times after being up until midnight. Nope. Not at all. Babies are supposed to go to bed early, not late like they're drunken sailors on shore leave. Blake Steven Underwood loved being awake all hours….mainly crying.

It started as soon as Alex laid him down at bedtime; for the first few seconds, nothing, then he'd start kicking his legs and fussing before finally renting the night with a high, ear-piercing wail. Alex would take him back out of the bassinet and bring him into bed with her and Timmerino, but nooooo, that wasn't good enough; the cries would continue until she picked him up and carried him into the living room...then into the kitchen, back into the living room, to the bedroom, the kitchen once again, and finally the living room - you know, just to change things up. That's to say she had to walk him around, and the moment she stopped, he'd start squirming and crying again even if he was asleep. This meant that she couldn't even sit in front of the TV and watch one of those sweet, sweet late night infomercials. Hey, remember all those great campus parties from the sixties? Well, Lame-O Records now has a four album set loaded with your favorite frat rock hits! 40 original songs! 40 original artists! Only 19.95 plus shipping and handling!

Eventually she'd bring him back into the room, lay him in the bassinet, climb into bed, and an hour later wah! It was enough to drive you batty if you weren't Alex Loud - that girl can handle anything.

Blake looked at her with those beautiful liquid dark eyes of his...and then his face screwed up in silent misery. Uh-oh, breakdown in T minus 3...2...1…

"Waaaaaahhhh!"

Alex winced, his cry piercing her eardrums and reaching deep into the center of her head like broken glass. Tim rolled over, and his eyelids fluttered like he was trying to open them but couldn't. "..Okay…?" he asked sleepily.

No, everything is not okay. Your son won't sleep. He's worse than Gilbert Gottfried on USA Up All Night. "Yes," she said and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, "go back to sleep."

Tim hummed that he heard, then instantly began to snore. Oh, buddy, you're lucky I'm not back at work, because if I was you'd and I would be taking turns.

Pressing the shrieking baby to her chest, she went out into the kitchen, lit only by the wan glow of a plug-in nightlight. She patted the baby's back and shushed him as she went into the shadow pooled living room. Blake writhed in her arms as if trying to get away...or to burrow closer. She couldn't tell which, but she was a little tired right now, so she could be forgiven if her detective skills weren't the keenest.

At the window overlooking the overgrown lot behind the building, she turned and started back toward the bedroom. Blake's cries tapered off and he fell still, soothed by the motion of movement. She figured he must have gotten used to the rocking sensation of her walking while he was in the womb; working on that plantation her father called Flip's, she did a lot of it. Stupid; she should have laid still her entire pregnancy, that way he'd prefer that to this.

She reached the front door, spun, and went back into the kitchen, bouncing and rocking him as she went.

Other than this, he was a good baby. He didn't whine or fuss during the day, he didn't cry overly much, he was healthy, happy, and well-adjusted; really a cool dude, just like his mom, only without the dude part. Well, actually, girls could be dudes too. 'Dude' was kind of unisex these days. Some girls didn't like being called dude, but she didn't mind. What offended her was being called dudette. Ugh. Gag me with a spoon. She wrote a story right before she gave birth about this guy, and he called a woman named Xela dudette - she literally punched a hole in his chest, ripped his still beating heart from it, and crushed it in her hand while he screamed. Nooooo! Not my heart! I need it! Hahahahaha. In case it wasn't obvious, Xela was 'Alex' backwards - it's what's called a self-insert and famous authors do it all the time. Hell, Stephen King did it with The Shining. Jack, the alcoholic writer with a nasty temper? It was totally SK. Makes you wonder if he ever picked up a croquet mallet and tried to brain his wife and kid with it. Here's Steve-O! He'd be in his office writing and his family would have to tiptoe around because if they so much as farted too loud he'd pop out like a jack-in-the-back and glare. Whom dothst thou maketh thine noise? He talks like that because he's a writer and a lame-o.

She grinned at the image of him standing in his office doorway, arms out and braced on either side, his face dark. His kid - a boy in her mind - shrank back with a look of terror on his face. No, father, don't make me read Pet Sematary again. I'll behave, I promise.

Did Dean R. Koontz have kids? She didn't know, but if he did, how did he punish them? What about John Saul? And Robin Cook? She should really write to these guys and ask; she was a writer with a kid, so they'd understand her pain completely. You see, Ms. Loud, I make little Danny F. Koontz write me a novel every time he's bad...then I publish it under my own name and keep all the profits! Muhahahaha!

Wow, you're an evil, cold-hearted son of a bitch.

Let's be friends!

She paused in the middle of the kitchen and flicked her eyes down to Blake. He was quiet and unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of his back. She briefly considered taking him back to bed, but decided to make a couple more passes, just to be on the safe side. Don't wanna go off half-cocked; the trick is to get the baby as deep asleep as you can before putting him down. *Finger guns* Alex Loud 3:16.

In the living room again, she glanced out the window; purple dawn was cresting over the rooftops across the lot. Bringing in another day with my sleep-adverse little man. Not the worst way to do it. She kissed the baby's head and went into the bedroom, where she laid him in the bassinet as carefully as if he was packed with nitroglycerin, then backed slowly away, her hands up and her teeth clenched. Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake up...

He didn't, and Alex breathed a sigh of relief. Whew. Being as quiet as a mouse fart, she crawled into bed and slipped under the covers; Tim stirred and rolled away, his lips smacking together as though he were dreaming of yumminess. Taking that baby shaped bullet for him the way she did, he oughta reward her by putting those lips to good use.

Later, though; right now, it was sleep o'clock.

She snuggled into the blanket, closed her eyes…

And the alarm clock on the nightstand went off.

"Wah! Wah! Wah!"

Sigh.

* * *

in 1945, Americans were island hopping across the Pacific Ocean and kicking Japan's ass. In 1990, they were buying all of Japan's shit - chiefly their cars. Japanese cars were compact, lightweight, and didn't use as much gasoline as their American counterparts. That latter function was especially appealing now, in the middle of a recession. Nothing wrong with fuel economy - gas wasn't 50 cents a gallon anymore and the dollar's buying power wasn't what it used to be - but the downside was this: People were buying fewer and fewer American made cars. Demand was down and production was slowing - factories were shutting down left and right and people were being laid off in droves. Being so close to Detroit, Royal Woods had always been home to scores of auto workers and their families - Lincoln's own father was a line manager from the end of World War II to the early eighties - and once upon a time the little town flourished like an oasis fed by a rushing stream. Now, the stream was a trickle, and the vegetation was beginning to wilt. Joblessness was up, and with it crime and social ills - more people were drinking, more were using drugs. Every morning on his way to work, Lincoln passed the welfare office on Main, and each time he did, the line was out the door.

He would admit to not knowing much about economics, but he did know that it was like a web that connected everyone and everything to everyone and everything else. If person X is doing well financially, he spends money in his community - he buys goods or services from person Y, which enables person Y to do well financially too. When person X suffers, so, too, does person Y.

Over the past year, business had been on the downswing - not as many people came into Flip's, and those that did didn't spend as much money. Lincoln had saved and invested wisely over the years, so he was nowhere near the possibility of destitution, but this new trend was alarming nevertheless.

So alarming that he was seriously beginning to consider charging Blades for his food.

Sitting now across from the former greaser, Lincoln opened the cash register to deposit a twenty, and frowned at how little green was inside. The tray, like that cup in the Bible, once runneth over, now it runneth under. Way under.

He closed the drawer and propped his elbow on the edge of the counter. "Twenty years you've been coming in here eating my food for free," he said, "twenty years."

Blades took a bite of his hamburger and shrugged. "I offered to pay" he said through a mouthful, "but you said you didn't want my slimy greaser money."

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "well, I changed my mind."

Blades screwed his face up in a mocking expression. "Fine. If my money's suddenly good enough for you."

"It is."

Lincoln turned to the door as a group of teenage boys came in; one wore dark blue All Stars and his baseball cap backwards, and another was dressed in a short sleeved button up that looked like Jackson Pollock threw up on it: A crazed splatter of colors, yellow, blue, green, and red that made Lincoln's eyes hurt. Hang that thing in a modern art gallery and all the snobs will say it's symbolic of the dissolution of the American dream. Actually, it was symbolic of bad fashion sense, but what did he know?

He glanced at Luan, who was taking an order, and then at Cassie, a new hire with long red hair and a sickly thin frame; she was also otherwise engaged. Guess it fell to him. Sighing, he got up, grabbed an order pad, and went around the end of the counter as the boys settled into a booth along one of the windows. One of them cracked a joke, and his buddies erupted in laughter. When Lincoln came up, they sobered and looked nervous, which made him smirk. He remembered being a kid and uh-oh, here comes an adult, straighten up. Shoe's on the other foot now.

"What can I get you to drink?" he asked, his pen poised over the page.

The boy with the baseball cap looked around at his friends, then at Lincoln. "We'll just all have Cokes."

Lincoln jiotted that down. "Know what you want to eat?"

Baseball cap looked around the table again, and everyone responded that they wanted burgers. Those were the crowd pleasers; Lincoln had added a half dozen menu items over the years, but hamburgers remained Flip's highest seller.

Lincoln took down their orders, closed the pad, then started to leave, but baseball cap stopped him. "Hey, uh, I have a question."

"What's that?" Lincoln asked.

The boy furrowed his brows. "Why do you call this place Flip's? It's, uh, kind of a strange name."

For a moment Lincoln stared blankly, and the boy started to squirm. Why did he call it Flip's? Gee, I dunno, maybe it has something to do with the guy named Flip? That's when it hit him: Flip had been dead eighteen years, and this kid - and his buddies - couldn't be more than sixteen. They had no idea who the hell Flip was; he died before they were even born. Hm. Kind of funny, isn't it? Someone can be a vital part of your life, or the life of an entire town - they can be a fixture for fifty years - but one day they die and within a generation they're just a name on a plaque or a statue in the park. That'd be him one day, gone and forgotten. He couldn't say the thought disturbed him (he'd be dead, so what the hell would it matter to him?), but it was strange nonetheless.

"That was the guy who used to own it," he said. "His nickname."

"Why'd they call him Flip?"

"He used to flip out all the time," Lincoln said, "if I burned a hamburger he'd hit me."

The boy's jaw dropped. "He hit you?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yep. Only when he was in a good mood. When he wasn't, he'd strip his belt off and whip me like a slave."

"Holy shit," one of the other boys muttered. "You ever hit him back?"

Lincoln nodded. "One time I did. He was all pissy because I came in late sick and he hauled off and socked me in the guts. I had enough, to I picked up a knife and hit him with hit...right in the throat." He patted the front of his neck for emphasis. The boys were all gaping at him, and it took everything he had not to laugh. "He started spraying blood all over the place and choking cuz I hit his lungs. He fell back against the counter and toppled over, dead as a doornail. I took some money out of the register and made it look like a robbery."

"Jesus, dude," Pollack shirt said, and that was it; Lincoln started to laugh, and they all looked at him like he was crazy...and dangerous.

Flip would be proud.

Shoving the order pad into his apron pocket, he leaned over, and, as one, the boys leaned back, as if afraid that they would be next. "I'm messing with you," he said, "he wasn't like that."

The boys all laughed nervously.

"But I did kill him."

With that, he turned and walked away, shaking his head and grinning to himself. He was an evil, evil man, and if God existed, he was on his way to hell. Better than being on his way to Vietnam, he supposed.

At the widow, he ripped the ticket it off and passed it to Fred. Chris, the new dishwasher, was scrubbing a pan and nodding his head to music drifting from a radio on a shelf. Tall and gangly with long dirty blonde hair held back in a ponytail, he wore jeans and a black T-shirt. His first day he came in dressed in jeans with holes in the knees, and Lincoln made him go home and change. Where'd you get those goddamn things, out of a grave? Alex wore jeans like that sometimes, and he asked her the same thing. Man, cool sure had changed since he was a kid; if you walked around with holes and tears in your clothes in the fifties, people would think you were poor and make fun of you. That's if they could get past you being a boy with long hair. Are you gay, a communist, or both?

Someone touched his shoulder and he turned his head just as Luan leaned forward and sat her own ticket in the window. "Order in," she said.

"You don't have to say that every time," Fred said archly, "I hear you."

"One of her many annoying habits," Lincoln said, and laughed when she sank her nails into his shoulder. "She's abusive, too."

"I live in terror," Fred said.

"No you don't," Luan said.

"When I hear her pull up in the driveway I run and hide."

"Oh, please."

While the mister and missus bantered playfully like two morning zoo radio hosts, Lincoln filled four cups with Coke and took them over to the table, then went back to sitting by the register. Blades shoved the last bite of burger into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "You know," he said, "I think I like McDonald's better."

"Go bother them, then," Lincoln said and gestured to the door.

Blades sniffed as he reached into his back pocket. 'And to think, I was gonna have you cater my birthday party."

"Ah, the big 5-0," Lincoln said. "First Bobby, then Lori, now you. How's it feel to be over the hill?"

"Feels like I might be growing up any time now," Blades said and flashed a grin. He opened his wallet, pulled out a ten, and slapped in on the counter with a flourish. "You can keep the change, Linc."

Lincoln's eyes darted to the bill, then to Blades. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

"Your pay."

For a moment Lincoln stared at him, then picked up a pen and used it to slide the bill back across the counter. "I don't want your slimey greaser money."

Blades blinked. "But you-"

"Were joking. I'm not so hard up I want your money stinking up my register."

Blades threw a hand up longsufferingly.

* * *

Clyde McBride was playing a dangerous game, a game played by many politicians before him, a game that would be played no doubt by many politicians after him. That game? Don't get caught screwing your intern. In his case, the 'intern' was actually his personal assistant, but tomato, tomahto; it's like how they call it football even though ninety-nine percent of the time the ball's in someone's hands.

The opening play came late last year when, one night after making love to her, he asked Carol Pingrey to leave her job at Channel 13 and come work for him. He had a personal assistant (a damn good one, at that) but he wasn't Carol, and over the past few years, Clyde had come to love that girl; every minute apart from her was a restless eternity.

And those minutes were many: She lived and worked in New York City, and could only see him on the weekends, and given his position as governor, getting time alone with her, away from prying eyes and snooping noses, was hard. Having her as his personal assistant would make things much, much easier.

It would also make their relationship unethical...but when a man loves a woman, thing like codes of conduct don't mean as much as they might otherwise. He prided himself on being a clean politician - they're so goddamn rare these days - but if the only way he could have time with Carol was to get just a little dirty, so be it. It's not like he was hurting anyone. He wasn't robbing the taxpayers, he wasn't making shady backroom deals, he wasn't giving lucrative state contracts to his friends...he was just sleeping with his secretary. There's nothing overly wrong with that, is there?

At first Carol wasn't onboard with the idea. She loved journalism and had aspirations to eventually anchor an evening newscast on one of the big three NYC affiliates: NBC, ABC, or CBS. She also mentioned applying at CNN. One of the things Clyde loved most about her was her passion: When she talked about her career, her face would light up and her voice would waver with excitement. It wasn't fair, he realized, to ask her to give up her dream for him, but it wouldn't be forever. "Just until I'm out of office," he said. They were cuddling in his bed at the governor's mansion in Albany, his face buried in her fragrant blonde hair and his arms circled protectively around her. Two years...that's not so long.

She thought on it for a while - over a month, to be exact - before acquiescing: Their lack of time together bothered he just as much as it did him, after all. She tendered her resignation in late January, and signed off for the final time on February 28. Two days later, she moved from her apartment on West 53rd Street to a townhouse across from Washington Park on Albany's Western Ave. Wedged between the Pine Hills and Beverwyck neighborhoods, Western Avenue was on the better side of Central Ave, the sidewalks clean and dotted with leafy green trees. Her building stood on the corner Western and Robin Street, a tall, stately structure with a narrow brick facade, bay windows, and white crown molding. She didn't own a car, so she either walked the ten blocks to the capitol building or took the city bus. At first, she was homesick for New York, but quickly warmed to Albany's quaint old town charm - at least her part of Albany. She wasn't far from Lark Street, which is nice south of Central but a goddamn dump to the north.

Crack was to blame, because of course it was. Introduced in the late seventies, crack was a solid, smokable form of cocaine that took inner cities by storm during the latter half of the eighties, leading to an increase in crime and tougher new drug laws: Between 1984 and 1989, the homicide rate for black males aged 14 to 17 more than doubled, and the homicide rate for black males aged 18 to 24 increased nearly as much. During this period, the black community also experienced a 20–100% increase in fetal death rates, low birth-weight babies, weapons arrests, and the number of children in foster care. The nationwide crack epidemic didn't hit Albany as hard as it hit places like L.A. and Atlanta, but it did hit hard enough that certain parts of town - never the best to begin with - became no go zones for anyone who valued not being robbed and possibly killed.

All of that was contained on 'lower' Lark (north of Central, the street slopes down). Carol's neighborhood was completely safe and well policed after dark. Still, he worried, of course. That's what you do when you love someone.

Loving her and wanting her close to him did not mean that her position as his personal assistant was going to be a no-show job; he expected her to actually carry out her duties, and she knew that. She took notes and dictation, kept his schedule, took phone calls, made appointments, picked up his lunch - and helped him relieve a little midday stress now and then...if you know what I mean.

Of course, rumors began to circulate, but that was to be expected; they'd say he was fucking his dog if he had one. Gotta have a sex scandal to talk about. The thing was: The rumors weren't spun out of nothing. He often caught himself looking at her when he shouldn't be, and treating her with a tenderness and affection that a man only showed to a woman with whom he was infatuated. She acted similarly, her eyes lingering when he was in the room and the corners of her lips turning up in a wistful smile. Sometimes she stood closer to him than she had to, and a few times he went to put his arm around her or kiss her on the cheek. People saw, and they talked. His staff at the mansion knew, of course, but no one else did, not for sure, and by the beginning of August, Clyde was beginning to not care whether they did or not.

On the afternoon of August 2, he sat in front of the TV in the living room of his vacation home, a palatal estate in the Adirondack Mountains north of Lake Placid. Carol sat next to him, her legs drawn under her and her hand resting on his leg. They were dressed casually - he in a white polo shirt and tan slacks and she in a short sleeved shirt with an exotic pattern tucked into high-waisted denim shorts. It was ten past one and they'd just returned from a walk around the lake; soon they would have lunch on the patio while staring at the sun dappled water...or into each other's eyes. Either one.

"Are they really surprised?" Carol asked and held her hand out, palm up.

On CNN, video played of Iraqi troops moving into Kuwait City while helicopters clogged the sky. A Kuwaiti tank fired at the advancing soldiers, and small arms fire rattled from quarters unseen. "...around 2am this morning, pushing eighty miles inland from the border," a voice intoned. From what Clyde had been able to gather, the Iraqi Army was presently invading Kuwait, and the Kuwaiti armed forces were crumbling against the onslaught.

Since he was elected to represent the people of New York state, Clyde didn't make it his business to concern himself too much with international geopolitics beyond what was necessary to effectively do his job. Carol, on the other hand, lived and breathed this stuff. She said that the Iraqi government had been accusing Kuwait of stealing Iraqi petroleum through slant drilling for months and 'saber rattling like third world fascists.' To be fair, as far as Clyde could tell, they were third world fascists: The ruling Ba'ath Party, headed by Saddam Hussein, was a stewing bastard mix of socialism and Arab nationalism. The real reason for the invasion, she claimed, was that Iraq was 14 billion dollars in debt to Kuwait - money it borrowed to fund the 1980-88 war with Iran. Kuwait also produced high levels of petrol, which kept revenue low of Iraq.

Clyde was surprised by the depth of her knowledge on the matter, but really shouldn't have been.

"It's one thing to talk a big game," he said now, "and another to actually do something."

On the screen, Iraqi soldiers hurried across a beach while Kuwaiti troops and Kuwait City police officers formed a defensive line along a flanking highway.

"Guys like Saddam don't make empty threats," she said. "That's what rational leaders do."

Well...she had a point. Saddam Hussein presided over a backwards desert fiefdom composed of tents, shanties, and surplus Soviet military equipment made by communist craftsmen who didn't give a shit and half-assed it so they could go home and drink. His country was a shithole, in other words, and his commie brain was so baked from the pounding Mideast sun he couldn't think farther than his basest instincts.

"I guess," he said and threaded his fingers through hers. "I don't make empty threats. Does that make me an irrational leader?"

She grinned mischievously, and Clyde knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth. "Yes it does." She squeezed his hand. "But in a good way."

* * *

Every day, rain or shine, Rita Loud had a cup of coffee while sitting at the kitchen table; it was a daily routine as familiar as the very paper on the walls, something that she had done countless times before over the years. On the morning of August 2, 1990, however, something unexpected happened that threw a wrench into her schedule and denied her one of the few joys still left her: She forgot how to operate the blamed coffeemaker.

It was a white Mr. Coffee with a white and yellow pattern across the top of the face and had been sitting in the same spot on the counter since she unwrapped it on Christmas morning 1977. She'd used it every single morning since (and sometimes in the afternoons too); working it came as naturally as putting on her shoes. Even so, she found herself standing over it with a frown, her mind completely blank. Russell sat at her feet and stared up at her, head cocked to one side, as if in confusion. Why aren't you making your coffee, mama? "I-I don't know," she replied, and chuckled to herself. She looked up at the kitchen window; warm summer sunshine filtered through wavering brush, and in the distance, a plane tracked across the sky, a long white line trailing behind it. "I guess I'm just getting forgetful," she said. She turned away and shuffled into living room, the soles of her slippers scraping across the linoleum.

Memory loss is a natural part of aging. She'd been suffering from it for years now - forgetting appointments and events then remembering them later. Recently, though, it had gotten worse. She had trouble finding the right words sometimes - the other day she called her mug a 'water holder' - and every once in a while she'd wind up somewhere with absolutely no recollection of how she got there. Oh, and she kept calling Russell Lincoln. Ha.

At her chair, she splayed her hand on either arm and slowly lowered herself, wincing at the pain in her knees, knuckles, back, and legs. Her arthritis was getting worse, too - her fingers were gnarled and perpetually hooked and her knees refused to bend...she had to force them to.

Russell jumped up onto her lap as she reached for her reading glasses; her hands trembled slightly, rattling them as she slipped them onto her face. She picked up her Bible and opened it at random, landing on 2 Thessalonians. She would read until...until something happened; she couldn't quite remember, but there was a show coming on the picture box that she wanted to see. Or maybe it was a radio program. She was partial to Adopted Daughter, about a "courageous young wife who fights for home and happiness." Lynn liked Amos 'n' Andy.

When it occurred to her that neither of those were on anymore, a frown crossed her sunken lips. I must have forgotten again. She glanced down at the open book before her and tried to concentrate, but after a few verses, the words started to not make sense. That, too, happened a lot now; she never mentioned it to anyone because it was normal...she might as well mention breathing or blinking.

Setting the Bible aside, she absently stroked Russell's back and stared at the TV screen where a commercial played: A woman in a kerchief scrubbing a toilet looking as though it were the most arduous task she had ever undertaken. She reminded Rita of Rosie the Riveter, the woman on the posters she saw everywhere during the war. One was in the window of the drugstore if she recalled. Lori, who was two or three, pointed at her and said...well, she couldn't remember what Lori said, but it was amusing.

That was…'48 or '49; Lynn was away at war and she was alone with three children and pregnant with a fourth. Everything was rationed and they gave you ration books with little removable stamps good for certain kinds of food. When you bought something at the grocery store, you had to give the cashier the right stamp, and once you used them all, you couldn't buy anymore of that food. She might forget where she put her glasses or whether Lincoln was her dog or her son, but she would never, for as long as she lived, forget those ration booklets: At the top it said NEVER BUY RATIONED GOODS WITHOUT RATION STAMPS, NEVER PAY MORE THAN THE LEGAL PRICE. There was a black market for things, or so she heard. A woman who lived down the hall from her apartment always seemed to have more meat than she should have, and the man next door had people coming and going at all hours of the day, most likely selling them things he shouldn't have been selling.

There were blackout drills too: You had to turn off your outside lights and draw your curtains so that the Germans couldn't see you. When Lincoln was in Vietnam and Ronnie Anne would sit in her room by the window gazing into space, Rita was reminded of herself while Lynn was away. She waited for his letters with bated breath and prayed every night that he would come home safe. When he wrote to tell her that he'd been shot and that he was being shipped back to the states, she was beside herself with joy. His first night back - the night they most likely conceived Lynn Jr. - he held her in his arms and said I'll never leave you again.

But he did.

He left her again.

She slipped her fingers under her glasses and wiped away her tears. Russell looked up at her and cocked his head in concern, and she smiled weakly. "Don't worry," she said, "I'm okay." She glanced up at the screen as white cursive writing appeared against a red, ripplng backdrop. The Brash and the Bountiful. Her wrinkled face broke out in a sunny smile and she rubbed the corgi's back. "I remember what I wanted to watch now," she said.

Names appeared after the title while dramatic music played. Victor Cosgrove, Sandra St. John, Robin Weston, then, the four words that made her chest swell every time she saw them: FEATURING ROBERTO SANTIAGO JR. The Brash and the Bountiful was not one of the soaps she regularly watched, but every day since Bobby joined the cast, she was here in her chair come hell or high water, and whenever he was onscreen, she could barely contain herself. She felt the same way she did when she used to see Luna on one of those music programs, and she never missed an opportunity to brag, God help her. It was a sin, but some sins, she'd learned, just couldn't be helped - like overwhelming pride.

The scene changed to a posh and tastefully appointed living room. An interior door opened, and Susan - that horrible, horrible woman - entered with a glass of wine in her hand. She wore a fancy red dress that reached the floor and hid her feet and so many jewels, rings, necklaces, and bracelets that it was a wonder she could even move. The camera panned back to reveal Bobby sitting on the couch, one elbow propped on his knee and his thumb and forefinger thoughtfully stroking his chin. Rita preened and rubbed Russel's flank. "There he is."

Susan sat next to him and drew her legs underneath her. "Have you considered my proposal?" she asked. Yesterday's installment ended with them discussing a way to swindle Susan's husband and Bobby's stepfather, Charles, out of his fortune. I have a an idea, she said, and that was the last scene. Rita strongly suspected that they were going to try and kill him.

"Yes," Bobby replied. He wore a black suit accented by a blood red tie, gold cufflinks sparkling in the light.

"And?" Susan asked, then took a sip of wine.

Bobby turned to her and an evil grin spread across his face. "I propose we do it."

The cold glint in his eyes sent a shiver down Rita's spine - it was so alien and unlike him. He was usually so warm and loving, but on TV he was a slimy, conniving little weasel. The soap magazines she subscribed to said he was "...quickly becoming someone we love to hate…" and that "...if true evil has a face, it is that of Richard Parker." He was on the cover of Daytime Weekly in June, arms crossed and eyes pointed haughtily down his nose in a way that shocked Rita. He looks like a snob! WHO IS RICHARD PARKER? The headline asked. Inside was a biography of the character and one of Bobby himself. Born on December 18, 1961 in the town of Royal Woods, Michigan to a white mother and an Hispanic father, Roberto Santiago Jr. is no stranger to the limelight; in 1985 he married pop princess Lola, with whom he has a son and daughter, and has since appeared in numerous music videos and television roles, including Miami Vice, Roseanne, and Growing Pains. He says that he is "shocked" that he became an actor. "It happened on accident. I was never planning on any of this. I just got sick of sitting around the house." [laughs].

Rita had it framed and put on the mantle, and every so often her eyes drifted to it and she smiled to herself. Of hers and Lynn's progeny, three went on to become famous (Luna, Lincoln, and Bobby Jr.) and one (Luan) became infamous. She didn't like to think about the latter, but she did like to think about the former: It delighted her to no end and she was extremely proud of them. Of all of her children and grandchildren...and great-grandchildren too. Jessy was going to be a teacher, Alex had the cutest little boy ever (tied only with Valentino), and Lynn III would be having a little girl any day now. Lynn Jr. was so happy she could hear him trembling with it when she spoke to him on the phone. He told her that he'd talked to Lynn III and that once the baby was a little older, they would all drive up for a visit. Probably sometime in September. Rita was very much looking forward to it; now if only she could get Lola and Bobby to bring Stephanie and Valentino out at the same time, she would have all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren in one place. Ooooh, that would make her very happy.

Very happy indeed.


	151. August 1990: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **Vogue**_ **by Madonna (1990)**

Jessy nervously twisted a napkin her hands as she watched the door; her stomach was a roiling pit of anxiety and her heart palpitated sickly against her ribs. Next to her, Mark rested his forearms on the edge of the table and looked curiously around, his eyes lingering on the many framed photos adorning the floral papered walls. A ceiling fan stirred the dry air, and another sat on the counter, oscillating back and forth like a searchlight on a rocky shore. Music drifted from an unseen radio, too low for her to make out words, but from what she _could_ hear, it sounded like country.

They had been in the cafe for nearly fifteen minutes, occupying a booth that backed against a wall and waiting for her father to arrive. She tried to relax until he did, but even the restaurant's quaint, homey decor was not enough to put her at ease: She felt jittery, high strung, and slightly sick. Most of that probably had to do with being tired: She and Mark drove all the way through from Royal Woods, switching spots here and there as they followed 1-70 across much of the country. Jessy had made the trek to California several times over the years to visit her mother in prison, so there was no novelty in seeing the Rockies or the salt flats of eastern Utah; she simply stared out the window and tried to sleep where she could, which was next to impossible in the cramped confines of the Beetle. By the time they arrived in San Diego, her butt was sore, her neck was stiff, and her eyes ached.

After getting in, she and Mark got a room at the Sheraton Inn across the freeway from the airport and showered, then, sitting on the edge of the bed in just a towel, she called her father. _Hi,_ she said when he answered, _it's me. We just got here._

 _Great,_ he said, an audible smile in his voice, _uh...when do you want to meet?_ She thought she detected a note of trepidation in his tone, but that could have just been her self-projecting. She did that sometimes, or at least she thought she did.

 _As soon as you're ready,_ she said. She and Mark would be in town for three days so there really wasn't a rush, but she wanted to get the initial meeting over with, kind of like tearing off a Band-Aid; it had been looming over her head - pressing against her chest like a big, stony hand - for so long, and she just wanted it done and over with.

Her father didn't reply for a moment. _Uhhh, okay, give me...an hour._ He gave her the name and address of a cafe three blocks from his boarding house, then closed the call by telling her he loved her. _I love you too,_ she said and hung up. Mark came over and sat next to her, clad only in a pair of jeans and his glasses, his lank, sandy blonde hair damp and plastered against his forehead. He leaned over, reached into his bag, and pulled out a pair of socks.

"You're nervous," he said flatly as he pulled them on.

Jessy nodded. "Yeah."

"You shouldn't be," he said.

She folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath through her nose, then let it out evenly through her mouth, a 'relaxing' (used as a verb) technique Auntie Ronnie Anne wanted her to use. Mark put his arm around her shoulder, and she allowed herself to be pulled close, resting her head on his shoulder and letting his clean scent sooth her. "He's probably more worried than you are," he said.

"Maybe," she reckoned. If their roles were reversed, she knew _she_ would be - and kind of ashamed too. _I wasn't around your whole life because I killed someone and went to prison. Sorry about that._ Not that she was bitter about it or anything - she wasn't with Mom and she wasn't now. Still, she'd feel _awful_ , so awful that she didn't know if she'd even be able to look into her daughter's eyes. "I know i shouldn't be like this, but I can't help it." She surprised herself by tearing up - at what, exactly, she couldn't say. Again, she was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, and when she got that way, she cried at the drop of a hat.

Blinking, she turned to Mark and forced a smile. "We're meeting him for lunch in an hour."

"I gathered," he replied. "Well...the meeting part, not necessarily for lunch. Or in an hour. Specifically."

Jessy couldn't suppress the fond smile that came to her lips even if she wanted to; he was so cute when he talked that way. She laid her hand on his leg and squeezed. "I know we just got out of the shower, but I kind of want to have sex."

Because of his Asperger's, Jessy always clearly stated when she wanted to have sex. It was _very_ embarrassing at first to come right out and tell him, but reading social cues was difficult for him, and batting her eyelashes and biting her bottom lip just wouldn't cut it. In the beginning, he was reluctant to ask himself because _I don't want to ask at a bad time, not knowing that it's a bad time_. She got him comfortable with the idea, though. She told him _The worst I'll do is say no._ She rarely did because she liked sex as much as any girl, but there were a few times she turned him down. And there was a time or two he turned _her_ down. Things were fair and evenly matched in that regard, and while it was a little awkward getting off the ground, they were both used to it now and it worked.

"Okay," he said.

Currently, forty-five minutes later (they both finished quickly), Jessy absently plucked another napkin from the holder and wrang it in her hands. Mark took a sip of his sweet tea and sighed in contentment. "This place reminds me of Flip's," he said. "I don't know why, it's nothing like Flip's."

Jessy's eyes darted from the door to the room spread out before them. Tables clustered together in the middle of the wooden floor, some of them occupied but many empty. Lacy white curtains fluttered in an arid breeze, and the smells of hearty home cooking filled the air. The theme, as far as Jessy could tell, was rustic Americana in the vein of Cracker Barrel. She liked places like, they felt safe and comfortable, like Grandma's house, but she was anything _but_ comfortable right now: She was tired, sore, and every minute that passed worried at her overwrought nerves like needling fingers. When someone coughed from behind the counter, she jumped a foot and nearly cried out.

Alright, Jess, this is ridiculous; you need to get a grip on yourself. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly; the pressure in her chest didn't abate, but she tried to pretend that it did. Be like Bunny; she's outgoing and always at ease.

How did she do it, though? Didn't she ever feel self-conscious? She'd seen that girl do the silliest and most embarrassing things in public (like putting a bowl on her head, dancing like Devo, and getting them kicked out of White Elephant), and she never once felt shame - unless her antics had negative consequences (again, like getting them kicked out of White Elephant). She, Jessy, on the other hand, would _die._

She used to think there was something wrong with Bunny...but now she was beginning to think there was something wrong with _her_ , maybe an anxiety disorder. Or maybe she was just a natural worrywart. Uncle Lincoln was like that in ways, and from what Mom and Auntie Ronnie Anne said, he was worse when he was younger, _You know what'll clear that up?_ He asked her once. _A trip to Vietnam_. Maybe it would, but it would also make her weird about certain things like him. One time, she and Alex were watching a movie (maybe Tim and Mark were there too, she couldn't remember) and these vampires gave a guy a Chinese food container full of maggots to eat. Uncle Lincoln jumped up and left the room. _Last goddamn time I'm ever watching one of these movies_. That wasn't the first time he acted strange about maggots. She figured it had something to do with Vietnam - they had botflies there that laid their eggs in your skin and then they hatched and _yuck_. She hoped no flies laid their eggs in Uncle Lincoln. That would be _horrible_.

Dropping her current napkin with the others, she picked up her Coke and took a long drink, freezing when the door opened and her father walked in.

She knew it was him because he'd sent her pictures of himself: He was tall and rail thin with graying black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee the color of steel. Round wire rim glasses, the lenses tinted brown, covered his eyes; he wore a blue and white checkered shirt tucked into tan Chinos and a pair of white tennis shoes. Jessy's heart skipped a beat and her stomach clutched like a fist. He looked around, saw her, and tensed slightly.

"Hey, there's your dad," Mark said matter-of-factly.

For a moment her father stood by the door, almost as though he were afraid to come over, then he started to approach. Jessy felt like a doe in the headlights, but forced herself to her feet anyway. He flashed a gawky smile as he came up, and Jessy's cheeks blazed with a gauche blush. "Hi," he said unsteadily, his voice softer and less forceful than she'd imagined.

"Hi," she replied. She wanted to add _Daddy,_ but couldn't. She was meeting him for the very first time, and using such an intimate designation would make things awkward.

They faced each other a second, then he leaned stiffly forward for a hug. She met him halfway, and theirs arms circled each other, her face burying into his shoulder because she didn't think to turn it away and couldn't do anything else with it. The smell of his aftershave filled her nostrils - rich and earthy like old leather. She could feel his heart racing, and for some reason she found that comforting. "I'm glad you're here," he said.

"Me too," she said because she didn't know what else to say.

He patted her back and held her at arm's length; unshed tears shimmered in his eyes and he pressed his lips tightly together as if to keep from crying. Jessy tried to meet his gaze directly, but couldn't. "You look even more like your mother in person," he said. "I can see Barb in you, though."

He patted her shoulder and turned to Mark. "Hi, I'm Ted," he said and offered his hand.

Mark half stood, took it, and gave it a pump. "Mark."

"How was the drive?" Ted asked after he and Jessy sat.

"Long," Jessy said, "and boring." She nodded to Mark. "He drove most of the way."

Mark took a sip of his tea. "It wasn't boring for me," he said. "I liked it. I've never been outside of Michigan before, so seeing everything was pretty cool."

"Really?" Ted asked interestedly. "I've never been _to_ Michigan." His brow wrinkled. "Actually, one time...to meet with a friend." He leaned slightly forward, his hands in his lap; his back was ramrod straight and his shoulders square in a posture of discomfort. He reminded Jessy of someone from a Preparation H commercial. His eyes darted to Jessy then away; he ducked his head and scratched his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "H-How's school?" he asked.

Jessy nodded. "It's good. I'm doing really well. With my grades. They're high."

"That's good," Ted replied. "You have...two more years? You're going for an associate's degree, right?"

"Yeah," Jessy said, "elementary education. I'm thinking about continuing after that but I'm undecided."

"You should," he said, "you'll go much farther with a master's, or even a bachelor's. I-If you want. You obviously don't have to. The point is to do what you love, not to climb a ladder or make a bunch of money." He glanced over his shoulder as the bell above the door dinged; a man in a flannel shirt and trucker hat came in, followed by a woman with frizzy red hair.

Jessy nodded again. "Yeah, I...I'm not sure exactly _what_ I want. I plan on getting a teaching job first and then seeing where I want to go."

"That's...that's a good way to do it," he replied.

"Yeah." She glanced at the napkin holder and resisted the urge to pluck one out and mangle it. As soon as she knew she was definitely meeting her father, she began to practice and refine what she would say so that there were no uncomfortable lulls or pauses. She figured that father-daughter or not, they didn't know each other, and wouldn't have much to talk about, at least at first. Here, now, however, she blanked.

For all intents and purposes, he was a random person, much like Mom had been five years before. Though, to be fair, she'd met her mother on numerous occasions before she got out of prison. She'd never met him. They exchanged letters, and from those she was able to get a grasp on his personality, but _kind of_ knowing who he was didn't make this any easier.

And from his drawn face and wrought posture, he felt the same way. That strangely put her at ease; Mark was right, he _was_ just as nervous as her.

Thankfully a waitress came over, giving her a little breathing room: She took Dad's drink order then hurried away.

"How are you settling in?" Jessy asked. She didn't want to say adjusting or anything else that highlighted his time in prison; she imagined it was a really touchy subject. _Settling in_ was safe and neutral. People _settle in_ to new jobs, homes, etc all the time.

Just like him. He worked at a supermarket bagging groceries and lived in a boarding house with twelve other men, most of them also ex-cons. _It's kind of like being in prison all over again,_ he told her over the phone, _At least in prison there was a toilet in my room._ He didn't have a car yet, so he walked or took the bus, and once a week he had to check in with his probation officer.

"It's...it's been challenging," he admitted. "The worst part so far is getting used to not being monitored 24/7. In...in prison, your every move is watched and controlled, and being _free_ after twenty years of that…" he shook his head. "It's a culture shock."

Jessy nodded understandingly. Mom was like that when she got out; one time she asked Grandma if she could use the bathroom, which struck Jessy as so odd she tilted her head in confusion. Why would you ask to use the bathroom? Once she really sat down and thought about it, though, it made sense. Like her father said, when you're in prison, your every single last move is regulated: They tell you when to eat and sleep and where you can and cannot go. Being so structured for so long then being let go, you'd have to feel lost and adrift.

The waitress returned with his drink and took their orders, Mark and her father both opting for hamburgers. "You always get a hamburger," Jessy teased.

"Because I always like them," Mark said. "When it doubt, order a hamburger."

"That's good logic," Ted said, "the hamburgers here are good. All of their ingredients are locally-sourced, so it's all fresh."

Mark's brow furrowed. "Even the lettuce?"

Ted nodded. "Most of the country's lettuce comes from California. Something like eighty percent, I think."

"Around here?" Mark asked incredulously. "It's all desert."

Ted opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again as he thought. "You know, I'm not sure if it's grown in San Diego County proper," he said after a moment. "It _is_ grown in desert environments, though. As long as there's a water source and fertile soil, you can grow just about anything out here."

Mark hummed.

"You know a lot about lettuce," Jessy said, and almost winced at how stupid and banal that sounded.

Taking a drink, Ted nodded. "I read a lot of books on agriculture," he said. "There wasn't much else available. Technical manuals. In theory I could rebuild a car engine. In practice.." he ticked his head back and forth with a grimace. "I'd probably cut my own hand off." He chuckled nervously. "Mark...you study computers?"

"Yeah, yeah I study computers," Mark said. "I'm weighing the idea of opening my own computer repair service. I'd _like_ to work at Microsoft or Apple, but realistically speaking, there are thousands of people vying for a relative handful of jobs, so the chances of landing one aren't as good as I would like. I'm thinking as though I've already been turned down." He glanced at the counter, where a fat man with a gray crewcut stood on the business end of the register cashing out a black man in a suit.

Ted lifted his brows. "Wow, it sounds like you...like you have it figured out."

Mark shrugged one shoulder noncommittally and picked up his glass. Ted turned to Jessy and flicked his eyes down to the table. She caught a glimpse of what looked like sadness, and felt bad. "How's your mom?"

"She's good," Jessy said, "she got married last year."

"She told me that in a letter," he said, "I'm happy for her. That's great. How is her husband? Is he...decent?"

Jessy nodded. "Yeah, he's nice. He's kind of... " she trailed off as she searched for the right word. "...stiff, I guess. He was in the military."

Ted lifted his brows. "Really? That's interesting." He threw a quick glance over his shoulder when someone came through the door. "She told me about your grandfather too. I-I'm sorry. I met him one time and he seemed like a really good man."

For a second Jessy didn't know what he was talking about - he met Grandpa? - but then she remembered: He and Mom went to visit Uncle Lincoln in the hospital when he came home from Vietnam. "He was," Jessy said, "I miss him."

"How about your grandmother? How is she?"

"Okay. She gets confused sometimes."

"How old is she?"

"Seventy-two."

"Wow," he said. "Your great-grandmother on my side was one-hundred-one when she died."

Jessy blinked in surprise. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah. She was born in 1860. She remembered her brother coming home from the Civil War and watching Lincoln's funeral train pass through her hometown."

Being the dork Alex always said she was (even a broken clock is right twice a day, heh...love you, Bunny), Jessy found that fascinating. Just think, someone who was around for all that history was still alive just a few short years ago. "Wow," she breathed. "She must have had a lot of interesting stories."

"She did," Ted said, "she was a trip. Very religious." He chuckled. "She wouldn't drink coffee, but on cold mornings she drank hot water"

Hot water? That's odd.

"I've heard of that," Mark said, "it's supposed to promote good blood flow."

"She swore by it," Ted told him. "She was one hundred and still chopping wood, so...I think she was onto something."

After that they fell into a tense silence, Jessy and her father both looking anywhere but at each other while Mark scanned one of the laminate menus. Jessy wracked her brain for something to say, something to fill the chasm between them, and finally settled on something. "How did you meet Mom?" She knew the story of how they met - Mom told her several times over the years.

Picking up his tea, Ted took a sip and sat it back down again. "Well, I was the chapter president of something called the Students for a Democratic Society. We were an activist group and we...we did a lot of protesting in the sixties. She came to a meeting where I-I spoke, and I didn't notice her at first, but when I was done, she came up to me and...and wanted to know about us and what we did." He blushed now with embarrassment, as if he was giving her 'the talk' rather than relating a _how I met your mother_ story. "I was...instantly taken with her. She...she was beautiful, a-and we talked for a while, then...then she started coming to all the meetings. She was very passionate about what was happening and about wanting to affect positive change. I-I quickly fell in love with her."

Someone went out the door, and the bell dinged; Ted glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. "We...we organized a lot of campus events together and travelled around the country to help other groups. It...it kind of took away from our studies and we both dropped out because we thought what we were doing was more important."

Another long silence followed, the only sound the clatter of plates and the growing din of voices as the cafe filled up with its lunch rush. The waitress eventually came back with their food and Jessy's stomach rumbled: She hadn't realized until now how hungry she was and the meatloaf and mashed potatoes looked _really_ good. She glanced at Mark's burger, and her eyes widened. "Wow," she said, "that's a big hamburger."

"I know," he replied, examining it from every angle as if looking for a way in, "I might have to cut it into fourths."

For a while none of them spoke as they ate: Mark carved his burger into four equal pieces and ate them one by one while Jessy kept her head down, fighting to not gorge herself like a pig and _just_ winning. She didn't like eating in front of people, especially if she didn't know them very well; no matter how carefully you do it, you always wind up looking weird.

Mark finished first, and apparently decided that now was the time to make conversation in a way only he would. "What was prison like?"

Jessy winced.

"Cold storage," her father said after a moment of thought. "That's...that's the first thing that comes to mind. It's less living in fear of being attacked or...or hurt and more spending a lot of time alone with your regrets." He looked pointedly at Jessy, and their eyes locked. "I wasn't there for your mother the way I should have been after what happened. I wasn't.. thinking straight, and when she needed me most, I acted coldly, and I regret that. I also regret not being there for you. I've regretted that every single day for the past twenty years, and I'll regret it until the day I die."

A hot blush spread across Jessy's face and she darted her eyes away. Just like when Mom did this, she felt put on the spot, and as Bunny might say, Jessys do _not_ like being put on the spot. "It's okay," she said quickly, "I-I don't hold anything against you, I just...want us to be...father and daughter." She was blushing even harder now.

He flashed a wan smile. "I want that too," he said.

* * *

August 2, 1990, Lynn sank onto the edge of hers and Ritchie's bed, hefted one swollen foot onto one achy knee, and yanked on a white athletic sock. She was dressed in a pink T-shirt under bib overall shorts, and wore her thick chestnut hair pulled back from her acne smattered forehead. It was funny, she never had so much as a single pimple all during puberty, but shortly after getting preggo, boom! Her temples looked like a mountain range, and every day she woke up with a zit on the _tippy_ top of her nose, and every day she hissed over clenched teeth and fight back tears of pain as she popped it. Now, don't for a second think Lynn motherfucking Haveman (formerly Loud III) was a wuss when it came to pain - how many times had she played baseball on sprained ankles, and how many times had she taken a ball to the nose or eye? - but _ow!_ It hurt so bad she could scream...and sometimes did.

Switching feet, she pulled the other sock on then took a moment to rest: She was nine months pregnant and not overly big, but big enough that she got winded easily. Before Ritchie put his baby into her, she was a lean 140, mostly muscle mass built by years and years of playing baseball. Now she was pushing 180. The majority of it was in her stomach; some, however, had found its way into her face. Her cheeks were just as swollen as her feet, and ruddy with health, too, which made her look like Santa Claus. On the upside, her breasts were bigger, and no matter how confident and self-assured she acted, she'd always been a little self-conscious about how small they were: A-cups, almost B... _almost_.

 _I love your boobs,_ Ritchie told her time and again. Great, I'm glad...I don't. She'd always been a tomboy (a phrase she hated), but that didn't mean she wasn't a girl, and sometimes she liked to feel like a girl...which is _pretty_ hard when you have the chest of nine year old boy.

The irony of this increase was that she really didn't care: Her baby was her world and she had never been happier.

Even though her feet and back ached.

Other than that, she loved being pregnant. _I am Lynn Haveman, giver of life_. And nurturing a life in her womb was _waaaay_ better than baseball. She was starting to get impatient, though; she wanted her baby here _now_ so that she could kiss those wee ittle feet she'd been feeling since May and tickle her pudgy belly until they were both giggling hysterically. Ahhh.

Baseball? What's a baseball?

Sports no one cares about anymore aside, Lynn's impatience was at fever pitch because today was the day: In half an hour her mother would pick her up and drive her to Meza Plata General for a scheduled C-section. Don't get her wrong, she was scared shitless (since her whole fucking stomach was going to be cut open), but she was also _really_ excited: By 4:30, she was going to have her little girl in her arms after nine _loooong_ months. She was kind of conflicted: She wanted her baby, but her belly was going to feel cold and empty now. No fluttering movements, no kick-kicks, no sitting up in bed at night and rubbing her rounded belly while Daddy watched _21 Jump Street_ or _Jake and the Fatman_ That made her sad.

Hm.

Guess we'll just have to have another kid.

And then maybe another, and another, and another…

Hahaha. No, but seriously: She _knew_ she was going to love being a mommy and she probably would want another child. For the time being, though, let's worry about this one, hmmm?

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her other sock on, then her shoes. Huff. Puff. Being big and fat wasn't the greatest either, but it wasn't _too_ awful. At first she thought it would drive her crazy not being as lithe and moble as she used to be, but it really didn't bother her that much. Getting used to having a massive gut was an adjustment, though - she kept thinking she was much thinner and bumping/whacking/bouncing off of things, which always made her heart race. _Did I hurt the baby? Are you okay? Mommy's sorry! Mommy's_ so _sorry!_

Getting to her feet, she grabbed the bag from its spot next to the nightstand and carried it to the front door, then lumbered into the living room; hot summer sunshine fell through the window and painted the dull brown carpet a rich desert yellow. Music filtered from the TV, almost too low to hear, and she glanced up at it as she crossed to the couch: Madonna strutted past a giant window while an effeminate black man in a suit twisted back and forth in a swivel chair like an overgrown child. The screen was black and white and Lynn frowned. Is it the video or is there something wrong with the TV?

Whatever, she didn't care. She only had it on for background noise anyway.

Slapping one hand on the armrest, she lowered herself onto the couch and winced when the baby _swished_ across her stomach. "Settle _down_ ," she said and patted her bump. "You're coming out _later_ , not right now"

The baby kicked indignantly and she nearly doubled over. "Hey!"

 _It makes no difference if you're black or white_

 _If you're a boy or a girl_

 _If the music's pumping it will give you new life_

 _You're a superstar, yes, that's what you are_

Lynn favored her stomach with a faux stern expression that was _really_ hard to keep from turning into a grin. The baby was still, and she tapped her bulge with her index finger, half hoping (okay, more than half) to stir her daughter up and get her moving again. "Any more of that and you're going _straight_ into time."

The baby didn't move, and Lynn nodded curtly.

 _Beauty's where you find it_

 _Not just where you bump and grind it_

 _Soul is in the music_

Hmm. Guess she went to sleep. Being _very_ careful to keep from waking her sleepy little girl, Lynn reached over and grabbed a large softback book from the end table. _What to Expect When You're Expecting_. This was her Bible - she studied it religiously and lived her life according to its inspired word. Before picking this little live saver up at the mall, she'd never read a single book in her life. Since, she'd read it cover to cover at least a dozen times. A few weeks ago, she went back and picked up the sequel, _What to Expect: The First Year._ The text on the cover read: _The all-in-one, month-by-month guide that clearly explains everything you need to know about that first amazing year with baby - from first cuddle to first smile to first steps._ First cuddle! First smile! FIRST STEPS! Imagining _her_ baby's first snuggle and smile was enough to make her swoon with joy. She pictured a pink, tiny thing with big brown eyes curling up against her chest and letting out a little yawn and she wanted to scream like a girl at a Beatles concert.

 _Greta Garbo, and Monroe_

 _Dietrich and DiMaggio_

 _Marlon Brando, Jimmy Dean_

 _On the cover of a magazine_

Lynn opened the book and dipped in, her foot tapping on the floor to a melody only she could hear. She wasn't a lyricist, so she couldn't come up with any words to go along with it, but the _whole thing_ was about having babies and snuggling them and kissing them.

Not for the first time, she regretted that she wouldn't have her daughter naturally ( _like a real woman,_ she struggled to not add): Her placenta _lies low, Mrs. Haveman, and is blocking your cervix, therefore I'm recommending a cesarean birth_. She didn't _want_ a cesarean birth, she wanted to push her baby out like normal, but even she wasn't stubborn enough to risk a vaganal birth if there was a higher than normal chance something would go wrong. Nope. Sigh. Just cut me open.

 _Grace Kelly;_ _Harlow, Jean_

 _Picture of a beauty queen_

 _Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire_

 _Ginger Rodgers, dance on air_

She leafed through the pages and tried to settle on one, but her mind was elsewhere - in a distant hospital room (with ugly green tiled walls for some reason) and holding her daughter to her chest, looking deeply into her big, beautiful eyes and cooing to her.

Hopefully she had Ritchie's eyes; they were the most beautiful she had ever seen, and on their daughter they'd be... _even more_ beautiful.

Sighing dreamily, she snapped the book closed, threw back her head, and poked her stomach. "Soon, baby, girl. You ready?"

The baby kicked as if to say that she was.

Lynn smiled to herself. Rearin' to go, just like her Mama. If one thing could be said of Lynn Haveman, it was that she was determined. She met each challenge head-on and with stubborn resolve. Every time life knocked her down, she got back up and fought twice as hard for what she wanted, and she never, ever backed down. Years ago, a bunch of boys were mean to her and wouldn't let her play baseball with them, so she went home, practiced, and got better; once upon a time, she had a crush on her friend and was scared shitless of telling him lest he reject her and break her heart, but she did and here they were six years later, married and with a baby on the way...a baby that was going to tackle life and grab it by the horns just like her parents.

And Lynn would be there to guide her every step of the way - to teach her, to nurture her, to catch her when she stumbled, hug her when she felt unconfident, and kiss her when she was hurt.

By the time her mother arrived fifteen minutes later in her white 1990 Lincoln Continental, she was shaking with anticipation. She was standing by the front window and peeking through the curtain when she pulled up; grabbing her bag, she hurried out the door and over to the car; come on, the sooner we get this baby out, the soon I can start kissing and guiding her!

"Goodness, Lynn," Mama said as she climbed into the car, "you ran out like the devil was chasing you."

"I'm ready to meet my daughter," Lynn said and pulled the seatbelt over her stomach. There was a time, not long ago, that she rode in cars without the belt and did other dangerous things, like driving too fast and eating enough Mexican food to sink a battleship, but now that she was an expectant mom, she was all about safety. She had to set a good example for her little girl, after all. God, did she _really_ used to play baseball without a helmet? What was she _thinking?_ She wasn't going to be some kind of helicopter parent, but at the same time, she wasn't going to let her daughter take stupid risks like she did.

Mama looked her up and down and lifted her brows. "I don't think I've ever seen you this excited." She threw the car into reverse and backed up.

"Because I've never _been_ this excited," Lynn said honestly. "Not even when Dad took me to see the Yankees."

Mama laughed. "You were _really_ excited."

Yes, she was. She was five: Baseball was her life and her Dad was her hero. Boy, how things change (well, not the dad part - he was still her hero even if he _was_ lame) "This makes that look like something…" she pursed her lips in thought "... _not_ exciting."

They pulled out onto the street and turned left, falling in behind a city dump truck. "I remember being very excited for you," Mama said. "So excited that sometimes I couldn't sleep."

Lynn rolled her eyes. "Been there, done that." And that was the truth: She'd forgotten what a good night's sleep was, which put her ahead of the game, since babies keep weird hours and often don't like going down. Alex said Blake slept two minutes a night, and something told Lynn her cousin was only exaggerating a little.

Fifteen minutes after setting out, they pulled into the vast parking lot fronting the hospital; a bell tower loomed over the building, its pitched roof pointing up into the dusty blue heavens like Tom Gordon after hitting a homerun. A large overhang cast the emergency room entrance in shadows, and an American flag on a vertical pole flapped lazily in the arid breeze.

Mama pulled into a slot facing the maternity wing and killed the engine; for a moment she sat with her hands on the wheel and her eyes fixed on the building. She sucked her lips into her mouth and turned to Lynn. In the harsh light of the desert sun, she looked much older than her forty-six years. "My baby's going to have a baby."

Lynn snorted. "You've known this for nine months."

"Yeah," she said, "but now it's finally happening." She reached out and touched Lynn's face, her head tilting and her lips pursing. "You grew up so fast." There was a hint of sadness in her voice that made Lynn falter. Mama held her gaze for a moment longer, then drew her hand away and took a deep breath. "Let's go. I want to meet my granddaughter."

* * *

On his way home from Flip's on the evening of August 2nd, Lincoln stopped at the cemetery.

Eighteen years ago, his older sister Luna died of a heart attack and was buried in the family plot, blazing one final trail in the process: She was one of the first female rock musicians, and _the_ first Loud to wind up here. Ten years later, Leni followed, and seven years after _that_ , his father. Their headstones were in a row, Luna to the left, Leni to the right, and Dad in the middle. His was bigger. On one side was his name and dates, and on the other Mom's. Her day of death was blank, of course. When she died, it would be added.

Years ago, he would come here at least twice a week to visit Luna, and then Leni, but as time went on, his visits became less and less frequent, and shorter when they _did_ come, mainly because while he didn't know if he believed in God or a soul the way his mother did, he did know this: Luna, Leni, and now Dad, weren't really here. Their bodies were, but not _them_.

Once he started to think about their bodies, he found himself wondering what they looked like down there, sealed away in their coffins. He wasn't hip to the process of human decomposition, but he figured Luna would have to be all bones now, and Leni...he always envisioned her face as it was in life, only gray and drawn, her flesh hanging from her gaunt face in maggot-bitten tatters. Dad was fresher, his blue and mottled skin stretched tight over his frame, torn here and there to expose the skeleton beneath. Every once in a while, Lincoln felt the perverse urge to dig one of them up _just to see_.

This is why he didn't come here very much anymore.

Presently, he stood before the graves, his arms limp at his sides and his head slightly bowed, in respect or anguish one couldn't tell. _He_ couldn't tell. He certainly felt the latter, though it was muted by years and repetition. It never got easier to lose someone, but each time it became easier to _handle_. When Luna died, he felt gutted for weeks afterwards; when Dad died, he was just sad.

"Blake's doing good," he said. "Doesn't like sleeping. Me and Ronnie take him some times and he's up all night." He chuckled fondly. 1957 might feel like it wrapped only yesterday, but he'd somehow managed to forget what it was like to be exhausted all day because a baby wouldn't go down the night before. It was easier with Alex and Jessy because he was younger and just out of Vietnam, where he learned to fully function on little to no sleep. This time around, he was forty-four and had kept a normal sleeping pattern for close to twenty years. That made it a _little_ more difficult. Even so, he loved having his grandson over: He and Ronnie always wanted more kids, and taking Blake on Friday or Saturday nights was just as good - better, even, because when they were both tired and miserable and headachy because they hadn't slept...they could just give him back to mommy.

"Alex is doing good too," he said, and frowned slightly. _They're not here...I'm talking to no one._ He knew that and always had, but coming here and talking to them once made him feel better, like he was keeping his loved ones in the loop even though he _knew_ they were as out of the loop as one can possibly be. It was cathetic, he figured, the way praying is. People say they feel the Holy Spirit when they speak to God, but Lincoln suspected that they were really feeling the serenity that comes with articulating and working through your about it, to man or to God. makes you feel better; when you meditate in prayer, your mind has a way of untangling, and things become clear to you that weren't clear before. What he did here was similar. Sometimes he shared things with Leni, Luna, and his father that he wouldn't - or couldn't - share with anyone else, and other times he thought out loud, which always helped him when he had a problem.

"She and Tim are getting married next year. She's not sure _when_ but she was talking about January." He smirked. "She said _everyone gets married in spring, Dad. I'm not everyone, I'm Alex Loud_. _I don't conform."_ He shook his head fondly. "She's worse than her her mother. I love that girl so much."

A warm breeze rustled the treetops and sent they swaying.

"And Jessy. She's meeting that commie fuckhead father of hers." A hot blush crept across the back of his neck and his heart rate sped up. For twenty years he'd been telling himself that Luan was a grown woman when she did what she did, responsible for her own actions and able to distinguish between what was right and what was wrong. Even so, he couldn't help blaming that son of a bitch Ted Harris. If Lincoln had _any_ inkling what that man was when he met him in 1968, the faintest idea of where he would lead Luan, he'd have wrung his scrawny hippie neck. Then again, if he did that, Jessy wouldn't have been born.

Sigh. Guess my hands are tied. Thank your lucky stars, you left wing cocksucker. *Shakes fist*

"I really didn't want her to go," he said, "but he's her father and she wanted to meet him, so…" he shrugged. "I just hope he has his fucking head on straight."

The headstones listened, but did not reply.

Lincoln didn't know how old Ted was, but in 1970, when he and Luan blew up that judge, he had to be in his mid-twenties. Some people would call that a kid, but not Lincoln. You're a kid when you're fifteen and sixteen, not twenty-fucking-four. Everyone has the capability to be immature, but once upon a time they were encouraged to be adults and overcome it, now people in their late twenties are being called children and the insinuation is that they can _act_ childish and it's totally acceptable. No, it isn't. Act your goddamn age; even before he went to Vietnam _he_ was a man: He didn't cry and whine and throw temper tantrums when things didn't go his way; he didn't shuck work and stay out all night partying; he never came home late or messed around.

His generation, the baby boomers, dropped the ball with their children and raised them to be spoiled, entitled little brats. Alex was't, and neither were Jessy, Bobby Jr., or Lynn. Tim and Mark were good guys too. Most everyone else, though...Jesus Christ, what will the world look like when _they_ take over?

He drew a deep breath and let it out in a puff. The trees danced in the warm summer wind and cast sun-dappled shadows across the tombstones. Where _were_ they? Was death _really_ the end? How can someone simply stop existing? Can you imagine just..not being? He couldn't. People liken death to sleeping - oh, it's just like going to sleep - but even when we're asleep we're still conscious, our brains are still working and our minds are still processing information and stimuli. Picture _nothing_. When _he_ did, he saw blackness, but total nonexistence wouldn't be that because that implies conscious awareness. It would be...God, he didn't know, and that scared him.

Guess that's where religion comes from: We can't wrap our heads around not being, so we create an afterlife where we continue on after we die.

Or maybe there really _is_ something out there, past the veil and beyond the rim of death. It was certainly a comforting thought, much more comforting than the alternative.

What if Mom was right, and there _was_ a heaven? A place of eternal light and happiness where our loved ones wait for us in white robes? What if it _isn't_ just manmade bullshit but the whole and unequivocal truth?

He considered for a moment, then shook his head. He couldn't buy it - every logical bone in his body told him it was crap, and if he was wrong and there _was_ a God, He was the one who imbued men with discernment and deductive reasoning, could He _really_ fault them for using it? Hell, if a man comes up to you, dressed like a bum with long hair and a beard, and says _Hey, I have a house on the French Riviera filled with diamonds and dollar bills, but you can never see it, you just have to take my word for it_ , would you believe him? No, you wouldn't, because you have common sense and aren't completely gullible. Christianity, as well as virtually all other religions, expect you to believe on faith alone. You don't see heaven, you don't hear angels talking to you, you just accept what you're told; if you see, hear, taste, or touch anything that goes against the Word, you reject it.

Yeah. No. That might be fine and dandy for some people, but not for him. Maybe he was too smart for his own good, and maybe that was his golden ticket to hell.

Eh.

He drew a deep breath through his nose; the wind smelled of flowers, as it always did here. It wasn't cloying, just a faint hint that tickled your nostrils and reminded you that you were in a place of the dead.

A place where the living do not belong.

"I love you guys," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck, "I'll-I'll be back."

The headstones silently regarded him - uncaring, unfeeling, indifferent to him and to whether he would be back or not.

No, he realized as he walked toward the car, Luna, Leni, and Dad aren't here, and they never were. They were either in paradise or nowhere.

He opened the door, slipped behind the wheel, drove away.

Back home.

Back to the land of the living.


	152. August 1990: Part 3

**dreyden15: Considering that Super Mario 64 remains to this day one of my all-time favorite video games...yes, absolutely. And GoldenEye.**

* * *

Of all the births in Loud history, Lynn III's was the easiest. She did not know this going into the operating theater, stretched out on a gurney and dressed in a puke green johnny, a cap over her hair, but she did know this: The recovery time was going to be _hell._ A C-section involves cutting open the stomach and taking the baby out, making it a _major operation_. She would be in the hospital for at least five days and would be on bedrest for another week or so afterwards. Overall, she'd be down for the count six whole weeks. _Moving wil be extremely difficult,_ the doctor told her. He was an old man with a crisp crewcut and a bullish face. He twiddled a pencil between his fingers as he spoke, and Lynn couldn't help the impression that he was a smoker who needed something to do with his hands since he couldn't hold a cigarette - smoking in hospitals was banned now. Good. She still gave Kaufman a hard time whenever she saw him with one of those suicide sticks. _You're obviously going to be stitched up, and you have to be_ very _careful not to pop them._

Funnily enough, Lynn had never had stitches before. She broke her wrist once, sprained her ankles a bunch, took baseballs to the nose and eyes, knocked three teeth out, suffered two (no, three) concussions, and got sunstroke and sun poisoning more times than she could count, but never stitches. She was actually a _little_ afraid (okay, a _lot_ afraid) especially considering the location: The bottom of her stomach, right above her pubic mound. Basically the very center of her body. Yes...moving was going to _suck_.

But it was _so_ going to be worth it.

Before she was prepped and wheeled into the operating room, Ritchie came in closely followed by Dad; the former was in tan slacks and a pink and white striped polo shirt and the former in a dark suit accented by a blood red tie. It looked like the one she and Ritchie got him for the Christmas before last, but the guy had so many ties. Seriously. A whole closet full.

"How're you feeling?" Ritchie asked and took her hand; his eyes drifted to her stomach as if seeing it anew. He was nervous about being a father - his own wasn't the best and he was afraid he wouldn't be much better. _I-I don't know_ how _to be a dad,_ he told her one night as he held her in his arms. _I don't wanna be distant like_ my _old man._ He was worrying for nothing, he was going to be a great father and Lynn felt a rush of pride at _making_ him one.

"Like I'm ready to be a mom," she said and flashed a big, toothy grin. "You?"

He chuckled. "Scared out of my mind. And happy." His smile faltered a little. "And...and kinda worried. About you."

She blew a raspberry and waved her hand. "I'll be fine," she said with a contrived confidence that she didn't really feel. Honestly...she was worried about her too; she was being cut open, after all, and a team of people were going to be working in her guts with sharp, pointy objects - any number of things could go wrong. She wouldn't allow herself to dwell on that, though; if she did she'd go to pieces, and Lynn motherfucking Haveman did _not_ to pieces...she sucked it up and powered through.

"Yes you will," Dad said. He stood over the bed with his hands on his still ample hips, the bottom of his jacket pushed back. "Compared to those 3 am feedings, this is gonna be a cakewalk."

Actually, Lynn didn't mind the idea of 3am feedings...but she _did_ mind being carved like a Thanksgiving turkey. _Yum, give me another heaping plate full of Lynn meat._ Thank God there's no smoking in hospitals anymore, she'd _hate_ for one of those quacks to use her gaping baby wound as an ashtray.

Heh. That was supposed to be her lightening the mood, but the image of a doctor casually tipping his cigarette into her was kind of disturbing.

Shortly, two orderlies in white came to wheel her away; before she went, Dad, Mama, and Ritchie all kissed her, Dad and Mama on the forehead and Ritchie on the lips. He brushed his fingers through her hair and gave her a reassuring smile. "I'll be in as soon as they let me."

Mesa Plata General was one of the cool hospitals - they let the daddy be in the room during childbirth. Given the nature of C-sections, however, he had to dress up before going in: A smock, mask, gloves, and over-shoe booties that always seemed to tear when you tried to put them on. He would be allowed in once she was stabilized, whatever _that_ meant.

Staring up at harsh fluorescent lights as she was pushed down a sterile corridor, Lynn's uneasy calm began to slip, and her heartbeat picked up. By the time they reached the operating room, she was beginning to breath heavily. A gaggle of doctors, the lower half of their faces hidden behind white masks, waited like aliens for a probing victim.

The orderlies transferred her to another bed and one of the doctors came over, pulled his mask down, and offered a perfunctory smile. "Hi, I'm Dr. Carlson, I'll be your anesthesiologist today. We're going to be using a general anesthetic that will put you to sleep as well as an epidural to numb your legs and torso. The procedure should take less than an hour, then after that, you'll be taken to recovery."

Lynn was kind of surprised how brisk and businesslike he was. "How long will I be in there?" she asked.

"About forty-five minutes."

Oh. That wasn't long at all. She was expecting it to be longer. "When can I see my baby?"

"As soon as you're settled in a room."

She nodded. "Alright."

The doctor went away, and a nurse took his place. "We're gonna start getting you set up, okay, honey?"

"Alright," Lynn said, not knowing what _getting set up_ entailed and feeling a rush of anxiety because of it. The nurse brought over some kind of EKG machine on wheels and uncoiled something that looked like a little clamp on a cord. She put it on one of Lynn's fingers, and the machine started to beep with the rhythm of her heart.

The anesthesiologist came back pulling a tank. Lynn watched apprehensively as he attached a plastic tube to it, then fitted an oval shaped mouthpiece on one end. He turned a knob, and the sound of hissing filled the room. He turned and Lynn gulped. She'd never been put under before, and that - the total loss of control - scared her more than anything else.

"I'm going to ask you to count backwards from ten," he said and held the mask to her mouth and nose. "Can you do that?"

Lynn's head bobbed up and down.

"Good. Deep breaths."

She took a deep breath and began to count backwards in her mind. 10...9...8…

The lights started to blur and the steady _bee-beep-beep_ of the heart monitor echoed.

...7...6...uhhhh...3...

Then she was coming awake, her mind groggy and her body numb. Bright white light filled the world and a moan escaped her lips. She tried to lift her hand, but it weighed a thousand pounds and wouldn't budge. What happened? Where was she? And why did she feel like she was made out of stone? She rapidly blinked her eyes, and the world swam into focus. Ritchie stood over her, with her mother and her father. "She's waking up," Mama said.

"How do you feel?" Dad asked.

Ugh. That's how I feel.

That's when it all came back to her and her eyes widened. She tilted her head and looked at her stomach: It was still bloated, but nowhere near as big as it was before.

Excitement, muted by the drugs, blossomed in her chest. "How's the baby?" she asked.

"She's fine," Ritchie said and leaned over, his face glowing with pride. "She's in the nursery waiting to meet her mommy."

Sudden tears filled Lynn's eyes and she blinked them back. "Is she beautiful?" she asked, even though she knew she was.

RItchie nodded and stroked the back of his hand across her cheek. "Just like her mother."

A half an hour later Lynn was absconded in a spacious single room on the fifth floor; to her right was a bathroom and to her left a big window that looked out over the parking lot. In the distance, downtown Tucson stood starkly against the dirty sky, and beyond open desert baked in the pounding sun. The back of the bed was raised and she rested against a pile of pillows; she was tired, groggy, and her midsection stung sharply. She wanted to close her heavy eyelids and sleep for a month, but she wouldn't let herself until she got to hold her baby.

Dad stared out the window with his hands on his hips and Mama sat in a straight back chair facing the bed. Ritchie sat beside the bed holding her hand and watching the door. "She has hair," he said and turned to her, "not much, but a little." A smile skipped across his lips and his eyes twinkled with adoration.

"I told you," Mama said.

For a while during her pregnancy, Lynn had _real_ bad heartburn, and Mama said it meant the baby was going to have hair. Some southern old wives tale or something, she didn't know. Guess she was right.

"She has your nose," Dad said, "and her father's butt chin."

"Lynn," Mama said sharply. Ritchie chuckled and Lynn made the mistake of snorting: Hot vines of pain shot up from her incision and jammed into her brain. She hissed through her teeth and balled her hands as tightly as she could, which wasn't very tightly at all.

"You okay?" Ritchie asked worriedly.

She nodded. "Fine. I just can't laugh."

He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed. He started to speak, but stopped when a nurse pushed a cart into the room. Lynn's heart jumped into her throat and she craned her neck. "You have a visitor," the nurse said with a cheery smile. Through the cart's see through plastic walls, Lynn caught sight of her little girl for the first time, and a lump welled in her throat: She lie on her side in a pink cap and swaddled to the neck in a pink blanket, putting Lynn in mind of a caterpillar in its cocoon. Her big eyes were open and staring, and when Lynn looked into them she almost broke down.

The nurse brought the cart alongside the bed and picked the baby up. "Do you wanna meet your mommy?" she asked. She pressed her into Lynn's arm, and the little girl's eyes locked with hers. Dad and Mama were gathered around the bed now flanking Ritchie, but Lynn was not aware of them, for in that moment nothing existed but the newborn on her chest - so small, so fragile, so new but already the most important thing in her world. "She's so beautiful," Mama marveled.

Dad slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "All the women in our family are."

"What are you going to name her?" Mama asked.

Lynn smiled down at the baby and caressed her cheek.

"Honey?"

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked up at Ritchie. "Are we going with Maddison Veronica?"

Lynn nodded and turned back to the baby. "Sure. Now leave me alone."

* * *

There was a statue in the middle of Balboa Park, a Civil War general holding a sword high above his head and keeping perpetual watch over a flower lined reflecting pool. No matter where you were, he seemed to be watching you, a disapproving glare frozen on his stony face, and though she knew it was stupid, Jessy kept darting her eyes to him, sure, deep down in her anxiety riddled heart of hearts, that he would be closer this time, the sword a little lower. She would turn one final time, and he would be right behind her, the blade angled up to pierce her soft, vulnerable stomach.

 _I should follow in Bunny's footsteps and write horror novels; I'll make a_ killing.

Heh.

Killing.

She shuddered.

"You alright?" her father asked, an edge of concern in his voice.

"Yeah," she said and forced a laugh, "I guess a goose walked across my grave."

She almost shuddered again. Maybe not the best choice of words.

It was past three in the afternoon, and she, Mark, and her father were walking languidly along a concrete footpath twisting through the middle of the park: Benches, metal trash cans, and vast California Live Oak trees flanked either side, the spreading branches of the former overhanging the way and casting it in shadows through which thin rays of sunlight fell and dappled the ground. Her father was dressed today in black slacks and a white polo shirt; he held a strawberry ice cream cone that was beginning to dribble. On his other side, Mark scanned his surroundings the way she imagined Lewis and Clark might have surveyed the uncharted American interior, his gaze going here, there, and everywhere. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved button up with vertical pink, blue, green, and yellow pinstripes: He looked more like a nerd than a hearty explorer, and Jessy was more than okay with that.

"My mother used to say that," Dad said, and licked his ice cream. His brow furrowed. "I never quite understood it."

Neither did she, come to think of it.

Ahead, children climbed on playground equipment and pushed each other on swingsets, their screams of merriment seasoning the dry air. A group of moms, some with babies in their arms, sat on a bench and talked, stopping occasionally to chastise a wayward toddler for shoving or pulling hair. In the distance, beyond a screen of trees, Jessy caught flashes of a building with Grecian columns and wide stone steps that looked like it would be more at home in Washington, DC, than here in California.

When Dad suggested they go to the park after lunch at La Casa de la Abuela ( _authentic Mexican food!_ the sign screamed), Jessy imagined a tiny patch of green wedged between four streets, but what greeted her was sprawling botanical oasis dotted with zoos, museums, pavilions, ponds, trails, and concession stands. They had been aimlessly wandering it for close to two and a half hours now, visiting the museum of natural history, the zoo, and the science center: Jessy _may_ have been really excited for all of these stops and acted like a giddy little girl, especially when she got to pet the Koala bear. He was _adorable._

By now, flush and red-faced, her feet aching and her back singing a weary song, she was ready to leave, but wouldn't say so; she didn't want to be a party pooper and ruin everyone else's good time. Plus, if they left now she'd want to go back to the room for a nap, and there was a really big part of her that didn't want to leave her father just yet.

Presently, Dad twirled his cone in his hand and licked away the drippiness before it could ooze onto his fingers. She and Mark had already finished theirs, which kind of made her feel like a pig. Maybe she should have eaten slower. "Expressions are funny things," her father said, "a lot of them don't make any sense, especially if they were coined in a different day and age. _Mad as a hatter,_ for instance. Do you know where that comes from?"

A ball bounced into the path, and a little black boy bounded after to retrieve it. Jessy hummed in a pretense of thought. "No."

"In the olden days, mercury was used in the production of felt, which was common in hats at the time. After being exposed to it for a prolonged period of time, a lot of hatters suffered adverse effects, including, in extreme cases, total insanity."

For some reason, Jessy glanced over her shoulder; the statue was still on its pedestal, still holding its sword high and staring into the pool like a gypsy divining tea leaves. Of course it was. "I never knew that," she said.

"My favorite is _to turn a blind eye_ ," he said. "There was a British admiral in I _think_ the eighteenth century who had one blind eye. I forget the context, but the high command signaled him to not attack a fleet of Danish ships. He held the telescope up to his bad eye, said "I don't see any sigal" and attacked anyway."

Jessy was shocked into laughter. "Wow. Did he win?"

"I think so," Dad said uncertainly and looked up at the sky. "Or maybe he didn't. I can't remember."

"Where did you learn that stuff?" she asked.

Ahead, the path curved to the left and crossed a babbling creek on a wooden bridge. Red paint peeled from splintered wood in long strips like dead skin. A couple boys about eleven or twelve waded in the water. One splashed another and Jessy heard a clear and resounding "Asshole!" Wow. She _never_ talked that when she was that age. Or even now, really. And _never_ in front of Uncle Lincoln or Auntie Ronnie Anne...and Grandma...and Mom...and Aunt Lori…

"Books," Dad said and licked his ice cream. It was flush with the cone now, no longer in danger of melting down his hand. "For a while, I had a lot of time on my hands and very little to do. The library, so-called, wasn't very big and the selection was a little schizophrenic - James D. MacDonald paperbacks next to _The History of and Social Influence of the Potato_."

He chuckled and Mark looked at him strangely. "Is that a real book or are you being sardonic?"

Dad ducked his head and grinned, a stray shaft on sunlight catching his face and bathing it in warm glow like a saint in a Reneanice painting. Watching him, Jessy felt a strange and unexpected surge of love and affection that shocked her with its intensity. "I wish I was," he said to Mark, "but that's an actual book. Eight hundred and fifteen pages."

Mark whistled. "That's a lot of social influence."

"It is," Dad said. They were crossing the bridge now, the boards clunking loosely underfoot. Jessy's heartbeat increased a little as she imagined them giving way and spilling them to the stream below in a shower of rotted timbers. If the rocks didn't get them, the jagged slivers of wood would.

 _Why are you so morbid?_

Blame Bunny; she's the one who made me watch all those yuck horror movies - even the ones I secretly watched when Bunny wasn't around.

"...it sounds," Dad was saying. He took a bite of his cone, and crumbs littered the ground. "Then again, a shampoo label is pretty interesting when you have nothing else to occupy your time."

On the other side of the bridge, he dropped the rest of his cone into a trashcan, and for a moment they walked in silence, the only sound the distant laughter of children and cross traffic on Ridgewood Blvd. "How's your cousin?" he asked and looked at Jessy. "And the baby?"

"Good," Jessy said with a gentle smile, "he's so cute. I play peekaboo with him all the time. He _loves_ it."

Dad chuckled. "He doesn't speak yet, does he?"

Jessy shook her head. "Nope. He's too little."

"I-I don't know much about kids," he said, and for some reason his voice faltered. "I was the youngest and the library was fresh out of Dr. Spock." He glanced at her and there was a hint of sadness in his eyes that made Jessy frown. She was an intelligent girl, so she knew why: He was thinking about missing out on her being a kid. Or was she being full of herself?

"Alex's baby has taught me to always pack an extra shirt," Mark said. "He throws up a lot."

"Not any more," Jessy said, "they changed to soy formula. The other stuff upset his stomach."

Ahead the path forked: The right bending and disappearing into a stand of trees and the left leading back presumably to the reflecting pool and the creepy statue. They went left. "I'm still bringing an extra shirt when I go over there," Mark said. "Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."

"That's true," Dad nodded. He glanced at Jessy. "Do _you_ bring extra clothes?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm kind of a risk taking daredevil."

Dad laughed. "You're your mother's daughter alright." He looked over his shoulder, and Jessy followed his gaze. There was nothing there. Of course there wasn't; he still wasn't used to being free and got nervous when he wandered around like he was now. He told her yesterday that in prison, you had to literally walk along an imaginary line at all times, and stepping anywhere else earned you a tongue lashing at best, or a whack over the head at worst. If you watched his feet, you'd notice that even now, five months after being released, he still walked a narrow path.

Turning to her, he smiled warmly, and Jessy's heart raced; she smiled back. It was funny, Uncle Lincoln had always been like her father, and she never, ever, _ever_ felt as though she lacked in that regard, but being here now, with her real father, she felt the strangest sense of...peace? Wholeness? Serenity? No, it wasn't quite any of those, but, upon reflection, it was a little of them all. She prided herself on being articulate, but the only word she could come up with was _good_. She felt good.

By now they were back in the beating heart of Balboa; the statue loomed ahead, and Jessy eyed it suspiciously, but with less trepidation than before. _I see you there, mister. You can't fool_ me _. I've been trained by thousands of hours of yucky horror movies to look for signs of life in inanimate objects. The moment you move, I_ will _see it._

Up ahead, a man in jeans and a tye dye shirt sat against a gnarled tree trunk and strummed a guitar, his long brown hair and beard combining with his dress to make him look like a hippie Jesus ( _let's break bread, man)_. Head tilted back, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, he played a cord that sounded vaguely familiar. As they passed, Mark openly stared, then looked at Ted. "What were the sixties like?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again and considered for a long moment. "A time of change," he said at length, "there was sense of something _happening_. I've always imagined that that's what living in 1776 must have been like"

Mark nodded to himself and Jessy suddenly hoped to goodness that he didn't bring up...what happened. They were together for almost two years before she told him that her parents bombed a courthouse and killed someone - she was a _little_ ashamed. He knew how she felt ( _God, don't talk about it! Too awkward, too awkward!)_ , and she made sure to reiterate again and again on the drive from Royal Woods that the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room was _not_ to be acknowledged ( _please?)_. Still, Mark had a way of forgetting things.

Thankfully he didn't ask about the...event...but what he _did_ ask about wasn't too much better. "Were you a communist?"

Oh, Mark, there are some things you just don't talk about; they're too uncomfortable. Anything within a hundred million mile radius of the bombing was like..like getting too close to the sun. Her father's political views were inextricably linked to murder...you couldn't have one without the other.

Dad missed a beat, but recovered quickly. "Yes," he said, "I-I was."

Jessy's mother told her all about hers and Dad's political beliefs in the sixties. _We were fighting for communism._ At first, Jessy was shocked and a little disturbed - she knew communists as the repressive Warsaw Pact people who built giant walls, wouldn't let people leave, and threw political dissidents in jail. The stories she heard on TV and read in books from people who managed to escape were horrible, and when her mother told her point blank _I was a communist,_ it affected her deeply. Later, though, she explained just what she envisioned communism was, and it wasn't _so_ bad. Fairness and equality were good things, and so was everyone having a place to live and food to eat, but from what Jessy was able to gather, communism achieved none of those goals, and was often just as bad, or even worse, than the system of governance it replaced.

She could forgive her parents for believing in it, though; they were young and dumb - even if they _were_ older than she was at the time.

"Are you still a communist?" Mark asked. "If so, last year must have been a nightmare for you."

Jessy couldn't tell if he was joking or being serious, but she blushed nonetheless. Sometimes she could strangle that boy.

"No," Dad said quickly, "not anymore. I don't believe in communism."

They were on the sidewalk now, the Beetle to their left and parked at a meter. "What _do_ you believe in?" Mark asked.

For a long time, Ted Harris didn't speak, and Jessy watched him expectantly, suddenly very curious to hear his answer.

"Nothing," he said finally, his voice grave. "Nothing at all."


	153. August 1990: Part 4

**Lyrics to _U Can't Touch This_ by MC Hammer (1990); _Back to Life_ by Soul II Soul (1990)**

Late Friday afternoon, Alex drove through the dusky streets of Royal Woods, destination: Grandma's house. Well, Blake's grandma, her mom. Technically the house did belong to her and dad, but you never say grandpa's house. It's in all the nursery rhymes so that makes it a universal law.

Warm orange light lay over the town like a warm blanket, and cool summer air circulated through the open windows. Shadows were long and many of the businesses along Main Street were closing down for the day, the shopkeepers packing it in and heading home to watch Full House or America's Most Wanted. Alex loved America's Most Wanted, and ever since she started watching it, she made extra sure to keep her eyes peeled just in case she crossed paths with one of the bad guys they profiled. Hello, John Walsh? That psycho with the scar on his forehead is in Royal Woods, Michigan. I saw him kicking puppies and stuff, you better come get him before I do. She'd be a hero; they might even throw a ticker tape parade in her honor. Ahhh, she could see it now, her sitting in the back of a black Rolls Royce and waving at the throngs of people crowding the sidewalks while confetti fell from the sky like snow. Alex, you're awesome! Alex, we love you! Alex, please accept a million dollars and a lifetime supply of McDonald's french fries as a token of our gratitude!

In the backseat, Blake yawned and started to flop around in his carseat. She glanced into the rearview mirror, but couldn't see him because he was turned to face the rear. That's the safest way for babies to ride, you know. She didn't like not being able to steal a glimpse of his chubby little cheeks, dark eyes, and cute widdle button nose whenever she wanted to, though.

He yawned again and issued a breathy little ahhhh that made her grin like a goofball. Who'da thought a simple yawn could be so cute? "That wasn't a very a long at all, little man," she said and braked at a redlight. Hey, look, it's Flip's. She leaned out the window and squinted her eyes. Nope, no one home. She loved her Dad to death, but the guy was a terrible businessman: If he stayed open until eight or nine, he'd make so much more money he'd die. Like wow, this pile of fifties and hundreds is coming down and I'm not quick enough to outrun it, help me, Alex! But nooooo, he didn't want to put in the effort.

Heh.

Slacker.

What would your drill sergeant say, buddy? Loud! You're a terrible restaurant owner! You don't deserve to wear that waist apron! Then he'd snatch it off and start beating Dad's ass, and she'd have to jump in and protect him because no one hits Dad. Except for Mom, but she's allowed to because they've been married for, like, fifty years.

Blake whined.

"Tired, huh? Maybe if you slept you wouldn't be so cranky." She leaned over and turned the radio on. "How about some music?" She spun the dial until she found good ol' WKBBL, that reliable Royal Woods/Elk Park standby that had been spinning the biggest hits of the day since Jesus was a kid (probably). "...of the month. It is 6:45pm, and you know what that means: It's hammertime!"

You can't touch this

Oh, I like this song! In the video, the dude looks like the biggest geek in the world, dancing around in glasses and parachute pants. Hahahaha. He could really move, though. She turned it up and turned onto Wilson Avenue, her head nodding and her fingers tapping the wheel. Blake's whining increased. He wasn't a fan of da Hammer.

My-my-my-my music makes me so hard makes me say oh my Lord

Thank you for blessing me with a mind to rhyme and two hypefeet

That's good when you know you're down

She started to sing along, because babies like it when their mommies sing. She was absolutely certain she got all the lyrics right. "A souped up doughboy from the old town and I'm a skunk and this is a feet you can't touch!" Blake wailed in misery and she glanced into the mirror. Really? "I'm not that bad," she said. "Am I?"

Fresh new kicks, and pants

You gotta like that, now you know you wanna dance

So move outta yo seat

And get a fly girl and catch this beat

While it's rollin', hold on!

Ooooh, Blake was shrieking now. "Stop," she moaned, "it's hammer time!"

But Blake didn't stop, he sucked in a great big breath and cried even harder. Ugh. "Okay, okay," she turned down the volume until the only sound was the wind, but the damage had been done, and he was still crying when she pulled into the driveway and got out: Purple twilight pooled in the yard like dark water and the last rays of the dying sun cast feeble light that crept over the roof but didn't reach the ground. She went to the back, opened the door, and looked down at her son with a faux disapproving glare. "You, little boy," she said as she started to unbuckle the car seat, "can be a real stick in the mud sometimes." He flopped his head to the side and stared up at her, his mouth dropping open and his eyes widening. Love welled in her heart; she giggled, bent, and kissed his forehead. "I love you, though."

His face lit up and he smiled as though he caught her meaning, and she melted to an ooey-gooey bunny puddle that slucied down the driveway and disappeared into the gutter. The end.

"Come on, shake and Blake, let's go see grandma and grandpa."

Swinging the carseat back and forth like a happy elf with a lunch pail (hey ho, it's off to work I go), she went up the walkway and climbed the steps. Blake studied his surroundings intently, his head turning left and right and his brow furrowing in concentration. She wondered if he recognized where they were - not that he could see much from his vantage point.

At the door, she sat him down and fished in her pockets for her keys. She found them, inserted the right one into the lock, picked the carseat up, and went in. Whew, this thing is heaaavy; by the time he didn't need it anymore she'd be as buff as Fabio. Hey, Lynn, remember that time you punched me when we were kids? My guns do.

Dad sat in his chair watching the NBC Nightly News with an apathetic expression. He glanced over, and brightened. "Hey," he said.

"Hey, Dad," Alex said. She went over and kissed him on the forehead. "I brought you something." She held up the carseat; her arm quivered but she smiled through the pain. I'm not Fabio yet, but just you wait.

Dad grinned. "Hey, little boy." He reached in and patted Blake's head. Blake brow pinched. I'm not a cat, grandpa, I'm a baby!

Alex dropped onto the couch, set the car seat on the floor between her legs, and undid the straps keeping Blake in place. She took him out and he smiled. Freedom! "Hi," she cooed and brought him to her chest. "Are you happy to be out of there?"

His laugh told her that he was.

"Jessy called earlier," Dad said. "She said to tell you hi."

On TV, Tom Brokaw sat behind a desk and recited the news of the day - President Bush and the U.N. Security Council were condemning the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait and blah blah blah Resolution 660. "How's she doing?" Alex asked and started to gently bounce Blake on her lap.

"Good," Dad said curtly. Alex kind of got the feeling that Dad was a little jealous that Jessy was hanging out with her father, like maybe he thought she'd push him aside in favor of that commie hippie asshole. Alex seriously doubted he needed to worry, but deep down she worried a little herself. What if Jessy decided to move out there or something? All joking aside, she did not want her sister 20,000 miles away. She wasn't clingy, she didn't need Jessy up her butt, but she, uh, she did need her.

Changing the topic, she asked, "Where's Mom?"

"In the bathroom," Dad said. He held out his arms, and Alex passed him his grandson; a look of contentment crossed his face as he nestled the little boy to his chest. "Still not sleeping well?" he asked.

Blake looked from him to Alex as if to ask should I tell him, Mom? She cocked her head. "Go on," she said playfully, "tell him how you don't sleep."

"I'm starting to think Mom was right about the whiskey thing," Dad told the baby.

Alex gasped. "You are not getting my son drunk. I will beat you."

Dad grinned. "Your mother forgets that I'm a grizzled war - "

Blake opened his mouth and sprayed the front of Dad's shirt with chunky white puke. The corner of Dad's lips curled down. "That's nice," he said, and something about the simple, understated way he said it struck Alex as so funny she burst out laughing. Dad shot her a dirty look and she laughed even harder.

Mom came down the hallway then and started to speak - probably to ask what was so funny - but stopped and snickered when Dad looked up at her. "He got you again, huh?"

"Yeah," he replied with a slow nod.

She held out her arms and he handed the baby over. When he saw grandma, he smiled widely. "Nice job," she cooed, "you got him good this time."

Dad pushed himself up and brushed past, making sure to rub against Mom's back as he went by. Her eyes narrowed and she turned her head to him. "You're lucky I'm holding a baby."

"So are you."

"Your grandpa's a jerkwad," she said as she carried the baby over to the couch and sat next to Alex. "I should have married Clyde. I'd be the first lady of New York right now."

Alex knew she was joking when she said that, but it always kind of offended her. "You have to be a lady first," she said.

She snorted. "Hasn't happened yet, so it probably never will." She sat Blake upright on her lap - pointedly facing him toward Alex - and rubbed his back. "I wouldn't give your grandpa up for the world. He's already trained." She looked at Alex. "Do you have his things?"

"Yep," she said, "in the car."

Every so often, Blake spent the night with grandma and grandpa. Tonight was one of those nights - Alex had some important business to take care of and needed a little time to herself. She always felt kind of bad leaving him here, and by the next day she was in a hurry to get him back: She'd explode through the front door like an action hero, wearing cool shades and holding an assault rifle with a bazooka under the barrel, and go I'm back, bitches, give me my son and no one gets Alexized. Okay, that's not how it really went down: She'd come through the door like a junkie feening for a hit, see Mom holding him on the couch, and rush over with a big, happy smile. Then she'd Alexize everyone just for the hell of it.

She got up and went to fetch the diaper bag; it was almost full dark now and cool, the yummy smell of barbeque chicken scenting the air and making her stomach rumble. Ummm. At the car, she opened the back door, reached in, and grabbed the bag, then rummaged through it to make sure she had everything. Diapers? Check. Wipes? Check. Formula and bottles? Check. Rash cream? Check - Blake didn't often have rashes because she didn't leave him sitting in dirty diapers like a neglectful slob, but it was good to have some always on hand - extra clothes? Checkaroonie. Alright.

Back inside, Mom was sitting on the floor with her back against the couch while, in the middle of the floor, Blake wiggled and squirmed on his stomach, his chubby little arms and legs thrashing like he was trying to swim away. Alex brought the bag over, dropped it onto the floor, and sat on the couch. "He's working up a sweat," she said and nudged her mother's shoulder with her knee. "Gonna be the next Richard Simmons."

"He's going to be crawling soon."

"I know," Alex said, "then it's all over."

Mom chuckled. "It's not over until he learns to walk...then he'll be into everything."

Eh, true, but she was still looking forward to her little man being mobile; that way they could play hide and seek and tag. She was really looking forward to the latter; she wasn't going to go easy on him just because he was little, she was really going to let him have it - knock him down then do a mocking little victory dance as he cried. By the time he got to school, he'd be so tough and cool the other kids would worship him, especially the girls. When she went back to work, she'd have to put him in daycare, and she was a little afraid that at nap time him and the girl babies would do more than just nap, if ya know what I mean.

Other stuff.

Like holding hands.

You better put a mit on, little boy, you don't know where she's been!

Heh.

See, it's kind of like…

Nevermind.

"I won't let him get into everything because I'm not turning my back on him for one second. This mama has eagle eyes."

Mom threw her head back and let out a high, long, sardonic laugh that made Alex frown. Was she implying that she didn't have eagle eyes? Because she totally did. She also had sharp raven talons that could really mess up Mom's day if she sank them into her face. She would never do that! Still, Mom better watch herself. "I said the same thing. I'd never take my eyes off of you for one second. Guess what: I did. That's life."

"Yes it is," Dad agreed as he came back into the room wearing a fresh shirt - blue polo with IZOD on the left breast. Alex didn't think he even heard what Mom said, he was just playing yes man out of habit. Hen-pecked wimp.

"Yeah? And I'm Alex Loud. I'm not your average parent."

They were still laughing when she left ten minutes later: She paused at the door, pressed her fingertips to the underside of her chin, and brushed like an Italian grandmother. She thought that was basically the middle finger in Italy, but she wasn't sure.

Humph.

You're not Supermom, Alex; no one is.

Yeah, well, we'll see about that, Ronalda. I'm gonna win a trophy for how much of a supermom I am. I'll never take my eyes off Blake even when I do. Uh-huh. You'll see...then you'll beg me for forgiveness. I'm so sorry I was dumb and wrong. You are Supermom. All hail Alex!

Ha.

No, she knew she wasn't Supermom, but still, they laughed her out of the house! Literally! As she crossed the yard and slipped behind the wheel, she tried to think of a way to get them back, but outside of crashing her car into their house (surprise!) she didn't have a thing. Drats. Maybe she'd go cheap for Christmas. Ten dollar limit on both. There was a new store in the open air mall downtown called Dollar Tree where everything was a buck - from toys to food to housewares - she could do her shopping there. Have fun with this cheapo spatula that's gonna snap in half the first time you use it, hahahahahaha!

Ooooh, I'm evil.

She turned the key in the ignition, backed into the street, and started home, checking the clock on the dash. 7:30. Good, Tim wouldn't be home for at least two hours; he and his dad stayed late on Fridays so they didn't have a dick ton of cars lined up for service Monday morning. Usually that stank because she and Blake wanted him home, but tonight it was perfect. She, uh, had things to do.

Dialing up the radio, she turned onto West Street and headed back to Main. The sweet smell of cooking chicken drifted in through the open driver side window like the most yum perfume ever and her eyes rolled back into her head. Ummm, I really want chicken now. She didn't wanna cook it, though; cooking was not Alex Loud's forte...placing an order and walking away with a KFC bucket was more her speed.

She loved KFC. That was allll the way in Elk Park, though, and she didn't have time to drive out there and get it. Even if she did she probably shouldn't. She, uh...she'd packed on a few pounds since Blake was born. Not too many, but enough that for the first time in her life, she felt just a little self conscious about her body.

Okay, maybe that was an over exaggeration. She was as self-conscious as anyone else - stripping naked and walking down the middle of main street didn't sound very fun, and the thought of people who weren't Tim seeing her nude made her blush - but now she was extra. Her stomach was kind of flabby, especially the part right above her pubic mound (they call it a mommy pouch, she called it yuck).When she and Tim were 'alone' together, she took her shirt off facing away from him and then put it back on as quickly as possible afterward. The Timster caught on quick, because he wasn't dumb (he was almost as smart as her) and told her Alex, I love your body. Then he showed her by kissing every square inch of it. Ummmm. Do you wanna get me pregnant again, buddy? Because that's how you get me pregnant again.

Still, she couldn't help being a smidge embarrassed about her flabby stomach-bottom and puffy face. She, uh, wasn't the girliest girl in girltown, but she was a girl (shocking, I know) and girls like to feel pretty sometimes, and tonight, buddy, was her night to feel pretty.

Grumble.

Sigh. If her stomach would let her.

I really want chicken now but the chicken is sooo far away: It'd take me longer to get there and back than it took Moses to get to the Holy Land. Guess I'll have to settle for something closer, pout. Hmmm, what was close, though? McDonald's, Pizza Hut, aaaaand that was about it. Royal Woods wasn't very big and there wasn't a huge demand for fast food. She wasn't in the mood for burgers and Pizza Hut wasn't really fast food per se - sometimes when she, Tim, and Blake went in, they had to wait, like, twenty minutes for their pizza. Twenty whole minutes! Even Flip's was faster than that. She didn't have a lot of time; she had things to do.

Oh, I know.

Grinning proudly because she'd solved yet another conundrum (I could cure cancer and world hunger if I thought about it), she turned right onto Main and followed it three blocks before turning into a gas station on a corner: Soft electric glow emanated from the sign over the door: 7-11 in orange, white, and green. She parked by the air pumps and cut the engine, killing Poison in the middle of Unskinny Bop. Sorry, Brett, food is more important right now.

She got out and went inside, wincing at the harsh white lights. An Arab man with a red turban stood behind the counter, his face covered in a nappy black beard and his muscular arms crossed over his chest. He gave her the stink eye every time she came in. What, don't like another brown person coming on your turf, buddy? She ignored him and took a deep breath, then let it out with an ahhh,

7-11 was new, at least this one was: It moved in last year and everyone made a big fuss about it because they didn't want another chain store replacing a local business. Dad groused a little and that kind of colored Alex's opinion...then one day she really needed gas and it was either this place or walk. She came in and oh my god, 7-11 is awesome! They had these frozen drinks called Slurpees that came in all sorts of cool flavors, they sold food and milk and magazines and funky novelties...and most important of all, hot, ready-made pizza, hotdogs, and chicken. To be fair, their food rated a six on the Yum-O-Meter, but sometimes you have to sacrifice quality for speed. God, don't tell Dad that or he'll throw a hissy fit, but it's true. Guy needed to get with the times, stop living in the sixties. Groovy, man, let's burn down the barber shop. Pffft. Hippie.

Crossing to the Slurpee machine, she grabbed a clear plastic cup (large instead of extra large because she had to watch her weight). Which flavor should I get? Coke? Blue Raspberry? Cherry Chiller? Pink Lemonade? They're all so good.

Another brilliant idea came to her. She held the cup under the Coke spicket and pulled the little lever, filling it halfway. Next, she moved onto Blue Raspberry and added just a dash because it was her least favorite. She did this twice more: The slushie concoction was a strange and off putting shade of brown, but when she took an experimental sip, her eyebrows shot up. Yumminess!

She capped it with a lid, grabbed a straw, and went over to the counter. A hot dog roller sat next to the register, weiners rotating under a bright lamp. Alex scanned them, found the biggest, plumpest one, and tapped her finger against the glass. "Can I have that one, please?"

Turban stared at her for a moment, his eyes hard, then slowly started to move. Gee, don't hurt yourself. Wouldn't want you to actually do your job. "What do you want on it?" he asked, his accent thick and smooth, reminding her of Barry White for some odd reason.

"Ketchup and mustard," she said, then hesitated. "Relish and onions too," she added with a twinge of shame. She needed to watch the ol' figure, but...man, she was hungry.

Turban grabbed a set of metal pinchers, opened the door, and plucked the dog out, then slapped it into a wilted looking bun. While he worked, Alex looked around to make sure there was nothing else she needed. Her eyes fell on the doughnut display, and her tongue swiped across her bottom lip. Oooooh boyyyy, those look good. Powdered, glazed, plain, chocolate...ummm.

No! A hot dog is one thing, but sugary goodness is quite another. The point, Alex Loud, is to be sexy, not fat. Not necessarily sexy, but….oh forget it. No doughnuts, no candy, no cupcakes - keep your eye on the prize. You think Lynn's gonna get all big and chubby now that she has a baby? Nope, she's going to play a bunch of baseball or something and burn it all off. Then, when you and Tim get married, she's going to show up to your wedding looking buff and toned. You? You're going to look like Roseanne.

But...yumminess…

No. Don't even think about it.

Ugh, fine.

Turban wrapped her hotdog in foil and handed it to her. She paid, grabbed her Slurpee, and left, bumping the door open with her hip. In the car, she jammed the cup into the holder, unwrapped her dog, and took a big, needy bite: A dollop of mustard and relish plopped onto her shirt and she stared at it. Darn it, every time! Seriously, no matter how careful she was. She could extend her neck out from her body like giraffe...and still wind up getting some on her clothes. It was almost like 7-11 was plotting against her. We will ruin her entire wardrobe...and when she has nothing to wear and can't leave the house to fight us, we'll take over the world!

There are some sick people out there.

Holding the dog between her teeth, she slipped her seatbelt on, started the car, and backed out into the street. It was full dark now, and as she drove, orange streetlight glow flickered across her face. Something wasn't right. It was...quiet. Too quiet. She looked into the rearview mirror, caught sight of the empty spot where Blake's car seat should be, and frowned, a sudden and inexplicable feeling of aimless loss gripping her chest.

She missed her baby boy...cries and all.

With a heavy sigh, she took a drink of her Slurpee and turned onto her street. Shortly after Blake was born, Tim's father gave him a random and totally not nepotistic raise, and they moved from the apartment over the garage into an apartment building. It was bigger, but more expensive too, and they tried to avoid frivolous purchases where they could to save money. Hotdogs and frozen slushie drinks aren't frivolous, though; they're necessities.

Pulling into her spot, she killed the engine and got out, leaving the foil balled up on the passenger seat but grabbing her drink. Inside, she snapped on the lights and went into the bedroom, kicking out of her shoes as she went. She sat the cup on the nightstand and went into the bathroom, where she stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment, turning this way and that so she could see every angle. She didn't look too much different than before, but, yeah, she had this puffiness going on that was just not acceptable.

Maybe it was time to get serious about going on a diet.

Well...as long as Tim still thinks I'm hot…

But does he? He said he did, and acted like he did, but he's a guy, and guys, when they have a woman all fat and frumpy from being barefoot and pregnant, tend to look at other girls, the sleak, newer, never-been-with-child models. She wasn't saying Tim was a cheating, two-timing bastard, but she didn't want him looking at other girls, she wanted him looking at her.

Turning away from the mirror, she stripped out of her clothes, turned the shower on, adjusted the temperature, and climbed in, pulling the curtain closed behind her. She ducked her head under the spray and ran her fingers through her hair, the warm water sluicing down her body and loosening her tense muscles. Hey, sitting home on your butt all day is haaaard work. Sometimes she lost the remote, and sometimes she had to get up and adjust the antenna; oh, and don't even get me started on getting up to use the bathroom. Ugh, she was so exhausted come bedtime she could barely stand it.

She grabbed the soap, lathered her hands up, and ran them over her breasts and stomach, making sure to squat and get between her legs. Gotta wash yer privates, kids; ya never know when little Suzy down the street will wanna play doctor. But seriously, keeping your genitals clean is important. Very important, actually. Nancy Reagan used to do DARE, you know, the anti-drug campaign, Barbara Bush should really spotlight the necessity of keeping your downstairs area nice and tidy. Of course that might be a little creepy since she was basically your stereotypical grandmother. Like...Alex could totally see her wandering around the White House in a pink apron and barging into important cabinet meetings with trays of cookies. And if Mr. Bush didn't have his jacket on, God help him. You really need to wear your coat, dear; you'll catch your death.

First lady...that's gotta be a sweet gig, just hanging out and meeting all the coolest people. If she was the first lady, she'd serve pizza and beer to all the foreign dignitaries - guarantee all this Mideast stuff would be cleared right up. She'd be hailed as a hero and probably given her own holiday.

She spun under the water and let it beat down on her back.

Alex Loud, the best first lady ever. Actually, why settle for first lady? It was the nineties, she could just run for president instead, cut out the middleman. What would that make Tim? The first dude?

Being the president would be a lot of work, though. Ma'am, the Jews and Arabs are blowing each other up again. What should we do? Uhhh, can I finish this level, please?

She picked up her shampoo, squeezed some into her hand, and massaged it into her scap with her fingers, then held her head under the flow. Done, she cut it, grabbed her towel, and dried off, making extra sure to get her butt, her front, and under her boobs; don't wanna smell all mildewy. Yuck. She wrapped it around her body, got out, and crossed to the sink; the mirror was fogged, and she couldn't resist scrawling a message in the condensation: ALEX + TIM-O-THEE in a big, flowery heart. This was kind of her thing: Every time she took a shower, she wrote him a little note on the glass. Sometimes it was cute like this, and other times it was meaner (you smell like boogers, youre hats dumb). She wanted him to know she loved and cared about him, but she didn't want him to get a swollen head, so she had to throw the occasional insult in.

Opening the medicine cabinet, she took out the toothpaste, plucked her brush from the holder over the sink, and squeezed a little onto the bristles. As she brushed, she went into the room and bent over the radio on the nightstand. Girl's gotta have her tunes while she primps. She turned the dial up and went back into the bathroom, bobbing her head to the current commercial jingle. It's all happy at Har-veeeees! That was a restaurant in Chippewa Falls; they served meatloaf, pot roast, things your grandmother would make on a Sunday. She loved their mac and cheese. Oh, God, it was so good, like it was a nuclear explosion of flavor and your mouth was Nagasaki. She, Mom, Dad, Tim, Jessy, and Mark, and Blake went there for Alex's birthday, and she made damn sure the waitress knew so they'd come out and sing her the birthday song and give her a free cake with sparklers in it. Yes, sparklers. It was awesome.

When her teeth were clean and pearly white, she spat into the sink then gargled with Scope, her eyes wincing against the burn. Next, she sat on the closed toilet lid and brushed her hair until it was silky smooth. Half way through, that song by that bald woman came on and she rolled her eyes; yuck. She hated it almost as much as that sad Heart song. Okay, maybe she didn't hate it, but every time it came on, she cringed. Too bad it was one of those songs they play every five minutes. Oh, boy, let's spin that record one more time, Sam; all of our listeners are just dying to hear it again. It was kind of like that one song...what was it..uhhh...the can you dig your man one. At least that song was decent, though, this one was slow and sappy and like something you'd play at a funeral.

Give me Ozzy any day. Or even Vanilla Ice.

Oh, that poor man, hahahah, In Living Color *savaged* him. They had him dancing around all stupid and instead of Ice, Ice, Baby, it was White, White, Baby. When he kicked his leg, his shoe flew off and Alex laughed so hard she almost peed herself. Then when she was done she got offended because she was part white.

That was a strange and confusing day.

When her hair was nice and soft, she got up, went back to the sink, and rummaged through the cabinet for her make-up kit, which she found hiding behind a big yellow tube of Aspercreme. She sat it on the sinktop, snapped it open, and took out the eyeliner pencil. After that, she put on just a touch of lipstick. On the radio, a commercial for the hardware store went off and funky beats drifted forth. Alex turned her head left and right to make sure she was at optimal prettiness.

Back to life, back to reality

Back to life, back to reality

Back to life, back to reality

Should she put on some rouge? Probably not. It looked alright on white girls, but though she was white as a blizzard on the inside, her skin was brown, and red on brown looked kind of weird. Eyeshadow would look nice. Yeah, let's do that. She took some out and started to apply it, one eye closed and the other straining out of its socket. Oh, yeah, Bunny, real sexy. *Sizzling sounds*

However do you want me

however do you need me

How, however do you want me

She stepped back and studied her reflection: Her eyelids were a light shade of purple and her lips were muted red. Was there more she could do? She wanted to really blow Tim away - like a shotgun blast to the guts.

Nah, best not to overdo it; she wanted to look hot, not like Pennywise the clown.

Satisfied, she went out into the room and started to take off her towel, but stopped to make sure the curtains were drawn - they were. Their apartment was on the first floor, and the window overlooked the breezeway...you know, where people walked. She made the mistake of coming out of the bathroom naked on several occasions when the curtains were wide open. She didn't think anyone had ever seen her, but if they did, brother, they saw it all.

Back to life, back to the present time

Back from a fantasy

Yeah Tell me now, take the initiative

I'll leave it in your hands until you're ready

She stripped the towel off, tossed it onto the bed, and, naked, went to the closet; a cord dangled from the ceiling, and she yanked it, filling the tiny space with soft light. Since Tim slaved all day over a hot engine block and she didn't, she kept house like it was 1950 - house including the closet, which worked to her advantage when she wanted to hide something from him...like lacy, see through black lingerie (with matching bra and panties). She took them out, carried them over to the bed, and laid them out, making sure not to wrinkle the fabric.

Back to life back to the day we have

Let's end this foolish game

Hear me out don't let me waste away

Make up your mind so I know where I stand

She slipped into the panties and pulled them up, then theaded her arms through the straps of the bra. Finally, she pulled on the dress part - whatever it was called: It stopped well up her thighs and barely covered her butt, but that was okay...she wouldn't be wearing it for very long.

By now it was past nine and Shiver Me Timbers would be home anytime now - in two minutes or twenty, she couldn't say. What should she do while she waited?

Gasp, I know!

Write.

Being a full time mom, housewife, and mind-bogglingly cool person, Alex didn't have much time to write anymore, not that it was a great loss. Let's be real: She was never going to have a book published. She had fun, though, and that's all that mattered, right?

Crossing her legs, she reached into the nightstand and took out a pad of paper and a pen; she sat the former in her lap and tapped the latter against her chin. What should she write about? She had so many ideas: The vampire who works as a janitor at night and sucks on used tampons from the ladies room; the werewolf who fights drug dealers in the inner city in the year 2038; the house full of deformed incest kids who maim, kill, and eat each other…

Oooh, it's all so good.

At random, she chose the werewolf idea and started to write.

Ben Franks was a werewolf - he literally turned into a hairy, snarling monster when the moon was full. This had been happening since he was a kid. One time he was about to do this girl but the moon came out and he ate her instead. When he woke up next to her body as a guy again, he was all like NOOOOOOOO, I'LL BE A VIRGIN FOREVER! It took him awhile, but he did lose it: Her name was Bertha and she was a werewolf too. Sometimes they got together and had hot, feral, werewolf sex in the woods. You could hear it from two miles away. It sounded painful...because it was: He had barbs on his thing, she had barbs in her hoohaw, and sometimes they got stuck together and they needed a medical professional to separate them. "They don't pay me enough for this shit," he said around his cigarette.

She froze when a key rattled in the lock. He's here!

Her stomach clutched and her heart started to race. All kidding aside, she really hoped he liked her surprise.

Tossing the pad and pen back into the draw, she slammed it closed, and leaned back on the bed in her best welcome-home-let's-have-sex pose: Stretched out on her side, head cocked and resting in her palm, fingers threading through her hair. She glanced down, noticed a crease in her dress, and hurriedly smoothed it out as the door opened and closed. A moment later, Tim appeared, dressed in gray overalls and holding his lunch pail. He came into the room, saw her, and froze; his eyes widened slightly and his lips parted in shock - the good kind or the bad kind, Alex couldn't tell.

"You're home," she drew in a low, happy tone.

He looked her up and down, his eyes crawling over her body from her toes, up her bare legs, over her chest, and finally to her face. He opened his mouth then closed it again like a fish dying on a dock. "You alright?" she teased.

"Y-Yeah," he said, "you just…"

She lifted her brow. "I just what?"

"Look really fucking hot," he blurted.

A big smile spread across her lips. That Tim, he always knew the right thing to say. He was like a poet or something. "Do I?"

He nodded.

"Get over here and show me then."

He did.

Twice.


	154. August 1990: Part 5

Lincoln sat on the floor with his legs straight out in front of him and his back resting against the chair. Ronnie Anne knelt next to him and patted her knees. "Come on," she said, "come to grandma."

Blake, on his stomach, pushed up and looked at her, his head wobbling back and forth, which made Lincoln wince. "It's gonna come right off," he said.

"It's not gonna come off, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said and smacked his thigh, "stop saying that."

Well, excuse the hell out of me for worrying about the health of my grandson's cranium. He drew himself into a more upright position and winced at the twinge in his lower back. Forty-four...he was only forty-four and already the aches and pains were starting to set in. Lately it was his back, but for a while it was his right knee: At the end of the day it throbbed like an abscessed tooth, and for nearly a week he put Ben-Gay on it every night before bed. Oh, he hated that stuff; it burned and made him smell like his mother.

Ronnie Anne rocked forward and slapped her knees again. "Come on," she said, "come to grandma."

She had been trying to get him to crawl to her for almost half an hour, and it just wasn't happening. The kid was barely six months old, though, what do you expect? Alex was almost eight when she started crawling and Jessy was closer to nine. Presently, Blake looked at her and flashed a big, gummy smile, then pounded the floor with one hand. "No, don't do _that,_ " Ronnie Anne said. She held out her arms and wiggled her fingers. "Come _here_."

Then again, he _did_ look like he was close. Maybe he'd peak early and open up a used car lot in Arizona like his uncle. Speaking of which, he had to call Lynn: Mom kept talking about getting everyone together, and he was trying his damnedest to coordinate a family get together around everyone's schedule: Lola and Bobby couldn't come out until after the first of the year, and the last time he talked to Lynn, he said he wanted to do next month. What a headache. He felt like a man being pulled in five different directions by a team of horses, and _riiiiip,_ there goes my arm.

And then there was Mom. Luan said she was really forgetful lately - more than might be healthy. At first he thought she was exaggerating...old people do that, it's natural...but then he saw it for himself. Once when he, Ronnie, and Jessy went over to spend the evening with her, she called him Lynn three times before he corrected her. She responded by laughing. _Oh, dear, I know who you are, I was just thinking about him._ Okay, he could let that go, but then she called her chair her 'sitter' then later, during a family game of bridge, she completely blanked on the rules, and Luan had to refresh her memory.

Luan made her a doctor's appointment for the end of the month, and he and her were both waiting impatiently for it - they hadn't told Lori or Lynn yet. Lincoln didn't see a point in worrying them if there was nothing wrong.

"Come here," Ronnie Anne cooed, "you know you want to."

Blake laughed and slapped the carpet.

"I could really use some help here, lame-o," she said.

"I've been telling you that for years." Lincoln said and sat up straighter. She shot him a dirty look and he blew her a kiss. "I still love you, though." He looked at his grandson and held out his arms. Blake's face lip up and he smacked the floor again, reminding Lincoln of a bull scraping the dirt with his hoof before charging. "Come here, buddy," he said.

Grinning, Blake rocked back and forth on his knees and smacked the floor, a gurgling sound rising from his throat. Yeah, he just _might_ crawl soon. Wow. They _do_ say kids develop at their own pace and to not necessarily hold one to the standard set by another, but there's so much new age mumbo jumbo that separating the wheat from the chaff is next to impossible. Once upon a time he thought that Dr. Spock guy was the last word, but he turned out to be an anti war hippie and general liberal asshole, so, eh.

Blake slapped the carpet..then moved one knee forward. "He's doing it!" Ronnie Anne cried and grabbed Lincoln's arm. "He's crawling!"

He wasn't exactly crawling, but he was getting there. _Looks like I was wrong,_ Lincoln thought with a proud smile. _Wouldn't be the first time_. He drew one leg up and leaned forward. "Come here, buddy," he said, "come see grandpa." Blake slapped the carpet and dragged his other knee across the floor just a little. "Go to grandpa," Ronnie Anne said.

Blake put one arm in front of the other, shifted his knee...and toppled forward, his face planting in the carpet. He instantly started to cry, and Ronnie Anne picked him up. "You okay?" she asked, her voice edged with concern. He shook his head back and forth as if to say he wasn't: She rocked him while Lincoln checked his face. "No blood and nothing broken."

Ronnie Anne pressed the baby to her chest and covered his forehead in kisses. She got to her feet with a grunt, rested him against her shoulder, and patted his back. He looked down at Lincoln with dark, watery eyes. _You told me to come and I hurt myself. It's_ your _fault._ That wasn't wrong, and now he felt bad. He stood and rubbed the little boy's head. "I'm sorry," he said.

Blake, no longer crying, looked at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Oh. Guess he wasn't blaming me after all.

"You should be, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, "he was _this_ close to crawling and your bad luck spoiled him."

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, me and my luck."

" _No_ such luck."

"You better lock me out of the house before it spontaneously catches fire."

She snickered. "Be careful what you wish for, lame-o, I just might." She squeezed Blake's butt and grimaced. "Someone needs a diaper change." She started toward the hall, Blake watching Lincoln over her shoulder, then stopped. "Can you get a jar of baby food from the bag?"

"On it," Lincoln replied.

While she changed him, he grabbed a glass jar of Beechnut from the diaper bag, took it into the kitchen, and sat it on the table, picking it back up and squinting at the label: He didn't have his reading glasses, so the words were blurry but legible. SQUASH AND BERRIES. Oh, God. What kind of combination is _that?_ Sounded worse than army food, and army food was awful: Sometimes, right before he fell asleep, he could still taste that turkey loaf. He ate better as a POW.

At the drawer, he opened it and took out one of the plastic baby spoons he and Ronnie Anne kept stocked for when Blake came over. This one was green and the handle was shaped like a smiling frog. You and I have something in common, buddy, we both eat bugs.

He snickered. He didn't do this very often anymore, but sometimes he slipped, and strangely, it felt good.

Laying the spoon on the table next to the jar, he went over to the pantry and retrieved the highchair: It was one of those new folding models, plastic instead of metal like the one they used for Alex and then Jessy. Most things were plastic these days, and broke ten minutes after you got them home. It was sad, really; once upon a time things were built to last, now they were built to break so you had to go spend more money on a replacement. Oh, and the food was getting smaller. In 1978, a box of Hamburger Helper could feed a family of four, now it was just enough for him and Ronnie Anne alone. Humph. Welcome to the future, where you get gypped every time you turn around. Take off your shoes and stay awhile.

He dropped into a seat flanking the high chair and twisted the lid off the jar. Ronnie Anne came in with Blake in her arms and sat him in, then buckled the strap across his lap: He instantly started pounding his hands against the tray. "Your mommy used to do the _same_ thing," she said as she slipped into the chair across from Lincoln.

"Yes she did," he said and dipped the spoon in, making sure to get just a little on to minimize messes. Dealing with a baby is like army combat skills: Even years later, it comes second nature. He held the spoon out and Blake whipped his head around, his lips smacking. "Used to drive me crazy."

"Me too," Ronnie Anne said, "and the screeching."

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Aw, God, I used to hear it in my sleep."

"Me too," Ronnie Anne said with a nostalgic sigh.

Blake leaned forward and closed his lips around the spoon, then drew back with a body-wide shiver - Lincoln couldn't tell if it was pleasure or disgust, but decided it must be the latter. "Yeah, that stuff's gross, huh?" He dug the spoon into the jar, gathered a healthy glob, and brought it to his nose for a sniff.

He shivered too.

"They feed guys on death row better than this."

Blake watched him...then opened his mouth.

"You want more?"

" _Gahhhh_."

Lincoln shrugged. "Alright."

When dinner was done, Ronnie Anne took Blake out of his seat and cleaned his face, then they all went into the living room, Lincoln sitting in his chair and putting on his reading glasses. Ronnie Anne held the baby out, and Lincoln took him and snuggled him to his chest. On TV, _Quantum Leap_ was just starting. Lincoln liked that show - it was one of the few he did. Blake curled up and rested his head against Lincoln's heart; Lincoln grinned and stroked his head.

He might have a change of heart later on when it was 4am, he had to be up for work in two hours, and Blake was screaming bloody murder, but right now, in this moment, he loved being a grandfather.

* * *

On her last day in California, Jessy woke in the cool, purple twilight preceding dawn to the most beautiful sensation she had ever known: Being cradled in her boyfriend's arms. A sleepy smile spread across her face and she snuggled closer to him, her butt pressing against his crotch. He was hard like he was most mornings: She knew, through reading, that men usually wake up erect, but it was still a surprise the first time she rolled over and brushed against it. He was by no means small (five inches, the national average and _more_ than enough to please a woman), but in the morning he was bigger, thicker, and harder...which made sex even better than it already was. Jessy wasn't an overly sexual girl, but if she and Mark lived together, she'd want to start every day with it.

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand, soft green glow against grayish gloom: 5:05. It was too early for that right now, though. She and Mark were meeting her father for breakfast at eight, then from there they were leaving for Michigan. Part of her was happy to be going back - she was like a Hobbit who loved its home - but another part of her was sad, too, because she'd really come to enjoy spending time with Dad. She couldn't say why exactly, but she felt a deep connection with him, like she was a puzzle and he was the missing piece. She never thought that not having him around bothered her - she had Uncle Lincoln - but over the past few days she'd done a lot of soul searching, and she realized that it did, just as it bothered her not to have Mom around. She loved Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne with all her heart, but on a deep, instinctual level, she knew that they weren't really her parents, and that sense of...not really belonging...had plagued her her entire life, so quiet as to be nearly inaudible, but there nonetheless.

The fact that it bothered her bothered her too. Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne were the ones who raised her and loved her and nurtured her, feeling this way about her father, and even her mother, struck her as almost a betrayal. When she got home, she was going to hug both of them as tight as she could and tell them how much she loved them, and how much they meant to her.

Right now, though, she planned to get another hour of sleep, then have sex with Mark. She closed her eyes and shifted her hips into a more comfortable position, inadvertently grinding her butt against his penis; it prodded her through his underwear _and_ hers, jabbing into her flesh like a lance. It felt so much better when it prodded somewhere else...somewhere soft, wet, and yeilding.

A hot blush burst across her face at the thought and she hitched with a suppressed giggle. Wow, Jess, and you say you're not a pervert.

I'm not, I swear! I must be ovulating.

That wasn't an excuse, she honestly thought she was. She and Mark sat down at one point and had a long and serious discussion about their future; together, they decided that when they were both done with school, they would get married and start building their life. They both wanted children, but not immediately; they had to be established, first. _I'd say no kids until_ at least _the year 1997,_ Mark said, as though 1997 were thirty years off instead of seven. Jessy personally thought they should hold off until 2000, but figured they could work the semantics out later: The point was, they did not want children right now.

When she was ovulating, however, her body wanted nothing _else_ : Every natural instinct she had screamed at her to let him fill her with his semen; she'd fantasize about the condom breaking and feeling his wet fire pooling in her stomach. Sooooo appealing. She told herself it was the danger/risk factor that aroused her, but she was smart enough to realize when her mind and body were conspiring to trick her. Nope, uh-uh, sorry, girls, that won't happen for quite some time. She and Mark _always_ used protection...though the urge to feel him as nature intended was _very_ strong...so strong that she was _this_ close to giving in. Mark was very good at controlling himself, so the likelihood of his orgasm sneaking up on him before he could pull out was very small. There was the pre-ejaculate, though, and that posed a problem because while its sole purpose was to provide lubrication in facilitation of sexual intercouse, it did contain sperm cells.

Enough to get her pregnant before she was ready?

She didn't know, but just that phrase _pregnant before she was ready_ sent hot shiver down her spine.

Ugh, now she was really turned on: Her skin was feverish and her heart pounded sickly in her chest. She rubbed her thighs together, and grimaced when she felt the slick squish of her sex. How easy it would be to slip her underwear off, get on top of Mark...aaaand I'm not going to do that because I don't trust myself to stop until he finishes in me. She glanced at the nightstand drawer, where a pack of condoms lay next to a Gideon's Bible (Jessy wasn't religious, but it seemed _really_ disrespectful to sit them on _top)._ She could take out out and… she glanced over her shoulder at Mark; his eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted.

No, she thought, _I_ am the master of my domain, I will not let my dumb animal instincts lead me; I'm better than that. No sex until Royal Woods.

Her eyes lingered on the drawer; her heart was racing and she was burning up. No, Jess, bad girl. She glanced at Mark again and pursed her lips in thought. Okay, fine, how about a compromise? You can engage in sexual congress with Mark just as long as you use a condom.

The point was to abstain entirely, but okay! She reached over, pulled the drawer open, and rummaged around until her fingers brushed the condom box. So close, yet so, so far. She stretched against Mark's embrace, got it, and pulled one out, then turned to face him. She tore the package open and hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, but he was at an awkward angle, so she shook him. "Mark?"

He muttered tiredly, eyes closed.

"Can you roll onto your back, please?"

Without a word, he shifted.

"Thank you," Jessy said in a happy singsong voice. She pulled his boxers down and greeted his penis with a blush. She liked it very much. So much, in fact, that she scooted down and gave the head a kiss. Mark winced and stirred as if in the midst of a dream. She kissed it again, his skin warm, soft, and smooth. He didn't respond this time, though. She pressed her lips to it and flicked the cord at his base with her tongue, his salty musk filling her mouth and making her heart pound faster than it already was. She looked up at him, but he still wasn't registering the fact that she was performing a sex act on him.

She wasn't familiar with California state law, but she was pretty sure that in Michigan this counted as rape.

Though she knew he wouldn't mind, she still felt a nervous twinge. "Mark?"

Mark snorted.

"Mark," more forceful this time.

His eyelids fluttered open and his head lifted slightly off the pillow. She smiled. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he said sleepily, "what - what's going on?"

"I want to have sex."

He stared at her as though he had no idea what sex was...then the mist in his brain cleared. "Okay," he said and laid his head back down. "You have to be on top, though; I'm barely awake."

Jessy held the condom up. "I was planning on it." She pressed it to his head and rolled it down his shaft, wincing as the oily lubricant coating it smeared her fingers. She understood why it was present - to make penetration easier - and she understood that some women needed it, but she didn't. At all.

When she was done, she crawled on top of him, shoved her thumbs into her panties, and pushed them down her legs. Naked, she planted her knees on either side of him and aligned their sexes. Mark stared up at her with hazy eyes - partially lust, but mostly sleep. She sank herself slowly onto his rod and winced at the sensation of him straining against her walls. It always hurt a little at first in the mornings, but after getting warmed up it felt _very_ good.

Mark put his hands on her hips and brushed his thumbs across her skin as she established a slow but firm pace. She arched her back, splayed her hands on his shoulders, and ground her hips against him; her bangs fell across her face and veiled her eyes, lending her a wild look that made Mark grin just a little.

Bowing her head and closing her eyes, she went faster, the sensation of him scraping her walls urging her on, drawing her deeper and deeper into passion until she was mindless with it, tiny grunts bursting from her quivering lips each time his head poked her cervix. Her orgasm formed and knotted in her loins, gathering force like a hurricane slowly and inexorably approaching the coastline...and when it made landfall, it would be one for the record books.

Mark's breathing was ragged, his hands stroking up and down her flanks, making her shiver. It started to come, and all she could do was dig her nails into his flesh and hold on as she neared the finish line. Mark blew past her and took the win, though, expanding painfully and filling the condom; she could _feel_ it through the latex, warm, gooey, pulsing, and that's what knocked her over the edge. Her eyes narrowed and her body spasmed as Hurricane Jessy tore through and obliterated everything in its wake. Her arms gave out and she fell against Mark, who wrapped his arms around her and held her tight while her climax ebbed and flowed.

When it was over, she lifted her head, brushed her bangs out of her face, and beamed. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Mark said. "I anticipated this, but I assumed it would occur -" he glanced at the clock and squinted to see without his glasses " - _after_ 5:30 in the morning."

Jessy shrugged. "I know, but I...I kind of really wanted it."

"Because you're ovulating."

She nodded. "That's what I think."

"You get…" he trailed off. "More sexual when you ovulate. Like an animal in heat."

Jessy blushed. She'd had the same thought it and acting that way kind of embarrassed her. "I find it arousing," Mark said and rubbed his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. "I couldn't tell you why. I can tell you that I need to take this condom off; I'm leaking all over myself."

She rolled off and he sat up, holding the condom in place. He disappeared around the corner and went into the bathroom. Jessy stretched and yawned like a cat and considered going back to sleep, but when she heard the shower cut on, she decided she should probably clean up as well: Mark was covered in his mess and she in hers. Something about that seemed sad and solitary - they should really be covered in each other's.

Ugh! I _hate_ ovulating: It's like being chained to a madwoman. If this is how men feel all the time, I pity them. It would drive me insane.

Getting up, she peeled her shirt off, tossed it onto the bed, and went into the bathroom. The curtain was translucent, and she could make out Mark's body like a fish underwater; water hissed in the drain and steam rose like spirits shuffling off their mortal coil. She crossed to the tub and slipped in behind Mark; she put her arms around his waist and hugged him affectionately. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," Mark replied and threaded his fingers through hers. "I'm becoming accustomed to our mornings together."

Jessy hummed. "Me too. It's going to be hard readjusting to spending them alone."

He ducked his head under the spray. "I know. On the bright side, we have less than two years until we're finished with school. After that we can spend _every_ morning together." He paused for a thoughtful moment. "Unless one of us leaves town on business. I don't foresee that happening very often, though."

"Sometimes," Jessy said and kissed his back, "Auntie Ronnie Anne goes to conferences from time to time. I most likely will too."

Teacher's conventions were a part of life and always had been, from the time she was little to just this past May when Auntie Ronnie Anne went to Chicago for three days. Every time she left, she put Jessy in charge. _Keep this place from falling apart while I'm gone,_ she'd say, and when she was younger, she took her oath to uphold the Loud house _very_ seriously. If she saw Alex put her feet on the coffee table, she yelled at her; if Uncle Lincoln made a sandwich and left crumbs on the counter, she would walk up to his chair, cross her arms, and glare until he got the message and rectified the matter. _You're worse than Sergeant Hellman_ , he told her once. She didn't know who that was, but she took it as a compliment.

Anyway, she fully expected to go to conventions every so often once she herself became a teacher.

Mark squeezed some shampoo directly onto his head and rubbed it into his hair. Of all his strange quirks, this one perplexed her the most. Why didn't he squeeze it onto his hand like everyone else? It was _much_ easier that way. "True," he said, "it _will_ happen, of course, but I think we'll manage." He rinsed his hair then switched spots with her. She held her head under the water while Mark lathered his hands with soap and washed her back, his fingers sliding wetly over her shoulder blades and along her spine.

"Be careful," she said, "you're going to turn me on again."

He snaked his hands around her hips and cupped her breasts in his hand, his thumbs grazing her nipples with expert precision. Her breath caught and she tilted her head back into the crook of his neck, then looked up at him with lifted brows. "The point of bathing is to get clean, Mark," she said playfully.

"I am clean," he said with a blank-faced innocence that may have fooled anyone else, but she knew him too well. She reached behind her back, found his penis, and took it in her hand.

"You're semi-erect," she said.

Mark tilted his to one side in acquiescence. "I _am_ bathing with an attractive woman, so that's to be expected. Don't worry, though, I don't think I can achieve a full erection right now. I'm still in cool down mode."

Jessy giggled and let him go. "Then focus on my back and leave the front to me, or else you won't be on cool down mode for much longer."

"Alright," Mark said and removed his hands, which was kind of disappointing; she was hoping he would keep them there...or move them lower. Ahhhh, ovulation is horrible. Or maybe she really _was_ turning into a pervert; it wouldn't surprise her, considering she shared a room with one for most of her life.

Or maybe it was Mark's fault.

Yeah. Let's go with that.

All Mark's fault.

Bad Mark.

* * *

A week...she was here for a week Seven long, boring, tortuous days. It wasn't so bad when Maddie was with her, but when she wasn't, the cabin fever started to set in, accompanied by the sharpest ache she had ever known, like steely claws clutching her insides, squeezing just tight enough to break skin then releasing...then clutching again. Holding her daughter in her arms, Lynn felt whole and at peace - sitting alone in her bed and staring at the wall mounted TV, she was empty and restless like a junkie coming down from a high. She _would_ shake her foot to expel some of the nervous energy, but even trying hurt so bad it brought tears to her eyes. Shifting or changing positions hurt too; with every little movement she felt like she was going to pop the stitches holding her guts in, and the stinging...oh...my...god! She'd never had a buzz saw held to her stomach, but if she did, she'd say _oh, this is just like after I gave birth to Maddie._

Peeing was hard, and pooping...she was afraid to even try; she might break something and fall apart like a dime store mannequin. Her breasts were also engorged with milk and tender, gross stuff kept leaking out of her vag, and her mood was up and down - one minute she wanted to hug everyone, the next she wanted to send her fist through the wall.

Having her little girl made it all better, though; they brought her in every couple hours so that Lynn could breastfeed. Those moments staring down at her baby as she nourished her were the stuff of dreams, screw baseball. The nurse said that starting tomorrow, after the observational period was up, Maddie would be allowed to stay with her, and Lynn was so excited she could barely contain herself.

Presently, she was propped up against a mountain of pillows and half-focused on the staticky screen, where her doofus cousin Bobby Jr. argued with a blonde girl who had to be fifteen. From what Lynn could tell, she was his step sister or something, and something to do with her father who was married to Bobby's mother, she didn't know. She was proud of him nevertheless, and if she saw him right now, she'd tell him that.

Being proud of Bobby didn't mean she wanted to watch a dumb soap, but there was nothing else on - literally, there were four channels and these things were on _all_ of them. She didn't know how spoiled she was by cable until she landed in a hospital room without it. Luckily, she had a little friend to help ease the boredom and get her mind off the fact that her daughter wasn't here. The only problem was, it was on the nightstand and she couldn't reach it. _Just stretch out and grab it, Lynn, stop being lazy._ Uh, I'm behind held together by literal strands of fabric. One wrong move and I'll end up in two pieces. She glanced at the big red call button embedded in the plastic bed rail and briefly considered summoning the nurse, but decided against it: Being pregnant and becoming a mommy had changed her greatly, but some things _never_ change...like stubborn pride. _Hey, I'm too weak and wounded to reach the Game Boy two feet away, can you pwease give it to me?_ Nope, she wouldn't stoop that low no matter _how_ bored she got.

So The Bobby Jr. Show it was.

It actually wasn't bad, and by the end, she was kind of into it - for the story, of course. It ended on a cliffhanger: Bobby messed with the brakes of his stepfather's car, and the last scene was the stepfather stomping on them and trying to stop before hitting cross traffic. The final scene was his terrified face and a light rushing up from the side ike he was about to get T-boned.

 _HOOOOOOOOONK!_

 _SMASH!_

Cut to black.

Lynn gaped. Holy shit, there's no way in _hell_ that guy survived. Whatever hit him hit him dead on; from the height of the headlamps it looked like a Mac truck. Damn. That's awful. It's coming on again tomorrow, right? She _really_ wanted to see what happened next.

 _As the World Turns_ came on next and she looked longingly at the Game Boy - so close, yet so, so far. Sigh.

She was just starting to lose herself in the show when her parents came in, Mama in a dress and Dad in a suit. She looked up and smiled weakly. "Hey," she said, her voice barely above a croak.

"Hey, honey" Dad said. He leaned over the rail and kissed her forehead. "How are you feeling?"

Lynn shrugged, the simple up and down motion of her body pulling hotly at her stitches and making her wince. "A little sore," she allowed.

"I imagine," Mama said; she was standing on the other side of the bed now. "Are they giving you painkillers?"

Lynn nodded. "Yeah, it's not that bad, though."

That wasn't a lie; the worst was the feeling of the stitches straining every time she moved. She was actually really afraid of ripping them open, and though she wanted to be home with Ritchie and their daughter, she was grateful for the chance to recover a little here, under observation, before leaving. The doctor said that by the time she was discharged she should be healed enough that ripping them out shouldn't be _as big a concern_. She still had to take it _very_ easy for a few weeks. She just hoped she didn't forget herself and do something stupid like trying to crack a baseball or leaning backwards and stretching.

"Where's our baby girl?" Dad asked and looked around the room as though he'd spot her hiding behind a chair or sitting in a nook taking a smoke break.

Lynn glanced at the clock. "They should be bringing her in soon," she said, then grinned. "Tomorrow she gets to stay."

"Good," Mama said, "do you think you can handle her yet?"

Uh, yeah! "Sure," Lynn said, then thought of the Game Boy mere inches beyond her reach. Tomorrow that would be Maddie in her cradle. Then again, she might be too proud to ring a nurse to help her get her Game Boy, but she was _not_ too proud to ask for help getting her daughter.

"Don't rush anything," Dad said and looked up at the TV screen. "Make sure you're taken care of first."

Lynn rolled her eyes. "I will."

Shortly, a nurse wheeled Maddie in and handed her to Lynn. She was swaddled in a pink blanket and wearing a white cap on her head; she bore a striking resemblance to a burrito, and Lynn would have laughed if it didn't hurt so bad. "Hi, baby," she said softly and brought her little girl to her breast. Maddie's eyes were wide, unblinking, so dark that they were almost black, and muky too. Every time Lynn looked into them, she felt the strangest stirring in her chest. "Are you hungry?"

Maddie stared.

Lynn certainly hoped she was: Her boobs were heavy, filled with milk, and beginning to ache. The hospital gave her a handheld pump but the motion of using it hurt her stomach. She shifted the baby, reached in, and brought out her right breast; crimson exploded across her father's face and he turned his head around so fast a slimy fly-by-night lawyer appeared in a puff of smoke and asked if he wanted to sue the hospital over his whiplash. "Uhhh, I-I'm gonna go get a Coke," he said and fled. Lynn was oblivious: She held Maddie to her nipple, brushing it enticingly across her closed lips.

"Come on," Lynn said in a singsong voice, "you know you want it."

Maddie blinked, then opened her mouth, latched on, and began to suckle with a wet slurping sound.

"Oh, she's so beautiful," Mama sighed and leaned against the rail.

"I know," Lynn said with a smile.

Everyone in the world thinks that their child is the most beautiful, but Lynn knew for a fact that hers really was.

* * *

Jessy took a sip of her orange juice and looked at the long lunch counter lining the far wall: Truckers in baseball caps with mesh backs sat on stools and chatted with one another over cups of coffee and plates of steak and eggs. A waitress in a pink uniform stood behind the register and jotted something down onto an order pad while another sat a ticket in the window, from which emanated the sounds and smells of cooking. Across from her, her father scanned a menu and lifted a mug of decaf to his lips. Beside her, Mark doodled on a placemat with a Crayon - each table came equipped with coloring parahaniala to occupy children while they waited...children _and_ Marks, that is. She glanced at the page and craned her neck to see around his hand: An IBM computer with a scrawny body, googly eyes, and hands on its hips. THE FUTURE IS NOW, KIDS, read the caption underneath.

The waitress with the order pad came around the counter and walked over. She was tall and thin with frizzy red hair and cat-eye glasses the likes of which Jessy had only ever seen on old women like her grandmother. At a guess, she was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five, and her skin reminded Jessy of aged leather beginning to crack. "You guys ready?" she asked.

Dad closed his menu and sat it aside. "Yes. Can I just get a bagel with cream cheese?"

"Of course you can," the waitress drew and jotted that down. She looked at Jessy next.

As soon as they were done here, she and Mark were starting home...after making a special stop along the way. Knowing that she would be cramped in a car and uncomfortable for the foreseeable future, she didn't want to eat very much. "Toast, please."

The waitress nodded, then looked at Mark.

Without looking up from his drawing, he said, "I'd like the meat lovers' breakfast, please."

Jessy rolled her eyes fondly. The meat lover's breakfast, as per the picture in the menu, was a heaping plate of steak, eggs, ham, bacon, and sausage with a bowl of grits on the side. FEEDS TWO it said. They wouldn't even make it out of the state before he had to poop.

The waitress wrote down his order and hurried off. Dad took another drink of his coffee and sat the mug down with a quiet thunk. "I've never been here before," he said, "I have no idea if the food's any good." He glanced at Mark. "I guess he'll be the guinea pig."

"The royal taste tester," Mark replied, laid down the Crayon, and sat back. "If I start to convulse, don't eat anything."

Dad chuckled. "One thing I've never understood is how the royal taste testing process worked. Some poisons take a long time to work. Did the king have to wait hours for his food as they monitored the taste tester?"

"They probably made dinner really early," Mark said.

Dad nodded. "Possibly. He could taste it at noon and they'd have a good three or four hours before it was time to serve it." He took another sip. "I'm not too crazy about the coffee. It tastes like they left it sitting out all night."

A cop in a tan uniform and sunglasses came through the front door, and Dad glanced over his shoulder, tensing slightly. He looked away, caught Jessy looking at him, and smiled nervously. "I'm still kind of edge around the police," he said. "Even though I'm not doing anything wrong, I have the irrational fear that they're going to put me in handcuffs and take me back to prison."

"Mom was like that," Jessy said.

Dad nodded thoughtfully. "I think most people are when they come out. Going back is the most terrifying thing imaginable and being in the presence of someone who symbolizes that makes you a _little_ antsy." He glanced at the cop, who was presently sitting at the counter and talking to one of the waitresses.

"You don't have anything to worry about, though," Jessy said. "If you don't do anything wrong."

Dad turned. "No, I really don't. And I'm not interested in doing wrong. I just want to get on my with my life and make up for lost time." He laid his hand on the table, and after a brief hesitation, Jessy took it in hers. He smiled warmly. "Your birthday's coming up."

"Yeah," she said, "in a month."

"I really wish I could be there for it," he said, a somber inflection in his voice, "I can't, but I did get you something." He pulled away from her hand and Jessy watched curiously as he leaned to one side and dug in his pocket. He pulled out a small black box and held it up. "You don't strike me as a jewelry type of girl," he said and opened it, "but I hope you like this."

Jessy's eyes widened. Inside was a silver ring set with a tiny blue sapphire - her birthstone.

It looked expensive.

"Oh wow," she said and looked up at him. "It's beautiful," she said earnestly. "You didn't have to do that, though."

He chuckled. "Maybe not," he said, "but I wanted to." He motioned for her take the box and she did. "Try it on and see if it fits. I had to guess at the size."

She took the ring between her thumb and forefinger and carefully removed it from the box as though it were made of glass. She held it up to the light and studied it for a moment: The band was inlaid with turquoise, and her name was engraved on the inside.

No, she was _not_ a jewellery kind of girl, but she was in love with the ring before she even put it on - because of its beauty, and because it was from her father. "How does it fit?" Dad asked worriedly.

"Good," Jessy said. It was a little snug, but not enough to cut off her blood circulation or to pinch a nerve. Mark leaned in to get a closer look and hummed his appreciation.

"It looks really nice on you," Dad said.

She agreed. It looked wonderful.

"Don't _I_ get a present?" Mark asked.

Dad favored him with a blank stare then lifted one shoulder. "You can have the box," he offered and pushed it across the table.

Mark looked at it appraisingly then picked it up, his brow pinched in thought. _Whatever shall I keep in here?_ He seemed to light upon an idea: He plucked hs Crayon up, snapped it in half, and put one piece inside and closed the lid. "For the road," he explained.

For a moment, Dad simply looked at him, then laughed. "You're a strange guy, Mark. I like that."

"It's my Aspburger's," Mark said, "it and possibly my reaction thereto. I don't know."

"I didn't know you were on the autism spectrum," Dad said curiously.

Mark nodded. "Barely. It's a very mild form. I don't have a lot of the traits that characterize it. I have some, though. I sometimes line things up and make patterns just because whatever surface I'm working with looks like it could use a pattern. I used to be worse, especially with excessive verbosity. My mother said I spoke in purple prose; it drove her crazy, so I did it on purpose." He grinned.

"He's _always_ picking on his mother," Jessy laughed and leaned her shoulder against him. "That poor woman."

Mark shrugged. "She makes herself an easy target."

Jessy remembered the first time she went over to Mark's house. They were going upstairs so that he could show her his computer and he told his mother _we're going to upload some data...install a little hardware...transfer encoded files from one unit to another_.

 _You're being dirty, aren't you?_ Mrs. DuChamp asked sourly.

 _No,_ Mark replied, _why would you even think that?_

When they were out of earshot, Mark told Jessy _I was_ totally _being dirty. Just to irritate her._ For him, annoying his mother was a beloved pastime.

The waitress returned momentarily with their food and sat a plate before each of them: Jessy's brows raised at the amount on Mark's plate. "That's a lot of meat," she said when the waitress was gone.

"I know, I think I made a mistake," Mark admitted. "I'll never be able to eat all of this."

"On the bright side," Dad said, "the leftovers should hold you until Michigan."

"And for several days afterwards," Mark added.

They ate in silence, Jessy dividing her attention between the door and the ring on her finger; if she moved it just so, it caught and refracted the light of the sun like the placid surface of a mountain lake. She ran the pad of her thumb over the band, tracing its contours, and smiled to herself. She liked it very much.

When they were done, they lingered for a long time, Jessy and her father making small talk to delay the inevitable parting. Eventually, they paid, got up, and made their way outside, where the day had grown cloudy and cool. At the Beetle, Jessy's father hugged her tightly and she hugged him back. "I really enjoyed having you here," he said and rubbed a circle between her shoulder blades. "Come back soon?"

There was a pleading quality in his voice that twisted in her heart like a knife. "I will," she said, and in that moment she made a decision. "For Christmas."

"I'd like that," Dad said. He stepped back and held her at arm's length. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

She didn't think leaving him would be hard, but it was, and the thought of him being here all alone, with no family around, made her feel even worse.

So much worse that she almost cried.

Or did cry.

But only a little.

* * *

There comes a point in every artist's life when they get _tired_ of what they are doing, when they realize they are simply going through the motions and no longer enjoy their craft. For Lola, that revelation came as she sat alone backstage at the 1990 MTV Video Music Awards, waiting to lose Best Female Video to either Sinead O'Connor or Madonna. She was ensconced in her dressing room and staring at herself in the vanity mirror when it hit her: _I don't want to do this anymore._

You might expect those seven words to strike her like a shot in the dark, but they didn't - she'd known in her heart for a very long time that she was happy with her career, wasn't fulfilled, and hadn't been in years, if ever.

When those thoughts appeared, she shoved them quickly and roughly away. _Everyone feels like this from time to time,_ she thought, _it's fatigue. That's all._ She knew better, though, but what else could she do? She wanted nothing more than to sing since she was a little girl, she built her life around it, staked her identity on it - if it fell apart, _she_ fell apart. Without singing, who was she... _what_ was she? She had no hobbies, no other defining interests - for over twenty years it was music, music, music. She lived it, breathed it, and dreamed about it at night. She _was_ music...and nothing more.

Sighing heavily, she glanced at the television screen where a live feed of the show played: Janet Jackson gyrated onstage while a guitarist knelt in front of her, thrusting his instrument toward her in a suggestive manner. She looked like she was having a good time, and Lola found herself envying the black woman. If only she, too, could have fun…

The door opened behind her, and she turned as Bobby came in, one arm braced under Stephanie's butt and her arm thrown around his neck. She wore a pink dress and black shoes with buckles, her blonde hair in pigtails. "She got tired of walking," Bobby explained as he closed the door and crossed to the leather sofa against the far wall. Stephy was a social butterfly, and very much enjoyed mingling with the celebrities, technicians, and security guards crowding the backstage area. When they first came in, she waved to everyone and thrust her headless Barbie at anyone who got too close. _Barbie bad so I put her head in time out,_ she piped to Steven Tyler from Aerosmith. _Whoa, that's harsh,_ he laughed, and Stephy shrugged. _She don't listen_.

Bobby sat and Stephy muttered something that Lola couldn't hear. "I know, honey," he said, "but you're not getting it back." Lola lifted one brow and Bobby sighed. "She threw her Barbie at at MC Hammer because his pants were ugly."

Lola was shocked into laughter.

"Yeah, I'm glad _you_ think it's funny," Bobby said, "it wasn't you he challenged to a dance off and embarrassed in front of everyone."

" _I'd_ have won," Lola pointed out.

Bobby grimaced. "Eh, I dunno, the guy has moves."

"I want my Barbie," Stephy said, louder this time.

"You can have it back when we leave."

She pushed away from her father, rolled off his lap, and sat next to him with her arms crossed and a sullen expression on her face. Bobby put his hand on her shoulder and she squirmed away. "No," she said sharply.

"Stephanie, be nice," Lola said.

"Don't wanna."

"Do you want to go in time out?" Lola asked.

Stephy didn't reply.

Counting that as a win, she turned back to the table and grabbed a bottle of water. Onscreen, this year's host, Arsenio Hall, walked across the stage in a hat and long coat, speaking into a microphone. " _...on the armed forces network, which means we're reaching Saudi Arabia right now…_ "

She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. She knew she was going to lose tonight, but right now she found herself actively hoping for it because she didn't feel like performing. She just wanted to go home and be with her family. Let Madonna and Motley Crue have their inane awards; they didn't mean anything anyway.

On the couch, Bobby spoke softly to Stephanie and she responded by hugging herself even tighter than before. She was starting school next month and Lola worried how she would take it given her hyperactivity and her inability to listen. They took her to the doctor's again earlier in the year and they reluctantly diagnosed her with ADHD - if it didn't clear up by the time she was older, she was going to have to take medication to control it. Lola was seriously considering a private tutor until Stephy hopefully outgrew her condition, but she wasn't sure if that was the best course of action or not.

Sometimes it felt like she didn't know anything...sometimes it felt like she was still dumb, poor white trash.

She shut the line of thinking down before the self-loathing set in, the feeling that she was a fraud and everyone knew it, a fraud as a musician... _and_ as a mother.

That last one bothered her the most. Lana felt the same way, and they talked about it sometimes. Lana, though, was well-adjusted, _she_ was not. Lana made peace with growing up no better than scum, but for some reason, Lola couldn't. It was like a cancer deep in her heart, a cancer that was nominally under control, but would come out and spread through her entire being if she wasn't careful. When it did, she could hardly function: She would lay in bed, crushed under the weight of her own hopelessness.

It didn't happen very often, thank God.

She wouldn't let it.

On TV, Arsenio walked through the crowd and shook hands with Billy Idol, who took swigs from a bottle of beer. Next he went to MC Hammer, who sat a couple rows back. " _What's up, Hammer? You gonna dance tonight? You gonna do that constipation dance?"_

Bobby reached into his jacket and pulled on Stephy's Barbie. "Here," he said and handed it to her, "do _not_ throw it again, or it's going into the trash."

The little girl brightened and snatched it from her father's grasp. "Barbie! You okay!" she said, as though she expected Bobby to have done something horrible to it...like rip ts head off. Lola smiled and propped her elbow on the counter, her fingers threading through her hair. Maybe she should retire...give up music and be a full time mother. No more sitters, no more nannies, no more being away from home for extended periods, or dragging her kids on world tours that never seemed to end. Just her, Stephanie, and Valentino while Daddy was at work.

That sounded nice.

Very nice.


	155. August 1990: Part 6

Lynn stared up at the TV, where Diane Sawyer, in a pink blazer with big shoulder pads over a white blouse, talked about that Stephen King guy Alex liked. " _...more than 170 million copies of his books in print worldwide; he's one of the most prolific writers ever - he's only forty-two years old but he's already written_ thirty _books...and twelve of them made into movies_."

Hm. That's a lot of books. None of them are _What to Expect: The First Year_ , though, so they didn't really matter. The aforementioned book was currently tented on her chest; she read for an hour after dinner but stopped when she started to get a headache. Her Game Boy was on the bed next to her: She finally caved and asked Mama to get it for her before she left. The batteries were dead now, and it was silent.

She was just picking the book back up when the door opened and someone came in. She glanced over...and recoiled in surprise, which hurt her stitches and made her wince. She didn't know who she was expecting, but it sure wasn't Jessy.

"Hey!" Lynn said happily and tossed the book aside. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Mark and I were visiting my father in California and thought we'd drop by." She came over to the bed and Mark followed, looking goofy and gangly as always. "How do you feel?"

Lynn shrugged. "Alright, kind of sore and tired." She saw Mark looking at the Game Boy. "And my Game Boy's dead."

"Where's the baby?" Jessy asked.

"In the nursery," Lynn said. "They should be bringing her around for a feeding any time."

Jessy sat in the chair next to the bed. "Are you breastfeeding?"

"Yeah," Lynn said and glanced at the pump on the nightstand, "they gave me _that_ thing but working it's kind of difficult."

"It looks simple to me," Mark deadpanned.

Lynn couldn't tell if he was teasing her or not, but she never could. " _You_ didn't just have your stomach cut open," she said archly.

"True," he said. "Were you awake?"

Lynn shook her head. "Nah, they put me out."

"How does it _feel?_ " Jessy asked, her face crinkling.

For a moment Lynn thought. "Well, when I move it stings and feels like the stitches are gonna rip. Coughing hurts, laughing hurts, taking a deep breath hurts. _I_ hurt." She stuck out her bottom lip. No point in denying it.

"Are they giving you painkillers?" Jessy asked, a note of concern in her voice.

"Yeah," Lynn said, "I should be getting one soon, actually." She looked at the clock: It was 6:46. At seven the nurse would bring her a pill.

For awhile, she and Jessy made small talk while Mark wandered aimlessly around the room looking at things...and touching them too. "What was your dad like?" Lynn asked. All she knew about Jessy's father was that he was in prison for the same reason her mother was. When she first met Aunt Luan, she had no idea why the woman was in jail for so long, and her father wouldn't tell her. _When you're older_. Apparently twenty-one wasn't old enough, so last year she went to her mother and got the full story.

"Great," Jessy said with a happy smile, "he's really smart and kind. He knows all sorts of stuff."

If he was so smart and kind he wouldn't have spent twenty years in the slammer for killing someone, Lynn thought but did not say.

"How are your mom and dad?"

Lynn nodded. "They're good. Dad's still on his diet."

"How's he doing with it?"

"Pretty good," Lynn said, "he's down to….200, I think."

"That _is_ good. Bunny's been talking about going on a diet to get rid of the baby fat...then she comes through the door with McDonald's."

Lynn and Jessy both laughed. That sounded like Alex alright. The sad thing was, Lynn would do the same thing. "How big is she?"

"Not _too_ big," Jessy said, "but bigger than she used to be."

The book _did_ say to expect the weight to stick around a while. Lynn wasn't really concerned with it, though. She had more important things to worry about - like being a good mommy.

Shortly after seven, the nurse came in with a pill _and_ Maddie. When Jessy saw her, her eyes got really big and she covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, she's adorable."

The nurse handed the baby to Lynn and then the pill. Lynn took it and cradled Maddie to her chest. Jessy leaned over the rail and beamed down at the little girl. "That's your cousin Jessy," Lynn said, "she's kind of a geek...but in a good way."

Maddie stared at her cousin with mild interest. Lynn took her breast out and brought her to the nipple; the baby latched on and started to suckle, never asking her eyes off of Jessy. Mark came over, saw what was happening, and turned around. "She's cute," he said.

"She looks a lot like Ritchie," Lynn said.

"Yes, she does," Jessy agreed.

Before she was done feeding Maddie, the nurse came in to say visiting hours were over. Jessy leaned over and wrapped her arm around Lynn's shoulder. "It was good seeing you," Lynn said.

"You too," Jessy replied, "sorry we couldn't stay longer." She smiled at Maddie and touched the tip of her nose.

Lynn looked at Mark, who stood with his back to her. "You can turn around," she said, "you can't see anything."

"If you're comfortable with it," Mark said.

"Go ahead."

He turned and looked at Maddie. "She _is_ cute."

When they were gone, Lynn stroked her daughter's head and closed her eyes. Before long, they were both asleep.

* * *

Rita Loud sat stiffly in the examine room with her purse in her lap, Luan in the chair next to her and Lincoln leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. In her seventy-two years on this earth, she had learned to be patient - sometimes you simply have to wait for things. Today, however, she was restless; her eyes kept darting to the clock on the wall and her aching hands worried the straps of her purse like a Catholic praying the rosary. "Are we almost done?" she asked. "We've been here for hours and I'm going to miss my show if we don't leave soon."

"We haven't been here _that_ long," Luan said.

The appointment was scheduled for ten, and though the clock said eleven-oh-two, it felt as though they had been there all day. Rita didn't often suffer bad moods, but right now she was annoyed, and it took great effort to not lash out: Her knees ached, her hands ached, her back ached, and she was exhausted even though she slept her usual eight hours - or was it seven? She seemed to remember waking up in the night, but that could very well have been a dream.

She dreamed a lot these days, and they were so vivid that come daylight, telling them apart from memories was difficult. She made sure not to mention them to anyone for fear of confusing something that didn't happen with something that did; Lincoln and Luan both already thought she was going senile, that's why they were here today, wasn't it?

That annoyed Rita the most; she understood that they were worried about her, but she didn't like being dragged all over God's green earth because her son and daughter didn't understand that memory loss is a normal part of aging. She wanted to be home, in her chair, where she was comfortable, not sitting here in a cold and sterile room with harsh lights that stung her eyes, waiting to possibly be told she'd need to see a specialist. _You need to make even more doctor visits now, Mrs. Loud, which means more car rides, more walking, and more discomfort._

It also annoyed her that she might miss The Bobby Jr. Show. She didn't get to see her grandson in person very often and watching him on the TV was how she stayed in touch with him. Occasionally she even talked to the screen; she knew he couldn't hear her, she wasn't insane, but it made her feel better. Until when she actually spoke to him on the phone and confused something she told the TV with something she told him. _No, you_ didn't _tell me that, grandma._ She would insist that she did, then remember that she really didn't, and laugh because it _was_ amusing. No wonder Lincoln and Luan thought she was going dotty. An old woman is allowed to be a _little_ eccentric, though - seven decades of life will do that to you, which is why God, in his infinite mercy, gave human beings an expiration date. Can you imagine struggling under the weight of five hundred years? Your mind would eventually snap and you'd be stark, raving mad. How Noah and the others did it was beyond her - maybe people were stronger back then.

Luan shifted in her seat and grimaced. "My butt's getting sore," she explained when Lincoln lifted his brow.

"We've been here for hours," Rita said, a note of exasperation in her voice. "My butt hurts too."

"We haven't been here that long," Luan repeated.

"It feels like it," Rita replied sharply. She glanced at the clock again, then to the skeleton propped in a corner. Was it plastic or real? How awful if it was real - that poor person doomed to be gawked at forever instead of given the respect of a proper burial. If it were Lynn, she'd be furious. How dare they do that to her husband...to the man she loved and bore children to.

Sudden tears filled her eyes and she looked away.

Lincoln noticed and frowned. "You okay, Mom?"

"I'm fine," she said, "I'm just tired."

She didn't see the look of concern pass between her son and daughter, and wouldn't have cared if she did. She just wanted to go home and watch her show - that always made her feel better. She didn't get to see Bobby Jr. very often, and seeing him on TV was a way of staying in touch with him; she even talked to him sometimes. Of course she knew he couldn't hear her, but she did it anyway, like she talked to Russel even though she was certain he didn't understand a word she said. Some, perhaps, but not many. Sit, stay, good boy, no, those sorts of things. Oh, and Lincoln, he understood that because she kept calling him it. She didn't actually confuse them (one was a dog and the other was her son), she just got mixed up. She did the same thing when the kids were young - she'd mean to call Lori but call every other child instead. If she was angry, she'd be fuming by the time she landed on the right name, and she'd be more likely to mete out a harsher punishment.

A fond smile touched her lips and the tears in her eyes burned off like puddles in the summer sun. Sometimes she sorely missed her children being young and at home. She had Luan, and her husband too (Fred, that's right, I didn't forget) but the house still felt empty, even twenty-five years after the final child moved on.

"We'll be done soon," Luan said and patted Rita's leg. "Then we can go home and watch _The Brash and the Bountiful_."

She smiled. "That sounds nice. If only Dr. Hartfield would hurry up. That man is so slow sometimes." She laughed.

"Dr. Hartfield died, Mom," Lincoln said.

Oh, right. "That explains why he's so slow then."

Lincoln and Luan both laughed nervously.

As if one cue, the door opened and the new doctor came in, a short, squat man with graying hair and a thick mustache. For a moment Rita couldn't remember his name, even though she'd been seeing him regularly for the past fifteen years, then it came to her: Faraday. Like in the old 3 Stooges shorts that played before the movie and after the newsreel. _I'm Calladay; I'm Faraday; I'm Christmas Day._ "I'm back," he said archly and glanced up from his clipboard. "The Wilson boy broke his leg...again. I swear high school football is worse than Roman gladiator fights."

"I agree." Luan said.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. Pansies.

"So, Rita, I'm going to refer you to a specialist in Detroit," Dr. Faraday said and favored her with a neutral expression that all doctors seemed to have in their repertoire. A poker face, they called it - you couldn't tell if you were dying or indestructible. Rita sighed deeply and clutched her purse straps; her joints hurt, but she did it anyway. "He should be able to pinpoint what's going on and get you better." He turned to Lincoln. "I'll give you his number and you can call for an appointment."

"You have no idea what it?" Lincoln asked, his shoulders shrugging.

Dr. Faraday tilted his head to one side in as if to say _eh, not really._ "It can be the normal wear and tear of aging, it could be dementia, it could be Alzheimer's, it's hard to tell with these things. That's why I'm sending you to a specialist - they're specifically trained to identify what's wrong. It's going to be a full work up and will probably take several days, but after that you'll know exactly what's going on and how to handle it."

Rita sighed. Several days? Just the prospect exhausted her. "Are you sure this is necessary?" she asked.

Dr. Faraday looked at her and ticked his head from side to side. "Yeah," he said, "it's necessary. Something could potentially be wrong and it's best to get checked out. Worst case scenario, or best depending on how you look at it: You waste a little bit of time. It's worth it, in my opinion. We wanna make sure you're hale and healthy." He flashed a contrived smile that Rita liked even less than his patronizing tone.

"Yes, we do," Lincoln said.

Rita looked at Luan, and the girl offered a weak smile of agreement. "Fine," Rita sighed, "will I have to be put in the medical place?"

"The hospital?" Dr. Faraday asked. "No, it can be done on an outpatient basis and, I think, it can also be spread out and not done all in a row."

Well, thank God for _that_.

After Dr. Faraday left, Luan helped Rita to her feet and Lincoln handed her her cane. She took it, wrapped her aching fingers around the grip, and hobbled into the hall with Lincoln on one side and Luan on the other. "I really don't like this," she said, "there's nothing wrong, I'm just getting old." Even as she spoke those words, however, she wondered, as she had several times over the past few months, if maybe there _wasn't_ a larger issue. She didn't know much about the human brain, but she did know that sometimes, as one ages, it breaks down much quicker and more dramatically than it should. One of her aunts developed dementia when she was in her sixties - this was the thirties and it wasn't called dementia then, it was...something else: She would sit in her rocking chair and talk to people who weren't there, and if you went to sit in an empty chair she'd yell at you for 'trying to sit on Margaret's lap.'

Goodness, she wasn't _that_ bad. Still, perhaps Dr. Hartfield was right - any disease, whether of the body or the mind - has to start somewhere, and small, too.

At the counter, she and Luan waited while Lincoln signed papers and collected the specialist's information. The waiting room was full of people now, a little boy sitting in front of a play cube with a confused tangle of different colored loops that you moved beads along. Rita watched him with a nostalgic smile on her face. She remembered Lynn being that little, and Lincoln too. Some days it seemed to have just happened (to the point where she was almost shocked to see a grown man where her baby boy should be), and others it might as well have been an eternity ago.

Rita's stomach growled, and she turned to Luan, "Can we stop at McDonald's, dear? I'm in the mood for one of those little cheeseburgers."

"Sure," Luan said.

Lincoln, bent over the counter and writing on a sheet of paper, sniffed. "You know, I literally own a restaurant. We can go there."

"I don't want your food, I want McDonald's," Rita said.

Luan snickered and Lincoln sighed. When he was done, he slid the paper through the window and took a card from the secretary. "Dr. B. Hastings," he read as he, Rita, and Luan went out into the waiting room, "geriatrician. Sounds expensive."

"That's why I have health insurance," Rita said.

"These doctors are thieves," Lincoln said and held the door open, a furnace blast of air sweeping in. "They charge hundreds of dollars for a CAT scan that takes two minutes."

Luan patted his shoulder as she passed. "Stop being a grouse."

That made Lincoln frown. _Why do people keep calling me that?_

At the car, he and Luan helped Mom in, being careful not to hurt her. "Don't forget I want to stop at McDonald's," she said when he slipped behind the wheel. There was a hint of worry in her voice as though he and Luan Luan not feeding her happened daily.

"Alright, Mom," he said and buckled his seatbelt, "I won't forget to stop by Flip's."

Luan fondly rolled her eyes in the passenger seat.

"I don't like Flip's, I like McDonald's," Mom declared.

He started to retort with _okay, after McDonald's, we'll stop at a nursing home, how about that?_ but before he spoke it struck him just how awful that was. Somewhere over the past twenty-three years, he developed a morib sense of humor. The doctor at the VA thought it was a coping mechanism. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but he normalized it to the point where he rarely ever thought deeply about his jokes. Now, he imagined Mom alone and afraid in a nursing home, abandoned by her children, confused and waiting for visits that would never come...left in her own mess for hours on end by callous staff to whom she was just another number and not _Mom..._ and shivered. If he knew himself the way he thought he did, that vision would _probably_ haunt his sleep tonight.

Lovely, as if he didn't have enough phantoms lurking in his head.

Starting the ignition, he threw the car into reverse and backed out of the spot. At the street, he paused to wait for traffic and fiddled with the radio. "When is my next appointment?" Mom asked anxiously.

"I don't know," Lincoln said, "I haven't made it yet."

Faraday said he wasn't sure if anything was wrong or not, but Lincoln was dreadfully certain that there was. He'd known a lot of old people in his time (a couple of his regulars were in their eighties), and he was familiar with the _normal wear and tear of aging_. That's not what this was - she just asked about an appointment she should have known wasn't scheduled yet. If that wasn't a bad sign, he didn't know what the hell _was_.

A pang of fear rippled through his stomach and he took a deep, reflexive breath. Traffic cleared, and he gave up the search for something worth listening to, leaving the dial on a talk show hosting by a blowhard pushing for Bush to send troops to the Middle East. Lincoln shook his head as he turned onto Main and started for McDonald's. If you asked him, America needed to mind its own business and let everyone else mind theirs. The thing was, though, every time something went wrong somewhere, they came to _us_ for help. _America, please, a typhoon! America, please, the leader we elected and chanted for is killing us! America, please, we still have AIDS and nothing to eat._ Most of those countries hated our guts until they wanted something. They burned our flag and called for us to stop being the world's policeman...then when someone invaded their asses, they came crawling to us. _Please, America, play policeman._

Fuck that. We have our own people and our own problems, leave us alone. We're not your doctor, your lawyer, your cop, your bank, your pantry, or your clean up crew.

At the very least, don't complain about us acting like the world's keeper when you repeatedly ask us to _be_ the world's keeper. Dumbasses.

Suddenly, something occurred to him.

 _This_ is why people kept calling him a grouse.

Ahead, the golden arches towered loftily over Main Street, and Lincoln's eye narrowed. Remember that guy who shot one of these things up in '84? He was Lincoln's hero.

God, not really! Jeez, I gotta cool it with the dark jokes.

He spun the wheel and turned into the parking lot, then navigated the drive-thru, stopping at the order box. "What do you want, Mom?" he asked as he scanned the menu. Other people might see "Big Mac" "Quarter Pounder with Cheese" and "French Fries" but he saw "Crap" :Garbage" and "Competition." If the place wasn't filled with people, he'd plow his car through the wall, switch spots with Mom, and blame it on her. _She's old and confused, officer, she didn't mean it._

Mom hummed in contemplation. "One of those little cheeseburgers. Like Alex brings me."

He looked at Luan. "You want anything?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head. Like the old hippie hold over she was, she didn't like chain stores, fast food restaurants, or capitalism.

He placed his order and drove to the first window, where he paid a teenage girl, then advanced to the second. They made you go to two windows, what kind of runaround is _that?_ This place was a nightmare, Flip's was _much_ better.

Another teenager, this one a boy, leaned out of the window and handed him a bag and he, in turn, handed it back to Mom. "Thank you, honey."

"You're welcome." He put the car in drive and pulled to the street. Paper crinkled as Mom opened her burger.

"Oh, dear," she drew.

Lincoln braked and looked into the rearview mirror: She stared down at her lap (and presumably her food) as though it were vaguely disgusting. "What?" he asked.

"This has onions on it. I don't like onions. I like it with just ketchup."

"You should have told me that, Mom," he said.

"I did," she replied with strained patience, "you didn't listen, which is why I kept repeating myself."

He started to reply, sure that she never once mentioned having a hard-on against onions, but stopped. _DId_ she? He glanced at Luan for help, and she offered a tight, lipless smile that told him no, Mom did _not_ bring up her hate for onions.

Sighing, Lincoln turned left and went through _again_ , paying his stiffest competition for _two_ hamburgers. "You can have the onion one, dear," Mom said and passed the tainted burger between the seats. Lincoln took it, looked at Luan (do you want this?), then flung it out the window when she shook her head. It was petty, but the way it fell apart and then plopped wetly to the ground brought him savage satisfaction.

There, Ronald McDonald, that's what _I_ think of your slop.

Stupid clown.

I bet you dodged the draft, too.

Asshole.

* * *

Alex Loud sat at the table in her parents' sunwashed kitchen, a mug of lukewarm coffee before her and Blake in her lap: He faced his grandmother, his chubby little hands braced on the edge of the table and his mommy's fingers laced over his pudgy stomach. Mom leaned over and flashed a big, exaggerated smile. "Your mother's afraid of commitment," she cooed. "Yes she is."

"No, I'm not," Alex said with a _pffft_. She gestured her chin at the top of Blake's head. "He's proof."

She and Blake had been here most of the day, fighting over Mom's attention (Blake always won for some reason) and, as it was wont to eventually do, the topic of marriage came up. _Ya need to marry Tim, Alex, you also need to wear old lady dresses and listen to hippie music from the sixties just like me._ That was a joke. She didn't really feel like Mom was pushing her, but at the same time, she wasn't in any particular rush to say I do. Like she said, she and Tim had a child together, what deeper bond is there? What stronger commitment? Going to Woodstock together like Mom and Dad probably most likely did?

Mom sat back and took a drink of her coffee. "Then why don't you marry him already?"

"We're gonna get married. In the winter." As she spoke, a pang of apprehension cut through her chest. She loved Tim dearly, but you know, deep down, maybe the idea of marriage _did_ kind of intimidate her.

Not much, though.

"Good," Mom said. "Being married might not seem like much, but it means everything. Trust me. The only regret I have about marrying your father is that I didn't do it sooner."

Aw. How sweet.

Yuck.

In all seriousness, her parents were very much in love even after, like, fifty years, and it was really heart-warming to see them being affectionate with one another. She had no doubt in her mind that she wanted the same thing with Tim, but...she didn't know...she was weird, alright? "Yeah," she sighed, "and we're gonna get there."

"I hope," Mom said over the rim of her mug, "I just sense some hesitation on your part."

Alex shook her head. "Nope. None at all."

"If there's a reason…"

"No," she said instantly, and unlike her last statement, this one was not a ie. "I love him and he makes me happy. I make fun of him for being a dork, but he's really not. He's the coolest guy ever." Tingling warmth filled her chest and a dreamy smile touched her lips. "And he's my best friend."

Mom smiled too. "I feel the same way about your father and I'm...I'm glad I've had him in my life." She blinked as if against tears and took a deep breath. "Anyway, if you're serious, we better start planning." She cracked a devious grin that told Alex she was going to enjoy this as much, if not more, than Alex herself.

"Alright," Alex said casually, "sure."

Blake slapped the table and kicked his little legs as though the prospect of his parents tying the knot excited him. "That's right," Mom cooed, "we're gonna plan a big, awesome wedding. No justice of the peace for _your_ mommy."

Alex smiled and did her best to pretend that she _wasn't_ nervous.

But only a little.

Just a little.


	156. May 1991: Part 1

**Lyrics to** _ **Unbelievable**_ **by EMF (1990)**

They say that when God closes a door, He opens a window. Lincoln Loud did not believe in the great I am, but sometimes things have a funny way of working out, almost like there really _is_ someone behind it all. Standing at the coffin and staring down at the upturned face of the body within, he mused that this was merely coincidence and nothing more, yet, in his current state, he was inclined to see things differently...and maybe not entirely rationally.

It was May 2, 1991, and in two days, Alex and Tim were getting married. It would be a small ceremony in the backyard of his mother's house, attended only by Tim's parents and Lincoln's own family. Alex wanted the wedding in January because _pfft, no one does dead-of-winter weddings and I wanna be original_ , but she had to settle or May because that was the only time everyone could synchronize their schedules and come out. Everyone was going to be there: Lola and Bobby Jr., Lynn, Lynn Jr. and her husband, even Lana and Jeb were driving in from Tennessee. Lola told him over the phone that she was bringing a _special guest_. Whoever _that_ was.

Marriage, to Lincoln, symbolized the beginning of a new life almost as much as birth; two hearts being joined as one and all that. It was oddly fitting that another life would end soon before, the old giving way to the new, a door closing so that a window could open.

A rush of tears blurred Lincoln's vision and he blinked them back. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. When his father died? He didn't know and he didn't care. He wasn't tough, and he wasn't emotionless, but over time, we tend to grow numb to things like grief. When you're ten and you hurt yourself, you shed tears. When you're thirty and do the same thing, you cuss, hiss, and say _goddamn it, that's painful_ then move on. It's like that with mourning too. In his lifetime, Lincoln had lost two sisters before their time, and his father. He thought he'd built up a tolerance for that kind of pain. But he hadn't, it seemed. Icy claws squeezed his heart in a hateful grip, and every time he thought about the deceased, sharp pangs radiated from the center of his stomach and rippled through his entire body.

Ronnie Anne laid her hand on his back and rubbed a slow, comforting circle, just as she did when it was Luna lying in repose, and Leni, and his father. Everytime something bad happened in his life, she was right there to lean on. He appreciated it always, but in times like this, it struck him just how important that was to him.

He sighed and wiped his eyes. "You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said heavily, his eyes never leaving Blades' face. The man's eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, combining with the color in his cheeks to lend him the appearance of being merely asleep. Lincoln met him for the first time in the summer of 1958, when Bobby drafted Lincoln to help him win Lori's heart. He knew of him before that, but that was the beginning to which Lincoln traced the thread of their acquaintance. They didn't speak much, and, now that Lincoln thought about it, they didn't see very much of each other through the sixties. In 1972, Blades started working for the company that delivered to Flip's, and once a week, like clockwork, he came in, and Lincoln gave him free food because it was a courtesy Flip taught him to pay to the delivery guys, and maybe because Blades was one of the only people Lincoln really _knew_. Not much, but enough.

Somewhere along the way, Lincoln, normally guarded, came to think of Blades as his friend...perhaps his _only_ friend. They had a history that went back decades. Sure, there were dead zones here and there, but Lincoln knew him when he was a wannabe in a leather jacket, and he knew Lincoln when he was a geek in a cardigan. Those distant memories, so far removed from the present, bound them inextricably together like shared secrets. It wasn't a lot, but they built on it, and when James, Blades' son, called the restaurant with the news, the air left Lincoln's lungs in a rush as though someone punched him in the guts. He didn't feel that with Dad or Leni, because he expected both to die - in fact, he hadn't felt like that since Luna. That night, sitting in front of the evening news, he started to think of all the bull sessions he and Blades had over the years, and was surprised to find himself tearing up.

It was starting to get stuffy in here, and nerves knotted in Lincoln's stomach. Breathing came hard, and his heart slammed wildly. For some reason he felt like he was being watched even though he knew he wasn't. The lump of scar tissue where he was shot in Vietnam quivered with phantom pain and the bitter taste of maggot guts flooded hs mouth.

He was getting triggered.

Goddamn it.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled away from the coffin. He needed to get out of here. Ronnie Anne frowned and followed as he made his way through the crowded church.

Outside, the day was blustry and cool, not yet fully spring but getting there. The dirt lot skirting the church was packed with cars, and a hearse idled along the side, its front end sticking out from around the side of the building like a skeleton from a closet - a quick flash of white...enough to tell you something was wrong.

Lincoln let out a pent-up breath and allowed his shoulders to sag, but only a little. He was with Ronnie Anne, and though he would never show his weaknesses to his daughters, grandson, or anyone else, it was okay to let her see. "I'm not going to the cemetery," he said, not knowing what he was saying until he heard it coming out.

"You don't have to," Ronnie Anne said softly as she took his hand. "He'd understand."

Maybe he would...maybe he wouldn't. No one can fully understand unless they've been there too.

He was getting off track and thinking about war again. Death had a way of doing that to him. "You wanna go?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said with a twinge of shame.

She squeezed his hand and gave him a warm smile. "Okay. Come on, lame-o, if we hurry we can be home in time for _The Brash and the Bountiful._

Lincoln cringed. That was Bobby's show, and from what he kept hearing, his nephew's character was the most popular on it. Lincoln was proud of him...but there was no way in shit he was watching a soap opera. "I'd rather go to work," he said.

"Then go to work," she said and dragged him down the stairs. "And miss out on afternoon sex with your wife."

Oh, well, in _that_ case…

In the car, he started the engine and cast one final look at the church's clapboard facade. Soon enough, he thought darkly, it'd be Mom in there, laid out in a casket like a Thanksgiving turkey. Last September, she was diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. It was moving slowly, the doctor said, but steadily, and even with the medication she was taking, they expected her to be entirely incapacitated, dependant on a caregiver full-time, within two years. He remembered the slow building dread of as Leni's condition gradually worsened, and his stomach twisted.

He didn't want to do that again.

Shoving that thought aside, he threw the car into reverse. He wasn't entirely joking when he said he'd rather go to work than watch that soap, but right now, the only place he saw himself in half an hour was Ronnie Anne's arms.

Where he belonged.

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. pulled up to the main gate at half past one on the afternoon of May 2 and waited behind a silver Mercedes as George, the security guard, leaned out of the booth and made chit chat with the driver. Bobby learned long ago to be patient with George, like you are with the rain...because, like the rain, you had no control over him. You could pull yourself away when he started talking to _you_ , but when it was someone else, you just had to wait.

Not that Bobby was in a hurry.

Settling in, he turned up the radio and nodded along to the song on the radio, a poppy mishmash of piano, cowbell, and guitar accompanied by a high-pitched voice that could belong to a man as easily as it could a woman.

 _You burden me with your problems_

 _By telling me more about mine_

 _I'm always so concerned_

 _With the way you say you've always go to stop to think of us_

 _Being one is more than I ever know_

 _But this time, I realize I'm going to shoot through and leave you_

Tomorrow, he, Steph, and Lola were flying out to Michigan with their "special guest" for Alex's wedding on Saturday. Sunday afternoon, he was flying back alone to tape an episode of _The Brash and the Bountiful_ on Monday morning. The producer called it a "doozy" and wouldn't even let any of the cast see the script before today's table reading. Dread pinched Bobby's stomach and bile coated the back of his throat as he imagined what the hell was in it. He was almost certain that his character was going to be killed off, and where the fuck would that leave him? Out of a job, that's where. Sandra St. John, the woman who played his onscreen mother, told him not to worry. _You're the most popular one here, they won't kill you off; they'll bilk you for everything you're worth_ then _kill you off._ That was...comforting, he supposed, but he was still sick with worry, and every minute he spent sitting here was a minute he wasn't reading a scene where Richard Parker gets shot, stabbed, beaten, blown up, run over, or mauled by a tiger escaped from the circus.

 _The things, you say_

 _Your purple prose just gives you away_

 _The things, you say_

 _You're unbelievable_

If they _did_ kill him off, he shouldn't have much trouble finding something else, right? Sandra aid his was the most popular character on the show, and she wasn't lying: Every week he got bags and bags of fan mail, and when he went out with Lola, just as many people came up to him as her. Last month, he was on the cover of _TV Guide,_ and a couple months before that, he was in a commercial for Jiffy Pop _(Even villains have as much fun making Jiffy Pop as they do eating it)_. In other words, he was famous...and, to be quite honest...he really enjoyed it. For the first time in his life he was somebody - not a dishwasher, not a guy who couldn't dance when dancing was in, and certainly not a mooch living off his rich wife.

He could find something else.

He hoped.

 _You burden me with your questions_

 _You'd have me tell no lies_

 _You're always asking what it's all about, darlin' listen to my replies_

 _You say to me I don't talk enough_

 _But when I do I'm a fool_

 _These times I've spent, I've realized_

 _I'm going to shoot through and leave you_

The gate lifted and the Mercades went through. Bobby toed the gas and pulled abreast of the booth. He lowered the volume and turned to George, who leaned out of the window with a friendly smile. "Hey, Bobby, how's the wife? Saw her on TV the other day, thought she was taking a break."

Last year, Lola decided to go on hiatus; she said she wasn't having as much fun making music as she used to and wanted to be a better mother to Stephanie. Last week, she participated in a charity concert as a favor for the promoter; said promoter took a chance on her and added her to a concert bill in 1982 when she was next to nothing. One of the people who attended was a record company exec who loved her and and practically shoved a contract down her throat. She credited that performance will making her, and after making up with Lana, Lola made it a point to never forgot someone who helped her.

"She's doing good," Bobby said, "she's really enjoying her time off."

George grinned. "That's good. She gonna come back?"

Well...Bobby didn't know the answer to that and neither did she. Knowing how much she loved music, he assumed she would at some point. Then again, she really _was_ enjoying the stay-at-home mom thing. At first she was nervous because _my identity is inextricably linked with music. I'm nothing else._ That made Bobby laugh. Literally. He laughed at her when she said that. She looked at him with wounded eyes and he cupped her cheek in his hand. _You're beautiful, you're intelligent, you've already proven you can succeed...you're so, so much more than music._ She blushed and that was that, her fears were allayed.

"Maybe," he said. "I hate to be rude, but I gotta get in there."

George nodded. "Sure thing. Have a good day, Bobby."

"You too."

George drew back into the booth and threw the switch connected to the gate; it lifted and Bobby drove onto the lot, absently turning the radio back up. " _...declared its independence from the Soviet Union today. Talk about rats deserting a sinking ship, amirite? Pretty soon the USSR's gonna be three guys sitting around a table drinking vodka and talking about how great it was when Stalin was killing everyone._ "

At the studio, Bobby pulled into the slot marked ROBERTO SANTIAGO JR. and killed the engine. Ahead, a man in a blue sweater with the collar of a button-up flipped over the neckline leaned against a wall and smoked a cigarette. He was tall with sharp, goofy features and thick black hair; he and Bobby had something in common.

Getting out, Bobby took off his sunglasses and hooked them into his shirt - pink under a dark blue blazer. The man looked over, saw him, and nodded slightly as if in burdened resignation. Bobby got the feeling he didn't like him, but Bobby didn't like him either. He was a dick. "Hey, Bob!" Bobby called.

Bob took a drag of his cigarette and let it out. "Hey, Bobby," he said flatly and looked off into the distance, trying and failing to find help. With Bob, Bobby played the part of the dumb, annoying kid because that's what Bobby overheard him calling hm one day.

And all he did was make small talk with the guy.

 _You brought this on yourself, buddy,_ Bobby thought and walked over, donning the biggest, cheesiest grin he could. Bob stared into space and took a drag of his cigarette. "Any plans for the weekend?" Bobby asked as he leaned against the wall next to him, copying his slouched pose exactly.

"I have family coming in," Bob said.

"Oh, yeah?" Bobby asked. "That's a coincidence, _I'm_ the family coming in. My cousin's getting married."

Bob pursed his lips in irritation. "That's nice."

"Yep," Bobby said, "who's all coming in?"

A group of twenty-somethings in loud clothes passed by on their way to a studio: A Hispanic with messy black hair and wearing a green tanktop that revealed his muscular arms; a girl with curly brown hair and pants pulled way up her waist; and finally, a small geek with a sharp, hooked nose and curly black hair. "Hey, Screech," Bobby said.

Screech ignored him.

"My sister, her kids, my brother, his kids, couple cousins. Big get together."

A seasoned comedy writer couldn't have set this up better. Grinning, Bobby nudged Bob's arm with his elbow. "Guess you could say you're gonna have a...full house."

Bob rolled his eyes. "You're funny," he said, his voice oozing sarcasm.

A tech with a clipboard in his hands popped out of the studio across the way, glanced around, and spotted them. "We're ready for you, Mr. Saget."

Bob threw his cigarette to the ground and pushed away from the wall. Jesus, the universe is just _giving_ these away. "Hey," Bobby called after Bob; Bob's shoulders tensed. "Looks like you're saved by the bell. Get it? 'Cause they just walked past?"

Bob turned and held up his hand, his eyes hard. "Hey, kid...fuck off." He whipped back around and stalked across the street.

"Everyone likes Jesse and Joey better," Bobby said.

Bob Saget flipped him off.

What a prick.

Shaking his head, Bobby went inside and made his way to the conference room where the readings were held, a giant space dominated by a gleaming oaken table flanked with two dozen swivel chairs. Everyone was already in place. Sandra, Robin - the guy who played his stepfather, still currently in a coma after his big wreck (sorry, pops) - and Amber Paulson, the pretty blonde who played his onscreen step sister, whom,, last season, he seduced despite her biting hatred of him. Tall and slim with high cheekbones and crystal blue eyes, Amber was the type of girl Bobby would go after if he wasn't happily married and in love, even so, kissing her in front of the camera was the most stressful and, frankly, awful thing he'd ever done. They didn't actually kiss (they pressed their lips together and then turned so that Bobby's back faced the camera and hid the action), but...come on...touching lips with a woman who isn't your wife?

Oh, you better believe he caught hell from Grandma the next time he talked to her on the phone. " _If you're going to cheat on your wife,"_ she said with a hint of disgust, " _at least have the decency to do it behind closed doors."_ He had to patiently explain to her again that it was just a show. Mom said she had something called Alzheimer's and it was making her forgetful - Bobby didn't know much about it and didn't want to...it was slowly eating away at her mind like Auntie Leni's disease, and that was too much knowledge for him as it was.

Nodding to his his co stars, he shrugged out of his blazer, draped it over the back of an empty chair, and sat down. Not everyone was here: The producer was absent and so was the director. These clowns insisted everyone arrive on time, yet they were always late. How do you like that? A couple times, Bobby considered intentionally coming in late himself just because he probably could; He was the big star, right? Big stars can do whatever they want.

What stopped him was this: He was a big star because they made him one...they could just as easily throw him away like yesterday's paper and make a new one. Better to be polite and easygoing. People like that...it makes them not want to fire your ass and hire someone else. Hell, this was a soap: Characters come and go all the time.

Shortly, the producer and direction both came in and sat, the latter holding a stack of scripts in his hand. He handed them to Bobby, who was the closest, and he took one then passed the rest along. The title page read EPISODE 40.45 "DARK DESIRES" then the names of the five screenwriters who wrote it. Bobby held it in his hands for a moment, his heart starting to race. Here it was...what could very well be the death of his character and possibly his career.

Flipping ahead was not allowed - they were serious about 'security' around here - so he was forced to read along with everyone else at the speed of hurry-the-hell-up. It seemed to be a normal episode, with the exception of Robin "waking up" from his coma and Amber's character cheating on Bobby's with Bobby's character's archrival Carter Cavanaugh. By the time they reached the last scene, Bobby was starting to breathe easy. It was a little end thing with him and Sandra sitting on the couch in front of the fire and drinking wine.

RICHARD: "Despite it all, it's a lovely night."

 _Susan turns to him with an inscrutable smile._

SUSAN: "It is."

 _Richard turns to her and gazes intently._

RICHARD: "The way the firelight sparkles in your eyes, like two gems in the sun…"

Bobby blinked. That was a weird thing to say to your mother.

 _Susan lowers her head demurely. Richard cups her cheek in his hand and lifts her face to his._

SUSAN: "Richard, this is wrong...the way I feel...the way I want you. My own son."

Bobby's jaw fucking dropped. He jerked a disbelieving glance around. _Are you guys reading this shit?_ They were, and none looked in the least bit fazed.

RICHARD: "Don't fight it. Give in to the feelings."

 _They lean into one another and passionately kiss. FADE TO BLACK._

For a second Bobby gaped down at the script before him, his eyes the size of dinner plates and acid bubbling sickly in his stomach. He...he thought he was going to puke.

"And that's that," the producer said and sat back with a satisfied smile. "Season finale."

Bobby's head spun. He kissed...his mother. His fucking _mother_. Yeah, it's fictional but...a shiver of revulsion dropped down his spine. A vision of him with his own mother flashed across his mind...holding her cheek in his hand, staring longingly into her eyes, brushing his lips against hers.

He gagged.

"Well, _that_ was certainly unexpected," Sandra said and closed her script with a flourish. Everyone hummed their agreement...like it was nothing more than a character filing for divorce or falling into a coma. Bobby pressed his fingers to his temple; his head was spinning and he swore he heard the Twilight Zone theme song striking up.

He looked at the producer; his arms were crossed smugly over his chest. "Hey," Bobby said, and the producer turned to him. "Uh, yeah, I, uh...what the fuck was _that?_ " He gestured to the script in front of him.

"The season finale," the producer responded nonplussed.

"Yeah, I got that...why am I...why am I…?" he was stammering. "W-Why am I doing that with my mother?"

The producer tilted his head in confusion. "You're not. Richard's doing it with _his_."

A soft, stilted chuckle went around the table, the kind that greets a bad joke told by a very important person. Was he seriously the only one who had a problem with this? He knew Hollywood types had looser morals than everyone else, but come on! Richard just French kissed his mother, and from the way they were talking, they probably even had...had...he couldn't even bring him to think of what they did after the credits rolled. Call him crazy, but that was fucking gross no matter _who_ was doing it.

God, his mother!

"Yeah, I...I really don't wanna do that. It's nasty."

The producer's brows knitted slightly as if in mild confusion. "Why not? It's a fictional program and these are fictional characters. It's not something that's there for aesthetic reasons, there _is_ an end goal here, and that is dramatic television."

"Do I really have to kiss my mother to make dramatic television?" Bobby challenged.

The director leaned forward. "The storyline we've built around this scene will pay off and probably go down in TV history. I understand you may have strong feelings…"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I do. It's...it's...it's disgusting."

"...but trust me, this is going to be one for the record books."

Yeah, Bobby didn't doubt that - a guy sticking his tongue down his mother's throat probably hadn't been done before, and why the hell _would_ it be done? "Yeah, I still don't like it."

"Bobby…"

"No."

His mind was made up. He was willing to do a lot for this job, but not something like _that._ He imagined his own mother again, the woman who loved and raised him, held him when he was sad and hurt, who encouraged him when he was down…

He wasn't a mama's boy, and he wasn't particularly smart, but he loved his mother dearly, and he realized that the bond a man shares with his mom is something special and sacred. What a man has with a woman can be as well, but it's so much more complicated than the pure, unconditional love of his mother. Romantic love is messy, uncertain, and hurtful. A mother's love is not. Crossing the two...turning your mother into your lover...Jesus, do you have any idea what that would do to the relationship? It would pervert it, taint it, make it something it was never meant to be, something base and fragile. Something awful.

The producer rolled his eyes.

"Bobby," Sandra said from her station down the table, leaning forward to see him,, "I can't say I like it either, but it's a plot line in a soap opera about a horrible, selfish woman who drinks, neglects her family, hates her husband, only married him for his money, and is willing to ruin lives on a whim. If I refused to do anything that disturbed me, I wouldn't have made it past my first season." Her tone was one of a friend imparting life wisdom. He believed that she genuinely felt that way...but no.

"I can't," he said. He flushed and trembled lightly with dread. He fully expected to be lead out by security and left on the curb like a bag of trash.

Sighing, the producer threw his head back. "Everyone, we're done here." He looked pointedly at Bobby. "Except for you. I need a word."

And there it was.

Everyone else got up and filed out of the room, Sandra stopping long enough to give Bobby's shoulder an encouraging squeeze...or a farewell squeeze. He couldn't say which.

When it was just Bobby, the director, and the producer, the producer leaned over the table and Bobby had to fight to keep from shrinking back. "I'm going to send for a confidentiality agreement. If you sign it, we will disclose the remainder of the storyline to you."

Bobby darted his eyes from one man to the other. Uhhh...okay. "A-Alright. I guess."

"If you leak any of it," the producer said and held up his index finger, "we will sue you for everything you have, and you and your family will be on the street by Christmas."

Sudden anger gripped Bobby's chest...not at the being sued part, at the _your family will be on the street by Christmas_ shit. Part of him wanted to get up, throw the script in the bastard's face, and walk out...yet he nodded anyway. "Fine," he said tightly.

The producer pressed the intercom and summoned his secretary. Ten minutes later, Bobby signed a confidentiality form and slid it across the table. The producer took it, read it, then sat it down. "Richard," he said at length, "is not really Susan's son."

Bobby didn't know what he was expecting to hear, but it sure as hell wasn't _that_. "He's not?" he asked in surprise.

The producer shook his head. "Nope." Then he bobbed his head to one side. "Well...Richard Parker is, but your character is not the _real_ Richard Parker."

Richard Parker, as it turned out, was dead. A friend of his, Ernesto Vega, a charming and psychopathic nobody from the hood, assumed his identity with the intent of bilking Susan. After meeting her, he fall in love with her - she was just as evil as him, so of course he would. This would be revealed in the next season after Richard successfully poisons his stepfather in the hospital. Amber's character, knowing but having no proof, would find out Vega's true identity and expose it to Susan in an attempt to break them up and possibly gather incriminating evidence. Susan is angry at first, but sees in Vega a kindred spirit, and is impressed by the level of his deviousness.

When the producer was done, he sat back and crossed his arms. "Does that change your mind?"

Bobby considered for a moment before replying. Susan wasn't really Richard's mother, so...it was okay, he guessed. Or at least more okay than it was before. "Yeah," he said simply.

"Good," the producer smiled, "see you Monday."


	157. May 1991: Part 2

**I have this whole story arc (May 1991) finished and will try to post an update every Sunday for as long as I have them in reserve. I was thinking of doing the next storyline around the L.A. Riots of 1992 and touch on race relations in the US - you know, that kinda thing. I feel like I've lost most of my readers for this, though, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm dragging it out too much. I might do a short thing in '92 then a timeskip or two or three years. I'll probably do a timeskip anyway.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Sugar Shack**_ **by Jimmy Gilmer and The Fireballs (1963)**

Alex Loud stood indecisively before the open fridge, her fingers thoughtfully stroking her chin and her lips scrunching from side to side.. It was early afternoon and Blake was asleep in his crib, curled up and sucking his thumb in a position so cute Alex just _had_ to snap a picture. She was hungry, like any girl gets around lunch time, and the leftover cherry pie from last night looked _reaaaaallly_ good. Come to mama, she thought when she laid eyes on it. Actually, don't, I'm on a diet, I should eat something else.

She read a lot of baby-centric stuff before popping Blake out, but none of if that she could remember said anything about baby fat being harder to get rid of than corruption in politics. She worked out, didn't cram her body with sweets, and always took the stars instead of the elevator (to be fair, she didn't come across very many elevators in her daily life). Even so, the fat clung to her like the Soviet Union clinging to life (ugh, working with Dad so long was turning her into a hippie who hated everything, just like him). She lost a _little_ bit, but not enough to be happy with her appearance, and not enough that she could allow herself two cheat days in a row.

Sigh.

No yummy goodness for her, then.

Guess I'll just eat a carrot or something.

She bent, rummaged around, and found the bag of baby carrots on the bottom shelf - she subconsciously put it there so she'd forget about them. She took them over to the counter, grabbed a bowl from the drying rack, and dumped a bunch in. She put the half empty bag back and went into the living room, where she sat on the couch, her legs crossed Indian style. Why do they call it that, anyway? Surely Indians couldn't have been the first people in the thousands of years of human history to realize sitting that way was more comfortable than having your legs out in front of you.

Or were they?

Hm. She didn't know. Tim's parents gave them a set of encyclopedias as a housewarming gift when they moved into their apartment, maybe she'd see if one of those had the answer. Or she could go to the library - _I'd like to check out_ The History of Sitting, _please. All fifty volumes._

Taking a carrot from the bowl, she crunched it between her teeth and grimaced at how yuck it tasted. Actually, no, that wasn't right. It didn't taste yuck, it tasted like nothing. Why is it that everything good is bad for you and everything that's bad is good for you? She asked Dad that once because he was an overflowing font of wisdom (not), and he said _Because life is one big POW camp._ That was a little pessimistic even for him, so she thought it was a joke, but he wasn't entirely wrong, she guessed. She didn't know much about POW camps, but they have rules and stuff just like life, and if you step out of line, someone gets you. Uh...that's probably where the similarities ended so...shrug.

On TV, cartoon Marty McFly and cartoon Doc Brown traveled through space and time in a retrofitted DeLorean. She didn't know they turned _Back to the Future_ into an animated series until she stumbled across it one day looking for something to watch. _Oh, wow, cool,_ thought she. It wasn't though, it was actually kinda dumb. When she was sixteen she thought Marty was the _man_ , the way he hitched rides on the back of cars with his skateboard and, uh, went back in time, and, um...that was pretty much it. Looking back as a grown woman, he was kind of a lame-o. She swallowed, gave a shiver of contempt, and plopped another carrot in, chewing it with a wince.

Speaking of being a grown woman, she and Timmy-bo-bimmy were getting married on Saturday. Can't get much more adult than that...well, except for giving birth to the most awesome little boy ever, but that was beside the point. She'd been with Tim since, like, the seventies and she knew him inside and out; they loved each other and had a great life together. They argued here and there because they weren't Stepford people and they got pissy from time to time, but overall, being with him _ruled_.

Despite that, she was _kiiiiiind_ of nervous. She didn't know why, they'd basically been married for years, but her stomach was in knots and if she thought too much about it, her chest started to ache like she was going to pull a Fred Sanford. It didn't make any sense, but the heart often doesn't.

Would things...change? Really, when you get right down to it, all marriage really is is a piece of paper saying _These two lame-os hereby decide to be lame-os together._ If you're religious, it's being wedded in the eyes of God or something, which means a lot more, she supposed. She and Tim had been living and loving together for _ever_. They were already settled into their life. Making it official was just that, a formality. Mom and Dad lived together before they were married and Mom said the same thing. It was kind of surprising that they did that back in the sixties; didn't they burn people at the stake for cohabitating without being married? _Hark, there goeth thoust unmarried sinners, seize them!_

Anyway, no, things shouldn't change, but she was anxious nevertheless. Especially for the ceremony itself. She was totally unlike Jessy, but right now, seventy two hours before walking down the aisle in front of everyone in hers and Tim's family, she knew how her sister felt in public settings. It was like being squeezed between a giant rock and another giant rock while a third giant rock crashed down on her from the top and a final giant rock pushed her up into the third giant rock as the other two giant rocks closed on her and _ahhhhhhhhh I'm going crazy!_ Maybe she should call in sick. No, that wouldn't work. She'd just tell everyone she died. _Sorry, everyone, I fell down and now I'm dead so this isn't gonna happen. See you tomorrow!_

Nah, she couldn't do that, and she didn't really want to. She liked the thought of being married and having Tim stuck with her forever, she just...she didn't know, okay? The Great and Amazing Alex Loud was at a loss for once in her life.

Now she was sad.

And you know what makes you happy when you're sad?

Cherry pie!

She smacked her lips and started to get up, but stopped when she remembered _oh, yeah, baby fat._ Sigh. Welll...Tim still thought she was hot and getting married means you can let yourself go, right?

Screw it, I'm eating cherry pie.

Decided, she got up and went into the kitchen. "It's my cherry pie, cool drink of water such a yummy surprise," she sang softly to herself, "taste so good make a grown woman cry...sweet cherry piiiiie." She opened the fridge and started to reach in but froze when something brushed her leg. Heart in throat, she whipped around expecting a rape-crazed burglar (or a burglary-crazed rapist, maybe) but it was only Blake, naked save for diaper and staring up at her with a self-satisfied little smirk.

Whew. Thought I was gonna be raped and murdered (or murdered _then_ raped...shiver). Putting on her best stern mommy face, she crossed her arms. "Really? You climbed out of your crib _again_?"

Blake giggled.

Just over a year old and already resembling his father with rust colored hair and murky blue eyes, his face narrow and kissable, Blake was an expert at escaping his crib. Some nights Alex woke to him crawling into bed with her and Tim, and other nights she woke to the TV blaring in the living room. Luckily, he hadn't tried to leave the house...yet.

Alex squatted down and pressed her forehead to his. He tilted his head back and brushed his nose against hers with a big, cheesy smile. "You hungry?" she asked.

He nodded.

She stood, took the pie out of the fridge, and sat it on the counter. "If I'm gonna cheat and have pie for lunch, so are you, little man." She grabbed a knife and cut two pieces, then sat them on separate plates. She carried them into the living room, Blake following at a toddle, and sat. He crawled onto the couch and sat next to her, his wee ittle baby feet just reaching the edge of the cushion. Alex felt the sudden urge to pinch them, and did, which made him laugh. "Alright, you," she said, "let's eat. And do _not_ tell your father about this." She sat the plate between his legs, and before she even started on her piece, he picked his up and shoved it into his face, smearing red across his cheeks and down his chin.

"Look at you, making a mess," she said fondly, "how childish." She carved off a hunk of pie with her fork and lifted it to her lips.

It fell.

Onto her shirt.

And left a stain.

"On second thought, messes are awesome," she said.

* * *

Lincoln Loud left Flip's at 6pm, just as the sun was beginning to set, and drove the forty miles to Detroit with only the sound of the radio to keep him company. On the way out of town, he stopped at 7-11, even though he hated that place, and bought a pack of Marlboros from an angry looking Arab. Lincoln couldn't help but wonder if he was sore over the results of the recent Gulf War. If so, he could take his ass back to Iraq and bring his stupid gas station with him.

Sitting in the parking lot, he ripped the cellophane off and shook a cigarette out, holding it between his fingers and turning it over and over as though he'd never seen one before. The last time he smoked a dart was…'73? '74? Almost twenty years...and still the cravings hit him like a ton of bricks from time to time, especially after dinner or sex; he'd want it so bad he could eat an entire pack and ask for more. He denied himself because to him, it was a point of pride, being strong enough to resist. Today was different, though. His one friend in the world was in the ground and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about the past. 1958, to be exact, the year he and Ronnie Anne started going steady and, by sheer coincidence, the year he started smoking too. He tried not to romanticize that period, but he couldn't help it, and by the time he left to pick Lynn and Kathy up from the airport, he wanted a cigarette so goddamn bad he'd suck a cock for one.

Okay, maybe not _that_ bad, but bad enough at any rate.

Plopping the filter into his mouth, he struck a match from the booklet the Arab gave him and held it to the end. Harsh, biting smoke rolled into his lungs and pinched the back of his throat. He coughed until he was red in the face, threw it out, then lit another two minutes later.

This time he finished it.

As he followed the highway south, he rolled the windows down and let the warm wind wash over him; with a cigarette jutting from his lips and oldies on the radio, he could almost believe that it was 1962 again and he and Ronnie Anne were going dancing after work. He wasn't a killer or an eater of maggots; Luna, Leni, and Dad were all still alive; and the only worry he had in the world was whether or not his two left feet would make him look dumb on the floor.

He missed those days, even though Alex and Jessy weren't around, and even though Blake was thirty years from being born. He'd like to go back, but not to stay, just for a visit. A vacation in the past, daddy-o. He'd bring the girls and Blake along, Tim and Mark too. _Look at it, kids. The music was better, the clothes were better, and you could walk down Main Street after dark without worrying about getting mugged. Life was good._

Lighting another cigarette, he tapped his fingers on the wheel to _Sugar Shack_ by Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs. Memories of 1963 flooded him and he smiled wanly at the cars ahead of him.

 _There's a crazy little shack beyond the tracks_

 _And everybody calls it the sugar shack_

 _Well, its just a coffeehouse and its made out of wood_

 _Espresso coffee tastes mighty good_

 _That's not the reason why I've got to get back_

 _To that sugar shack_

1963 was the year he got his first car, a Chevy Impala. He and Ronnie Anne would cruise through Royal Woods on an endless circuit, driving just to drive and listening to the radio. Later, after sundown, they'd out to the drive-in and spend more time on each other than on the movie. That was also the year JFK caught a bullet to the head and the feel-good era died. Two years later, everyone was being drafted or protesting, the eastern world was exploding, and Lincoln, on his own with Ronnie Anne, had whole host of new worries...like paying taxes. Ugh.

They didn't know it at the time, but there would never be another year like '63.

 _Now that sugar shack queen is a-married to me, yeah yeah_

 _We just sit around and dream of those old memories_

 _Ah, but one of these days I'm gonna lay down tracks_

 _In the direction of that sugar shack_

 _Just me and her yes were gonna go back_

 _To that sugar shack_

Off to his right, the airport rose against the evening sky like the bones of a fallen giant. Lincoln took the off ramp and followed surface streets to the terminal. He parked by the front entrance and lit another cigarette while he waited. Lynn III and Ritchie, with little baby Maddie (whom Lincoln had yet to meet) were leaving Arizona by car right about now. Lynn and Kathy elected to fly because it was quicker. _I don't wanna be cramped up in a car for fifty goddamn hours,_ Lynn told him over the phone. _Can you even fit in a car these days?_ Lincoln asked. _I lost weight, asshole, have you lost your ugly face?_

Lynn had him there. Same face he always had, and always would. His nose was shaped a little differently because a Cong broke it, but otherwise, it was unchanged. Thinner, maybe, and rougher but that's it. Oh, and starting to wrinkle too; just a little around the eyes and mouth.

He took a drag, held it, then let it out in a long, flowing plume. Ronnie Anne would probably smell it on him when he got home and throw a fit; she had a damn good nose honed by years of sniffing out kids smoking in the bathroom. He never understood that. Why not just go outside? When he was in high school, there were student smoking areas where all the cool cats and their best girls could relax between classes with a Chesterfield or one of those nasty clove deals the beats used to pack. He tried one once just for the hell of it and nearly choked to deal. _You like this?_ he asked the girl who gave it to him. _No. I love this._ Alright then.

Then there were menthols. The black soldiers used to carry them in Vietnam, green packs with _Colony_ across the front in white; though he'd been buying his own smokes for years at that point, he couldn't remember ever seeing those at the pharmacy or in any of the vending machines in town. His curiosity got the better of him one time: He and a bunch of other guys were playing cards in the mess hall when a black guy named Jones shook one out. Lincoln asked to try one; goddamn thing tasted like a stick of spearmint gum. Made him hack a lung up, and how everyone _laughed_.

Grinning at the memory, he watched the doors and took another drag, letting this one out through his nostrils. He kind of missed those lazy days on base, sitting around watching TV, listening to the radio, playing cards, shooting the shit. He also kind of missed going on day leave and walking through the streets of Saigon, stopping at the open air markets and buying fruit from old ladies, sparing dimes for street performers, and…

Holy shit, he was starting to get sentimental for Vietnam.

Oh wow. He didn't know if that meant he was cured of his PTSD...or if it had taken over.

He didn't have long to wonder. The terminal doors slid open and Lynn and Kathy came out, Lynn dressed in a gray suit accented by a blue tie and Kathy in a floral print dress. Lynn carried a suitcase in each hand; he wasn't lying, he _had_ lost weight. A good fifty pounds by the looks of it. He was still a fat fuck, though, and a pansy ass civie to boot.

Smiling fondly, Lincoln threw open the door, got out, and leaned against the roof. Lynn spotted him, and he and Kathy started over. "You're full of it," Lincoln said as his brother walked up. "You've _gained_ weight."

Lynn snorted. "How the hell come you can't afford to have those chipped teeth fixed? Your hamburger stand not payin' off anymore?"

"No, it's not," Lincoln said, "next car I buy's gonna have to come from you. Rusted muffler and all."

Kathy rolled her eyes longsufferingly. Every time Lynn and Lincoln got together, they spent the entire time insulting one another. Playfully, of course. The way Lincoln saw it, he couldn't come right out and say _I love you_ to him, so he'd do he next best thing: Call him a fat shyster and insult his tie.

Going around to the trunk, Lincoln opened it and stepped aside while Lynn sat the suitcases in. When he was done, he turned, and he and Lincoln hugged. "You've been feeling your oats ever since you punched that kid," Lynn said. "Thirty years later and you still got a chip on your shoulder."

'That kid' was Billy Mason, Royal Woods Elementary resident greaser in '57. He didn't like Lincoln being friends with Clyde and beat him up once. Then he put his hands on Ronnie Anne and Lincoln decked his ass. Pulling away, Lynn said, "I'm the one who finished him off. He woulda kicked your ass without me."

Lincoln sniffed. "Without _me_ , you'd be speaking North Vietnamese right now."

"Yeah?" Lynn asked sardonically. "And what's that sound like?"

Lincoln was surprised when he heard himself speak Vietnamese, a language he hadn't touched in twenty-five years and didn't know very well to begin with. " _Tôi không có thức ăn và chính phủ nói với tôi rằng tôi đang ở thiên đường."_

Lynn's brows furrowed. "What the hell does _that_ mean?"

For a second Lincoln had to wrack his brain; he blurted it without even thinking. "'I have no food and the government tells me I'm in paradise.'"

Lynn regarded him blankly...then snickered. "Sounds about right."

On the drive back to Royal Woods, Lincoln, elbow propped on the door, chewed his thumbnail and worried over his nostalgia. It's one thing to miss the good old days, but quite a goddamn nother to miss being in a warzone. And then speaking Vietnamese like that. Maybe he should make an appointment at the VA. He _had_ been kind of stressed lately, with Alex's wedding coming up and then Blades dying. Perhaps he was overreacting, though; it's not like he had a flashback, he just...popped out with a phrase in a language he used to speak regularly. Not very well, but that was beside the point. Right before Lynn and Kathy came out the door, he was thinking about Vietnam, so vividly he could feel the humid air pressing against his face like a wet blanket, could hear the clacking of rickshaw tires on cracked pavement, could smell the aroma of strange food cooking over low fires - dog, cat, rat, and soup with bugs that made his POW fare look like steak and lobster. He was so caught up in it that the words must have been knocked loose from whatever anterior wall they were stuck to in his mind.

It was almost 8pm when he pulled into the driveway of the Franklin Avenue house; the front windows were warmly lit like a ship at sea and a shadow flickered across the curtain. _Probably a VC._

He was startled into laughter.

"What's so funny?" Lynn asked archly from the passenger seat.

"Nothing," Lincoln said and killed the engine, "I'm just proud of my car for getting your fat ass here without breaking down."

Lynn nodded as if to say _typical._

While he and Kathy went inside, Lincoln leaned against the car and smoked a cigarette, his head tilted back and his eyes sweeping the vast, starry heavens. He was reminded of the night he and Ronnie Anne first touched each other - stretched out on a blanket in the middle of the high school football field under a sky much like this one.

That was…'61? He knitted his brow in thought but couldn't remember. Either '61 or '62. No, no, it _was_ '61. '62 was the year they gave each other their virginity….during that Cuba bullshit. A morbid smile touched his lips as he recalled the panic and dread he felt as he scurried through his days, expecting to hear air raid sirens at any moment. What was that turtle's name? The one from the duck and cover reel they showed in school? Morris? Living with Alex Loud, the Queen of Horror Movies, Lincoln had seen a lot of scary shit over the years, but nothing as terrifying as that goddamn film.

Tossing his cigarette away, he went around to the trunk, grabbed Lynn and Kathy's suitcases, and crossed the lawn. Inside, Lynn sat on the end of the couch abutting Mom's armchair and Fred sat next to him, his hands in his lap. He always looked so goddamn uncomfortable, even when he wasn't. Lincoln looked around but didn't see Kathy or Luan - they were probably chatting in the kitchen like women do.

"...can't wait to see her and meet the baby," Mom was saying. She sat huddled under a blanket with Russell asleep in her lap. She always hated the cold, and these days she was nothing but. It had to do with her disease - the brain is a complex organism that controls literally everything in your body. When it starts to break down, it can make you hot or cold, tired or wired, or happy or angry.

She looked over as he came in and smiled. "Oh, hi, honey. Your brother's here."

"Oh, gross," Lincoln said. "I was hoping his plane would crash."

Mom's jaw dropped. "Lincoln!" she said sharply. "That's a _terrible_ thing to say."

Like the Vietnamese earlier, that comment kind of...slipped; he didn't pick on Lynn in front of Mom (and Lynn didn't pick on him) because she hated 'morbid' humor. "With no loss of life," he added.

"He's been picking on me all night, ma," Lynn said with a smirk. "I'm gonna cry if he keeps it up."

"Lincoln, leave your brother alone," Mom said.

"Okay," Lincoln said.

Mom turned away, and Lynn's eyes met his.

 _Fuck you, fatboy,_ Lincoln mouthed.


	158. May 1991: Part 3

Friday, May 3, 1991 dawned clear and cold with a light westerly wind that rustled the budding treetops up and down the street. It rained in the night, and the yards bordering the sidewalks glistened in the early light of the sun. Alex Loud carried Blake out to the car and strapped him into his seat; he was sleeping and as she buckled him, he whipped his head away and kicked his legs in weary protest. "Tell me about it," she said. When he was a baby, Blake didn't like going to sleep at night. Now, as a slightly older baby, he didn't like going to sleep at night _or_ waking up in the morning. Go figure, right?

Alex made sure he was secure (safety first) then stood with a deep yawn. Last night, Blake refused to go down until midnight, and then he spent almost an hour moving around in his crib until he conked out from exhaustion, his face buried in the mattress and his butt stuck up in the air in the most awww position she'd ever seen. It was so cute she had to snap a picture. She took lots of pictures of her little man. Speaking of which, she really needed to drop off her film at the pharmacy and get it developed. That'd have to wait, though; today was gonna be a busy one filled with work, hanging out with Lola and Lynn and their kids, and taking deep breaths because _Wow, I'm getting married tomorrow, I hope I don't trip coming down the aisle and rip my dress or something. How embarrassing would_ that _be?_

Closing the door, Alex turned just as Tim came over, dressed in dark gray overalls and work boots, an outfit that made him look like Michael Myers from _Halloween_. Tim was too much of a dork to kill anyone, though, unless it was because he screwed up their engine block by accident and their car exploded.

They kissed, and on a whim, Alex decided to spice things up by snaking her hand around and grabbing his butt. He responded by squeezing her boob and making her laugh. "You're supposed to be timid, not give me tit for tat," she said, then her eyes widened. "I just made two puns in one."

Tim arched his brow. "You did?" he asked.

"Yep," she said proudly. "TIMid and tit."

He threw his head back and let out a breathy groan. "It's too early for this."

"Never too early for the literary awesomeness of Alex Loud," Alex said. The words were no sooner out of her mouth when it occurred to her that in just over twenty-four hours, she wouldn't be a Loud anymore, she would be an Underwood. Kind of wild when you think about it...you know, changing your last name. She was twenty-two and had been a Loud the whole time, now she was gonna be something else. How long would it take to adjust? Like, every year she spent the first two months or so writing 90 instead of 91 on her checks. It stood to reason that it was take her twenty-two times as long to get used to her new surname, so, what, around the year 2000?

Tim kissed her. "Yes it is," he said. "I love you, though."

"I love you too, Timid."

"You're gonna beat that to death now, aren't you?"

Alex scrunched her lips in consideration. "Yep." She said and pecked his lips. "But only until I think of something better." A gust of cool wind caught her hair and threw it into her face; yuck, it was in her mouth.

Before she could brush it away, Tim did it for her. What a guy. "That'll take years," he said.

No it wouldn't! Would it? She came up with silly new iterations of his name all the time. As she drove to the daycare center where Blake spent most of his days - chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool, just like the Fresh Prince - she wracked her brain for the perfect play on 'Tim' so she could hit him with it when he got home. Timzilla? Nah, she used that before. Timbelina? Hmmm...we'll put that in the 'maybe' pile. You know, there's only so much you can do with the name Tim, buddy; it has three letters. Three letters! How can she be expected to work wonders with just a T, an I, and an M? She pounded her chest about being better than Stephen King, but come on, she was obviously joking. If she had a write off with him, he'd kick her ass. Hell, she wouldn't even _make_ it to Stephen King - Richard Laymon would mop the floor with her in round one. It'd be like that rooftop fight between the black boxer and Jason Voorhees in _Jason Takes Manhattan_ \- she'd spend a whole minute punching the shit of him, then he'd literally knock her head off with one hit.

Buuuuut she was getting better all the time. If she trained really hard and said her prayers like Hulk Hogan, one day she might be able to walk up to Stephen King, hold out her book, and watch him squeal like a little girl. _Can I please have your autograph Ms. Loud?_

Wait, she'd be Mrs. Underwood at that point...unless she could write an awesome book, get it published, and sell millions of copies in the next twenty-four hours.

Blake's daycare center (it was called Busy Bees, hahaha, cute) sat across from the doctor's office on a corner lot, its playground enclosed by a wire mesh fence. Alex wasn't too hot on the some looped pieces of metal being the only thing between her playing son and an out of control car, but that was a worry for later, since the kids his age didn't go on the playground. A car could theoretically smash through the building itself like the Kool-Aid Man on drugs, but theoretically, a lot of things can happen. Can't worry about all of them.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at Blake as she parked. Okay, she _was_ going to worry, but not much.

Cutting the engine, she got out, went around to Blake's side, and opened the door. He creaked one eye suspiciously open as she unbuckled him and his forehead crinkled grumpily. "We're here," Alex sang out and picked him up. He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck and curled up against her chest like a tiny kitten. Alex's heart swelled with love and she squeezed his diapered bottom. She was kind of nervous going into motherhood; pfft, she was young and dumb then. Being a mom _rocked_ and she was pretty good at it if she did say so herself.

Inside, she signed him in at the front desk then carried him to the nursery, ducking and weaving between a line of toddlers being herded into a classroom like POWs on a death march.

The nursery was a wide, comfortable space with thickly carpeted floors, lots of toys, and a line of cribs flanking one wall. The "teacher' an overweight blonde girl named Holly, sat in a rocking chair with a wee ittle baby bundled in a pink blanket. Alex's heart melted into goop; she always thought kids were cute, but after having one of her own, a switch in her brain must have been flipped because _awwwww, look at her! She's adorable!_ It was only a matter of time until she caved and got Tim to knock her up again. _Shoot a pink one in me, huh? I want a daughter this time._ Not right now, though; they made enough money to keep themselves afloat, but throw another little one in the mix, and you'd likely see a reenactment of the Titanic disaster. _Nearer, my God to *glub glub glub*_ That was supposed to be water filling her lungs and drowning her.

Holly smiled and got to her feet. She crossed to one of the cribs and laid the little girl in; from the looks of it, she was the only one here. It _was_ kind of early. "Hi, Blake," Holly drew as she came over. Blake pressed his face even deeper into Alex's neck; he liked Holly and he _loved_ playing with all the cool toys, but he was a bear in the morning and didn't like _anything._ He was like that Ramones song. He didn't like politics, he didn't like communists, he didn't like games and fun, he didn't like anyone.

Ooooh, just like his grandfather.

Hmm. Maybe it was genetic.

Holly leaned over and patted Blake's back. He stiffened and tried to wiggle away. Poor kid; Mama had to go to work, though. "He's always in such a bad mood first thing," Holly laughed.

"I know," Alex said, "he still stays up late, that's why."

Holly nodded understandingly. "He's rambunctious."

Yes he was. He ran, screamed, and played until he dropped where he stood. Naptime here was one to two, but Blake wouldn't go down so they just let him be, and most days when Alex came to pick him up at five, he was passed out in one of the cribs while everyone else played around him. Kid could sleep through anything...except his mom or dad walking past him as quietly as possible. Weird, huh?

Alex handed him to Holly and kissed him on his forehead. He watched her intently through tired, slitted eyes. _You're leaving me here again, Mom?_

"Oh, hush, you're gonna have fun and you know it," she said. She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose.

Outside, she slid in behind the wheel and buckled her belt as a woman in a white sweater and jeans pulled up to her stomach walked a group of girls past and into the building. There were four, and the smallest one, maybe three, wore pigtails in her blonde hair. Awwww.

Great, now she wanted a daughter.

She sighed and turned the key in the ignition. On the up side, her little baby cousin Nikki was coming into town, only she really wasn't a baby anymore: She was turning five whole years in...two weeks. Alex had to think for a second.

Damn, that meant she'd have to get her a birthday present, since she wouldn't see her on her actual B-day.

Oh well. She'd stop off at K-Mart on her way over to Grandma's house. Putting the car in reverse, she backed into the street and started toward Flip's.

* * *

Ronnie Anne Loud took Friday off from work to focus on the last minute details of Alex's wedding. The morning was a flurry of coffee-fueled calls to everyone from the caterer to the photographer, and after lunch, she and Jessy, whose last class of the day ended at noon, drove over to Lincoln's mother's house. On the way, she pulled into the 7-11 and parked by the ar pump. "I'll be right back," she said and got out. Inside, an Arab man stood behind the counter and sold a box of condoms to a boy in a florescent green sweater and jeans. The boy, sixteen _maybe_ seventeen, looked proud of himself.

He also looked like one of her students. She squinted her eyes like a cop spotting an infraction and searched her memory banks for his name. "Terry Miller," she said sharply when she found it.

With a start, he turned, and his face paled when he saw her. "M-Mrs. Loud?" he stammered. His eyes went to the condoms in his hand, and he hurriedly hid them behind his back.

"Why aren't you in school?"

Terry opened and closed his mouth, stricken and grasping for a reply. Terry was in tenth or eleventh grade (she couldn't remember which) and unless he was playing hookie or had an actual reason to be out (doctor's appointment, etc), he had no business being here and not in class.

Finally he shrugged one shoulder and lifted his hand in a gesture of the lost. "W-Why aren't... _you_ in school?"

Ronnie Anne narrowed her eyes. She had personal time accumulated and explicitly told the principal why she would be out. Despite that, she felt a muted rush of shame; she wasn't the kind of woman to take days off left and right. In fact, she didn't like not working, and she was quick to tell the kids at school _you'll never get anywhere with a bad work ethic._ "Does your mother know you're buying those?" she asked evasively.

Terry's eyes widened. "N-No, I-I-I mean, she -"

"Do you _want_ her to know you're buying those?"

"No!"

"Then move so I can buy my cigarettes."

Nodding, Terry rushed off, pushing through the door and throwing a worried glance over his shoulder. She watched him go, then snorted. She loved messing with her students, especially when she caught them doing something they shouldn't be on their free time.

At the counter, she scanned the wall-mounted rack bearing all the different brands of cigarettes, most of which she'd never heard of before. The last time she bought these things, the year was 1969 and a pack of Marlboros cost seventy cents.

The Arab looked at her funny and wiggled his bushy eyebrows as if to say _come on, lady._ Ronnie Ann's first instinct was to take twice as long, but she wanted a cigarette, damn it. "Give me a pack of Marlboros."

"100s?" he asked.

What? 100s? Did they sell them that many now? "No, I'll take the one with twenty in it."

The Arab regarded her confusedly, then turned, grabbed a pack of Marlboros, and sat them on the counter. "1.25," he said.

"Really?" she asked with something akin to shock. "1.25?"

He nodded. "Yes. 1.25."

The cost of things rise, she knew that - it's called inflation - but one dollar and twenty five cents for a pack of cigarettes? That was outrageous! "Are you sure that's the right price?" she pressed.

The Arab favored her with a blank stare. "I am sure," he said.

She started to protest furthur but the craving came upon her like a tidal wave, and suddenly 1.25 didn't seem like all that much. Setting her purse on the counter, she pulled out her checkbook, wrote a check for the amount, and tore it out.

Cigarettes in hand, she slung her purse over her shoulder and went outside, tearing the cellophane wrapper off with trembling fingers as she went. Twenty-two years she went without these damn things, now look at her, pawing an overpriced pack of cancer like a crack addict. She got the occasional craving for one over the past two decades, but she was always able to quash it.

Then...last night.

Last night, Lincoln came home from picking Lynn up at the airport, and as soon as he stepped through he door she could smell it on him, like a whore's perfume. She walked into the living room from the kitchen, crossed her arms, and glared; Lincoln lowered his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck like a scolded child. _You're probably wondering why I reek like cigarettes._

 _Yeah, actually, I am._

 _Well...I was stressed._

She started to nag but stopped herself. He _had_ been under a lot of stress lately; first Alex's wedding (which stressed her out too), then Blades dying. He wouldn't breathe a word to anyone other than her, but Flip's wasn't doing so hot either; every year it made a little less than the one before it. McDonald's and Burger King were sucking people away, and Royal Woods wasn't the charming little town it used to be. A lot of crime was spilling over from Detroit, and there were parts of town now - including the part she grew up in - that weren't safe to walk through at night. That kept a lot of people from coming into town, which meant they weren't eating at Flip's. She couldn't really bitch at him for lapsing and having a smoke, so she let it go, but for the rest of the evening she could smell it. At first it repulsed her...then, after a while, it made her salivate. Ummm. Remember the way it pinches the back of your throat when you take a hit? Remember the calm that descended over you as the nicotine rushed through your system? Remember having one after a good meal...and sex?

Lincoln was sitting in his chair, looking uncomfortable and fidgety, when she broke. _You want another cigarette, don't you?_

 _No. Absolutely not._

 _Well_ I _do, bring your pack and meet me on the back porch._

A look of relief washed across his face. He jumped up, whipped a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, and fell all over himself to get to the back door. Sitting together under the stars, they shared their first cigarette since Lyndon Johnson was president, his arm around her and her head resting on his shoulder.

Just like old times.

Presently, she slipped a cigarette out, bit the filter between her teeth, and lit it, the heady rush of nicotine sweeping through her like a warm, gentle breeze. Jessy turned, saw, and formed a perfect O of surprise with her mouth. What? Never seen - ?

Right, she quit smoking before Jessy was even born. Poor girl was probably shocked out of her socks. Heh.

She smoked half and threw the rest to the ground, then slid in behind the wheel and put her seatbelt on. Jessy watched her the entire time with stunned appraisal. Ronnie Anne looked at her and rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. I just smoked a cigarette. It's not like I killed someone."

"I just...that was really unexpected," Jessy said and turned away.

"You can thank your uncle," Ronnie Anne replied and threw the car into reverse. "He got me smoking again."

"Well...you know it's bad for you, right?"

Ronnie Anne navigated the car to the street and looked both ways. How could she answer _that?_ Of course she knew it was bad for her, but...it didn't make much sense, did it? "Yes, I know," she admitted. "I'm not gonna do it for long. Just...reliving old times." That was the most clumsy and unsatisfying excuse she'd ever mustered in her life, but Jessy nodded and looked out the window, so Ronnie Anne counted it as a win.

At the Franklin Avenue house, she pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. There was a lot to do today: She and Jessy had to get all the rented folding chairs out of the garage and set them up (they were wood and bright white - every ding, scratch, and buff would cost her and Lincoln a quarter), then, at 3, the florist was coming. When Lincoln got home, they had to put up the garden arch under which the priest was going to stand as he conducted the ceremony (and where Alex and Tim were going to take nice pictures whether they wanted to or not), then...uh...she couldn't remember. Was that it?

Eh, that might not be a _whole_ lot but it was enough that just thinking about it tired her middle-aged body right out.

And made her want another cigarette.

She and Jessy got out and went in the house, where Rita sat in her chair and intently watched the television. Bobby sat on the couch with a can of beer wedged between his legs. Onscreen, Bobby Jr. stared into the camera with a dark, brooding expression as dramatic music played. "Hello, dear," Rita said and glanced at her. "You're just in time to see the Bobby show."

Bobby Sr. looked over and smirked. "That's right. My kid's on TV."

"Overacting," Ronnie Anne snorted.

Jessy went over and hugged her grandmother.

"Yeah? Where's _your_ kid right now?"

"Getting ready for her wedding." She walked behind the couch and mussed her brother's hair. Once upon a time, in the gold and glorious fifties when he thought he was cool, he would have thrown a fit. Now he just took it with a resigned wince.

In the kitchen, Lori, Kathy, and Lynn sat at the table with mugs of coffee, laughing at something Ronnie Anne missed. Lynn saw her first and grinned. "Looks like someone's skipping school."

"That's me," she said. In all honesty, she never skipped school growing up even though...oh, wait, yes she did. The day she and Lincoln...you know...for the first time. October something 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis...hahaha, she thought she was going to die. "How was your flight?"

Kathy rolled her eyes. "Exhausting."

"There was a drunk a couple rows up," Lynn said, "and halfway through, he starts belting Sweet Home Alabama."

At the counter, Ronnie Anne cringed. "Ew." She kind of knew that song, but not very well: If it came after 1966, she didn't pay much attention to it. To be fair, though, any song's liable to sound bad when its being sung by a drunk at 20,000 feet.

Lynn snickered. "Yeah, and get this. He yells out "You know what happened to this band. It's gonna happen to us too!"" He laughed richly and Kathy swatted his arm.

Pouring coffee into a mug, Ronnie Anne tilted her head to one side in puzzlement. "What happened to that band?"

Over the rim of her cup, Lori said, "They died in a plane crash."

Oh.

 _Oh._

"That's nice," she said because she honestly couldn't think of anything else _to_ say. She didn't like flying, and if she heard someone say that, she'd launch into a panic attack that made the ones Jessy occasionally had look like a half-hearted hiccup. She flew a few times and survived, but the whole way she gripped the arms of the chair and every horrible possibility ran through her mind on an endless loop. The engines could fail, they could get lost in fog and slam into a building or a mountainside, the PLA could hijack it, one of the wings could suddenly and mysteriously fall off…

Shiver. They say that you're more likely to die in a car accident than a plane crash, but she didn't see how that was possible; once a plane started to go down, you were pretty much done. Kiss your butt goodbye and pray to God, 'cause you're probably going to die.

Back in the living room, Jessy sat on the couch, her body twisted to face her grandmother and a thoughtful expression her face. "I dunno," she said. "Maybe ten?"

"That's all?" Rita asked, her voice rising in surprise.

"I'm not sure," Jessy said, "but that sounds about right."

Ronnie Anne took a drink of her coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste. Oh, yuck. Lynn must have made it - every time that man came into town, he found a way to ruin the joe. When he was out for Lynn Sr.'s funeral, he made Ronnie Anne a cup, and instead of sugar, he used salt. She would have thought he did it on purpose if he didn't do the same thing to himself; he took a swig, then promptly turned his head and spit it out. _Jesus, it's full of salt!_ That made he laugh until she cried because no shit.

She went over to the couch and sat next to Bobby with a weary sigh. Just as soon as she was done with her coffee, she'd force herself to get up and get started. "Is the garage unlocked?" she asked her brother.

"Yeah," Bobby said, "why?"

On TV, Little Richard banged on a piano and sang the praises of Taco Bell and its 59 cent selection from the back of a Cadillac. For a second, Ronnie Anne couldn't believe her eyes: God, he looked so old. Every time she thought of him, he was in his twenties and dressed in a sharp suit, not wearing a pink blazer and a green shirt. Jesus, he reminded her of one of those lame-os from _Miami Vice._ "I need to get those chairs set up," she said absently. Little Richard spun and let out one of his trademark girlish screams.

"No you don't," Bobby said.. "I already set 'em for you."

The commercial ended and she turned to him, her brow arching. "You did?" That was almost harder to believe than one of her teen idols shilling burritos.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I set your little archway up too."

Okay, she had to see _this_. She got up, went into the kitchen, and opened the back door. Five rows of chairs flanked a wide pathway at the head of which stood the arch.

I'll be damned.

Back in the living room, she stood behind the couch and crossed her arms. "You did."

Turning his head, Bobby looked up at her. "Yeah, I just told you that."

Huh. Bobby wasn't the laziest guy around, but he wasn't one to take the initiative and set up two dozen chairs and an archway either. Lori must have nagged him into doing it. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," Bobby said and faced the TV again. "That's my wedding gift, by the way."

"For me," she said. "You didn't get me anything the first time around."

He started to argue, then stopped and furrowed his brow in thought. "I didn't, did I?" He took a drink of beer and sighed in contentment. Ronnie Anne waited for him to say something further ( _I'll get you something real special to make up for it_ ), but he didn't.

"You gotta get Alex something really nice to square up," she said.

Bobby snorted. "Okay."

"I mean it," Ronnie Anne teased.

"I know."

Good. She put her hands on her hips and looked around. The biggest task of the afternoon was done and she had time before the florist showed up. She felt lost and cast adrift, nervous energy flowing through her.

With nothing else to do, she went outside and smoked a cigarette.

* * *

Alex Loud propped her elbow on the counter and rested her chin in her upturned palm. On the other side, her father sat by the register with the paper spread out before him, his reading glasses perched on his nose and a pen in his hand. She craned her neck to see what he was doing (correcting _Dear Abby's_ grammar?) and crinkled her nose when she got a glimpse. "Ew. Crossword puzzles suck."

Dad looked up and favored her with mild annoyance. Whoops. He must be in one of his extra hippie moods. She smiled prettily and walked her comment back. "That one looks cool, though."

"You know what looks cool?"

"What?"

He returned his focus to the paper. "You doing your job."

Ooooh, so it's like _that,_ huh? You work for a guy and he thinks he has the right to order you around. Like he's your boss or something. Tsk, tsk, tsk. "You oughta go on easy on me," she said. "I'm getting married tomorrow."

Dad scanned the page and tapped the point of the pen against it like a man typing out a message in Morse code. "Yeah," he said without looking up. "I heard."

"I'm, uh, I'm actually kind of nervous," she replied soberly. All day she'd been thinking about it, and with every passing hour, her anxiety grew until she was uncharacteristically wracked with worry. She didn't want to say anything because she knew she was being dumb, but she needed to get it off her chest.

Picking up on the serious note in her voice, Dad looked up and frowned. "Why?" he asked gently and sat the pen down.

Alex shrugged and darted her eyes to the countertop. "I'm just, you know…" she trailed off. She was not used to being earnest, and trying to put something very solemn into words, like she was now, always came hard.

Life, she saw very early on, is a heavy and sometimes frightening thing. When she was little, she would sometimes watch the news with Dad, and every time she did, something bad was happening. People were hurt, dying, and sad. The anchors were always so grave and dour because what they were reporting was awful, terrible stuff. They, like the people whose suffering they commented on, looked unhappy. If being serious makes you unhappy, why be serious?

She was kind of a goofball and _maybe_ a little too flippant for her own good, but that was better than being overwhelmed by the harsh realities of life. Kids die of cancer, kids get abused, people starve, wars come and go - she knew that and she also knew that there was no way to stop it. Life is an endless cycle. Bad things have always happened, and they always _will_ happen. You can raise all the money you want and do all the _We Are The World_ concerts you can stand, but you will never end poverty or AIDS, you will never feed everyone, and you will never stop selfish men from wanting more power, more _lebensraum,_ and more wealth.

For the first four years of her life, she spent nearly every day with her aunt Leni, playing, listening to music, and eating yummy cookies. No matter what happened in the world, no matter how much horrible stuff was happening, Leni was happy. Dad got into bad moods, Mom got into bad moods, even Grandma got into bad moods, but never Leni; she was unfailingly upbeat. Alex loved her aunt dearly, and she realized now, as an adult, that she looked up to her far more than she ever knew. She wanted to be like auntie Leni and not like the glum-faced, droning news people.

Of course, you can't ignore life forever. Sooner or later you have to get real, and right now, she was as real as she could be. "I'm scared things might change between us. I know we've been living together for a while and we have Blake, so it's irrational, but I...I can't help it."

Dad nodded in understanding. "Marriage _is_ a big thing," he said. "And big things are easy to overthink. You love Tim, don't you?"

Without hesitation, Alex grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Tim made her happy, everything from his beautiful blue eyes to his mind. When she was with him, she felt safe, but more importantly, she felt understood. She didn't have to tell him that beneath her facterious eterioror, she was intelligent, or that she when she called herself _the best_ or said she'd beat Stephen King at his own game one day, she was playing - he got it. He got _her_. That may sound romantic or melodramatic ( _oh, he gets me!_ ), but it was true. He knew who she was at her core, and she knew who _he_ was. Smart, kind, funny. She called him a dork all the time, but he wasn't; he was the coolest person she knew.

He was her best friend.

A big, stupid grin spread across her face and she bowed her head to hide it. That was cheesy, but he really was.

"And he loves you, right?" Dad asked.

She nodded. "Yeah."

Sitting back, Dad spread his hands. "Then what's there to worry about?"

That was the 64,000 dollar question. What _was_ there to worry about? She cast about for an answer, but none presented itself. The apprehension she felt was vague and indistinct, like smoke. She already knew his habits and his quirks, she knew they made a good team, she knew they got along, she knew he was a good man and a good father. A lot of women don't have that going in. Her Grandmother didn't. She and Grandpa didn't live together for three years before they walked down the aisle, they didn't have kids together, they didn't _know_ each other the way she and Tim did. She really had no right to feel this way, but she did.

"Your mother and I lived together before we were married," Dad said. "And you know what changed when we did it?"

Alex looked up at him. "What?"

"Nothing," he said.

Should have seen _that_ coming.

"All we did was make it official. We loved each other before and we loved each other after."

She couldn't speak to what they were like before they were married (because she wasn't around), but he and Mom _did_ love each other. That was clear from the way they looked at each other, from the way they laughed so easily together, and from the way they were always touching and holding hands. Seeing herself and Tim in her parents might be weird, but when she stopped to think about it, Mom and Dad reminded her of them whether she wanted them to or not.

The bell over the door dinged, and she looked over her shoulder; a man in a plaid shirt and hard hat came in, followed by a teenage girl dressed in a black sweater and pants with a psychedelic pattern that made Alex's head spin. They went to separate tables and sat. "You have nothing to worry about, honey," Dad said and laid his hand on the back of hers. "You're gonna be nervous, that's normal, but you'll be okay in the end."

He smiled warmly, and she smiled back. "Yeah, you're right," she said. Disquiet still stirred in the pit of her stomach, but it was fainter now, not as keen and less persistent, a chill breeze stirring through dead leaves and not a freaking hurricane. Stronger was the warm tingle his her chest from thinking of Tim and how much she loved him. When she saw him next, she decided, she was going to give him the biggest, wettest kiss ever...then bop him on the top of his head so his ego didn't get too big.

Taking his hand back, Dad said, "Of course I am. Now bring that construction worker and that girl in the ugly pants menus or I'm docking your pay."

What a slavedriver. This place was literally worse than Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, and Communist China rolled into one. She needed a new job.

Menus in hand, she went over to the construction worker first, than Miss Ugly Pants. She took their drink orders, filled two glasses, and brought them back.

She wasn't kidding when she said she needed a new job. Despite comparing it to a brutal regime less than two minutes ago, she liked working at Flip's...but she couldn't be a waitress forever. The money was decent, but she had to get serious about her future; she was a grown woman with a family, it was time she advance from _job_ to _career._ She played around alot, but she was perfectly capable of knuckling down and becoming a businesswoman. She just, uh, needed to find a "business." The only things that really interested her were things that, let's face it, probably weren't in the cards. Like being on the radio. That would be so cool. _This is Alex Loud on WKBBL getting paid to talk and listen to awesome music. Keep tuning in or I lose my job. Now here's PM Dawn with Set Adrift on Memory Bliss._

Being a deejay would _rule,_ but that seemed like a kiddie pipe dream akin to running off and joining the circus. She had to be practical and look at something a _little_ more realistic. Like...maybe the bank? She could count really well, and while she didn't _want_ to wear a blazer with big shoulder pads like a teller, she would. Price you gotta pay, right?

Nothing really stood out to her, that was the problem. Unless something captured her interest around the throat, she couldn't care less….which, thinking about it now, is pretty bad. Adulthood is full of boring stuff like paying taxes, going to PTA meetings, and getting stuck in traffic. Her cousin Lynn always said _you gotta suck it up and power through._ That is being a grown-up in a nutshell, and it's something she would just have to make peace with.

She took her customers' orders and stuck them in the window. Fred grabbed them, clipped them to the metal clamp over the flattop, and threw a couple burger patties on. They hissed and sizzled.

Now she was considering going out and taking the most mind-numbing job she could find, kinda like jumping in with both feet (was that how the saying went?).

Hm. She leaned back against the counter and stared absently up at the TV where the noon 'o'clock news was on. That's not what it's really called, but she was silly, okay?

Too silly.

She needed to stop.

Wow, getting married really wakes you up, huh? Even more so than having a baby for some strange, godforsaken reason.

She was too complacent or something. Dad paid her well (more than she or her position itself were worth) and one day he wanted her to take over the restaurant, which was fine, it gave him a decent life, but...well...things were changing. They weren't pulling in the same profit as they used to and the area was kind of going to shit. Taking over Flip's _might_ not be best for her family.

She'd have to think about it more, but right then and there, Alex knew what conclusion she was going to arrive it.

It was just a matter of formality.

* * *

Lola and Bobby arrived at ten to four in a rented 1990 Audi sedan. Jessy was sitting on the front porch with auntie Ronnie Anne when they pulled into the driveway and parked. She knew it wasn't Lynn and Ritchie because Lynn specifically mentioned her "new" car being a 1988 Buick, so it _had_ to them, but Jessy didn't recognize the driver, and her chest clutched with irrational worry. Auntie Ronnie Anne, sitting in a wicker chair with her legs crossed and smoking a cigarette, leaned forward, squinted, and then relaxed.

When the door opened and the driver got out, it dawned on her. Chunk, Lola's roadie. He wore jeans and a black vest over a gray T-shirt, his bald head bare and gleaming in the muted, overcast sunshine like the surface of an oaken desk. He lit his own cigarette, and auntie Ronnie Anne grinned. "Oh, good, a smoking buddy. I was starting to get lonely."

She took another drag and blew it out, the bluish vapor hanging heavy in the air. The smell made Jessy's nose and throat hurt, and if it was someone she didn't love and care about, she would have gone inside, but it _was_ someone she cared about. Jessy didn't want to tell auntie Ronnie Anne how to live her life - that really wasn't her place and she had no right - but smoking _is_ bad for you... _very_ bad. Lots of things that people do are, lots of things she herself did were bad (like letting herself worry over every little thing), but smoking is far and away one of the absolute _worst_. Do you _know_ what's in a cigarette? She did - she learned in fifth grade health and the ingredients list was burned into her psyche because _wow, they really sell this to people?_

 _Acetone – found in nail polish remover  
Acetic Acid – an ingredient in hair dye  
Ammonia – a common household cleaner  
Arsenic – used in rat poison  
Benzene – found in rubber cement  
Butane – used in lighter fluid  
Cadmium – active component in battery acid  
Carbon Monoxide – released in car exhaust fumes  
Formaldehyde – embalming fluid  
Hexamine – found in barbecue lighter fluid  
Lead – used in batteries  
Naphthalene – an ingredient in mothballs  
Methanol – a main component in rocket fuel  
Nicotine – used as insecticide  
Tar – material for paving roads  
Toluene - used to manufacture paint_

There might be other stuff in there, but those were the main yuck and ever since auntie Ronnie Anne lit that first one outside of 7-11, Jessy's stomach had been heavy with dread. She remembered hearing somewhere that a cigarette takes seven minutes off of your life - she couldn't recall if that was true or an urban legend, but if it was, auntie Ronnie Anne had lost almost half an hour. If your aunt who raised you like you were her own daughter slowly killing herself doesn't make you feel panicky, then you must not love her. Jessy _did_ love auntie Ronnie Anne, and she _really_ wanted to yank that thing out of her mouth, throw it to the ground, and stomp it until it was dead.

For the last ten minutes, she'd been working herself up to saying something; a couple times she came close but chickened out because she didn't want to be annoying and start an argument. Jessys don't like confrontation especially with someone as important to them as their aunt Ronnie Anne.

The passenger door opened and Lola appeared dressed in a button-up shirt with a funky polka dot pattern tucked into a pair of black stretch pants. Bobby got out of the back and stretched; he wore jeans and a dark gray wool sweater with pink, green, and yellow zig-zags across the chest. He saw them and waved; auntie Ronnie Anne called out _Hey_ and Jessy waved back, a giddy smile touching her lips. She was really looking forward to seeing Stephanie and Valentino...their parents too, of course...but mainly Stephanie and Valentino.

Lola pressed her hands to her butt and bowed her back in a stretch of her own. "You look sore or pregnant," auntie Ronnie Anne said.

"I hate flying," Lola said and chuckled humorlessly. "We sat on the tarmac for over an hour. I don't know why, but the air is a never ending source of aggravation, so I should have expected it."

Chunk went around to the trunk and opened it while Bobby got Stephanie out. She wore a pretty blue dress with white lace around the collar and black shoes, the frilly tops of her socks peeking out. Her dirty blonde hair was done up in pigtails held in place by white ribbons, and when Bobby pulled her out, she threw her arms around his neck and clung tight, which told Jessy she just woke up from a nap. Lola came around the front end, opened the back door, and leaned over to get Val. He wore a little sweater vest and tan slacks, his head limply lolling against Lola's shoulder.

They came over while Chunk finished his cigarette and got the bags from the trunk. "They're both exhausted," Lola explained as they climbed the steps, her in front and Bobby behind.

"Aww, they look like it," auntie Ronnie Anne said. She leaned over, stubbed her cigarette out on the porch, and palmed the butt. "How were they on the plane?"

"Val was okay," Lola said, "he got cranky the last two hours."

"Steph was the problem," Bobby said, "she would not sit still. I had to hold her down."

Jessy got up and motioned for Lola to take her seat; she did with a weary sigh. Val was still fast asleep, but Stephie was awake, even if barely. "Hi, Stephy," she drew and laid her hand on the little girl's back. She responded with a surly grunt.

"You better watch out," Bobby said, "you'll lose that hand." Hooking his forearm under Stephy's butt, he held out his left hand: An angry pink bite mark stared back at her from the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

Ouch. "She did that?" Jessy asked.

"Daddy bad...wake me up," Stephy grumbled.

"She fell asleep right before we got off the plane. I went to pick her up and she got mad."

"Wow.," she said, then, "you shouldn't have woken her up."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, next time I'll leave her on the plane." He shifted Stephy in his arms. "You gonna say hi to Jessy?"

"Hi," Stephy said sullenly.

She was cute even when she was mad. "Are you excited?" Jessy asked. Stephy was being pressed into service as the flower girl. Bobby said he and Lola worked with her, and that she liked the idea of _throwing flowers at peoples_.

"No," she spat, "I seepy. Lee me lone."

Jessy was shocked into laughter. "You're really grumpy, huh? You wanna go inside and lay down?"

The little girl's head bobbed up and down.

"Come on," Jessy said.


	159. May 1991: Part 4

**61394: I agree. Can't stand** _ **Full House.**_ **Never saw the appeal.**

 **Everyone: The first chapter of this story was posted on November 15, 2017, but I started writing it in mid-October, which means I've been working on RITY for over a year. Can I go for two? I could theoretically carry this story far into the future: Alex and Jessy's grandkids drag racing flying cars in the year 2050 sounds like great fun to write ;)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Good Vibrations**_ **by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch (1991)**

Alex left Flip's at 5:30 that afternoon, leaving just ahead of Dad, Fred, and Luan. After she picked Blake up from daycare, they were driving over to the house to hang out with everyone for a while. She was really stoked to see them all, especially the kids. She hadn't seen Stephy and Val since Grandpa's funeral and she hadn't even met Maddie yet, which was bogus. Jessy got to. Twice. Once on her way back from meeting her Dad, then again when she spent Christmas with him. Lucky dog.

Backing out of her spot, she turned right and drove to the street, where heavy cross traffic kept her waiting for almost five whole minutes. You know, for such a small town, Royal Woods got really busy during rush hour. Most people used the interstate to commute, but some stuck to surface streets and backroads in an attempt to beat the jams - thereby creating jams of their own. If she was the mayor she'd make it illegal for non-residents to drive through town between 3 and 6. Offenders would be keelhauled, and survivors would be made to wear dunce hats.

While she waited, she turned the radio on and swept back and forth between stations looking for something halfway interesting. Country. Classical. Jazz. Someone named El Rushbo bitching about higher taxes (oooh, Dad would like _this_ guy). 'Adult contemporary' whatever _that_ meant. Finally the traffic broke and she abandoned her quest on a random station. She turned right onto Main and started toward the daycare center, falling in behind a dump truck filled with gravel, the top covered by a green canvas tarp that flapped in the wind. You better not lose any of those rocks, buddy, I can _not_ afford a new windshield right now.

A commercial for McDonald's ended and Casey Kasem came on. Oooh, America's Top 40. They used to have it on WKBBL but they stopped carrying it, like, two years ago. Why she didn't know, but she missed it...just not enough to chase it down. " _And now the Westwood One radio network proudly presents Casey's Top 40,"_ an announcer intoned.

Oh. Guess it has a new name.

" _...to you by Doritos tortilla chips, the totally intense taste you just can't resist."_

Something hit the windshield and Alex tensed.

A raindrop.

Whew.

" _...stations across the country. At number three this week, up from number nine last week, is Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Younger brother to Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids on the Block fame, Marky Mark is just twenty years old and already has a hit record under his belt."_

Piano driven hip hop blared from the speakers, and Alex turned it down a little. The rain was starting to pick up and the sky churned darkly. Aw, man, hopefully it didn't do this tomorrow; she did _not_ want to get married in a torrential downpour.

 _Yo it's about that time_

 _To bring forth the rhythm and the rhyme_

 _I'm a get mine so get yours_

 _I wanna see sweat comin' out your pores_

 _On the house tip is how I'm swinging this_

 _Strictly hip hop boy I ain't singing this_

What if it did rain? They couldn't really postpone it. They'd probably wind up doing it inside. She called up a mental image of Grandma's house and frowned. There really wasn't any room. Unless they did it in the basement.

Okay, she wasn't a hugely picky bride or anything, but the idea of being wed in a dusty, musty basement and surrounded by boxes and broken furniture from the forties kind of bothered her. Super hyped or not, it _was_ a special day.

 _Bringing this to the entire nation_

 _Black, white, red, brown_

 _Feel the vibration_

The dump truck turned onto Route 29 and she breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled to a stop at a traffic light and waited for it to change while a group of teenagers hurried through the crosswalk, all bold colors like the lame-os from _Saved by the Bell._ Not a denim jacket in sight, can you believe that? Guess being cool isn't cool anymore.

 _Donnie D's on the back up_

 _Drug free so put the crack up_

 _No need for speed_

 _I'm anti d-r-u-g-g-I-e my_

 _Body is healthy_

 _And rhymes makes me wealthy_

 _And the funky bunch helps me_

 _To bring you a show with no intoxication_

 _Come on feel the vibration_

See? He's not even a drug addict! How can you be cool when you're not so intoxicated you fall down and pee yourself?

That was sarcasm. The guys in AC/DC, still the coolest band ever, didnt do drugs. She read an interview with Angus Young in _Rolling Stone_ last year (they had a new album called _The Razor's Edge out_ and, of course, it kicked names and took asses): He said the only thing he did was chain smoke and drink copious amounts of tea. Why do British people love tea so much, anyway?

Where was she? Oh, yeah, teenagers are lame these days. Not like in her day...waaaay back in 1985. _That's when music was music and the world made sense._ That was a direct quote from her father. She thought he was joking about the last part because even a guy as painfully dorky as him has to know that the world _never_ made sense, but not about the first one. He honestly thought Elvis was better than Poison. Sure, buddy, anything you say.

Pulling up to the daycare center, she swung into the parking lot and cut Marky Mark out in the middle of a verse about him being pure hip hop and not a sellout. She didn't know what he looked like, but if his brother was in NKOTB, he _had_ to be white, so she seriously doubted the veracity of his claims. She couldn't wait to see how _In Living Color_ parodied him; she'd laugh and get offended like she did when they did Vanilla Ice. Seriously, white people aren't allowed to rap? Really? It's like a lot of black people thought rap should be theirs and theirs alone. Uh, sorry, music is music and if it's good, I'm gonna rock out to it whether it makes you mad or not, so there.

The rain was steady now, hissing on the glass. She twisted around and scanned the back seat for her jacket, spotting it balled up on the floor. Gotta have something to protect Blake-and-shake from the elements.

Or was that shake-and-Blake? For a moment she completely blanked. Which was it? The latter, that's right.

Getting out, she ducked her head against the rain and rushed to the front door, thin drops cold on the back of her neck and sending shivers down her spine. Inside, she stopped at the front desk, signed Blake out, then went through the door into the back. Little boys and girls stood against the walls waiting for their parents to come and pick them up. At the nursery, Blake was the sole remaining child, and Alex would have felt bad if he wasn't passed out in a crib with his face pressed into the pillow and his butt in the air. Every day, she thought with a warm smile.

Holly sat in a rocking chair with a clipboard balanced in her lap. She sighed, flipped a page, and started to fill it out before realizing Aex was standing in the doorway. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said and got up. "I'm a little out of sorts right now," she continued, flipping through the papers. She found Blake's report, removed it from the others, and brought it over. "He did really good today. He _almost_ went down for a nap with the others...then he didn't." She uttered a little laugh.

"That doesn't surprise me," Alex said.

While Holly collected Blake's things and filled his diaper bag, Alex walked to the side of the crib, leaned over, and gently rubbed his back. "Blake...Mommy's here," she sang softly. The trick to waking a baby up is to do it nicely; blowing an air horn next to his ear might be quicker, but you'll scare him and he'll cry. Advice from Mrs. Alex.

Hm, there's an idea. She could write a child rearing book. _Things_ Not _to Do as a Mother_. She'd infuse all the tips with her own brand of witty humor.

Blake stirred and turned his head in the opposite direction, a red pillow mark on his cheek. Alex threaded her fingers through his brown hair and tickled his scalp. "Come on, Blake cake, we gots to go. You wanna see Grandpa and Grandma and everyone else?"

He shook his head.

"Yes you do, you _love_ going to Grandma and Grandpa's house." She waited a moment for him to show signs of life, and when he didn't, she reached in and picked him up, hefting him on her forearm and holding him to her chest. He furrowed his face into the crook of her shoulder and instantly started snoring.

Wow, someone was sleeeepppppy.

Holly brought the diaper bag over and handed it to Alex. "See you Monday, buddy," she said and patted the back of Blake's head. He groaned and she laughed. "He's only been asleep, like, fifteen minutes," she explained, "so he's going to be groggy."

"He can sleep in the car," Alex said.

At the front door, Alex looked out into the rain. Nasty, nasty, nasty; the saying was _April showers_ not _May showers._

She laid her coat over Blake like a blanket, making sure to cover his head, and dashed out to the car, being careful to not run _too_ fast lest she trip. When she reached the car, she opened the door and shoved Blanke into his car seat, then buckled him, drops soaking into her hunched back and dampening the fabric of her uniform dress. Blake watched with bleary eyes as though he couldn't figure out what was happening, then blinked when she kissed the tip of his nose. "There's gonna be lots of peoples at the house," she said. She started to elaborate, but realized she was getting soaked and stopped herself. Shutting the door she went around the back, and slipped in behind the wheel. Starting the engine, she said, "You're gonna see your cousins, your auntie Jessy - well, you see her all the time, but still - your auntie Lola (or cousin?), your great-uncle Lynn...grand-uncle Lynn?" She scrunched her lips. Wow, family trees are confusing. It'd be much easier if she was the product of incest, then it'd be a straight shot.

Hahaha, she could also be a huge Christian just because _and_ the exact same person as her mother right down to the clothes she wore. Hahahahahaha. *Laughter dies* No. Her mother was the second lamest person on earth after her father. Though sometimes Tim beat her out. At any rate, they were neck-and-neck, but Mom had the upper hand because she liked old people music and wore ugly old lady dresses...probably old lady underwear too.

Shiver.

Why was she thinking about her mother's underwear anyway?

 _I dont know, but I'm going to stop._

Putting the car into reverse, she backed into the street and headed toward Grandma's house, the wipers squeaking as they streaked across the wet glass. "How was your day?" she asked into the rearview mirror. Blake smiled and arched his back like a fish flopping on a dock; the shoulder straps pulled tight across his chest and kept him in place.

"That good, huh?" she asked and turned her full and undivided attention to the road. Get serious, Alex. You can fawn over how cute and awesome your progeny is later; right now you're guiding a two ton death machine through the rain, pay attention.

On the other side of the next intersection, a cop sat at the curb in front of the 7-11, its roof lights painting the rain a strobing shade of red and blue. In front of it, a silver car kissed a crooked lamp pole, its front end crumpled and shards of headlights littering the sidewalk. "And _that's_ why Mommy has to stop cutting up and concentrate on what she's doing," Alex remarked as they passed the wreck: Blake watched intently, his eyes widening in wonder. _Why's that car broken, Mommy._

"Someone wasn't focusing on the road," Alex said, and her stomach twinged.

How easily that could be them.

Cold, primal dread crept through her chest like icy air, and her hands tightened on the was easy to forget how fragile life is. One wrong move, one tiny little thoughtless mistake, and that was it, you and your little boy were red smears on the concrete being gently washed away by the rain.

She shuddered.

No more thinking like that. Bad Alex. Thinking like that only turns you into a mess.

Getting hold of herself, she turned the radio up to keep sad thoughts away. Bryan Adams was on with _Everything I Do (I Do it For You)_ and while she wasn't crazy about him or his vaguely lame-o song, it did the trick.

She turned onto Franklin Avenue a few minutes later and waited for a big yellow school bus parked on the opposite side of the street, its STOP sign out and its red lights flashing against the rain. A seething mass of junior high kids spilled off and spread out like ink across a page. In the back, Blake kicked his legs and craned his neck to see. "That's a bus. You're gonna ride a bus one day. When go to school." She drew the last word out harmoniously and flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror. Blake's forehead wrinkled in confusion. _School? Mommy, what in tarnation is school? Does it hurt?_ "School's where you go to learn stuff," she said. The STOP sign folded closed and the bus went on its merry way. "It's lots of fun."

That was true, but she neglected to tell him that it stopped being fun after kindergarten. If he was like her, that was: The work her teachers gave her was either too easy or too hard. Math and science were difficult, but everything else came like _that_. So _like that,_ in fact, that she spent most of her school years bored to tears.

Hopefully he wouldn't be like her, though. Hopefully he was _better_.

Presently, the house appeared on the left. Cars, some she recognized and some she didn't, filled the driveway while others sat along the curb. She counted three of the latter, and used deductive reasoning to figure out one was Girl Lynn's (the Arizona plates were a dead giveaway), one was Jeb and Lana's (again, the license plates), and the final was Bobby and Lola's. Its tags were from Michigan, but she clearly remembered Lori mentioning that they were going to rent a car once they got in. She parked behind Lana's car, a battered blue Chevy boasting a faded Bush/Quayle '88 bumper sticker, and killed the engine. So...how many people was she looking at? Lynn, Ritchie, and Maddie; Big Lynn and Kathy; Lola, Bobby, Val, and Stephy; Lana, Jeb, Justin, and Josh; Lori and Bobby Sr; Grandma; Fred; Dad; Luan; wow, was she missing anyone? Nineteen.

Oh, Jessy and probably Mark. So...twenty-one.

Jeez louise, that's a lotta heads.

And they were all here because of her, the belle of the ball, the center of attention, the bride-to-be. She was a social person and so not shy it was disgusting - she could walk into a room full of people and talk, laugh, and mingle with no reservations whatsoever. She was not self-conscious and crowds did not bother her. Sitting at the wheel of her car and thinking of everyone crowding around her when she went inside, however, her stomach knotted.

Suck it up and power through.

Right. Thanks, Lynn.

She grabbed the keys from the ignition, dropped them into her purse, and got out; she parked under a tree, and its budding branches partially shielded her from the rain as she unbuckled Blake and picked him up. "Alright, monster," she said, "let's do this."

Slamming the door, she hurried across the sodden yard, wincing in pained resignation as water seeped into her shoes. Oh, wait, she had an extra pair of socks in her purse. Score one for the good guys.

She climbed the porch steps and went to the door, stopping to shift Blake to her other arm because whew, kid was heavy.

Damn his father for feeding him cherry pie for lunch.

He was gonna need a talking to.

Taking a moment, she steeled herself for a barrage of people, congratulations, and well-wishes.

Inside, the living room was _packed_ , and her step faltered. Grandma sat in her chair with Maddie on her lap...at least Alex took it to be Maddie since she didn't know many semi bald eight-month-olds. Lynn sat facing her on the edge of the couch, dressed in a smart black power suit; Bobby Jr. and Fred stood by the foot of the stairs catching up, Fred for once looking not-entirely-annoyed to see him; Lola chatted with Kathy by the entryway to the kitchen, both holding cups of coffee; Boy Lynn (well...Man Lynn) stood with his arms crossed and listened intently as Jed, dressed in a plaid coat and jeans, told a story or a long-winded joke (she couldn't tell which); Lana sat on the floor with Stephy in her lap and her sons playing together on her left; Dad sat next to Lynn III with Val in his arms, Mom leaning over and tickling his belly; Mark, Jessy, and Ritchie stood in a group by the dining room table, Mark listening and nodding thoughtfully as Ritchie spoke. As she watched, Lori came in from the kitchen with a tray of snacks.

Alex's heart dropped into her stomach and for the first time in her life, her heart completely stopped.

Maybe if she was _really_ quiet she could...

Lana spotted her. Grinning, she gave an excited wave. "Hi, hun!" she cried in that thick Southern accent of hers - grating, loud, attention-drawing.

Damn it.

Everyone turned to the door, and Alex blushed furiously when a chorus of hearty greetings went up. Bobby Jr., being the closest, reached her first and clapped her on the shoulder, making her wince. "Hey! I was wondering when you were gonna get here." Blake watched him warily, and Bobby smiled. "Hey, buddy, how's it going?"

Girl Lynn was next. "Hey, dork," she grinned.

"Hey," Alex replied, so off balance she didn't even think to return her cousin's insult.

From there, she was hopelessly lost in a whirl of people, lights, and sounds; Uncle Lynn pumped her hand and informed her that _Tom's a helluva lucky guy;_ Lana swept her into a bear hug that nearly broke her spine (uh...where's my son? Someone took him); Lola hugged her less violently; Stephy threw a headless Barbie at her feet with a sigh of frustration - _she boken, you have her;_ aunt Lori plunged both hands into her hair and started playing with it, talking about how she wanted to fix it up for the wedding; Mark regarded her blankly... _Uh, well, I've said this before, but congrats and...welcome to the family, I guess. It's not as big or as closely-knit as yours, but we're rich, so...one day you and Tim will get a decent inheritance, at least;_ Ritchie nodded and smiled - _Congrats, I'm happy for you_.

Just when she thought she was done, someone tapped her on the shoulder and she turned, her brows arching in surprise. 'Congrats, luv," Chunk said.

"No way," Alex grinned in pleased disbelief,, "I thought you died."

Chunk was Lola's roadie when they broke down in front of Mom and Dad's house, but quit a year later to work for someone else. He liked horror movies and metal just like Alex, which instantly made him cool; they had a lot of fun laughing at dumb horror movies together during the three days he and Lola stayed at the house. She was kinda hoping he'd come by to hang out again so she could introduce him to Tim, but life got in the way and she never saw him again.

Blinking in confusion, Chunk tilted his head to one side. "You're not the first person to say that."

Anyway, it was a really exhausting afternoon, but nerves or not, she _loved_ it, especially when everyone finished with her and she got to go hang with Stephy. She sat on the living room floor with her back against the couch, her Barbie in one hand and an armless, legless Ken in the other. Jessy sat criss-cross-applesauce next to her, Maddie sitting in her lap and looking around with huge, inquisitive eyes..

Alex dropped next to her sister and held out her arms. "My turn," she said.

Jessy's eyes narrowed. "Wait, Bunny. I'm not done."

"I've _been_ waiting," Alex moaned. "You got to meet her _two_ times already, I got to meet her _zero_." She looked around for Blake and saw him in Lana's arms; she and Lynn III were fawning over him, and from the expression on his face, he couldn't decide if he liked all the attention or not.

Sighing deeply, Jessy said, "Fine. Here."

She handed her Maddie, and Alex took her with a breathy, "Hi, baby!"

Maddie whipped her head around and favored her with slack-jawed amazement, as though she'd never seen someone so cool before. Her eyes were deep blue and put Alex in mind of shimmering crystals. "I'm your cousin, Alex," she said, "I'm _much_ cooler than Jessy."

"No, she's not," Jessy said, "she's really lame and yuck."

Maddie looked from one girl to the other as though she were trying to tell which one was being truthful. "Jessy's jealous of my amazingness," Alex explained. She looked past Jessy, where Stephy hummed airily and played with her dismembered dolls, bouncing Ken along like a frog.

"What happened to your toys?" Alex asked.

"They boke," Stephy said simply.

Alex and Maddie looked at each other. "Nikki likes to break her toys."

After a while, she gave Maddie back to Jessy and went off to search for her own baby; she missed him...even though it had only been, like, five minutes since she last saw him. She found him in the kitchen in Kathy's lap; she, Lynn Jr., Bobby Sr, and Lori sat at the table and drank coffee. Luan leaned against the counter next to Fred, his arm around her waist. Lana stood by the back door and munched potato chips from a bag, occasionally handing some to Justin and Josh, who circled her like vultures.

Blake saw Alex and held out his arms. "Come here, baby," she said and took him.

"I hope you don't mind I gave him some chips," Lana said. "He likes them."

"That's fine," Alex said. "He eats solid food now."

Back in the living room, she returned to where Jessy, Maddie, and Stephy sat; now they were joined by Lola and Val. Alex sat between Jessy and Lola and sat Blake on the floor. "Let's see how he does with his cousins," she said.

Blake looked from her to Lola, who smiled. "You're awfully cute."

He laughed.

Laying her hand on Stephy's head, Lola said, "Can you say hi to your cousin Blake?"

"Hi," Stephy said disinterestedly, not even looking up from her play.

"Honey, that's not polite," Lola said firmly.

Sighing, Stephy looked at Blake. "Hi,' she said with strained patience that Alex couldn't help finding adorable.

Blake flashed a big, gummy smile; Stephy went back to what she was doing and Lola stroked her hair.

"You nervous?" she asked Alex.

 _Yes. Very nervous._ "Nah. I got this."

"I was terrified when I married Bobby," Lola laughed. "I kept wondering what would happen if we didn't work out. I loved him, but in the back of my mind, I had...misgivings. We weren't together very long beforehand and I felt like I didn't know him enough to really be comfortable. What if he wasn't who I thought he was?" She ran her fingers through her daughter's hair and smiled to herself. "But I was worried over nothing. And you are too."

"I'm not worried," Alex lied.

"Yes you are," Lola said. "I can see it in your eyes. You look like a doe in the headlights."

Oh, God, did she? "That obvious?" she asked with a wince.

Lola nodded. "Yeah. Being nervous is normal, but my advice is: Don't be."

"That's pretty much what my Dad said," Alex remarked.

"He's a smart man," Lola said. "Just don't worry too much, okay?"

Alex couldn't make any promises, but she would try.

* * *

In all her years - which were many - Rita Loud could never remember being so happy. She couldn't remember a lot of things these days, and sometimes that bothered her so greatly that she fretted for hours on end, recalling decades worth of events just to make sure they were still there and not gone with the wind. Everyday, it seemed, the list of things she could recollect grew shorter, births, deaths, and even her own wedding hidden behind a gray mist that thickened with each passing week. If she squinted, she could make out the shape of the memories beyond, but never enough to satisfy her. A few days ago, or maybe it was a few months, she spent ten minutes staring at a framed photo of her with a man she didn't recognize, trying for the life of her to figure out who he was. When she realized it was Lynn, her husband of fifty years, she broke down crying.

That didn't matter right now, though, because today was a good day - her whole family was here and she held more babies than she could count. She missed babies. Her last one was...Lincoln. He was the last. Or was it Lynn?

Presently, she sat in her chair with Stephanie on her lap, her gnarled and aching fingers laced over the little girl's stomach. She laid against Rita's ample bosom and quietly watched TV, where _Mister Rogers' Neighborhood_ was just ending. _I don't know how you get her so calm,_ Lola said a little while ago, perplexed. _It must be something about granny,_ Rita replied. Grandmothers, she believed, emitted a soothing aura as a natural defense mechanism. Instead of wanting to beat them up or rob them, crooks found themselves wanting to do their yard work and curry their favor. Little girls like Stephanie were so overwhelmed by it that they turned sluggish - which made it easier for granny to snuggle them.

On the screen, Mister Rogers, dressed in a red cardigan sweater over a white shirt accented with a blue tie, sat down, slipped off his sneakers, and started to sing. Lana, wearing a pair of jeans and a gray sweater, crossed in front of the TV on her way to the kitchen, and Rita tracked her suspiciously with her eyes. She hadn't forgot who Lana was - she and Lola were her granddaughters just as much as Lynn, Jessy, and Alex - but there was something different about her, some indefinable trait or quality that had been niggling in the back of RIta's mind all afternoon like a word dancing on the tip of a tongue. She was certain that she would have gotten it already if she was well, but even now, it was so close that all she had to do was bend forward just a little bit…

Elsewhere in the living room, Jed and Lynn Jr. were deep in a discussion of football when Lincoln walked up. He'd been watching them for close to ten minutes and the animated character of their conversation intrigued him. The only thing Lynn got _this_ excited for was dinner.

Lincoln grinned at that. He was playing; Lynn _had_ lost weight and Lincoln was happy for him. Relieved, too. He hadn't told anyone, not even Ronnie Anne, but he sometimes worried about his brother and that thing spilling over his waistband (that was a quote, but from who? Sounded like something Sergeant Hellman would say). He was looking forward to spending time with him, but apparently he'd rather hang out with his new boyfriend, which wounded him even though it shouldn't. Only one thing to do at a time like this.

Insult the shit out of him.

He walked up and clapped both men on the back, hard enough to make them stumble. "I knew you two would get along," he said and looked between them. "One fixes junk cars, the other sells 'em."

Lynn snorted. "I'll have fries with that."

"You don't need fries, fatty," Lincoln said without missing a beat. He patted Lynn's stomach, and though it was smaller, it still jiggled. "Believe it or not," he said to Jed, "this tub of lard here used to play ball. Then he peaked in tenth grade and opened a used car lot."

Jed chuckled just a _touch_ uncomfortably. "I didn't even finish tenth grade, so he's got that on me."

"Lynn went to college," Lincoln said, "He graduated magna-cum-fatass."

A dull red blush crept into Lynn's cheeks, which told Lincoln he was getting to him. The older man forced a laugh and glanced down at his feet as if to hide his budding anger. "At least I don't cook hamburgers for a living."

"No, you eat them for a living."

Lynn's blush deepened and Lincoln decided to pull back. He patted his brother's shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze to show that he was just playing with him. He started to leave, but Bobby Jr. appeared, his hands going to his hips and a friendly smile crossed his face. "Hey, guys, what're we talking about?"

"How _All My Children_ is the best soap opera there is," Lynn said.

Bobby's smile fell a little. "That's not the one I'm on."

"I know."

"I done saw you on one of 'em," Jed said and furrowed his brow in thought, "you was messin' with someone's brakes."

"Yep," Bobby said. "That was me."

"You didn't do it right. In real life they'da still worked'."

While Bobby grasped for an answer, Lincoln wandered off and wound up in the kitchen. Justin and Josh, Lana's kids, sat at the table eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Lana herself stood at the coffee pot, pouring herself a fresh cup because the previous two weren't enough. Lynn III sat at the head of the table with Maddie in her arms; the baby wore a little white onesie with...Lincoln didn't know _what_ was emblazoned across the front. It was human with a big handlebar mustache and long blonde hair, its teeth bared in a silent scream. _Give me more steroids!_ "Who's _that_?" he asked and poked Maddie's pudgy belly.

Lynn favored him with a blank stare. "Maddie. My daughter."

"You don't say," Lincoln replied because _no shit_ wouldn't have been appropriate for little ears. "I mean the blonde thing on her shirt."

Recognition flickered in Lynn's eyes, and she grinned. "Hulk Hogan. The best wrestler ever."

"Uh-uh," Lana said and turned; she leaned against the edge of the counter and held her mug up to her lips. "The Ultimate Warrior is."

Maddie shoved her thumb in her mouth and gurgled. She was bald save for a sparse covering of brown hair, and Lincoln couldn't have stopped himself from reaching out and rustling it if he wanted to. Like his mother in the next room, he missed babies. There was Blake, but he was growing up. Pretty soon Lincoln would have to start checking him for grays.

"Are you kidding me?" Lynn asked, passion creeping into her voice. "Warrior's a schlub. The Undertaker locked him in a casket and he passed out like a bitch."

Turning her head, Maddie looked up at him and flashed a gummy smile. "Your mother's using bad words around kids. She's _bad_."

Shrugging, Lana took a sip of her coffee. "Hun, he kicked Hulk's ass at Royal Rumble and took his belt away. Now, if he's a bitch, what does that make Hulk?"

Why does everyone care so damn much about sports? He never got it and, he figured, he never would. In Vietnam, he and the other guys on base would scrape up baseball games when they could, and he grew to enjoy it, but playing is one thing...sitting there _watching_ it? That's like watching someone else have sex. Which is why he never cared for porn - he didn't wanna look at it, he wanted to _do_ it.

Shaking his head, he went back into the living room. Jessy sat on the arm of the couch and chatted with Lori. Mark stood nearby with his arms crossed and his eyes pointed at the TV. Since he already messed with Lynn, he'd focus on Mark for a while. He was a better sport about it anyway. He went over and slapped his hands on the boy's shoulders. Mark turned his head matter-of-factly. "Oh, hi, Mr. Loud. What are you doing?"

Lincoln squeezed and Mark tensed a little. "Just making extra sure you're man enough for Jessy, that's all."

"Oh. Okay. If you'd like to squeeze something else, feel free."

A laugh was shocked from Lincoln's throat. "You're funny."

"I wasn't trying to be," Mark said earnestly. "If you want to squeeze my arm or leg, go ahead. You're kind of starting to hurt my shoulders."

Ah. Lincoln thought he was telling him to...nevermind.

Across the room, Stephanie climbed off of Rita's lap and went off to play. Rita reached for the remote but paused when Lana passed by as though she were going to the front door. All at once, it clicked.

She knew _exactly_ what was different about her. "Lana, dear," she said, and Lana stopped.

"Yes, Mrs. Loud?"

Rita looked her up and down. "Are you pregnant?"

Lana's brows knitted ever so slightly - enough to tell Rita that she was. "How did you know?" There was a breathy note of wonder in her voice that made her sound like a little girl questioning the arcane ways of a parlor trick pulling magician.

"Pregnant women has a certain glow, dear," Rita said, pleased with herself and with Lana as well. " It's unmistakable."

Lana pressed her fingers tentatively to her face as if in search of said glow. "Have you told anyone yet?" Rita asked.

"No. We didn't wanna steal Alex's thunder or anything, so we're keeping it quiet for now."

Rita could understand that, though she suspected that Lana wanted to keep it secret more for herself than Alex. It's only natural to want your good news to stand front and center. If she brought it up now, everyone would be too distracted by the wedding to give her and her pregnancy their full attention. Rita did the same thing herself, come to think of it, only it was a funeral...or _was_ it a wedding? "I'll keep it under my hat," she assured Lana in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Just for a while," Lana said.

Near the foot of the stairs, Alex leaned against the wall in a contrived cool girl pose and crossed her arms. "Yeah, I met Boomer from WKBBL last year. We do lunch every now and then." That was a bald faced lie, all of it, but could you blame her? Chunk just got done telling her all about being Poison's roadie, then Def Leppard's roadie, then, and this one _really_ hurt, AC/DC's roadie...how could she _not_ feel a little inferior? _Yeah, I served a burger to John Doe last week. I'm a pretty big deal_.

"I met me a few radio types," Chunk said, "they get on me nerves."

Something tugged on the hem of Alex's shirt, and she looked down; Blake grinned up at her and bounced on his heels. Alex picked him up and snaked her forearm under his squishy butt. "This is my real VIP, though," she said.

"He don't look much like you, luv," Chunk said. He leaned forward and ruffled Blake's hair; Blake regarded him warily, like he was a big giant monster instead of a big giant Englishman.

"I know," Alex said, "he was cursed with his father's looks. Poor kid. I love him anyway." She wrapped her other arm around him and hugged him tight.

Before Chunk could reply, Ronnie Anne passed and grabbed the cuff of his T-shirt. "Come on, big boy."

He rolled his eyes. "Again?"

"I don't like smoking alone," she said.

With a shrug, Chunk followed her out the front door, closing it behind him. On the porch, she sat in a rocking chair and he leaned against the porch rail. Angus Young from AC/DC, who was a notoriously heavy smoker, once told Chunk _ya ain't human, mate, ya burn more'n any man I ever saw._ Ronnie Anne Loud was even worse. In the two hours he'd been here, she had him out on the porch a good dozen times. His pack, which was freshly opened when he arrived, was almost empty, and his throat was raw and tender from all the smoke. He lit one anyway, to be polite, but didn't inhale. "Ya makin' up for lost time?" he asked.

"Yes," she said and took a deep drag of her Marlboro. "Twenty years."

"Ya already got there, luv," he said, "now you're pushin' thirty."

She shrugged. "Eh. I was eleven when I started, so I have eleven years to make up for too."

"That young?" Chunk asked.

She nodded and took another puff. "Yep. I used to steal from my brother's pack." She laughed, and smoke rolled from her mouth, choking her. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face, dispelling the cloud. "So this is his fault." Here she held up her cigarette.

"I was eighteen," Chunk said. "Didn't start 'til I was in the army. Needed somethin' to take the stress off."

A cool gust of wind slipped through the windchimes, making them tinkle. "You were in the army?"

"I was," he said. "Four years."

"So was Lincoln. Two years."

Chunk nodded. "I got the impression. You can tell a man whose been in. They have a certain way about them."

They did. After being married to one for twenty-five years, she could often pick out a vet at fifty feet. Not always (like with Chunk), but many military men have a certain indefinable quality that she would recognize anywhere. Not every single one of them had it, but every single one that _did_ proved to have served. She couldn't say exactly what _it_ was, but the way they bore themselves had a lot to do with it. A popular saying goes _you never forget how to ride a bike_ \- apparently you never forget how to stand and walk the way they taught you in the service. When Lincoln first came home from boot camp, the difference in him was so pronounced as to be disconcerting. Inside, he was the same sweet, lovable square-for-brains he'd always been, but outside, he was changed. His posture was straighter, more rigid; his stride was longer, more confident; and the boyish softness was gone from his face, replaced by rugged manliness.

Even now, two plus decades after he was mustered out of the army, he still stood and walked like he did the day he came back from Louisiana, as though the military had altered his very DNA. Guess it was drilled into him - hey, that must be why they call them _drill sergeants._

"He went through a lot over there," she mused absently.

Chunk took a drag of his cigarette and let it out in a puff. "War is hell. Me father fought the Germans in North Africa. Had nightmares about it to the day he died."

Pursing her lips, Ronnie Anne tilted her head in thought. "Lincoln doesn't have nightmares much anymore. He used to."

Of all the symptoms of Lincoln's PTSD, the nightmares were the first to go. When he came home in 1968, he had one every single night, it seemed, if not every other night. They came less and less as time passed, and by '75 he suffered one only rarely. The last she could recall was a year and a half ago - he jerked awake with a start and almost fell out of bed, face sheened in sweat and contorted in fear. It was one of the ones he wouldn't talk to her about - in some way, shape, or form it involved Jessy or Alex. He was forthright with everything but those: He wanted to forget them as quickly as possible and not "dwell." At this stage in life, she thought that maybe that was for the best.

"I have 'em now and then," Chunk said, "last one was me spillin' me lunch down me shirt and the sergeant making me do push ups for bein' a slob while everyone laughed." He shook his head with faux-severity, the tiny ghost-of-a-grin nestled in one corner of his lips betraying him. "That was the worst one yet."

Inside, Rita watched Blake and Valentino playing on the floor. Val was turning two in a few days and already resembled his father with black hair and dark eyes. His complexion was lighter than Bobby Jr.s', however, just as Bobby Jr.'s was lighter than his own father's. The original Bobby was born to two Hispanics, while Bobby Jr. and Val both had white mothers.

Val rocked forward on his knees and raced a red fire engine across the floor in a wide semi-circle as Blake watched in amazement. Rita chuckled softly to herself. From her spot on the couch, Lori, resting against the arm, said, "Reminds me of Bobby being little." There was a dreamy quality to her voice. "Feels like it was just yesterday."

"It always does," Rita said and turned to her daughter. Lines creased the corners of her eyes and mouth and her shoulder-length blonde hair was shot through with gray. She was fifty this year, but to Rita, she was a baby only a little while ago, sitting in her crib and happily playing while RIta sat anxiously by the radio listening to news from the front, sick with worry because Lynn was over there. The memory, despite her illness, was so crisp and vivid that she could almost imagine she was there again.

Seeing the age in her daughter's face made her head spin. It really didn't seem like it was that long ago, but proof to the contrary was right in front of her, now wasn't it?

Normally that would depress her, but not today. Today was a good day. Her whole family was here. Except…

She looked around the room, seeing Lynn, Lana's husband, Alex, Jessy, Lola, Lynn III, and a dozen other people, then turned back to Lori. "Where's Luna?"

Lori's smile dropped a little and her eyes clouded with darkness that made Rita's heart pinch. It was the look of a woman with bad news. "What's wrong?" she demanded.

For a moment Lori was stricken, then she sighed. She reached out and took Rita's hand, and the old women knew in that instant that something awful must have happened. "Luna died, Mom. Remember?"

The words struck Rita like a fist, the blow dislodging a memory and knocking it into the light.

Yes, she did remember now.

"Oh," was all she could say. Fresh anguish clutched her chest and tears threatened to well in her eyes - tears because her daughter was dead...and tears because for a moment there, she completely forgot. "Y-Yes. I-I do."

Lori squeezed her hand and Rita offered her a weak, reassuring smile that did little to hide the shame. It occurred to her to lie and say she meant to ask for Lincoln ( _I'm still getting your names mixed up after fifty years, silly me),_ but even though she was sure that she had just seen her youngest son, she was suddenly terrified of being told that he was dead too. _He never came home from the war, Mom. Remember?_

If that happened, she would break down. _I thought he did._

"And so did Leni and your father," she said even though it hurt. "It just slipped my mind, that's all. Too much excitement." Lori regarded her with a sad smile that RIta couldn't help but find patronizing. Outrage knotted in her chest and she barely contained herself from lashing out. She wasn't upset with Lori, she was upset with herself. She was literally losing her mind, but even so, there are some things you shouldn't forget no matter how sick you are; losing one of your children is one of them. That she did humiliated her, and that Lori was there to see it made her feel worse. She would most likely mention it to Lincoln and Luan, probably to Lynn too, and by the end of the day they would all know, and they would all look at her the way Lori was looking at her now.

She didn't think she could handle that. It made her feel stupid.

And scared her.

This disease, while slow, _was,_ indeed killing her. One day soon, she would have to lie down and die, and while her faith in God remained steadfast, she was afraid. Afraid it would be painful, afraid of cold darkness spreading across her vision, afraid of the tight, bursting panic as she sank into the depths - clawing to stay where it was warm and bright. She believed in heaven, but she had never seen it. She had, however, seen her children and her grandchildren, she had never been to glory, but she had been to 1216 Franklin Avenue, where over forty years of love and memories lingered like a pleasant fragrance.

The promise of seeing Lynn, Luna, and Leni again made it easier, but not by much.

She drew a deep sigh and focused her attention on her great grandsons. Blake reached for the firetruck, and Val pulled it away, his forehead crinkling in stormy indignation. "Val," Lori reprimanded sternly, and the little boy looked at her. "You have to share your toys."

Val regarded her as though she were speaking a foreign language, bringing a grin to Rita's face. "Share with your cousin," Lori continued.

Val grunted his displeasure at the idea.

Rita recalled Alex and Lynn not getting along when they first met. If she wasn't mistaken, they were around the same age, too. That just went to show that while things might change, people don't. Human beings are the same no matter the time period - strip away all the superficial things, and a boy today has more in common with a boy from the thirties than not.

"You be nice," Lori admonished.

For a second, Val glared at her. Then he got up, grabbed his firetruck, and toddled away.


	160. May 1991: Part 5

**A.T. Gunn: I'm the same way. There's no genre of music out there that hasn't produced at least a handful of songs I like. I don't know if I touched on it here, but I believe that rock and roll had just as big an impact in bringing whites and backs closer together as the Civil Rights Movement. It formed a common ground that opened lots of doors between the races.**

 **RCurrent: At this point, idk. Fairly soon.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _Losing My Religion_ by R.E.M. (1991)**

On the day of his wedding, Tim Underwood woke just after dawn with a stinging headache above his left eye. Part of it was exhaustion - he worked long, hard hours at his father's auto shop, starting before sunrise and stopping after sunset - but it was mainly the heat. When he first laid eyes on Alex Loud in the fourth grade, he thought _man, she's hot._ Yeah, he had no _idea_. She was like a furnace, and falling asleep under the blankets with her invariably lead to him waking up sweaty and headachy.

Still...he didn't want to wake up any other way.

She lay flat on her back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open, a long ribbon of drool coursing down her chin. As he admired her, she wrinkled her forehead as though someone in a dream did something she didn't like (God help the poor bastard, whoever he was) and smacked her lips. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, her chest rising and falling under the cover, and a long strand of hair lay across her cheek like black velvet. He reached out and brushed it from her face just because he wanted to touch her, his thumb lightly skimming the ridge of her cheek bone as if to count the freckles adorning her skin (six, by the way, not many and faint). She stirred and winced in her sleep, and he couldn't help but do it again, delighting in annoying her like a schoolboy with a crush. He wouldn't have dared pick on her when he _was_ a schoolboy with a crush, though; she would have ripped his head off. At least that's what he thought back then.

The first time he worked up the courage to talk to her, she was playing _Space Invaders_ at the arcade, a girl of almost eleven with a ponytail, denim jacket, gel bracelets on her wrists, and headphones around her neck blaring AC/DC. He was playing _Tail Gunner_ with a couple friends when he glanced over and saw her, and a sharp pang ripped through his stomach, just like it did every time he caught sight of her. He'd liked her for almost a year at that point and even though he was confident in everything he did, the thought of approaching her scared the shit out of him; not only was she the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, she was also legitimately cool - the thought of looking dumb or lame in front of her made his skin crawl.

Distracted, he died onscreen and one of his buddies took over. While he waited his next turn, he surreptitiously stared at her, his mind working. He _really_ liked her, a lot more than he had any other girl - she made him feel funny things that he'd never felt before, things that were beautiful at the same time they were agonizing. When he admired her in class or from across the lunch room, his heart ached, his stomach fluttered, and his fingers curled spasmodically with the tingling desire to be threaded through _her_ fingers. He thought about her constantly, to the point that he wanted to scream and pull his hair out. The sound of her voice made him weak and he begged God that she would turn her brown eyes on him just so he could appreciate them full on instead of secretly from the side..

Standing there in a crowded arcade on Halloween 1979, he convinced himself to go over and say hi.

Flush, shaking, and exerting all of his self-control to keep from breaking out in hives, he dragged himself across the room and stood behind her like a creep, waiting for an opening but not seeing one; she was _really_ focused on the game and really good too. _Die so I make my move._ Finally, he said, _Hey, cool, you play video games?_ That was literally the only thing that came to mind other than _you do funny things to my heart, wanna be my girlfriend?_

She startled, and her spaceship was blown to smithereens. _Whoops_.

Slowly, like a monster in a horror movie, she turned, brow heavy, jaw clenched, eyes flashing. She looked mad, and, brother, it was at _him. Hey, look,_ he said, putting his hands up and falling back a step, _I didn't mean to get you killed._

 _Well you did._ Her voice was strained and his blood ran cold. One chance, Tim, you had one chance...and you screwed it over. Good work. Anything else you wanna fuck up today?

She went back to playing and no shoulder before or since had ever felt colder. Common sense told him to beat it; live to fight another day, try again, blah blah blah. Too bad his heart was in the driver seat, for to the heart, common sense might as well be Greek.

After her sister came over and fished a quarter out of her jacket pocket, he rubbed the back of his neck and cast about for something, anything, to say. _You're pretty good._

 _I'm even better when someone's not talking in my ear._

Ouch.

That wasn't a joke, her words, and the tone she said in them, hit his chest like a fist. Hanging his head, he turned and ran with his tail between his legs. One of his character traits, inherited from his father, was stubbornness; he knew even as he fled that he would try again. And again. As many times is it took to either get her to like him...or to punch him in the face. _I said get lost, asshole._ He'd stop after that ( _she's serious about not wanting me, sigh, guess I gotta come to terms with it_ ), but not one moment sooner.

She still intimidated him, though (inTIMidated, as she might say), but when God _finally_ blessed him with her, he discovered something. Her toughness? Pfft, it was a false front; she was really sweet, sentimental, and really, really goofy underneath - things that he never knew he loved until he found them in her.

A lot of guys his age, it seemed, weren't ready to settle down; the thought of committing to one woman made them tremble in fear. Not him; in fact, he couldn't see himself spending his life doing anything _but_ being Alex's husband. Well, Blake's father, of course, and a mechanic, and a white guy from Michigan, and...okay, he was veering into silly territory. The point was, he was looking forward to his life with her.

That didn't mean he wasn't nervous - he was. A little. But that's to be expected, right?

Stroking Alex's hair, he sat up, swung his legs out from under the cover, and got to his feet, his back crying out and making him grimace. He was twenty-two but most days he felt older; working on cars takes a hell of a toll on the body. His father had a bad back, bad knees, and a bum shoulder, and fully anticipated being in a wheelchair by the time he retired. _My future's so bright I gotta wear shades...and a back brace._ He smiled sardonically as went into the attached bathroom. Maybe he should have gotten into a line of work that wasn't so brutal, like playing the stock market. He was good with math, science, statistics, and numbers, he could probably make a fortune.

That sounded boring though.

Like working with computers. His cousin Mark said they were the wave of the future, and while that might be true, sitting in front of one all day appealed to him about as much as a root canal. He liked working with his hands, and nothing interested him the way being elbows deep in the engine block of a '67 Chevy did. There was something about auto mechanics, the smell of grease and oil, the relaxed atmosphere of a garage, the presence of cars - which are easy to understand once you know them, unlike people - that attracted him like steel to a magnant. He couldn't see himself doing anything else. Moving onto a bigger garage and making more money, sure, but not sitting in a stuffy office and wearing a tie, or clamoring at the closing bell on Wall Street. He was a car guy through and through and that was it. Game, set, match.

In the bathroom, he relieved himself, then stripped out of his boxers and climbed into the shower. He turned the handle, adjusted the temperature, and ducked his head under the spray, wetting his hair. He lifted his face and let the water pound against his closed eyelids, washing away the sand and burning off the lingering sleep in his head. He wondered for the millionth time what he and Alex were going to do for their honeymoon. They wouldn't go on it now - their life was already in full swing and it was kind of hard to pull away - but the first chance he got, he wanted to do something special for her. Hawaii sounded nice, but so did Cancun and Vegas. He always wanted to see the latter: Flashing neon lights, extravagant floor shows, and the desert. He liked the desert. There was something clean and simple about it: What you saw was what you got.

Deep down, he supposed, he was just a simple man. He wasn't dumb (at least he didn't think so, but dumb people are often the last to know they're dumb), he just liked straightforwardness. There's so little of it in the world these days: Human relations are a complicated tangle of backstabbing, intrigue, betrayal, and ulterior motives. Why it had to be that way, he didn't know, but it was and probably always had been.

No, thanks.

That's one of the things he loved most about Alex. There was more to her than met the eye, but once you got under her hood and understood her inner workings, you understood her. She was very intelligent (far more intelligent than him, though don't tell _her_ that) and the way she coped with the stark realization that the world was a scary-ass place was to be silly. Escapism, they call it. Some people escape into novels, others into hobbies-bordering-on-obsessions, and some escape into not taking anything too seriously because they know that if they do, they'll either go crazy or have a heart attack before they're fifty.

Maybe that was a little cynical, but it was ultimately true. Not everyone was bad - hell, most people were probably good - but the bad ones have a way of rising to the top, like the rotten cream of the crop. Bad men work harder, put in longer hours, and take fewer vacations than the average good guy, which means that in the end, more of them get into positions of power...and then abuse that power.

In any event, her flippant attitude was sort of a defense mechanism just like his no frills schtick. He didn't know if it was exactly healthy (she could be serious when she needed to be), but he loved how goofy she was.

Or maybe he was thinking too much into things. Standing on the cusp of eternal matrimoney does that to a guy.

When he was done, he cut the water, got out, and toweled off, his eyes instantly going to the mirror over the sink. Sometimes, when he was in the shower, Alex would sneak in and write things in the condensation. I LOVE YOU. A big heart. BEST DADDY EVER. YOU SUCK. DON'T DROP THE SOAP. He always checked when he got out, prepared to either have his heart warmed or his ego shattered, and when he didn't find a message, like now, he was just a _little_ disappointment.

Dry, he wrapped the towel around himself and went out into the room. The sun had fully risen and feeble morning light crept through the window, its amber rays spreading across the floor and banishing shadows to the corners. Alex lay on her side now, his pillow clutched tight and her face buried deep in its folds. Was she awake? He crossed over to the bed and let out a long, heavy sigh, but she didn't move. You know, if their roles were reversed, she'd probably get her finger nice and full of spit, then jam it in his ear. _Morning, Timmy Faye Baker!_ He should really do the same to her. He was gonna marry this girl, might as well establish upfront that theirs was a equal union, no boss, no slave, and no Tim rolling over and taking abuse without meting some back.

Laying one hand on the headboard, he bent, stuck his finger in his mouth, and worked up so much saliva that some of it dribbled down his chin. It's Thanksgiving Day for cats, but only if they came back from the dead, he thought (that was from _Pet Sematary -_ horrifying movie, even to a horror fan like him). He pulled his finger out and aimed it at her ear, but stopped when a grunt sounded behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned when he found Blake staring at him over the rail of his crib. The little boy smiled and bounced; losing his balance, he toppled back onto his butt and fell over, shocking a chuckle from Tim's throat.

He glanced longingly at Alex, but spared her and went over to the crib. He had the rest of their lives to torment her.

Blake rolled to his stomach, got his knees under him, and pulled himself up on the bar. Tim stood over him with a proud little smirk. Blake was already big for his age and solid; he'd be a football player one day, if not a wrestler. He could already climb out of the crib, and a few times he came close to climbing back in. Give it a few years and he'd probably bench the damn thing. Give it _another_ few years, and _he'd_ be the man of the house. *Nine foot tall Blake looks down at his old man* _Hey, Dad, my homework's not gonna do itself._ Tim: _Yes, sir._

"Morning, buddy," Tim said and stroked his son's head. An idea struck him and a grin touched his face. "You wanna help me wake up Mommy?"

Blake smiled, bounced (without falling this time) and held up his arms, his tiny hands closing and unclosing insistantly. Guess that's a yes. Tim reached in, picked him up, and snaked his forearm under his soggy butt; first order of business after torturing Alex awake was a diaper change. He took a step toward the bed and a cool breeze swept across his bare genitals. Okay, first order of business was putting clothes on.

At the side of the bed, Blake stared down at his mother and smiled around his thumb, which he'd hooked into his mouth on the trip over. "You wanna get her?" Tim asked. Blake turned to him, his face lighting up.

Leaning over, Tim nodded at the side of Alex's head. "Slap her."

Blake looked from her to Tim in uncertainty. _I thought I_ wasn't _supposed to hit people._ "Go on, it's okay," Tim urged.

For a moment, Blake looked undecided, then, with a gummy smile, he brought his hand up then down on his mother's head with a hollow thwack. Alex winced and stirred, and Blake looked at his father. _She moved._ "Do it again," Tim said.

Blake uttered a breathy laugh, turned, and smacked Alex again, harder this time. He bounced excitedly in Tim's grasp and issued a long, high-pitch _ahhhh._ Alex groaned and rolled onto her back, her lids peeling back from her eyes to narrow, quivering slits, as though keeping them open took Herculean strength. "What's going on?" she asked, voice thick with sleep. Blake answered by slapping her nose and making her wince.

"You're being woken up," Tim said.

"Why?" she asked. "It's my wedding day, leave me alone."

Tim leaned over and kissed her forehead, which wrinkled under his lips when she smiled tiredly. She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, her nails grazing his scalp. "It's mine too, he said and kissed the tip of her nose. Blake thrashed and smacked Alex's stomach, knocking an _umph_ from her throat. Tim reached her lips, and their tongues slipped sensually over one another.

Feeling left out, Blake slapped her again and yelled. Alex broke from Tim's lips and pushed herself to a sitting position, her tangled hair veiling her face. "You're really pushing it, mister," she told her son. Blake yelled again, straining against Tim's arm to get to her, and she held her hands out. Tim handed him over and Alex sat him in her lap, her hands cupping his cheeks and smooshing his lips together. "It's mommy's super special day, you gotta be nice to her."

Rolling his eyes, Tim went over to the dresser and took a pair of boxers out of the drawer.

"In fact, you really should have made her breakfast in bed," she continued. "But you're too little to operate the stove, so we'll blame daddy."

Tim pulled on his underwear. "You said you were on a diet," he said. She was...nominally. Some days she stuck to it, and others...well, others she didn't. Last night, when he came home from work, it was to a pizza box on the coffee table, Styrofoam containers of Chinese food on the kitchen counter, and _Murphy Brown_ on the television. _What?_ Alex asked around a slice of pizza. _It's my wedding day tomorrow, I'm allowed to splurge._ He just held his hands up, palms out - he didn't care, she's the one who wanted to go on a diet. As far as he was concerned, she was beautiful and perfect.

Hahahaha. Okay, not perfect, but perfect for _him._ He didn't care if she gained weight. Better than losing it. He could see himself enjoying sex with her regardless of how big or small she was, but he imagined if she got _too_ skinny, it'd be kind of uncomfortable. You know, bones sticking out and all.

"That's okay," Alex said, "there's leftover Chinese food." She smacked her lips, and Blake did likewise. "Hmmmm, Chinese food is _good_ food."

She got up. "Let's go get some."

* * *

Rita Loud shuffled through the gloomy living room, the tip of her cane trailing muffled thumps across the floor. Russel trotted along beside, his face turned up and his tongue hanging out. He always did that, and it made Rita wonder if he wasn't waiting for the inevitable fall. Dogs, they say, can smell sickness on their masters, and the entire time she had him, arthritis had been laying waste to her joints; in some fashion, he knew the shape and nature of her disease, and had appointed himself her guardian. He was getting on in years himself; his movements were stiff and tentative, and sometimes Rita wondered if he didn't have arthritis too. She'd have to remind Fred to take him to the vet.

Or did she ever bring it up in the first place? She came to a halting stop and knitted her brows in contemplation. She couldn't recall. She'd make a note and stick it to the fridge. In fact, she'd do that before she started the coffee.

In the kitchen, she hobbled over to the counter, opened the catch-all drawer, and took out a pen and pad of sticky notes. She touched the tip to the paper and completely blanked on that she was going to write. That happened far more often than it should because of her Alzheimer's and it was _very_ frustrating.

And frightening.

She sighed and looked down at Russel.

Then she remembered.

"I'm losing my marbles," she said as she jotted down her message; the pen trembled in her achy hand and the point jerked across the page, rendering her script spidery and childish. Looking at it, she frowned deeply: Here, in front of her in black and yellow, was irrefutable proof that she was sick.

Best not to think of it. Her family was here and today Alex was getting married to that boy she liked, it was a happy occasion, not a time for worrying over what she could not control. If God willed her mind to fade away, it was going to fade away and there was not a thing she could do about it. He has a plan for each one of us; sometimes we cannot understand those plans and sometimes what He allows to happen seems cruel, but He knows best and she was content to let Him do what He would. That did not mean she was unafraid, she was not, but she put her trust in Him and that would have to be the end of it.

Ripping the note from the pad, she stuck it to the front of the fridge at eye-level so that Fred couldn't miss it even if she forgot. She squinted to read her handwriting and flattened her lips in annoyance. Something didn't seem right but she couldn't pick it out, which irritated her.

TAKE FRED TO VET.

Hmm. Whatever it was, Fred would understand her meaning. She turned away and went to the coffee pot just as Lynn III came into the kitchen with Maddie, the little girl perched on Lynn's forearm and staring over her shoulder. "Good morning, honey," Rita said happily and opened the cabinet to get the coffee.

"Good morning, Grandma," Lynn said and sat at the table. Maddie swung her head around and looked at Rita with an open mouth expression of amazement, as though she'd never seen someone so dreadfully _old._

Setting the coffee tin on the counter, she went over to Lynn and bent the best she could, which wasn't very much at all. "Good morning, dear," she said and tapped the tip of the baby's nose. Maddie blinked and gulped. "How did you sleep?"

"Barely," Lynn said and threw her head back. "She was up every hour on the hour."

"Your father was like that," Rita said and stood straight, a grimace of pain rippling across her wrinkled face when her back popped. Lynn watched with quiet concern that brought an inexplicable blush of shame to the nape of Rita's neck. She ignored it. Pride was a sin and though she never thought so before, she could be a _very_ prideful woman. "Or maybe it was Lincoln." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "One of the boys at any rate." She turned to the counter, and her knee locked painfully. She sucked a sharp intake of breath through her teeth froze as fiery fingers snaked up her leg and into her hip.

"You okay, Grandma?" Lynn asked..

Rita tried to speak but couldn't, so she nodded instead. "I-I'm fine, honey," she finally managed, her voice grating as badly as her joints, "it's just my arthritis." She attempted to work through the pain and take a step, but it flared into a raging inferno and she gasped. At her feet, Russel whined pitifully in the back of his throat.

Getting to her feet, Lynn sat Maddie on the floor and helped Rita to a chair, lowering her in with the overexaggerated care of a woman handling a Faberge egg. Maddie watched curiously from her spot, leaning forward to see around the legs of the table but not brave enough to move.

Once Rita was off her feet, the agony lessened, but not by much. She took a deep breath and nodded to her granddaughter. "Thank you, dear. I-It acts up sometimes, especially if I sleep wrong." That was not untrue, but as far as Rita could remember, she didn't sleep wrong. She was up almost as much as Maddie, and each time she was flat on her back.

"It's okay," Lynn said. "You want coffee?"

"Yes, please."

Lynn went off to make the coffee, and shortly Lana, Justin, Josh, Kathy, and Bobby Jr. wandered in from the living room in a line. "Good morning," Rita greeted as Lynn sat a mug in front of her. After so many years of big, empty house, it tickled her pick to have so many loved ones here.

"Morning, Grandma," Bobby said and came over. He bent and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders; her elbows twinged but she didn't care, having her grandson was well worth it.

Next came Justin and Josh - she always got them mixed up even though they were far from identical, but she hugged them just the same, each one stiffening a little. They didn't know her as well as the others and she wasn't their blood, so she understood, but that didn't matter one whit to her. They say blood is thicker than water, but after twenty years of imbiling the word of God, Rita had come to decide that love is thicker than blood.

Lana and Kathy were last, Lana handling Rita as though she were made of glass. To be fair, Lana, while as beautiful as her twin, was a very powerful woman. Her arms were toned and her muscles defined from years of hard work. Even married, she insisted on working at Jed's gas station...or whatever it was he ran. Rita believed that a woman should be allowed to have a job if she wanted, but she was of the mind that a woman should willingly stay in the home if she can. Running a house and a family is a full-time job in of itself and requires constant attention. The proof was in society. More women were in the workforce and more children were going unsupervised. How awful. A child needs to be guided and loved every second of every day - making them come home with a latch-key then forcing them to make their own dinner in the microwave and watch TV is a horrible thing. You cannot leave a child to his or her own devices anymore than you can let go of a steering wheel...not until they're older and you've done as much instilling of values as you can. Then and only then will a child be prepared to take over from you.

A lot of people did not see it that way, which was regrettable, but it was not her place to judge.

Lana released her and stepped back, and Rita lifted a quizzical brow. There was something different -

Then she remembered. Lana was pregnant and she and her husband were keeping it a secret for now. They wanted a girl, she thought, and Rita hoped they got it. Daughters are a wonderful thing to have. So are sons, for that matter. God blessed her with both - more of the former than the latter, but she didn't mind one way or the other; she was fortunate and thankful for what she had. "You look very lovely today, dear," Rita said. Lana was dressed in jeans and a forest-green knit sweater that clung to her ample breasts. Rita, however, was referring to the bright glow in her face. Nothing outside of a child, a small animal, and salvation was as beautiful as a pregnant woman.

"Thank you," Lana blushed, "you look very nice too."

"I doubt that," RIta said. Her hair was a mess, her robe was disheveled, and her face had more creases than one of those Japanese paper art thing (what were they called again?).

"What about me?" Kathy asked with a playful grin, "don't I look nice?"

Rita took her hand and squeezed. She thought Kathy was teasing, but she didn't want her to feel left out. "Yes you do, honey. You look lovely."

"Thank you."

Rita thought Lana looked _more_ lovely, but how could poor Kathy compete with a pregnant woman? How could _anyone?_

While everyone got their coffee, Rita sipped hers and stretched her arm down just enough to graze her fingertips over Russel's scalp. He lifted up on his hind legs to give her easier access, and she smiled. He was a crafty one.

Lynn Jr. came in yawing - he wore plaid pants and a pink button up under a wool blazer, an outfit combination that Rita realized she didn't see too much of anymore. Then again, she didn't leave the house very often these days save for doctor visits, so she didn't see much of anything - her exposure to new fashions came from TV, mainly The Bobby Jr. Show. She did watch other things, though, like _Coach_ and _Doogie Howser, MD._ She liked Doogie Howser; he was the cutest thing on television. He reminded her of someone she'd known in life but she couldn't remember who. "Morning, ma," Lynn said and came over. He bent down and kissed Rita on the, and she kissed him back. "Who's cooking breakfast? I'm starved."

"How about you cook?" Lynn III asked.

Lynn thought for a moment. "Actually," he said, "I'm not that hungry…"

* * *

The morning of May 4, 1991, was bright and mild with a light westerly breeze and clear blue skies above. Sitting at the kitchen table and nursing a cup of coffee while Ronnie Anne flew around like a chicken with her head cut off, Lincoln stared out the window over the sink and searched the heavens for signs of rain, but found none.

Huh.

Maybe he was getting pessimistic in his old age but he was certain today would be a washout, necessitating a change of venue from the backyard to the laundry room. _Do you take this heap of towels to be your lawful wedded wife?_ He was excited to see his little girl marry, but, really, the courthouse would have been a much simpler option: They could have gotten hitched there then went to Mom's for a reception or something. Ronnie Anne, however, saw to it that that didn't happen. Watching her now, standing at the wall mounted phone and talking to the priest _("you're going to be there at one, right? 1216 Franklin Avenue?")_ , he wondered if she wasn't living vicariously through Alex and making up for the wedding that she herself never had.

Their marriage was quick and to the point - they rushed because he was going off to boot camp. Neither was concerned with having a big, fancy wedding with cake, dresses, and guests; they had each other and that's all that mattered. Looking back now, though, sometimes Lincoln thought it would have been nice to have a memorable ceremony and not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am in front of a magistrate. He brought up the idea of them having an actual wedding several times over the years, but Ronnie Anne waved him off. _We're already married, lame-o, can't get anymore married._ He agreed, but most women, deep down, want their big day to be special, and the more he thought about it, the worse he felt for not being able to give it to her.

She said she didn't care, and he never got the impression that she was lying...until now. She'd been focused entirely on the wedding for days now: Living it, breathing it, sleeping it. In fact, the only thing she did beside plan and organize was smoke cigarettes.

Speaking of cigarettes, Lincoln could really use one right now. He slipped one from his pack on the table, grabbed his coffee, and got up. Ronnie Anne was talking to the cater now (caterer? How the hell ever you say it) and nodding to whatever the person on the other end was saying. He patted her butt as he passed and she shot him a warning look - _don't mess with me lame-for-square, I'm doing 'portant stuffs._ More important than being groped by your husband? Why, twenty years ago, grabbing her butt would have gotten him shoved to the bed and sexually mauled, now all it earned him was a long-suffering _eh_. Joys of middle age.

He pulled open the sliding glass door, stepped onto the deck, and crossed to a wrought iron patio chair. Sitting, he lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, the smoke pinching the back of his throat. Since rekindling their love of slowly committing suicide by Marlboro, he and Ronnie Anne had gone through a carton and a half between them. Most of it was her - she smoked like it was going out of style. _I'm storing it up,_ she said, _for when I quit again._

Taking a sip of coffee, he looked at his wristwatch. 10:15.

Momentarily, the door opened and Ronnie Anne came out, lighting a cigarette of her own. She wore a purple dress that screamed _teacher_ and no shoes on her feet; Lincoln watched them as she went to the chair across from him, expecting her to catch a splinter, jump, and cry out, but she didn't. This deck really needs to be refinished. Again. Ugh. I just did it...in '79.

Really? That recently? Might as well do it every goddamn year at this point.

"Everything all set?" he asked.

Ronnie Ane nodded and took a drag. "Sure is," she said. "Unless someone calls out like a lazy slob, we should be good." She cracked a grin and lifted the cigarette to her lips with a proud flourish. "Now all that's left is you walking our little girl down the aisle without tripping over your feet like a dumbass."

A laugh was shocked from Lincoln's throat. "I went through eight weeks of basic training, I think I can handle walking five feet."

"Sergeant Helsing took it easy on you," she declared, "I won't."

Lincoln snickered. "Okay, first of all, his name was Sergeant Hellman, and second, he didn't take it easy on me. He was a dick the whole time. Third, you're a civie, you don't scare me."

She started to get and he cried out in faux-terror. "Okay, okay! You scare me, you scare me."

"That's what I thought," she said and sat back down. Moving on, she said, "After this I wanna get going. The caterer's gonna be at your mom's house in an hour to start setting up. The ice sculpture is gonna -"

Lincoln blinked. "Ice sculpture?"

"That's what I said." She took a drag, tilted her head back, and blew it out in a long, blue stalk that dispersed and hung in the air.

When she first took charge of planning the wedding, she vowed that she wouldn't get carried away. _It's going to be a small service, no reason to go overboard._ He distinctly remembered them looking at ice sculptures and Ronnie Anne saying _yeah, that's way too much._ If she got one, fine, he didn't care, he just wasn't expecting it. "How big is it?" he asked.

She shrugged one shoulder. "No that big." She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and held her hands roughly three feet apart. "About like that," she said around the filter. "It's a heart. It has their names and the date engraved on it." A goofy smile ran across her lips and a twinkle glinted in her eye, the sap within frantically trying to get out. She never made it a point to pretend that she was tough-as-nails, but she did like to downplay her sentimentality. Not long ago they were watching the NBC Sunday Night movie and she teared up at the scene where the woman professed her love for the man. Lincoln casually mentioned it to pick on her _(pretty romantic, huh?),_ and she shook her head vehemently. _No, it's dumb. This movie's putting me to sleep._ Later on, she confessed that the man and woman reminded her of them...which puzzled him. He was reading the new issue of _Guns and Ammo_ and not paying attention, but from what he took in, the woman was a slut and the man was a loser.

A big heart with Tim and Alex's names on it _did_ sound sweet, though. He said as much, then added: "Too bad it's gonna melt."

Ronnie Anne waved her hand. "Eh, we'll stick it in the chest freezer in the garage."

"The freezer's three feet tall. How tall is the heart?"

She thought for a second. "Taller than three feet," she finally admitted. She leaned forward and stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray. "We'll take lots of pictures." She got to her feet and slapped his knee. "Come on, Grandpa. We got places to be."

Lincoln put his cigarette out, got up, and followed her into the house. He started toward Jessy's room, but remembered that she decided to go to school today after all - _I'd rather ditch one class than all of them._ That's my girl...I guess. I'd have ditched in a heartbeat, but I'm a loser who wound up cooking hamburgers for a living, so…

In his room, he grabbed his wallet from the nightstand, slipped it into his back pocket, and considered getting his .45 from the drawer in case either Tim or Alex got cold feet, but decided against it.

Together, he and Ronnie Anne went out the front door and to the car. Boys rode their bikes up and down the sidewalks and girls in baggy sweaters and overalls jumped rope, the cord making a steady _clack_ as it connected with the pavement. Lincoln spotted a black kid on a bike that reminded him a lot of the one he got for his twelfth birthday, and it occurred to him that he had no clue what happened to it.

Oh, wait, no, he wrecked it one day riding with Clyde.

Shaking his head and the memory, he slid in behind the wheel and Ronnie Anne climbed into the passenger seat with a sigh. "I need to stop for cigarettes," she said as Lincoln buckled his seatbelt.

"Me too," he said. He had three left and at the rate he was going, they'd be gone in an hour. "You're a bad influence." He jammed the key in the ignition and the engine coughed to life, the radio coming to life with a commercial for _Roseanne_.

Ronnie Anne arched her brow. "Me? You're the one who got me hooked again."

"No, I didn't," Lincoln said. He threw the car into reverse and backed into the street, looking left, right, up, and down for heedless children. "I snuck, like, three and I was _gonna_ stop, but you got your claws into me and, pfft, that's it."

He turned right and set a course for Franklin Avenue, the commercial giving way to acoustic driven music that wasn't oldies - who the hell kept changing the station?

 _Oh, life is bigger_

 _It's bigger_

 _Than you and you are not me_

 _The lengths that I will go to_

 _The distance in your eyes_

 _Oh no, I've said too much_

 _I set it up_

"You came through the door smelling like a giant cigarette, how could you expect me to _not_ relapse?" She pulled her pack out of her purse and shook out a fresh dart. Talking about it made her want one, and damn it, now he wanted one too. _What have I done?_

 _That's me in the corner_

 _That's me in the spotlight_

 _Losing my religion_

 _Trying to keep up -_

Lincoln turned the dial. _Get this crap off of here._ When he found a station playing The Beach Boys, he left it with a grateful hum. "Yeah," he sighed and put his hand back on the wheel. "I guess it _is_ my fault." He favored Ronnie Anne with a sly, sidelong glance. "I mean, you can't expect a woman to -"

She punched the shit out of his leg before he could even finish; his grip tightened on the wheel and his face contorted in pain. During the melee portions of basic, he took a thousand hits from other recruits, but none hurt as badly as one from Ronnie Anne...because she was nothing but knuckles. "Bitch," he hissed.

"Sexist pig," she retorted.

"Oh, here we go with that woman's lib shit," Lincoln sighed. 7-11 was up ahead on the right. If he didn't need cigarettes he'd sail right past the stupid place, but he did, so he put on his blinker instead. He slowed, waited for a car to pull out, then turned into the parking lot. An old man with a ratty gray beard and dressed in grimy rags sat on the curb, a cup clutched in one hand and his hair fluttering in breeze. A decade ago Lincoln would have been surprised (but not full on shocked) to see a homeless person in Royal Woods, but over the past five or six years they had become a pitifully common sight. They were always there, of course, mainly in woodland camps along the railroad tracks, but their numbers had been growing, and at some point, they started spreading out into town. A lot, he suspected, came from Detroit; they'd rather be homeless here than there, because at least here you don't have to worry about being murdered. Correction, you _didn't_ before. Now, all bets were off.

He guided the car into a slot facing the front window and killed the engine. "I was liberated before women's lib," Ronnie Anne said and favored him with a lopsided grin. "Why do you think I married you?"

Lincoln missed a thought-filled beat. He didn't see what marrying him had to do with being liberated. "What?"

"Because you're a henpecked wimp."

Oh, I am, huh? He took his right hand off the wheel and flexed it. He drew it back, palm flat, then brought it down in a deadly arc...slowing at the last second and squeezing Ronnie Anne's knee. "You're right, honey, I am," he said and batted his eyelashes. "Now go get us cigarettes."

While she went inside, he watched the hobo from the corner of his eye, dreading him coming over with that _hey, mister, you got a dollar_ crap. He didn't have anything against the homeless, but for every one of them who was legitimately down and out in need of help, there were fifty who were drunks. And pushy. _You got a dollar? No? Fuck you then!_ Though if he _did_ come over, Lincoln would give him _something_ because sometimes you just don't know: Maybe the guy really needed help, or maybe he was an alcoholic and his wife kicked him out. Like the Chuck Berry song says, you never can tell.

Unless you smell the booze on them.

Then you can.

Ronnie Anne came out, walked over, and got in the car, handing Lincoln a pack of Marlboros. "The price of these damn things is through the roof," she complained as she tapped hers against her palm to pack it.

"I know," he said. For the price of two packs now, you could get a carton in 1962. He understood the concept of inflation, but this was ridiculous.

Taking one from the pack, he lit it and backed up, swinging right. Neither one of them spoke again until they pulled into the driveway of the Franklin Avenue house. Someone tied a bouquet of balloons to the mailbox, and they danced in the breeze. Alex's car sat with its nose pointed at the garage: Used car salesman Lynn, Bobby Jr., Jed, and Mark surrounded it, Jed on his knees and struggling to find a place to attach a string of tin cans. The others stood around with their arms crossed and watched. Must be a union job. You know, when you pass road construction there's always one guy working while everyone else just loafs around?

"The four stooges," Ronnie Anne said and flicked her ash out the window.

Lynn looked up, arms crossed, and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. _Oh, great, here comes my annoying little brother. You know, the war hero and successful restaurant owner? What a loser. Anyway, this one was only driven by a ittle old lady to church…_

Killing the engine, Lincoln glanced at Ronnie Anne. "There were only three stooges."

"Nu-uh," she said.

Really? She didn't know this? The 3 Stooges were big on TV when he and she were kids - before that their shorts only played in theaters, but around 1959 they started showing on WBXT out of Ann Arbor every afternoon following _American Bandstand._ He and Ronnie Anne watched it every chance they got. Looking back, three grown men smacking each other silly wasn't anything to get excited about, but when they were thirteen, it was the greatest thing ever. _C'mere, chowderhead._ She should know damn well that there were three and not four.

She inferred his thoughts from his face and flashed a smug smirk. "You're forgetting about Shemp."

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Shemp sucked. He was basically Diet Moe. Plus, there were never more than three on screen together at a given time."

"Okay, professor," she said and threw her door open.

Fishing a cigarette from his pack, Lincoln got out too and walked over to Alex's car; Ronnie Anne crossed her arms and stared down at Jed as he threaded the end of the string through the bumper; she fit in so well with the do-nothing squad that she might as well have been one of them. "We're gussying up Alex's wheels," Lynn explained.

"I see that," Lincoln replied. A sign with JUST MARRIED scrawled across the front in a hodgepodge of colors was taped to the back window, happy little doodles of hearts, smiling faces, and a thumbs up dancing around it. "Who did the art?"

Lynn glanced at it. "Everyone," he said. "Made a big project of it. Giant clusterfuck of people doing one letter apiece. Stephanie did the hearts."

On the ground, Jed cursed and shook his hand with a hiss. "Hurt yourself?" Lynn asked.

"Son of a bitch yes," he said through his teeth. He pushed up to his feet, bent, and grabbed the line, giving it a firm tug.

It held.

"If one of those were to come off, it'd shred someone's tire," Mark pointed out impassively. "Resulting, probably, in a five car pile up on Main Street. Wedding bells into funeral bells."

Lincoln laughed out loud - that was the funniest thing he'd heard all day. No one else looked amused, though. Jed regarded the boy with a cocked head and furrowed brows. "You a damn ghoul," he said plainly.

"He gets it from his future father-in-law," Lynn said and clapped Lincoln on the back so hard he stumbled forward. "Linc's the most miserable bastard there is." Lincoln's first instinct was to turn around and deck him in the face, but that might be going a little too far in this case.

Instead: "I'm not miserable. I love life." He took a drag and considered what he just said. It was true, but for some reason, it sounded disingenuous, and he frowned. He wasn't lying, he _did_ love life - and his family. More than they would ever know. And yes, that included Used-Car-Salesman-Lynn. He loved his house, he loved Flip's (even though it was still a raging dumpster fire) - he had everything he could ever ask for and more. He just wasn't a namby-pamby limp wrist about it.

"You remind me of a neighbor I used to have," Bobby Jr. said. "His last name was literally Grouse."

Lynn laughed. "Did he have white hair?"

"Actually, yeah."

"Mr. Loud was switched at birth," Mark said.

"Nah," Lynn said, "they gave him up because he was too much of a sad sack even for them."

Lincoln bit the inside of his bottom lip. I'll show you sad sack when I go home, get my gun, and come back. "He _is_ kind of grumpy," Ronnie Anne added, a taunting glint in her eye.

"Being married to you," Lynn said, "I'd be grumpy too."

Her face darkened and she lunged forward; Lynn jumped back a step and nearly fell on his fat, jiggly ass. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

"That's what I…" she trailed off when a white panel van pulled to the bottom of the driveway and parked lengthwise. Flowery pink writing that Lincoln couldn't make out covered the side. "Oooh, the florist is here," Ronnie Anne said, an excited lift to her voice. She backhanded Lincoln's chest. "Come on, lame-o, there's a lot, they'll probably need help."

Lynn patted his shoulder. "Yeah, lame-o, go help. There's a lot."

Lincoln grabbed his brother's hand and threw it off. The only reason he didn't twist it and break his wrist was because it was Alex's wedding day. "You're lucky, Lynn," he said.

Miserable, grousey sad sack or not, he wouldn't have _really_ done it

On purpose.


	161. May 1991: Part 6

**Guest: I've mentioned other bands more. i think. Not sure. I do like The Beach Boys, though.**

* * *

Alex sat on the edge of the bed in Luna and Luan's old room, her hands in her lap and her head bent slightly forward. She wore a flowing white dress with long lacy sleeves and shoes that pinched her feet. Mom and Aunt Lori worried at her hair, Aunt Lori twisting a long strand in front into a French braid and Mom going over the back with a curler - the stench of burning hair hung heavy in the too warm air and Alex crinkled her nose. "Hold still," Mom said around the filter of her cigarette; they'd been at it a long time and she needed a smoke, so she closed the door and opened the window. Through the latter, the sounds of activity drfited in. The last time she looked out, the backyard was abuzz with people rushing back and forth like wee little ants: The florist, the cater - Alex didn't care much for the flower lady, but the food guy was good. Had a big, long table full of snacks and stuff. She was _really_ looking forward to cramming her pie hole later.

Oh, the ice sculpture was nice too.

"I'm trying," Alex said, "but you're scorching my head off."

Auntie Lori tugged a strand of hair and Alex winced. "Sorry," she said quickly, "I'm almost done. You look _beautiful_."

Well, _that_ makes up for having to sit here and take abuse for hours on end. Okay, maybe it wasn't hours, but it felt like it. At first she had her Gameboy, but she forgot to pack extra batteries and it died right in the middle of _Metroid II: Return of Samus_. She was two levels from beating it, two! Now she was doomed to stare down at her achy feet and count the carpet threads while Mom and Lori practically tortured her.

"Yes she does," Mom said. She dropped her cigarette into an empty glass bottle of Pepsi on the nightstand, momentarily leaving the curler dangling from Alex's hair, then yanked it again, bringing tears to her eyes. Ahhhhhh! I better be the most beautiful bride ever, and the photographer _better_ get my pictures in _Beautiful Brides Monthly._ No, no, actually, my picture better be on the cover, and there better be a whole spread about how much of an awesome mom, wife, and writer I am.

And I _better_ get the biggest slice of cake, too.

She looked up when Mom touched her chin; Mom smiled tightly and...was that water in her eyes? Squinting, she saw that it was - her mother was leaking tears of joy down her face and Alex chafed uncomfortably. She didn't like it when everyone made such a big deal about things. When they did, she wanted to retract into her shell like a turtle; she was not shy by any means, but when it came to serious things like this...talk about awkward! Cutting up in public and having everyone roll their eyes at you was one thing, but your Mom crying because you're getting married is quite another.

"You're beautiful," Mom said.

Alex's cheeks turned red and she glanced at her feet again. "Thank you," was all she could think to say. "I'm also bored. Are we almost done?"

"Almost," Mom said.

Sighing, Alex cast a longing gaze at her GameBoy. It sat dark and cold on the bed next to her. It wouldn't be so bad if there was a radio so she could listen to music or something, but the only one in the house was Grandpa's old cabinet model from the 1850s, and that was downstairs in the living room.

Someone knocked on the door, then it opened and Lola stuck her head in. She looked around, saw Alex, and brightened. "Oh, wow, you clean up well up," she said and half-lidded her eyes.

Oh, no, go away. I'm really not in the mood for people to gush over me. My cheeks are already burning here, you want me to die or something?

Lola opened the door all the way and Stephanie came in, her arms crossed and her face sullen, eyes like tempests in teapots - Alex had no idea what that meant, but it was a nice turn of phrase. The little girl wore a pretty white dress with no sleeves, matching shoes with buckles, and a little crown of white flowers on her head. She stalked over, spun, and jumped onto the bed, making it dip; Alex slid and her hair tugged in Lori's grasp like a dog on a leash. Oof. "What's wrong with you, baby Nikki?" Alex asked and laid her hand on Stephanie's leg with a flourish.

"I'm not a baby," she grumbled.

Oh, right, she was five now. "What's wrong with _you,_ big girl Nikki?" Alex amended. Alex was the only one who called her Nikki - her middle name was Nicole, so why not? Alex Louds like to be unique, which is why she still let Jessy call her Bunny. Then again, she'd let anyone call her Bunny if they really wanted to, it wasn't a big deal, though she _did_ like it just being a sister thing.

"She's mad because she wants to throw flowers at people and I won't let her right now," Lola explained. "That comes _later_."

Nikki kicked her feet and grunted.

Well then. "You're not supposed to flowers _at_ people," Alex said, "you're supposed to -"

The little girl threw her head back. "I THROW FLOWERS AT PEOPLES!"

Lola's face darkened and Alex drew instinctively away when she stalked over; the curling iron touched the back of her neck and she yelped like a dog that just got its tail stepped on. "You do _not_ scream," Lola said and grabbed Nikki's arm. "That's bad."

"Throw flowers," Nikki said, the edge gone from her voice; she sounded tired and washed up...like one of Alex's dad's favorite bands.

"Later," Lola said firmly.

The spot where the iron burned her really hurt. Was she bleeding? Was she going to die? Auntie Lori let go of her hair, stepped back, and tapped the side of her face. Lola came up, stood next to her, and crossed her arms. "What do you think?" Lori asked. If anyone in the room should know fashion and beauty, it was Lola. MTV voted her _Most Beautiful Woman of the Year_ in '86, though, come to think of it, she was pregnant at the time so maybe they did it out of pity. Personally, Alex thought Lita Ford should have won. Lola might technically be more beautiful than her, but Lita _rocked_ , Lola didn't. Sorry, Lo', I still don't like your music.

Scrunching her lips to one side, Lola hummed thoughtfully. "I like it," she finally said.

"I'm all done back here," Mom said and took the iron away. Whew. No more burns.

"Your hair is beautiful," Lola said.

"Can I see it?" Alex asked.

Mom shoved a mirror into her hand, and she took a deep breath before looking into it. She held it up and studied her reflection. Her hair was all...ripply except for the little twisty braid thing Lori did: It hung down the right side of her cheek like the pull cord on a lamp. She turned left and right, then looked at herself dead on, her heart palpitating because _wow, I am really am pretty!_ Looking nice never mattered to her (though looking cool did), but...jeez, being beautiful felt kind of good. She mugged at herself, then sexily pursed her lips and batted her eyelashes. Oooh, Alex Loud, you are _stunning_.

Lowering the mirror, she turned to Nikki. "Am I pretty?" she asked with a pout.

"No," Nikki said sullenly.

Ouch. Not gonna lie, that actually stung a little. She let her hands drop to her lap and stuck out her bottom lip. "I not pwetty?" she asked.

"No, you uggy."

"Stephanie!" Lola yelled. Stephanie bowed her head and hugged herself even tighter. "That's mean. Today is a very special day for your cousin Alex, and calling her ugly is not nice. Say you're sorry."

Nikki grunted. Alex couldn't help a chuckle. "Someone needs a nap," she said.

"I need throw flowers at peoples."

Lola put her hands on her hips; Mom and Lori watched. Lori with a fond smile and Mom with a teeny, tiny ghost of a smirk that looked nostalgic if you squinted. _Ahh, I remember those days._ Uh, actually, Mom, no you don't, me and Jessy were good. "You need to apologize for being mean to Alex. You hurt her feelings." Lola shot Alex a withering gaze that hurt more than Nikki calling her uggy (which was adorable, by the way). _Help me out and play along,_ it said. _Or I'll rip your head off and shit down your neck, you brown bitch._

Okay, it wasn't _that_ intense, but still. Alex turned to her little cousin, stuck her lip out again, and blinked rapidly like she was going to start crying. "I uggy?" she asked, injecting her voice with a wounded inflection.

Nikki glanced at her then whipped her head away.

Hm. Maybe I should I try harder. She leaned over until her nose was inches from the little girl's cheek. "I uggy?" she pressed.

"No," Nikki said. "Not uggy. I want throw flowers at peoples right _now_. I _mad_."

"Later," Lola said.

"Now."

"Later."

Hm. Alex couldn't help since - oh, wait a second. She glanced over her shoulder, and yep, there was a vase on the nightstand with a single plastic flower in it. Giving in might not be the right thing to do, but come on, big girl Nikki _really_ wanted to throw a flower at someone.

Twisting around, Alex leaned over the bed, reached out, and plucked the faux-flora from the vase. She turned and held it up. "You wanna throw this at me?" she asked.

Nikki's eyes zeroed in on it and her breath caught. She looked up at Alex and nodded vigorously. "Alright," Alex said and handed it to her. "But you gotta -"

Grinning, Nikki flung it, and it whacked Alex right in the schnozz. She had no idea how long it sat on the nightstand, but long enough that it was coated it dust, and when it hit, a puff wafted up her nose and made her sneeze. Nikki laughed, and before Alex could recover, she threw it at her again with a delighted giggle.

"Ahhh, okay, okay!" Alex cried and waved her hand in front of her face to dispel the dust.. "No more!"

Nikki laughed. "I got you."

"Yeah, you got me," Alex coughed.

"Are you happy now?" Lola asked.

Nikki nodded. "Yep. I throw flower at Alex." She leaned in with a mocking simper. "Have a fun wedding."

Everyone laughed.

Down the hall, Tim stood in front of a full length mirror in Lincoln and Lynn's old room, a slight frown of peturbment on his face. He wore a black suit coat over a silky red vest and white shirt combo that reminded him of Dracula, and a rose stuck through the one button hole on the left lapel. He didn't like the way it sagged: It movies, it looked nice, on him, it looked like it was going to fall off at any moment. He adjusted it, let go, and scowled when it wilted again. "I don't like the way it sits," he said.

Mark, standing off to one side, looked down at his own boutonnière. "Mine does the same thing. I think we did something wrong."

In the looking glass, Lincoln stood against the dresser with his arms crossed and looked bemusedly down at Lynn Jr., on his hands and knees and worrying at a loose floorboard. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"I used to hide stuff down here. Think I left some money behind."

Lincoln arched his brow. "Are you _that_ hard up for cash?"

Darting his eyes to his reflection, Tim prodded the flower with his finger the way a boy might poke an animal carcass with a stick. He vaguely hoped it would spontaneously combust and he wouldn't have to wear it any longer - he looked just fine without it. He _would_ take it off and throw it behind a piece of furniture or something, but when he tried, Lana came down on him like a ton of polite, sugary bricks. _Oh, no, hun, you gotta leave that on, the groom_ always _wears the little flower in his tux. Jed did and he's allergic._

Jed nodded somberly. _I did,_ he said, _and I was miserable._

 _How'd you keep it on?_ Tim asked.

 _Duct tape._

Lana nodded. _Yep._

That actually wasn't a bad idea. He went off in search of some but couldn't find any, then asked Fred, who took him to the catch-all drawer in the kitchen, pulled it open, and rummaged around, bringing out a quarter roll. Only problem was...it was gray. _I need black to blend in with my suit,_ he explained.

 _This is all we have,_ Fred said and considered the flower hanging limply against Tim's lapel. _I have an idea._ He ripped off a small piece of tape and rolled it up until it was roughly the size and shape of a nail. Tim tilted his head back as Fred worked to stick it between the rose and the fabric. _I dunno if it'll hold,_ he said and stepped back. It did...for all of a minute. _Sorry, kid, that's all_ I _can do._

Dejected, he went into the living room and dropped onto the sofa next to Bobby Jr., who was chatting with his grandmother about the show he was on. _I'm not really seeing that girl, Grandma, it was a storyline._

 _Good,_ Rita declared, _Lola's such a nice girl and she's been though so much. It'd b awful if you cheated on her like that._ She shuddered at the thought. On TV, a commercial played where two men on riding lawn mowers attempted to push each other back like sumo wrestlers. SEARS hovered above the one of the left while the one on the right was labeled MONTGOMERY WARD. An announcer listed the pros of each: Both had electric starters, but the one on the right had a 42 inch cut vs the other's 38, a _two_ year limited warranty instead of one, and was significantly cheaper. The SEARS model broke down in a puff of smoke and the MONTGOMERY WARD one pushed it off screen.

Believe it or not, a lot of people brought their mowers into the shop - Dad said he'd fix anything with a motor for the right price, which lead to them working on blenders, microwaves, and lawn & garden equipment almost as often as cars. In fact, they saw a lot of mowers from Montgomery Ward, K-Mart, Sears, and Woolworth's, and you know what? They were _all_ pieces of junk. Push reel ones were best: They didn't have an engine so they never broke down. *Thumbs up*

Bobby Jr. back handed his chest and he jumped in surprise. _You look really down for a man who's getting married,_ he said, then furrowed his brows. _What, my cousin's not good enough for you?_

 _No..I mean, yeah, she's great, it's just..._ he tapped the flower. _This thing looks like crap._

Bobby eyeballed it suspiciously and hummed. _You try tape?_

 _Yeah. It didn't work._

 _Hm. I don't know. I wore a couple of those on TV but they have wardrobe people do everything for you. I don't even tie my own shoes._ He laughed.

Leaning forward in her chair as best she could, Rita said, _Tim, dear, there's a little loop on the inside that you put the stem through. And it holds it in place._

Oh, awesome. He pulled his coat open and searched for the loop with his fingers. When he found it, he sagged his shoulders in defeat. _It's ripped,_ he sighed.

Rita's hand went to her chest. _My._ She grasped for a moment. _Have you tried tape?_

Presently, he fiddled with it, but it hung forward like a dead body from a noose, and he had no choice but to give up. Fine. It wasn't the end of the world, just annoying. Alex always said he had OCD and sometimes, he thought maybe she was right. If he saw a pattern with one piece out of place (three pink Sweet and Low packets on a table, then a blue one and another pink one, for instance) it bothered him to the point he had to get involved (bye, bye, blue). That his rose wasn't flush the way it should be was really getting to him and it took everything he had to keep from ripping it out and casting it away like an offensive eye.

Something grated behind him and he looked in the mirror. Lynn gave an excited _aha_ and rocked back on his knees, a floorboard in his hands. Lincoln stared down into the gap with knitted brows. "Look at this," Lynn said and reached in. He brought something out and held it up: A rolled up magazine. He opened it and Tim realized it was a _Playboy._ "March 1960," Lynn said proudly.

"Holy shit," Lincoln breathed and dropped to one knee. "What else is in here?" He reached in and pulled out a small square packet; it was unmistakably a condom. "Expired in 1962," he said, squinting to read. He tossed it aside; it hit the floor in front of Mark's foot. "There you go, son, wrap it up," he said, and he and Lynn both laughed.

Mark picked it up and Lincoln's smile dropped a little. "Don't actually use that."

"I wasn't planning to," Mark said and turned it over in his hands like a strange and alien relic. Tim turned back to the mirror, glanced at the flower, and sighed. It was a lost cause. Might as well give up on it.

Next to him, Mark shoved the condom into his coat pocket and Tim frowned. "You're keeping that?" he asked.

Mark nodded. "Yes. For the historical value."

As far as Tim knew, condoms had no value beyond their intended use, but whatever; it _was_ kind of cool to have something from thirty years ago, he supposed. "You nervous?" Mark asked, bringing him out of his reprieve.

That was a hard question to answer. Was he excited? Absolutely. So much so that it was hard to pick out anything underneath it. "A little." Marrying Alex itself didn't bother him, it was the ceremony. Alex was outgoing, he really wasn't. He had friends and wasn't a quivering mess or anything, but, like Mark, he was naturally retiring. Some people are loud and boisterous, others are quiet and reserved. Alex was one of the former and he was one of the latter. He wouldn't say he was necessarily shy, but the thought of being at the altar in front of _everyone,_ all eyes on him, watching, boring, such a monumental event...yeah, it kind of freaked him out a little. He was fine graduating, that was nothing, this, however, was a whole different story: He was basically laying his heart bear. In a way. Maybe. He didn't know.

"Why?" Mark asked. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No," Tim said instantly. "I -"

Behind him, Lynn laughed. 'Ha! I _knew_ it."

In the mirror, he held up a crumpled bill. Lincoln snatched it away, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, and lifted his brows. "Wow, five whole bucks. This'll save your failing car lot for sure."

Lynn plucked it away. "I _was_ gonna spend it at Flip's, but screw you."

Remembering that Mark asked him a question, Tim shrugged. "I dunno. It's my wedding day, being nervous is normal."

Mark considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I guess. It is a major milestone. Like losing your virginity. I was pretty nervous when me and Jessy did it the first time. I'm surprised I got it up."

Lincoln cleared his throat and Mark turned: He and Lynn both stared at him with something approaching disgust. "Hey, dunderhead," Lincoln said, "I'm right here."

And Mark inserts his foot into his mouth yet again. Tim smirked to himself. Poor guy was always doing this. As for what he actually said...well...Tim really didn't care to hear details about his cousin's sex life, or his erectile functions, but, wow, he was really that anxious about being with Jessy? Mark wasn't emotionless, of course, but he was so damned _flat_ that it was easy to forget that.

Presently, Mark gave a slow, patronizing nod as though to a not-so-bright child who just stated a painfully obvious fact. "I know."

"Then stop talking about what you do with my niece."

Understanding dawned in Mark's eyes. "Whoops. Sorry." Without missing a beat, he turned away and back to Tim. "Just imagine everyone in their underwear. I hear that works."

"Wedding day jitters, huh?" Lynn asked. He got to his feet with a grunt, walked over, and clapped his hands onto Tim's shoulders. The guy might have been soft in the middle, but his arms were powerful, and Tim was pretty sure he heard a bone break. He squeezed and Tim fought to keep a flash of pain from rippling across his features. "I tell you what you gotta do." He released one hand and swept his arm out in grand fashion. "Keep your eyes on the goalpost. Ignore everything else."

Lincoln walked over and stood on Tim's other side. "There're no goalposts at a wedding, cube."

Shrugging one shoulder, Lynn said, "Eh, the priest then. Gaze deeply into his eyes...forget about everyone looking at you…"

Tim nodded. That sounded like an alright plan, actually. "Okay."

"Then," Lynn said, leaning into Tim's ear, "kiss him." He rasped laughter and wacked Tim in the back, knocking him forward.

"Don't kiss the priest," Lincoln said, "kiss my daughter." He paused for a moment. "After the vows."

In the kitchen, Lana sat on Jed's lap, sipped coffee, and listened as Lynn made her case for why Hulk Hogan was the greatest wrestler ever.

She wasn't being swayed. "Hun, Hulk is overrated and he's balding. Warrior is new, young, and has a full head of hair."

Jessy bounced her eyes back and forth between them, completely lost but enthralled by the intensity of their conversation. She and Mark had long discussions just like it, though theirs were less contentious and centered on more...how could she say this?...intellectual topics. Not that there was anything wrong with liking wrestling! There just wasn't much thought in it. Two guys beat each other senseless until one couldn't fight anymore. She _heard_ it was fake, but she didn't care to look too deeply - wrestling, like boxing, turned her stomach, and if she could avoid having anything to do with it, she did.

"I'm balding too," Jed pointed out, a faux-wounded inflection in his voice.

Lana turned and patted the bare top of his head. "You look cute doin' it, though. Hulk looks silly."

"Hulk's a giant," Lynn said defensively, "what's silly about that?"

Taking a sip, Lana sighed. "That he can't wrestle worth a damn. All he can do is rip his shirt off and kick people in the face. I can do that too, why ain't I in the WWF?"

Hm. Good point, Jessy thought, but from what little wrestling she saw with Alex and Lynn over the years, those guys are _big._ You could take one down with a well-placed kick to the groin (that could take down pretty much anyone), but that was pretty much your only hope if you weren't a three hundred pound wall of muscle like them. If you missed, they'd snatch you up by your neck and break you over their knee like a twig. Lana was muscular for a woman, but not Hulk Hogan muscular.

"It takes years of training to get where Hulk is," Lynn pointed out.

Lana snorted. "Years for _that?"_

Lynn hung her head in defeat. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"I sure do," Lana said and took a sip. "That's why I'm an Ultimate Warrior fan."

In Luan and Luna's old room, Alex stood at the window, gazing down at the backyard and worriedly chewing her bottom lip. Six rows of empty white wooden chairs flanked a narrow aisle and faced a little white garden arch. The florist, a fat woman with frizzy hair and dressed in cargo short and a pink T-shirt, wound flower dotted vines around the framework. A table laden with refreshments, a giant heart-shaped ice sculpture in the center, stood off to one side, and Bobby Jr. helped the cater, a gangly old black man with gray hair, set up trays of finger sandwiches, _hors d'oeuvre_ , and a massive punch bowl. The red contents sloshed as Bobby sat it carefully down, then backed slowly away as though he were afraid of it blowing up on him.

As she watched, Tim's parents came around the side of the house, his mother in a black dress as though she were attending a funeral (come on, your son marrying me isn't _that_ bad) and his father in a gray suit that looked _reaaally_ tight around the neck, arms, shoulders, and everywhere else, especially the stomach; he looked like he was going to bust out of his clothes at any moment, only instead of being naked, he'd have a pair of overalls on because that was his natural state.

Something touched her shoulder and her heart skipped a crazy beat. "Less than an hour," Mom said and stood next to her. She put her arm around Alex's waist and drew a deep, dreamy sigh that was totally un-Ronnie-Anne-like. Come to think of it, today was _filled_ with totally not-like-Mom moments, and Alex was starting to get kind of worried. Uh...I think my mother's broken, guys. I mean, even more broken than she already was.

Oooh, that sounded a lot meaner than she intended.

"Yeah," Alex said and anxiously twisted her hand around her left ring finger - where, in, like, forty-five minutes, there would be a band of gold...forever. She wasn't used to rings, what if she lost it? God, that would suck so hard. This wasn't just any ring, this was her wedding ring, it symbolized...her being married and stuff...dropping it down the kitchen drain or into someone's milkshake at work...you know...you can't just go buy a new one. _Hey, guys, here I am, give me a replacement._ In the movie, the groom slips it onto the bride's finger and that, not necessarily the ring itself, really seals the deal. He's saying _here, right now, in this very moment, I'm making you my wife cuz I wanna spend forever with you._ It was kind of like...you know how the judge says _by the power vested in me?_ Yeah, like the husband invests his love into the ring and then puts it on the wife's finger. It's not just _any_ piece of metal.

And that walkway between the chairs...not very wide there, buddy, and I'm wearing heels _and_ a dress with a long hem and train thing. I'm so gonna fall.

A twinge of dread pinched her heart and she swallowed hard. She flashed back to Jessy's high school graduation. Poor Jess was _terrified_ of tripping in front of everybody, and Alex thought that was the dumbest thing ever. Not Jessy being afraid, that's classic Jessy and classic Jessy is great (I dunno about her new stuff, though, too commercial), but the fear itself. If you fall, you fall, whatever. Right now, however, she felt the same thing her cousin must have that day, and yeah, no, it wasn't dumb at all. It was horrible.

I mean, falling down at graduation _is_ bad, but it's not falling down at your own stinking wedding bad.

A hideous idea struck her then.

What if she stepped on the hem of her dress and it ripped off, leaving her in only her underwear? In front of her whole family, Tim's family, the priest, the carter, and everyone else? A blushing bride whose happiest day became a humiliating nightmare...

Her stomach clutched sickly and she twisted her finger more violently. Mom glanced at her and her smile faltered. "You alright?"

All her life, Alex Loud strove to be "tough" and "cool". When she was younger, she thought she wanted to be like Dee Dee Ramone or Johnny Rotten, the rock and roll guys who were so awesome that you couldn't look at them too long or you'd go blind (like staring at the sun). She deluded herself into thinking that her idea of what was cool or not was formed by them, but it wasn't: It was formed by her mother. Alex joked about her parents being hippies and dorks, but that's all it was, a joke. She looked up to both of them: They weren't perfect people, but they were loving, and dependable, and always did the right thing. How much cooler can you get than that? Neither of them were overly forthright with many of their emotions. They hugged her and told her they loved her, but they weren't the kind of people who walked around with their hearts on their sleeves all the time, which she was actually thankful for, because that was annoying. They never said or implied it was bad to share your emotions, they just kept most of their feelings to themselves.

Which is pretty cool, because it takes a really strong person to keep some things under their hat and work through them on their own. She knew her father fought in the war and was held prisoner for a little while. She didn't know much beyond that and she didn't want to; she played around a lot, but she wasn't stupid, she knew the kinds of things the Vietnamese did to POWs. If Dad went through torture, she'd rather not hear or think about it: Imagining her loved ones being hurt and suffering was a good way to make herself cry...like she did when Auntie Leni was sick. Her father _had_ to have dealt with a lot of shit, but you'd never know by looking at him. He laughed, he lived, and he was the perfect dad, even if he wasn't actually "perfect." That, she surmised, was because he was strong and didn't let what probably happened over there consume him. He kept his fears, insecurities, and all that other bad stuff in check. Mom too. Less than two years ago, someone shot her, but she never talked about it, never acted worried or scared going to work - she just carried on because that's life, you can't stop because someone pegged ya in the arm.

At an early age, Alex decided that she wanted to be just as cool as her mother, and one of the key features of Mom's personality was sucking it up and powering through, as Lynn III would say. There was also Jessy to consider. Alex loved her cousin, but she was _kiiiind_ of a mess as a kid, and needed Alex to be clear-headed. Over the years, when something bothered her (being really nervous, for example), she laughed it off and worked through it herself because that's what Mom did. Mom, like Dad, was strong, and Alex wanted to be strong too, kind of _had_ to be strong. Coming to Mom or Dad and saying _Gee, I'm really wound up about X_ made her feel like she _wasn't_ being strong.

It made her feel like she was being weak.

Normally, she would have answered her mother's question with a simple _yep_ or _sure, I'm okay, Mom, heh, why do you ask?_ Something, anything to hide her trepidation.

Right now, however, she found that she couldn't. She was worried, nervous, and maybe even a little afraid. She didn't want to be big and strong.

She wanted her mother.

"No," she admitted and tugged on her ring finger, popping her knuckle, "I'm really nervous."

Mom brow softened. She crept her hand to Alex's back and rubbed a reassuring circle between her shoulder blades. "Why?" she asked softly.

Sighing, Alex threw one hand up in a gesture of frustration. "I'm afraid I'm going to fall on my face and wind up in my underwear and my wedding will be ruined." She was shocked to feel hot, salty tears welling in her eyes. She wiped them away and sniffed.

"Oh, honey," Mom said. She ran her fingers through Alex's hair and pressed their foreheads together, "that's not gonna happen."

"What if it does?" Alex asked, hating the childlike inflection in her voice.

Mom wrapped her arms around her shoulders and rocked her back and forth like she was an overgrown baby. Her warmth and scent were soothing, and a little of Alex's anxiety melted away. It might be kind of lame to say this, but being held by her mother felt kind of good. "Every bride is nervous on her wedding day," Mom said. "I was nervous when I married your father. You really can't help but be. I kept thinking _what if I fart or sneeze when he goes to kiss me?"_

Okay, that made Alex laugh.

"I didn't, and you won't fall down. If you do, you get right back up and keep going. Just like you always do. Today isn't about looking pretty and being graceful, as nice as those things may be. Today is about you and Tim." She stroked Alex's hair and lovingly pecked her on the forehead.

Well, she wasn't wrong. When she agreed to marry Tim after Blake was born, she didn't imagine a big, extravagant wedding, a pretty dress, or looking like an elegant fairy princess - she honestly imagined the same kind of union her parents had, a quick kiss-and-get-the-hell-out. The event meant nothing to her, holding Timbo's hand, saying _I do and now you're stuck with me,_ and then being with him for the rest of her life _did_. A ceremony is just that, a ceremony; we let ourselves be taken with them, planning them, executing them, thinking about them, and sometimes, we forget that the event is not the point, it's what the event is celebrating.

"Yeah," Alex sighed, "I'm still afraid of ruining it, though."

In the backyard, Bobby sat a gray boombox with big built-in speakers on the table, then turned around and disappeared around the side of the house. At some point while Alex was pitying herself, Mark's parents arrived, and right now they sat next to Tim's parents and idly chatted as they waited for the proceedings to begin. Others started drifting out from the house: Lana and Lynn III, Lynn waving her hands around, impassioned, as Lana shook her head in bemusement (looked like they were having a heated discussion...probably about which was better, country music or baseball); Fred, Luan, and Jessy, the former two holding hands and the latter looking around as if for hidden danger (nope, she's going to the snack tray, nevermind); Lola clutching Stephanie's hand in one of hers and Val's in the other - she stooped slightly to one side to hold onto the little boy; Ritchie holding Maddie and talking to Jed...their conversation looked a _teensy_ bit more relaxed than the one their wives were having.

Mom held Alex at arm's' length and gazed poingnaty into her eyes. "Alejandra," she said fimly, "you're not going to ruin it. This is _your_ day. No one else's." She thought for a moment. "Well, Tim's too, but I doubt he'll care if you fall down. He loves you and you tripping over your feet won't change that. _That's_ what's important. Your love for each other, and if your love is anything like mine and your father's, it'll withstand tripping on your dress." She brushed her thumbs over Alex's cheekbones. "If it makes you feel any better, though, I'll embarrass myself even worse."

If she wasn't mistaken, she made the same offer to Jessy when she was anxious over graduating. _I'll jump off the stage, that way everyone will remember me breaking my arm and crying like a baby until the rescue squad arrived instead of you tripping over your gown._ She was one hundred percent serious, too; she would have dove right off and onto someone's lap to make her sister feel better. Looking into Mom's eyes now, she saw the same earnesty she felt then; Mom would _totally_ humiliate herself if she had to.

Strangely, that made Alex feel a little better.

"Okay," Alex grinned, then held up a finger, "but I'm gonna hold you to that."

Mom smiled. "Alright. Hope you don't mind me falling on the cake."

Alex's heart squeezed. "Actually, yes, I do."

Mom patted Alex's cheek. "Consider that extra incentive to not mess up." She glanced down at her watch. "Almost time. You ready?"

Taking a deep breath, Alex nodded.

"Yeah," she said, "I'm ready."

Mom took her hand and threaded their fingers together like they were best friends getting ready to squeal and bounce because _ohmigod Johnny just asked me to prom!_ "Let's go. I wanna show everyone how gorgeous my daughter is."

* * *

 **Next chapter is the wedding and that's it for 1991 - we're moving onto 1992. Hope y'all like riots.**

 **Since November marks twelve months since I gave birth to RITY (by C-section, of course, since I'm a dude), I figured I'd add some notes to the end of the chapters I post this month in...idk...celebration or something. Anyway, hope you enjoy:**

 **As with any story, what's on the page doesn't always play out the way I envisioned. Take the characters, for example. Lynn Jr. was originally supposed to be more antagonistic during the chapters set in the fifties - he was also going to be a racist who didn't like Lori dating Bobby. I envisioned a scene where Bobby comes over to the house to see Lori, Lynn calls him a spic or something, and they get into a fistfight. As with all of the characters who were supposed to be worse, I didn't have the heart to do that, so I softened him.**

 **Bobby and Lori's marriage was supposed to be rocky, and by the seventies they were going to hate each other and Bobby was going to be a drunk. If you know the Meatloaf song "Paradise By the Dashboard Lights", then you know what their story was supposed to look like.**

 **Bobby Jr. (who had a roaring case of ADD as a kid, in case you didn't notice) was initially going to be a delinquent. In '78ish, he was going to meet a black girl from out of town at a party, get her pregnant, and have nothing to do with the kid. She was going to go back home to Compton, and hers and Bobby's son was going to wind up in a street gang (early nineties gang culture is something I've been wanting to write about for years). I also considered making Bobby Jr. gay at one point.**

 **Luan's story was going to play out much differently: She and Ted were going to become even more radical after the Kent State Massacre (May 1970) and that was when they were going to plant the bomb. Afterward, they were going to go on the run. She was going to give birth to Jessy at some out of the way hospital in Wyoming or something, then abandon her, leaving behind her parents' phone number. Lincoln would adopt her like he wound up actually doing, while, at some point, Ted and Luan split. She would join some ultra radical SLA inspired group (maybe even the SLA itself) and die in a shootout with police around 1975.**

 **Bobby's friends, Blades and Daggy, were created solely for Bobby to have a couple other greasers to boss around. When Bobby outgrew his greaser phase, they were supposed to go away and never be seen again. Daggy sneaked back in, though. I started writing the chapter where Luna's walking away from being rejected for the roadhouse gig without knowing where I was going with it. I took it one step at a time. Oh, she's depressed, let me make it rain. Now let me have a car splash her. Now...what if the driver picks her up and gives her a pep talk on the way home? It was going to be travelling salesman or something, and his only purpose was to make Luna feel a little better. I went with Daggy cuz I figured why not. I didn't mean for a relationship to stem from that (in fact, I was actively against the idea...it was only supposed to be a ride), but shit, as they say, happens.**

 **Jessy was to have several terrible fates. She was going to be abducted and murdered by a serial killer; killed on a trip with friends (that's the one I mentioned that lead to a bunch of suicides and deaths - the super edgy ending); and least of all, she was going to wind up in an abusive relationship with a leather jacket wearing scumbag named Marc who beat her up after she refused to have sex with him...which would have lead Lincoln to either beat him up, or to grab his gun in a fit of rage and try to go after him, only to be brought back to reality by a swift slap in the face from Ronnie Anne.**

 **Luna was supposed to die at several points in 1970, but I prolonged her life for various reasons (1970 was already a busy year in this story, and adding something else seemed overwhelming).**


	162. May 1991: Part 7

_**She's the heart of the funfair  
She's got me whistling a private tune  
And it all begins where it ends  
And she's all mine, my magic friend  
She says, "hello, you fool, I love you  
C'mon join the joyride"**_

 **Roxette (Joyride, 1991)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Groove is the the Heart**_ **by Deee-Lite (1990)**

Lincoln stood at the back door with his arms crossed and watched Tim walk down the aisle, gaze downcast. At the arch, he stopped in front of the priest, a fat little man with white hair named Father Something-or-Other. Mark flanked his cousin to one side, hands laced in front of him and head tilted back. He looked bored. Across from him, on Mark's other side, Jessy, in a simple pink dress, stared down at her feet. Lincoln couldn't see her nervous blush, but he knew it was there: She didn't like being in front of so many people. Most of them were family, but still.

He turned to the clock on the wall. Any moment Alex would come in and he'd walk her down the aisle, then symbolically give her to Tim. It was kind of screwed when you thought about it. _Here, I'm giving you my daughter like she's property, have fun._ At the time the tradition was established women practically were. Not now, though; Alex was her own woman and she could make her own choices; in fact, she already had - she and Tim started living together...what, three years ago? That had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

Lincoln Loud played no role in it whatsoever.

Odd line of thinking, huh? Well, it was either that or focus on the fact that he was moments away from handing his daughter off in holy matrimony and get teary-eyed or something. For all intents and purposes, Alex had been married to Tim for years: They lived together, had a child and probably little spats here and there like any normal couple, but the symbolism of the wedding really drove it all home. Ceremonies have a way of doing that. Up until the other day, when he stared down into Blades' coffin, it didn't really sink in that he was dead and gone forever, just the way that it didn't when it was Dad, and Leni, and Luna before them.

Maybe it's a closure thing? Or seeing and believing? He didn't quite know and he was content to finish off the rest of his life sans finding out. The fact of the matter was: He felt a little more emotional than he expected to.

"Okay, honey," Lola said behind him, a merry little lift to her voice, "you gonna throw flowers at people?"

"Umhm!" Stephanie responded enthusiastically. Lola sat at the table and Stephanie stood before her, a wicker basket full of freshly cut flowers petals clutched in her hands She twisted excitedly back and forth like Chubby Checker on coke, and Lincoln grinned. He remembered when Alex was that age. Come to think of it, didn't she and Jessy try to find their hidden Christmas presents that year? Alex was always leading her cousin on one misadventure or another; you never knew what you'd find them getting into next, and every time Lincoln walked into a room, he tensed a little, preparing to be greeted by a gigantic mess or chastised _uh-oh-we're-caught_ expressions.

He missed those days more than he did the fifties.

If only the seventies and eighties had better music.

Well, the early seventies weren't that bad. Everything went to shit halfway through.

"I throw lots of flowers in people's _faces,_ " Stephanie said with a sly inflection.

The flower girl was supposed to throw flower on the ground ahead of the bride, but eh, whatever. Getting a face full of roses would keep the people on their toes. _Pay attention, sucka, it's going down._

He caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and turned. Ronnie Anne came into the kitchen, stopped, and looked over her shoulder, then exaggeratedly rolled her eyes. "When I said walk careful, I didn't mean _that_ careful."

"I really don't wanna fall," Alex said from the living room.

Ronnie Anne looked at him and their eyes met. "She's afraid of falling," she explained.

A moment later, Alex appeared, and Lincoln's lips twitched into a smile that he couldn't have stopped even with a fully loaded M-16 and a whole army of Sergeant Hellmans on his side. She wore a long, flowing dress with lacy sleeves white against her bronze skin; the hem swished across the floor and a billowy train dragged dutifully behind. Her silky black hair spilled over her shoulders in crimped curls, a long, braided strand hanging down the right side of her face. As she walked, her hands pulling the fabric up to allow her feet safe passage, she blew the strand away, only for it to come back like a pendulum, making her wince. She moved very, very slowly, and glanced up with a sheepish smile. "I'm comin'. Just don't wanna fall and break my face."

In that moment, she was so achingly beautiful that Lincoln chest tightened with emotion. Water welled in his eyes and he blinked it back; Ronnie Anne slipped her arm around his waist and he circled her shoulder, drawing her close.

"You are stunning," Lola said with a lopsided grin. She picked up a disposable camera. "Isn't she?"

Stephanie nodded. "Alex not uggy."

Lola held the camera up. "Say cheese."

Sighing Alex stopped and cocked her head, a faux stern smile touching her pursed her lips. Lola pressed the button and the flash momentarily blinded everyone. Alex blinked and shook her head. "Okay, I need a second after that."

Coming forward, Stephanie reached into her baket, got a big handful of petals, and threw them at Alex's face. Alex recoiled and a few stuck in her tresses. "Happy wedding day!"

"Thanks," Alex said and spat a petal out of her mouth. "You ready to do that to everyone else?"

Stephanie nodded.

"Alright," she said heavily and turned to her father. "Are _you_ ready?"

No, he was not. He was not ready for his little girl to be all grown up, for her childhood to be the past. That ship sailed long ago, however, and today was simply it's funeral; time, they say, waits for no man. Seasons change. Children grow. Day turns to night and the warm days of summer turn slowly and inexorably into the long, endless nights of winter. Nothing you can possibly do will change that. Alex was already a mother and practically a wife too. Today wasn't about her beginning her life per se, it was a formality. Today, he was not letting go...he was just acknowledging that he was letting go.

Only he wasn't ready to...not ready to put it into so many words and stare it in the face, just like he wasn't ready to let go of Blades or even the fifties. He was aware that the older he got, the more nostalgic he became - he might lack a lot of things, but self-awareness wasn't one of them. He got in touch with himself during eight months in a cage and he stayed in contact over the years. As time passed, he found himself missing the past more and more. In the fifties, Luna and Leni were alive; Luan wasn't in jail; he wasn't fighting in a foreign land for a cause that he didn't entirely believe in. He was young, carefree, and in the early stages of true love, which are the strongest and sweetest.

None of the terrible things that happened to him and his family over the years had yet occured. But neither, by that token, had many of the great things, like Alex.

Letting go is hard...but, in the course of life, sometimes you have to.

"Yes," he finally declared. He held out his arm, and Alex threaded hers through with a mschievous simper that reminded him so much of her mother it was uncanny.

Did Tim know what a lucky guy he was? He was marrying one of the three most amazing women in the world. You know, if he was handing Alex over, the least the boy could do was say thank you.

"Let's go," Alex said, "the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can have cake."

* * *

Tim laced his fingers in front of him and stared down at his hands, the burning weight of two dozen eyes heavy on his back. Someone coughed, and a baby cried. Other than that, and the quiet whisper of the wind in the trees, the day was silent, a hushed pall lying thick over the yard like a blanket. Next to him, Mark twiddled his thumbs, literally, and ahead, the priest, a small, portly man with rosey Santa cheeks, smiled dumbly. He glanced at Jessy from the corner of his eye, and she looked just as nervous as he felt. You're _not the one getting married today, I_ am. He looked at Mark again; still twiddling his thumbs and darting his gaze between the trees overhanging the fence like he'd never seen foliage before and found it endlessly fascinating.

He'd been standing there for what felt like an eternity but in actuality couldn't have been more than five minutes. Everyone was seated when he and Mark walked down the aisle except for Bobby Jr.; he stood by the table with his hand resting on a boombox. Mr. and Mrs. Loud sprang for a giant, beautiful ice sculpture (which he appreciated) but not a deejay. He read in the paper a few months back that Boomer, the afternoon drivetime guy from WKBBL, would come to your event and broadcast live for 3,500 bucks. That was a little steep, but he seriously considered it - hey, how special would _that_ be? He decided against it; getting Alex a nice ring was more important. He hadn't shown her yet because he wanted it to be a surprise: Silver band with her name engraved on the inside and a sparkling ten karat diamond inset. That thing cost him so much money it was ridiculous, but the moment he saw it in the display case at Kay Jewelers, he knew she had to have it.

His was simpler. Just a band. Mark tried talking him into getting a diamond too, but, come on, really? A diamond on a guy? Maybe if he was a famous actor or a rock star, it'd be okay (those dudes are allowed to dress like homos), but he wasn't - he was a mechanic. As it stood right now, he fully expected something bad to happen to his ring. His father had been through at least a dozen of them over the years: He dropped one in an engine block, couldn't find it, and gave up; another got flash fried to his finger when a radiator blew up on his hand; one got hopelessly dented when a tool box dropped onto him (three broken fingers later…); another slipped off and fell down the bathroom drain; and another had to get chucked when his finger got too fat for it. If Tim made it through his life needing only one or two replacements, he'd be pleasantly surprised.

Tugging on his collar, he turned to the refreshments table. Bobby Jr. leaned his elbow against the rado and chatted with the carter. The photographer knelt by the porch steps, a big Nikon camera in his hands.

He started to look down at his hands again, but stopped when Bobby looked toward the back door and started. He whipped a cassette out of his breast pocket, held it up to the light, squinting to read the track listing, then slipped it into the tape deck. A piped version of _Here Comes the Bride_ started, and everyone turned in their chairs, the rustle of their clothes deafening in the near total quiet.

Tracking their gazes, Tim spotted Alex at the foot of the stairs, her arm through her father's, and his heart stopped mid-beat.

From the moment he first laid eyes on her, he thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. No one in school compared, no one in movies compared, not even Farrah Fawcett, with whom every boy in school was in love at the time, compared. That hadn't changed one bit over the years, but right now, standing nervously at the head of the aisle and clutching her father's arm, she was more stunning than he had ever seen her before. Her midnight hair fell down her shoulders in liquid waves, a twisted braid lying against one high, delicate cheekbone; her dark eyes glinted like the moonlight upon the tide; and lacy satin brushed her warm, sun kissed skin. She chewed her bottom lip and blushed a beautiful shade of pink as every head turned and every eye beheld her, something about her coquettish apprehension making Tim's heart race.

For a moment, the entire world stood still - not even the birds called, nor did the wind stir the trees. Then, smiling broadly, Stephanie started down the aisle, reaching into a wicker basket and flinging a handful of rose petals into Mark's mother's face; she recoiled and gasped in surprise, nearly falling from her chair. "Happy wedding day!" the little girl cried and threw another volley at Lana.

Tim's gaze went to Alex, and their eyes locked. She flashed a weak, diffident smile that sent his stomach fluttering. She glanced up at her father, and he nodded. She took a deep breath, and together they started walking.

Stephanie stopped at Ritchie, reached into her basket, and pulled out a fistful of petals. He shook his head exaggeratedly, and she nodded firmly...then threw them at him. He slumped playfully over and she giggled.

Alex walked with painstaking deliberation, the train of her dress rustling as it slid across the grass. Tim's heartbeat sped up as she approached, and the closer she got, the tighter his stomach knotted. A steely band of anticipation closed around his lungs and his palms began to sweat. He took a deep, shivery breathy and tried to look away, to break the spell she was casting over him, but he was in her thrall as surely as the moon draws the sea.

At the second row back from the arch, Stephanie stopped beside Lynn Jr., reached into her basket, and did a double take, her jaw falling open. She upended the basket and shook, but nothing came out.

It was empty.

She looked up at her uncle, and he smiled smugly. _Outta ammo, huh?_ It seemed to say. _Looks like I get off scot free_ *sticks out tongue*

Stephanie's face darkened. She stepped back and threw the basket instead. Lynn put up his hands to shield his face, and the basket hit him in the stomach, bouncing off and landing on the ground. Stephanie bent forward, neck craning out, and put her hands on her hips. "Got you, car man!"

Lincoln hitched as he fought to hold back his laughter, the veins in his neck standing out and his lips pursing. Alex shook her head and met Tim's eyes, a sly smile crossing her lips. _That kid's crazy._ Tim returned her smile, not because he agreed (which he did, by the way), but because Alex's ethereal beauty made him feel like a dumb, giddy schoolboy.

When she and Lincoln reached the makeshift altar, they stopped in front of Tim, and Bobby Jr. cut the music. He turned to the the carter and said, "I wanted to use a disco version but my wife wouldn't let me." The hush was so total that his voice rolled over the congregation like a peal of thunder. His eyes widened when he realized how loud it was and bowed his head in contrition.

The silence deepened even more, as if the entire universe were holding its breath, and Tim shifted in place, feeling unworthy, like a peasant in the midst of an angel, chosen, for whatever strange reason, to bask in its beauty, and to receive its favor. His heart pounded even faster now and his stomach pitched like the deck of a ship in a storm tossed sea. He broke from her eyes and settled on his feet, needing a respite from her glory. Crazily, he was reminded of something he heard in Sunday School (or was it one of the religious programs his mother watched on Sundays?): If you look upon the face of God, its majesty and splendor killed you. Or something. Alex's ethereal glow was too much to bear, like gazing into the midday sun.

And she was his.

That realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. Over the past ten or so years, they'd held hands, said _I love you,_ cuddled, and made love to one another more times than he could count, but seeing her before him now, in a wedding dress, it truly dawned on him that she was his forever.

Behind him, the priest spoke, startling him from his thoughts:

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the presence of family and friends to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony, which is commended of St. Paul to be an honorable estate, instituted of God and therefore is not to be entered into unadvisedly or carelessly, but reverently, joyfully and in the love of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined."

Tim looked up at Alex; her cheeks were a lovely pink and she breathed slowly and evenly through her nose, as if trying to keep her composure. Her eyes found his, and she flashed a quick, anxious grin that he returned.

The priest looked around, a big, goofy smile plastered to his face. ""Who gives this bride to this groom in marriage?"

"I do," Lincoln said. He took Alex's right hand in his and laid it in Tim's left, symbolically giving her over, and Tim threaded his fingers through hers. Lincoln lingered a moment, as if reluctant to leave, then went over and sat next to Ronnie Anne in the front row.

Brushing his thumb across Alex's knuckles, Tim stared into her soul, and she into his. She clutched his other hand and squeezed, the shape and warmth of her touch making him weak in the knees.

"Jesus Christ reminds us, that at the beginning the Creator made us male and female , and said, For this cause a man shall leave his father and mother and shall cleave to his wife; and the two shall become one flesh. God loved us, and created us to love others. Our lives find completion only as we love and are loved in return. Together, we can become what we could never be separately. Marriage is of God."

Like Alex, Tim was not particularly religious, but in that moment, with the most beautiful and perfect woman in front of him, mercifully loving him just as much as he loved her, he believed every word. The universe did not happen because two space rocks collided and produced a spark; human beings, especially Alex Loud, did not begin as parasites that eventually crawled out of the sea; the deep, spiritual love he felt was not the result of chemicals in his brain. She was crafted by someone or something for him and him alone, and he for her. Before they were born, before they were in their mothers' wombs, before the earth was even formed and the first man loved the first woman, they were fated to be together, destined for this moment far beyond the rim of space and time in the year 1991. Of that, he was certain.

Pausing for dramatic effect and scanning the gallery of faces, the priest continued. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. Timothy and Alejandra come today desiring to be united in this sacred relationship."

Tim held one of Alex's hands in both of his and lovingly stroked her thumb. They locked eyes, and deep in the chambers of his chest, his soul stirred. Yes, he did desire to be united in that sacred relationship with her, desired to have her and love her until the end of their lives, to always take care of her and make her smile, to be everything she needed and everything she wanted, to be as perfect and wonderful in her eyes as she was in his.

Closing his Bible, the priest said, "Let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads as one, Lincoln feeling like a fool. Why did this guy have to be so religious?

It's almost like he's some kind of minister or something.

"O' Almighty God, you have created us all in the image of Love, the image of Yourself. Bless now these two who stand before you."

Alex grazed her nails in an affectionate circle over the back of Tim's hand; he ghosted the pad of his thumb across her palm.

"Guide them in your wisdom, shine your light upon them, that as they journey through this life together they will walk as bearers of your Truth. Amen."

"Amen," everyone muttered.

The priest looked at Tim and Alex, saw that they were already holding hands, and said, "I ask you each now, to repeat the marriage vows." He glanced from Alex to Tim. "I, Timothy, take you, Alejandra, for my wedded wife, To love and cherish, For better or worse, for richer or poorer, In sickness and in health. From this day forward."

Tim swallowed thickly and stared into Alex's eyes; a tiny, elfin smile touched her lips and she squeezed his hands reassuringly. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly, his tone higher than usual so that he could hear himself over the crashing of his own heart. "I, Timothy, take you, Alejandra, for my wedded wife, To love and cherish, For better or worse, for richer or poorer, In sickness and in health. From this day forward."

Alex's smile widened and her blush burned hotter. She darted her eyes to his chest and pinched her lower lip coyly between her teeth as though hearing him speak those words made her as dizzy as saying them made him.

The priest looked at Alex now. "I, Alejandra, take you, Timothy, for my wedded husband, To love and cherish, For better or worse, for richer or poorer, In sickness and in health. From this day forward."

She darted her eyes down and suppressed a girlish giggle the likes of which Tim was intimately familiar with but would never tire of hearing. "I, Alejandra, take you, Tim-O-Thee -" here she giggled and Tim with her - "for my wedded husband, To love and cherish, For better or worse, for richer or poorer, In sickness and in health. From this day forward."

No spoken invocation had ever moved Tim the way Alex's vow did. It was simple and generic, but from her lips, in her soft, gentle voice, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, and he squeezed her hands tightly.

"Now," the priest said, "the rings."

Tim looked to the front row, where Blake sat on Ronnie Anne's lap, dressed in a little tux that was still somehow too big on him. Ronnie Anne sat him on the ground and reached for a pillow on the empty chair next to her. He turned when she held it out and pointed at the arch, one finger going to his lips in a gesture of confusion. _What am I supposed to do again?_ She handed him the pillow and pointed again, whispering something that Tim didn't hear. He whipped around, saw Tim and Alex, and broke out into a big, sunny grin. Ronnie Anne patted his back, and he toddled over, the pillow teetering back and forth; if there wasn't a cloth loop holding each ring in place, they both would have spilled off. Tim watched his son with bursting pride, and from the way Alex clutched his hands, she felt the same thing. Like his mother, Blake was beautiful and perfect, and Tim's love for him ran endless.

Blake made it almost all the way to them before tripping and sprawling in the grass, the pillow flying from his hands and landing at Alex's feet. Tim started to pull away, intent on helping him up, but he pushed himself to his feet on his own...then waddled back to his grandmother, his arms going up in a V and his little hands opening and closing, opening and closing.

Bending, Tim grabbed the pillow, unhooked the rings, and handed them to the priest. Closing his palm around them, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, obscenely reminding Tim of a man getting a blowjob. "Bless, O Lord The Giving of these rings that they who wear them, may live in your peace and your favor all the days of their life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

He opened his hand and gestured for them to take their respective ring. Tim took hers and she his. "As you place this ring on your partner's finger I ask that you repeat these words: This ring is my sacred gift to you, A symbol of my Love, A sign that from this day forward and always, My Love will surround you, With this ring I thee wed."

Tim took Alex's hand and she splayed her fingerings willingly to receive the gift of his eternal love. Looking into her eyes, he repeated the solemn oath word-for-word. "This ring is my sacred gift to you, A symbol of my Love, A sign that from this day forward and always, My Love will surround you, With this ring I thee wed." He placed the ring on her finger, and the whole time she held his gaze.

When it was her turn, he held out his hand. She circled her fingers around his wrist and recited the same vow he had. "This ring is my sacred gift to you, A symbol of my Love, A sign that from this day forward and always, My Love will surround you, With this ring I thee wed." She reverently slipped the ring onto his finger.

The priest raised his arms like Moses parting the Red Sea. "I now pronounce you man and wife, you may kiss the bride."

Weaving his fingers through hers, Tim leaned forward, and Alex met him half way, their lips touching and their noses rubbing. She kissed him deeply and he kissed her back, their tongues consecrating their union. Everyone clapped, and Tim and Alex turned to face their family and friends for the first time as man and wife, their arms around each other's waist and their faces beaming with happiness. "Allow me to present Mr. and Mrs. Underwood," the priest said, and the clapping intensified.

At the table, Bobby Jr. pulled a tape out of his coat, stuck it into the deck, then closed it and hit PLAY. Funky, drum heavy dance music filtered through the speakers, barely audible over the applause.

 _The chills that you spill up my back  
Keep me filled with satisfaction when we're done  
Satisfaction of what's to come_

Everyone got to their feet. In the front row, Ronnie Anne sat Blake on the ground, and he waddled over to his parents. Tim picked him up and held him in one arm, his free hand clasped in Alex's. Blake bounced excitedly, not knowing what was happening but riled up by all the activity and good cheer nonetheless. Alex turned and dug her fingers into his stomach, making him giggle. "You ready for some cake?" she cooed and laughed merrily. "Mommy is. Mommy's _been_ ready."

 _I couldn't ask for another  
No, I couldn't ask for another_

At the table, Tim cut a long sliver of cake and laid it on a paper plate. He carved a piece off with a fork, then picked up the rest and turned to Alex, who still held Blake. Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head in warning. "Don't you _dare_ waste any of that cake."

He hesitated, then grazed it across Blake's nose, smearing it with white frosting. Blake laughed and kicked his feet. "Your daddy's silly," Alex said, "he -"

That's when Tim struck, smashing the cake into her face and rubbing it over her nose and cheeks; some of it smooshed through his fingers like cold mud. Realizing it was too late, Alex simply stood there and took it with as much dignity as she could muster.

Done, he stepped back and she glared. "That was _your_ piece."

 _Your groove, I do deeply dig  
No walls, only the bridge, my supper dish  
My succotash wish_

Lincoln stood next to Ronnie Anne with a plate of cucumber sandwiches in his hands and watched as Alex flung cake at Tim. Everyone else ate, drank, and made merry around them, music and the low din of chattering voices filling the warm spring air. "They're ruining their clothes," he said and tentatively poked one of the sandwiches. They were tiny and cut into triangles.

"Yep," Ronnie Anne said and took a drink of her punch. "But the point, lame-o, is to never have to wear them again anyway, so what does it matter?"

Ahead, Mom sat at the foot of the table facing out, her hands folded on her lap and a sunhat perched on her head. Luan and Lori stood in front of her, the three of them deep in conversation. Picking up the sandwich and sniffing it, Lincoln said, "Well, for Alex, yeah, but Tim could get some more use of that tux." Wedding dresses are meant to be worn on one occasion and one occasion only. A good suit, though, could be worn again and again.

"Maybe he doesn't want to," Ronnie Anne pointed out.

Lincoln shrugged. "Whatever."

Alex picked up another piece and threw it at Tim.

"They better not ruin that cake, though," Ronnie Anne said soberly. "I want some."

 _I couldn't ask for another  
No, I couldn't ask for another  
Groove is in the heart, Groove is in the heart_

As best man, it fell to Mark to make a speech, something for which he was not prepared. This was the first wedding he'd ever attended and on TV, the best man seemed to just stand there and look bored. Standing behind the table with everyone gathered in front of him and waiting expectantly, he wracked his brain for something to say. He was not especially articulate when given time to gather and organize his thoughts, and right now, called upon to say something at a moment's notice, he was lost.

Thus, he did the only thing that made sense.

He started talking.

"When Tim first brought up the subject of Alex to me," he said to the glass of champagne in his hand, "he said _there's this girl. She's really hot and she has a nice butt._ "

Tim's face turned red and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Aw, Jesus, he should have known better than to let Mark open his mouth. Alex turned to him and arched her brow. "Oh? You were talking about my butt?"

Honestly, he couldn't remember _what_ he said to Mark when he told him about Alex, but that sounded like something he would say; Alex _did_ have a nice butt.

Mark glanced down at Jessy, who stood next to him with her hand resting in the small of his back. The blush in her cheeks told him that he probably said something wrong. Damn it. He was always doing that. "Um...and he said _she's really cool_ and I said _she sounds awesome._ And, uh, she was. And still is. I'm glad they got married...uh, except for the fact that technically, Jessy and I are now related, so our relationship could, theoretically, be considered incestious. If you wanted to really stretch."

Jessy rubbed his back, and he took that as his cue to shut up. "You're a goofball," she giggled as they walked away.

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too," Mark said and slipped his arm around her shoulder. "Next year we graduate," he said, "and we can do this again. I mean a wedding. Only with us as the bride and groom." She looked at him strangely. "If you want," he hastened to add.

"Are you officially asking me to marry you?" she asked. Mark wasn't good with social cues, but the way her eyes sparkled stirred something deep in his stomach.

He nodded. "Yeah. If you want."

"I do," she said.

 _The depth of hula groove  
Move us to the nth hoop  
We're going through to, Horten hears a who  
I couldn't ask for another  
No, I couldn't ask for another_

Stephanie sat in the grass at her great-grandmother's feet, her legs before her in a V, and stared at her cousin Blake, who sat on his butt in front of her eating a handful of cake. "Why don't you talk?" she asked warily. He was little like Val but Val knew a few words. Blake didn't know _any._ He pressed his hand to his mouth and chewed, his brown eyes never leaving hers. Frosting coated his cheeks and chin, dollops falling onto the front of his suit coat. Stephanie's lips puckered up in distaste and she drew back a little. She got messy when she played outside sometimes, but this was _waaaay_ messy.

And the whole time he ate, he watched her. "You're weird," she said and crinkled her nose.

 _DJ Soul was on a roll  
I been told he can't be sold  
Not vicious or malicious  
Just de-lovely and delicious_

Alex sat next to Tim at the table and held his hand, her chest filled with warm, fuzzy joy and her lips arranged in a smile that she'd need a crowbar to get rid of. Just a few short hours ago, she was so nervous her stomach hurt; now she was over the moon and pretty sure her feet hadn't touched the ground since she started down the aisle. She looked at Tim, who smiled just as widely as she did, and squeezed his hand. I'm stuck with this dweeb for the rest of my life.

And you know what?

I wouldn't have it any other way.

 _I couldn't ask for another  
No, I couldn't ask for another_

I could ask for more cake, though.

You can _never_ have too much cake.

* * *

 **Today marks one year since the first chapter of RITY was published: Wednesday, November 15, 2017. Wahoo. Time to get drunk.**

 **I did this wedding arc because I felt like I had to show at least one character having a big, extravagant ceremony.**

 **When I started this story, I knew that Lincoln would be drafted, Luan would become involved in the antiwar movement, and Luna would become a musician. Most everything else came to me as I was writing. The most fully formed of the stories was Luna's: I knew the trajectory she would take but not exactly what would happen to her along the way. I did not base her on Janis Joplin, but I certainly had her in mind when I came up with Luna's plot.**

 **Luna's song** _ **Come Back to Me**_ **was patterned on Janis Joplin's** _ **Me and Bobby McGee**_ **. I listened to it on repeat as I wrote the extended lyrics of Luna's song (from the Woodstock scene, Chapter 59). If you listen to it and read the lyrics, you may be able to see roundabout what I was going for. The song that's playing while Luna waited to take the stage (the one with bongos in it) is** _ **Soul Sacrifice**_ **by Santana. I'm not a huge Santana fan, but I was looking up videos from Woodstock to get an idea of what the layout of the venue was like and landed on it. Very good song. Fun fact: The drummer (who looks an awful lot like a young Kevin Bacon) was the youngest person to perform at Woodstock. Dude was 18. Makes me feel like a big fat failure.**

 **There was originally going to be a chapter (or a section of a chapter) focusing on Clyde set in 1982. He would be living in Harlem with his mother after leaving the navy and would grow tired of the crime and poverty around him, leading him to run for political office. He'd become a town councilman or equivalent, and then the next time we saw him, he'd be governor. I didn't do it because it didn't seem realistic to me that a guy would go from being a city councilman to governor in three years. I decided to leave his backstory kind of vague.**

 **I would say I based Sgt. Hellman on R. Lee Ermey, the actor, but that wouldn't be right: He** _ **was**_ **R. Lee Ermey. 100 percent. That's who I saw in my head. I even used some of his lines of dialogue from** _ **Full Metal Jacket**_ **as homage.**

 **I was going to do a chapter set in 1959 centered around the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper. Remember Ronnie Ann saying that she liked Buddy Holly a lot? She was going to be upset that he died and Lincoln was going to comfort her.**

 **Fred was originally supposed to hang himself in 1985. I intended to write a chapter that showed him mentally collapsing under the weight of his growing PTSD (tying into the events from 1984, when he blew up on Bobby Jr.). I spared him out of laziness: There was already a lot happening in '85, so I pushed it back, then dropped it entirely. I don't know if I'll ever reveal what happened to him in Korea, but I may, so I won't say it here: If I don't put it in the story, I'll attach it as an author's note.**

 **I originally created Chuck Spenser (remember him?) as a love interest for Jessy, but didn't think I had what it took to turn their relationship from** _ **I hate you**_ **to** _ **suck my face off**_ **so I made Mark.**

 **Some scenes come to me minutes before I write them, and others come to me months in advance. One of the latter was Lincoln finding Lola rummaging through his things in the attic during the '84 chapter. Initially, Lola wasn't going to be as intelligent as I made her, and she was going to say, of Lincoln's Purple Heart, "Oooh, this is a pretty necklace, can I have it?" I wound up making her intelligent because Flagg has a thing for smart girls.**

 **As I typed that, I remembered that the scene where little nine year old Alex is bitching about her homework because she wants to read was my attempt to show that she was very intelligent, but didn't like to apply herself. Basically, had she shut up and focused on her work, she'd have had it done in a snap.**

 **Throwaway references abound, many of them I can't remember inserting. In one of the '78 chapters,** _ **The Dating Game**_ **is on in the background, and one of the eligible bachelors is named Rodney Alcala. That was a real episode and a real contestant: He was arrested a year or two later and turned out to be a serial killer. The song "Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?" by Larry Underwood, used in one of the 1990 chapters, is not real, and neither is the artist. Larry Underwood is a character in the Stephen King novel** _ **The Stand,**_ **in which a man made plague kills off most of the world's population. Larry is a musician whose song is big right before everything falls apart. The original novel was published in 1978 and set in 1980, but a complete and uncut version was released and set in 1990. I considered, very briefly (and not very seriously) of having Reeling in the Years merge with** _ **The Stand**_ **. Maybe I'll do an AU.**

 **Speaking of AUs, someone suggested in the reviews that I do an AU where the Cuban Missile Crisis turns into an all-out nuclear war. I'm seriously considering that.**

 **I'm also considering a prequel that would start with one half of Lincoln's family immigrating to America circa 1890 and follow them, Flip, Mr. Grouse, then eventually Ronnie Anne's parents, Lynn Sr. and Rita up until about 1956. Doubt I'll actually do it.**

 **I never imagined RITY would get this long. When I first conceived it, I pictured it being a glorified series of oneshots, with each character being given screentime in one year. For example, Luna in 1968, Lincoln in 1969, etc. I did not plan to focus on Lynn III, Bobby Jr., and other side characters as much as I did. This was, and is, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's story, even if they have to share the limelight with everyone else.**


	163. April and May 1992: Part 1

**DreadedCandiru2: Someone did recommend RITY on TVTropes, so it's listed, but it does not have a page, and I doubt it ever will. It seems to me that only a very select group of writers get pages for their work, which suggests to me that the few people who maintain those pages have a very narrow area of interest. I doubt there are a lot users who curate and update those pages, and the few that do just don't like Flagg1991 :Frownie face:**

 **IronMike1996: Yes, I deleted the comments that you left as Phil Upland and the other guy (and don't even pretend that it wasn't you) and I deleted the comment that prompted this note. I also deleted the one you left on** _ **Old As Time**_ **immediately after. You've been trolling my stuff for months and I'm sick of it. This is the last time I will acknowledge you - from now on, I'll delete anything you post. If you had legitimate criticism, I wouldn't care, but you don't. You make inane and irrelevant comments under different names - hur hur hur, have Lucy fart, he, he, he, have Roman Reigns and Dr. Phil crash through the wall and whip so-and-so's ass - then, under IronMike, you act like a fucking dick. I see you doing it to other writers too, it's not just me. You're a troll and nothing you say has any worth or value. I'm making this post mainly to tell my readers: I appreciate all of you, members and guests, and I would never delete a legitimate review or even a non-story related remark, but I'm absolutely deleting this guy's stuff from here on out, so if you hear about Flagg deleting people's comments, that's where it comes from.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Guerillas in tha Mist**_ **by Da Lench Mob (1992);** _ **All For Love**_ **by Color Me Badd (1991)**

Alex Underwood was a woman with a plan. That plan? Clean up old people's poop!

Okay, kinda strange when you put it that way, but it was fundamentally true. Their puke and pee too.

Before her wedding to Tim, she decided to get serious about this whole being a grown up thing: She had a little boy and slightly less little boy counting on her, she couldn't keep serving hamburgers for a living. Who does that?

Well...auntie Luan, but those are special circumstances, so she gets a pass. Alex did not; she needed to put her nose to the ol' grindstone and make something of herself.

But what? Nothing really reached out, grabbed her by the shirt, and said _I'm awesome career, devote your life to me._ Being on the radio did, but, pfft, that was a childish pipe dream. She had to be practical, and, unfortunately, all of the practical careers were lame.

Then, one day, Meagan, her old friend from school, came into Flip's with a couple other women. A tall, slender Asian girl (part Asian...her dad was whiter than Alex's) Meagan was, at one time, Alex's best friend. That's not to say they were inseparable or anything, they just got along better with each other than everyone else. After graduation, Meagan moved to Chippewa Falls and that was pretty much it. Bummer.

Anyway, Alex was wiping the counter when Meagan and her posse came through the door with a _ding_ that was bell-speak for _you got customers, Alex, hope you weren't planning to sit down any time soon._ Alex looked over her shoulder with a strained smile because yes, actually, she _was_ planning to sit down, and when she saw Meagan, she brightened a little. Oh, hey, it's my old - uh, what is she wearing?

Clad in baggy pink pants and a short sleeve pink shirt with a V neck under a light white jacket, Meagan looked like the little boy in _A Christmas Story_ when he put on that ugly bunny outfit his aunt made him ( _whew,_ _I'm glad_ my _aunts don't do lame-o stuff like that_ ). Despite her initial thought, Alex knew exactly what they were: Scruffs, the stuff surgeons wore on TV as they hacked people up and shocked them with 50,000 volts _(clear!)_.

Oh wow. She's a doctor.

Alex looked down at her uniform. And I'm a waitress. That's not embarrassing at _all_. Maybe if she was really quiet she could sneak out -

"Hey, Alex!" Meagan called. "Is that you?"

Alex's shoulders scrunched and she bared her teeth. Damn it.

Putting on her biggest and brightest smile, she grabbed a stack of menus, turned, and went over. "Hey!" she said, pretending not to be ashamed. Meagan's friends wore scruffs too, which meant they were doctors as well. "How's it going?"

Meagan nodded. "It's going," she laughed. "How are you? You look great."

Sigh, no, she didn't. She was dressed in a dirty, food splattered dress, long strands of black hair had come free of her ponytail, lending her a harried appearance, and dark bags hung under her bloodshot eyes. Great? Yeah, greatly horrible. "Aww, thanks," she said, I'm doing good." Before she could stop herself, she added, "What kind of doctor are you?"

Meagan's brows arched, and for a moment she looked at Alex like she was crazy...then burst into laughter, her friends joining in. Alex darted her eyes uncertainly back and forth between them. What did she say?

"I'm not a doctor," Meagan said and brushed a tear from her eye. "I'm a CNA."

Oh. Alex had no idea what that was, but it sounded pretty important. "What's a CNA?" she asked.

"An asswiper," one of Meagan's friends, an overweight blonde, said. Another nodded her agreement.

"Certified Nursing Assistant," Meagan explained.

She and her buddies worked at a nursing home in Chippewa Falls called Oak Springs. CNAs, per Meagan, were the bottom rung of the ladder, the medical profession's version of _the help_. They fed the residents, helped them into and out of bed, gave them baths, cleaned up their bodily messes, and did 'whatever the bitch DON tells us.' DON stood for Director of Nurses, but Meagan said it really meant Dictator of Nurses. Hahaha. Clever one, Meg. There were three shifts (7am-3pm; 3pm-11pm; and 11pm-7am) and joining the fun was as easy as taking a paid six week course right there in the nursing home.

"It's a lot of hard work," Meagan said. Alex was sitting next to her by the point, listening rapt with her elbow propped on the table and her hand fisted to the side of her head. "But the residents are _so_ worth it."

The old people she worked with were really nice and full of cool stories, like old people tend to be. She made eleven dollars an hour, which was darn good money; Alex didn't even make that, and her boss was her dad, for crying out loud!

After Meagan left, Alex bunched her lips to the side and hummed thoughtfully - you know, being a CNA sounded like something she might be interested in. She wasn't dying to change diapers and wipe up puke, but...well...over the past two years, she'd come to realize something: She never felt more fulfilled than she did taking care of Blake. Being a mom was the most rewarding thing _ever,_ so maybe, just maybe, being a CNA would be rewarding too. Plus, there was always the opportunity for advancement - Meagan was studying to be an LPN (Licensed Practical Nurse) and planned to one day become an RN (Registered Nurse). Alex wasn't too clear on what the difference was between an LPN and an RN, but they were higher up in the medical food chain _and_ made decent money, so did it matter?

Over the next couple weeks, she gave the matter lots of thought and meditation, and by the end of April, she decided that she wanted to give it a shot.

The first step was talking to Dad. The last Alex knew, the plan was for her to become manager of Flip's and then to eventually take it over when Dad retired. She assumed, from the level of training he gave her when she first started, that he'd make her manager fairly quickly. That didn't happen. Come to think of it, he hadn't even brought the subject up since just after Blake was born. She didn't want to upset him by not following in the family business, but...the more she turned it over in her head, the more she realized that she didn't want to work in a restaurant forever, even if she owned it.

She didn't expect him to be mad - it's not like he'd throw a fit and disown her or anything - but it _might_ hurt him, and while she picked on him, she loved him dearly, so hurting him was the last thing she wanted to do.

Today, April 28th, she sat at the table in her parents' sun-dappled kitchen with Blake conked out on her lap; he faced away from her, his head lolling to one side and his little tongue literally hanging from his mouth like he was playing dead. Across from her, Mom took a sip of coffee and sighed. "I don't think he'll be too broken up over it," she said. "He was only going to make you manager so you had something. If you don't want to do it, don't do it."

Dad, the topic of this afternoon's mother/daughter powwow, was currently at grandma's house helping Fred clean the gutters. Alex's leg jittered restlessly as she considered her mother's words. "It still feels kind of...I dunno...like I'm betraying him or something." That wasn't exactly the word she was looking for, but it conveyed her emotions well enough.

Mom snickered. "Honey, don't feel like that. Your father wants you to be happy. If that means you working somewhere other than Flip's, he won't mind."

Maybe not, but she would mind. He was offering her the restaurant - the place he'd owned for twenty years - and she was basically turning her nose up at it. "I guess," Alex sad. She picked up her own mug and took a drink; the coffee was cold, and she grimaced. Maybe she was overthinking this - that was her only flaw, getting herself all tangled up in thoughts until she was hopelessly knotted and didn't know up from down. Mom was right, Dad probably wouldn't be upset at all - it's not like his family built Flip's over generations, some old dude handed it to him with a _here you go, kid, I'm dead so she's yours now._

She still wasn't sure.

The phone cried shrilly out, and Blake startled. Alex held him tight while Mom got up, crossed to it, and picked the handset up. "Loud residence." She listened for a moment, her brows knitting, then nodded. "Okay, thank you." She hung it up and came back. "That was Meijer's. Jessy's cake is ready."

The day after tomorrow (or was it the day after that?) was Jessy's college graduation, and Mom was planning a little celebration at Grandma's house. Grandma was really confused these days due to her Alzheimer's, and sometimes, Alex was worried she'd forget her the way she forgot Mom. _I know you're Lincoln's wife,_ she said once, _but I don't know your name._ Though Grandma was sick and couldn't help it, that hurt Mom's feelings - you could see it in her eyes. If the same thing happened to _her,_ Alex would be hurt too - she understood how the disease worked, but it'd still make her feel awful that her grandmother couldn't remember her.

That was a concern for another day, though: This was a happy occasion. Jessica Danielle Loud, the second biggest female dork in the world (after Mom, of course) and the best sister ever, was finally taking that first big step into the adult world. Alex had been teasing her for months. _Aww, now you're gonna be all grown up like me._ Only, the truth was, Jessy was gonna be even more grown up, because she was going to get a sweet teaching gig probably before Alex even had a chance to wipe her first old person butt.

"What kind of cake did you order?" Alex asked. Blake settled down and curled up against her chest, dropping back into sleep.

"Chocolate," Mom said and threw her head back. "I have to go pick it up now and I _don't_ feel like it."

At the beginning of the previous school year, Principal Moss hung up his jock for the day. The school board spent six months interviewing potential replacements before coming to Mom - who didn't even apply - and asking if she would take over. She hemmed and hawed for a month, then, in March, she agreed and became the new principal of Royal County High...which made her the lamest person ever - even worse than Dad. Alex though hippies hated The Man, now Mom _was_ The Man. Pfft.

Being a total sell out was apparently exhausting, and Mom spent most of her time off complaining she was tired...and looking tired too, dark bags, drooping eyelids, the works.

"I'll do it," Alex offered.

Mom was a proud and stubborn woman who'd reject an offer of help even if she really needed it...but not right now. "Would you?" she asked. "I'd appreciate it. I'll keep Blake."

"Okay," Alex said. Carefully so as not to wake Blake, she got up and followed Mom into the living room, where she laid the little boy on the couch. He rolled onto his stomach, drew his knees under him, and thrust his butt into the air, then turned away and started snoring. Awww, and all it took was waking up at 6am and playing nonstop all day. When he was little, getting him to bed was a challenge...then getting him out of bed was a challenge...but now, for whatever wacky reason, he _loved_ getting up early: He was often up before Tim, and Tim got up way dark early. Hopefully it was just a phase because ugh, he was killing her.

"Thank you," Mom said.

Alex kissed her cheek. "Anything to help my mommy."

Outside, the day was warm and breezy, the trees up and down the street budding in earnest and the air redolent of flowers, honeysuckle, and...ew, what's that? She looked around and spotted a massive dog turd lying next to the front step. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Last fall, a family moved into the house next door: Mom, Dad, son, daughter...and a giant St. Bernard like the one from _Cujo._ His name was Benson and he was a sweetheart, but he kept pooping in Mom and Dad's yard. Getting from the door to your car was like navigating a minefield, and if you weren't careful... _splat._ It drove Dad crazy and he already yelled at the guy to _keep your dog's ass off of my lawn_.

Making sure she didn't step in any Benson presents, Alex went to the car and slid in behind the wheel; as she put her seatbelt on, her stomach rumbled. She loved her mom and honestly wanted to help her out, but she had _other_ reasons for being so quick to volunteer.

Like a Big Mac.

And fries.

She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip and turned the key in the ignition. Oooh, a milkshake too.

Throwing the car into drive, she backed into the street. A noon newscast filtered from the speakers and she ignored it as she swung left and started down the street. " _...the jury is still out in the Rodney King trial at this hour, though a verdict is expected soon…"_

At an intersection, Alex turned left. Rodney King was that black guy those cops in L.A. beat up while someone filmed from afar. She didn't pay much attention to current events, but some things are impossible to avoid, and the Rodney King thing was one of them: Four white cops were charged with using excessive force and probably violating his civil rights, she wasn't sure. She saw the video on TV at Flip's and...yeah, it looked like police brutality to her: King was curled up on the ground and a bunch of cops ringed him, kicking him, whacking him with their nightsticks. In all seriousness, it was pretty messed up and she hoped they went to jail.

Dad had his own unique take.

 _Fuck him, I got worse in Vietnam._

He was only joking, though; he said he hoped they went to jail too.

Five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot fronting Meijer's and guided the car into a slot facing the street. Before getting out, she reached into the glovebox and grabbed her Walkman - shopping was lame and she liked to liven up those dull trips down aisle three with a little music. She opened it and slid the tape out to see what it was, since she forgot (she had lots of tapes).

 _Guerillas in Tha Mist_

 _Da Lench Mob_

Oooh, okay. For Christmas last year, Tim, AKA the best husband ever, signed her up for one of those record of the month clubs, and every month, like clockwork, she got a new tape in the mail. This one was gangsta rap, like NWA - in fact, Ice Cube was in this group too. She wasn't the biggest fan of rap, but one or two songs on it were good.

And hopefully one song was all she'd need to get in and -

Damn, I better get milk and bread while I'm here.

She hesitated, then put the headphones around her neck and got out. Inside, she grabbed a cart, put the buds in her ears, and hit PLAY, loud beats blasting against her eardrums like an racist cop with a nightstick.

 _...but you can't forge_

 _Never thought you'd see South Central niggas in the forest_

There were go. She pushed the cart to the right, through the produce section, and to the milk display at the back, her head beginning to nod and her lips moving as she sang along.

 _Swinging on a vine_

 _Sucking on a piece of swine_

 _Jiggaboo come up from behind_

 _Hit him with a coconut_

 _Stab him in the gut_

 _Push him out the tree_

 _He falls right on his nuts_

She had no idea what a jiggaboo was, but it was a fun word to say. Jiggaboo. Jiggaboo. Jiggaboo.

She stopped at the cooler and grabbed a gallon of milk, still whispering the lyrics to herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw a fat woman look at her strangely. What, never seen a brown woman buying groceries before? Go back to LA, bigot.

 _I don't like a bitch_

 _Named J to the A to the N-E_

 _Can't wait to meet her_

 _I'm gonna kill 'er_

 _Cause that little motherfucking cheetah can't hang with a guerrilla_

Next she cut over to the bread aisle and took a deep breath. Ahhhh, love that smell. Made her wants to tear through like a hungry duck and eat every crumb. She went methodically through the selection of white before settling for Sunbeam - the one with the picture of the little girl shoving her face full of toast on the front. That's the kind Mom bought and while Mom might be a sell-out former hippie, she had good taste.

 _Here comes a nigga from the dark side_

 _Talking bout a brand new apartheid_

 _South Central straight ghetto native_

 _Gotta show these devil motherfuckers what I'm made of_

These dudes cuss a _lot_ ; she'd be embarrassed to blast this out loud, everyone turning to look as she passed, gasps galone, monocles dropping into drinks, shocked hands flying to gaping mouths. _Why, I_ never!

Okay, now, Jessy's cake. Did she need anything else first? Cheese? Lunch meat? Ground beef?

Ooooh, her favorite part was coming up.

Leaning back, she belted out:

 _Nappy headed nigga, coming out the mist_

 _The smog, the fog_

 _Ice Cube is my motherfucking dog._

When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped and spun around, her stomach lurching like a drunk on his way home. A man in a red apron over a white shirt stood before her, his lips pressed tightly together and his brows angled down in a stern V. Uh-oh, he looks pissed.

Gulping, Alex hit STOP and took the earphones off with a sheepish smile. "Hi," she said.

"Ma'am," he said without preamble, "your cursing and racial slurs are making the other customers uncomfortable. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Alex glanced reflexively around, and a half dozen people glared at her: An older black woman with glasses; an old man; a woman with her hands clasped to the ears of a girl about eleven, as if to keep our obscenities Tipper Gore style. WIth a blush of shame, Alex realized that instead of whispering the lyrics, she did the opposite.

She hung her head in humiliation. So much for being an adult. "Can I just pick up my sister's -?"

The man jabbed his finger toward the entrance.

Yeah, she'd kick her out too.

Feeling two inches tall, she dragged herself out the door and to the car. Fifteen minutes later, she stood before her mother with a scolded expression. Mom's forehead crinkled confusedly. "Where's Jessy's cake?"

Blake sat on her lap, awake but groggy, watching Alex intently, as if surprised to see her. _What are_ you _doing here? This is me and Grandma time, lady, get lost._

"About that…"

Mom fixed her with a withering gaze, and Alex nervously rubbed the back of her neck. "You're gonna have to pick it up after all..."

* * *

Lincoln leaned against the ladder, splayed one hand on the roof, and dug the other into the gutter, pulling out a slimy clot of leaves, twigs, and muddy scum. He crinkled his nose and flung it onto the ground below, where it landed in the grass with a wet plop. On the other side of the porch, Fred did the same, a grimace of disgust crossing his wrinkled face. "When's the last time someone did this?" he asked through puckered lips.

That was a good question. Lincoln was sure he did it at some point recently, but, hell, at his age, things that happened fifteen years ago were _recent_. "It's been awhile," he said around the filter of his cigarette. He reached in, grabbed another clump, and dropped it.

Hell of a way to spend an afternoon, but, like a lot of shitty things in life, it had to be done...just like fixing the loose shingles on the roof, which was next on the list.

When he left home for the last time in 1970, he didn't know the first thing about handyman work, but over the years he learned a great deal, because it was either do things himself or pay someone else to do them, and he didn't like shelling out money if he didn't have to. His education in all things maintenance accelerated when Dad got too old to keep up on 1216, and now, he was practically Bob Vila. If Bob Vila did a hack job at everything.

Cleaning gutters was a mind-numbing and laborious task, but it beat the hell out of playing electrician. Lincoln _hated_ working with electricity; one time he zapped himself so bad it left a big white blister on his palm. Oh, can't forget the time he was cutting a 2x4 when he table saw jumped out of its track and just narrow missed ripping his stomach open. None of that, however, compared to the mess he made when he tried his hand at plumbing: Last year he flooded Mom's basement when he took out the wrong pipe, then a few years before that, he unanchored the toilet in his and Ronnie's bathroom, then tried to move it, only for a spasm to hit him in the back like a length of bamboo. The commode tipped over, hit the floor, and shattered into a million little pieces. _Nice one, lame-o,_ Ronnie Anne said and crossed her arms. _Where are we gonna poop now?_

Lincoln glanced at the hole in the floor. _You can squat,_ he offered.

She didn't like that idea.

At all.

Clamping the cigarette between his teeth, he leaned over and scanned the inside of the gutter - it wasn't what he'd call _clean,_ but it was clear of debris, so mission accomplished. He climbed down, picked the ladder up, carried it around the side of the house, and leaned it against the siding. He finished his cigarette, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it just as Fred walked over. His tan Dickies and the front of his plaid shirt were smeared with muck and filth, and a tiny brown leaf stuck in his gray, bristly crewcut. Lincoln looked him up and down. "Is that anyway to present yourself to your commanding officer?" he asked facetiously.

"You're only my my CO at Flip's," Fred said, "out here, I'm a higher rank than you." He pointed to the ladder. "Back to work. That's an order."

Lincoln stared at him for a moment, then took his gloves off and threw them aside. "Just for that, I'm going on leave." He brushed past Fred and went inside. Mom sat in her chair with her head back and her eyes closed, the TV playing unwatched: A group of young, hip black people in loud clothes danced to an R&B beat. He thought it was _Soul Train_ until they all whipped out bottles of Sprite. _I LIKE THE SPRITE IN YOU_. Lincoln preferred 7-Up.

He closed the door behind him and Mom stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. He avoided looking into her eyes as much as possible nowadays because the ever-deepening cloud of confusion he saw there disturbed him. "What was that?" she asked thickly.

"It's just me, Mom," Lincoln said.

She blinked and squinted as if to see him better. "Oh. Is it time for the party yet?"

For a beat, Lincoln thought she was talking out of her head, then it occurred to him that before he and Fred went outside, they were talking about Jessy's graduation. "That's in a couple days," he said.

"I thought it was today," she replied. She shifted her weight and the blanket on her lap thrashed violently. Lincoln frowned, then snorted when Russell's head popped out. He should have known - since Mom started getting sick, that damn dog barely left her side. It's almost like he knew something was wrong. "What time is it?"

Lincoln glanced at the clock on the mantle. "2:42," he said.

"That show I like is coming on soon," she fretted. "Don't let me forget." There was an edge of worry in her voice as though she routinely missed _The Brash and the Bountiful,_ which she did not. She probably forgot that fact - she forgot a lot of things as her illness progressed. She never remembered Ronnie Anne's name anymore, and though he didn't have the heart to say anything to Lori or Luan, she forgot his name once, too...then when she remembered, she broke down in tears.

She was getting steadily worse, and the doctor said it was only a matter of time before she was totally invalid and out of her mind. Luan wanted to keep her home and care for her until the end, and at first Lincoln agreed, but after talking with Lori, he changed his mind; he hated to say it, but she'd probably be better off in a facility. He brought the subject up with Luan, and she was _not_ taken with the idea. _No,_ she said, _I'm not shoving our mother into a nursing home._

He patiently explained to her - as Lori did to him - that a nursing home would be better equipped to take care of her. He didn't relish the thought of Mom not being at home either, but he'd rather she be surrounded by well-trained nurses and close to medical care instead of relying on Fred and Luan. They meant well, but they couldn't give her the same level of care as a fully-staffed and specialized nursing home.

And it wasn't like they'd stuff her into some state run geriatric prison, they could afford the best. When Mom got sick, he and Lori took over her finances and discovered, to their surprise, that she had over a million dollars in the bank, most of it from the quarterly checks she received from Luna's estate.

Walking over to the chair, he bent and kissed Mom on the temple. "I won't," he said.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and took out a can of Coca-Cola. Through the window over the sink, he glimpsed Luan kneeling in the backyard pulling weeds - she wore light brown slacks, a summery, sleeveless white blouse, and a straw hat that made her look like a bigger lame-o than Alex. He popped the tab, lifted the can to his lips, and drank deeply, the cold liquid pinching the back of his throat. The phone rang and he jumped, spilling a little down the front of his T-shirt. Crud and gutter juice? No problem. Soda? Now I'm gonna have to throw the damn thing out, thanks a lot.

Going over to the wall-mounted phone flanking the kitchen table, he picked up the handset and raised it to his ear. "Loud house," he said.

"Mr. Loud?" a familiar voice asked, and Lincoln rolled his eyes. "It's Artie Goldman. With Warner Brothers."

 _I know who you are,_ Lincoln thought impatiently. Every time he called the house, he introduced himself all over again. "Hi," Lincoln said curtly, just to let the guy know he wasn't happy to hear from him.

Goldman hesitated, then continued. "I just wanted to let you know that we are beginning production on the movie."

Early last summer, Warner Brothers optioned a movie based on Luna's life. Lincoln didn't like the idea anymore than Ronnie Anne liked the idea of squatting over a hole in the ground...so he hired a lawyer in California to file an injunction. It wasn't that there was anything in the script he didn't like (he didn't read the damn thing and never would), it was the concept of seeing the tragedy of his sister's life turned into a fucking matinee drama for everyone to munch popcorn and gawk at. She might be a celebrity high on a pedestal to most people - not even human - but to him she was as real as a person can be, and watching someone prancing around on screen pretending to be her, then pretending to _die_ like her, turned his stomach. Why not just dig her up and parade her body through the streets then?

The injunction was only half successful: The producers agreed to change things around and turn it into a fictional story inspired by Luna, rather than a chronicle of her life, and the courts struck down the lawyer's objection. The movie was going to be made whether Lincoln liked it or not, and that was all there was to it.

Goldman stayed in touch, promising each time he phoned to _treat the subject matter with the utmost dignity and respect._ Lincoln doubted that: Dignity and respect were as alien to Hollywood types as freedom of speech and movement were to Russians (oh, yeah, Soviet Union broke up and democracy replaced communism...but they probably weren't doing it right anyway, so…). Bobby Jr., who liked playing the part of the big MOVIE STAR even though he knew jackshit about anything but his soap, warned him that they would probably add a character based on him and turn it into either a joke or a jackass to get back at him for the lawsuit. _And they'll make it just different enough that you won't be able to sue_.

Yeah, well, he could still walk into their offices with a gun.

"That's nice," Lincoln said surily.

"I assure you, Mr. Loud -"

Lincoln hung up and turned away. Screw their movie. He hoped it bombed at the box office and everyone hated it.

Mood in the toilet, Lincoln took a swig of his Coke and sighed. Luna wasn't the only Loud people were interested in. Two months ago, a guy wearing a tweed jacket came into Flip's and sat at the table by the bathrooms. Alex went over to take his order, and he asked to see _Mr. Lincoln Loud._ At first, Lincoln took him for a tax collector, but no, he was a writer working on a book about Vietnam and he wanted to profile Lincoln's story. Lincoln jammed a gun in his face and told him to piss off.

No, he didn't _really_ do that. He said _I don't talk about Vietnam_ and went back to his station by the register. The guy looked disappointed, but stuck around for a while in case Lincoln changed his mind...then left without even ordering anything.

The back door opened and Luan came in, pulling heavy gardening gloves from her hands and panting, her face flush with the reddish spirit of exertions past. "I hate dandelions," she breathed. She shut the door and went to the sink, where she picked up a glass and filled it with tap water.

"You can switch with me then," he replied and drained his Coke. Crushing the empty can in his fist, he twisted around and tossed it into the trash.

Luan cut the sink. "I'm already done," she said, "sorry."

Damn.

Momentarily, Fred came in from the living room and washed his hands, then kissed Luan on the cheek. "Your brother went AWOL on me."

"Sounds like him." Luan said and looked Lincoln up and down, as if appraising his worth...and finding him lacking. "Did he ever tell you they kicked him out of the army for doing that?"

Lincoln snorted. "I was AWOL for eight whole months."

Fred dried his hands on a cloth and leaned back against the counter, his arm circling Luan's waist. He favored Lincoln with contrived disgust and shook his head as though he couldn't believe how worthless the recruit in front of him was. "You're a disgrace."

"Alright," Lincoln said with a nod, "you're fired."

Fred blinked, then looked down at his shoes.. "Sorry, sir."

"That's what I thought."

* * *

Jessy Loud's last day of college ended not with a bang, but a whimper.

Her final class ended at noon and, as was her custom, she waited for everyone else to leave before closing her book and getting up. She looked around, took a deep breath, and let it out evenly. She was excited to be out of school, but she was sad too - for the past four years, RWCC had been such a big part of her life, and now it was over. She felt the same way when she finished high school: Nervous, happy, uncertain, and beside herself with giddiness because she was starting the next chapter. The air crackled with a feeling of _change,_ and she walked slowly through the halls, looking left and right, committing every detail to memory - every door, window, crack in the wall, and passing face.

Like every day, she went to the commons, where her friends, Tonya and Michelle, sat and talked in the shade of an oak with green buds on its sparse branches, a portable black Sony boombox resting against the trunk and playing a commercial for Pizza Planet in Detroit. Tonya was a tall, slender girl who wore her black hair in a teased perm, a floral print long-sleeved button up tucked into a pair of jeans, and a black T-shirt underneath. Michelle was short and black with long, curly hair held back from her forehead by a bright pink hairband. She was dressed in red pants and a black shirt, a belt with a big, fashionable square shaped buckle around her waist. When Jessy came over, they both looked up at her. "Hey!" Michelle said.

"You're late," Tonya kidded. Jessy was a lot of things...and embarrassingly punctual was one of them. _She_ didn't think it was embarrassing but some people might...like Bunny. _You're a dork for not being rude and keeping everyone waiting._

Jessy dropped onto her butt and drew her legs up Indian style. "I walked slow," she said.

" _That's_ not like you," Tonya said.

Not only was Jessy punctual, she was also a fast walker. Michelle said she _scurried_ , and she wasn't exactly wrong. She didn't like lingering in the halls because large crowds made her feel claustrophobic, so she moved as quickly as she could to outpace the clawing sense of suffocation. Sigh. She knew, she was weird and possibly had a disorder, but she wasn't as bad as she used to be; she could handle things like that, they just made her uncomfortable.

She shrugged and leaned back against the tree, her hands coming to rest in her lap. "I just wanted to take it all in," she said simply.

"Soon's the big day," Michelle grinned.

Tonya threw her head back. "Finally. I thought I'd be stuck here forever." Tonya reminded Jessy a lot of Alex (which is probably why she liked her): She was really smart but didn't like structure _or_ applying herself. She probably would have skipped college entirely if she wasn't passionate about photography: One day, she always said, she would be a photographer for _National Geographic,_ travel the world, and _see lots of cool animals_.

"Honestly," Michelle said, "I thought you would be too. Repeating the sae grade over and over and over." She rolled her head in a circular motion.

That's not how college worked, but Jessy snickered anyway, because she was kind of surprised that Tonya wasn't held back in high school - she barely scraped by and stunned everyone by graduating with her class instead of fifteen years later.

"Shut up," Tonya laughed and shoved Michelle's shoulder. "I did great in _all_ my classes."

"Except for math," Jessy said.

"And biology," Michelle chimed in.

"And English."

Tonya arched her brow.

"And -"

"Okay! I get it!" Tonya shook her head and brushed a strand of hair from her face, her eyes darting to a group of boys in jeans and sweaters making their way across the commons. A sly grin spread across her lips and she nodded to herself as if in approval.

Michelle followed her gaze and rolled her eyes. "That's why you fail everything. Too busy looking at boys."

Like Jessy, Michelle was all business when it came to her education, though whereas Jessy was naturally an uptight geek, Michelle was molded into one; her parents were both doctors and pushed her to succeed. Despite not being born that way, she was a little more hardline than Jessy in certain respects, like not dating. She refused to have a boyfriend until she was out of school and settled in a career in the fashion industry. She never even talked about boys like other girls did. Jessy respected her friend's decision, but she couldn't really understand it. Then again, some women are needier in the love and romance department, and Jessy was apparently one of them.

Oh well.

"I don't fail _anything,_ " Tonya said and reached into her bag, bringing out a glass bottle of Pepsi, "I always get by."

"Barely," Michelle said.

While they bantered, Jessy looked around the quad, her eyes going to the main building, its brick facade crisscrossed with creeping ivy and its clocktower keeping eternal watch over Wyman Street. From up there, you could see the whole town - on a _really_ clear day, you could see into Elk Park. It was built in 1889, and Jessy always thought it was the prettiest building she'd ever seen; on afternoons like this, she sat here and studied every stone, narrow window, and fixture like a woman savoring a favorite novel.

She was really going to miss it.

A spot for Burger King went off and the news came on. " _A verdict is expected soon in the trial of four white police officers charged with using excessive force against black motorist Rodney King last March."_

Michelle and Tonya both stopped to listen. Unlike her sister, Jessy believed in staying informed on current affairs, and the Rodney King trial was one of the biggest stories of the year. She, like much of the nation, was shocked by the camcorder footage of King being beaten and kicked by a team of police officers. How could people who were sworn to protect the public and uphold the law do such a horrible thing? She could understand hitting a bad guy to subdue them, but he was curled up on the ground!

Later, after he was carted away, one of the cops typed a message on his in-car computer saying _I haven't beaten anyone that hard in a long time,_ then said a domestic dispute between two African-Americans that he responded to earlier looked like something from _Gorillas in the Mist._ From what the news was saying, racism ran rampant in the LAPD and Rodney King wasn't the first black or Hispanic person to be brutalized, wrongfully arrested, or harassed. Jessy knew racism still existed, but beyond a few kids using slurs in school, she'd never actually _seen_ it. Ganging up on someone and beating them over the head with billy clubs? That was the kind of thing that happened back in the sixties, not in 1992.

 _It was sickening,_ Mom said of the abuse blacks faced back then. _And it made me hate my country._

"I hear they butt fuck cops in prison," Tonya said with a mischievous smirk.

"They're gonna get beaten too," Michelle said, "watch. I give it a week before a bunch of other inmates jump them."

Jessy didn't want them to get beaten up (God, she didn't want _anyone_ to suffer the way Rodney King did, even if they might deserve it), but she _did_ want them to go to prison - which they were. Without a doubt. That video alone was enough to ensure conviction, not to mention all the other stuff. Unless the jury was blind, there was no way those cops were getting off the hook.

The news ended and light, poppy music with high vocal harmonies replaced it. Jessy perked up: This was one of her favorite songs ever!

Michelle leaned over and turned it with. "Here're some boys for you," she taunted Tonya.

Tonya groaned. She liked Bunny music, and her favorite band in the world was a new group called Nirvana. Ignoring her look of misery, Jessy swayed back and forth and focused on the clocktower once more, her chest aching with a muted sense of loss. She was _really_ going to miss this: The school, the zeitgeist, and, most of all, spending time with her friends.

 _I'm so glad you're my girl_

 _I'll do anything for you_

 _Call you every night_

 _And give you flowers too_

 _I thank the Lord for you_

"I hate Color Me Badd," Tonya sighed. "It's like all the gay singers got together and formed a big, gay supergroup."

Michelle sniffed. "They're singing about a girl."

"Someone's gotta be the girl in the relationship," Tonya pointed out and took a sip of Pepsi. Michelle favored her with a thoughtful expression, then slapped the bottom of the bottle; dark liquid poured down Tonya's shirt and she cried out in alarm. Michelle laughed.

"Bitch!" Tonya said.

Jessy grinned. "That looks good on you."

"Pepsi's the new in thing," Michelle teased. "All the slobs are wearing it."

 _Oh girl I think I love you_

 _I'm always thinkin' of you_

 _I want you to know I do all for love_

 _I love it when we're together_

 _Girl I need you forever_

 _And want you to know I do it all for love_

"I oughta shove this bottle up your ass," Tonya said. She pinched the fabric of her shirt between her thumb and forefinger, and shook it out. "You too," she added and shot Jessy a dirty look. "For laughing."

"Jessy has Mark to put things in her butt."

Michelle and Tonya burst out laughing and Jessy blushed furiously. She didn't like to talk about her sex life (at least with anyone who wasn't Mark, wink-wink), but she _really_ didn't like to talk about gross, weird stuff like..yuck _._ "No," she said defensively. "We don't do that."

 _I will never leave you, sugar_

 _This I guarantee_

 _I lookin to the future_

 _I see you and me_

Michelle waved her hand in front of her face. "Then," she hitched through her laughter, "then...he puts it in her mouth."

Tonya threw her head back and held her stomach as if to keep her sides from literally spitting, and Michelle covered her face with her hands. Jessy's face burned, and she fumbled for a witty comeback like Bunny would deal out, but came back empty handed; as a last resort, she scrunched her face and mocked their laughter. " _Hehehehehehehe."_ That only made them laugh harder.

 _I will be there for you_

 _To catch you when you fall_

 _I'll hold you in my arms_

 _That's were you belong_

"At least Jessy proved she can reel one in," Tonya said, "the only boyfriend _you_ can get takes batteries."

Michelle's jaw dropped, then snapped closed, her brow lowering sharply. "I choose not to date because _I_ can go five minutes without slutting off."

"I don't _slut_ off," Tonya said, then glanced at Jessy for back up. "Do I slut off?"

Jessy opened her mouth to reply that yes, she did, but stopped when a retort came to her in a flash of revelation. She could come up with good zingers just fine...ten minutes later and on her way home. Stumbling into one at the perfect moment was a rare treat, and she was going to enjoy it.

"You would," she said, "if any boys wanted you."

Tonya's face fell, and Michelle snorted. She reached into her purse and brought out a plastic bottle of water, then tossed it into Tonya's lap. "Here, put this on that burn."

"You guys suck," Tonya said and crossed her arms sullenly.

 _Now, come here sweetheart_

 _I want you to know something alright_

 _Everyday in my life without you_

 _Would be like a hundred years_

 _The distance between us_

 _An ocean of tears_

 _See all the things I do four you_

 _Are for love_

"Aww," Michelle said, "she can dish it out, but she can't take it." She stuck out her bottom lip, then jumped back and laughed when Tonya swatted at her.

Yep, Jessy was going to miss this.

But she was looking forward to the future. Now that she was out of school, she and Mark could start seriously thinking about moving in together...and getting married.

Later, she drove home and parked in the driveway, noting Alex's car at the curb. Inside, Blake sat in the middle of the floor with his hands splayed over his eyes and a big, cheesy grin on his face. "I'm gonna get you!" Alex called in a wavering, singsong voice. She appeared from around Uncle Lincoln's chair, crawling on her hands and knees and grinning evilly, her lips smeared with chocolate and cookie crumbs. She glanced up, saw Jessy, and her grin widened. _Now I have_ two _souls to eat,_ Jessy, for some reason, imagined her saying. "Hey, Jess! How does it feel to be a big girl like me now?"

Bunny just _loved_ teasing her about being _twenty-two and still in school, hahahaha._ "Your face is covered in cookies," Jessy remarked and shut the door. Alex swiped the back of her hand across her mouth and stared down at the residue like she had no idea where it could have come from.

"Guess I should think before I speak next time," she said thoughtfully.

"I've been telling you that for years," Jessy said and went over to Blake, who peeked at her through his fingers. She tucked her chin against her chest and favored him with a smile not unlike his mother's. "What are you doing?" she asked playfully.

He grunted.

She dropped to one knee and leaned in until their foreheads were touching. "Are you playing with mommy?"

 _Grunt._

"Did she at least _share_ the cookies she took from the cookie jar?" she asked and looked pointedly at Alex, who hung her head in shame, which was as good as a spoken confession. Blake snagged the front of her shirt and yanked, and she turned her attention back to him. He got unsteadily to his feet and held his arms out for a hug. Awwww. Jessy was blessed with a lot of things in life, and right at the top of the list was her adorable nephew; he was the sweetest thing ever, and being around him made her really want a baby of her own. She and Mark agreed to wait until they were settled into their life together, but that's like saying Christmas is only a few months away...and it's January.

She swept him into an embrace and squeezed him tight, unconsciously lifting him off the floor so that his little sneakered feet kicked in midair. She rocked him from side to side then sat him down when he started to thrash and groan; he looked up at her with those big, clear eyes and regarded her with an expression you saved only for someone who was completely crazy. "Sorry," she said and mussed his hair, "I got carried away."

Blake beamed as if to day _it's okay, auntie,_ then turned and toddled over to an overturned fire truck. He really was the cutest thing ever.

She sighed and sat on the floor with her back against the coffee table. Alex crawled over, sat next to her, and drew one leg up. "Graduating soon" she said. "Nervous?"

"Not really," Jessy said after a moment. "A little. I'm more excited than anything."

Across the living room, Blake rolled the fire truck back and forth along the carpet, his lips vibrating as he provided his own sound effects, just like his mother showed him.

"That's good," Alex said and nudged Jessy's arm with her elbow, "what a difference four years makes, huh? You were _so_ nervous; I thought you were gonna freeze up and stand there in front of everyone smiling through your teeth like a lame-o."

Jessy smiled at the memory of her high school graduation; Alex was right, she _was_ nervous...probably more than she'd ever been in her life. Except for hers and Mark's first time. She was pretty anxious the second time too, and the third...after that, she started to loosen up.

Okay, that sounded really dirty, but she didnt mean it like that. Swear.

"So did I," she mused and hugged her knees.

Alex laid her head on Jessy's shoulder. "But you have an awesome older sister who straightened you out. I'm, like, a wise sage."

Jessy looked at her, and they both laughed. "You are _not_ a sage. You're…" she trailed off and pursed her lips. "What's the next step down?"

"Philosopher," Alex said instantly.

On TV, _Rugrats_ gave way to _Clarissa Explains it All._ Blake looked at the screen and issued a disgruntled grunt, as though he'd been keenly invested in the show instead of his toys. Jessy really couldn't blame him, _Rugrats_ was cute...and the other one was kind of blah. Last year, Uncle Lincoln subscribed to a pay television service because he wanted HBO. _Lots of good movies on there, I hear._ Funny thing was, he wound up watching the same three channels he'd been watching for the past twenty years...and none of them were HBO: He paid 200 dollars a year for nothing but a big, ugly satellite dish to stand in the side yard like a leering child molester. _Hey, little girl, wanna watch Showtime with me?_

Wrinkling her brow, Jessy turned to Alex. "Is it?"

"Yep," Alex said with a deep nod. "A sage is one who has attained the knowledge that a philosopher seeks." She spoke haltingly as if from memory. "That's what the encyclopedia says, anyway."

Jessy hummed. She did not know that. Obviously she knew what a sage was, but not the technical definition. To be fair, neither Greek history nor philosophy interested her. The Roman Empire was _far_ more fascinating. "What's the Chinese equivalent?" Jessy asked.

"Confucius."

"Confucius was a person."

Alex shook her head. "Uh-uh, it's a title too."

That gave Jessy pause. She didn't _think_ it was a title, but she knew only marginally more about ancient Chinese history than she did ancient Greece. She drew away from Alex and searched her eyes for traces of deceit. Alex flashed a big, toothy smile from which Jessy inferred she was lying. "No it's not, Bunny," she said.

"Totally is."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"You're lying."

Blake darted his eyes back and forth between them, the corners of his mouth turned down in a confused frown.

"Am not," Alex said and shoved Jessy.

"Are too," Jessy retorted and shoved Alex back.

"Am not."

"Are too."

"You just finished college," Alex said, "you're supposed to be smart. Why aren't you smart?"

Jessy shot out her arm and connected with Alex's shoulder harder than she meant; with a cry of surprise, Alex lost her balance and fell over, her feet kicking up in a V. Jessy winced and Blake's eyes widened slightly in alarm; he leaned over a little to see his mother under the coffee table and frowned when she laughed. "Sorry," Jessy said. "I didn't mean to knock you over. Are you okay?"

"No," Alex said and sat up with a strained breath. "First I get kicked out of the grocery store, then my little sister beats me up, what's next, a volcano?"

"You got kicked out of the grocery store?"

Alex nodded, shamefaced. "Yeah. It's a long story."

No, it probably wasn't. She was cutting up and got in trouble. Again. She did it so much over the years that Jessy was surprised she wasn't permanently banned from everywhere in Royal Woods. Let's see...there was the time she got them tossed out of White Elephant; the time she was kicked out of the arcade for kicking a girl in the butt _(she was taking too long and I_ really _wanted to play Space Invaders!_ ); oh, and the time Uncle Lincoln kicked her out of Flip's. She was fourteen and walking through the dining room backwards, talking to Jessy _(hurry up in the bathroom, okay? I wanna get to the arcade before everyone rushes the place_ ) when she bumped into one of the waitresses and made her drop a stack of plates and glasses...all of which exploded on the floor like Judgement Day. _Oops,_ she said through her teeth, _sorry_. Uncle Lincoln, sitting by the register, just glared and pointed at the door.

"You're a grown woman and you're _still_ acting like a kid," Jessy teased.

"I know," Alex said gravely and looked away, shame creeping into her eyes. "I'm dumb." She drew a heavy sigh and looked up at the TV, a frown on her lips.

Jessy's smile fell; she didn't mean to upset Alex but apparently did.

Now she felt like crap. "I was just playing," she said quickly.

"No, you're right," Alex said seriously, "sometimes I'm a real fuck up."

Jessy's heart twinged at her sister's pronouncement. While it was true Alex could be a little...reckless at times...and too uninhibited...and careless...and puckish...and a lot of other things, she was _not_ a fuck up. When they were kids, Jessy got annoyed with her, but she knew she could always count on Alex to be there for her. "No you're not. You're...Alex. And Alex is really great."

"Alex is a lame-o."

"Maybe," Jessy allowed, "but you're my lame-o and I love you." She pulled Alex into a hug and squeezed as tight as she could to show just how heartfelt that statement really was.

Alex moaned. "You're breaking my shoulders."

Ooops. Jessy released her. "Sorry."

"You're really strong," Alex said and rolled her neck. She was grinning, though, and the warm, impish light was back in her eyes. Guess that means my hug worked. Oh, yeah, I am _good_. "Have you been working out?"

Jessy shook her head. "Nope, just eating my veggies." She poked Alex's arm. "You'd be strong too if you ate better."

"I eat just fine, thank you," Alex gasped. "Last night I had two helpings of sweet peas with my Big Mac and fries."

Jessy looked at her, and she at Jessy. "Alright. It was only one and a half."

Jessy cocked her brow.

"Fine," Alex said, "I didn't have any peas buuuut I will tonight." She smirked and nodded slowly. "So I can snap you in two with _my_ hugs."

* * *

6pm, April 28, Ronnie Anne Loud sank onto the sofa with a weary sighed and kicked her heels off, freeing her sore, aching feet. It was her day off so heels weren't mandatory, but she owned almost nothing that could be worn with anything else. She'd been an educator for twenty-two years and she dressed like one: Shirts, dresses, blazers, belts, shirts with ruffles, and, every once in a blue moon, slacks. She owned boots and tennis shoes, but it was too warm for the former and the latter looked dumb when paired with the aforementioned crap, so heels it was.

Flexing her toes and wincing because ow, those dumb things really pinched them, she drew her legs under her, crossed her arms, and stared absently at the TV: A black man in a diamond pattern sweater walked away from the counter of a nameless Burger King with a tray in his hands and a huge smile on his face. Keep it in your pants, buddy, it's just a Whopper.

Actually, it _did_ look pretty good.

Now she wanted one. Damn it. Don't tell lame-o, he'd throw a conniption fit. _What,_ my _burgers aren't good enough anymore? First it's food, then it's you cheating on me with Johnny Carson again._ Yeah? Joke's on you, Carson's retiring next month.

He wouldn't really throw a fit, but she'd understand if he did. Places like Burger King were slowly but surely killing Flip's. Lincoln put up a tough front, but he worried a lot - so much so that he brought up the idea of selling the restaurant and _getting out while the getting's good._ She doubted he would, though: He'd owned it for almost twenty-one years, and besides the army, he knew nothing else - not having Flip's anymore scared the shit out of him. _What will I do?_ he asked glumly, his shoulders slumped. _I'm forty-five, it's too late to change careers. I'll wind up flipping burgers at McDonald's._

Seeing him so upset killed Ronnie Anne, but there wasn't much she could say beyond _it's never too late, lame-o._ She legitimately believed that, but she could imagine how _she'd_ feel if it was her vocation going down the toilet. If, for some reason, she couldn't do education anymore, she'd feel lost, like a ship without a rudder.

The situation with Flip's was the main reason she accepted the principal position - it was more money and the last step before district superintendent, which paid an even higher salary. She didn't _want_ to leave Royal County High, but she would if she had to...or try, anyway. The school board loved her and she had more plaques, educator of the year awards, and commendations on her office wall than she could count; if she wanted the job, they'd probably give it to her in a heartbeat.

A commercial for Pepto-Bismol ended and the _CBS Evening News_ started, Dan Rather looking dour as ever in a light brown suit accented by a red tie. Ronnie Anne yawned and rolled her neck. She slept wrong last night or something, and it'd been stiff all day.

" _...conviction is all but assured,"_ Rather was saying. A video showing one of the cops who beat up Rodney King testifying played, and Ronnie Anne glanced at the phone, her lips pursing. She didn't feel like making dinner; maybe she'd order a pizza.

" _...I was scared to death that if this guy got back up, he was going to take my gun away from me,"_ the officer said. She furrowed her brow and cocked her head. Was this old footage? It must be, the jury was deliberating, weren't they?

Rather appeared again. " _Nearly ninety percent of Los Angelinos believe that excessive force was used._ "

A white man in sunglasses gave a man on the street interview. " _I consider myself pretty pro police, but they...they went overboard._ "

Next, a large black woman in a purple dress. " _They hit that man in his head. They ain't supposed to do that anymore."_

Yeah, you know what? I'm ordering a pizza. If lame-o doesn't like it, he can take a long walk off a short pier. She leaned over, grabbed the phone, and dialed. On TV, another one of this officers, a thin, rat-faced man with a thin black mustache and receding hairline, stood before a screen and used to a pointing stick to pick himself out on the paused video of the beating: It was dark and grainy, but Ronnie Anne spotted him with his hand against another cop's chest like he was trying to push him back. Rodney King lie on the ground, probably moaning and bleeding.

The line was busy.

Damn it. I want my pizza.

" _...what were you doing?"_ a voice asked offscreen.

" _This is when I was stopping Officer Powell."_

Maybe they could go to the Pizza Hut in Elk Park when Lincoln got home. God knows it had been forever since he took her on a date.

That meant putting her shoes back on and leaving the couch.

No thanks.

" _...why are you stopping Officer Powell_?"

Rat-face mumbled something Ronnie Anne didn't catch, then turned to the camera. " _I thought Officer Powell was out of control."_

From the video, it looked like he was telling the truth, but Ronnie Anne wondered if he just wasn't trying to save himself and pin it all on that Powell guy. He _might_ get away with it, but she had no doubt in her mind that the others were going to prison. Like Dan Rather said, conviction was all but assured - hell, it was on tape, and while cops might lie, videotape sure doesn't.

A few minutes later, a key rattled in the door, and Lincoln came in. "Welcome home, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said. "How was your day?"

He grunted, dragged himself over, and dropped down next to her. Dirt smeared his face and the front of his shirt, and the reek of rotting vegetation clung to him like a shroud. "You stink," she said.

"I spent all day balls deep in Mom's gutter," he groused.

She pinched his cheek and giggled when he pulled irritably away. "Your need a shower."

"I'd rather a bjowjob," he said and turned to her, his brows lifted expectantly, which made her laugh. When he was moody, he had a way of being far more forward than usual.

"Alright," she grinned and plucked a leaf from his hair, then poked his chest. "But not until you take a shower."

Lincoln threw his head back and groaned. On the screen, a prosecutor spoke to a female reporter outside the courthouse " _I have the utmost confidence that, with the video evidence and the testimony of Officer Briseno, we'll secure justice for Mr. King."_

"Too tired?" Ronnie Ann asked.

"No," he said and pushed to his feet. "You better make it _extra_ good, though." He flashed a smug smile.

Ronnie Anne returned it. "Alright. I'll stick a finger in your butt, how about that?"

Lincoln's face crinkled in revulsion. "Don't do that."

She nodded. "Oh, I'm gonna do it, alright." She crossed her arms over her chest. " I might even use two."

"If you do, I'll make what they did to that guy in Los Angeles look like foreplay."

Oh? Lincoln was a good man, but he had a bad habit of getting too big for his britches sometimes, and it fell to her to put him back in his place. She shot out her arm and cupped his crotch, her nails brushing the rough fabric of his jeans. Their eyes locked, and she arched her brows. "Fun fact," she said, and an evil simper ran across her lips, "it only takes forty pounds of pressure to pop a set of testicles."

Lincoln arched his brows in imitation of her. "Fun fact," he said, "it only takes four pounds of pressure to pull a trigger."

See what I mean? Way too big for his britches. She gave a light warning squeeze and he winced in anticipation of pain that didn't come. "Go take a shower so I can suck you."

He favored her with a thoughtful gaze, as though he wanted to say more, then shrugged. "Okay."

He took his shower, and, when he was done, Ronnie Anne sucked him so good he called her Mommy.

Not really, but she was certain he thought it.

After _that,_ they ordered pizza and lived happily ever after. The end.

* * *

 **One thing I really wanted to avoid in RITY was making the time period (fifties, sixties, etc) the focus rather than the characters; too many period pieces have no other point than "Hey, look guys, it's the seventies!" Human beings, I believe, are fundamentally the same now as they were fifty years ago. Some things are timeless: Love, suffering, hope for a better tomorrow. I probably laid it on a little thick here and there, but I always strive to tell human stories with the era as primarily a fun and colorful backdrop.**


	164. April and May 1992: Part 2

**Valtek: He was kind of into comics in the fifties, but who knows? Maybe his grandson will get him back into them.**

 **GennaiArakida-XIV: I like both, but prefer Coke.**

* * *

 _ **Time for some action, just a fraction of friction  
I got the clearance to run the interference  
Into your satellite, shinin' a battle light  
Sen got the gat, and I know that'll gat ya right  
Here's an example, just a little sample  
How I could just kill a man!**_

 **Cypress Hill (** _ **How I Could Just Kill a Man,**_ **1991)**

April 29th dawned cold and rainy in Bristol, Tennessee. Lana stood in the kitchen of the three bedroom house on Chickasaw Road she and Jed bought in 1990 and sipped coffee from a white mug with Hulk Hogan's face on it. She wore a threadbare pink robe and fuzzy slippers that scraped against the faded yellow linoleum with every tired, shuffling step. Her shoulder length blonde hair, recently cut and styled for Jed's sister's fifth wedding, fell over her shoulders in knots, and dark bags hung under her bleary eyes.

She lifted the cup to her lips and grimaced at the bitter taste. She didn't do something right but her brain was so fogged she couldn't even begin to say what. Too much coffee, not enough water? She didn't know and, honestly, she didn't care, she had worse.

Jed came in from darkened hall dressed in faded black coveralls with his name stitched over the left breast, scratching his butt as he went. She tilted her head to one side and he pecked her on the cheek like he did every morning. "Mornin'."

"Mornin'," she said. She caught sight of Hulk and, rolling her eyes, spun the mug so that she didn't have to look at him. Lynn III sent it to her for Christmas; Lana didn't like Hulk, but she liked the cup, so she used it anyway. "The boys up?"

Pouring coffee into a mug of his own, Jed said, "I heard 'em. Sounded like they was playin' that damn Sega."

Lana hummed disapprovingly. The Sega Genesis, which was admittedly pretty neat, was another Christmas present, this time from Lincoln. _Alex says it's the best game system on the market,_ he told over over the phone, _I don't really know, but I figured they'd like it._

Oh, they did...a little _too_ much, if you asked her. If she let them, they'd play it from the moment they got home from school to the moment she chased them into bed. They were as bad as drug addicts. _Sonic the Hedgehog_ this and _Street Fighter_ that and _five more minutes, Mom, please_ , _I just wanna beat this level._ When she took them to Sears or K-Mart, they bugged her for new games, and she usually wound up caving in. The last time she did, she bought something called _Mortal Kombat_. Looked like a regular old fighting game...then she walked in on them playing it just as one of the characters got his spine ripped out in a gush of blood; she took that damn thing away so fast their heads were _still_ spinning. She wasn't overly protective of her sons, but some things cross the line, and _Mortal Kombat_ was one of them.

Hell, she wasn't the only person to say that, neither; in fact, so many people were upset by it that the senate held hearings and now they were forcing game makers to put warning labels on their packaging just like record companies. Good, they ought to - parents need a way of knowing what they're buying for their kids. Is a label really so much to ask for?

"They know they're not supposed to be playin' it before school," Lana sighed. She sat the mug down and went into the hall. At their door, she cocked her head and listened, detecting the ding noise Sonic makes when he picks up those gold coins or whatever they were. Reaching out, she twisted the knob and leaned in, her brow lowering. Justin and Josh sat on the foot of Josh's bed with controllers in their hands. Clothes, action figures, cars, and balls littered the floor. They were so caught up that they didn't hear her. "What are y'all doin'?" she asked sharply, and they both jumped. "Turn that TV off and get ready, y'all got school."

"Five more minutes, Mom, please," Justin said, "I just wanna -"

" _Now."_

Sighing, Justin hung his head and slumped his shoulders. He got up, trudged over to the TV, and turned the Sega off. Lana crossed her arms sternly. Secretly, she hated being a hardass with her boys because doing so reminded her of her own mother, but sometimes, you have to be tough. "I want y'all to pick this room up when you get home, or -"

Thin, high-pitched cries drifted from hers and Jed's room, cutting her off. The baby was up. "I'm gonna take that Sega away and y'all ain't ever gonna get it back."

"NO!" Justin and Josh wailed in unison, Josh bouncing.

"Get ready then clean this mess up."

She turned and walked away, throwing a glance over her shoulder and chuckling at the way they fell all over themselves to get to the dresser...where they slapped at one another. "I was first!" Josh yelled, even though he wasn't.

"No, _I_ was!"

Those boys were gonna drive her to drink.

A memory of her mother passed out on the kitchen floor in a puddle of piss flashed across her mind, and her stomach knotted. More coffee...they were going to drive her to drink more coffee.

In her room, she snapped the overhead light on and went to the bassinet flanking the bed - it shook as the child inside kicked its tiny legs in outrage. "Mama's here," Lana cooed and dropped onto the edge of the mattress. She leaned over, and a big, sunny smile spread across her lips at the little pink face and big, dark eyes within. The baby ceased its fussy and looked up with quiet curiosity. _Oh, it's you again. Hi._ "Hi, hun," Lana said and picked the baby up. "Are you hungry?"She cradled it to her chest and stared down into its upturned countenance, rocking slowly from side to side. The baby blinked and smacked its lips together, and Lana's heart swelled with love and affection. "Alright," she said and got to her feet. "Let's get you somethin' to eat."

For years, she and Jed wanted a daughter, and four months ago, on the blustery evening of January 22, Lana gave birth to one. She didn't know the gender beforehand because she didn't want to - she was afraid it'd be a boy and she'd be disappointed, so she decided to find out after delivery. Her reasoning was: Once you have your baby in your arms, it doesn't matter if it's not the sex you wanted, you looked into its eyes and loved it regardless. Deep in her heart, she was expecting it to be a boy, so when they said "It's a girl!" she was shocked...then she cried.

During the pregnancy, she and Jed talked about girls names, and even picked out a few they both liked,, but as she snuggled her little princess to her chest, one and only one fit: Joy, because that's what she felt.

Jed sat at the kitchen table with the paper fanned out in front of him, a black and white picture of Bill Clinton grinning up at him and black bold text screaming _CLINTON SWEEPS PENNSYLVANIA PRIMARY; JERRY BROWN A DISTANT SECOND._ He glanced up and cracked a smile. "My two favorite girls." He held out his arms and Lana handed him their daughter.

"I need to make a bottle," she said and glanced at the clock on the microwave; it was 6:50 and the bus would be here in fifteen minutes. Were the boys ready? They better be, she did _not_ feel like driving them today. She went to the end of the hall. "Y'all hurry up! You're gonna be late!"

She turned, went to the cabinet flanking the sink, and took out a plastic tub of Enfamil. She opened the lid, took a bottle from the drying rack, and filled it with water. Out the window, rain hissed in the side yard, which terminated at a wall of snarled undergrowth. Chickasaw Road was five miles north of Main Street as the crow flies, but felt more like one hundred and five: Their nearest neighbors were a mile and a half away and the terrain on which their house sat was hilly and wooded. It was really pretty in the fall, the trees along the road orange, yellow, and red, and there was a big ol' rise out back that was perfect for sledding in the winter. Justin and Josh loved it - she couldn't join in because she was too darn pregnant, but this year she and Joy would be right there with them. Lana planned to teach her little girl to be tough just like her Mama, none of that _ewww, I'm gonna get dirty and break a nail_ crap. She was gonna sleigh, ride a four wheeler, make mud pies, and go hunting just like her brothers. From time to time, she and Lana could do girly stuff like get their hair done and look nice, but under all the makeup, she was gonna be strong, self-reliant, unafraid to get her clothes muddy, and know how to fix an engine block with just a screwdriver and a turkey sandwich.

Lana was really looking forward to learning her daughter to be a woman, and vowed to herself everyday she'd do a better job than her own mother did.

She scooped some of the powder into the bottle, screwed the rim on, and shook it up. Jed divided his attention between Joy and the paper; every time he looked away, she brought her arm up then down. "I agree," he said cryptically. Lana watched them for a moment, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. There was something beautiful in seeing Jed interact with their children, and it always made her feel flush with pride because _I did that...I made him a daddy._

With a contented sigh, she went over and held out the bottle. "You got time to feed her?"

"Always got time," he said with a wink, "I own the place, don't I? I can open whenever I want."

Lincoln said the same thing about his restaurant, but, like Jed, he opened on time or early every single day. All bark but no bite.

He took the formula, and Joy's eyes latched onto it. "You want this?" he asked and upended it. He brushed the nipple across her lips, and she opened her mouth. "Nope, it's mine," he jested and yanked it back.

Joy blinked and opened her mouth wider. Biting her bottom lip, Lana slapped his shoulder and he laughed deeply. "Give her her breakfast," she said. "She's hungry."

"You want this?" he asked again and tapped her chin with the nipple. She leaned forward in an attempt to grab it with her lips, and he slipped it in. She started to suck at once, her dark blue eyes fixed on her father. Lana grazed her fingertips lovingly across the side of her daughter's face, then went into the hall to see if the boys were ready just as they came out of their room, their book bags on their backs.

Grabbing their lunch boxes from the counter ( _American Gladiators_ for Justin and _Barney_ for Josh), she bent and gave each one a kiss on the cheek, then ruffled their hair. "I love you, have a good day," she said.

"You too, Mom," Justin said.

"I love you too," Josh replied, then followed his older brother out the front door. Lana went into the gloomy living room and pulled aside the curtain: They walked side-by-side down the driveway toward the two lane blacktop. The trees screening the opposite bank of the road were bare or close to it, and she could just make out the ridgeline beyond, playing peekaboo through the interlaced branches. They stopped by the mailbox and waited, Josh kicking gravel and Justin shifting his weight from one foot to the other. They were probably going into the Sega Genesis version of withdrawals. Mama went into withdrawals once when she couldn't get any hooch - she curled up on the bed and shook for two days straight until one of her boyfriends took pity on her and brought her a jug of grain alcohol that almost killed her.

Lana's lips puckered up in distaste and, letting the curtain fall back into place, she went over to the TV and turned it on: A news anchor sat in front of a big Channel 4 logo and recited the lurid details of an apartment fire in Knoxville that left thirty people homeless - the Red Cross was assisting them, which made it a _little_ less depressing.

Before sitting on the couch, she checked out the window again: The boys were climbing onto a battered yellow bus with dents, dings, and smears of dirt across the side. Good. She worried about them being out by the road like that - anyone could come along and snatch them, or veer out of control and run them over.

Jed came in from the kitchen with Joy pressed to his chest, her cheek resting against his shoulder and her face pointed away in case she puked. Jed could handle anything...except throw up. It made him gag and retch like his stomach was gonna come out. "She eat it all?"

"Left a little bit," he said and passed Joy over. He kissed her on the top of the head, then Lana on the lips. "I love you."

Lana grinned and kissed him back. "I love you too. Keep 'em in line down there, okay?"

She told him the same thing every morning. Shortly after Josh was born, she and Jed discussed her retiring and staying at home, but she wasn't too keen on the idea of giving up working. She liked getting out of the house and having a routine, and she really liked having her own money. Jed was a good man and she had no reason to doubt him in any way, but, money, in this country, is independence, and from as early as she could remember, she was an independent sort. The thought of not making any that was hers and hers alone made her chest tighten with panic.

Then Joy was born and she did a lot of thinking during her maternity leave. She had three children and a home with Jed. She'd known him for over ten years and been married to him for seven - she had trust issues (hell, if you can't trust you own mama, who _can_ you trust?), so every leap of faith with him came hard and slow, like a backed up poop. But again, she had his children and he treated her well, what else could he possibly do to prove to her that he wasn't another Mama in disguise?

In February, she officially left the garage and became a stay at home mother. She expected it to be a busy vocation full of wall to wall tasks. Maybe it was when Mrs. Loud was just married, but in the modern world of 1992, laundry, cooking, vacuuming, and everything else took no time at all. More often than not, she found herself cleaning things that were already clean, then, when Joy was napping, going out and fiddling around in the yard, raking leaves, picking up twigs, and watching grass grow. On the plus side, you could eat dinner off any surface in the house.

"I will," Jed assured her. He kissed her again, then went into the kitchen to grab his lunch pail and left. Lana carried Joy over to the window and pulled the curtain aside; Jed climbed into his brand new Ford F-250. It was white with a brown stripe down the sides. He closed the door and buckled his belt, then spotted them and waved. Lana smiled, pinched Joy's hand between her thumb and forefinger, and lifted it, shaking it in farewell. "Bye, Daddy," she said, and Joy thrashed.

After he backed out and drove off, Lana went into the kitchen, found the bottle, and brought it back into the living room, where the news was giving over to _Family Feud_. She hated game shows almost as much as she hated those damn soap operas. She was proud of Bobby and all, but she didn't watch his show and never would...especially after that incest thing they did. She didn't see it, but she read about it in one of the tabloids - remember what she said about some lines you shouldn't cross? _Mortal Kombat_ was one and incest was another. It wasn't _his_ fault and she wasn't mad or anything, but ewwww. She knew those Hollywood types were immoral, but damn, that's a whole 'nother level right there.

Sitting on the couch, she kicked her feet onto the coffee table and sat Joy on her stomach. "Just you and me, girl," Lana said. Joy leaned forward as though she didn't hear, and Lana met her half way, pecking the tip of her nose and making her wince. "What should we do first? Do you want your play mat?" She looked around and spied it folded up and wedged behind the toybox in the corner. She got up just as the phone rang in the kitchen. She blew a puff of frustrated air through her nose like a bull preparing to charge. "It is way too early for telemarketers," she grumbled and went into the kitchen, slipped one arm under Joy's butt and bouncing her; picking up the handset, she held it to her ear. "Hello?"

Static hissed like the falling rain, then a tentative voice spoke. "I-Is this Lana Sawyer?"

Lana bristled at the mention of her maiden name. No, she was _not_ Lana Sawyer, and thank God for that. Was she ever really, though? She never met her father a day in her life, and Mama outright said she wasn't sure if Drayton Sawyer was really hers and Lola's father or not. She slept with so damn many men it was hard even for her to tell. Nasty hussy.

"Yes," she said guardedly, her grip tightening unconsciously on her daughter, as if to protect her from the call of the past "who's this?"

"It's Mary-Ellen Johnson, hun, how are you?"

Lana's forehead creased in confusion. Mary-Ellen, a short, fat woman with frizzy brown hair and glasses too big for her face, lived in the trailer across from Mama's. She looked a lot like Mama, in fact, but she was much sweeter: Growing up, she gave her and Lola all the cookies and candy they could stand, which was a lot on days they didn't have anything else to eat. Aside from a few chance meetings at Piggly Wiggly, Lana hadn't seen her since she and Lola left home. Why she was calling - and how she even got the number in the first place - baffled Lana. "Hi," she said, bemused. Joy thrashed and kicked her legs. Lana hefted her up for a better hold and turned, the phone cord stretching.

"Hi, hun, it's been a while," Mary-Ellen said, "how are the boys?"

"They're fine," Lana faltered. Joy happily chewed on her hand, and Lana smiled proudly. The urge to brag bubbled up in her chest and she went with it like leaning into a fall. "I have a little girl now too," she said.

On the other end, Mary-Ellen let out a low _awww._ "I bet she's the most adorable thing ever. How old is she?"

"Just turned four months." She kissed the baby's forehead. "I named her Joy 'cause that's how I felt."

Mary-Ellen laughed. "If I did that, I'd have named my son Tired."

Lana laughed politely, the surreality of the conversation making her head spin. She doubted the old woman tracked down her number and called just to chat; there was a larger point.

And presently, she came to it. "I called 'cause I have some bad news, hun. Your mama's sick. She's...she's in the hospital and probably won't make it."

Even though Lana hated her mother, her stomach lurched a little anyway. "Like she's dyin'?" she asked.

"Yes," Mary-Ellen sad somberly. "She's dyin'."

She listened numbly as Mary-Ellen explained. Last September, Mama got a sore throat that wouldn't go away. Being a stubborn old bitch, she didn't go to the doctor right away. Mary-Ellen finally convinced her to go in February, and that's when they found it: Throat cancer.

"I know you and your sister had your differences with her, but y'all should really come see her."

Mary-Ellen had never been anything but kind to Lana; even so, that brought a hot flush of anger to her cheeks. Had our differences? _Had our differences?_ That made it sound like they and Mama didn't get along because she didn't approve of their boyfriends or something. She'd have been less insulted if Mary-Ellen spit in her face; Mama was an abusive and neglectful drunk who left them alone for days on end wth no food while she went off whoring around. That _I know you had your differences_ bullshit minimized what she and Lola went through, and it took everything she had to keep from snapping. "Alright, I'll call Lola," she said. "I hate to be rude, but I have to go. Joy's getting fussy."

That was a lie: Joy rested placidly against Lana's shoulder, her hand jammed into her mouth.

"Alright, hun, I better get off of here too."

After hanging up, Lana went into the living room and sat.

Mama was dying.

She let that sink in for a moment. For some reason she couldn't explain, the concept shocked her. Mama had always been such a large and looming figure in her life, even after leaving home, that she seemed eternal, like the sun and the stars. Lana hated the bitch and wished her dead a million times over the years, but deep down, she somehow never thought it would happen, that she'd always be out there like a malignant presence in a haunted house, not seen but forever felt.

How should she feel?

Well, first of all, she was skeptical - to truly believe that old witch was dying, she'd have to see it. Second...she wasn't happy at the news like she always imagined she'd be, but she wasn't upset either.

She figured she better call Lola.

* * *

Alex leaned over the counter, propped her face in her upturned hands, and stared at her father, willing him to look up from the paper so she could finally bring up the subject of her maybe leaving Flip's for greener pastures. He didn't, but he probably knew she was there - he was just ignoring her. _Go away and get back to work,_ she could hear him think.

It was just past one in the afternoon and the lunch rush just ended: A group of teenagers in flannel shirts and Chuck Taylor's occupied one table, a woman with a perm sat alone at another, and a muscular black man clad in jeans and a black tank top that revealed his toned arms sat at a third, his hands steepled in front of his face and his eyes pointed at the television. Alex drew a deep sigh and let it out slowly in hopes of getting her father's attention, but he kept his gaze firmly on the news.

You're gonna keep this up, huh, buddy? Well...she looked around, spotted the little glass with the toothpicks in it, and yanked one out. She clamped her bottom lip determinedly between her teeth, pulled back her hand, and let fly.

It missed by a mile and clattered to the floor behind him. Whoops. Gotta work on my aim. He sat back and favored her unamusedly over the tops of his reading glasses. "It better be work related," he said.

"Actually, it is," Alex said and her heartbeat sped up just a little. Mom said he really wouldn't care if she didn't want to take over the restaurant, and she herself didn't think he'd been broken up or anything, but he was kind of sentimental, so Flip's not staying in the family might bother him. He'd owned it forever and even though he didn't say outright, he was fond of the place. By not being there to assume control when he retired, Alex felt like she was letting him down.

Taking his glasses off, he sat them on the counter and leaned forward. "What's up?" he asked soberly. He could read her like a book and presumably noticed her seriousness.

Auntie Luan grabbed a plate from the order window and took it over to the black guy, who nodded his thanks. When she was gone, Alex nervously poked the inside of her bottom lip with her tongue. "Well...I was thinking…" she trailed off and he gave an encouraging nod. "I kind of wanna be a CNA. Like Megan."

There.

It was out.

It had been done.

She anxiously scanned his face for a reaction, but got none...it was as blank as a piece of paper. A piece of paper someone balled up, then smooth out again. That's to say, Dad was old and wrinkled. Hahaha. "What the hell is a CNA?" he asked, tasting the acronym slowly and tenatatively as though it were strange and potentially foul.

"Certified Nursing Assistant," she said. She explained the job and what it entailed, and Dad listened intently, his brows lifting interestedly here and there. From the expressions he made, he wasn't mad, sad, or perturbed - he was intrigued, which spurred her on, her voice rising in excitement. The more the talked about it, the more awesome it sounded. One day she could be an RN and maybe work at the hospital, where she could help people and hang out with cute babies on the maternity ward...oooh, yeah, let's do that. It'll be like having a never ending supply of sons and daughters without having to take them home and pay for them. She finished with, "I just feel like I need a career and I don't...really want it to be the restaurant." She pushed the final seven words out in a rush, like ripping off a Band-AId.

"Sounds neat." He raised one brow. "Are you sure you wanna wipe up people's shit for a living? If you wanna work in the medical field, you can always go into billing or something."

"Poop doesn't bother me," Alex said and waved her hand, "plus, Meagan made it sound really fun...despite the backbreaking physical labor."

Dad snorted. "If she made cleaning up piss and puke sound fun, she should go into advertising. She'd make a fortune." He picked up his reading glasses and put them back on. Alex waited for him to say something more, but he went back to reading like nothing.

"So...you're totally okay with it?"

"You not taking over the restaurant?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He looked up at her. "I don't care. I wanted to give it to you so you had it, but if you wanna do something else, go ahead. It doesn't matter to me." He took a deep breath. "It's probably for the best. Look at this place, it's dead."

It was. When Alex first started here, the lunch rush was just that, a rush - sometimes the dining room was so crowded you could barely breathe, and the chattering din of fifty voices made your eardrums cringe. Now, it was a heavy trickle at best. The area around Flip's wasn't the greatest anymore and every time you turned around, another fast food place sprang up. So far there was a Wendy's, a McDonald's, a Burger King, a KFC, and a Taco Bell within ten miles of downtown Royal Woods - the fare was cheap, quick, and you didn't even have to get out of your car to buy it. Alex didn't resent them the way Dad did, but she couldn't blame him, because they really _were_ siphoning off his business.

That's the march of time, unfortunately. Small, family run stores and restaurants were dying off in droves and being replaced by K-Marts, Checkers', and Wal-Marts like pod people replacing humans in _Attack of the Body Snatchers._ It was inevitable, she supposed, because people like convenience: Why run around God's green earth when a big box retailer can offer you everything you could ever want in a single, neatly-organized location?

"I'm thinking of selling it," Dad said.

Whoa, hold on, now. "Really?"

He nodded. "Get out while the getting's good. I can make a little money on a sale, but if I wait too long, no one's gonna want the damn thing." He sighed and scratched his head. "I just don't know what I'd do afterward. I'm too old for the army."

A brilliant idea struck Alex like a shot in the dark. "You can be a CNA," she said, "just like me."

Dad rolled his eyes. "I'm not becoming a nurse."

"Nurse's _assistant,"_ she corrected. "Plus, Meagan said lots of guys work at Oak Springs. Some of the residents are _really_ heavy and they need a big, strong man to move them." She batted her eyelashes.

"I'd break my spine on the first day, no."

She started to argue, but an old couple came in and crossed to one of the booths to the left of the counter. Putting her thought on hold, she grabbed a couple menus, went over, and laid them on the table, then whipped out her order pad. "Hi, welcome to Flip's," she said like a lame-o, "can I get you guys something to drink?"

The old woman - tall with bushy white hair and glasses - held her hand to the chest of her floral print shirt and thought much harder than she should have. Alex couldn't say exactly how old she or her husband were, but she might very well wind up changing their depends at some point...if they let her work at nursing home, that is. Kind of a strange thought - _Hi, ma'am, remember me? I was the best waitress you ever had...now pop that diaper off, it's time for your sponge bath._

What if she did that to a guy resident...and he popped something else? Her eyes widened slightly and her lips twisted. Oh, God, that would be so awful, especially if the guy was nice and not trying to be a perv, but it just happened. _Sorry, miss, you're very pretty, please don't mind my erection._ Talk about awkward.

"I'll have sweet tea," the woman finally said, not sounding happy with her choice.

The husband, dressed in a white and blue plaid shirt under a pair of red suspenders and wearing one of those WWII baseball caps with the name of the ship he served on across the front in yellow, rolled his eyes to one side as he considered what he wanted. Why he didn't do that while his wife was, Alex didn't know, but, eh, you gotta be patient with old people. Like Grandma. There were times when talking to her got a little frustrating because she'd lose her train of thought and repeat herself. What was that guy's name in _GoodFellas?_ Johnny Two Times _("because he said everything twice")_? That was Grandma.

And soon she was going to die.

A pang of dread rippled through Alex's stomach and her heart skipped.

She didn't like to think about that. She liked thinking about happy things. Distract the left hand so it doesn't see what the right hand is doing...distract the Alex so she doesn't dwell on the fact that her grandmother was slowly dying in front of her and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

"Coca-Cola," the man said.

Alex flashed a smile she didn't feel, jotted down their orders, and went to the soda fountain, where she filled one cup with Coke, and another with tea from a big urn. She brought them over and sat them down, then left again when they said they needed time to look over the menu. She sat in one of the stools and faced the TV. A dumb soap was on, and just as Alex started to glance away, the screen flashed with the words BREAKING NEWS. Oh, God, what happened now? That was what Dad said every time one of these things came up. He grew up during the deepest, coldest years of the Cold War, so he probably expected a nuclear war to start at any moment even though the Soviet Union collapsed and Russia was our friend now. Pfft. _Wah-wah, Cuba, wah-wah fallout._

What a dork.

An anchor with a gray combover and jowls appeared in front of a backdrop painted to resemble the Detroit skyline at dusk: A Channel 5 logo took up the bottom right corner - a yellow five inside of a circle. Luan stood next to Alex and crossed her arms. " _We have word that a verdict has been reached in the Rodney King trial. We take you now to Los Angeles."_

Dad tapped a pen against the paper, drawing Alex's attention; he looked down at it like a gypsy gazing into a crystal ball and not knowing what the hell-o she was seeing. "Crossword puzzle?" she asked knowingly.

He nodded. "Yep."

Of all the goofy things he did, the crossword was, hands down, the goofiest. The sad part was: He stank so bad at them. He'd get up to go use the bathroom and leave the paper on the counter, and she'd sneak over to see how he was doing. More often than not, it was poorly. Sometimes she jotted down a few answers to help him out _,_ and, would you believe it, he never even said thank you.

"Need some help?" she offered.

"Absolutely not."

Eh. His funeral. She glanced at the old couple to see if they were ready, but both of them were still studying their menus. _Mabel...what's a ham-bur-ger? I don't know, Harold, leave me alone, I'm trying to figure out what meat they use in their fried chicken._ Everyone else stared fixedly at the TV screen, where the four cops who beat Rodney King stood in a courtroom waiting to be convicted. Alex checked on her table again, but Harold and Mabel still hadn't made up their minds.

" _We, the jury, in the case of People Vs. Powell, Koon, Wind, and Briseno, find the defendants not guilty."_

Auntie Luan gasped in shock and Alex's jaw dropped. Not guilty? Seriously? They kicked that dude's ass on camera - bad - and the jury found them not guilty?

Alex was not political, nor was she keen on immersing herself in the minutia of current events, but, like everyone else in America, she saw the tape of those cops beating Rodney King, and what she saw was police brutality pure and simple. She didn't know if they did it out of racism, or overzealousness, or for exercise, but they _did_ it, that was undeniable. How could the jury say they weren't guilty?

Onscreen, the cops shook hands with their lawyers and with each other, smiling all over themselves. Alex just gaped. She was certain that they'd be convicted. Hell, everyone was. "They're getting off?" Auntie Luan asked, her voice dripping with disgust.

Before Alex could reply if she'd been able to, the black man sitting by the television threw his hands up. "Man, that's some bullshit!"

Dad darted his eyes up from the paper and furrowed his brows suspiciously. Auntie Luan took a deep, angry breath through her nose and turned away, her lips pursing.

"Those motherfuckers guity as hell!" the black man raged, his voice trembling. The other patrons regarded him worriedly. "Fuck that shit!"

"Sir, can you watch your language, please?" Dad said. His tone was firm and even, but polite.

The man spun in his seat, his eyes hard, and Alex's stomach clutched. "Fuck you, racist ass honky motherfucker."

The atmosphere suddenly darkened, as though a cloud had passed over the sun, and the air seemed to suck out of the dining room with a _whoosh_. Harold and Mabel openly stared at him, and the teenagers chattered lowly amongst themselves like spectators at a sporting event. "Sir, can you stop cussing, please?" Dad asked. Maybe it was Alex's imagination, but there was a serrated edge to his words that told her he was starting to get mad, and that made her heart pound even quicker.

"I'm gonna say what I want. It's called freedom of speech. Or am I too _black_ for that?"

"It's called knock it off or get out," Dad spat.

A shadow flickered across the man's face, and jumped up so fast Alex almost cried out. Behind her, Dad stood up too, and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him reaching under the counter.

The black man looked around the room, his nose crinkling as though he found everyone in attendance repulsive. "Fuck all y'all white asses. All y'all a bunch of racists. Niggas can't do shit in this country. Fuck America." He moved toward the door and Alex tracked him with her eyes. He paused, shot a withering look at Harold and Mabel, and sneered. "Enjoy your meal, racist."

With that, he slammed through the door and stalked off, his hands fisted at his sides. Relief went through Alex like a cleansing tide, and she let out a pent-up breath. For a second there, she thought something really bad was going to happen...like a fight.

She looked at her father; he glared after the man, his hand still under the counter, then pulled it out and splayed his fingers on the surface. Fred stood by the door to the kitchen looking confused. Luan stood next to him; she looked worried and mad all at once. "What was that about?" Fred asked.

"Those bastards walked," Luan hissed.

"What?" Fred asked, his bewilderment deepening.

Luan jabbed her finger at the TV. A female reporter in a pink blazer, her blonde hair in a perm, interviewed a black man in the crowded courthouse hall. The caption below his name read TERRY WHITE - PROSECUTOR. " _I'm dumbfounded right now,"_ he said into the microphone, " _the video evidence was clear. Mr. King was brutalized by those officers and what happened here today makes no sense to me."_

"Oh," Fred said. "Good."

Auntie Luan shot him a dirty look. Uh-oh. Looks like there's gonna be fight after all. "Good?" she demanded.

"He had it coming," Fred said. "He was drunk and resisting arrest."

Dad took a deep, calming breath and sat down again. He picked up the pencil and went back to his crossword. Luan glowered at Fred, her eyes glinting with liberal indignation. He ignored her. Jessy said that when they got married the agreed to not talk about politics since there was such a huge divide between them - better to step lightly than to fall in, they figured.

He had a point, Rodney King _was_ drunk and _did_ fight the police, but for much of the video, he was lying on the ground while they worked him over literally from head to toe. Alex, if you pushed her real hard for a serious opinion, believed in law and order, but not in pounding someone into the pavement once they were immobilized.

"They hit him forty-five times in his head," Luan said sharply.

"They didn't hit him that many times in the head," Fred dismissed. "Most of them were to the body."

Luan threw her hands up. "That makes it better?"

Fred started to reply, but Dad cut him off. "Both of you shut up," he grumbled. "They're all assholes. Those cops need to go to jail and so does Rodney King." He shook his head and angrily scrawled an answer in the tiles across the page. In all seriousness, Alex agreed with her father on a lot of things, and this was one of them. None of them were innocent. Rodney King didn't deserve to get beaten as badly as he did, but if he wasn't drunk and fighting the police, it wouldn't have happened.

"Miss?"

Harold lifted his hand, and, dizzy from the surreality of what just happened, Alex got up to take his and Mabel's orders, disquiet nesting in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

In Simi Valley, California, a quiet bedroom community of Los Angeles, the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky, and a warm breeze slipped through the palm trees lining the stucco facade of the county courthouse. A large group, consisting mainly of African-Americans, assembled in and around the parking lot to hear the verdict read. On hand were camera crews from a dozen news agencies from across the country, including CNN. When the verdict was returned not guilty, shocked silence descended over the crowd...and from it came the first faint stirrings of an outrage that would plunge a city into chaos, and a nation into mourning.

Fifteen minutes after the acquittal, a team of sheriff deputies hustled LAPD officers Laurence Powell, Stacy Koon, Timothy Wind, and Theodore Briseno across the parking lot to their vehicles. Protestors closed in, hurling obscenities and chants of "Guilty" at the four, and deputies pushed the throng back. Reporters hurried after, shoving microphones as close to the disgraced officers as possible and shouting questions. Powell, whom the video showed delivered the worst of the beating and who sent a racially charged message via his in car computer on the night of the incident, turned his head away, while Sergeant Koon, charged with the great sin of standing by and letting his men pummel a fallen King, stared unflinchingly ahead.

A black man in sunglasses sprang from the mass, and a deputy shoved him away. The leaden air crackled with energy and there was a sense of something beginning to happen, like an electrical storm taking shape. If you stood still, you could feel it swelling, growing, nearing critical mass. The wind stopped, as though the city itself were holding its breath, and even the birds in the sky felt the coming tempest, for they all changed course and flew south, away from L.A., like Lot and his family fleeing ahead of Sodom's destruction.

The news spread quickly through the streets, broadcast by every radio and television: ALL WHITE JURY ACQUITS, BLACKS STILL MEAN NOTHING IN AMERICA. The racism and abuse suffered by generations of African-Americans in Watts, Compton, Inglewood, and South Central looked as though it would continue into the nineties with no hope of change or respite. A man was beaten to within an inch of his life on video, but it didn't matter...because he was black. Hoods and ghettos across the city went on decaying just as they had for decades, but it didn't matter...because they were black. Simmering resentment - against whites and against Koreans and Hispanics, both of whom had been recently pouring into the city and "taking over" historically black communities - began to boil. Los Angeles is a wide and sprawling metropolis crammed with a thousand different races, social classes, and cultures. Uneasy peace held sway between them, but suspicion, mistrust, and acrimony lurked just below the surface, ready to bubble up at any moment.

And that moment was now.

People spilled into the afternoon, some to express their frustration, but many others to express their avarice. The first report of violence came from the Pay-Less Liquor and Deli on Florence Avenue just west of Normandie in South Central. A group of black youths attempted to leave the store with bottles of beer without paying. When the owner's adult son blocked the door, one of the youths smashed a bottle across his face while two others shattered the glass door. As they left, one called over his shoulder, "That's for Rodney King!"

Only it wasn't - it was for them.

A restless crowd formed at the corner of Florence and Halldale, and a youth threw a rock at a passing LAPD squad car. Two officers got out and gave chase, apprehending him less than a block away. The seething multitude, ever growing in number and agitation, stood back from the proceedings and shouted taunts, curses, and accusations as newly arrived policemen formed a perimeter around the arresting officers. The youth was shoved into the back of a cruiser, and isolated skirmishes broke out along the line: Two cops wrestled a black man in a white tank top and sideways LA Raiders cap to the ground, placed him in cuffs, and dragged him off; another twisted a black woman's arm behind her back and slammed her against the hood of a black-and-white after she slapped him across the face.

The mass swelled as people swarmed the intersection. The officers were vastly outnumbered, and an order to fall back crackled across the radio. They retreated, bits of garbage, chunks of concrete, and rocks falling on their cars like hail. A black man in a white T-shirt took his rage out on a metal trash can, picking it up and hurling it into the street, narrowly missing a white 1989 Mercury.

Less than an hour after the verdicts, Mayor Tom Bradly, himself black, took to the airwaves. He was visibly upset, whether for Rodney King or for appearances was not immediately clear. He condemned the acquittal and appealed for calm.

" _Today, the jury told the world that what we all saw with our own eyes was not a crime. My friends, I am here to tell the jury ... what we saw was a crime. No, we will not tolerate the savage beating of our citizens by a few renegade cops. ... We must not endanger the reforms we have achieved by resorting to mindless acts. We must not push back progress by striking back blindly."_

The police officers driven from Florence and Halldale relocated to a Rapid Transit District bus depot on the edge of the neighborhood and hastily established a slipshod command post lacking computers, telephones, and televisions. They were ordered by HQ to await further instructions.

Back at Florence and Halldale, the rabble, now over a hundred strong and heartened by the LAPD's exodus,, moved south to Florence and Normandie, throwing rocks at passing cars if the driver looked white or Asian. A gang of black men mobbed a red Toyota Tercel, pulled a white man from behind the wheel, and shoved him to the ground; screaming racial slurs, they punched and kicked him until he was bloodied and unconscious, then robbed his pockets. Cars sped by as motorists tried frantically to escape the area. Another man, this one Hispanic, was swarmed, dragged out, and kicked about the face and chest: All he could do was curl up and try to protect himself. "Spic motherfucker!" one of the attackers yelled.

"Take yo ass back to Mexico!" another hissed.

Across the street, someone smashed a trash can through the front window of the Tom's Liquor, and dozens of looters streamed in, crunching glass underfoot and knocking over displays of wine, which shattered and spilled their contents across the floor like blood. Two black man fought over the cash register in a macabre parody of tug-of-war, and one, finally having had enough, jammed a knife into the other's guts.

A Los Angeles News Service helicopter soared high over the pandemonium, capturing the moment a blaze broke out in a commercial building on the corner of Florence and Alameda; thick black smoke belched into the sky, and marauders ran rampant through the streets, looting storefronts, yanking people from their cars and assaulting them, smashing windows, and starting fires. Honking horns, screaming, alarm bells, the crackle of creeping flames, and the occasional gunshot filled the air, a symphony of destruction heard round the world.

An hour and twenty minutes after the verdict, as frantic reports of looting, arson, and assault poured in, Lieutenant Michael Moulin, the ranking officer on scene at the bus depot, made the decision to _take the information_ but not to respond, leaving the carnival of horrors to rage unchecked and abandoning hapless motorists to their fate.

Elsewhere, a large mass of protesters gathered outside the LAPD Headquarters at Parker Center in Downtown. A team of thirty officers in riot gear - helmets with plastic face guards, shields, and batons - formed a skirmish line around the building in case of unrest. At first, the crowd was peaceable enough, but as the afternoon wore on, it started to become agitated. At one point, the vanguard moved toward the officers, and the officers marched forward, pushing them back.

Around that time, Mayor Bradly requested the deployment of Army National Guard troops to help combat the plague-like anarchy rapidly spreading through the city. Governor Pete Wilson ordered elements of the 670th Military Police Company into the city, and they left their base nearly three hundred miles out in a convoy of Humvees, transports, and Jeeps with roof-mounted machine guns.

Back at Florence and Normandie, trucker Larry Tarvin stopped at a traffic light - the radio in his truck did not work, and he was unaware of the situation. A group of black men, some with blue bandanas covering their faces, ran over, ripped the driver door open, and pulled him out. He fell to the pavement, and they began savagely kicking and beating him, one of the assailants bracing his hands against the side of the cab and mercilessly kicking him in the face and head. Another climbed into the truck, spotted a fire extinguisher, and took it. Standing over Tarvin, he held it up, then slammed it against his head. Tarvin blacked out and lay limp on the ground, blood gushing from his cranium and soaking into the asphalt.

Eventually, the attackers drifted away in search of more lively prey, one spitting on the unconscious man. "This how we do in South Central," he said, "white bitch."

After several minutes, Tarvin came to and staggered to his feet, his skull throbbing and blood stinging his swollen eyes. He climbed weakly back into his truck, where he sat behind the wheel, fighting the darkness threatening to consume him once more.

A bald, hefty black man in a white T-shirt ran across the street, climbed up onto the running board, and leaned in. "Hey, man, you okay?"

Tarvin slumped heavily against the wheel and let out a broken groan that was supposed to be _no_ but got garbled on the trip from his addled brain to his split lips. The black man licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder, just able to make out his house around the corner, its facade screened behind a veil of California Live Oak. He didn't want to leave it for fear of looters - they'd rob his ass just as quick as they'd rob a white man - but the guy before him needed help.

"Scoot over," he said, "I'm getting you up out of here."

Tarvin moved over and fell against the passenger door in a heap.

As they drove away, another truck, this one a big rig hauling a load of sand, pulled into the intersection. The driver, thirty-six-year-old Reginald Denny, was listening to a cassette tape and, like Tarvin, ignorant of the events unfolding throughout the city. He saw smoke billowing into the air ahead, but thought nothing of it - things burn down sometimes, and in a city as big as L.A., _sometimes_ translated to _pretty often._

On reaching the intersection, however, a bad feeling descended over him. People rushed through the streets, broken glass, garbage, and other, less identifiable things littered the sidewalk, and the shopfronts lining the way, their windows shattered and doors standing open, looked raped - that was the first and only word that came to mind, _raped_.

Something wasn't right, and he had the sudden premonition of looming danger. He started to apply the gas, but someone ripped the driver side door open. Denny caught a flash of black face, then a fist crashed into his nose.

Like Larry Tarvin only moments prior, Denny was pulled from the cab of his truck and pushed to the ground, the air knocked from him in a rush. Before he could react, a foot stomped cruelly on his throat, and someone kicked him in the stomach. Another man went through his pockets, searching for anything worth sealing. Overhead, several news choppers recorded as two more men joined the beat-down, one throwing the fire extinguisher taken from Larry Tarvin's truck at Denny's head, and the other mercilessly smashing him in the face and forehead with a claw hammer. People ran through the intersection, throwing rocks and bottles at passing cars and attacking other motorists. Someone fired at one of the choppers, and someone else threw a Molotov cocktail through the front window of a corner market. A car T-boned a blue and white pick-up truck as black rioters chased after it, and the drivers of both vehicles fled on foot, bricks, rocks, and bottles raining down on them.

Denny got woozily to his knees, and a black man in a white T-shirt and shorts, a white bandanna tied around her forehead, threw a chunk of concrete at the side of his head. Denny toppled forward and fell to the pavement. The black man laughed and threw his hips out, then did a one-legged victory dance like a quarterback in the Super Bowl end zone.

" _...look at that, terrible,"_ one of the reporters in a chopper commented. The scene was being broadcast live into million homes across Southern California. " _And there's no police presence down here. They will_ not _enter the area."_

The man in the bandanna squatted down in the middle of the intersection and proudly threw gang signs at the helicopters. Another black man, this one toting a shotgun, aimed at Denny's fuel tank and fired, but missed. Other people ran up, some to kick Denny, some to spit on him, and others still to search his pockets.

" _This is attempted murder…"_

Someone casually passed Denny's limp, prostrate form and kicked his leg.

" _T-There's no shutting down Florence. Let's shut down Florence Boulevard down, that's the answer. We're gonna tell the LAPD to do that now."_

One of those watching at home, appalled, was black truck driver Bobby Green Jr., who lived nearby. He, his girlfriend, and several friends piled into their car and drove to the intersection, where Denny, bleeding profusely and drifting in and out of consciousness, was attempting to drive away. Green boarded the truck, pushed the injured man aside, and drove him to an Inglewood hospital, saving his life.

Two blocks over, someone else was about to get theirs…

* * *

 **Last night, I remembered two other alternate storylines that I considered for RITY.**

 **1967-1968: Instead of Lincoln being taken prisoner, his platoon becomes separated from the others, eventually losing radio contact. After about a week of stumbling through the jungle, a couple of guys kill the sergeant and take over. The platoon goes rouge - fighting Vietcong and American GIs, looting villages, massacring civilians, etc. Lincoln participates reluctantly, but eventually escapes or fights back.**

 **1989 - 2001: Lynn III becomes a professional wrestler, starting in a local NWA promotion before moving onto the ECW in 1993 or 4, then to the WWF around '97, and finally to the WCW in '98 or '99. For those of you who know what the female wrestler Alundra Blayze did to the WWF Women's Title on an episode of WCW** _ **Monday Nitro**_ **, I was going to have Lynn do the same, and explore the ways that it affected her career and friendships, etc.**


	165. April and May 1992: Part 3

**STR2D3PO: Oh, the riots were vicious, far worse than, I think, I even made them seem. And very widespread...there was rioting in Hollywood. I didn't realize how bad it was until I started researching this storyline.**

* * *

For Bobby Santiago Jr., the day of April 29, 1992 began with something prodding the side of his face...hard. He shot up from the depths of unconciousness and came groggily awake to the sensation of his cheek being pushed against his teeth. He blinked his grainy eyes and drew away, then turned his head. Bright early morning sunshine streamed through the window overlooking the patio and fell over Stephanie in her finest attire: A sparkly pink dress that glinted in the light like scales, a purple boa tossed casually over one shoulder, and gloves - one was white and reached her elbow, and the other was a red mit Mom sent her for those all too frequent snowy Southern California days. Her long, sandy blonde hair spilled over her shoulders in a matted tangle and a big, sharp smile was frozen to her face, revealing her three missing front teeth.

Even though he was awake, she reached out and poked his forehead. "It's time to get up," she said urgently.

His eyes flickered to the clock on the nightstand. 8:05. Ugh. He was _hoping_ to sleep until at least nine, but that probably wasn't going to happen. Stephanie wasn't the kind of girl who took no for an answer - if she wanted him out of bed, she'd get him out one way or another. He shifted onto his side and snuggled against his pillow. "I'm not ready to get up," he said, his voice thick with sleep. A hot twinge over his left eye promised an all day headache if he didn't swallow some Excedrin ASAP, and his eyelids drooped cumbersomely. Next to him, Lola snorted and stirred, but did not wake.

Stephy leaned over, her grin and her brown eyes both widening. "I've been up all morning," she said. No surprise there. Stephy was an early riser and always had been. On days she didn't have school, she'd roll out of bed at six-thirty and either play in her room or wander out into the living room and watch cartoons. On one occasion, she decided to help out by making breakfast: Bobby walked into the kitchen to find two plates heaped with broken eggs and raw bacon and Stephy standing on a chair at the sink, washing her hands and wearing nothing but her underwear and a silver tiara. _I got egg yuck on my dress,_ she said. He thought she meant _yolk_ but couldn't be sure.

Eventually, if she was up too long alone, she got bored and came to rouse him and Lola. Mainly him. He'd never heard the term _daddy's girl_ before Lola mentioned it one day, but it fit Stephy like a mismatched glove. Lola said he spoiled her and while he vehemently denied those accusations...they were true, he _did_ spoil his daughter. Nine times out of ten, she got what she wanted, and when he tried to stand firm with a _no_ or _not right now_ , all she had to do was cry or plead and he'd likely cave. Yeah, yeah, he knew, spoiling your kid is bad, but he was weak, okay? Especially given her condition.

Last September, she was diagnosed by a doctor in West Hollywood with ADHD and a chemical imbalance in the brain. He and Lola suspected the former but not the latter - they assumed her mood swings and acting out were part of the ADHD. She was smart as a whip (what does that even mean, Grandma?) but she had trouble focusing and sitting still, and sometimes she'd get really sad for no reason, then, ten minutes later, she'd be happy again. In school, she'd talk during class, not listen, and generally make a nuisance of herself. When Bobby asked her why, she said she _felt like it._ Her tone wasn't combative, nor was it challenging - she genuinely felt the urge to misbehave the way one might feel hunger or a spurt of energy. The doctor prescribed her something called Ritalin that dulled most of the symptoms of both disorders, though she still went back and forth with her moods and struggled to focus.

It killed him inside to see his little girl like this - it wasn't a physical or life threatening thing like cancer, but she was sick nonetheless. If he spoiled her, so what?

"Alright," he sighed, "I'm getting up."

She stepped back and he swung his legs out from under the covers, one hand raking through his hair. He wore only a pair of black boxers, and his eyes went to his stomach, which was beginning to bulge a little. He used to work with a personal trainer to keep fit, but after a while he stopped; try as he might, he wasn't a vain guy, and he really didn't care if he got a little flabby. He didn't even care about the grays that kept popping up in his hair, but the producer of _The Brash and the Bountiful_ did, so once a every couple months he brushed with a little Just for Men to retain that youthful look.

What happens when the wrinkles start?

More make-up, he supposed.

"Come _on,_ Daddy,," Stepy said and grabbed his hand. She tried her best to pull him to his feet, a strained grunt escaping her throat. "The tea's getting cold."

"Okay, okay," Bobby grinned, "just let me use the potty, okay?"

She beamed. "Okay." She held one finger up severely. "But you _gotta_ be quick."

"I will," he promised.

Getting up, he crossed to the master bath, snapped the light on, and shut the door while Stephy bounced into the hall. She ran him ragged sometimes, but he loved her to death.

After relieving himself, he flushed then went to the sink. He turned left and right, searching his reflection for wrinkles but not finding any.

It might be irrational, but he was _kind_ of afraid that once he started showing signs of aging, they'd kick him off the show. Those fears were largely unfounded - hell, some actors stay on their respective soap for _decades_ \- but he had them anyway.

He quickly brushed his teeth, rinsed with mouthwash, popped a couple aspirin, then went back into the room and dressed in black slacks and a black button up. Lola lie flat on her back, her mouth open and a long, silvery ribbon of drool coursing down her chin, and Bobby snickered to himself as he put his cufflinks in. Wonder how much a tabloid would pay for a pic of _that._

Hopefully enough to cover funeral expenses - cuz Lola would _kill_ him.

Before going to Stephy, he stuck his head into Val's room: The little boy lie in his racecar bed facing away from the door, the blue blanket pulled up to his chin and one arm bent across his chest. Toys and books were strewn across the floor like debris and the laundry hamper, full of clean, neatly folded clothes, lay on its side. Unlike his sister, Val was mellow - he played quietly with his trucks and action figures, and rarely ever kicked up a fuss; sometimes Bobby would have to hunt him down just to make sure he was okay, since he was so silent. He didn't have to do that with Stephy: You could hear her a mile away.

Closing the door, he went down the hall and found Stephy in her room waiting at a circular table, dolls and stuffed animals sitting on either side of her: A headless baby, a teddy bear missing an eye, a naked Cabbage Patch Kid covered in crayon graffiti, and a unicorn with a tuft of white stuffing where its horn should have been.

From the time she was a baby, Stephy had been at war with her toys. It perplexed him and Lola until the diagnosis - she got mad, couldn't control her aggressions, and took them out on the objects around her. The Ritalin calmed her down, but every once in a while she'd get frustrated over something minor - a shoe not fitting on a Barbie's foot, for example - and blow up. Last week, she was brushing the unicorn's mane and hit a knot that wouldn't come out. She tried again and again to get it loose, then flashed, grabbed the horn, and ripped it off with a cry of fury.

Bobby's eyes went to the canopy bed in the corner; the pink comforter lay in a heap on the floor and the fitted sheet was bunched up next to the pillow, exposing the mattress. Call it woman's intuition, but got the feeling that she made like Kriss Kross and jumped.

"Move over, Mr. Cripple," Stephy told the unicorn, "Daddy's here." She shoved it out of its chair and it looked up at Bobby from the floor with a too human expression of misery. It's name _was_ Mr. Purplehorn but she changed it after she tore his horn off. Bobby said _Look at him, he's a cripple now,_ and she giggled like that was the funniest thing ever.

She turned to Bobby and smiled. "You can sit now."

"What about Mr. Cripple?" Bobby asked and nodded to the fallen toy.

Her eyes narrowed to slits and her lips puckered as though she just tasted something sour. "We don't say his name in this house anymore.'

Well.

Bobby walked over and sat across from her in a chair so small he could barely fit one butt cheek; his knees pressed painfully together and his back screamed in alarm. _What are you doing, dumbass?_

 _Playing tea party with my daughter, what does it look like?_

"I hope you like blue tea," she said and picked up a pink plastic teapot.

"Never heard of it," Bobby said, "but I'll try anything once."

He reached for a cup sitting in the middle of the table, but, with a gasp, Stephy slapped it off and sent it flying across the room. Bobby yanked his hand back lest he lose it and held it protectively to his chest. "No! That cup has a chip!"

Oh. "I don't mind -"

"You'll _die_ ," she said seriously, her eyebrows arching. She threw a glance at Mr. Cripple and seemed to think for a moment. "You can drink from it. I don't care if _you_ die."

That was morbid and horrible and a thousand other things, but Bobby laughed richly anyway. She was a card - her imagination was endless and her mind worked at a level far beyond her years. She reminded him of Lola in that she was greatly intelligent...and himself because even now she was beginning to fidget. As a kid, he himself had trouble staying still, and he knew the restive feeling she was experiencing well. That brought a slight frown to his lips, as it always did. He was the one to blame for her being like this.

Now he felt like shit.

Again.

He told Lola about the guilt he carried in the back of his heart, and she rolled her eyes. _Will you shut up? You're not to blame. A chemical imbalance could happen to anyone. Plus, it's not all_ that _serious and she might very well outgrow it._ Lola, being Lola, learned as much as she could about ADHD and chemical imbalances after the diagnosis, and probably knew as much as the doctor at this point. That didn't matter, though, he _knew_ it was his fucked up genes that did it.

That was another reason he spoiled Stephy - he was trying to assuage his feelings of culpability and make it up to her. _Sorry Daddy screwed you up, hun, of course you can stay up late and have ice cream for dinner._

Presently, she filled a cup with imaginary tea and slid it across the table. "Bottles up," she said and grinned.

Bobby lifted the mug and pretended to drink. "Hmm. This is really good."

"Pink tea is the best," she said poured some into her own glass.

"I thought it was blue tea."

She missed a beat. "I changed my mind," she said, "it's pink tea now."

Later, after Lola and Val woke, they moved into the dining room, Lola fixing breakfast and Bobby sitting at the table with the kids. Val occupied a high chair and drank orange juice from a sippy cup, his liquid dark eyes pointed at the TV in the living room, where Tom chased Jerry on Cartoon Network. Little man was turning three on the seventh. The fourth was Tim and Alex's first wedding anniversary, then, later on, it was Stephy's birthday, Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne's anniversary, then Mom and Dad's anniversary.

And he _still_ didn't have presents for any of them.

Stephy, bent over a piece of construction paper and coloring, fidgeted in her seat, and Val sat his cup on the tray with a yawn. "You tired, buddy?" Bobby asked and ruffled the little boy's lank black hair. Val nodded deeply. He didn't sleep very well last night: Bobby woke around three to the sound of giggling from his room, and when he went to investigate, he found him and Stephy playing - rather, he found Val sitting in the middle of his bed, face slack with grogginess, while his big sister laughingly zoomed a yellow dump truck across the floor. _Now it's your turn!_ she cried as Bobby walked in. From the looks of it, she woke up (or faked going to sleep in the first place) then got lonely. That wasn't the first time that happened - one morning a few months ago Bobby came into the living room and found them snuggled up on the couch together, fast asleep. It would have been the cutest thing in the world...if they hadn't strewn cereal and potato chips across the floor, then ground them into the carpet...and if Val hadn't drawn on the walls with red crayon...and if his sippy cup didn't leak grape juice everywhere because Stephy filled it for him and didn't screw the cap on all the way.

Lola sat a plateful of microwave waffles in front of him, and without question, he cut them into tiny, bite-sized pieces with his fork. Across the table, Stephy stabbed one of hers and lifted it to her face whole; syrup dripped onto the plate and, as she shoved it into her mouth, her dress as well. "Don't do that," Bobby admonished. "Cut it up."

She giggled, plopped it onto the plate, and carved it in half, her teeth gritted and the corners of her mouth turned up as though she were thoroughly enjoying herself. Bobby stabbed a piece and held it out to Val, who leaned forward and took it between his teeth. Lola sat another plate in front of Bobby, then sat next to Stephy with one of her own. She glanced at the little girl, who continued hacking her waffles to bits, her eyes dancing with a merry light and the tip of her tongue poking lizard-like through the wide gap in her teeth. "I think that's enough."

"It's _never_ enough," Stephy trembled.

Lola snorted and shook her head fondly. Her gaze met Bobby's and she smiled. "Your daughter's strange."

"She's unique," he said.

"That's right," Stephy said, "I'm u-neat."

When breakfast was over, Bobby collected the plates, cups, and silverware, and washed them while the kids went into the living room to play. Lola wiped the table with a wet cloth, then came over, slipped her arms around his waist, and hugged him. "I need to go get Val a present," he said and dropped a glass into the drying rack. "Alex and Tim too."

"You always wait until the last minute," Lola said and kissed his shoulder.

She wasn't wrong. "This isn't the last minute, though."

"Close enough," she said. "Do you know what you're getting Tim and Alex?"

"I do," Bobby said. "I'm getting her what you suggested and him something else. Not entirely sure yet but I have an idea."

"What about Val?"

Bobby grinned. "You know how he likes those turtles, right?"

Three months ago, they watched a movie called _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ on HBO - it was about turtles that fought crime and shoved their faces with pizza. He thought it was the dumbest thing ever (behind _Howard the Duck_ ), but Val loved it, and ever since, his favorite toy had been a ninja turtle action figure that was almost as tall as he was.

"Yeah."

"I saw a ninja turtle Power Wheels at Sears the other day. That's what I'm getting."

Lola hummed appraisingly. "You think he's old enough for one of those?"

"Yeah, he's old enough," Bobby said and dried his hands. He turned and took Lola into his arms. She pushed up on her tippy toes and kissed him. "You better hurry, we promised Stephy we'd take her to the park, remember?"

Last year, they moved into a new house in the Hollywood Hills that overlooked the city and the hazy Pacific beyond. It had a pool, a hot tub, and backed against a steep hill. It sat on a ridge three miles from Cielo Drive, where Sharon Tate was murdered by the Manson Family in 1969 and where Auntie Luna lived at the time. Lola, to whom Auntie Luna was _a huge inspiration_ , pointed the house out to him once: It sat at the bottom of the road on a corner lot and reminded Bobby of every other house in the area. If it weren't for Lola, he'd never know Auntie Luna used to live there.

The house - Bobby and Lola's, not Luna's - was five miles from Hills Park, a vast expanse of playgrounds, kiddie rides, and water fountains you could play in on hot days. Stephy was crazy over the place - she'd spend hours there if you let her.

"I remember," he said and pecked the tip of Lola's nose. "I'll be fast. I only have two places to go."

Fifteen minutes later, he kissed Stephy and Val - they sat together on the couch, Stephy restlessly kicking her legs and Val intently watching Scooby and the gang running from a farmer or tax collector dressed as a ghost - none of the monsters were ever real, what a cop out. "Where are you going?" Stephy asked.

"To get a few things at the store."

"I thought we were going to the park," she said, a note of rising panic in her voice.

He tenderly stroked her hair and brushed his thumb across her forehead. "We are. Just as soon as I get back."

"Please hurry," she said with a hint of desperation. She leaned forward and widened her eyes. "I _really_ wanna go to the park." She flashed a big, toothy smile.

He laughed at her giddiness. "I will."

Outside, he slipped his sunglasses on. Before him, the rugged, thirsty-brown terrain sloped down to the highway. Trees crowded the opposite shoulder, and past them, Los Angeles shimmered in the sun like a futuristic fever dream, the tall buildings downtown rising against the smoggy blue sky and putting him in mind of giant conqueror robots from outer space. The Datsun was parked in the drive next to Lola's white 1991 Mercedes-Benz 300; he slid in behind the wheel, pulled the seatbelt over his chest, and clicked it into place. He started the ignition and the radio popped on with the news - he kept it tuned to KLSX-FM because he listened to Howard Stern on the morning commute to the guy was off the wall raunchy, and Bobby couldn't help liking him. When he first heard him, he was shocked: Growing up in rural Michigan, he developed a certain set of values, and the kind of stuff Stern talked about was diametrically opposed to them. He loosened up, though - guy was a riot.

He rolled the windows down, then backed out of the driveway and turned left onto the two lane blacktop: Rugged hills dotted with scrub and thistle flanked either shoulder, and Bobby eyed it warily. When was the last time it rained? He couldn't recall, but it was long enough ago that wildfires were a real possibility - all it took was one careless asshole tossing his cigarette out the window and _boom._ Fire, mudslides, sinkholes, and earthquakes were the perpetual banes of Los Angelinos, and Bobby worried about them all the time, especially now, with that big hill behind the house.

" _...Jury selection is set to start Friday in the trial of South Florida kingpin Thomas Vercetti for the 1988 gangland slaying of music producer Julius Rosenberg. Vercetti, whose drug empire moved an estimated fifteen million tons of cocaine into the United States between 1986 and 1991, is represented by flamboyant celebrity attorney F. Lee Bailey. Bailey claims -"_

Bobby stopped at the bottom of the street, which T-bones Ridge Drive. He leaned over, opened the glovebox, and pulled out a tape at random; he shoved it into the slot, and tapped his fingers on the wheel to _Hot Stuff_ by Donna Summer. A wistful smile touched his lips, and for a moment he was back in 1979, dressed up like John Travolta and booging down at Club Phoenix in Chippewa Falls. Can you believe disco died? Listen to it, it's amazing! Better than that New Wave crap that took its place - A Flock of Seagulls my ass.

His first stop was the Sears in Culver City where he picked up Val's Power Wheel; damn thing took up the whole cart and made it hard to steer...and see - he crashed into a display of sunscreen and it fell over, spilling tubes of SPF across the floor. People turned to look as they passed, and, flushing with embarrassment, he got down on his hands and knees to pick them up. A few lay in the aisle, and as Bobby watched in horror, someone carelessly ran them over with their buggy: White paste squirted out with farting sounds and made globs on the tiles. The offender went on as though nothing had happened, not sparing so much as a glance at the mess he left, and Bobby glared after him. Really, asshole?

Why are people so goddamn rude?

Fuming, he got to his feet, set the display back up, and returned the tubes to their cubbies, except for the three Jackass ran over.

Next, he drove south on the 405 to Gardena, where palms lined wide avenues and fashionable shops catered to pretty people in sunglasses and bright, summery clothes. You wouldn't know it from the upscale atmosphere along W. Redondo Beach Blvd, but Gardena bordered Compton to the east and South Central slightly to the north. Both communities were well-known as seething hotbeds of crime, poverty, and gang violence. When he first moved to L.A., Bobby heard a wealth of vaguely racist horror stories about them, and resolved never to go within ten miles of either one. A couple times, however, he was forced to drive through when traffic on the freeway was bad, and you know what? Neither place was as terrifying as the guys in Beverly Hills - or the NWA videos on MTV - made it sound. He wouldn't wanna be there after dark, but during the day it was decent enough - no bodies, no gunfights, just people living their lives.

Parking along the curb in front of a French eatery, he killed the engine, cutting KC and the Sunshine Band off in the middle of _Get Down on It_. He got out, waited for a line of traffic to pass, then hurried across the street. At a nondescript storefront with BONANNO'S across the window in white, flowery writing, he went in and whipped his sunglasses off.

Inside, it was cool and dim after the dazzling sun. A glass display case ran along the wall to the right, and more cases dotted the shop floor to the left. Customers perused the selection and the owner, Mr. Bonanno, stood by the register talking to a woman in a purple skirt and blazer.

Already knowing what he wanted for Alex, Bobby went off in search of something for Tim. He expected to be on the hunt for hours, maybe even days, but within minutes, he laid eyes on the perfect gift: A gold Rolex with a diamond encrusted face. Bobby's heart skipped a beat when he saw it, and he leaned over the case with wide eyes. Ooooh, that's a nice watch. He wasn't much into jewellery - aside from his silver chain and gold pinky ring - but wow, that was…

A light bulb appeared over his head.

He waited for Mr. Bonnano to be finished with the woman, then made eye contact with him, which is universal for _hey, come here, I wanna buy something_. The old man came around the counter and walked over, a friendly smile on his face. "It's good to see you, Bobby," he said and laid his hand on the case, "see anything you like?"

"I sure do," Bobby said.

Mr. Bonanno, an Italian immigrant who'd been in America so long he lost even the faintest trace of an accent, provided prop jewellery for _The Brash and the Bountiful_ in exchange for a 'special thanks' credit at the end of each episode. Shortly after he joined the cast, Bobby came in and bought Lola a 10 karat diamond wedding ring - when they were married, he was flat broke and she paid of their rings, which made him feel like a piece of shit. As soon as he had enough money, he decided to make it up to her; she loved it, though she told him he was _too prideful._ Yeah, maybe he was, and maybe he was self-conscious and had something to prove, but that didn't stop him from getting her the best...nor did it stop her from wearing it.

He bought a few other things from Mr. Bonanno over the years: A broach for Mom, a cross necklace for Dad, matching watches for Lana and Jed - he was by no means Mr. Bonanno's best customer, but if Bobby had his math right (which he probably didn't), he'd spent more money here than every other place he'd ever shopped at combined.

Tapping the glass, he nodded at the watch. "This. It's my cousin's wedding anniversary and I wanna get that for her husband."

Mr. Bonanno stood next to Bobby, adjusted his glasses, and bent over. "Ahhh, the Rolex. Not only does it look nice, it works like a dream as well. This the same cousin you were talking about the last time you were in?"

Three months ago (or maybe four), Bobby picked up a silver cigarette case for Sandra St. John's birthday. Normally he wouldn't have done something like that, but he was in an especially charitable mood - he thought the incest storyline was going to be the end of him and perhaps even _The Brash and the Bountiful,_ but instead it turned into the biggest thing in the soap world since that who shot J.R. crap on _Dallas._ Everyone was talking about it, and all the other soaps were practically forgotten. He was so relieved...hahahaha, he thought his career would be ruined and he'd go back to being a nobody. Pfft.

Anyway, while he was browsing for Sandy's gift, he mentioned Alex. _She's not really girly, you know, but I really wanna get her something out of here._ Bonanno's was the best and he wanted Alex to have the best. No, she wasn't big into jewelry (though he'd seen her wear it on occasion), but still, this was the finest, and she was almost kind of like the little sister he never had, so there you go.

"Yeah, her," Bobby said now, then: "I know what I wanna get her now."

Mr. Bonanno produced a set of keys from his pocket, opened the case, and slid a little door aside. He reached in, picked up the watch, and brought it out. "What do you have in mind?"

In place of replying, Bobby went over to another case and pointed. Mr. Bonanno came over and followed his finger with his eyes. "That," Bobby said.

'That' was a relatively simple gold chain bearing a heart pendant. By Bonanno standards, it was meek, quiet, and unobtrusive: It was also much cheaper than everything else, but price was beside the point. He wanted to get her something nice, but he didn't want it to wind up in a jewelry box collecting dust - the point was for her to actually wear it. He asked himself a thousand times over the past couple months how he'd do that, then it finally hit him the other day when he as sitting on the couch with Val in his lap and he felt like a dumbass. Sometimes things are so obvious we gloss over them, missing the tree for the forest or something, he didn't know; suffice it to say, he was proud of himself for coming up with it, even if it took him longer than it should have.

"I want it engraved," he said and pulled out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the case. Mr. Bonanno picked it up, tilted his head back, and held it inches from his wrinkled face. "Blake Michael Underwood," he read,, "March 10, 1990."

"That's her son," Bobby explained.

"Hm," Mr. Bonanno said. "Alright. I'll have it done in...say...forty-five minutes."

That was longer than Bobby was hoping for but far better than it could be - this was a busy place and occasionally, you'd have to wait a week or more to get something personalized.

While Mr. Bonanno went off to work his magic, Bobby put his sunglasses back on and went outside, holding the door for an old black woman. He checked his watch and glanced either way along the palm lined sidewalk. He had nearly an hour to kill and nothing to kill it with. His stomach rumbled and he scrunched his lips to one side in thought - should he eat something or wait until he got home? There was a concession stand at the park that sold surprisingly good hotdogs and hamburgers. He ticked his head from side to side and finally decided to grab food now just for something to do. He gazed across the street at the French place, but quickly rejected it: Married to a pop star and famous in his own right or not, he was still a normal, everyday guy, which meant he liked normal everyday food. Pizza, fried chicken, tacos, Grandma's pot roast...ummmm, he missed that last one. What did French people even eat? All he knew about their culture was that they liked bread, cheese, wine, and surrendering to the Germans.

Only one way to find out, he guessed.

He didn't want to find out, though; instead he walked to the Subway on the corner and fell in behind a half dozen people waiting to order. When his turn came, he got a turkey and cheese on Italian bread and a small fountain cup, which he filled with Coke on his way to a booth. He ate slowly and watched pedestrians through the front window. Was that River Phoenix? It looked like him. The fun thing about LA was you never knew who you'd bump into...literally. He and Lola were walking into a restaurant a few months back on one of their date nights, and this guy with his long hair in a teased perm backed into Bobby as he bid farewell to his friends: Turned out to be Nikki Sixx from Motley Crue. Bobby didn't know who they were until Lola told him - they played that crap Alex listened to, blistering melt-your-face off metal that talked about the devil. It's funny, a lot of people called disco gay, but neither The Bee Gees or KC dressed like a woman - they were men and you knew it. With those metal guys, you didn't know what they were packing until it was too late.

When he was finished, he threw the cup and the sandwich wrapper into the trash then went back to Bonanno's. The old man stood by the register and nodded to Bobby when he came in. "I got her all fixed up for you." He held the chain in one palm, and opened the locket. Bobby bent over to inspect it and found it perfect, just like he knew he would.

"She's gonna love this," he said. He pulled out his checkbook. "How much?"

"For the chain and the watch, 2,550."

Bobby wrote a check for that amount then ripped it out and pushed it across the counter. Mr. Bonanno put the chain and the watch into black, felt-lined cases and carefully placed them in a plastic bag. "Here you go," he said and handed it over. "Let me know how they like them," he said with a boyish simper. Like any craftsman, he took great pride in his work and enjoyed the delight people derived from it.

"I will," Bobby said. "Have a good day."

"You too."

Outside, Bobby waited for an RTD bus to pass before crossing the street. At the car, he unlocked the door, climbed in, and tossed the bag onto the passenger seat. While he was inside, a red Pontiac parked ahead of him and a white Chevrolet behind; he pulled forward a little, then back, then forward again, turning in his seat to make sure he didn't bump the Chevy. When he was free, he pulled into the street and made a U-Turn, then followed the street east. Three blocks from Bonano's, he turned left onto Denker Avenue, which runs past a rush of lower middle class homes on parcel lots, palms in the front and metal bars on the windows. A group of young black men stood on a corner, and an old lady pushed a shopping cart along the side street.

At Marine Avenue, a wide drag boasting gas stations, cheap motels, fast food joints, and liquor stores, he turned right. _Boogie Fever_ by The Sylvers ended and with it side one of the tape. He switched to the radio and glanced to the right when he caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. People, most of them black, ran through a supermarket parking lot, while others milled on the sidewalk. As he watched, a man stooped, picked up a rock, and threw it at a car parked at the curb.

Bobby's brow furrowed and he pressed just a little harder on the gas.

A block later, he turned onto Normandie, and noticed the smoke immediately: It rolled into the sky far ahead, pouring over the tops of houses and trees then dispersing on the wind. Several helicopters circled the area, tiny silver blips like flecks of ice on blue satin. People stood uneasily in their front yards and craned their necks to see up the street. Cars rocketed past in the opposite lane, frantically fleeing whatever was happening - probably a five alarm fire. A voice in the back of his head told him to turn right at the next street and cut over to avoid it, but his morbid curiosity got the better of him.

As he got closer to Florence, the smoke thickened and cars shot past at breakneck speeds, some of them with broken windows and dented doors. Trash littered the street, and a 1989 Cadillac Deville sat half on the sidewalk, its front end kissing a telephone pole and its doors standing open, lending it an abandoned appearance. Bobby's stomach twisted anxiously and his grip tightened on the wheel. To his right, people streamed out of a corner market, their arms loaded with stuff - from the way they ran off, he doubted they paid.

What the fuck was going on?

A man picked up a metal trash can and tossed it at the store's front window; it struck, and the glass exploded. Bobby gaped, then whipped his back back to the road just as something slammed into the windshield, shattering it. His heart rocketed into his throat and he instinctively stomped on the brake, bringing the car to a rough, shuddering stop.

Before he could recover, the driver side door was wrenched open, and he jumped in alarm. Three sets of black hands reached in, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him out. For a moment he was on his feet, then someone crashed their fist hard into the side of his face; his knees gave out and he fell to his knees, hot pain filling his skull. Someone grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled, and hit him with a jab to the ear: The world went white and he toppled to the side, his head striking the pavement. Panic gripped him and his mind screamed at him to get up and run, but suddenly they were all over him, three men, now five, raining blows and kicks down him like artillery fire, each one sending sharp blasts of agony through his body.

A shoe hit him in the stomach, and the air burst from his lungs with a grunt; one of the attackers brought his foot down between his shoulders blades, and white streaks of excruciation jammed into his brain; a glass bottle detonated against the back of his head, and Bobby shrieked at the stinging sensation of his scalp being cut to shreds.

Hysterical with terror like a wounded animal beset by a pack of wolves, Bobby rolled to one side and curled up as best he could. "What's good, ese?" one of them shouted mockingly, then kicked him in the back of the head. The world flashed white, then went dark.

Bobby didn't know how long he was out, but when he came to, his body throbbed with a thousand aches and his head ached monstrously. He moved, and pain so great it made him dizzy swelled in his skull. His mind felt numb and, and he had no idea where he was or what happened to him. He blinked his eyes open, and sunlight blinded him.

Summoning all the energy he could, knowing that he needed to get up and get out of here, he rolled onto his back. An older black man in a red and black plaid shirt stood over him, facing away and gesturing wildly to a a group of men. Bobby's vision was blurry and he couldn't make heads or tails of it, but he thought the guy had a gun. Distant alarm bells cried shrilly and gunshots rang out. Bobby stared up at the sky and tried to keep himself from passing out again. He felt woozy and like he was going to throw up.

"...bunch of goddamn animals!" the man yelled, and the pitch of his voice drove icepicks into Bobby's ears. "This ain't right! None of this is right!"

"Man, this is justice," one of the men said. Bobby couldn't see him, didn't care to; his eyelids were getting heavy and his skull thumped sickly with every rapid beat of his heart.

"This ain't justice! Ain't none of it justice! Y'all doin' the same thing they did to Rodney King. How's that make it right?"

Bobby drifted off, and when he came awake again, the man's face hovered worriedly over him. His mustache was graying and deep wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Can you move?" he asked.

His mind was clearer now, the fog dissipating like mist under the rays of the morning sun. The memory of being dragged from the car and kicked came back to him, and with it a throbbing chorus of aches and pains from his shins to his head, the latter pulsing in time with his nauseous stomach. He tried to speak, and the coppery taste of pennies filled his mouth.

Something hit the side of the car with a metallic crunch, and the man ducked, then lifted a reolver and pointed it at someone Bobby couldn't see. "I ain't playin'," the man said firmly, "take all that somewhere else."

"Uncle Tom ass nigga," the unseen person said. "I see you."

"God sees _you_ ," the man said. He waited a moment as the attacker presumably walked away, then looked down at Bobby again. "Man, you better get up," he urged, "it ain't safe here."

Bobby's heart skipped even though he already knew that - he didn't know _why_ it wasn't safe, but he'd worry about that later, when he _was_ safe.

Bracing his palms flat on the asphalt, he drew himself into a sitting position, the pain in his head flaring and an involuntary hiss escaping through his teeth. Dizziness crashed over him and he would have fallen if the man didn't lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. Wetness trickled down the back of his neck, and his stomach knotted. He pressed his fingers to his scalp, wincing at the sting, and held them in front of his face - they were slick with blood. "You good?" the man asked.

"I think," Bobby croaked, the simple act of speaking making his head hurt even worse. The man helped him to his feet, and his knees quivered like jelly. He leaned back against the Datsun and held his hand to his pounding head. A group of black people stood on the sidewalk running before a line of houses, a mixed bag of men and women, young and old, some openly glaring at Bobby and others looking agitated, as though debating with themselves whether to go back inside or join in the madness. To the right, at the intersection of Florence and Normandie, a red big rig blocked the road, and a car sat on the sidewalk engulfed in flames.

The man looked nervously around, then at Bobby, his brow knitted severely. "Get in your car and go back the way you came. Don't stop for nobody. Run a nigga over if you gotta."

A gunshot sounded on Florence, and Bobby cringed. Guy didn't have to tell _him_ twice. Holding onto the roof in case he lost his balance, he shuffled to the door and dropped in, broken glass crunching under his butt. The windshield was shattered in multiple places, the stereo was missing, and someone carved BEENER into the dash. His heart clutched and he turned to the passenger seat: The bag from Bonanno's was gone.

Putting that aside for now, he pulled the door closed, threw the car into reverse, and pulled a U-turn. A black man in a green tank top broke from the crowd and ran at him, and panicking, Bobby hit the gas. The man lobbed a bottle at the car, and it hit the hood, breaking into a million pieces.

Bobby took the man's advice. He didn't run anyone over, but he didn't stop for _anyone._

* * *

 **Bobby's lucky, I let him off easy; his beating was originally going to be much worse and land him in the ICU.**


	166. April and May 1992: Part 4

**Guest: No, I've seen, like, one episode of** _ **The Cleveland Show**_ **.**

 **Jlawsanpedro042202: You are absolutely right. I plead creative license. ;)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Walking on Broken Glass**_ **by Annie Lennox (1992);** _ **Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover**_ **by Sophie B. Hawkins (1992)**

Ronnie Anne leaned forward, propped her elbows on the desk, and steepled her fingertips together. Before her, Dana Jerkins defiantly smacked her gum and stared off to Ronnie Anne's left, arms folded, throat working, the slight sway of her earrings betraying a tremble. A tall, thin girl with dark brown hair teased into a perm and clad in a tight halter top that proudly bucked the dress code, Dana looked as though she were struggling hard to keep her tough girl facade from crumbling. A sophmore, she'd been a thorn in the system's side since she started at Royal County High, talking back, not doing her homework, picking on other girls, and now, making out with a boy in the janitor's closet. Mr. Harper, the music teacher, was the one who found them after being alerted by _soft, breathy moans -_ that's how he put it, and maybe she was immature, but it took everything Ronnie Anne had to keep from laughing. Heh. _Soft, breathy moans._ Guy should be a romance writer.

Kids make out, that was a fact of life, but making out in school, when you should be in class, is a no no. Normally, Ronnie Anne would write them both a detention slip and send them on their way, but this was a special case. See, it wasn't _just_ making out, it was a little more serious than that. From what Mr. Harper described, they were...um...well...masturbating each other, his hand down her pants and her hand down _his_ pants. Ronnie Anne was young once and she and Lincoln did the same thing, but never in school...and they weren't assholes who got on their principal's nerves and stayed there. She wouldn't go so far as to say Dana was the bane of her existence - she wasn't _that_ bad - but she _was_ an endless source of frustration, and there were times, like now, that she wanted to grab the girl by the front of her shirt, shake her back and forth, and maybe, if no one was looking, slap some respect into her. She tried that years ago when a kid called her a spic and almost lost her job, so she wouldn't, but man, oh, man, how she wanted to. Statistically speaking, she saw Dana more than she saw Alex and Jessy, and she _lived_ with Jessy! Every time one of her teachers sent her to the office, Ronnie Anne's blood pressure spiked and the stress took a good seven minutes off her lifespan. At this rate, she'd be dead by the year 2000.

If it were any other kid, she'd give them a tongue lashing, suspend them for a week, and threaten them with expulsion if she saw them within five feet of their 'partner.' It wasn't any other kid, though, it was Dana, and Ronnie Anne was so sick of her she could scream.

Her first reaction was to expel the bitch and be done with it, but, for better or worse, she wasn't a hardass...she just played one. She couldn't bring herself to potentially ruin a child's life (academically or otherwise) over something so trivial. Dana, however, did not know that, which worked to Ronnie Anne's advantage - she cultivated an authoritarian exterior specifically so she didn't have to _act_ authoritarian. Yes, she realized she was a genius, and yes, she was more than ready for her Principal of the Year award.

"You realize that what you did is punishable by expulsion, right?" she asked.

Dana smacked her gum but could do nothing to hide the worry in her eyes. Ronnie Anne let her words sink in for a moment, then continued. "I don't want to expel you, it's too much paperwork, so I'll make you a deal. Sound good?"

For the first time since parking her little butt in the chair facing Ronnie Anne's desk, Dana met her gaze, if only fleetingly. _W-What?_ she seemed to ask.

"I will suspend you for a week," Ronnie Anne said, "and when you come back, I don't want to see you anywhere near that boy, okay?"

Dana swallowed thickly but did not reply.

"And when you return, you are to be on your best behavior or I _will_ expel you, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that next year, you go to the alternative school in Chippewa Falls. You know that place, right?"

The girl gave a hesitant nod. The alternative school was where the worst kids in the county went: Fighting, bullying, and misery ran rampant, and from everything Ronnie Anne had ever heard, it was practically a supermax day prison. To students across the region, the alternative school was the bogeyman, and the prospect of going there struck terror into their hearts.

"No more talking back, no more picking on other students, no more bothering me, got it? You complete the rest of your time here and never set foot in this office ever again."

Dana nodded a little too quickly. "Okay, yeah. I promise."

Hooking a thumb toward the door, Ronnie Anne said, "Now get back to class."

Dana got to her feet and scurred out, her head bowed defensively. Ronnie Anne watched her go, hoping her threat worked, then called the boy in. He entered tentatively, head hung, and shuffled over to the chair like a condemned man walking Death Row for the final time. He stiffly sat and laced his hands in his lap.

"Terry Miller," Ronnie Anne said, pronouncing his name slowly, disapprovingly, "I see who you were buying those condoms for."

He stared down at his hands, his lank blonde hair hanging in his face, and nodded slightly, not in answer to her charge, but as if to say _Nice one, Miller, you really screwed the pooch this time._

Did kids still say that? She didn't think so. Would they even know what it _meant?_ Probably not. Like boss. In the fifties, saying something was 'boss' meant you thought it was cool. Now it was 'rad' and 'tubular,' neither of which she understood. She knew what the words themselves meant, but not how they made acceptable synonyms for _cool._ If you asked her, they'd be better off as slang for _lame-o._

Getting off track. Aside from occasionally skipping, Terry was a good student and never made trouble: He did his schoolwork _and_ his homework, and didn't bother anyone. He'd only been to her office twice in his three years at RCH, both for not showing up when he was supposed to. _Sometimes I just need a break,_ he told her. His tone wasn't snarky when he said it, he was being earnest - she still didn't like that answer, so she stuck him in in-school suspension since he'd probably take out-of-school suspension as a treat. She was less inclined to throw the book at him, but if she was anything, it was fair: She did it to Dana and she was going to do it to him too.

"I could expel you for what you did," she said, and he tensed, steeling himself for the worst. He liked playing hookie, but apparently _didn't_ like the idea of being tossed out entirely. Too much of a good thing there, Terry? He squirmed and Ronnie Anne derived immense satisfaction from it because that meant she'd already put the fear of God into him, as intended. "I won't, though."

His shoulders relaxed and he glanced up at her. _I'm_ not _going to be smitten?_

She held up her finger. "Under one condition."

"W-What?" he asked quickly, a kneading edge in his voice. He was probably imagining ten thousand terrible fates: Being forced to clean the entire school from top to bottom, becoming Ronnie Anne's personal slave (actually, that might not be such a bad idea), having to undergo penis removal surgery _so this doesn't happen again._ Poor, Terry, I wouldn't do that, getting some action is perfectly normal, though if I could find a way to remove it during school hours and then reattach it later…

Well, not me personally. Vice Principal Jordan would have to handle _that_.

Playing up the drama of the moment, Ronnie Anne leaned over the desk, and Terry shied away, a flicker of alarm crossing his face. Ronnie Anne stared at him for a long moment, then, speaking carefully, said, "No more skipping school."

Terry blinked. "O-Okay, sure."

"Never again," Ronnie Anne pressed, "for as long as you're a student here. If you _do,_ I'll be forced to kick you out, and you'll have to repeat the eleventh grade. Do you want that?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No, I don't."

"Alright," she said, "back to class."

He jumped up and hurried out like a shot, a cartoon dust trail rising in his wake. Shouldn't have anymore trouble from _him._ Dana, on the other hand...well, we'll just have to wait and see.

At the end of the day, she packed a folder with a stack of papers she needed to go over and sign tonight, slung her purse over her shoulder, and left, snapping the light off as she went. In the outer office, she nodded to Debra, the receptionist, then walked through the empty lobby and into the waning afternoon: It was closing in on six and the sun was beginning to sink behind the roofs of the houses across the street, its rays streaming through the budding trees and dappling yards, the sidewalk, and the street. She crossed to the employee parking lot to the right of the main entrance and fished her keys out as she approached her 1991 Buick RIviera. Lincoln got it for her birthday - they paid most of the money up front, then traded in her old car for the remaining balance. Of all the cars she'd ever owned, she liked this one the best - it _really_ agitated the gravel if you opened her up...which she never did, but that was beside the point. She could if she wanted to. Lincoln bought himself a blue 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass a few months later that went faster than the Riviera but never did because he was like her - aged and lame. She teased him mercilessly when he first got it. _It's right there in the name, lame-o: Old._ Ooooh, if looks could kill.

Unlocking the door, she tossed her purse in and sat behind the wheel. When she first started at RCH in 1969, she never even thought to lock her car doors. Why would she? This was Royal Woods, for crying out loud, not Harlem. Then things started to go south. A few years ago, someone broke into Mr. Cooper's Chevy and stole his radio - took it right out of the dash like nothing. What's this world coming too when you can't even trust your car to be safe in the parking lot of a high school?

The lump of scar tissue on here right shoulder where Kevin Jenner shot her three years ago tingled as if to contest her point. _There's worse than radio stealing out there, Missus Loud, or didja forget?_

No, she didn't forget. What happened in November 1989 lurked forever in the back of her head like a phantom, and sometimes she still dreamed about it. For a while, she had a framed letter from George Bush thanking her for _your bravery and dedication to our nation's young people_ hanging on her office wall, but every time she glanced at it, a steel band of anxiety would close around her chest. She imagined it did to her what having a constant reminder of Vietnam would do to Lincoln. Finally, she took it down and locked it in her bottom desk drawer along with contraband confiscated from the students - packs of cigarettes, Game Boys, a _Hustler,_ and the knife she took from Kevin Jenner the day she suspended him. She completely forgot it was in there until happening across it one day, and while it was stupid, she couldn't bring herself to touch the damn thing, as though if she did, it would burn like a cross to a vampire.

She turned the key in the ignition and backed out of her spot. At the exit, she turned the radio on and drove through the gathering gloom to _those golden sounds of yesteryear brought to you by Washington Mutual. Washington Mutual - more human interest._ Ironic when you think about it, the rebellious rock music of the fifties being sponsored by a bank. At last it wasn't brought to her by depends or Dentu-Creme... _that_ would make her feel old.

Ten minutes after setting out, she pulled into the driveway and parked next to Jessy's Beetle. The Olds was nowhere in sight, so lame-o was still at work...or cheating on her with one of the waitresses not related to him.

Or one of the ones who _were_.

 _Oh, Luan, your communism brings out the beast in me._

Bile threatened to rise in her throat and she swallowed it down with a groan of disgust. What kind of sick, sad person comes up with something like _that?_ A brother and sister? Gag. Maybe she needed to see a shrink.

Grabbing her purse, she got out and went inside. Jessy sat on the couch with her legs under her and a pillow clutched to her chest; she stared rapt at the television screen, her complexion wan and her wide eyes brimming with horror. Ronnie Anne's step faltered and she frowned in motherly concern. "Everything okay?"

Jessy spared her a quick glimpse, and Ronnie Anne's heart sank when she saw the wet, silvery trails on her niece's cheeks. "No," she said huskily and hugged herself. Jessy was known to be a little too emotional sometimes, crying over sad movies and those admittedly horrible ASPCA commercials, but Ronnie Anne took every single tear seriously, and without the slightest hesitation or dismissive thought, she went over and sat next to the girl, her hand going out and touching Jessy's face as if to check for wounds.

"What's wrong, honey?" Ronnie Anne asked softly and brushed the pad of her thumb across the ridge of Jessy's eyebrow.

Jessy swallowed hard and gestured to the TV with her eyes. Ronnie Anne's forehead creased and she turned her head to follow Jessy's gaze, expecting Old Yeller being put down, or a cat with scars crisscrossing its face. Instead, she saw a shaky, bird's eye view of an urban four-way intersection. A red tractor trailer blocked the street, and a group of black men kicked and pummelled a white man on the ground. The words TAPED EARLIER filled the upper right hand corner of the screen. Peter Jennings provided narration. " _...the scene earlier today at the corner of Florence and Normandie Avenue in South Central Los Angeles, where unrest has been raging since the verdict. We do not yet know the condition of the victim, but he does seem to have escaped."_

The man lay limp on the ground while six, seven, or even eight blacks stomped on his back. One ran up, lifted something above his head, and slammed it against the white man's back. Ronnie Anne's mouth fell open in shock and her hand fluttered to her lips. The white man bled profusely and twitched like a dying bug while one of the blacks danced around and make strange signs with his hands. The scene cut by to Jennings sitting at the anchor desk in the _World News Tonight_ studio and looking grave. " _Rampant looting and uncontrolled fires are being reported across much of the area, and at this hour, police seem overwhelmed by the situation."_

"They keep showing that man being beaten up,"Jessy said, her voice unsteady. "They just...pulled him out and started attacking him." From the haunted quality of her voice, Ronnie Anne could tell it disturbed her. She slipped her arm around Jessy's shoulder and pulled her close like a mother hen taking its baby protectively under its wing. She stared at the TV for more information, but the news went to commercial and left her lost. They said something about a verdict - it had to be the Rodney King thing. The fact that people were looting in L.A. told her that, as impossible as it may seem, those cops got off.

Jessy took a deep, shivery breath. "It's just really sad," she said and sniffed. "Other people got beat up too. For no reason." There was stricken inflection in her voice that made her sound like a small child who simply couldn't understand why something so awful was happening.

"How about we watch something else?" Ronnie Anne suggested. She picked the remote up from the coffee table and hit two buttons at random, not caring what station she landed on just so long as it got Jessy's mind off the riot. On MTV, people in powdered wigs, petticoats, and elegant 18th century gowns crowded a fashionable ballroom; a woman in a flowing red headscarf stood by the punch and slammed shots like no tomorrow in-between singing.

 _I'm living in an empty room  
With all the windows smashed  
And I've got so little left to lose  
That it feels just like I'm walking on broken glass_

Ronnie Anne replaced the remote and focused on Jessy again. The girl took a deep, calming breath and let it out evenly. "Sorry," she said, "I just….I kept thinking what if it was Uncle Lincoln or Mark being jumped on TV, and it occured to me that that man _is_ someone's Uncle Lincoln or Mark." She choked off a sob and pressed her hand to her face. Ronnie Anne threaded her fingers through Jessy's hair. What could she say to _that?_ Whoever that guy was, he most likely had family who loved him somewhere, and not only was he hurt - badly, by the looks of it - he suffered the indignity of having it broadcast into every living room in the country.

"I'm sure he's fine," she managed lamely.

Jessy nodded. "Yeah." She did not sound convinced. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she got up. "I need to call Mark."

"Okay," Ronnie Anne said, innately understanding her niece's need to hear her boyfriend's voice. When she was gone, she picked up the remote and turned it to CNN, where a correspondent spoke by telephone as live footage from the jostling POV of a helicopter played: A residential neighborhood, much like any...save for the abandoned car burning in the middle of a three way intersection and the dozens of people running through the street. A few blocks over, a number of buildings lining the sidewalk blazed unchecked, dense black smoke pouring into the evening sky.

" _...anger and hostility is clear. They started throwing beer bottles at our truck and screaming things that I can't repeat. Needless to say, we turned around and got out of there. Uh...we did not see any police officers or national guardsmen in that area but, again, we didn't have the opportunity to really look around as much as we may have liked. We did see car crashes just..left where they were and lots of fires. One man we spoke to...uh...without leaving the truck...said that his store was burning down and everything he had was gone."_

She was still watching, dumbstruck, when Lincoln came through the door fifteen minutes later, pausing to hang his coat on the rack before going to his chair and sitting. "Hi, Linc," he said sarcastically, "welcome home."

Ronnie Anne grunted. Images of burning buildings, overturned cars, gangs of blacks and Hispanics smashing storefronts, and that man being attacked again and again and again on an endless loop flickered across the screen. Lincoln caught sight of it all and hummed. "What the hell is _that?"_

"Race riot," she said.

"Hm. Haven't seen one of _those_ in a while. Over that Rodney King shit?"

"Yeah," she said and forced her eyes away from the destruction unfolding before her.

Lincoln stared for a moment then shook his head sadly. "When they read the verdict, this black guy at Flip's got _all_ mad. _Motherfucker_ this, _motherfucker_ that. Called me a racist."

"What'd you do?" she asked. "For me to call you a racist?"

Lincoln favored her with a blank stare. "Obviously I called him a nigger," he deadpanned.

A laugh was shocked from Ronnie Anne's throat. She didn't think she'd ever heard him use that word, even kidding around. He was the _least_ racist person she knew...after herself, of course.

"You're an asshole," she said tenderly, "did he beat you up?"

"No, worse; he's moving in next door." He shook his head. "This _was_ a nice neighborhood."

She rolled her eyes.

If Lincoln Loud was a racist, well...he was _her_ racist. "I'm going to start calling you Archie Bunker," she said.

"I'll call you Meathead." He snorted and regarded her with a boyish glint that never failed to make her heart pitter patter even after thirty-five years. "Actually," he amended, "I'll call you Mexhead."

Pursing her lips, she picked up a pillow and fung it at him; he laughed and threw up his arm, deflecting it. She got up and crossed to the chair, then bent down and kissed him. He kissed back, his tongue gently caressing hers and his hand cupping her cheek. A quiver went through the pit of her stomach and her knees shook just like they did the very first time they did this...though to be fair, now it was mainly because bending over hurt.

She broke from his lips, pressed her forehead to his, and locked her eyes with his. In them, she saw the same love, affection, and kind-heartedness she'd been seeing since 1957, and it filled her with the same warm, tingling, fluttery feeling that it did when she was a girl.

"Shut up," she said and kissed the tip of his nose, "racist."

* * *

Lola opened the fridge, grabbed a package of ham and one of cheese, then closed the door and laid them on the spacious formica countertop. Warm afternoon sunlight fell through the window over the sink and beyond, a cluster of brownish evergreens dotting the hillside sweeping back from the side yard rustled in the faint, arid breeze. Lola took a plate from the drying rack, sat it down, and went over to the bread box next to the microwave on bare feet. She was in the middle of getting dressed when Stephy started screaming 'the hungry song' at the top of her lungs. _I'm hungry! Feed me! I'm hungry! Feed me fooooood._ She could _kill_ Bobby for teaching her that damn number.

 _We just had waffles,_ she told the little girl, _how could you possibly be hungry?_

 _Cuz my tummy wants a sandwich,_ she said as though that should explain everything.

Why _does your tummy want a sandwich?_

 _Cuz I'm hungry._

Well...Lola figured that was reason enough. It _had_ been close to two hours, and Stephy was as active and energetic as she was intelligent, therefore she burned calories at a rapid pace and needed more frequent refills than the average child. Or maybe most children ate this way, she really didn't know. She used her nephews as sort of a guidepost since they were the only children she'd spent any length of time around, but kids are like snowflakes, each one unique in their own way. Justin and Josh, despite being boys, did not eat a great amount. In fact, they were both exasperatingly captious in their dining habits, consuming only a few select dishes while turning their nose up at everything else.

Stephy could be picky as well, but on the whole, she ate most anything you put in front of her - just so long as it wasn't vegetables. In fact, she was very open to trying new foods, even if you tried to dissuade her. Bobby kept a bottle of Texas Pete hot sauce in the fridge and for months, Stephy obsessed over it, talking about it, opening the door to look longingly at the label, asking him if she could have some. Lola said no, but, finally, the little girl disobeyed, took it out one day...and drank from it as though it were a refreshing beverage: Her eyes went wide, her face turned red, and she spat it onto the floor...then cried and mindlessly hopped around the kitchen as it burned away at the inside of her mouth.

Taking two pieces of wheat from the bag, she twisted it closed and set it aside, then dropped them onto the plate. Stephy's voice drifted in from the living room, stopping her. "I'm the queen! Do my bidding!"

In her six years of motherhood, Lola had developed a sort of sixth sense that presently told her Stephy was standing on the coffee table...again. Pushing away from the counter, Lola went to the archway and poked her head in. Sure enough, Stephy stood in the middle of the coffee table, a torn and battered cardboard wrapping paper tube held aloft like a sword. She wore pink zebra print stretch pants, a purple tutu, a red boa, beads around her neck, a silver tiara, and big, cat-eye shaped sunglasses. The clashing colors gave Lola a headache at the same time it made her smile - Stephy loved playing dress up. One minute she was a princess and the next she was Bobby. One time she sneaked into their room, put his blazer and shoes on, then came tottering down the hall. _Look at me, I'm on TV!_

Then she tripped and face planted.

"I'm your _god!"_ she said and wiggled her hips. Val sat by the toybox in the corner with a car half as big as him clutched to his chest and his brow furrowed in pity and perplexity.

"Stephanie Nicole!"

Stephy jumped and spun around; her feet tangled and Lola's heart jumped into her throat as her daughter fell backwards off of the table. Stephy landed on her butt with a breathy _umph,_ and the tiara slipped down her forehead before coming off completely and dropping to her lap. Lola rushed over and knelt. "Are you alright?"

"I _was_ then you made me fall," Stephy said, a wounded infection in her voice that cut Lola far deeper than it should have.

"I'm sorry," she said and stroked the little girl's hair. "But I told you to _stay off the coffee table_. You need to listen or next time you're going to get a _really_ bad boo boo."

Stephy rolled her eyes in vexation. "Not if you don't yell at me and let me do what I want."

That brought a sardonic smile to Lola's face. "That's not how it works, honey," she said and got to her feet, then helped the little girl to hers. "Your dad will be home soon, why don't you go get dressed?"

"But I _am_ dressed." She put her hands on her hips and cocked her tiny body to one side, a big, cheesy grin spreading across her lips. "I'm you."

A laugh she couldn't surprise bubbled up from Lola's throat. She adored her daughter's penchant for play, and her bold and individualistic fashion sense, but she _never_ wore anything like that and probably never would. To be fair, she came close in her early years when the record label had more control over her, but then she proved herself to be a sustained and profitable artist, and with that came greater liberties. God forbid another company lure away your big moneymaker. "You look just like me," Lola said.

Stephy closed her eyes and basked in her mother's praise like a cat in a warm bar of sunshine. Without opening them again, she asked, "Is my sandwich ready?"

"I have to finish assembling it," Lola said, "I had to stop." She lifted her brow and fixed the little girl with a stern look.

"Okay," Stephy said and turned away to go play.

Back in the kitchen, she opened the ham and reached in, but stopped when the phone rang.

Taking her hand out, she went to the phone of the wall and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hey, hun," Lana said, "it's me."

"Oh, hey, Lana." Lola peeked around the corner into the living room to check on Val: He stood at the coffee table with a dozen or more Matchbox cars lined up across the surface. "How's it going?"

Lana sighed deeply. "It's going," she said and laughed. "Joy's keepin' me up all hours of the day and night."

In her room, Stephy screamed. " _STUPID UNICORN!"_

"Sounds like someone's mad," Lana chuckled.

Lola rolled her eyes. "That's Steph for you."

While a good child for the most part, Stephy had a volatile temper that remained largely focused on minor annoyances and inanimate objects, though a few times she got mad at Val and shoved him or called him mean names. In addition, she suffered unpredictable mood swings that took her from giddy and bouncing off the walls to down and depressed in minutes. The doctor said that these might be early signs of bipolar disorder. Lola hoped to God it wasn't, but only time would tell.

"How's she doing?" Lana asked.

Lola sighed. "Fine, overall," she said, "but it worries me."

Bobby and Lana were the only two people she'd expressed her feelings to - fear that Stephy would never have a normal life, that she would always be plagued by depression and explosive bursts of rage, that over time her issues would grow in intensity and she wouldn't be able to handle them, that it would affect not only her but Val as well.

"Oh, she'll be fine," Lana said. She didn't sound very convincing. "It's probably just a phase. These doctors'll say anything to get more money out of you. They're trying to turn being hyper into a disease now. Pretty sad a kid can't run around and have energy anymore. Gotta put 'em on drugs."

She wasn't entirely wrong, but that didn't apply to Stephy; Stephy had legitimate issues that needed to be addressed, and right now, medication was the only way to do that. When she was older, they could look into therapy, but Lola prayed that by some miracle, Lana was right at least about Stephy outgrowing her problems. It was a remote possibility...but a possibility nonetheless.

"I need to talk to you about something," Lana said, her voice lowering gravely.

"What about?" Lola asked.

Lana didn't reply at once, and Lola waited impatiently as her sister presumably collected her thoughts, the suspense growing and growing until she was certain something terrible had happened. _I have breast cancer and I'm dying; we're losing the house and the business too; Jed and I are getting a divorce._ When Lana finally spoke, Lola sighed in relief.

"It's Mama...she's in the hospital dying."

That's all?

"Oh, no," she replied. The words sounded empty and contrived to her own ears, but that was the best she could muster. She didn't want to come across as callous, but she decided a long time ago that Mama was already dead to her. In her heart, she grieved, buried her, and moved on. As far as she was concerned, it was said and done. "What's wrong with her?"

Lana told her about Mary-Ellen's call, and Lola listened half-heartedly, her mind turning the concept of her mother's imminent mortality over and over like a strange and alien object. She cut Mama out of her life long ago, but as she mediated on the matter, she felt a stir of unease in the depths of her stomach. She didn't know if she was upset - not after all Mama did to her and Lana - but she couldn't delude herself and say that she didn't care either way, for in some fashion, she did.

When Lana was done, she grasped for a reply, but came back empty-handed, the enormity of her sister's message still sinking in. As a child, she would lie awake in bed at night desperately wishing that Mama was different, that she would love and nurture her the way a mother should - she didnt know that that's what she wanted at the time, she just wanted Mama to hug her and not be mean. Even as a teenager on her own, there was a tiny part of her that held out hope...maybe something would change, maybe they still could be a happy, semi-normal finally. She looked deep into herself, and arrived at the conclusion that to this day, that tiny flicker of hope abided. The familiar ripple of loss she felt now was for what could have been, not what _was._ This time, it was sharper, because death was finality. The dream that she entertained since she was a girl, that she subconsciously held onto ten years after leaving home, would be forever snuffed out.

By this point in her life, nearly thirty and a mother of two children herself, she had made peace with the fact that that dream would never become reality, but as long as life goes on, there's always a chance. To see that chance wink forever out of existence was regrettable, but so it goes.

"I was thinking," Lana said haltingly, "and I...I think I wanna go see her."

Lola's mouth screwed up sourly. "Why?" she asked, as though Lana had proposed eating dog shit instead of visiting someone in the hospital.

"Because," Lana sighed, "she's still our mother and...I kinda wanna say goodbye."

The strained quality of Lana's voice, as though she were fighting against a swell of emotion, told Lola that she was allowing herself to get sentimental.

"I think you should too," Lana said.

Lola's heart skipped a beat and her eyes widened in alarm. She may have wished for reconciliation between herself and her mother, but the thought of actually seeing her, of being in her presence, filled her with dread. "I-I don't know," she stammered. She reached out and snatched the first excuse she could think of. "I can't just fly out there on a whim. Stephy has school and Bobby has the show. I can try but…"

On the other side of the country, Lana took a deep, acquiescent breath. "If you don't wanna come, don't. I just don't wanna do this alone." There was a pleading edge in her voice that sent a ripple of sympathy through Lola's guts. _I need you there with me,_ it said, _I can't face her by myself._

"Fine," Lola heard herself say, and the words were bitter in her mouth. Her heart rate increased and her stomach turned. She didn't want to see her mother...she didn't want to feel the way she felt when she was a little girl, small, weak, and afraid, but Lana needed her. "I'll fly out there."

Twenty minutes later, she hung the phone up and drew a shuddery breath. Her stomach bubbled sickly and a foul taste coated the inside of her mouth. She needed a palate cleanser, and she found it in the form of her son. He was sitting on the floor with a ninja turtle action figure in his lap. She dropped down across from him and crossed her legs Indian style. He looked up at her curiously, then held the turtle out to her like a gift. "Thank you," she cooed as she took it. "Which one is this?" She studied its face, but they all looked the same to her. They were named after Renaissance artists, a reference she appreciated. Poor Bobby didn't get it.

She gave the toy back to Val just as the door opened behind her. Speak of the devil. "That took longer than I expected," she said. She looked over her shoulder, and what she saw made her blood run cold. Bobby, his jacket ripped and torn, stood in the threshold, his face crisscrossed with cuts and bruises, bottom lip puffy and left eye swollen almost shut. "Oh, my God," she blurted and jumped to her feet, "what happened?"

He closed the door behind him and came into the living room without a word, dropping heavily onto the couch. Lola watched him for a moment, then went over and sat next to him. "Bobby, what happened?" she demanded.

"Go look out the window," he said. "That's what happened."

Lola's brow furrowed. "Don't be cryptic. Was there an accident?"

"Go look," he repeated.

Sighing, Lola got to her feet and went to the front window. She drew the curtain aside, and her eyes went instantly to the Datsun. Its windshiled was smashed in several places and the hood was dented; the passenger mirror was missing and the headlights were busted. The damage was inconsistent with an accident, and Lola blinked in confusion.

That's when she noticed the smoke. A dozen columns poured into the sky from the city below, all clustered together in a tight formation far to the south of Downtown. "What's going on?" she asked, stricken.

"A riot," Bobby said.

* * *

Rita absently stroked Russell's back and stared at the television set, trying but failing to understand what she was seeing. On the couch, Luan and her husband watched the screen with grim faces, the former with her arms crossed over her chest and the latter with his hands resting in his lap. Rita couldn't remember his name but she thought it was Frank - she would ask but that would make her look silly, so she didn't. Was he the one who blew up that building or was that someone else? She scrunched her brow in thought but drew a blank. _Someone_ blew something up, she knew that much. Just like she knew she poisoned her daughter to death because she was suffering. She didn't think too deeply about that because it was a painful memory...and because if she did, she might find that she couldn't remember _which_ daughter she poisoned: Leni or the other one.

She shifted her weight and winced at the pain in her joints. Russell lifted his head and fixed her with a concerned look, and she smiled tenderly. He was a very good dog. She had him since the kids were little and he always looked after her...like a guardian angel.

That should have been his name. Who chose Russell anyway? That's what you call a man, not a dog. She knew someone by that name, she thought. She called up an image of him in her mind, but saw someone else. It took her a moment to place him, but when she did, she nodded, pleased with herself: The man from the picture on her nightstand. It depicted a man and a woman holding hands, him in a nice suit and her in a wedding dress. Lori told her _that's you and Dad_ but the poor thing was confused, that wasn't her; she'd remember her wedding day. That's one of those things you never forget, like when her son went off to fight the Germans. She sat by the radio every day listening to news from the front, worried sick that he wouldn't come home. When he did, they moved into the house and had Lynn…

That gave her pause. Had Lynn with her son? Goodness, no! Lynn _was_ her son and other one too. Lincoln. She was getting up there in years and got mixed up now and then, just like how she'd call every child's name except the one she wanted. She had trouble sleeping too: She'd lay down and the night would pass before she could even get comfortable. She suspected that time was changing, but Luan said it wasn't. Rita loved her daughter, but that girl had a nasty habit of lying. She'd say it had only been an hour when Rita knew damn well it had been longer, and tell her things that didn't make any sense. _Lincoln's been married to Ronnie Anne for twenty-five years, Mom, don't you remember her?_

 _I'd remember that,_ Rita said coldly. What bothered her most about that was this: Sometimes, she thought she _did_ remember. They lived with her when they were first married, didn't they? There was a baby too. Or was that Luan's daughter? It was so _long_ ago. Ten years or more. How could she be expected to keep all of _that_ in mind? She could barely remember to watch that soap she liked. _You never miss an episode, Mom,_ Luan lied, but she did, she just _knew_ it. Why did Luan fib so much? It made Rita so angry that she thought she could tell stories right to her face, as though she were too old and stupid to know the truth. She might get confused every once in a while, but she wasn't a child and she was getting sick of being spoken to as though she was. Luan and her husband meant well, but they tried her patience.

On the TV screen, a group of Negros surrounded a black and white police car in the middle of a street and rocked it back and forth, one jumping onto the hood and kicking the windshield until it shattered. To one side, flames consumed a corner market and people ran out of a store next to it with things in their arms. "Why are those coloreds kicking that car?" Rita asked. They were going to get in trouble if they kept up.

"Because they're angry and frustrated, Mom," Luan said, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

Angry and frustrated? Why, she got angry and frustrated too, but she never kicked cars. She might snap or even slam a door but that was all. Wrath is a sin, after all, and while falling short of God's glory is okay, wallowing there is not.

Luan's husband snorted. "More like they're a bunch of criminals."

The car rolled onto its roof with a crunch of breaking glass, and someone threw a bottle at it.

"It's not right," Luan said, her voice faltering as though the admission caused her physical pain, "but neither was the verdict."

Her husband hummed dismissively but didn't say anything else, probably to avoid a fight. She did that with her own husband when he was alive...there are times when you and your spouse simply won't see eye to eye and the best thing to do in those cases is walk away from it. Rita turned back to the television: The car was on fire now, and the Negros watched with sadistic joy. Luan was lying again. People don't do that when they're angry and frustrated. She didn't know _when_ they did things like this, but not when they're just annoyed. There had to be another reason.

Dan Rather came on and started talking, and Rita quickly lost interest. She stroked Russell's back and stared at the knick knacks and framed photo on the mantle; she couldn't see them very well from here, but they always drew her attention. She recognized the people in some of them, but not others. She especially liked the one of her father in his army uniform - she was a baby when he came back from the war but swore she remembered him walking through the door and her mother hugging him fiercely.

" _...reports of widespread looting, arson, and violence. This was the scene earlier today at the intersection of Florence and Normandie in South Central."_

Footage rolled of a white man lying on the ground next to a red big rig while blacks kicked and threw things at him. He struggled to his knees, only to be punched in the side of his head and knocked over again. For some odd reason, RIta recalled seeing a man shot on live TV once….she didn't remember who he was, but she felt the same stomach churning horror now as she did then.

Luan jumped to her feet as though she couldn't take anymore. "I'm gonna make dinner," she said as she fled to the kitchen. Her husband looked at her with a frown, then went back to watching TV, his lips a tight, angry slash. Dan Rather spoke to a correspondent by phone as a live feed played of the L.A. skyline - scattered fires raged uncontrollably, and Rita shook her head. People do such horrible things.

"Why are they kicking cars?" she asked Luan's husband suddenly. Maybe he'd give her a straight answer.

He seemed to think for a minute, like an adult trying to figure out how to phrase something to a very young child, which annoyed Rita greatly. "They're mad because of Rodney King."

Rita's brow creased in thought. "Isn't that the boy who used to deliver our papers?"

"No, ma'am, he's someone else. He got drunk, ran from the police, and almost caused a car crash."

"He sounds terrible!"

Luan's husband nodded. "He is. Those cops were just doing their job -"

" _No they weren't!"_ Luan yelled from the kitchen.

" - now look." He shook his head sadly.

Rita stared at screen for a long moment and frowned. "They might be angry over what Rodney King did," she finally stated, "but that's no excuse to kick cars."

* * *

Night fell on the beleaguered city of Los Angeles just before 8pm on April 29, 1992. Three dozen roaring fires lit the darkness, and the smoke filled streets teemed with anarchy. In Koreatown, a group of black men broke into an Asian market and ran wild, snatching anything they could lay their hands on. One smashed the glass beer cooler with a crowbar, then attacked a display of fruit. More people poured in through the broken front door, and soon the aisles crawled with looters, some black, some Hispanic, and a few white. Across the street, a blaze broke out in a hair salon and burned unchecked until the structure crumbled and collapsed in a shower of embers.

Downtown, the crowd outside of LAPD headquarters grew increasingly agitated as the evening wore on, and at 9pm, they spread out into the surrounding area. Someone threw a rock at the window of a boutique, and like opening Pandora's Box, all hell broke loose. Fires were set, cars flipped, shops ransacked. Fire engines responding to the scene were shot at, and an ambulance was hijacked then intentionally crashed into a storefront.

The 670th Military Police Company arrived in L.A. just after nine and took up position at a police command center where they passed out bulletproof vests to firefighters. Later, they were ordered to hold the Martin Luther King Jr. Shopping Mall in Watts. A fleet of Humvees and Jeeps, their roof mounted machine guns manned, soared through burning neighborhoods like the vanguard of an invading army. Abandoned cars, some burned out, trash, and broke glass littered the streets, and hidden insurgents took potshots from the shadows, bullets pinging off drab green armor. All of the men in the convoy were uneasy - none ever expected to be deployed to an American city as though it were a Third World warzone, and the destruction around them was far worse than they anticipated. This wasn't a riot, this was a revolution.

In the Lake View Terrace district, close to four hundred protestors gathered at the spot where Rodney King was beaten the previous March, then moved south along Osborne Street like a tidal wave before cresting at the LAPD Foothill Division headquarters. Rocks sailed through the air, fires broke out, and several black and whites were overturned. Police in riot gear formed a skirmish line and advanced on the crowd, driving them back.

Standing at the front window of the home she shared with her husband and children in the Hollywood Hills, Lola counted ten fires dotting the city below. Bobby sat with Val and Stephy on the couch, the former asleep in his lap and the latter curled up next to him watching cartoons. Lola had been at her vigil for nearly an hour, her stomach heavy with dread and her heart throbbing painfully against her ribs. She assumed they would be safe up here...but she wasn't certain.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, she crossed to the sofa and leaned over the back, her eyes going instantly to Bobby's scalp. None of the lacerations were very deep, thank God, but the fact that he was beaten in the middle of the street...in broad daylight...and no one came disturbed her to the point of shaking. The news said the LAPD was swamped and that large swaths of the city were unpatrolled.

She couldn't trust them to keep her family safe.

"It's getting worse" she worried, "we should go."

Earlier, as she picked shards of glass from the back of Bobby's head and dabbed his wounds with alcohol, she told him about Lana's call and her own promise to fly home. She broached the subject of them all going, just until this blew over, but he talked her out of it. _It's happening in one neighborhood,_ he said, _it's not the end of the world. We're fine._ In the beginning, it _was_ in one area, but over the past half hour, fires popped up progressively further and further away from ground zero, spreading out through the night like a malignant ripple. Logic told her that Beverly Hills would be well policed and unrest stamped out mercilessly, but when it comes to the wellbeing of your children, logic isn't always good enough.

Bobby glanced down at Stephy, whose eyelids drooped heavily with coming sleep, then at Val; the little boy's chin lolled against his chest, his neck stretched at a painful angle. Bobby sighed. "If you think it's best."

"I do," Lola said instantly. "I don't want to chance staying here. Not with things the way the are." She jerked a nervous look over her shoulder as though the chaos would be right behind her, on fully display, but saw only peace.

Bobby shifted. "Alright." He stroked Stephy's hair. "You wanna go see Aunt Lana?"

She lifted her head and looked up at him with big, sleepy eyes. "Yeah, just let me get dressed." She got to her feet, staggered sleepily, and nearly fell but kept her balance.

"I'll pack," Lola said and rushed off.

A half hour later, they loaded their suitcases into Lola's car, then the kids, then fled into the night, driving northeast along US Route 2 away from the growing conflagration. Bobby gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, his face bathed in the sickly green glow emanating from the dash. The road winding through the rugged foothills stood empty and dark, so far removed from the madness that Lola could hardly believe it was happening only a relative few miles away. She turned the radio on and swept the dial up and down the band looking for news, but found none and settled for a station playing music. She sat back in her seat and stared out the window: The lights of L.A. were just visible in the far distance, and so, too, were the fires.

 _Damn I wish I was your lover  
I'd rock you till the daylight comes  
Make sure you are smiling and warm  
I am everything  
Tonight I'll be your mother_

"Mommy, are we there yet?" Stephy asked from the back.

Lola twisted around to see her. Val was asleep again, head limp against his shoulder. "No, honey, we have a _long_ way to go. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"I'll sleep when we get there."

In the opposite lane, a line of military vehicles passed on its way into the city, the last a troop transport with canvas sides that rippled crisply in the wind. Lola counted them - an even dozen.

 _Free your mind and you won't feel ashamed  
Open up gonna come inside  
Gonna fill you up  
Make you cry_

"They'll have it cleared up by morning," Bobby said confidently.

"Maybe," Lola said and hugged herself.

Or maybe…

...maybe they wouldn't.


	167. April and May 1992: Part 5

**Golden Guest: It would be exactly the same story whether it was the sin kids or random OCs. The canon characters here are more or less actors playing a role. The Vietnam vet, the ill-fated rock star, the anti-war radical. RITY is a story I was always going to write, I think, with or without The Loud House. Lemy would go to Vietnam the same as Lincoln, Lyra would have done the same things as Luna, etc. There may be superficial differences, but RITY would unfold largely the same in that universe as it has in this one.**

 **Everyone: The other day Raganoxer did a drawing of Alex which inspired Patanu to do one as well - since my last update, we've gone from zero Alex pics to two. You can check them out on my Facebook page. The last update didn't let me post the link even though there were spaces, so...just look Flagg1991 up on FB.**

* * *

On the morning of April 30, 1992, Clyde McBride absently watched the rain-swept streets of Albany pass from the back of his limousine, his hands resting in his lap and the corners of his lips turned down in a glower. Across from him, his new chief of staff, a fat man with rust colored hair named Eddie Kline, scanned a sheet of paper, his lips moving silently as he read. Normally, Clyde waited until he was at the state house before hearing the daily briefing, but today he wanted it as soon as possible given the situation in Los Angeles. The previous evening, following the Rodney King verdict, sporadic protests broke out in Harlem and the Bronx, but they remained largely peaceful, and the NYPD was able to handle the few instigators: Overnight, there were five arrests and one injury, which was a far, far better figure than Clyde expected when he woke.

His stomach gurgled, and he reached into his coat for the roll of Tums he'd taken to carrying. He popped three into his mouth and crunched them between his teeth, wincing at the bitter, chalky taste. In the wet window pane, his reflection was haggard - sleepless eyes, graying hair, sunken cheeks. He looked worried, but only because he was. Worried the ghettos of New York City would erupt in violence the way the ghettos in L.A. had, worried about the radio interview he had in less than an hour, worried about the ethics investigation he was currently facing...worried because he lied under oath about when his relationship with Carol Pingrey began.

When the investigation was first launched, he admitted to his affair, but told the committee that it started _after_ Carol became his assistant, not before. He did this because adding one's lover to the state payroll smacks of cronyism and impropriety, and confessing would have caused him more embarrassment and possible censure. He wished now that he hadn't, because the specter of his lie and the possibility of discovery cast a dark shadow over his every waking moment, but he panicked and colluded with his staff to cover up his earlier involvement with Carol. Five people besides him knew for certain that he was seeing Carol prior to March 1990...five people, five chances of betrayal. Each day he waited for the hammer to drop, for one of them to turn Judas and leak, but so far none had, and he was starting to allow himself hope that they wouldn't.

"So far, so good," Kline said. He sat back in his seat and took a deep breath. Clad in a dark suit accented by a light blue tie, he resembled a used car salesman, an illusion that belied his shrewd mind and quick wits. His former chief of staff, Tom Price, resigned in January, ostensibly to take over his father's law firm; he really did it to remove himself from scrutiny. Before leaving, he promised Clyde that he would keep his vow of secrecy, but Clyde wondered about him. Then again, he wondered about everyone - he fought hard to keep from giving into paranoia, but he felt it creeping in more and more every day. Sitting at his desk, the media camped on the front steps and the walls slowly closing in on him, he felt the way Nixon must have during his final days in the White House. He trusted no one, and the desire to know what people were saying about him was so great that he seriously considered bugging offices and tapping phones.

 _We can do it,_ Kline said one night in March. They were sitting in Clyde's office long after sundown, the shadows held at bay only by the feeble light of a green-shaded desk lamp. _I have a team of men we can rely on. They'll be in and out and no one will ever know._

Clyde, elbow propped on the desk and his chin resting in his hand, contemplated the idea very, very carefully before rejecting it. _It's not worth it._ If _it comes to light, I'll be done._

 _You're done in January anyway._

That was true, but two things stopped him: The probability of criminal charges and the stark realization that if he dug himself any deeper, his reputation would be ruined. When he first assumed the governorship in 1985, he prided himself on honesty and integrity, not on his image. Now, seven years later, he cared a little more about the latter than he liked to admit. Every man, every politician, leaves a legacy, and Clyde wanted his to be one of peace, strong leadership, and economic growth. That, above all else, was what lead him to lie to the committee: One little scandal, especially when pounded into the ground by one's political enemies, is all it takes to leave a man's prestige in tatters. Nixon, for example, would have gone down in history as one of the nation's better presidents if it weren't for Watergate. No one ever talks about him opening detente with China or creating the EPA, it's always that goddamn break-in.

He didn't want that for himself. He worked too long and too hard to watch himself be reduced to a single scandal blown out of proportion by politically-motivated Democrats.

Presently, the limo arrived at the statehouse, its wan, Gothic facade - wide stone steps, marble columns - once so grand, now reminded Clyde of a mausoleum. A security agent in a dark suit opened the door, and Clyde stepped out into the drizzle, followed by Kline. Inside, Clyde kept his gaze straight ahead and his face stony. In his office, he sat behind the desk while aides set up for the interview, one attaching a special microphone to his jacket and another testing the phone connection. Kline sat on a leather sofa, picked up the remote, and turned the TV on. A litany of devastation played on CNN: Burned out storefronts, smashed cars blocking city intersections, thieves streaming from a looted business. Clyde watched with growing anger, his hand curling into a fist on the desk. He, like a lot of people, was not entirely happy with the Rodney King verdict, but he was even more unhappy with the way vandals and thugs were using it as cover to perpetrate crimes. Yesterday, he, as many Americans, watched in shock and disgust as a man was pulled from his truck and nearly murdered on live TV. He was shocked and sickened just as he was when it happened to the Freedom Riders in Selma. What happened in L.A., what was continuing to happen even now, offended his morality and sense of justice - it turned his stomach and made his pulse pound with fury.

Since the previous afternoon, he'd been meditating on the events unfolding on the west coast, and on its root causes. Racial tension was a factor, yes, but there were other, more nefarious elements at play, like the man behind the curtain in _The Wizard of Oz._

The liberals.

It was always the liberals.

He took a deep breath that did little to relieve the dark weight pressing against his chest. An anchor intoned over images of lawlessness and fire from the bird's eye perspective of a helicopter. " _We are seeing extensive looting and vandalism across Los Angeles County this morning. The situation seems to have only gotten_ worse, _with reports of rioting coming in now from Hollywood Boulevard on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, an area that many assumed would be spared."_ L.A. spread out before the camera, blazes without number scattered across the screen.

An aide picked up the phone, dialed, and held it to his ear, then spoke to someone on the other end. He nodded then handed it to Clyde. "They'll be ready in just a minute, sir."

"Thank you," Clyde muttered without turning from the television. He took the phone and held it away from his ear as the aide rushed off, leaving him and Kline alone. They both stared at the screen in silence for a long time, Clyde's stomach roiling as he imagined the unrest spreading to NYC or even Albany. "What's this guy's name again?" Clyde asked of the interviewer.

"Rush Limbaugh," Kline said.

"He's one of ours?"

By _ours_ Clyde meant _Republican_. The last thing he wanted was a hostile no-name morning zoo radio hack with pretensions trying to make his name on ripping him apart. He assumed Limbaugh was friendly or else Kline wouldn't have given him access, but like the old Chuck Berry song says, you never can tell.

"Yep, he's one of ours," Kline said. He leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. "Got ten million listeners every day."

Clyde whistled, honestly impressed. In 1949, the FCC instituted the so-called Fairness Doctrine, which required broadcast license holders to present both sides of an issue. In 1987, President Reagan repealed it, and almost immediately, conservative talk radio skyrocketed in popularity while progressive programming languished, a state of affairs in which Clyde took immense satisfaction. Americans are, by and large, moderate with a slight rightward bent. Modern liberals were so far to the left that they might as well be in a different time zone. They were out of touch with the average voter and proud of it. They didn't _know_ they were out of touch, however, because they existed in a hermetically sealed echo chamber and honestly believed that their point of view was neigh on universal. Most musicians, actors, evening news hosts, writers, indeed, the captains of media and entertainment, are liberal. Almost all of the primetime TV shows contain, if you look hard enough, a liberal bias, as do the movies and the music. Liberals feel constantly validated, but they fail to understand that while they might hold prominent positions and effectively disseminate their message in large quantities, their opinions and values are _not_ shared by the heartland.

1992 was an election year, and President Bush stood a hell of a good chance of winning, especially given his boost in popularity following the successful defeat of Iraq in the Gulf War. A recession was on, however, that could potentially sink his campaign if the Democrats ran a more centrist candidate like Bill Clinton instead of a far left kook like Jesse Jackson. The extreme left, and the extreme right for that matter, cannot comprehend the fact that the majority of Americans are not beholden to one party or another, but instead gravitate toward the candidate they believe will better serve their interests - preaching to the choir rather than going out and witnessing to the gentiles is a fine way to lose an election indeed.

Momentarily, the line clicked and a man spoke. "Mr. Governor, are you there?"

"I'm here," Clyde confirmed and motioned for Kline to turn the TV down.

"Alright, I'm gonna put you through now. We are not live, this is being taped for later, so we can do another take if you aren't happy with the first. We do go on air in…" here he paused, and Clyde pictured him consulting a watch "...in two hours, so we are up against a deadline."

Clyde nodded resolutely. "Understood." Doing a second take _if he wasn't happy with the first_ and the implications thereof once would have struck him as prohibitively dishonest, but today he was endlessly grateful.

"Okay, you're going to Rush now."

The line went silent as the call was transferred, then clicked again. A voice - gravelling and braying - greeted him, and he winced. "Governor McBride, it's good to have you."

Kline bent over Clyde's shoulder to hear and splayed his fingers on the desk. Donning his warmest and most affable and conversational speaking voice, the one he used when addressing New Yorkers on TV and radio in times of peace and prosperity, Clyde said, "Thanks, Rush, it's good to be here."

"Now...your record as governor of New York speaks for itself in terms of the job you've done. Unemployment is half of what it was when you took office and the state budget is...is it balanced, governor? I can't remember off the top of my head."

In the 1988 election, Clyde promised a balanced budget by 1991. That was a goal he did not reach, and a sticking point with him. Democrats swept the state senate in '88 and staunchly opposed most of his spending cuts. In '90, he was forced into a compromise: Some cuts in exchange for raising taxes. That was _another_ sticking point, and he really hoped Limbaugh didn't bring it up. "Not quite," Clyde said, "but we're close. In my time as governor, we've added narly 24,000 jobs to the economy, strengthened the private sector, rolled back job killing regulations, and shrank the deficit tremendously."

"The way you handled the Tawana Brawley business was, to me, , I think...awesome, in the purest meaning of the word. You showed a level of restraint and professionalism that you just don't see in politics anymore. Everyone rushes to judgement but you waited until you had all the facts before going public with your belief that Tawana Brawley was _not_ assaulted the way she claimed to have been. You've proven yourself as a solid conservative leader and maybe even as a future presidential candidate." He drew the last three words out with a suggestive flourish. "Right now, you are being investigated by the New York ethics committee - which is all Democrat, folks, just so you know- for possible wrongdoing with regards to one of your interns."

Rush didn't continue, and Clyde was forced to acknowledge the statement. "Yes," he said.

"What's the deal with that?" Rush asked after waiting a moment. "I mean, the Dittoheads listening at home may or may not be familiar with the case or may not quite understand what exactly the, uh, the committee is looking for here."

 _Dittohead?_ What the hell did _that_ mean?

Taking a deep breath, Clyde glanced at Kline, who gave a slight nod. They rehearsed what he was going to say before leaving the governor's mansion, and again in the limo on the way over. "The committee is looking into possible financial improprieties on my part which they will not find. I've been open from day one about my relationship with...with the intern."

Here he stumbled, his face flushing with embarrassment. Carol had not been publicly named but probably would be once the committee released its final report following the investigation. After their relationship came to light, she resigned in December and took a job as weekend anchor at WGRZ, the NBC affiliate in Buffalo. He had not seen her since she left and had spoken to her by phone only three times, both of them deciding it would be best to hold off on communicating for the time being. Being apart from her after growing accustomed to falling sleep with her in his arms and her warm, fragrant hair in his nose was the hardest thing he'd ever done, and a very small part of him almost wished for impeachment so he could resign and go to her.

"The head of the committee, state senator Jerry Tell, a Democrat, charges that you were already in a relationship with the intern prior to adding her to your staff," Rush said. "That _could_ pose a sort of...conflict of interest, adding a loved one to the state rolls as -"

"There is none," Clyde boldly cut in. "There was no history of any kind between us when she was hired and during our...that time...no financial misdeeds took place."

He flicked his eyes to Kline, and Kline nodded again.

Rush cleared his throat. "What do you have to say to the people who claim your very, uh, relationship was wrong."

Before he responded, Clyde thought very carefully about what he was going to say. "Well...it's not illegal for two people to...to feel a certain way about one another, nor is it illegal, by and large, for them to act on those feelings, um, within reason. I am confident that the committee will turn up nothing, as there is nothing _to_ turn up.

"Would you characterize this as a politically motivated move by Democrats in your state?"

Again, Clyde thought very carefully before opening his mouth. Yes, he did, but saying so would make him look defensive and petulant - like he was deflecting blame from himself. "The committee," he said cautiously, "has a job to do and right now they're doing it. I am proud of their commitment to ensuring the people of New York get the best out of their elected leaders and I stand ready to cooperate fully and...and to do so in the public square. I have nothing to hide and that will eventually be shown."

Kline laid his hand on Clyde's shoulder and gave a heartened squeeze. _Good job, tiger, you knocked it out of the park._

Papers shuffled on Rush's end. "We wish you the best of luck, governor. You've done a great job in New York and...I think I speak for everyone when I say I'd love to see you on the field in '96."

"Maybe," Clyde said noncommittally. He was conflicted when it came to continuing his political career. Some days he thought he wanted to move Upstate, open a law practice in a small town, and live the rest of his life out of the public eye. Other days, he imagined himself running for president. "We'll see when that time comes."

Rush coughed. "Well, it was great - actually, before you go, I'm looking at the most, uh, recent news out of Los Angeles right now. There's looting and fires up and down Hollywood Blvd, very upscale area, I didn't expect to see anything up that way. At least not anything major like this. Mayor Bradley just...uh...it looks like he just widened the area under curfew and more guardsmen as well as highway patrolmen are being deployed into the city. Can, uh, can I get your opinion on what's happening out there?"

Clyde looked expectantly at Kline, and Kline shrugged. _Sure, what could it hurt?_ "Well, Rush," Clyde said, speaking slowly and buying himself time to organize his thoughts, "uh...what we are seeing in Los Angeles is, I think, ultimately the culmination of decades of failed liberal policies. Most of the unrest is occuring - or at least the worst of it - is occuring in black, inner city neighborhoods where crime and poverty are facts of life, and have been for generations. Compton, Watts, and places like them are traditional Democratic strongholds where one party holds the power, but nothing ever changes."

"So you think it's these lame liberal economic policies," Rush stated.

"Yes. Look, liberals have, for decades now, been pushing themselves as the savior of the black man. Election cycle after election cycle, we hear the same message from the Democratic Party - they tell black people that they are nothing in this country and that they will never go anywhere or be anything...unless they vote for them. They say _Everyone hates your guts except for me. I'm your friend. I'll go to bat for you._ They never follow through on those promises, however, and I honestly don't think they intend to. They just want votes. Come November, they get their votes and then forget that blacks even exist until the next time around. Blacks see their neighborhoods and their very lives in stasis, and they get angry. They feel cheated. The liberals, perhaps unknowingly in their pursuit of maintaining power, foster a defeatist mindset in the black community. They never point to someone like me and say, to schoolchildren, _you can be like him. You can make something of yourself._ They point to other white people and say _that guy there's a racist. He's going to keep you down. Only I can lead you to the promised land. All things are possible through me and government._ But they never _get_ to the promised land.

"In America, the only way there is through hard work, sacrifice, and self-accountability. Liberals tell blacks that the system is rigged against them, then fail to follow through on their vows to improve their lot. This leads to a sense of hopelessness and despair...then to resentment...and finally to anger and lashing out. Honestly, I think an upwardly mobile black middle class terrifies the Democratic Party, because once blacks start doing well and seeing that while racism does exist, they _can_ overcome it, they'll realize that they don't _need_ the Democrats anymore. Have you ever noticed that almost all of the left's efforts in courting black voters is somehow tied to race? Take that out of the equation, and what do they have to offer a black man in my position? Higher taxes? When a black man stops thinking as a black man and thinks instead as someone in the middle class, he'll see that the left does not serve his interests and will either stop voting period or vote for someone else instead."

Clyde shifted the phone to his other hand. "What's happening in L,A, is not right, and I'm not attempting to justify it, just to highlight where, I think, most of it is coming from. I myself am not happy with the verdict, I think those officers went overboard in their engagement with Rodney King. I don't think it happened because he was a black man...I think they got carried away and probably would have done the same to a white man under identical circumstances. Even so, blacks across the country saw four white men brutalizing a black man, lying on the ground, and then saw those same four white men being acquitted by a majority white jury. That was, if you ask me, the, uh, the fuse that set it all off."

The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. Talking about it out loud, wallowing in the injustice visited upon his people by a callous and power hungry political machine was beginning to make him angry, and the floodgates were dangerously close to bursting open. If they did, he might need that second take after all to make up for all the cursing. "If everyone out there looting right now registered to vote and actually _voted_ every single time, for president, congress, city council, and even dog catcher, blacks would become a force to be reckoned with overnight. We hold so much more power than we think we do, and the Democrats, I think...no, I know...the Democrats pray to whatever passes for their god that we don't figure it out, because once we do, we can sweep them away like _that_. No more could they make half-hearted platitudes or pay lip service: They would have to actually _do_ something, and if they prove that they _can't,_ their days in power are numbered."

He stopped and realized he was near to panting. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

On the other end, Rush didn't reply for a moment. "Governor, that might be the best analysis on the matter I've ever heard and I thank you for sharing it with us. If you _do_ decide to run in '96, I can assure you you picked up a few voters today."

"Thank you for letting me articulate that."

"You're welcome back anytime you wanna talk."

"I just might take you up on that."

When the call ended, Clyde sat the handset in the cradle and leaned back with a weary sigh, his hands resting limply on the arms of the chair. He glanced up at Kline, who patted his shoulder. "I say run."

Clyde snorted and shook his head. "I don't know if I want to."

And that was true, he didn't know if he wanted to run for president…

...but now, he wasn't sure if he _didn't_ want to either.

* * *

Jessy turned onto Wyman and stiffened: Cars lined either curb, packed so dense their bumpers touched, and big groups of people made their way across before joining the already massive crowd milling on the commons. Over their heads, she could just make out a stage facing away from the main building. Her heartbeat quickened and her fingers curled tight around the wheel - she wasn't all that nervous before, but she sure was now. She figured there would be a lot of people, but ohmygod...it was her high school graduation times ten and multiplied by twenty...then multiplied again just for the heck of it.

A car honked behind her, and she jumped with a start. In the passenger seat, Alex looked around in wonder. She noticed the fear in Jessy's eyes, and glanced away. "Wow, not many people here, huh? Kind of a disappointing turnout."

Jessy tapped the gas and favored her sister with furrowed brows.

"It's next to no one," Alex continued. "Like...I've seen livelier graveyards."

Ahead, a Fleetwood stopped to allow a gang of girls to cross. Jessy applied the brake and fought hard not to turn her head and take in all the dozens, nay, hundreds of people surrounding the stage. If she did, she'd tumble into an endless chasm of jagged teeth, dead, reaching hands, and spiders...so, so many spiders. "I thought this place was gonna be packed. Guess I was wrong. First time for everything, right?"

Jessy shot Alex a dirty look. "Are you trying to make me feel better...or are you mocking me? It feels like you're mocking me."

"Make you feel better," Alex said earnestly. Her brown eyes were free of deception and her forehead smooth with honesty.

The Fleetwood pulled forward, and Jessy pressed the gas again with a contrite sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm just...I don't like crowds. They make me uncomfortable."

"I know," Alex said, her tone remaining sober, "but you're gonna do great just like the last time." She flashed a big, encouraging smile and patted Jessy's leg. Jessy returned the smile despite herself and followed the Fleetwood down the street, looking left and right for a place to park. In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of Uncle Lincoln's Oldsmobile and, behind it, the faintest suggestion of Fred's pick-up truck.

In the back seat, Blake, strapped into a forward facing car seat, noisily sucked Coca-Cola through a straw and gazed serenely out the window, the remnants of his Happy Meal strewn across his lap. Before he was born, Jessy forbid eating or drinking in her car, but then he came along and, well, things changed: Maybe someone else could deny their nephew the joys of a Happy Meal or a bag of chips, but not her. Alex was good about cleaning up after him...and herself. _You let_ him _eat in the car,_ she said once. They stopped at 7-11 for gas, and Alex went in to pay; when she came out, she had a bag of pretzels in one hand for Blake...and a giant hot dog loaded with ketchup, mustard, relish, and onions for herself in the other. _That's different!_ Jessy cried and gestured at Alex's 'snack.' _Look at that thing, it's dripping!_ Alex waved her off, then went she went to take a bite...all of the toppings slid off and plopped to the floor. _Oops._ Jessy just glared...then made her clean it up when they got home.

"It's not that I'm nervous about something going wrong," Jessy said now. The Fleetwood pulled into a spot between a Chevy and a Pinto, and she stopped to wait. "It's just...I hate being the center of attention."

Alex nodded understandingly. "I felt the same way at the wedding. It was pretty awful."

Blake finished his Coke and dropped the empty cup onto the floor, then whipped his head away from the window and kicked his legs. " _Mama!"_ he cried breathily, and Alex turned in her seat.

"What?" Alex replied just as breathily.

He strained against the straps and bared his teeth as if proud of their development and wanting to show off. "Did you eat all your food?"

" _Fuhd!"_

The Fleetwood _finally_ made it into its spot and Jessy rolled her eyes. You're worse at parallel parking than me. She toed the gas and looked around for a spot. "I mean, I'll get through it," she said, talking more to herself than to Alex. Talking out loud helped her work through her emotions sometimes. "It's not like I'm crippled or anything, I just don't like it."

"Nothing wrong with that," Alex cooed to Blake. Jessy _thought_ she was actually talking to her, but couldn't be sure. "Lots of people don't like crowds. No they don't." She leaned forward and dug her fingers into Blake's squishy stomach; the little boy thrashed and shrieked laughter.

Jessy took a deep breath. Even now, after seeing how many people were gathered to watch, she was nowhere near as nervous as she was when she graduated high school. Then, she was frozen like a deer in the headlights, but now she was just filled with dread. Big improvement. "I'll be fine," she said and nodded confidently.

"Of course you will," Alex babytalked, "you're a big, brave girl. Yes you are."

Jessy's brow furrowed and she looked into the rearview mirror. Blake looked just as confused as she felt. "You're right," Jessy grinned, "I am a big -"

Her words cut off when she caught sight of the van parked to her left. A big blue 4 was painted on the side and above it was a distinctive rainbow peacock logo. Jessy's heart bounced. "Is that Channel 4?"

Alex turned just as they passed. A woman in a blue blazer and skirt combo stood under a tree, a man facing her with a camera rig on his shoulder. Jessy's jaw dropped in horror and Alex hummed curiously. "I didn't know the news covered college graduations." She swatted Jessy's shoulder. "Lucky dog, you're gonna be on TV in front of thousands of people and...oh, wait, that's a bad thing."

A fearful tremble quivered through Jessy's body. Okay, a large crowd was one thing, but television coverage? She started to hyperventilate and clutched the wheel to keep from being swept into a full-blown panic attack. Alex turned around, planted her butt in her seat, and laid her hand on Jessy's shoulder. Jessy forced herself to take slow, even breaths and nodded as if to say _I'm okay_ even though she wasn't; her flushed, nervous face and was going to be beamed into every living room in the Detroit metro area and a million people would see her and laugh...or roll their eyes at how pathetic she was. _Look at that girl over there, the one shaking like a leaf...what a dork. She sticks out like a sore thumb._

The car behind them beeped, and Jessy realized she wasn't moving. She took another breath and pressed on the gas. "You're getting yourself worked up for nothing," Alex said.

"But the news -"

"Pfft, no one watches that. Like three people are going to see you _if_ you even wind up on camera...which you probably won't. And if you _do,_ it's going to be one of those long shots just to show people what's going on. _Look, that girl's getting her awesome degree, cool, huh?_ "

Jessy spotted an empty space ahead to the right and guided the Beetle in. She killed the engine, sat back, and held her hands to the sides of her head. Her heart slammed furiously and her stomach spun like a merry-go-round on drugs - she felt dizzy, sick, and suddenly angry all at once: She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn't help it, and that made it even worse. She was almost twenty-two-years-old and verging on hysteria because she was 'nervous.' How exactly did she expect to teach again? You have to stand in front of your students, Jess; they have to look at you, you can't hide behind your desk like a soldier in a trench and shout the lesson from cover.

Well, that's different, they're kids and there aren't thousands of them -

No it's not. Get a grip and stop being a baby.

She took a deep, shivery breath and nodded; berating herself, strangely, always made her feel a little better.

Alex watched with concern, and Jessy spared her a quick glance before looking away again, her cheeks burning with shame. "I'm okay," she said thickly, "I'm fine, I'll get through this." She heaved another breath and uncurled her fingers from the wheel.

"Of course you will," Alex said and threw the door open, "you're Jessica Danielle Loud - teacher extraordinaire. You can get through anything." She got out and went around to the drive side to get Blake. Jessy sat where she was for a moment, then followed suit, grabbing the gym bag with her cap and gown in it.

The day was warm and breezy, the thin layer of trees screening the commons from the sidewalk stirring with a faint, rustling whisper. Jessy crossed her arms protectively and scanned the quad, her eyes darting from one person to another to another. She recognized a great many of them; they all looked gay and buoyant, and why wouldn't they be? This was their big day - all of their hard work was finally paying off and they stood poised on the precipice of a bright and promising future.

Then there was her. Quivering, blushing, struggling to breathe through an ever tightening throat. Why couldn't she be like them? Why couldn't she just relax and enjoy herself? This was supposed to be a happy occasion...and she was ruining it for herself.

She pursed her lips and wondered, for the billionth time, if she should see a doctor about her anxiety. She'd been considering it off and on for years, but kept putting it off because she was afraid they'd find something horribly wrong with her, but that was just the anxiety talking - fighting desperately to preserve itself like an animal backed into a corner.

Maybe it was time she made an appointment.

Little good that did he _now,_ though.

Alex pulled Blake out of the car with a grunt, closed the door with her hip, and sat him on his feet, then took his hand. She stood next to Jessy and leaned forward to see down the street. "Wonder where Dad parked. I don't - oh, there he is." Jessy followed her gaze and saw Uncle Lincoln, Auntie Ronnie Anne, Fred, her mother, and Grandma approaching on the opposite sidewalk, Mom holding Grandma's hand. The women wore dresses and Uncle Lincoln a white polo shirt with black pants, which was the closest he ever came to dressing up outside of funerals and weddings. "Over here!" Alex yelled and waved.

Uncle Lincoln saw her and waved back.

"Come on, Jessy-a-less," Alex said, "you got a degree to get." She started across the street and Jessy followed. Yes, she _did_ have a degree to get...a degree she worked four long years for. If she focused on that and on where it would take her instead of all the people, she'd be fine.

She, Alex, and Blake met the others in the shade of an oak tree. Blake pulled away from his mother and todded over to Auntie Ronnie with his arms out and a big, cheesy smile plastered to his face. She grinned, bent over, and scooped him up. "Hi," she cooed, then frowned. "There's a French fry stuck in your hair." She pulled it out and tossed it aside.

"Come here, dear," Grandma said and held her free arm out. Jessy went over and they hugged. "I'm proud of you. Graduating high school is a _very_ good thing."

Jessy didn't have the heart to correct her.

Next, Mom hugged her tightly, then held her at arm's length. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and Jessy squirmed uncomfortably. "I'm proud of you too," Mom said.

"Thanks."

Uncle Lincoln patted her on the shoulder and looked around. "Looks like standing room only." He glanced worriedly at Grandma. "You alright standing, Mom?"

"Oh, I can stand," Grandma said.

Jessy looked at her watch. It was 9:45 and the ceremony started at 10:00. "I better go get ready," she said, her voice hitching with reluctance.

"We'll be...somewhere," Uncle Lincoln said uncertainly. "You'll see us."

Jessy hesitated for a moment, then nodded awkwardly and set off toward the building, figuring she'd change in one of the bathrooms. She weaved in and out of people, her eyes firmly on her feet, then went in through a side door. The hall stood long and empty, sunlight gleaming in puddles on the tile floor. She went into the ladies room next to the office and into the last stall because it was bigger than the rest; she shut the door behind her, turned the lock, and, finally alone, let out a pent-up breath.

She could do this. Just smile, walk across the stage, and take her degree, same as high school. Don't look at the audience, don't dwell, and don't worry - she was a normal girl doing a normal thing in a normal fashion.

Right.

She took her gown out of the bag and slipped it over her clothes. Alex said that when she was walking down the aisle to marry Tim, she was afraid she'd step on the hem of her dress and either fall or rip it completely off. _Then everyone would see my underwear_. Jessy didn't have to worry about either of _those_ things, thank God; not only was she wearing her normal clothes underneath, but she also hemmed the gown so that it stopped halfway down her calves. It might look a _little_ silly, but there was absolutely no danger of tripping, so it was worth it.

Done, she unlocked the door and walked to the sink, where she examined her reflection: Despite the tempest raging within, she _looked_ fine. A little peaked maybe, but not like the nervous wreck she feared. "Just like high school, Jess," she sighed.

In the hall, she slipped out the side door and went around the side of the building where the other graduates were beginning to line up. When their name was called, they would walk around the corner, climb the steps to the platform, accept the key to their future, then go down another set of stairs and into adulthood. Jessy took her place at the end of the queue, fished her cap out of the bag, and pulled it on, the little tassel brushing the tip of her nose. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, and moved it to the side.

Someone leaned against the wall next to her and she jerked her head around. "I overslept," Tonya said and yawned. She stared off toward the overfull parking lot, the black hair sticking out from beneath her cap an uncombed tangle. "Almost didn't come."

"This is _not_ the day to skip," Jessy said. She smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her gown, and the movement brought the tassel swinging back. She pushed it aside.

Tonya shrugged one shoulder. "They can just mail it to me." She looked left and right. "Have you seen Michelle?"

Jessy shook her head. "No, I just got here."

A loud, amplified voice greeted the audience from the stage, and Jessy took a deep, fortifying breath. This was it, the ceremony was starting and in a few short minutes, she'd be in front of a great multitude...in her hemmed up gown...looking like a dork and _possibly_ like a trembling little mouse as well.

When someone spoke from her other side, she started. "You would _not_ believe the traffic," Michelle said. She dug in her purse, eyes on her hands, then pulled out a tube of lipstick.

"I had to park, like, half a mile away," Tonya said. "I'm probably gonna get towed." She chuckled and brushed her bangs away from her eyes. "I'm so tired."

"Up all night with your boyfriend?" Michelle asked with a playful inflection.

Tonya sniffed. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Alright, the guy you picked up at random last night," Michelle amended.

A warm breeze caressed Jessy's face, and she closed her eyes. Her stomach clumsily rocked and reeled like Alex trying to dance and tension raked her soft, beating heart with steely, jagged claws. She drew a long breath through her nose and pushed it out in a slow, even puff. "You know," Tonya said thoughtfully, "I've never met a man yet who can go all night. The second load's the finale _if_ you're lucky."

"Oh, you're so gross," Michelle gagged.

As she waited her turn, Jessy entertained happy thoughts to distract herself from the worry gnawing in the center of her chest. Mark was graduating next week, and with both of them out of school, they could move in together. They both needed jobs first, of course, but hopefully they could find something fairly easy; tomorrow, she was going to apply at Royal Woods Elementary and _maybe_ at Oak Hills Elementary in Elk Park, then she was going to talk to Uncle Lincoln about possibly working at Flip's in the meantime. He offered her a job whenever she wanted it, but she never took him up on it because the idea of waitressing scared her. She wasn't very good with talking to people she didn't know (she could do it, it just made her uncomfortable), and she was nowhere near graceful enough to carry multiple plates and glasses at one time; she'd drop something and then die of embarrassment.

She couldn't just sit at home, though; she was a grown woman now and out of school, she needed a job.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the dean called her name, and her heartbeat sped up. Okay, Jess, just like high school. "Break a leg," Tonya said.

"Thanks."

Standing straight, Jessy went around the corner and walked to the steps, face forward and eyes down. She could sense a teeming mass to her left - could feel a thousand sets of eyes boring into her - but ignored it and focused all of her attention on putting one foot in front of the other and not falling. At the bottom of the steps she hesitated like a woman preparing to take a plunge, then went up.

At the top, the dean waited with her degree and a friendly smile. He handed it to her and they shook. The audience filled her phiphery and she spared it a hurried glance. "Congratulations and good luck," the dean said.

"Thank you," she replied.

She went down the steps on the opposite side of the platform and, at the bottom, broke out in a sunny, self-satisfied smile. There, you did it.

 _But can you do adulthood?_

Her smile fell a little, then returned.

"Only one way to find out," she told herself, and went off to see.

* * *

Throughout the morning of April 30, unrest spread through Los Angeles County like cancer in a body. The first creeping rays of dawn revealed Hollywood Boulevard in upheaval, the fashionable storefronts lining the broad lane smashed, plundered, and, in some cases, aflame. Fire trucks under police protection responded to a fire at the Hollywood Wax Museum and found the sidewalk littered with the broken likenesses of stars past and present: Clark Gable face down and missing his arms; Marilyn Monroe stripped of the iconic white dress she wore in _The Seven Year Itch_ and spray painted with gang signs; John Wayne as a cowboy with a stick rammed into his rear end; and Charlie Chaplin with a swastika carved into his forehead - someone apparently mistook him for Adolf Hitler. The firefighters connected a hose to an open hydrant and battled the blaze while LAPD officers impotently glared at looters one block over - they were under strict orders to not engage unless engaged first, and could only stand by as mobs made off with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of high end merchandise.

Additional officers patrolled the outskirts of Beverly Hills, home of the rich and famous - some clashes occurred along the border, but the area within remained silent and still, the streets eerily deserted as actors, producers, and musicians cowered in their homes

By noon, riots had engulfed Inglewood, Hawthorne, and Long Beach - hundreds of fires dotted the city and dense black smoke filled the sky like a vision of Judgement Day. Flights into LAX were delayed, rerouted, or canceled altogether, and major freeway exits were sealed off to prevent hapless motorists from bumbling into the chaos. Two thousand National Guardsmen and nearly as many officers from the California Highway Patrol entered L.A. over the course of the afternoon, their arrival heralded by a line of olive green and desert brown Humvees rolling down Santa Monica Boulevard, where stalled cars littered the street and looters slithered through wreckage like writhing maggots over the corpse of consumer capitalism.

The hardest hit area on the second day of the uprising was Koreatown, a neighborhood west of MacArthur Park encompassing 150 blocks spanning from Arlington Heights in the south to Oakwood and the Hollywood Freeway in the north and northeast respectively. In the first hours of the crisis, vandals streamed in from neighboring South Central and, recalling the shooting death of black teenager Latasha Harlins by a Korean store owner the previous year, exacted blind and especially brutal vengeance on anything and anyone in their path. Police units quickly withdrew and left the district's business owners to fend for themselves...which they did, some taking to the roofs of their shops with guns and others firing at looters. In one incident, TV cameras recorded as the owner of a strip mall and his manager, frustrated by the lack of police protection and by watching their livelihoods picked away at, opened fire on looters, driving them away. Moments later, a car load of black men pulled up catercorner and returned fire, leading to an open gun battle later broadcast into millions of homes across the country.

Elsewhere, the owners of a Korean supermarket, aided by armed volunteers from the community, blocked the front of their store with cars and shopping carts and took perched on roof, equipped with pistols, carbine rifles, shotguns, and baseball bats, anything they could use to defend themselves. They engaged a group of looters just before 1 in a shootout that left several injured and one of their numbers dead from friendly fire; their presence and tenacity deterred further attacks.

At 3pm, President Bush addressed the press from the White House briefing room. " _...we must maintain a respect for our legal system and a demand for law and order."_ He went on to say, " _...in the American conscious, there is no room for bigotry and racism,"_ and, " _I want everyone to know that the federal government will continue to pursue its legal responsibilities in this case."_ The previous year, Bush said of the Rodney King beating, " _What I saw made me sick,. it's sickening to see the beating that was rendered. There's no way in my view to explain it away. It was outrageous."_

Shortly after his speech, the Justice Department announced that it was resuming its investigation into whether or not the four officers violated federal civil rights laws when they beat Rodney King.

Looting continued through the night, the darkened streets lit by the orange glow of unchecked blazes like funeral pyres. The next morning, May 1, the sun rose on scenes of ruin as National Guardsmen in full battle gear marched through Compton as though it were enemy territory. Schools and many businesses remained closed, and mail carriers again avoided many of the harder hit neighborhoods, forcing welfare and disability recipients to report to post offices - lines stretched for blocks, many in them sporting fresh new kicks and threads picked up on "discount."

Mid-morning, Rodney King gave a tearful and stammering press conference from the steps of his lawyer's office in Beverly Hills. " _I just wanna say, you know, can we...can we all get along? C-Can we get along?"_

That afternoon, President Bush spoke directly to the nation from the Oval Office. Around the same time he started, Lincoln Loud pulled out of the parking lot of Flip's and started home, a cigarette jutting from his lips. He _was_ listening to the oldies station, but when he heard Bush, he turned it off - he was sick of hearing about Rodney fucking King and Los fucking Angeles. That's all anyone had been talking about for days, and it had him so mixed up he told someone he hoped LA went to jail and Rodney King burned to the ground.

At an intersection, a group of black people held handwritten signs aloft for all passing motorists to see: JUSTICE FOR RODNEY KING; NO RACISM, NO BIGOTRY; NO MORE KKKOPS. Lincoln ignored them, but someone passing on the cross-street didn't - they stuck their head out the passenger window and called a hearty, "Fuck you, nigger!"

One of the protesters, a fat black woman with flabby arms, lifted a middle finger without so much as a flicker of emotion, and a man in a baseball cap cupped his hands to his mouth and returned the greeting with an affable, "Peckerwood faggot!"

Good to see people heeding Rodney King's plea to get along with each other. At home, he parked next to Ronnie Anne's Rivera and killed the engine. He went to roll the window up, and froze when he saw Benson the St. Bernard squatting next to the rose bush under the living room window, turds dropping from his ass like bombs from a B-52. Lincoln couldn't be sure, but he thought the bastard was _grinning_ at him. Luckily he didn't carry a gun in his car anymore, otherwise Benson would become BEEN-son.

He cracked a smile and chuckled at his own genius, the outrage forming in his chest blowing away like a puff of smoke on a warm wind. He threw the door opened and climbed out; Benson, realizing the jig was up, turned tail and ran back into his yard, his fat, furry butt wiggling in a way that Lincoln couldn't help find mocking. He drew a deep breath through his nose and winced at the nostril pinching reek of fresh dog shit. Benson sat just on the other side of the property line, watching. Lincoln met his eyes and gave him the dirtiest look he could. Benson growled deep in the back of his throat, and Lincoln did the same, leaning slightly forward in the most universal gesture of belligerence he could muster. Benson shifted like he was thinking about getting up, and, holding his hand out, palm up, Lincoln wiggled his fingers. _Bring it._

The standoff continued for a long, tense moment before a screen door slammed open and Benson's owner appeared, a tall, lanky boy about thirteen with messy brown hair and arrogant features, his perpetually half-lidded eyes and contemptuous grin putting Lincoln in mind of a prep school snob who thought his shit didn't stink. He wore dark blue Chuck Taylor All-Stars, ripped jeans, and a red and black plaid shirt over a black T. He looked like a bum and probably smelled like one too.

In other words, he was a disrespectful little punk and Lincoln didn't like him.

Swaggering over like big man on campus, the boy dropped to his knees next to Benson and ruffled his dirty, matted fur. He sensed Lincoln and looked up; a knowing smile crept across his freckled, acne studded face and he tossed a lank spill of hair from his eyes. "Hey, Mr. Loud," he said in that sleepy, slacker way of his that did little to conceal his smug disdain.

"Hi, Chandler," Lincoln said shortly, "your dog crapped on my lawn again."

Chandler's frown was so coerced it might as well have had a gun pressed to its back. "Oh, I'm real sorry, Mr. Loud," he said, his tone dripping with insincerity. "He just...got out." He turned to Benson during the pause and favored the dog with a faux-stern expression that would have qualified for a Razzie if you put it in front of a camera. "You're a bad boy," he cooed and vigorously rubbed the dog's neck, "no more pooping in Mr. Loud's yard."

Instead of shooting the dog, maybe Lincoln would just shoot the owner; he made a more deserving target anyway. "Don't let it happen again," Lincoln grumbled and turned away.

"Yes, sir," Chandler said. Lincoln's eyes went to the boy's reflection in the car window just as he raised his middle finger.

Yeah, if anyone was getting blown away, it was gonna be Chandler - kid needed a trip to Vietnam stat. A few months in country has a way of cleaning up even the worst attitude.

Shaking his head and wondering where in Royal Woods he could dump a body with minimal chances of being caught, Lincoln went inside. Jessy sat against the arm of the couch in a fall of ambient lamplight with her legs under her and her arms folded. The smells and sounds of cooking drifted from the kitchen, and Lincoln's stomach rumbled. "Hi," Jessy said as he passed.

"Hey, hun," he said and dropped into his chair with a sigh. On TV, Tim sought advice from Wilson over the fence. Wilson, Lincoln gathered, existed as only half a head, and always seemed to be peeking into Tim's yard when Tim needed him. Guy was probably a registered peeping tom with a thing for white middle class families. _C'mere, Zachary Taylor Thomas, it's tool time..._

Ronnie Anne appeared in the threshold wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "I'm gonna kill that punk next door," Lincoln remarked.

"What'd he do _this_ time?"she asked with a long-suffering eyeroll.

Lincoln grabbed the paper from his table and slipped on his reading glasses. "I caught his goddamn dog shitting in the yard again. Then, he came out and I told him to make sure it didn't happen again. When I looked away, he flipped me off."

Ronnie Anne snorted humorlessly and shook her head. "How'd you see him flip you off if your back was turned?" Jessy asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"I saw his reflection in the window," Lincoln said and opened the paper. A big black and white photo of a black man throwing a rock at a burning building while LAPD officers looked on met him, and his mood darkened even more. This crap _again?_ He hoped LA did hard time and Rodney King became his own country so normal people didn't have to worry about him anymore.

"Oh," Jessy said, then shuddered. "He's a little creep. He always looks at me when I go outside."

Ronnie Anne cocked her head. "Aww," she said teasingly, "he has a crush."

Face puckering, Jessy shook her head in disgust, her ponytail cracking from side to side like a rust colored whip.

Lincoln chuckled and turned to the sports section, but even that provided no respite from the L.A. Riots: The L.A. Lakers moved their game against the Portland Trailblazers to Las Vegas, the Clippers moved a game to Anaheim, and that wasn't all - someone called Guns and Roses and that Michael Bolton guy Ronnie Anne liked but claimed not to both canceled concerts in L.A. Lots of lost revenue there - that'll be a real shot in the arm for all those economically depressed neighborhoods. Good work, guys. Maybe you can come work your magic on Flip's.

Wait a minute...did his insurance cover riots? If so, a little racial tension might be just the thing his business needed. Maybe he could get that "nigger" and his "peckerwood" buddy together, you know, invite them to dinner without telling them the other was coming. With any luck, Flip's would be a looted pile of char in no time.

Yeah...knowing _his_ luck, they'd put aside their differences, renovate the place, and charge him an arm and a leg for labor.

He took a deep breath, and the scent of food was heavier now. "What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Pork roast," Ronnie Anne said. She leaned against the wall, casually crossed her arms, and stared at the TV - Tim and his trusty sidekick Al traded witty, well-scripted one liners on the set of their hit show _Tool Time_. Al, fat with a beard and mustache, reminded Lincoln of someone he'd known at some point, but he could never place it, and if he watched too long, it started to bug him, like a word dancing mockingly on the tip of his tongue. He flipped to Dear Abby and scanned the first letter. _Dear Abby, I am a middle aged professional woman...an amazing man, handsome, intelligent, funny, loving, financially stable...under six feet tall, which is a problem for me. Am I being unreasonable?_

Abby's response made Lincoln laugh out loud.

 _Yes._

That was all. Nothing else. Of all the crap in the paper, her liked her column the best - she gave good advice and didn't bullshit around. When he first started reading her, he assumed she was some kind of new wave feminist or something, but no, she stood for traditional values and tore into women like the _middle age professional_ without mercy.

"What?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"Dear Abby," he said and swatted the paper with the back of his hand. "You can have Carson, I'll take her."

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "Carson's old and wrinkly like you." She smiled smugly. "I'd go for Letterman."

It took Lincoln a second to remember who the hell Letterman was, and when he did, he cringed so hard his back popped. "His face looks like a bowl of oatmeal someone left in the microwave too long."

Ronnie Anne burst out laughing and Jessy looked mildly perplexed. "You're an idiot," Ronnie Anne said.

"I don't see how you came up with that," Jessy said haltingly, as though she were still trying to figure it out even as she spoke.

To be honest, he didn't either; he said the first thing that occurred to him.

"He's a lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, as though that explained everything, "that's how."

She went to go finish dinner, and Lincoln finished with Dear Abby, then moved onto the funnies. You know, he'd come to realize something over the past thirty years. Music, fashion, and the president might all change, but the comics never do. Beetle Bailey was still slacking off in basic, Dagwood still pounded down mile high sandwiches, and Charlie Brown remained a goddamn loser who couldn't get ahead. Nothing on earth stays the same except for newspaper comics - you can count on them like you can the sunrise. He'd been reading the same dozen strips since Dwight D. Eisenhower was in office, and he'd be reading the same damn ones in the year 2020.

He was just finishing with _Peanuts_ (still falling for that goddamn football trick, Chuck? It's getting hard to feel sorry for you, kid) when Ronnie Anne called out that dinner was ready. Lincoln folded the paper, laid it on the table, and got up, Jessy following.

At the table, Lincoln sat and watched Ronnie Anne making his and Jessy's plates at the stove. When they were first married, she was a lousy cook - if they didn't live with his parents, they probably would have starved to death. Unfortunately, he was even worse, so it fell to her to improve or else they'd _never_ have a decent meal. After twenty-five years' practice, she was almost as good as Mom, though her roasts always came out a little dry.

Presently, she brought the plates over and sat one in front of each of them, then made one for herself and sat. Lincoln studied his food as though he _didn't_ know what to expect: Roast, carrots, potatoes, and onions, same as always.

Just how he liked it.

Picking up his fork, he carved a potato in half and shoveled it into his mouth. Jessy took a bite of pork and covered her mouth with one hand as she chewed, a long-standing habit that Lincoln had normalized to the point that he no longer noticed...for that matter, she probably didn't either. _I don't like people looking at my mouth when I eat,_ she told him when she was a little girl, _it's embarrassing._ Alex, on the other hand, chewed with her mouth wide open and carelessly sprayed bits of food like a firehose. Sometimes he was tempted to ask her why she couldn't be more like her sister (in jest, of course), but that didn't seem right to him, so he never did.

"How was your day?" Ronnie Anne asked Jessy.

Jessy swallowed. "Good."

"What'd you do?"

Lincoln forked a carrot into his mouth. He never liked raw carrots, but he loved them cooked. With broccoli, it was the opposite - he hated it cooked but really liked it raw. It might be strange, but he liked raw corn on the cob too. Every time Ronnie Anne bought a bunch for dinner, she always picked up an extra one for him to munch on as he waited. Alex thought it was the grossest thing ever and refused to try it when he offered, but Jessy was more open minded. She didn't like it, now, but at least she put in the effort.

"I applied to the elementary school," she said, then to Lincoln, "do you still need help at Flip's?"

A couple months ago, as Jessy's graduation approach, he offered her a job. He didn't demand that she work before getting into a school, but he figured she'd like the money and that it might be good for her to have the experience. As it stood now, she never held a job and Lincoln was just a _little_ worried that she wouldn't be fully prepared when she finally found a teaching position. They say jumping right in is best, but they're a bunch of dumbasses, it's always better to _ease_ in, that way it's less of a shock to the system.

"I always need help at that garbage heap. You want a job?"

She hesitated just a tick, then nodded. "I can start whenever you need me."

Lincoln went through the schedule in his head, mentally looking for an opening - aside from Alex and Luan, he had three other waitresses. If he had to take hours from one of them, he would (fuck you, family comes first), but he didn't particularly _want_ to. "How about Monday?" he asked. He'd give Luan Monday and Tuesday off - he doubted she'd mind giving up her hours for Jessy, and if she did, tough shit. Her days at Flip's were pretty much numbered anyway - Mom was getting bad enough that he didn't like the thought of her being home alone during the day, and Luan already mentioned quitting so she could stay with her. God knows Luan didn't need the money - Mom had more than enough of it to go around.

Yeah, tomorrow, he'd talk to her about it.

"That sounds good," Jessy said evenly, but could not hide the flicker of anxiety in her eyes. Part of the reason he chose Monday was because it was the slowest day of the week. All the days were slow now, but Monday was a river of frozen molasses on a February day in the Arctic: He'd have Alex work with her as extensively as she could and, come Tuesday, she'd hopefully be ready for primetime.

"Alright," he said and took a bite, "Monday it is."


	168. April and May 1992: Part 6

**Golden Guest: I am absolutely not a fan of the Christian Lyra trope, but I can see her naturally and realistically developing faith after her experiences in the music industry. However, when I first started this story, I decided that Luna would be something of a Janis Joplin figure. I would have done the same exact thing if her name was Lyra instead.**

 **Guest: Not a huge Eagles fan - I like some of their stuff - but yeah, it is a glaring omission given their mainstream popularity, especially during the seventies.**

Lola Santiago woke on the morning of May 2 with a sore neck and an aching back, the unmistakable rattle of a coffee pot worming through the fog in her head like weary groans of protest. _Too early...drink something else...leeme lone._ She pried her gummy eyelids apart and winced at the harsh white light emanating from the kitchen. She blinked, and the scene swam into focus. Jed stood at the counter waiting for his brew and holding Joy; she stared over his shoulder and darted her eyes inquisitively around the room, reminding Lola of a hungry woman standing indecisively at a buffet and unsure where to start. The chicken? The rice? Ooooh, it all looks so good. Running her fingers through her hair, Lola shifted to one side, realized with a start that she was perched precariously on the edge, and grabbed hold of the mattress to keep herself from falling. Next to her, Stephy, flat on her back, thrashed her head back and forth but did not wake. On the little girl's other side, Val lay curled up next to his father, who backed up against the precipice much like Lola.

When Lana first showed them the pull out couch, Lola seriously doubted four people could fit on it, even if two of them _were_ small children. _Sure you can,_ Lana said confidently when Lola voiced her concern.

They made it work, but between the space limitations and the thin, lumpy mattress, it wasn't particularly comfortable. Lola, for her part, didn't mind that aspect as much as she would normally: It was nearly midnight when they got in, and she was so exhausted from the trip that she'd have slept in the bathtub. From the way Stephy and Val both fell asleep the moment their heads touched their pillows, she didn't think they minded either. Lola had made the journey between L.A. and Bristol by car at least a half dozen times over the years, but she always forgot just how taxing it was.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb everyone else, Lola slipped out of bed and stretched, muscles she didn't even know she had twinging with pain. She wore a modest red and green flannel nightgown that made her itch and was almost as uncomfortable as the bed. At home, she slept in just a T-shirt and panties, and anything else irritated her.

She went around the foot of the bed and into the kitchen. Joy saw her and her jerky movements ceased like flipping a switch, her little smile dropping warily. She, like everyone else but Lana, was asleep when Lola and Bobby arrived. When Lana opened the door, her face fell much like Joy's. _What happened?_ she gasped at Bobby's face.

 _I cut myself shaving,_ he quipped. Lana favored him with a blank stare. _Boy, you're full of shit. Didja have an accident?_ She got down on her knees and worriedly checked Val and Stephy for injuries, then, on finding none, fixed Lola with a stern expression that demanded answers. _I'll tell you in the morning,_ Lola said, _we're all very tired_.

The last time she saw Joy, she was a tiny pink newborn wrapped in a blanket and resembling a puppy. Now she was bigger with a white headband around her bald cranium, a jaunty little flower centered over her brows - so heart stoppingly adorable that Lola couldn't help grinning and reaching out to pinch her chubby cheek despite the infant's obvious unease. "Hi," Lola cooed, "remember me?"

Joy regarded her the way one might a potentially dangerous bug, and Jed patted her back. "She's been up most the night. Upset tummy."

"Aww," Lola said and held out her arms, "come here."

Jed handed her over, and Joy stiffened in alarm. Lola propped the baby on her forearm and stared into her dark eyes, a fluttery sensation that she always felt when she saw a baby stirring deep in the pit of her stomach. People had been searching fruitlessly for the meaning of life since the dawn of time, but Lola believed that she had found it, and it wasn't esoteric or steeped in profundity. In fact, it was painfully simple. The point of life is to _perpetuate_ life. What she felt when she saw or held a baby was the faint rustle of primitive hormones that existed to spur and encourage procreation. It was, in essence, her body nudging her in the ribs and saying _pretty cute, huh? You know who'd like one of those? Take a guess. Okay, nevermind, it's you. You'd like one of those._ The biological instinct to reproduce exists in almost everyone. It manifests in many different ways - in a woman it might be a desire to care and nurture while in a man it may be the strong and inexplicable desire to indulge their primal lust - but when you follow the threads, they all lead back to the same place.

She didn't know if she wanted anymore children, but she was still in the bloom of her mating season (and would be until menopause), and in her, babies never failed to trigger the dumb, blind urge to breed.

Joy worried scanned Lola's face for signs of danger, and Lola offered her a warm, disarming smile. "Does your belly hurt?" she asked.

A soft gurgle trembled past the baby's lips and Lola laughed. "Lana still asleep?" she asked Jed.

"Yeah, I'm lettin' sleep til I leave," Jed said. He poured coffee into a blue mug. "Want some?" he asked.

Joy blew a spit bubble and gave Lola a big, happy smile, her defenses having already melted completely away, which pleased Lola. She was starting to worry that it would take awhile to get her niece to come around. "I'll have some later," she said.

Picking up his mug, Jed took a sip and smacked his lips. "How was the drive?" he asked by way of conversation.

"Torture," Lola said and rolled her eyes. "It started raining as soon as we hit Oklahoma and didn't stop until Knoxville."

Jed hissed through his teeth in sympathy. "I don't mind drivin' in the rain, but that's overkill."

"It poured from Little Rock to Nashville," Lola said and smiled at Joy, who bounced and grunted to get her attention. "We had to pull over five whole times," she babbled to the little girl. "We were hydroplaning all over the place."

"Y'all shoulda got a motel room."

Lola shrugged one shoulder. They probably should have, but it was barely noon when they crossed the Arkansas-Tennessee border at Memphis, and everyone was sick of being cooped up in the car - they just wanted the trek over and done with. "It wasn't all _that_ bad," she said honestly, "Bobby's the one who had us fishtailing. He does _not_ know how to drive in the rain."

That gave Jed pause. "Ain't he from Michigan? Or don't it rain there?"

"No, it rains," Lola confirmed, "he's just a lousy driver." In actuality, he was a normal driver, but she liked to tease him because whenever they went anywhere together and he drove, he complained about everyone else. _Nice blinker, guy,_ he'd say to someone who failed to use the feature in question, and _First day on the road, dumbass?_ to anybody for doing anything that annoyed him. _It's driving,_ he told her once, _not rocket science._ She agreed that a lot of people in L.A. couldn't drive, but his incessant whining got on her nerves after a while, ergo, her making fun of _his_ driving.

Jed took another sip and dumped the rest into the sink, then sat the mug upside down. "Ah. He part Asian or somethin'?"

Lola laughed. "I think he might be."

Before leaving, Jed started to go and wake Lana up, but Lola stopped him. "I have her," she said and gestured to Joy with her chin; the baby beamed steadily at her father and wiggled in Lola's grasp in a futile attempt to get to him.

"You sure?" Jed asked.

"I sure am," she told the baby and touched the tip of her nose. "Does she eat baby food yet?"

Jed nodded and pointed to the pantry. "She got some in there. She likes the mashed up peas the most. Don't give her none of the beets, though, she hates 'em."

After he was gone, Lola fetched the folding high chair from its spot between the counter and fridge with one hand and struggled to get it set up without putting Joy down. The infant watched her with curiosity, then smiled when Lola sat her in the seat. "Are you hungry?" Lola asked and slipped the tray into place. Joy slapped it and kicked her legs in the affirmative. "You want peas?"

Joy rocked excitedly back and forth, the chair's metal frame creaking under her weight. "You're gonna collapse that thing, little girl," Lola said affectionately. She went over to the pantry, grabbed a glass jar with the Gerber Baby and a pea pod on the label, then took a pink plastic spoon from the drying rack. Joy twisted around and watched Lola intently as she crossed to the table, dragged a chair over, and sat, her eyes flicking from her aunt's face to the food and back again. "You want these, huh?" Lola asked as she unscrewed the lid. Joy sucked her bottom lip in and gave the tray a half-hearted smack, her concentration zeroing in on the peas and everything else falling away into a meaningless blur. The level of her captivation amused Lola; she sat the lid aside, picked up the spoon, and dipped it in. Joy smacked her lips and opened her mouth in a perfect, greedy O.

Lola collected a helping, tapped the spoon against the rim of the jar to remove the excess, then held it out. Joy leaned forward and closed her lips around it, then sat back and swished it around her mouth. "Is that good stuff?" Lola asked.

They were halfway done when Lana shuffled in: Head hung, shoulders slumped, blonde hair matted and sticking out, she favored a melancholy troll doll who just got the wore news of its life. "There's your mama," Lola said and batted her eyelashes at her sister. "Morning, hun." She added a playful spin on the final word. Lana lifted her head and looked at Lola with bleary, bloodshot eyes that didn't seem to register what they saw.

When Joy slapped the tray, they cleared a little, and the corners of her mouth tugged up in a sleepy half grin. "Mornin', baby," she croaked. To Lola: "Hi, _hun."_

"You look exhausted."

At the counter, Lana grunted and took a white mug from the drying rack. She filled it, shambled over to the table, and sank into a chair on Joy's left. The baby turned to face her mother and issued a high, hitching laugh. Lana smiled tiredly. "I'm glad _you_ feel better." She slurped coffee and sat the cup down on the table with a hollow clunk. "Kept me up half the night."

"Her belly didn't feel good," Lola said and slipped the spoon into Joy's mouth.

"My head don't feel good, you hear _me_ crying?"

A grin spread across Lola's lips, and Lana narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Don't you answer that."

Lola sat forward and stuck her chin out. "Wah...wah," she said defiantly.

"Girl, I am _not_ in the mood." Lana took another drink of her coffee and sat it down again. "I got three hours of sleep _if_ I was lucky."

Spooning another helping into Joy's waiting maw (wow, she _does_ love these things), Lola said, "Why don't you go back to bed? I'll watch Joy." The baby turned to Lola at the mention of her name and smiled; peas oozed from her mouth and dribbled down her chin before plopping onto the front of her dress. "We're bonding," Lola told the girl, and giggled merrily when she laughed.

"Nah, I'm up for the day," Lana said. She held her mug in both hands and stared down into it like a gypsy diving tea leaves and not happy with what they were telling her. "I wanna go see Mama today."

Lola tensed. She fully expected this, but she was hoping, in a roundabout way, that it somehow wouldn't happen, that Lana would change her mind at the last second, or not bring it up again. On another level, she did want it to happen...perhaps for closure, or perhaps because of the hope she had carried with her since she was a child. She was conflicted in regards to that, but she was certain that the prospect of walking into the same room as her mother made her heart palpitate. She skimmed the spoon through the surface of the peas and held it out to Joy. "What time?" she asked, her eyes firmly on her niece and not her sister.

"Soon," Lana said, then hesitated. "Soon."

* * *

Lynn Haveman strapped Maddie into her carseat and stood up straight. Maddie, dressed in a pair of jeans and a red T-shirt with a pink heart across the chest, lifted her bottle to her lips and tilted her head back to drink, the milk within sloshing like science fluid in a beaker.

Heh. Science fluid. That was funny. She didn't know much about physics or labs or anything like that, but she was pretty sure the liquids you see bubbling in test tubes on TV have actual names. Mercury, she knew that one. Uh...meconium?

That was a joke. Meconium is " _the dark green substance forming the first feces of a newborn infant"_ as per _What to Expect When You're Expecting._ It's pretty awful stuff - _extremely_ sticky, kind of like that gunk on fly paper. She knew what to anticipate, but that's like saying you know what to anticipate from being shot because you watched Rambo on TBS.

Closing the door, Lynn went around the back of the car (glancing at the rear windshield to make sure the BABY ON BOARD placard was still in place) and slid in behind the wheel. She pulled her seatbelt on, started the car, and pulled out of the parking spot facing hers and Ritchie's apartment. "Only four more times doing this," she said into the rearview mirror, "then we move to our new house."

Maddie went on drinking, her brown eyes watching Lynn over the rim of the bottle. Nearly two with chestnut colored hair that almost reached her shoulders, Maddie was exceedingly bright and, Lynn suspected, understood far more of what was said around her than she let on.

At the street, Lynn spun the wheel and turned right, falling in behind a pick up truck with New Mexico plates and a red and blue BUSH '92 sticker on the bumper. Stucco mission style buildings with terracotta roofs lined the way, and as Lynn crossed the railroad tracks, she realized she was going to miss this part of town. She was still excited for the move, though, and had been since she and Ritchie decided to buy the house on East Whittier Street across from Reid Park. A one story ranch on a parcel lot and nearly hidden behind a cluster of palm trees, it was nowhere near as big or nice as the house she grew up in, but to her it symbolized THE BIG TIME. No longer was she and her family going to live in a cramped little apartment, no, they were going to have an actual _home_ with a yard and a driveway, and while it wasn't much to look at, it was _theirs_.

Just thinking about it was making Lynn giddy.

They started looking six months ago after Dad made her the operations manager and gave her a generous raise (she overheard one of the salesmen use the word _nepotism,_ which, when she looked it up, pissed her off so much she almost fired him). Dad wanted to "take a step back" and, for the past three months, only came in once or twice a week. Hers and Ritchie's combined income was enough that they could finally afford to buy, so they set off on an epic house hunt that encompassed all of Tucson and all of the surrounding communities from Red Rock in the north to Green Valley in the south. Their budget was tight and most of the places in their price range needed lots of TLC, realtor slang for _Ya gotta put time and money into fixing it up, cuz, let's face it, it's a wreck._ The ranch was one of the only houses they looked at that didn't need the Bob Villa treatment - it was cozy too, which Lynn liked. As she and RItchie followed the realtor around on the grand tour, Lynn looked critically around, and found that she could totally picture them living there.

Presently, she pulled into the parking lot fronting the daycare center and slid into a slot along the front. The hardest part about going back to work after Maddie was born was being away from her during the day - Lynn hated leaving her little girl with strangers. You know, kids are abused at these places all the time, and the thought of someone doing something to Maddie was enough to make her sick with worry. "We're here," she said over her shoulder, her voice lifting with a happiness she didn't feel; this was her least favorite part of her daily ritual.

Getting out, Lynn went around to Maddie's side, opened the door, and took her out, then leaned over and grabbed the diaper bag. She bumped the door closed with her hip and went inside. At the door to Maddie's classroom, Lynn kissed her daughter's forehead. "Mommy has to go to work now," she said, "I love you." Maddie took her face in her hands and pressed her lips to hers, making her laugh. "Have fun, I'll see you later."

Back in the car, she threw the it into reverse and pulled out, then drove to the exit. She waited for a line of cars to pass then turned right onto Calle Grande Blvd, a wide avenue of gas stations, fast food joints, cheap motels, and the type of outdoor strip malls that never failed to include a nail salon, a video store, a supermarket, and a pharmacy. A sign for McDonald's loomed ahead, and her stomach rumbled. She glanced at the dash clock, saw that she didn't have time to stop, and sighed. Being the boss lady was a real pain in the tit sometimes; she could definitely see why Dad wanted a break. Being Lynn motherfuckin' Haveman, however, she was up for the challenge, and was _certain_ she'd knock it out of the park and halfway across town, just like she used to do with baseballs. _There, take_ that! _Quarterly earnings are up, boooooooyah!_

Ten minutes later, she arrived at the dealership, where a white Ford sat in the parking lot. Frank, the new mechanic, was always here before her. Why he insisted on being so early, she didn't know - he didn't have a key so it's not like he could do anything but wait and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes she joked about him living in the dumpster out back. _Your commute takes two seconds, no wonder you're here so early._ He just grinned politely and said _Actually, I live in the dumpster behind Kohl's_. _It's bigger._

She didn't really care _when_ he came in, to be honest- he did good work, and after twenty plus years of Sparky (R.I.P.) half-assing everything, Lynn was willing to let him get away with anything. Except shit talking baseball, that'd earn him a pink slip faster than you can say _unemployment line._

Guiding the car into her customary spot by the office, she killed the engine and got out, slinging her purse over her shoulder. Frank's door slammed and he walked over to the office, a short, chubby man with curly gray hair and an iron colored mustache that put Lynn in mind of a fat caterpillar. "Morning, Frank."

"Mornin'," he grunted.

Frank wasn't very sociable and never spoke to anyone unless he had to, which was fine by Lynn; she'd rather that than someone like Vince, one of the salesmen - that guy did nothing _but_ talk. She would be sitting at the desk doing paperwork, and he'd moseye on over and take off like a rocket. _Hey, how's it going? I just sold a Honda to an old lady. Hahaha. That's not really an old lady car, Caddys are more_ their _speed, you know? Man, I'm starved, I think I'm gonna take a lunch. Leftover casserole my wife made last night. Ohhh, she makes the_ best _and blah blah blah blah blah_. It was enough to drive her nuts.

Unlocking the door, she went in and snapped on the overhead light, filling the showroom with cold, white illumination. 1993 model cars dotted the floor at altering angles, some facing the big front window overlooking the lot and others pointed toward the hall. Lynn crossed to the door that opened onto the garage and unlocked it, then stepped aside so Frank could enter. "Thank you," he he said. She stood on her tippy toes and peered over his shoulder, nodding her approval at what she saw. Sparky, God rest him, was a goddamn slob who kept the place strewn with a confusion of trash, tools, and auto parts. Frank, on the other hand, was neat and tidy.

At the desk, she sat and booted up the brand new Macintosh LC II. Lynn's least favorite part of the job was working with computers - they were such a pain in the ass, and with one wrong click, you could delete important files like they never existed. Dad wanted all of the paperwork and recordkeeping done via computer by 1994, and Lynn dreaded the day that come to fruition - she could confidently do everything the job required...except work on computers. When she did, she always felt like a woman floundering in the water. Ritchie had a PowerBook 140 laptop that he used for work and he kept trying to teach her to use it, but she was _maybe_ a little too proud to admit that she needed instruction.

They were just another fad anyway. Give it ten years, and no one will even remember what a computer was.

She was certain.

* * *

Parker Memorial Hospital sits on the Virginia side of Bristol, a vast complex of modern brick-and-glass buildings clustered on either side of Terrence Street erected in the mid-1980s to replace the original structure, which had fallen into abject disrepair. The two halves were connected by a covered footbridge over the roadway, and well-manicured lawns created a green and peaceful atmosphere that did little to dispel the seething angst in Lola's chest. She clutched the strap of her purse in a white knuckled death grip and followed Lana across the wide, vaulted lobby, her lips pressed tight and her lithe frame slightly trembling. Lana's face was ashen and her eyes stormy. In the elevator, she jabbed the 4 button and stood back, her posture stiff and guarded. Dark silence hung heavy between them, and Lola grasped for something to say, but speaking somehow didn't seem right.

When the car reached the floor, the doors slid open with a ding, revealing a long, well-lit corridor that stretched into forever, puting Lola in mind of a fun house where evil lurked in the shadows and every twist and turn could be your last. Neither she nor Lana made a move to get off, and the doors closed again. "I'm really nervous," Lana sighed. Her tone was one of a woman making a hard and shameful confession.

"Me too," Lola replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She swallowed around a cold lump in her throat and told herself, for the dozenth time since leaving the house, that Mama couldn't hurt her, she was a grown woman with a successful career and a loving family - nothing her mother could say or do would change that. Even so, she felt like she was a little girl again, sad, afraid, convinced that she and her sister were poor, stupid trash that not even their own mother could love. They both had wonderful husbands and amazing children now, but in this moment, none of that mattered. The only thing in the world was them...and Mama.

Lana scuffed her feet and cast her gaze to the floor. "I always kind of hoped that one day, you know, things would be different."

Drawing a deep breath, Lola nodded. "Me too," she said. "I didn't think it would ever happen but deep down I wanted it to."

"Maybe that's why I'm here," Lana mused. "This is our last chance of that happening. Something tells me it ain't going to, but...I still wanna try."

She did as well, Lola admitted to herself. Over the past ten years, she acquired everything a person could possibly want: Knowledge, wealth, fame, love, and genuine happiness, but still there was something missing, a hole in her heart that she could always feel but never quite fill. Money didn't work, Bobby didn't work, even Stephy and Val weren't enough. She ignored it as best she could, and when she was absolutely forced to confront it, she dismissed it as simply not being satisfied with her career. She was on top, after all, or close to it, and oftentimes, when you reach the top, the joy goes away. When you start off, you're young, starry-eyed, and brimming with possibility. Then, you get to where you're going, plop down, and stay there...becoming complacent and jaded over time. She remembered the heady, vertigo inducing thrill she got when _Rolling Stone_ reviewed her first album...then the apathy she felt when they reviewed her last one. _Eh. Been there, done that._

Only, she knew innately that that wasn't the cause, it was something else. Standing here now and staring at her watery reflection skimming the metallic surface before her, she allowed herself the revelation that it was her relationship with Mama, or lack thereof, that haunted her soul. The love, nurturing, and encouragement of a mother, and of a father too, forms a solid and healthy foundation on which a child can build. Her foundation was not solid, nor was t healthy, and no matter how well she developed as a human being, it would always be cracked, slipshod, and weak. By seeing Mama, she hoped, in a way, to shore up her faulty foundation - she pictured a tearful embrace, heartfelt apologies, pleas for forgiveness, and an earnest declaration of love. That, she imagined, would fill the hole, maybe not all the way, but enough.

Zebras don't change their stripes, as the saying goes, and knowing Mama, none of that would happen. Lola was fully prepared for it not to, expected it as she expected the sun to set over the low, time worn Tennessee hills in a few hours. Like Lana, though, she wanted to try... _needed_ to try.

Reaching out, Lola took her sister's hand, and their eyes met. "So do I," she said. She looked at the row of buttons edging the door, took a deep breath, and pushed the 4. "Come on."

Holding hands, they stepped off the elevator and into the hall. Lola's heart started to race, and every step they took toward the nurse's station ahead heightened her anxiety. At the counter, a woman in pink scrubs sat behind a computer, her mannish features bathed in the blue electric glow emanating from the screen. She looked up and donned a polite and practiced smile that lacked genuine warmth and cheer.

It reminded Lola of the way Mama would smile in front of company or cameras. It touched her thin lips but not her eyes...never her eyes.

Lana said who they were here to see, and the nurse half stood, her body twisting to the left. "Right down there," she pointed, "Room 3C."

"Thank you," Lana said and flashed a wan smile. She turned away from the desk and Lola followed, squeezing her sister's hand, as if to impart strength, and allowing Lana to squeeze her hand in return, receiving strength.

The door the nurse indicated was the last one on the right before the hall ended. The door was open and TV sounds drifted forth. Lana and Lola both came to a halting stop just before reaching it, and a fearful shudder quaked through Lana's body. Lola gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "I'm right here with you," she promised. Lana lifted her head and stared into her eyes like a timid little girl searching for traces of deception. Through their childhood, they had no one but each other, could rely on no one but each other. Their bond was strained for a while, but never broken - Lola would be there for her sister no matter what, and she saw in Lana's face the same sacred vow.

Lana took another breath and, as one, they crested the jam like the moon and stars rising over the rim of the earth. When Lola saw her mother sitting up in bed, a steel band tightened around her chest, both at seeing her, like a bad dream made flesh, and at seeing her condition. During her childhood, Mama was short and squat with flabby arms, short, curly black hair, and glasses. Today, a scant ten years after Lola last glimpsed her at the BP in town buying beer and cigarettes, she was nearly unrecognizable. Her hair was completely white; her cheeks were sunken; and her body, clad in a puke green gown, resembled pictures of Holocaust survivors Lola had seen in books - skeletal, emaciated, a bag of bones held together by sallow, sickly jaundiced flesh. She sensed them and turned her head; deep wrinkles creased her face and her lips curved back into her mouth, lending her a toothless appearance. Behind the lenses of her glasses, her faded eyes flashed icily, and Lana tensed. Lola's heart pounded furiously against her ribs and she held fast to her sister for support.

The old woman stared at them for a moment, her expression inscrutable, then, she returned her attention to the wall-mounted television set with an unmistakably sullen air, her breathing heavy and labored as though the effort it took just to move exhausted her.

For a moment, neither Lana nor Lola could gather the courage to move or speak, then Lana went forward, and Lola let herself be pulled along. "Hi, Mama," Lana said tentatively. "How you feeling?" The question, so casual and commonplace, struck Lola as strange - they hadn't seen this woman in over ten years, and hadn't spoken to her in more.

Mama stared up at the TV, her profile sharp and uninviting, like the jagged coastline of a forbidden island. Lola didn't think she would reply - figured she would ignore them until they left in defeat - but she did. "I'm fine," she rasped, her voice dry and brittle with sickness. "How are y'all?"

"W-We're good," Lana stammered. "Mary-Ellen called me the other day and said you were sick, and... we wanted to come see you." They were at the rail along the bedside now, standing awkwardly side by side. Lana's free hand twitched with the urge to rub the back of her neck and Lola nervously chewed the inside of her bottom lip, a surge of emotions roiling in the pit of her stomach like sludge. She darted her eyes to her mother's wizened face, then to the dull brown coverlet lying across her lap.

Mama hummed her displeasure. "That woman tells everything she knows." She shifted her weight and a flicker of pain rippled across her stony features. "She tell you I'm dying?" Her voice remained even and unaffected as she pronounced the last word. Her tone, as though she just didn't care, unsettled Lola.

"Y-Yeah," Lana faltered, "she, uh, she mentioned that you might be -"

"I am," Mama cut in. "They're surprised I ain't dead already." For some horrible reason, that made the old woman laugh, a harsh witch-like cackle that turned into a deep, braying cough. She fisted her hand to her mouth and hacked violently, her shoulders hitching up and down. Lana and Lola exchanged a concerned glance. Mama recovered and stared up at the TV again as if for something to focus on other than her daughters. "Gonna happen soon, I guess."

Lana nodded solemnly and tried to come up with something to say, but couldn't. "There's nothing they can do?" Lola asked, more to break the silence than anything else. Looking at her mother's frail form and listening to the wheeze of her struggling to breathe, she knew the answer.

"No," Mama said, "they can't do nothing. Just put me up til I go." Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. "Talking hurts," she said huskily, "if y'all wanna say something, say it." She gulped and winced at the pain. Lola started to speak, but the chill radiating from Mama stopped her. The way she said it, with an edge of bitter accusation, as though she were an innocent old woman being accosted by her hateful, ingrate daughters ignited a gaseous ball of outrage in Lola's chest. She had _plenty_ she wanted to say, but it was evident that Mama wouldn't listen...or care if she did.

Next to her, Lana's eyes went to the floor. "No," she said hesitantly, "we just wanted to...spend time with you." There was a plaintive quality to her voice that broke Lola's heart. In it, she heard the same fragile hope she'd been nursing her entire life - she sounded like a skittish little girl trying to curry the favor of her abuser, kicked, shunned, and turned away, but even still brimming with the unconditional love of a child who just wants love in turn. The urge to take her sister in her arms and give her the love that Mama wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- swept her, but she resisted and affectionately squeezed her hand instead.

"Sit down and shut up, then," Mama said sharply. "My show's on."

Lana visibly flinched, and the way her brow pinched - as if Mama's words stung her physically - hurt Lola even more than seeing Bobby's split lips and swollen eye. The anger in Lola's heart flared like a match head, and her hand closed in a fist of rage - her arm muscles quivered violently and it took everything she had to keep from smashing the nasty old bitch in the side of her head. Her daughter, whom she hadn't seen in over ten years, wanted to spend time with her - how could she react this way? How could she hear the trembling desperation in her own child's voice and brush her off like an annoying bug?

Didn't she have a heart?

Glaring at the craggy outline of her mother's face and at her cold, reptilian eyes, Lola decided that she didn't and never had. What kind of fool was she to care whether this pathetic, unfeeling. shriveled husk of a woman loved her or not? What kind of sad, broken little person could have a wonderful family like the one she did - Lana, her boys, Bobby, Val, Stephy - and still feel empty because a mean old snake like Mama wasn't part of it? The woman exuded cold and dark - there was no love in her, no tenderness, nothing but self-centered hedonism. Maybe she was subconsciously converting her hope to disdain in lieu of letting it ferment into disappointment, but she didn't care, she'd sift through the wreckage later on, for right now, she only wanted to put her back to the miserable hussy and move on with her life... surrounded by the people who _did_ love and value her.

"I think we should go," she said tightly. She turned and started to walk away, but jerked against Lana's grip like a dog on a leash. She glanced over her shoulder, and the look in her sister's eyes was one of sad, puppy-like begging. _Please stay._

Lola took a deep breath and pulled her hand from Lana's, then strode out of the room, hoping Lana would follow. She stopped just outside the door and waited - if she was absolutely determined to stay and grovel at that awful woman's feet...if it meant _that_ much to her...she'd go back in.

A moment passed, then a minute, the only sounds a voice calling for a Dr. Fine over the loudspeaker and a peal of laughter from the nurse's station. Lola sighed deeply and flattened her lips in discontent. She was just about to force herself back into the room when Lana came out, nearly colliding with her. "Lola," she said beseechingly, "come back in. Please?"

"Why should I?" Lola asked and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. "She obviously doesn't want us here."

Lana flicked her eyes down, but not before Lola saw recognition in them - she knew what Lola said was true, but dearly wanted it to _not_ be. "You know how she is."

"Yeah, I do," Lola said and nodded. Mama was a cold, selfish woman, and being away from her for so long, Lola somehow managed to soften her image of her. Mama existed in the chambers of her heart and mind as a figure of dread...but one that could be mollified if only she did the right thing, whatever that may be.

As a child, after Mama would drunkenly yell and hit her for seemingly no reason at all, she'd lay awake in bed, her eyes brimming with tears, and wonder what she did and what she could have done differently. Surely, she must have trespassed some way. As she grew, she realized that she couldn't do _anything_ to make Mama happy - Mama hated her and that was that. She didn't know why, but that was just the way it was. "I forgot but I remember now. _Vividly_."

Taking a deep breath, Lana said, "I know. Okay? But she's our mother and -"

"No she's not," Lola said, her passion rising. "She never acted like a mother, so why should we treat her like one? She doesn't love us and we were dumb to think things would be different. She might not be exactly what she used to be, but deep down she's the same hateful bitch she always was." She was seething and if she wasn't careful she'd lose control of herself. "I used to think she was dead to me, but she wasn't. She is now. I don't need her, Lana, and neither do you. You have a loving husband and three wonderful children. You have _me_."

Lana swallowed and stared down at the floor. "Yeah," she whispered.

"If you want to go back in there and sit quietly next to a woman who never wanted you around in the first place, fine, but there's no point in it."

Lana didn't reply for a long time. "No," she finally said, "I guess there ain't."

Reaching out, Lola took her hand, and they looked at each other, the warmth and love they sought all along passing between them. "Come on," Lola said, "I wanna play with Joy some more."

Lana chuckled. "Yeah, and Steph really wants to do my make-up.' Lana shivered. "Can't stand that stuff."

Holding hands once more, they left the hospital and with it, their past.

* * *

For all intents and purposes, the L.A. Riots, as the civil disturbance would come to be known, ended on Sunday, May 3, 1992. Charred buildings, piles of rubble, and burned out cars littered the city, and sixty-three bodies lay in the county coroner's office, many of them rioters shot by police or National Guardsmen. The stewing tension had been spent, and an uneasy calm held sway.

On May 4, Lola and Lana's mother died in Bristol and Lola bought her a plot in a cemetery less than three miles from the trailer were she and Lana grew up. The day after the funeral, she, Bobby, and the kids went back to L.A. The house was as they left it, Bobby's Datsun sitting in the drive like a wounded animal. Of all the things he could have dwelled on - the beating, the virtual loss of his car - he was most upset about Tim and Alex's presents being stolen. On May 9, the day federal troops withdrew from Los Angeles, he went back to Bonanno's and bought replacements for both. Lola didn't mind, they could afford it.

May 4 was Jessy's first day at Flip's. Alex showed her around and taught her how to take orders, work the register, and balance more than one plate at a time. Jessy watched the latter with drawn-faced anxiety, certain that if she tried, she would drop something. "You probably won't have to worry about it," Alex said, "this place is a graveyard. Our big lunch rush is two old guys and a construction worker."

Lincoln watched from behind the counter as Jessy shadowed her sister. She looked worried, like the entirety of her future hinged on how well she brought some fat slob his bacon and eggs - he smiled fondly and shook his head in bemusement, then went back to his crossword puzzle. On Saturday, he talked to Luan about quitting and taking care of Mom full time, and she agreed that it was probably best to do it now. Saturday was her last day, and it wasn't until she was walking out the door that Lincoln realized he was going to miss her. Over the past seven years, they'd spent a lot time together and did a lot of bonding - hell, he was closer to her now than he was to Lori or Lynn. He had Jessy, though, and he was really looking forward to spending more time with her; with her going to school and always being out with Mark, he didn't see much of her over the past four years even though they lived in the same house. Pretty soon, he figured, she and Mark would get a place together, and he and Ronnie Anne would be alone for the first time in over twenty years.

That'd be a culture shock from hell. He looked up from the paper and squinted into the distance. How in the name of God was a middle aged man supposed to act with his wife when they didn't have at least one kid at home? He thought back to the last time they were truly on their own, and was surprised to find that it was when they lived in the apartment on Oak Drive before he went to Vietnam. She was living with Mom and Dad by the time he was mustered out, and they stayed there until well after Alex was born. That was a long time. He pictured them sitting side by side in the living room, wrapped in awkward silence, then going to bed. Wash, rinse, repeat until one of them died.

Nah, it wouldn't be that way. They'd probably screw like teenagers...and this time, Mark and Jessy wouldn't walk in on them.

He frowned at the memory of them being caught in the act. _Just what my day needed. How about we think about eat maggots next? Really treat ourselves._

Eh. Let's not.

He returned to the crossword, resolved to not think about -

 _Seven letter word for happiness._

Oh, I know this.

M-A-G-G-O-T-S.

He chuckled….then frowned again when he realized he was using a pen and just effectively ruined the puzzle for a cheap joke.

 _Real smart, Loud._

I know, Sgt. Hellman, I'm a fuck up, you've been telling me for twenty-six years.

He crossed his arms and looked up at the TV. On the noon news, roving groups of volunteers picked up debris in Los Angeles. Things, the anchor said, were getting back to normal. Lincoln snorted. There _was_ no such thing as normal. He looked around and spotted Alex playing the game cabinet while Jessy stood self-consciously beside her, arms crossed and knees bent. _Come on, Bunny, Uncle Lincoln's going to yell at us._

Well...maybe there was such a thing as normalcy.

"Hey," he called, and Jessy jumped. "You wanna get fired on your first day?"

Her face paled and she shook her head emphatically back and forth, her ponytail whipping. Alex blew a raspberry. "He's not gonna fire you. He's all bark and no bite."

He started to offer a rebuttal, but she was right. He was a wimp and a windbag. But he _did_ own a gun, so that made up for it.

Shaking his head, he went back to the crossword.


	169. October and November 1992: Part 1

**TheGreatestWriter: Yeah, I've given it some thought but not much.**

 **TheCartoonist294: I have up to March 1997 written as of right now; if you count that, RITY is well over a million words now. Not exactly sure by how much though.**

 **Guest: Thank you, I appreciate that. Maybe I can do the Hell Freezes Over Tour, idk. I have 1994 already written but I** _ **have**_ **been wanting to add to it.**

 **Diego: Sure, if you want.**

 **Guest: Maybe they will.**

* * *

Alex Underwood hanged her head and dragged her weary, aching body down the long, tiled hallway. At the end, she pushed through a door with a narrow wire-mesh window and stepped out into a gray, blustery October afternoon - leaves danced across the parking lot like embers from a fire, and the thin pine trees separating the pavement from the street beyond rustled in the cool wind. She went to the metal bench backing against the building and dropped with an exhausted grunt. She laid her right leg on her left knee, pulled off her shoe, and flexed her toes against the sweaty fabric of her sock.

Ow.

In five years of waitressing, her feet _never_ hurt this bad. It was a hot, constant throb that persisted long after her shift ended and sometimes into the next morning. That was nothing compared to the pain in her lower back, though, that was _waaaay_ worse; at the end of the day, she was stooped and hunched over like an old woman. Which, come to think of it, was kind of ironic: She was turning into one of her patients. Yep, pretty soon she'd be in with Mrs. Wilson or Mrs. Avis, sitting in bed all day, watching _The Price is Right_ , and eating hand delivered meals from a covered tray.

Actually, that didn't sound so bad.

Slipping her shoe back on, she reached into the oversized pocket of her pink scrub shirt and pulled out a pack. She ripped the cellophane off, reached in, and removed a thin, white stick. She put it between her lips, held it between her fore-and-middle fingers...then bit down, sugary goodness coating her tongue.

Nothing like a candy cigarette break when you're sore and tired.

She crossed her legs and munched the dart - as Dad called them - the breeze rustling her black hair. Through the trees, traffic streamed past on Ridgecrest Drive, and pedestrians moved back and forth along the sidewalk, some of them in costumes. Uh, it's not even 3pm, pretty sure trick or treating doesn't start until later. Or maybe it started earlier in Chippewa Falls, she didn't know. In fact, there was a lot about this town she didn't know - she'd been working at Oak Springs since May (if you count the six week paid training course) and she still got lost sometimes.

What time _was_ it, anyway? She checked her watch. Oooh, 2:32. Her shift was almost over, thank God. Not only was she beat like Rodney King, she was super excited: It was Blake's first real Halloween. Last year, he was still too little to fully grasp the concept of trick or treating, but this year he understood enough to know that you dress up and get lots of candy, which was _awesome._ He even picked out his own costume at K-Mart the other day: Scrappy Doo. It was the _cutest_ thing ever and Alex just knew the moment he put it on she was going to melt into a gooey mom puddle.

The door opened and a tall, broad shouldered man with messy, dirty blonde hair that hung past his ears and big, dorky glasses came out. He wore blue scrubs and white shoes like Alex's, and his sharp, angular chin was covered in stubble. He whipped out a pack of Marlboro Lights, put one into his mouth, and lit it.

His name was Tom and he was in Alex's training class - he stood six feet tall, weighed two hundred and ten pounds (though he didn't look it), and was married to a fat, frumpy woman with gray hair named Tessa.

Blowing a plume of smoke, Tom turned to the bench, saw Alex, and rolled his eyes. "You with that damn candy," he said airly. Alex scooted over to make room and he sat, his legs crossing womanishly at the knee. "You're already fatter than you were when you started."

Tom liked to joke around, only his brand of humor was a lot more mean-spirited than Alex was used to. He always had a barb or snappy comeback up his sleeve, and delighted in cruelly taunting the women while openly flirting with the men. Alex thought he was just messing around with the last one, but a nurse named Shirley caught him and Bob, another male CNA, making out in an empty room. _Their hands were all over each other,_ Shirley told Alex and a group of other CNAs in breathless horror. Tom only shrugged. _Yeah, I'm gay._ Alex was genuinely shocked: He had some feminine mannerisms, yeah, but he looked nothing like her idea of a gay man.

"I've _lost_ weight," she said and crunched the stick with a defiant flourish. On her first day, she weight close to one-sixty. Today, she was down to one-thirty-nine: Kinda hard to keep the pounds on when you're constantly moving, bending, lifting, squatting, pulling, and pushing. Some of the residents here were hea _vvvvy_. Mr. Fredericks was three-twenty, and Mrs. Hovart was even bigger. Both were bedridden and needed to be turned periodically _and_ taken completely out so the sheets could be changed, they could be bathed, and because sometimes wanted to sit in their geri chair.

That was short for _geriatric chair._ A geri chair was _a Medical Clinical Recliner designed to allow someone to get out of the confines of their bed and be able to sit comfortably in a variety of positions while being fully supported. This type of medical seating nurtures a patient's independence and improves their quality of life significantly._ Yes, she remembered the technical definition, but only because she wrote it down in a notebook during class, and regularly consulted it even though she no longer had to - she meant business when it came to nursing. It _was_ her career, after all, and even though it killed her back, knees, feet, elbows, and shoulders, she really enjoyed it. The residents were the coolest people ever (after herself, of course) and taking care of them was even more rewarding than she thought it would be. She still wanted to work in a hospital maternity ward one day, but for right now, she was happy where she was.

Tom snorted and took a dainty puff from his cigarette. "You don't look like it." He tilted his head back and blew the smoke out in a blue rush that dispersed on the wind. "You look like a fat Jennifer Lopez."

"You're extra grumpy today," Alex said around the rest of her candy, "Bob dump you again?"

A dark shadow rippled across Tom's features and his brow angled down ever so slightly. "Fuck him," he said, "he's a slut."

Alex didn't make it a point to know much about Tom's sex life - she didn't hate gay people or think less of them, she just thought the idea of two men being actively _together_ was kind of icky - but Tom proudly related his escapades and encounters to anyone within earshot. He and Bob weren't in a relationship or anything, but Tom got really jealous when Bob slept around, which was a lot, apparently. _How do you think your wife feels?_ Alex asked once. She did it jokingly, but she was actually serious - Tom cheated on that woman with every breath he took, and Alex could only imagine how devastated she would be if she found out. If she discovered Tim was secretly gay and having multiple affairs, it would cut deeply. _Very_ deeply. _She doesn't know,_ Tom said and rasped laughter, _she thinks I'm straight!_

Taking a violent drag, Tom started to vent. "He says he doesn't want to do anything because he has a _boyfriend_ now." He put a mocking twist on the second to last word. "You know Cindy's brother Steve?"

Cindy was a CNA who occasionally worked the 7-3 shift when they were short-handed. Tom called her Mister Ed, after the old TV show, because she looked like a horse. Alex hardly knew her, much less her brother. "No."

"He works at 7-11," Tom huffed, as though Alex was stupid for not knowing who Steve was (must be a really popular guy). "That's how they met. Bob went to get a pack of wine coolers and left with a mouthful of jizz."

Alex choked on the remainder of the candy and let out a hacking cough, the edges of her vision graying. Ew, ew, ew, she did _not_ need that picture in her head. Why was he so open about sex stuff? Jeez, she liked getting down as much as the next girl, but, c'mon, going on and on and on about it, in the crudest terms possible, was a little beyond the pale.

"Yeah, it looked like that. God forbid he swallow any. You'd think he was dying."

Okay, buddy, you wanna gross me out? I'm gonna start talking about my vagina. _Those things are disgusting_ , he said with a shiver one time. _Looks like a goddamn Predator._ She opened her mouth to mention how Tim liked the taste of her girl juices (and that was the exact phrase she was going to use, because it was so gross), but the door opened and Patricia, the DON, stuck her head out. "Can I get one of you to come back in?" she asked impatiently. "Mrs. Erickson wants to sit in her chair and everyone's busy."

Patricia, like most of the nurses, were just as lazy as Meagan warned her they were - the moment a resident needed to be moved, they ran to a CNA. _I'm busy sitting on my butt at the nurse's station, can you do everything, please?_

"I'll do it," Alex said and popped up. Mrs. Erickson was a brand new arrival, just came in yesterday, and weighed, Alex estimated, just over 100 pounds, which made her a cakewalk.

Patricia pulled her head back in, and Alex followed. The corridor, five hundred feet of gleaming tile, terminated at the nurse's desk; doors opened on either side, and gurneys, wheelchairs, and other excess medical equipment lined the way. Mr. Billings, a scrawny, cantankerous old fart with glasses and a bald head, sat in his wheelchair, his robe thrown open to reveal his bare, white-fur covered pigeon chest and his shriveled old-man package. Patricia saw, sighed, and bent over him, pulling the robe closed. "You have to cover yourself up, Mr. Billings," she said in a patronizing tone reserved for children and dullards. Mr. Billings suffered from mild dementia, so you had to be gentle with him.

"It needs air," he replied indiginalty.

"You can't air it out in the hallway. No one wants to see your genitals."

"Then don't look!"

Mrs. Erickson's room was the last on the right before the nurse's station. Inside, the old woman sat up in bed and gazed at the TV on the waist high dresser flanking the wall. Before Alex started working here, she envisioned the accommodations resembling those in a hospital: Cold, institutional, and utilitarian. Au contraire - the digs were really nice and reminded her of a motel. This room was a single vs a double (which meant Mrs. Erickson's family had more money) with a little table by the window, a full closet, and a bookshelf her son brought in special - personal furniture isn't usually allowed, so Alex assumed he must have greased someone's palm. Ya know...bribery. Shhhh. Framed photos, most of them black and white, crowded the nightstand, and as Alex went over to the chair, she glanced at them. She _loved_ old pictures.

"Hi, Mrs. Erickson," she said in her friendliest tone and wheeled the chair over to the bedside.

The old woman looked at her for a confused moment, then smiled. "Oh, hi. Are you here to help me?" There was an uncertain inflection in her voice.

Essentially shaped like an uppercase E, Oak Springs was divided into three wings - A, B, and C. A and B wings were a mix of residents, some in their right minds and others mildly confused, some bedridden and others perfectly healthy. The dreaded C-wing was a locked unit where all of the residents with mental illnesses, advanced dementia, Alzheimer's, and other disorders were kept. B-wing, the one Alex worked most often, wound up, by chance, with most of the patients who were just a _little_ befuddled. A lot of them eventually got worse and transferred to C-wing. Mrs. Erickson was one of the residents who seemed completely normal until you started talking to them - that's when you realized something was off.

"I sure am," Alex said. She pushed the chair flush with the bed, bent, and worked the jack that lifted the seat up. When it was level to the mattress, she helped Mrs. Erickson shift into it and stepped back, her hands going to her hips. "Would you like me to put you by the window?"

The old woman considered for a moment. "No, that's fine, I'll just sit here and...and watch TV."

Alex nodded. "Alright." She went to leave but stopped when her eyes fell on a photo staring at her from the stand. A tall woman with curly brown hair and wearing a military uniform: Blouse, skirt, and cap. "Is that you?" she asked and nodded to it.

Mrs. Erickson twisted around, squinted, and smiled. "Why yes. I-I was a WAVE in the navy." She faltered doubtfully and frowned, then her smile returned. "Two years."

Alex grinned. "Didja kill lots of Nazis?"

The old woman laughed. "No. I _did_ slap a fresh sailor in the mouth, though."

That made Alex chuckle. "Did his paperwork say KILLED BY FRIENDLY FIRE?"

Mrs. Erickson stared up at her, then the corners of her mouth twitched into a sly simper. "Oh, no, he suffered a fate worse than death."

Uh-oh. "What was that?"

"I married him and nagged for fifty years."

They both laughed. "Poor guy, I kind of feel sorry for him."

"He had his revenge," Mrs. Erickson assured her.

"How'd he do that?"

"He put me in here."

Alex honestly didn't know if the old lady was joking at his point or not, so she politely smiled and excused herself. In the hall, she looked around for an old person in need of help, like a superhero ( _I am...The Geriatric Defender!)_ , but none were about. Instead, she spotted Tom leaning back against the nurse's station with his arms crossed and a couple other CNAs standing around in a group.

She went over and stood next to a woman named Rosa and crossed her arms. Rosa was half Hispanic and half white like Alex, but that's where the similarities ended: She was tall and mannish with a tangle of short curly black hair and hard brown eyes that glinted coldly. Alex didn't know her very well - she worked the 3-11 shift but came in early to mill around and look mad - but she got the impression that she was never _not_ pissed at something.

Glancing between Alex and Rosa, Tom flashed a tight, malicious smile that told Alex he just came up with a particularly biting comment, and wasn't going to hold it back. "Look at that. We have Jennifer Lopez -" he looked at Alex...then swung his face to Rosa, " - and Mario Lopez."

A sharp laugh rose in Alex's throat but she held it back. Rosa _did_ kind of look like Mario Lopez - ya know, Slater from _Saved By the Bell._

The sour expression on Rosa's face deepened. "Fuck you, _maricón,_ " she spat.

"I don't speak taco, honey."

Like she did when she watched _In Living Color,_ Alex laughed and felt offended at the same time. The other CNAs laughed too, and, with a huff, Rosa spun and stalked off. Alex looked after her for a moment, feeling bad for laughing, then Tom swatted her arm. "You coming to the party?"

Every year, Oak Springs hosted a little Halloween party in the dining room for the staff and their family. Alex spent most of the morning hanging decorations and setting up folding tables with a couple girls from A-Wing who told her all about it: There was music, a cake walk, bobbing for apples, a costume contest, and lots of refreshments. The residents were all invited too, and a lot of them went to hand out candy and fawn over the children - many of them didn't get to see their own grandkids very often so they doted on any and every child that strayed too close. Which was heartbreaking when you got right down to it. Before she started working here, she always thought nursing homes existed as a last resort for overextended families who couldn't care for an elder relative and reluctantly brought them in. To an extent, it did, but far, far, _far_ too many people dropped their parents and grandparents off like bags of garbage on the curb and barely bothered with them again.

There was one lady who died in September named Mrs. Arrowsmith - like the band, which instantly made her cool. Every Sunday she'd dress in her best clothes and sit by the window in expectation of her son and his children coming to see her. _He said he would be here at noon sharp._ Only he always found some reason not to come, and the excitement in Mrs. Arrowsmith's eyes would slowly dim as noon became one and one became three. She'd stay by the window, watching and waiting until, finally, she hung her head in dejection and shamefully asked to be undressed again. Alex felt so awful for her and did everything she could to cheer her up, but she sank into depression and gave up on life - old people do that sometimes, just...stop caring and waste away. She'd seen it more than once: They will themselves to die, and eventually they do.

Pushing those thoughts aside before they could start to affect her, she scrunched her lips in thought. "I don't know. Maybe. I really wanna take Blake trick or treating, though."

"Bring him here," Tom urged.

Candice, a thin woman with her honey blond hair in a ponytail, snickered. "He just wants to meet her husband."

Tom shrugged not-so-innocently.

"Tim doesn't like men," Alex said.

Pushing away from the desk, Tom loomed over her, an evil grin spreading across his lips. "Every man's gay, honey" he said, "most just don't know it."

* * *

Lincoln dusted his hands and stepped back. Next to him, Ronnie Anne crossed her arms. "That one's crooked," she said and nodded to one of the foam headstones.

They were standing on the front lawn in the feeble amber rays of the dying sun, a chilly wind blowing leaves across the grass and shaking the boughs of the trees lining the street. Four grave markers, each with RIP etched across the front, stood in a row before the hedge bordering the porch. The one of the far right _was_ crooked, but that was intentional. "It's supposed to be that way," Lincoln said.

"It looks dumb," she said.

Reaching into the hip pocket of his black slacks, Lincoln removed a pack of Marlboros, lifted it to his mouth, and pinched one between his lips. He drew it out, lit it, and inhaled. "You've never seen old cemeteries? A lot of the stones lean." He held up his hand, palm flat, and tilted it to one side for emphasis.

"Still looks dumb," she needled.

Lincoln twisted to the right and looked at the oak overhanging the fence between their yard and old man Porter's: Ghosts made from plastic shopping bags dangled from the lower branches like condemned men strung up by a homicidal lynch mob. "So do those," he pointed out.

"My ghosts do not look dumb," she gasped. She lit a cigarette of her own and blew the smoke out in a stalk. "They're cute."

A group of kids in costumes appeared on the other side of the street, a woman with a perm and dressed in a baggy sweater trailing behind. "This one has a giant K on its forehead," he said and walked over, tapping his finger against it. "Nothing says spooky like a haunted K-Mart bag."

Ronnie Anne snorted laughter and joined him, one arm wedged under her breasts and her elbow resting on her forearm. "That K stands for kill," she said and nodded at the ghost. Big, black eyes and a yawning black mouth, both done in marker, gaped back at her as if in silent misery.

"Look at his eyes. Talk about crooked. The only thing killed here was a few chromosomes." He curled his hand and pounded it against his chest while letting his tongue loll from one corner of his mouth. Ronnie Anne burst into side-splitting laughter, then punched him in the arm for being a jerk.

He took a drag and let it out through his nose, then snapped his fingers as though he just remembered something. "We forgot to put up that caution tape."

They had been living in the house on Cleveland Street for twenty years, and countless holidays had come and gone unremarked upon: Lincoln strung Christmas lights across the garage roof and called it a day, and on Halloween, Ronnie Anne sat a pumpkin on the top step. When the girls were younger, they carved jack-o-lanterns, but up until now, neither he nor Ronnie Anne felt the need to go all out the way some of their neighbors did. Chalk it up to getting old and sentimental. Jessy and Mark were seriously looking for a place - he worked at a computer repair shop in Elk Park now and made fairly decent money - and the stark realizaton that he was nearing fifty stared Lincoln mockingly in the face just as surely as Ronnie Anne's K-headed ghost did. If he had to psychoanalyze himself, he'd say that he was trying to, in a way, recapture the magic Halloween once held for him, a magic that dimmed when he reached adulthood, then died completely when his girls reached adulthood.

Whether that was the case or not, he felt like decorating this year, so last week he and Ronnie Anne went to K-Mart and bought a bunch of Halloween centric crap - the tombstones, a skeleton to hang on the door, window decals, and a roll of caution tape with fake blood splatters.

Ronnie Anne turned her head to the street. The sidewalks were starting to crowd with zombies, ninja turtles, princesses, vampires, superheroes, and witches. "Too late." She brushed past him and went up the steps, then leaned in the door and turned the porch light on.

Too late my ass, I spent good money on that tape.

Clamping the cigarette between his lips, he crossed the lawn to the garage, where he lifted the roll top door. A jumble of boxes, broken furniture, tools, and gardening equipment greeted him. The Craftsman riding mower Lori got him last Christmas sat against one wall, covered with a ratty blue tarp like a body in a morgue, and the washer and dryer flanked the connecting door to the kitchen, a white chest freezer between them.

Lincoln took a puff and went to the workbench, finding the tape sitting next to a box of screws buried under a thick layer of dust. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands like a man appraising the worth of a precious gem. CAUTION! Blared along its length, reminding him of the ticker at the bottom of the screen on CNN, and red splotches stained it here and there.

Now where was he going to string it up? Between the tree and mailbox, maybe, where it didn't block trick or treaters, or through the hedge.

He went back outside just as Benson trotted past in the direction of his house. Lincoln's eyes narrowed and he whipped his head around. What did that dumb dog -

When he saw gray chunks of tombstone strewn across the ground, his jaw dropped...then snapped closed again. He turned to the dog, who sat just inside his yard, and for a moment, he was so mad he could have kicked it in its dumb, grinning face.

 _They're pieces of foam, Linc, calm down._

He jabbed his finger at Benson, and the dog's head cocked curiously to one side. "You're a _bad_ dog," Lincoln snarled.

Benson's furry smile widened. _Why, thank you, I_ am _bad, aren't I?_

"That wasn't a compliment," Lincoln said through his teeth. "You're supposed to be _good_."

Benson sneezed as if in derision. _Good? Pfft._

Ronnie Anne came out of the house with a big plastic bowl filled with candy in her hands. She descended the steps, glanced at the hunks of foam, and frowned in bafflement. "What happened?"she asked.

"That…. _thing_ happened," Lincoln said and pointed at Benson, who barked mockingly. _Yep,_ I _happened, lady._

A group of trick or treaters started up the walk, and with a roll of the eyes, Ronnie Anne rushed off to meet them, smiling and crowing over a little girl's costume ( _I'm a fairy godmother,_ she said, _NOT a princess_ ). Lincoln put his hands on his hips and drew a deep, calming breath. It was that little bastard Chandler, that's who it was - Lincoln was _convinced_ he sent Benson over here. _Go shit in Mr. Loud's yard, boy. Go on, drop a turd on the walkway where he'll step on it in the morning._ He hoped to fuck another war came along and Chandler got drafted - the army would straighten his punk ass out _real_ quick. Either that or he'd get killed.

Lincoln's stomach turned and hot shame colored the back of his neck. Jesus, that's terrible, Linc.

He didn't want the kid dead, he just wanted him to clean up his attitude. God, Sgt. Hellman would have a field day with his candy ass.

"Please stay out of my yard," Lincoln said, a beseeching edge in his voice. Benson regarded him quizzically for a moment, then turned and disappeared around the side of the house at a slow strut that was so much like his master's that Lincoln gave up all hope. That dog was corrupted through and through.

At the end of the walk, Ronnie Anne dropped a bite sized Twix into a bag held proudly out by a boy dressed as Dracula, and Lincoln walked over. "Nice costume," he said.

"Thanks," the kid replied, then hurried off with his prize.

Ronnie Anne watched him go with a wistful smile and heaved a contemplative sigh. "Remember when Alex and Jessy used to dress up?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said, and the corners of his lips turned up. Halloween was Alex's favorite holiday, and more often than not, she'd spend a week or more making her own costume - slaving over it the way Leni once slaved over her designs - and on the big day itself, she'd gather everyone together to model it. Some years it was simple, other years it was so complex you'd need an engineer and three lawyers to understand how it worked, but it was always fun and creative. The same with Jessy's.

He slipped his arm around Ronnie Anne's waist and drew her close. The last light of day drained from the sky and the arch sodium street lamps up and down Cleveland winked on one-by-one, their soft glow casting puddles of rust-colored illumination on the sidewalk. She turned and pecked his cheek. "C'mon, my feet are killing me." She turned and went up the walk; Lincoln followed, but stopped and looked at the roll of caution tape in his hand. He had to string this stuff up first.

Across the yard, Benson appeared, parked his furry ass on the ground, and watched Lincoln like a crazed stalker. _Bark, bark, as soon as you go inside I'm gonna shit on your lawn, bark, bark._

Eh, screw it, Lincoln thought and tossed the tape over his shoulder, damn dog would rip it down anyway.

Inside, she dropped onto the couch and he sat in his chair. Tom Brokaw read the news on NBC. Lincoln grabbed the remote and changed the channel in search of a horror movie - it was Halloween, after all, and watching scary movies is what you do on Halloween. He found a station playing _The Thing From Another World_ and left it. "This movie never scared me," Ronnie Anne remarked.

"Me either," he replied. When he and Ronnie Anne were kids - thirteen, fourteen - they'd go to the Palace every Friday night and see a movie together. In the beginning of its storied run, the Palace was the kind of swanky theater that showed only new, big box office movies with mass appeal: _Ben-Hur; The Ten Commandments; Ocean's 11; Breakfast at Tiffany's; West Side Story._ Sometime in the early sixties, though, the place took a dive and the owners started showing cheaper, low budget films, many of them horror and science fiction starring Vincent Price. _The House of Usher; The Tomb of_ _Ligeia; The Raven; House of Wax._ They were all crap, but they formed the soundtrack for much necking and heavy petting, so he carried a special fondness for them anyway.

"You know what movie _did_ scare me?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Lincoln started to reply but closed his mouth - no, actually, he didn't. There were a couple movies that sent her clutching his shirt and hiding her face in his chest. _Carnival of Souls?_ " _The Premature Burial,_ " he blurted,

On the couch, Ronnie Anne crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. "Nope," she said, leaned forward, and picked the glass ashtray up off the coffee table.

Huh, he was _sure_ that one bothered her. Or did it bother _him?_ He couldn't remember; the idea of being buried alive _was_ horrifying, but he didn't recall being specifically affected by that movie beyond normal unease.

Someone knocked on the door, and grabbing the bowl, Ronnie Anne got up and went to answer it. "Trick or treat!" several excited, high pitched voices cried in unison.

"Oh, you're so _cute,_ " she drew. Lincoln craned his neck to see around her but couldn't. Aww, I wanna see the cute kids.

Not badly enough to get up, though.

"Happy Halloween," Ronnie Anne said and closed the door. She sat on the edge of the couch and tipped her ash in the tray. "You figure it out?"

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Figure _what_ out?"

"Which movie scared me."

Oh. "No," he admitted. "I did not."

Huffing like he forgot something important like their anniversary, she said, " _The Tinger."_

The _what?_ Lincoln didn't consider himself a connoisseur of horror movies...or any movies for that matter...but he was pretty sure they didn't see anything called -

Then, all at once, it came back to him and he laughed out loud. "Oh, yes it did," he said richly.

Ronnie Anne narrowed her eyes and he snorted. "You almost shit yourself."

 _The Tingler_ was one of those schlocky gimmick movies that could not have existed in any other time period but the early sixties. In it, a scientist (played by Vincent Price, of course) discovered some kind of alien creature that lived in people's spines and fed on fear...or something, Lincoln was hazy on the details, but he _thought_ that the tingling sensation you get in your spine when you're spooked out was explained as the tingler feeding on your sweet, sweet terror. At the very end, Price turned toward the camera and said something along the lines of _Ladies and gentlemen, the tingler is loose in_ this _theater_. Then, without warning, an electric something-of-other surreptitiously hidden on the back of the seat began vibrating, giving the illusion of your spine tingling. The moment her chair started to shake, Ronnie Anne shrieked and jumped so high she hit her head on Sputnik 3. Sounded like a cat being murdered.

He laughed even harder at the memory, and Ronnie Anne glared...then grinned. "That was the most terrifying thing to ever happen to me." She took a puff and blew it out. "Up to that point." There was a meaningful drop in her voice that told Lincoln she was thinking of either him going to Vietnam, or her nearly dying in labor, or her being shot by that bastard Jenner. The light mood darkened like throwing a switch, and Lincoln's smile fell into a slight, grumpy frown. There are two kinds of fear, Lincoln had learned: The pleasant tingling kind you got from a scary movie...and the deep, claustrophobic, I-feel-like-I'm-drowning kind that claws at your soul as you sit in the waiting room of a hospital while your wife undergoes surgery to remove the bullet from her body. The former was fun...the latter was not.

Ronnie Anne leaned forward, stubbed the butt out in the ashtray, sat back against the couch, and folded her arms across her chest.

From there, they lapsed into the warm, companionable of a couple who'd been married for nearly three decades and were assured of the other's love without having to hear it declared. On TV, the creature claimed a victim, and Lincoln was uncomfortably reminded of the remake - _The Thing -_ that Alex dragged him to when it was first out. There was a scene where an alien burst out of a man's chest like a grizzly jack-in-the-box, and Lincoln almost puked. Why in the name of God would someone want to see something like that? It made him sick just thinking about it. Oh, but Alex ate it up like candy. Every movie he ever walked in on her watching had someone being hacked up, mutilated, skinned alive, eaten, or tortured. He saw plenty of pain and dismemberment in Vietnam, he didn't need to see more in technicolor.

Someone knocked, and Ronnie Anne got up with the candy bowl. She fawned over the children's costumes, dropped a sucker or a fun sized Payday into their bags, then took her seat again. She repeated the ritual several times before Jessy and Mark came through the door, Jessy in a purple wool coat that reached her knees and Mark in a denim jacket with white sheepskin lining. "Hey," Jessy said, "we're back."

"Trick or treat," Mark deadpanned.

Lincoln didn't know where they were back from, and he didn't ask. Jessy was a grown woman capable of making her own choices...of course, he only said that because he trusted her and Mark to not do stupid shit. A lot of kids their age drank and drove, did strange and harmful drugs, and exceeded the speed limit. Not them, though. They were responsible. Thank _God._ She and Alex could have been an endless source of worry growing up, but they weren't, and Lincoln appreciated that. "We don't have any," Lincoln said, "go away."

"But I see it in Mrs. Loud's lap."

"No you don't," Ronnie Anne said. She opened a Baby Ruth and tossed it into her mouth.

Mark blinked in confusion, then recovered when he realized she was joking. "I'll just buy my own later."

Jessy took her coat off and hung it up, then sat next to Ronnie Anne. Mark came over and wedged himself between Jessy and the arm without removing his own jacket, but like Jessy covering her mouth with her hand while she ate, that was a quirk Lincoln had normalized. _I want to keep it on in case I have to go outside again,_ Mark said once. _You can take it off until then, you know._ Mark just shrugged. Kid was a card sometimes, and Lincoln liked that. Tim was a good kid and he genuinely liked him, but he was kind of...bland. Boring. A square. _Normal._ Mark, on the other hand, was interesting - you never knew what he was going to come out with next.

"Where'd you guys go?" Lincoln asked by way of conversation.

Someone knocked on the door; Ronnie Anne picked up the dwindling candy supply and went to take care of them.

"Apartment hunting," Jessy said with a proud inflection.

Lincoln hummed. "Find anything?" he asked.

Jessy's head bobbed up and down. "Yep. A one bedroom in Elk Park." Her face darkened a little. "I don't think we're going to get it, though," she said.

They'd been looking at places since August, and went through the same routine a dozen times: Find something they both liked, hem and haw, then decide to _wait until we're just a little better off financially._

It was Jessy doing the hemming and hawing. Lincoln suspected she was nervous about moving out. Finances certainly played a part - she was a cautious girl - but he wondered if the concept of leaving home didn't intimidate her. Moving out is a giant step and feeling anxiety over it is perfectly normal - he did when he and Ronnie Anne first moved in together, and then again when they bought the house. Life is full of those giant steps, and no matter how many you've taken before, coming to one is always a leap of faith - like diving into water that might be deep enough, but also might not.

Ronnie Anne returned and sat, the bowl resting in her lap. Jessy scanned the selection, brightened, and plucked a Milky Way out. Mark reached in, but Ronnie Anne snatched it away. "You're buying your own later," she said, "remember?"

"I never had any intention of buying my own," he said.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

"Alright," she relented and shoved the bowl out, "one."

Mark bent over the bowl and studied the contents for a long time before settling on a Mounds. "Do you want anything?" Ronnie Anne asked Lincoln.

"Nah," he said, "I -"

Someone knocked on the door.

Ronnie Anne pushed the bowl into Mark's hands. "You get it this time," she said.

Shrugging one shoulder, Mark got up and went over to get it. On TV, _Night of the Living Dead_ was just starting: Long tracking shots followed a car as it made its way along a twisting country highway, then pulled into a cemetery. Lincoln was sure he'd seen this movie at some point, but he honestly couldn't remember a thing about it. Wasn't there a vampire? He turned to the door when he heard Tim's voice: Mark stepped aside and Blake toddled in, his head whipping around and a big, sunny smile on his face. He wore a brown zip up suit with black splotches - like a cow - and a little head piece that strapped under the chin; a dog's face stared out from the top of his head, floppy ears and all, its cocky smile frozen in place. Ronnie Anne gasped. "Oh, you're so _cute!"_

He whipped around , saw her and Jessy, and his grin widened. He went to Ronnie Anne, his arms out for a hug, and she swept him into a tight, feet-off-the-floor embrace. "Who are you supposed to be?" she asked.

" _Scappy,"_ he piped.

Ronnie Anne held him at arm's length and frowned. "Who?"

"Scrappy," Jessy said. "Scooby-Doo's nephew."

Blake pulled away from his grandmother and held his arms out to Jessy."Hi, you look _really_ nice," she said and hugged him.

"I didn't know Scooby _had_ a nephew," Ronnie Anne said.

Tim stood just inside the door talking to Mark, and Lincoln furrowed his brow. "Where's Alex?"

"Right there," Tim said and nodded out the door. Lincoln could imagine her crouching just to the side of the door like a creep waiting to pop out and throw open his trench coat. Knowing her, she made a costume she was _really_ proud of and was, as she'd put it, _playing up the suspense before the BIG reveal._

Shuffling to the side of the chair, Blake presented himself proudly to Lincoln. " _I Scappy."_

Lincoln smiled. "Hi, Scappy. Where's Blake?"

The little boy went on preening, either not understanding the question or not knowing how to reply. Ronnie Anne and Jessy both worked with him on shapes, colors, numbers, and his name, and he was very good, so he knew who Blake was. Lincoln leaned over, grabbed him under his arms, and hefted him over the side of the chair with a strained grunt - something popped in his back and pain flared across his shoulder blades. "Oof. You're heavy," Lincoln said and sat the boy on his lap.

"Alex," Ronnie Anne called impatiently, "are you coming in?"

"Y-Yes," she replied uncertainly and stepped tentatively into the frame, where she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a long, drab dress, big glasses that dominated her face, and a ponytail. "Hi," she said meekly and lifted one hand.

Arching his brow, Lincoln looked her up and down, trying for the life of him to figure out what the hell she was supposed to be. The glasses, ponytail, and shy demeanor screamed librarian, but it also suggested teacher.

"Librarian?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Unsmiling, Alex shook her head.

"Teacher," Lincoln said with the utmost confidence.

Again, she shook her head.

"Spinster?" Mark asked.

Nope.

"Geek?" Jessy asked.

"Close," Alex said, then smirked. "I'm you."

Ronnie Anne laughed and Jessy's brow knitted in outrage. Lincoln just shook his hand and laced his fingers across Blake's stomach. "Your mom's a whack job," he said.

"I don't look like that," Jessy snipped.

Alex walked to the couch and sat between Jessy and Ronnie Anne. "Yes you do," she assured.

Twisting around, Jessy glared. "I do _not_. I don't even wear glasses. My eyesight is fine."

"You wear glasses in here," Alex said deeply and patted her own heart.

Jessy's face crinkled in bemusement and she shook her head. "What does that even mean?"

Blake snuggled up to Lincoln and kicked his feet. " _Car-tooons,"_ he said. Onscreen, a man in a suit lumbered ominously through the cemetery, his eyes wide and staring.

" _They're coming to get you, Barbara,"_ someone intoned, " _look, here comes one of them now."_

Lincoln picked up the remote and changed the channel to Nickelodeon. _And there he goes, nevermind. Cancel the movie._

"It's not really you," Alex told Jessy, who was facing pointedly away, arms sullenly crossed. "It's a mixture of you and Mom. I call her Jessy-Anne; she's my original character."

Ronnie Anne and Jessy both glowered at Alex. Uh-oh.

For her part, Alex was too busy watching _Rugrats_ to notice. "Her hobbies include worrying, being a lame-o, wearing old lady dresses, and listening to golden oldies while she plucks grays out of her hair."

Ronnie Anne leaned forward to see around her and fixed her gaze on Jessy. "Should you punch her, or should I?"

Without replying, Jessy balled her fist and slammed in into Alex's arm. Alex jumped and let out a wavering cry of agony that made Blake tense. Lincoln held the boy closer and kissed the side of his face reassuringly. "Mommy's just playing," he said.

" _Kay."_

"That _really_ hurt," Alex moaned and rubbed her arm.

Her words turned into a howl when Ronnie Anne hit the other side _to even you out._ Jumping to her feet, she ripped the glasses off and flung them to the ground. "I regret creating this character," she sulked.

* * *

Luan hated Halloween. Years ago, when she was a girl, she loved it; the candy, the costumes, the festival atmosphere - Halloween was one big block party and everyone was invited. Now, at nearly fifty, she despised it. She passed the whole month of October in a state of rising dread, each falling leaf like a straw dropping onto a camel's back, and every new pumpkin, scarecrow decoration, and grocery store display openly mocked her. _15 more days, honey; now 12; ooooh, one week left, better stock up on chocolate bars, aisle three!_ Like Scourge during the Yule season, she grew increasing grumpy as the big day approached, her features lowering with every day until they were set in a deep, sour frown that touched every square inch of her face. Sitting now on the couch next to Fred, her arms and legs petulantly crossed, she seethed with dark emotions that flared every time someone knocked on the door. Didn't they know the porch light being off meant go away?

On TV, John Wayne lead an army of cowboys across a dusty plain in search of injuns to kill. Luan hated John Wayne, but not as much as she hated horror movies - those reminded her what day it was, and of all the children on the streets in their little costumes, all bright eyes, big smiles, and…

She shut that savagely out, killing it the way a fascist leader would a popular uprising - swiftly and with extreme prejudice. If she didn't, she would start to dwell, and the suffocating sense of loss would return as it did every time she allowed herself to think too hard.

Instead, she stared at the television set, struggling to keep the thoughts at bay. It worked for a while, but eventually they crept back in like mist through an electric graveyard, and with them, sharp, cutting pangs of regret. Two years ago, when Mom was first diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, Luan was trying actively trying to get pregnant, spurred on, perhaps, by the realization that her daughter was now an adult and that, because of what she did in that far off place called 1970, she missed her little girl's entire childhood. She loved Jessy so much it disconcerted her - she was the brightest, most beautiful, loving, and amazing daughter a mother could ever ask for - but buried in the back of her mind was the disheartening knowledge that she had nothing to do with it. Jessy grew and developed on her own, with only the rare divided-by-glass visit. Luan was apart from her until after it was too late - she missed Jessy's excited glow on Christmas morning, Jessy dressing up on Halloween; she was never there to listen to her problems and dispense wise, motherly advice; was never there to take her in her arms after a nightmare and rock her gently back to sleep; she missed out on so much, and the more she thought about it, the more it ate away at her. In a way, she supposed she wanted to make up for that by having a child she _could_ raise, teach, and be there for the was she wasn't for Jessy.

Most every woman, whether they're a bourgeois wage slave housewife or a liberated feminist, is born with the biological need to love and nurture another life; it is a natural evolutionary feature cultivated over time to ensure the promulgation of the human race. Some feel it more strongly than others, and some don't feel it at all, but it's there, deep in their DNA. Luan did not truly feel it until she gave birth to her daughter; if she had to describe it, she would liken it to breathing, and she would liken Jessy being taken away from her to a calloused hand closing tightly around her throat and choking off her air supply.

Coming out of jail, she felt it just as strongly as she did going in...but after being with her daughter and realizing just how amazing and precious she was...just how much she missed over the years...it grew. She was not actively planning on having anymore children when she met Fred, or even once they started seeing each other, but, like the deep-seeded breeding instinct in every woman (and man too), it was there. Blake's birth set it off like a tripwire, and the abject _need_ to actually be a mother instead of a face behind a pane of glass...or a Johnny-come-lately...consumed her like passion.

Then Mom got sick.

When Luan got out of prison, she vowed to always take care of her parents the way they always took care of her. Maybe that was her way of not only repaying them but also of indulging her maternal instincts, and maybe it wasn't - either way, she made a promise to herself that she would be there for Mom and Dad. When Mom got sick, the first thing she did was stop trying to get pregnant; while she liked to think she could do anything, she knew she couldn't care for her mother _and_ a baby, and Mom came first.

She didn't resent Mom for this or blame her for ruining her chances of having another child because it was too late anyway. She was going through menopause and no matter how many times she and Fred tried, his seed just wouldn't take. Sometimes, in her darker moments, she faulted him (but never aloud) even though she knew with dread certainty that it was _her_.

Whether she could physical conceive, however, was beside the point: She could not have a child, and every day that cut just a little deeper, stung a little hotter. Every child she saw, including her nephew, was a painful reminder of what she wanted most but would likely never have. One of her last days at Flip's before she quit to take care of Mom, she waited on a woman and her three or four year old daughter. The little girl, her blonde hair held back from her forehead by clips, was bent over a paper placemat and drawing with a crayon, her legs kicking back and forth and an airy hum emanating from her lips. Luan's heart melted into a puddle and her mind instantly went back to Jessy at that age...then, inevitably, to how desperately she wanted to hold her daughter in her lap and cover her face in loving kisses but couldn't. She didn't believe in hell, but if it did exist, there was no way it could be worse than seeing your daughter and not being able to so much as hug her. When Luan took their orders, the little girl turned her big blue eyes up and happily asked for chicken nuggets, and as she walked away to take the tickets to the window, she heard her pipe _I made you somethin', Mommy_.

 _Aww, that's a very pretty picture._

That one moment of mother-daughter bliss made Luan smile...but it gutted her too, because she never got to do that with Jessy. Something so normal and wholesome as your child drawing you a picture while you wait for your lunch…

She almost broke down.

Being absent during Jessy's childhood was something that Luan fought with constantly. She would tell herself that it was done and that there was no use tormenting herself...then, for a little while, she would be fine...but the sorrow always came back. She doubted she would every fully come to terms with it - every time she looked at Jessy, she saw not only what she had, but what she missed.

That extended to all children now, and the thought of passing out candy to an endless stream of little boys and little girls made Luan's stomach clutch.

The prospect of adopting _had_ occurred to her, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to do that; it was harder to get pregnant after fifty, but not impossible. Once Mom was...once she no longer had to take care of Mom, rather...she and Fred could try again.

Someone knocked, and Luan tensed.

Mom started awake in her chair and looked around in bewilderment. The knock came again, light and clumsy, as though produced by a little fist. Luan pictured a girl much like the one from Flip's, and her heart twinged. "Y-Your brother's at the door," Mom muttered. "Better let him in."

"It's just a trick or treater, Mom," Luan said.

Mom blinked the sleep away and turned to her. Luan didn't like looking into her mother's eyes, because in them she saw the dense, opaque cloud of her sickness like the gathering gloom of the coming night. The doctors said it was progressing far slower than it could, but that was cold comfort; Mom was confused most of the time - constantly forgetting what day it was, talking about things that happened just moments before as though they happened years in the past, and accusing her and Fred both of lying to her. Earlier, before dinner, she was _convinced_ that _The Brash and the Bountiful_ was coming on, even though she just watched the day's installment not three hours before. Luan pointed this out, and Mom sneered. _You're always lying about things, Luan. You need to stop. Liars go to_ hell. She hissed the last word with an uncharacteristic venom that went through Luan like battery acid. Mom sometimes lost her patience and raised her voice, but she never spoke to her or any of the others like that. Luan tried to show her that it wasn't on, yet she still didn't believe her and wouldn't back down until Fred distracted her and she forgot.

In the beginning, the doctors cautioned Luan that Mom's personality might change as the disease ravaged her brain - _she'll likely become moody and irritable_ \- but it was shocking, and heartbreaking, to actually see it. Sometimes, it was like she wasn't even Mom at all but someone else.

Luan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Taking care of Mom was overwhelming at times, and she was terrified that one day, tired and short-tempered, she'd snap and yell or say something awful.

Maybe Lincoln was right about putting Mom in a home; as much as she wanted to keep Mom here, it might be for the best if she didn't. She wasn't a nurse and this wasn't a facility with medical care a button-push away. What if Mom fell, or had a fit and wandered off?

She couldn't just stick her mother into a nursing home, no matter _how_ nice it was.

The John Wayne movie ended and something called _The Midnight Hour_ started. It looked like horror. Luan laid her hand on Fred's leg, and when he looked at her, she nodded to the TV. Picking up on her meaning, he changed the channel, cycling through the stations before finally settling on an episode of _Seinfeld_ : Kramer slid into Jerry's apartment like a man on ice, and the studio audience went crazy. Luan listened for the knocking, but didn't hear it - whoever it was must have left. She suddenly hoped the baby wasn't too disappointed.

Sighing again, she hugged herself and stared at the screen, trying to keep the thoughts at bay, but not doing a very good job of it. They were with her then, and later as she helped Mom to bed, and then later still as she lay next to Fred, curled on her side and peering into the darkness.

It was a long time before she slept.


	170. October and November 1992: Part 2

**Lyrics to** _ **The Monster Mash**_ **by Bobby Pickett (1962)**

Growing up, Alex Underwood's mother took pictures of _everything._ Seriously, you couldn't open a single present on Christmas morning without having one of those old cameras from the thirties shoved in your face _(flash, MY EYES!)_. On one hand, Alex could _kind_ of understand wanting to document happy family moments, on the other...c'mon, give me some elbow room, I need some elbow room so I can boom shak-a-lak boom. That was from a rap song...but seriously, stop taking pictures, it's annoying.

Yeah.

Heh.

Funny how things change, huh?

Standing on the sidewalk in front of a house decorated with orange lights and spooky trimmings, Alex watched as Tim lead Blake up the walk, a disposable camera in her hands. Next to her, Jessy hugged herself and rocked on her heels like it was a thousand degrees below. She wore her purple coat and a plaid scarf - jeez, it's not _that_ bad out here. Next to _her_ , Mark stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jean jacket and stared up at the house with the critical eye of a man in the market. Kids in costumes streamed around them, their bags overflowing with candy. A little black boy dressed as Batman bumped into her...then jumped back, threw his hands up, and assumed a karate stance. "Don't mess with me," he warned.

"Sorry," Alex said and grinned sheepishly. "Didn't mean to offend you."

"The Batman forgives you," he replied, "...this time." He held his fingers up in a V, touched his eyes, then pointed at Alex.

Okay then.

At the top of the porch steps, Tim knocked on the storm door, and a woman dressed as a witch came out with a bowl of candy. Blake tilted his head back and stared up at her, and for a second, Alex thought he was going to start screaming in holy terror. Instead, he threw his arms out and gave her leg a big hug. Awwwww, he's so cute! Alex lifted the camera to her face and snapped a picture, then spun the wheel and took another.

"Given the lighting, those probably aren't going to turn out well," Mark said.

Turning to him, Alex held the camera up and took a picture of his face; the flash blinded him and he blinked like he had something in his eye. "That one might," he allowed.

Holding Blake's hand, Tim helped him down the steps; at the last one, Blake hopped and landed on the walkway with the slap of little feet. "Good job, buddy," Tim said, then to Alex, "your turn."

She gave him the camera and took Blake's hand. "You hugged that scary old witch," she said as they began to walk to the next house over. "You're _brave."_

"He's smart," Tim corrected. "She gave him extra for being so cute." He grinned boyishly and tapped his temple. "He knows what he's doing."

A boy in a long, dark coat, his head down and a long scarf wrapped around his neck, darted out from between two cars parked at the curb and almost bumped into Mark. He whipped his head up and kept going without so much as an _excuse me, sir._ How rude. Alex knew his face but couldn't place it until later: Chandler, Mom and Dad's neighbor and owner of Benson the poop factory. She didn't like him; he was a little toad who needed the taste slapped out of his mouth.

They hit three more houses before Blake started to get tired of walking; Tim scooped him up and carried him. "How's the house hunt going?" Alex asked Jessy as they walked back to Mom and Dad's. Jack-o-lanterns watched with flickering eyes as they past, and a cold wind roared in the trees up and down Cleveland Street. The herd of kids thinned as the younger ones bowed out, leaving the older kids to themselves.

"Pretty good," Jessy nodded. She walked with her arms crossed, Mark keeping pace and looking down at his feet as if counting his steps...which he probably was. He had a habit of doing stuff like that. "We've seen a few things we like." She hesitated, then added, "I just wanna make sure we're really ready with money. Neither one of us makes very much."

Alex reached into Blake's bag, took out a Tootsie Roll, and ripped the paper off. Surely he wouldn't mind sharing with his dear old Mom; he was a sweet little boy after all. "That's understandable," she said. "Not everyone can be a medical professional like me."

"You wipe asses," Tim pointed out, "calm down."

Popping the Tootsie Roll into her mouth, Alex said, "Yeah, and I whip them too, so watch your mouth."

They were at the bottom of the walk now. The front door was open, and through the screen Alex caught a glimpse of Mom passing through the living room on the way to either the kitchen or the john. What time was it? It felt late. She looked at her watch: Oooh, only 8:00. "I kind of wanna take Blake to that party at work," she said.

Tim looked at his son and hummed. "He looks kind of tired."

"We won't stay long," she said. "He'll love it." She glanced at Jessy. "You guys wanna come too?"

"Not really," Jessy said, "I need to be up early."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I gotta get going anyway."

"Pfft, lame-os," Alex said.

After saying her goodbye, Alex strapped Blake into his car seat and slipped behind the wheel. Tim climbed in, pulled his seatbelt on, and rolled down the window. "Is there actual food there?" he asked. "I'm sure he's hungry."

"Way ahead of you," Alex said and started the engine. Less than ten minutes later, she pulled into the McDonald's drive-thru and came to a rolling stop at the big lit-up menu flanking the speaker. " _Hi...come to...donald's, can….order?"_ a voice crackled. She wasn't sure when exactly this place was built, but for as long as she could remember, the speaker didn't work right. At this point, she thought that _maybe_ it did, and that its innate crappiness was a feature and not a flaw.

She glanced at Tim. "What do you want?"

In the back, Blake kicked his legs in excitement. She didn't have to bother asking what he wanted because she already knew: Chicken McNuggets, fries, a toy, and a Coke to wash it all down. Well, now the toy since Blake wouldn't be eating _that,_ but you get the idea.

Tim hummed thoughtfully. "Quarter Pounder."

Ooooh, that sounded really good. Personally, she liked Big Macs better, but she had a Big Mac the last time she was here, so she'd rip off Tim and have a QP instead. You know what they say: Variety is the spice of life.

She leaned out the window, placed their order, then drove to the first window. A gangly black boy in a visor hat took her money, made change, and handed it back. At the second window, after a gruelling five minute wait (come on, we're starving, here), a fat white girl passed her the bags. Before taking off, she checked them thoroughly to make sure they didn't forget anything like last time - she had to come all the way back here from home because some clown neglected to give Blake his toy.

This time around, all the food was present and accounted for; Alex thanked her, gave the bags to Tim, and pulled away. " _Donnels!"_ Blake cried and kicked the back of her seat.

"Daddy's getting it," she laughed, "relax."

At the exit, she waited for a break in traffic then turned left onto Main. Tim emptied Blake's fries and nuggets into the Happy Meal bag then twisted around and gave it to him; next, he handed Alex her fries, and she wedged them between her legs like a refreshing beverage. 'Thank you," she sang.

"You're welcome," he replied and pulled out his burger.

For a long time they rode in silence, the only sound the hum of tires on the pavement and the munching of hungry mouths. Periodically, Alex glanced into the rearview mirror to make sure Blake was okay and not silently choking on a piece of chicken, which was one of her greatest Mom fears since she read _Christine_ by Stephen King, where pretty much the same thing happens to a little boy. Or girl. She couldn't remember the kid's gender, and she didn't want to - she didn't want to remember _anything_ about that scene. She was never hot on seeing or reading about kids being hurt or killed, but since having Blake, she couldn't stomach it at _all._ One of her favorite movies was _Pet Sematary_ (it was even scarier than the book), but when she tried to watch it a few months ago, the part where the little boy gets run down by a speeding tractor trailer made her literally sick. Nope, sorry, no bueno.

That's Spanish for no good, by the way. She picked it up from Mom; Uncle Bobby came over from time to time, and he and Mom would sit at the kitchen table with cups of coffee and talk, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, but mostly in old person. _Groovy, daddy-o, I'm really picking up what you're laying down._ She didn't know many other words, though; I live in Michigan and all my family is white and/or speaks English, why do I need to know how to speak taco?

The memory of Tom's barb made her snicker around a fry. He was such a prick.

"Can I have my burger?" she asked when her fries were gone. They were coming up on the outskirts of Chippewa Falls; the forest pressing against either side of the blacktop fell away, and in the distance, disembodied headlights streaked along the interstate like the burning, malevolent eyes of demons flying through the night in search of blood.

Oooh, that's a good one. I should write that down.

Tim took her burger from the bag and handed it to her. "Thanks, Tim dim sum," she chirped.

"That's a new one," he said.

"It's Asian inspired."

In town, Alex turned onto High Street, which slopes up a hill before veering left, then onto Ridgecrest Drive. Oak Springs sat near the very end, separated from Henry Johnson Middle School by a rank of pine trees. Alex pulled into the parking lot and blinked. Holy crowded parking lot, Batman, there are cars _everywhere_.

"Wow, this place is packed," Tim said.

Alex pulled to a stop and looked around for an empty space, but didn't see any. Sighing, she did a U-Turn and parked at the curb behind a Pinto with a Clinton/Gore '92 sticker on the bumper. "Alright, guys," she said, "let's boogie. That's old person for _have a good time."_

If Alex thought the parking lot was full, she got a _ruuuude_ awakening when she, Tim, and Blake got to the dining room. There were people out the wahzoo, some standing and drinking punch, some bobbing for apples, some doing a cake walk; kids chased each other through the crowd; residents sat in wheelchairs and either doted on the children or passed out candy; CNAs on duty looked harried and like they wanted everyone to take a flying leap; lights flashed; music played; decorations...uh...decorated. "What do you think, Blake-and-wake?" she asked, shouting to be heard over the din.

 _From my laboratory in the castle east  
To the master bedroom where the vampires feast  
The ghouls all came from their humble abodes  
To get a jolt from my electrodes_

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Blake turned his head slowly left and right like a man taking in the Promised Land. He jerked when he saw the folding table against the wall; laden with snacks, cakes, cookies, candies, and a thousand other yummy things, it looked like the place to be if you asked Alex. Blake agreed: He tugged her toward it and she followed with a laugh. Yep, he's my son alright. And here I was thinking Tim cheated on me and Blake wasn't really mine. Pfft.

 _They did the mash  
They did the monster mash  
The monster mash  
It was a graveyard smash_

At the table, Alex hefted him up so he could see. "What'cha want?" she asked and scanned the dishes, bowls, plates, and platters. Brownies, pie, caramel apples...umm. Blake leaned over and whipped his gaze from side to side - so much to choose from, so little stomach room. Tim picked up a Rice Krispy Treat shaped like a spider and bit its head off like the world's biggest jerk. "Ew," she said, "Daddy's eating a spider." She puckered her face and shook her head; Blake stuck his tongue out to indicate his agreement.

"It's a good spider, though," Tim said, spraying bits of cereal. Ew, gross, Tim, you're getting spit on the food. Granted, _I_ don't mind because I've had your slobber in my mouth more times than I can count, but I don't think everyone else will appreciate it.

 _Out from his coffin, Drac's voice did ring  
Seems he was troubled by just one thing  
Opened the lid and shook his fist and said  
"Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist?"_

Blake couldn't make up his mind, so Alex pulled rank and did it for him; plucking a brownie from the pile, she took a big, crummy bite then held it out to him. "It's really good," she said, spraying bits of chocolate. Blake took his own bite and hummed in pleasure.

"Yummy, huh?" she asked.

He nodded deeply.

 _Now everything's cool, Drac's a part of the band  
And my Monster Mash is the hit of the land  
For you, the living, this mash was meant too  
When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you_

Something hard and jagged stabbed Alex between the shoulder blades, and she winced. "You stole my costume, bitch."

She turned and started. Tom towered over her with his hands sternly on his hips and his head cocked as if to say _you have some 'splaining to do._ Alex blinked at his costume in disbelief like a cartoon character - long, floral print dress, blonde wig, high heels; he even wore a purse slung over his shoulder. It wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't so _obviously_ a man. Blake looked him up and down, his brow pinched with confusion and his mouth smeared with chocolate; after a moment, he smiled and kicked his legs as if to greet his new friend.

"You're a woman," Alex blurted.

Tom pursed his lips and gave a slow, patronizing nod. "Umhm. The scariest monster of them all."

Okay, wow, now she was a little offended.

Before she could voice her outrage, Tom turned to Blake. "That your son?" he asked. He reached out and tickled his chest, eliciting a squeal from the little boy's throat. "He's cute."

"Yep," Alex said proudly, "that's Blake. He's gonna be three soon."

Holding up five fingers, Blake beamed. " _Free!"_

"That's five, little man," Tom said and glanced at Tim when he walked up. Maybe Alex was on guard because she knew Tom liked men, but she swore she saw a ravenous, hungry-dog-licking-his-chops glint in his eye. "This your husband?"

A snatch of song lyric occurred to her. _Back off, buddy, she's mine._ In this case, the she was a he, but the point still stood. "Yep," she said, "Tim."

Tim nodded politely and shook Tom's hand; Alex frowned at the way Tom's thumb gingerly caressed Tim's finger, and so did he. "I'm Tom. I'm the one who fixes all your wife's mistakes." He winked, and Alex flattened her lips in annoyance. She did _not_ make mistakes; she wasn't the best CNA in the world, but she'd been working here six whole months and her blunders were precious few...and never, _ever_ serious. Tom, on the other hand, let Mrs. Davidson fall a few weeks ago. Tammy, one of the 3-11 CNAs, said he probably did it on purpose. _He gets abusive sometimes,_ she confided in Alex. They were sitting in the dayroom after Alex's shift ended - her feet were so sore she needed a rest before leaving. _He does?_ Alex asked, a note of horror creeping into her voice. Tammy nodded. _Yep. He gets frustrated and snaps. Cusses them out, gets rough with them, I've seen it._

Alex was shocked and sickened. How could someone hurt a helpless old person? Yeah, the job _was_ frustrating a times, but she would never dream of so much as raising her voice at one of the patients. Not only were they her elders and deservering of the utmost respect, they were someone's grandma or grandpa. If someone hurt _her_ grandmother...she didn't even want to imagine it.

From that point on, she made it her mission to watch Tom as closely as possible - for three months she stalked him through the halls, hiding around corners and outside of doors. In that time, she saw nothing. Zip. Zilch. He did lose his patience now and again (who doesn't?) but he never yelled or hit anyone, he clenched his jaw, hissed through his teeth, and spoke really slowly like he was speaking to a moron. She had no other choice but to conclude that Tammy was probably lying. She _hated_ Tom, so Alex could totally see her making things up about him.

Personally, Alex liked him, but she understood that he was an...uh...acquired taste. Yeah, let's go with that. His humor was unremittingly degrading and some people didn't take well to it. She did, because it kept her on her toes; she was always pretty good with comebacks, but since she met him, she'd improved tenfold. It was kind of like chess - kept her mind sharp.

Laughing, Tim nodded. "I do the same thing at home." His and Tom's hands were still clasped, and he was starting to look uncomfortable.

Blake kicked and tried to slid out of her arms. " _Dooown,"_ he moaned.

"Is she a slob there too?" Tom asked and _very reluctantly_ let go of Tim. Wow, is he seriously doing this? He was probably just messing with her ( _look at me, I'm hitting on your husband, hahaha_ ). Then again, Tim was _hot,_ so she wouldn't rule it out.

"She is," Tim said, and her jaw dropped. If she wasn't holding a thrashing two-year-old in her arms, she would have socked him one.

Tom hummed. "Figures. You can't trust a woman to do anything right." He put a nasty twist on the word _woman_ and flicked his eyes to Alex; the corners of his mouth turned up in a mischievous and mocking grin. Oooh, she'd kick him in the nuts if she wasn't holding Blake. "Anyway, you kids have fun." He winked at Tim, turned in a swish of perfume scented air, and strutted off into the crowd, his butt wiggling under his dress. Alex started to flip him off, but realized Blake was looking at her, so she laughed nervously instead.

"Well," Tim breathed and put his hands on his hips - Alex noted that he rubbed the one that Tom touched on the fabric of his jeans. "That guy was, uh...kind of weird."

Blake kicked Alex's leg. Relenting, she sat him down and took his hand. "He's also kind of gay," she said.

"Yeah," Tim shrugged one shoulder, "that costume _was -_ "

"No," Alex said and yanked a wandering Blake back, "he's literally a homosexual."

Like throwing a switch, the color drained from Tim's face and his jaw dropped open, lending him the appearance of a man who'd just seen a ghost. "H-He is?" he stammered in shock.

Pfft, didn't this guy know that it was the nineties and gay people were starting to come out? By the looks of it, he was still stuck in the eighties...or even *gulp* the seventies. You really need to get with the times, mister. "Yep," she said. They were walking through the assemblance now, Blake dragging Alex along like the excited little puppy he was dressed as. People jostled around them, and Alex caught an errant elbow to the ribs that knocked the air out of her lungs. Oof. Where was this kid leading her? "He said he was _really_ excited to meet you," Alex teased. "Asked what kind of underwear you wore. Kind of a strange question."

Tim gaped. "D-Did you answer it?"

A line of old people sat in wheelchairs against the far wall, watching the party and eating snacks, drinking punch, and holding bowls of candy in their laps. A CNA Alex didn't recognize stood by like a prison guard, arms folded and eyes straight ahead. "I sure did," Alex said as Blake guided her to a hefty woman with bushy white hair and glasses. She sat in her wheelchair and stared off into space with a wistful smile; probably thinking about how much she missed her family ( _eww, that's sad, think silly things!)._ Her name was Mrs. DiVito and she was really sweet - she worked in a munitions factory during WWII and then married a farmer after the war. In the black and white pictures dotting her room, she was squat, bullish, and tough looking. Alex wouldn't mess with her.

Mrs. DiVito's old lady senses must have tingled; she turned, saw Blake, and lit up like a Christmas tree. Alex felt kind of like that Nazi in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ when they opened the ark, and almost shielded her eyes. "Ooh, look at you," Mrs. DiVito cried. Blake went right up to her and preened like a cat in a bar of sunshine. "You're a doggy. Aww." She reached one trembling hand into the bowl in her lap and pulled out a full sized Milky Way, making Alex blink. Whoa. "Would you like a candy bar?"

Blake's smile widened and he nodded.

Mrs. DiVito leaned conspiratorially forward and handed him the chocolate. "Don't eat it all at once," she cautioned. "It'll make your belly hurt."

For a moment he favored her with a blank stare, then flopped his head against one of her beefy legs and gave her a biiiiig hug. She laughed in delight and affectionately rubbed his back. "You are the most precious thing. Where's your mommy?" She looked up at Alex. "Hi, Alex. Is this your little boy?"

"Yep," Alex said fondly, "that's my Blake."

"He's adorable," Mrs. DiVito crowed. "How old is he?"

"Two and a half," Alex said. "Soon to be -"

Blake pulled away and held up five fingers. " _Free!"_

"He's adorable," Mrs. DiVito said. "I hope you don't mind, I gave him a _big_ chocolate bar."

"That's okay," Alex said, _cuz he's gonna share half with_ me _._

From Mrs. DiVito, Blake moved down the line, first to Mr. Thompson, who called him a _strapping lad_ and gave him a bag of Skittles, then to Mrs. Lauder, who said she could just eat him up (it was mean...but from her three-hundred-fifty pound girth, Alex believed her), then, finally, to Mrs. Goldsmith, a frail, shrunken old lady with white hair, a deeply wrinkled face, and bright red lipstick. She was barely over four feet tall and was the oldest resident at Oak Springs: 104 this past August. She could barely hear, barely see, and barely speak, but she was the nicest woman ever. She had the coolest stories, too, like how her husband fought a mountain lion with his bare hands in 1914, snapped it neck, then dragged it home seven miles through the snow before cutting it up and cooking it. _The meat was stringy,_ she said in that low, quavering voice of hers. _I didn't like it._

Blake presented himself to her, his hands behind his back and his chest puffed out. Mrs. Goldsmith squinted at him, then smiled. "Aw, you're darling," she said. She reached one gnarled hand into her pocket and pulled out a single wrapped candy. "Would you like a butterscotch?" she asked.

Blake nodded even though Alex was pretty sure he had no idea what a butterscotch was. She held the candy out, and Alex laid a steadying hand on his shoulder to keep him from accidentally hurting her with one of his hugs. Blake took the proffered treat and grinned. " _Tanks!"_

"You're welcome," she said and patted the top of his doggy head.

At the punch bowl, Alex filled a cup, then pulled Blake's bottle from her purse and filled it. She handed it to him and he took a long, grateful drink. "That guy's looking at me," Tim worried.

"Who?" Alex asked. She looked around and spotted Tom by the door; he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and one leg bent behind him, the sole of his shoe flush with the plaster. He was staring dead at them, a devilish smirk on his lips and one eyebrow arched. He lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers. Tim jerked his head away and stared down at his feet, his fingers raking nervously through his hair.

Alex couldn't help laughing at him. "Does he really bother you that much?"

"He's checking me out," Tim coughed.

She glanced at Tom, and his eyes _did_ look like they were pointed at Tim's butt. He noticed Alex's gaze and slowly, obscenely swiped the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. Alex narrowed her eyes and shook her head. _No, Tom_.

Tom nodded. _Yes, Tom._

Alex turned away. "He's just messing with you. It's not like he's a rapist or anything."

"Are you sure about that?"

No, not _really,_ but he probably wasn't, so there was that. "Yep, you're not even his type. He likes…" he trailed off and tried to come up with something to put Tim's mind at ease. "...uh, he likes black men."

Blake held one arm above his head, indicating that he wanted to be picked up, and Alex hefted him. He curled up against her chest and yawned. "Are you tired?"

He nodded.

"Alright," she said, ""I guess we partied enough." She grabbed one last brownie for the road and started toward the door, Tim following behind and doing his best to look anywhere _but_ at Tom. He was really cute when he was terrified of a big gay man getting ahold of him. He didn't have to worry, though, she'd protect him - if Tom wanted her husband, he'd have to amass an army of big gay men.

As they passed, Tom nodded to her. "You work tomorrow?"

"Yep," she said.

"Alright, see you then."

Tim tried to scurry past, but Tom stopped him. "Bye, Tim," he said.

"B-Bye."

As they made their way to the back door, Tom's sadistic laughter resounded through the hall.

Alex liked him, but she had to admit…

...dude had problems.

* * *

It started as a book club - five middle aged women meeting once a week to discuss the the latest mainstream bestsellers: _The Pelican Brief_ by John Grisham _, Gerald's Game_ by Stephen King (the raciest of the lot), and _Songs of the Humpback Whale_ by Jodi Picoult. Each gathering, held in a different member's home every time, was attended by scones, cookes, coffee, and, occasionally, Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers.

Quickly, however, it turned into something else. Something more sinister.

It became…

The Coupon Club.

At her retirement in late 1991, Lori Santiago decided that she needed a hobby, something to occupy her time. She was fifty-one (which is far, far younger than you might think) and in perfect health both physically and mentally, so the world, she assumed, was her oyster.

She was wrong.

Oh, she could do anything she wanted, but after leaving her job, she came to the startling realization that she was boring. Nothing that she could think of appealed to her - all she liked to do on her off time was read, work in her garden (but not too much), and dote on her grandchildren. She considered joining a gym and getting in shape, but she was already in shape; she entertained the idea of volunteering at the library, but working defeated the purpose of retiring, now didn't it?

She wound up spending most days at her mother's house, drinking coffee at the kitchen table and chatting with Luan. At the beginning of 1992, while scanning the classified ads _(maybe I'll get another job_ ) she came across a listing for a "public meeting" of _The Royal Woods' Ladies Book Club_. Ooooh. She liked books and clubs _and_ lived in Royal Woods. It was perfect. She showed up at the L.E. Smoot Memorial Library at the appointed time, and was surprised to find four other women and four other women only - she was expecting a dozen, if not more.

It was clear early on that while there was no designated "leader", Amanda Copperpot, the club's founder, filled the role as surely as if she wore a crown. A tall, thin woman with fading auburn hair held back in a perpetual ponytail and high, arrogant cheekbones, Amanda was married to a doctor and lived in a veritable mansion on the ritzy side of town. As you might expect, this lead to a snobbish superiority complex hidden below a thin veneer of civility. Her compliments were always back-handed, her tone ever patronizing. The other women in the club acted as though she were the Second Coming of Christ and fell all over themselves for the honor of kissing her ass. At club meetings, any suggestion she made _(we should meet at Delano's Cafe next week;_ or _We should read Danielle Steele next_ ) was greeted with instant and effusive approval while Lori's (and most everyone else's) was either outright ignored or pointedly shot down. This annoyed Lori to no end, and before long, she couldn't help seeing it as not a club but a cult.

At one particular meeting, Amanda mentioned how much money she saved by clipping coupons, and of course, the other women were so _terribly_ interested in hearing every detail. Lori sat in an armchair and listened to Amanda's self-aggrandizing for nearly half an hour before she couldn't take it anymore. Look at her, perched on her chair all prim and proper like she's a queen. She needs to be taken down a few pegs. "That's fascinating," Lori cut in. "Maybe I'll try couponing myself." She crossed her arms and donned a chilly smile. "Who knows, I might even beat you at your own game."

Amanda's brow lowered...then she flashed a cold smile of her own. "Maybe we can make it a club wide affair. A weekly contest, perhaps."

 _Oh, Amanda,_ the other women praised, _you're a genius, that sounds like an_ awful _good time._

From that point forward, the club concerned itself with couponing instead of reading. Each Monday, they met at someone's home and clipped coupons from the newspaper (every woman bringing her own). On Tuesday, they went to the store, made their purchases, and returned the next week with their receipt. Lori anticipated swiftly putting Amanda in her place, but, to her horror, she discovered that the snob was _good -_ she once bought 150 dollars worth of groceries and, with the combination of coupons, sales, and BOGOs (buy one, get one), she paid twenty-five cents. Twenty-five! The best Lori had ever done was 100 dollars worth for three bucks.

With every passing defeat, Lori's desire to best Amanda grew until it was an obsession. She subscribed to the _Penny Saver_ and spent countless hours studying fliers and newspapers; she cruised Royal County for the best sales (any supermarket outside the county limits was disqualified). She lived, breathed, and slept couponing; Bobby said she was nuts, but she didn't care what he thought - it wasn't _his_ pride on the line.

The thing about couponing is that you can only get certain items, items that you may not want or need; the point is not necessity but the thrill of saving. Lori likened it to hunting for sport - she did not want the ten cans of beef stock or the ten tubes of Colgate, she just wanted to shoot something. At first, she did it purely to beat Amanda and didn't particularly care about the hunt. As time wore on, however, she picked up a taste for it like a woman slowly becoming addicted to drugs or cigarettes. Five dollars for one hundred dollars worth of food, deodorant, shoe polish, diaper rash cream, liverwurst (yuck), light bulbs that fit into none of her home's sockets, socks she could not wear, and Poligrip (for which she had no use) was not Amanda good, but it was still good. She came home from every shopping trip with more supplies than she and Bobby could ever use, flush with accomplishment and certain that _this_ time, she'd beat that snooty little bitch.

She never did, though.

But hope springs eternal.

Today, Tuesday, November 3rd (Election Day - Lori and Bobby were both voting for Clinton), she slipped a bulging stack of coupons into one of her purse pockets and left the house just before noon. It was chilly and overcast out; the wind pushed leaves across the ground, and the trees dotting the street burned in faded hues of orange, red, and yellow like the embers of dying fire. Lori climbed behind the wheel of her 1979 Buick station wagon, turned the key in the ignition, and backed out of the driveway. Her chest tightened with anxiety and her stomach flipped as she set off for the supermarket - she always felt a little nervous before her expeditions even though she meticulously planned them out. She knew exactly what to buy, how much, and the figure - if she was lucky, she could walk away with 200 dollars worth of goods for 1.50, thus this was her best chance to beat Amanda Copperpot yet.

A pang tore through her center. She was close...so, so close, but anything could happen out there - the store might be out of something, or a sale might have ended early. You never knew what condition the field of battle would be in until you got there.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the Save-a-Lot on the outskirts of Elk Park. She got out, grabbed a cart, and went inside, her sweaty palms gripping the handle tightly and her heartbeat speeding up.

The store was largely empty save for a few old women. Lori went straight to the canned food aisle and pulled out her shopping list. Ten cans of butter and broccoli soup at 25 cents each. That came to 2.50, but with her coupons, she'd only pay 2.00 even. Ha!

She took ten off the shelf one by one, sat them in the cart, then hurried down the aisle. At the end, she turned left and nearly bumped into another cart.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she started, "I -"

The words died on her lips, and Amanda Copperpot smiled evilly. "Oh, hi, Lori." She flicked her eyes to the soup in Lori's buggy. "Shopping?"

Lori glanced at the contents of Amanda's carriage: A pack of pork chops (on sale for 4.50, 2.50 with coupons), a bottle of olive oil (normally 2.00, but 1.50 today), and a six pack of Tab from the mark-down display. "Just picking up a few things," Lori said noncommittally.

"For the challenge?" Amanda asked and lifted a critical brow.

"Yep," Lori said.

Amanda's grin widened. "What a coincidence, me too. I was just on my way to pick up some children's cough medicine."

She did not have any children.

Lori looked down at her list. "So am I."

"Great," Amanda said, "we can go together."

A shiver raced down Lori's spine. Amanda was the last person she wanted to do _anything_ with, but she smiled anyway. "Perfect," she said through her teeth.

Side-by-side, they started toward the personal care aisle at the unhurried pace of two women with no pressing obligations beyond their present task. "How's the family?" Amanda asked in a manufactured tone that made clear she didn't actually care.

"Good," Lori nodded, then, because couponing with Amanda made her feel like a girl who'd picked a fight with someone much bigger and stronger than her, she made sure to add, "Bobby Jr. was nominated for an Emmy."

Amanda flashed a bloodless, tight-lipped smile. "How nice," she replied , her voice dripping with disdain. "His wife is really opening doors for him, isn't she?"

A twinge of anger pinched Lori's chest at the insinuation that he was succeeding only because of Lola. "Actually, the thousands of fans who write him every week are." She forced a snide, calculated laugh. "He's probably the most popular soap actor on television."

"Good for him," Amanda said and pulled slightly ahead. "How's Bobby? Is he still a day laborer?"

Lori kept pace. Oh, no, you aren't beating _me_ to the children's cough medicine. "He's actually regional manager, and the top of his division too. How's Sam holding up? I'm sure that million dollar malpractice suit is a lot to handle. Especially with all the media attention. He must be so embarrassed, poor thing."

The air grew dark and heavy between them; malice rolled off of Amanda in waves, but she kept on smiling. "He's fine. Hurt that someone would make false accusations, but what can you expect from Mexicans?"

Lori gripped the cart handle so tight her knuckles went pale and her right eye twitched. Hot, gaseous fury swirled in her breast and the muscles in her arms quivered - she was so close to slapping Amanda across her face her right palm tingled. Instead, she pulled forward. "Some people are just _miserable,_ aren't they?" she asked pointedly.

"Indeed they are," Amanda said and quickened her step to match Lori's. "Makes you wonder why they insist on bothering the rest of us. Why, even something like, say, a book club isn't safe from them." Amanda smiled venomously. "They join and don't take the hint that no one wants them there."

Now Lori was starting to get mad. "Or they _start_ book clubs and use them as an excuse to have their holier-than-thou asses kissed."

They were both pushing their carts faster now, almost jogging. " _Some_ people are just plain unlikable," Amanda huffed. "Aren't they?"

That was it. "And some people are egotistical twits who live off their rich doctor husbands," Lori spat.

Amanda's jaw dropped. "No they aren't!"

"Oh, yes they are. They think that just because a couple spinsters with no lives suck up to them, they're somehow better than everyone else." Lori sneered. "But they're not."

Growling, Amanda took off like a shot, one wheel wobbling and her ponytail swishing behind her. For a second, Lori was stunned, then quickly recovered and gave chase. A teenage boy in a red store apron over a white shirt emerged from one of the aisles and stepped directly into Lori's path. Her heart leapt into her throat and she braced herself for impact. At the last second, however, he saw her and jumped back with a cry of alarm.

Ahead, Amanda whipped down the personal care aisle, and Lori followed, getting to the cough medicine just behind her. Amanda grabbed a bottle and threw it, then rocketed off again. "May the best woman win," she called over her shoulder.

Oh, it's like that, huh?

Seething, Lori snatched a bottle of cough medicine off the shelf, slammed it in, and pulled a sharp U-Turn; the front of the cart clipped an aspirin display, and it collapsed, a flood of plastic bottles sweeping across the floor. Lori ignored it and streaked away, one thing on her mind and one thing only: Destroying Amanda Copperpot.

At the end of the aisle, she hesitated, then chose left, moving as quickly as she could and consulting her list. Men's deodorant, three for five. She got there just in time to see Amanda disappearing around the corner. DAMN IT! She had to hurry!

She frantically grabbed three from the shelf and knocked another two to the ground: One's lid popped off and skitted across the tiles, but Lori was already gone, her cart sailing like a cutter at sea and her feet barely touching the floor. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and her heart slammed insistently against her ribs, spurring her to HURRY! At the meat chest, she crashed into an abandoned buggy, grabbed a pack of pork chops, and tossed them in. Amanda ran past, took out a cardboard display of seasoning packets, and kept going.

Two aisles over, Lori got to batteries only to find all the AAAs gone and a telltale pack of D-Cells lying on the floor. Her stomach knotted and panic clutched her. Amanda must have gotten to them first. Damn it!

Moving on, she went to the milk cooler only to find Amanda already there. She looked up when Lori approached, and hysteria flickered across her face. She ripped a jug from inside, tossed it into her cart...then grabbed another and, with a hateful smile, slammed it against the floor. It broke open and white liquid spread out in a cold, snowy puddle. "Watch your step," she hissed and ran off.

Lori let out a wordless cry of frustration. Pushing her cart aside, she went to the cooler, her shoes slipping, and yanked a gallon out. Grumbling under her breath and fuming with hatred, she went back, slow and careful so she didn't fall, then took off. If Amanda wanted to play dirty, then so be it. She stopped to pick up a carton of eggs she did not plan to buy, and went to the next item on her list: Little girl's training pants. She got there, grabbed a pack, and started away but heeled when Amanda came up from behind.

Got you right where I want you, bitch.

She opened the eggs, pulled one out, and twisted around. Winding up like a pitcher on the mound, she flung it at the floor in front of Amanda's left front tire. It exploded, and the cart slid like a car on ice. Amanda's mouth fell open in a perfect O of surprise, and she held tight. Ha! "Watch your step!" Lori called.

Ten minutes later, panting, red faced, and covered in sweat, Lori pulled into one of the checkout lanes and looked around. She didn't see Amanda, and her spirits soared...only to crash back down when the woman in question sprinted from an alsie and into the next lane over. They glared at each other over the top of the magazine rack ( _U.S. GOV'T TO BLAME FOR LETTING BAT BOY ESCAPE!_ charged the cover of _The Weekly World News_ ). This was it - Lori's everything was riding on this. If she lost, she would never be able to show her face again; she'd spend the rest of her life in shame.

The person ahead of her paid, and she started to load her things onto the conveyor belt. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Amanda was doing the same. Even though it wasn't a race, she worked faster, piling things up and earning an irritated look from the cashier.

She waited anxiously as the clerk rang her purchases up, her eyes glued to the register and her heart pounding faster and faster with every uptick in price. "202.52," the cashier said. "Do you have any coupons you'd like to use today?"

Smiling smugly, Lori reached into her purse...and her heart dropped.

The coupons weren't there.

She felt around but didn't find them.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

Panic clutched her and, smiling nervously, she pulled the purse open and looked thorough. Oh, God, where are they? She _knew_ they put them in. "I-I know they're here."

A terrible idea occurred to her then.

She must have dropped them in the melee. She looked up, and a long line of people waited behind her, their expressions ranging from dull apathy to impatient agitation. The cashier lifted her brow and pursed her lips as if to say _well?_ "I must have dropped them," she admitted, a blush coloring her cheeks. "Do you have any extra?"

"No," the cashier said flatly. "Will you be paying with a check or cash?"

Behind her, Amanda squealed in excitement. "All this for seventy-five cents? Beat _that_ Lori!"

Lori hung her head, the fight draining out of her. "Check," she grumbled.

Amanda was waiting for her by the door, a smug smile on her lips. "How'd you make out?" she asked.

Ignoring her, Lori went through the doors and crossed the parking lot, so humiliated she could cry.

"Wait," Amanda called, "before you go…"

Lori turned around.

Grinning like the cat who got the canary, Amanda held up Lori's coupon purse. "You dropped this."

Rage denoted in Lori like a bomb, and her fists clenched. "Fuck you, bitch," she hissed. Amanda recoiled in shock, he hand fluttering to her mouth. Lori spun and stalked across the parking lot, her shoulders scrunched and her hands balled.

At the station wagon, she opened the hatch and loaded her bags into the cargo compartment with the dismal solemnity of a woman digging her own grave. Done, she shoved the cart away, lacking even the energy to put it in the carrol, then got in. Taking the wheel in both hands, she bowed her head and fought to keep her composure. When she spoke, her voice was low and tortured. "I'm never couponing _again._ "


	171. October and November 1992: Part 3

**Guest: Like the oneshots I had planned for _Thicker Than Blood,_ it kind of...never happened. Maybe one day.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Missing You Now**_ **by Michael Bolton (Feat Kenny G., 1991)**

Things sometimes have a way of sneaking up on you. It's all blue skies and smiling sun when you leave the house...then by lunch it's pouring and you, poor-pitiful you, left your umbrella at home. Aw, man. You can take steps to avoid such disasters by watching Gordon Peterson on Channel 5 (the region's most esteemed meteorologist), but even he's not always right. _We got a 1 percent chance of rain today, folks._ Oh, that means I don't have to *crashing thunder.*

On the morning of November 3, one such bolt from the blue skewered Alex Underwood like a part Mexican shish kabob in a stunning turn of events that no one, not even the experts, saw coming. Maybe a clairvoyant could have predicted it, but not anyone else. It was sudden, shocking, abrupt, without warning, as profoundly perplexing as snow in the middle of July and as stupefying as watching the Queen Mum zoom past on a skateboard.

Her car wouldn't start.

Alex was married to a mechanic (and a good one at that), so if there were _any_ signs that a breakdown was coming, he would have caught them. That's why it came as such a curveball when she turned the key and nothing happened. Uhhh. Why's my car not working?

Maybe it just wasn't ready to wake up and face the day. It wasn't even six yet, and cold, and she had trouble getting out of bed herself, so the same thing _could_ be happening here. She looked at Blake in the rearview mirror; he was conked out and snoring, his little knit cap pulled down low over his forehead and lending him the appearance of a thug in a movie. _Gimme your purse, lady, and no one gets hurt._ She tried again, and the engine clunked, then let out a sickly cough before stalling out.

Great.

She knew a _little_ about cars from Tim - like how to change her oil and tires - but once we start talking under the hood stuff, she was l-o-s-t lost. She tried one more time, hoping against hope that the engine would turn over and at least get her to work and Blake to daycare - nope. Sorry. Out of order.

With a deep breath, she forced a strained smile. She might be silly and goofy, but that didn't mean she couldn't get mad, and right now, she was on the verge of being so cross, Christians would fall down on their knees and worship her. Her shift started in less than an hour and if she wasn't there, she might very well lose her job.

In the mirror, Blake snoozed on, completely oblivious to the crisis unfolding around him. How can you sleep at a time like this, Blakequake? We're gonna be late!

Okay, okay, no need to break out in pandemonium, just call Tim.

Lotta good that'll do: He's at work and won't be able to break away, which left her stranded. She'd still do it, of course, but the important thing right now was not getting the car fixed, but getting her self to work and Blake to daycare. Iif Jessy's schedule was the same as it had been since she started at Flip's, she'd be getting there aboooout now.

That left only one great, brown hope.

Making sure Blake was still crashed out, Alex threw open the door and went back inside. Perched on the arm of the couch, she picked up the phone and dialed. Please be there, please be there, please, please, pretty please with a cherry and sprinkles on top?

The line rang and rang and rang, and Alex deflated. Sigh, guess it's hitchhiking for -

 _Click._

"Hello?" a harried voice asked.

Oh, thank God. "Hi, Mommy," Alex said in a singsong voice. "How's it going?"

Tense silence. "Uh...it's going fine. Is everything alright?"

Alex glanced at the clock on the VCR. 6:08. Mom was always at work by 6:30; she probably caught her _just_ as she was walking out the door. "Actually," Alex said, feeling awful because this was going to make Mom stupid late, "I have a _huuuge_ favor to ask you."

"What?" Mom asked guardedly.

Taking a deep, pensive breath, Alex said, "Blake and I _kiiind_ of need a ride."

"Oh, Alex," Mom sighed dolefully.

"Sorry."

"Did your car break down?"

Wow, she's good. "Yeah. It won't start."

"Alright," Mom said heavily, "I'll be there in ten minutes. Be ready." She metaphorically jabbed a stern finger at Alex, and Alex nodded.

"I will."

Next she called Tim and told him about the car. "I'll come by and look at it on my lunch break," he said, his tone bristling with all the excitement of a man signing his own death warrant. Well, ya know, buddy, you should have seen this coming You're the car guy. You're supposed to sniff stuff like this out before it happens.

"Love you," Alex said sheepishly then hung up. She felt bad that he had to sacrifice his lunch, but having a functioning automobile is pretty vital when your workplace is clear on the other side of the freaking county.

Getting up, she went back outside; Blake was still asleep. The parking lot facing the apartment complex was largely empty since most all of the residents worked. Alex stood by the back door with her arms over her chest and her knees bending - it was cold as a witch's tit, as Grandpa used to say, and her face went numb in minutes. Stupid winter. Why couldn't Mom have stayed in Mexico? She heard it was really warm down there. On the flip side, the water had a really bad reputation for killing everyone, so maybe moving _was_ the right decision.

As she waited, she scanned the highway running past the parking lot for Mom. Hurry, I'm freezing my tuchas off here. That's Jewish for butt. Or maybe it was Greek. She wasn't sure, but whatever you wanna call it, it was starting to blister with frostbite. Hope they pioneered gluetial transplants, cuz I gotta sit on _something._

Finally, after more time than it took Moses to get through the desert, Mom pulled in. Springing to life, Alex opened the back door, leaned in, and unbuckled Blake. His eyes fluttered sleepily open and he kicked one leg. "We gotta get out for a minute," she said, "our car's broken."

" _Boke?"_ he asked in breathless wonder.

Alex hummed in the affirmative. "We're gonna ride with Grandma."

She pulled him free of the straps and picked him up. Mom came around the front of her Buick in a long, tan coat and a scarf wound tightly around her neck. She kind of looked like the Michelin Man. She stood next to Alex and smiled at Blake. "Hi," she said and held her arms out. Alex handed him over, then transferred the car seat from her ride to Mom's, fighting to get it belted in like she always did. Ugh. Why are these things so difficult? They need to simplify them or something; I'm a Mom, wife, and CNA, not a mechanical genius.

Just a regular genius.

When it was all set, she took Blake back from Mom and strapped him in. "Alright, Blakeshake, off to daycare we go."

She slid into the passenger seat while Mom climbed behind the wheel. "It wouldn't start?" she asked as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught and purred like a dream. Pfft, what a show off.

"Nope," Alex said as Mom backed out, did a U-turn, and drove onto the street. "The engine clunked a little but otherwise, it was quieter than Jessy in a crowd full of people."

Mom's lips turned down in a frown and she shot Alex a dirty look. "I was just playing," Alex said quickly, even though Jessy _was_ really quiet when she was around a bunch of people she didn't know.

Traffic was light, and less than ten minutes after setting out, they arrived at the daycare. Alex grabbed Blake and his diaper bag, then carried them both inside. He still wore Pampers but she and Tim were working to get him to use the big boy potty. He could physically do it (if he stood on his special potty stool), but you had to carry him there or else he'd just go in his pants.

She signed him in and walked him to his class, bobbing and weaving through a sea of excitable, knee-high toddlers. Every time she came in here now she thought of _Kindergarten Cop_ with Arnold Schwarzenegger - it was about a big, burly cop with a funny accent going undercover as a kindergarten teacher. The kids in that movie were unruly little shits just like the kids here - in both cases, they were adorable doing it, so it was okay. To make things easier, she picked Blake up, and he threw his arms around her neck...then gave her a kiss.

As they neared the door, his grip tightened; he wasn't nervous or anything (he was a social butterfly just like his mom), that's just how he said goodbye.

Several large tables, where the kids did fun arts and crafts, dominated half of the classroom while the rest of the space was given over to a play area ringed by shelves full of toys. A carpet with a cityscape design (wide streets to zoom cars on) covered the floor, and plastic kitchen and tool bench playsets looked on forlorn, wishing they were being played with. Alex sat Blake on the ground and kneeled down to hug him. Normally, she took her time, but she could feel the pressure to be quick bearing down on her; Mom was going to be late as it was. "Love you, have a good day," she said.

Blake raised his hand and shook it from side to side. " _Bye!"_

Thank goodness he wasn't clingy.

She patted him on the head then left, fighting her way back through the Enchanted Forest of Munchkins. Outside, she hopped into the car and pulled the door closed behind her; Mom sat with her hands at ten and two on the wheel and looking peeved. "I'm really sorry about this," Alex said seriously.

"It's not your fault," Mom said and threw the car into reverse. She pulled out to the street and turned right. "I can be a _little_ late, it just bothers me."

Mom was responsible, dedicated, and punctual, everything Alex strove to be and, she thought, largely was, which is why she had a cow when the car wouldn't start ( _man, Bart Simpson's gonna be_ so _disappointed in me_ ). She knew exactly what she was feeling right now - clawing, claustrophobic panic. _That_ was clear not only from her pursed lips but also from the way she pressed on the gas - they were going faster than the posted speed limit (which Mom never did) and Alex shifted uncomfortably. "How about some music?" she asked. Anything to lighten the mood.

"Sure."

Alex turned on the radio; it was on the old people station, so she changed it.

"Hey," Mom admonished, "that's my channel."

Alex's nose crinkled. "Ew. You've been listening to the same songs for the past thirty years. It's time we introduced you to some new hits." She spun the dial until she landed on WKBBL where Nirvana was rocking out with _Smells Like Teen Spirit_. "Oooh, this is an alright soooo - and it's over. Darn."

A commercial for the Boys and Girls Club came on and Alex left it - the good stuff would be back on before they got to Oak Springs.

"So this is what the kids listen to these days?" Mom asked, her voice edged with sarcasm. "Happenin'."

Alex rolled her eyes. Didn't this woman know _anything?_ I get it, you were a kid when _The Jazz Singer_ and doing the Charleston were the in things, but didn't you pick up _anything_ over the past fifty years? You're worse one than the residents. "The kids don't say that, They say _rad_ and _tubular_."

"Oh, excuse _me_ ," Mom said and rolled her eyes. "This is what the kids listen to these days? Tubular."

"That's more like it," Alex said.

Main Street turned into Route 29 after crossing the Royal River, and dense forest blazing with color loomed over the highway. A commercial for McDonald's ended and soft, sleepy saxophone drifted from the speakers. WKBBL plays elevator music now? A low, heartfelt voice followed, and Alex knew him in an instant.

Oh, God, it's Michael Bolton.

 _I talk to you but it's not the same as touchin' you  
And every time you whisper my name, I want to run to you  
We'll be together, it won't be long, it won't be long  
But it feels like forever, and it's hard to be strong_

Yuck, yuck, yuck. Ugh. She couldn't _stand_ this guy; If Dad was King of the Lame-os, Michael Bolton was their god. He wore his blonde hair in a nappy mullet and sang melodic pop standards that appealed to middle aged women, gay men, and the the hard of hearing. Tall and buff, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a romance novel, and, sister, that's where he should be: Seen but not heard. She reached for the dial, but Mom slapped her hand away. "Leave it," she said sharply.

 _Baby 'cause I'm missing you now  
And it's drivin' me crazy  
How I'm needin' you baby  
I'm missing you now_

Leave it? She shot her mother a baffled look...then froze: Mom was nodding to the music and smiling dreamily like a woman privileged to overhear the faint strands of a symphony from on high. Alex's jaw dropped. Oh, no...she's one of _them…_

 _Wishin' you were here by my side is all that I can do  
Got my arms around my pillow at night, they should be holdin' you  
Thought I was stronger, how could I know, how could I know  
I can't take this much longer  
It's so hard on my soul_

Mom caught sight of her from the corner of her eye and turned, her eyebrows shooting quizzically up. "What?" she asked defensively.

"Michael Bolton?" Alex asked incredulously; her lips puckered in disgust as she pronounced the hideous, horrible name.

 _Baby I just can't wait, till I see your face  
Chase away this loneliness inside  
When you're close to my heart, right here in my arms  
Then and only then, will I be satisfied_

A dark shadow flickered across Mom's face - she looked like a crazed cultist getting ready to stab someone for insulting the Dear Eternal Leader. Uh-oh. I should have left her alone. "Yes," she said, a challenge in her voice, "I like Michael Bolton. I like Pat Boone too."

Alex knew Pat Boone only vaguely; as far as she could recall, he was basically the fifties version of Michael Bolton. Ew, why does my mother have such awful taste in music? I get it, she grew up before all the good stuff came out, but she was _really_ scraping the bottom of the barrel with those two.

If that's what she liked, though...whaddya gonna do? Alex had tried repeatedly over the years to get her into music that didn't suck (like AC/DC, Aerosmith, Kiss, and 2 Live Crew), but her efforts were in vain; Mom's lameatosis was terminal...worse case she'd ever seen outside of her father.

They were in Chippewa Falls now, the street ahead lined with gas stations, fast food places, and motels. Alex had never liked it here: It was too big and kind of scummy - the buildings looked like they were lightly coated in grime and the gutters were always filled with trash. Dad said it was a nice place back in his day, but, in all seriousness, Alex doubted it was _ever_ nice.

"What's wrong with Michael Bolton, anyway?" Mom asked. The song was, thankfully, over but Alex's relief was short-lived: Mariah Carey started in with _I'll Be There -_ ugh, I _really_ wish you wouldn't be, but if you insist. "Huh?" Mom pressed.

Alex shrugged noncommittally. "He's...I dunno. Bland. Boring. He sounds like he wears sparkly jackets and croons to nostalgic tourists on the Vegas Strip." She was kidding about hating him and thinking her mother was gross for liking him, but she wasn't joking when she said he reminded her of a lounge singer. She pointed at Ridgecrest Drive to the right. "Turn there."

Mom spun the wheel. "He does not sound like a lounge singer. His voice is powerful and he puts emotion into his songs. That crap you like is just young boys with big hair looking for a payday."

Ouch, _that_ hurt. "No they aren't," Alex jerked.

"Yes they are. All they care about is selling records and making money, so they dress like everyone else and sound like everyone else. If you've heard one of those songs, you've heard them all."

Alex was flabbergasted by her mother's blasphemy, and if she didn't have to go to work, she would have witnessed to her the good news of Def Leppard and Warrant, but they were pulling into the parking lot, so it would have to wait.

"Have a good day," Mom said.

"I will," Alex said and started to get out, but stopped, leaned over, and kissed her mother's cheek. "Thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome," Mom smiled. "What time do you get off?"

"Three."

Mom frowned. "I'll talk to your father about picking you up. If you need it."

"Probably," Alex said. She doubted Tim would be able to fix the car during his lunch break, which meant at least another day of needing a ride to work. The prospect of not having her wheels, and thus her freedom, pushed hard against her chest like a suffocating hand. Just knowing that she couldn't hop into her car and drive off if she wanted to bothered her to no end, and she did _not_ want to have to rely on other people for rides, even if they were dependable like Mom and Dad.

She opened her mouth to say something more, but realized she was holding Mom up and got out instead. She shut the door and crossed the parking lot, her arms folding against a stiff, biting gust of wind.

I want my car, darn it! *foot stomp*

* * *

Jessy Loud folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead, her neutral face belying the raging tempest in her breast. She swallowed around a cold lump and darted her gaze to the reception desk off to her left. A woman sat behind a clunky computer, a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. A potted plant stood in the corner and a framed portrait of Royal County High as it was the day it opened its doors (1935, Jessy recalled) dominated the creme colored wall. More chairs faced the counter, some of them occupied: A young woman about her age in a skirt and blazer; an old man wearing a suit and glasses; a burly man in a sweat suit and blue cap with RCPS across the front in yellow (Royal County Public Schools, obviously). She didn't think the latter two were here to interview for the substitute teacher position, but the woman...she worried Jessy.

Tall and thin with fiery red hair pulled back in a bun, she somehow exuded confidence that intimidated Jessy. _You have to be relaxed and self-assured,_ Auntie Ronnie Anne told her last night. _If you're overwrought, they're going to think you can't handle a classroom full of kids and pass you over. Smile. Don't stammer. Speak clearly. And show them how awesome you are._

Remembering her encouragement brought a ghost of a smile to Jessy's lips, but, true to form, she didn't _feel_ relaxed or confident. She felt wound up, shaky, and feverish. She was hyper aware of every move she made, of every breath she took, and every sickly beat of her heart. No one was looking at her, but she still sensed the unsettling _scrutiny_ that came with being studied, as though a jury watched her from concealment, examining her, judging her...and finding her lacking. She was going to blow this interview and be passed over for the position, she just knew it.

A phantom hand closed around her lungs, threatening to slowly strangle her. The air grew hot, stale, and the walls were suddenly too close, and coming closer. Her breathing sped up, shallow and quick, and the only sound in the world was the thunder of blood crashing against her temples.

Reaching one trembling hand into her purse, she took out a pill bottle, twisted to her left so that no one could see what she was doing, and unscrewed the cap. She jerked a shameful glance over her shoulder, saw that she was still unobserved, then shook one tablet into her palm and popped it into her mouth. Wincing in anticipation of bitter yuckiness, she chewed it between her teeth and swallowed. Reducing it to powder would help it get to her bloodstream quicker - that way it worked faster.

Putting the cap back on, she returned the bottle to her purse, turned around, and settled into as comfortable a position as she could find. She closed her eyes and regulated her breathing the way her therapist taught her. _It's alright, Jess, you're getting worked up over nothing, you're going to do fine, you're in control._

It took awhile, but slowly, between the thoughts, breathing exercises, and medication, she began to calm, and by the time the secretary called her name, she didn't feel like a complete wreck anymore - instead, she felt like a normal woman experiencing normal anxiety over a job interview. She got to her feet, slung her purse over her shoulder, and picked up the folder from the next chair over. At the desk, the secretary nodded down a short hall. "Mr. Bryan will see you now," she said, brisk but not officious.

Mr. Bryan was the county superintendent. Auntie Ronnie Anne told her that he was an avid golfer and that she could score brownie points by bringing her up her own love of the sport. She was not going to do that, though, because she didn't know the first thing about golf. _He's a nice man,_ Auntie Ronnie Anne said, _just don't mention his combover._ That was, Jessy assumed, supposed to be a joke - she would _never_ bring up something like that to a prospective employer (or anyone, really). She might be just a _tad_ socially awkward, but she wasn't stupid.

At the end of the hall, she paused at a closed door bearing a gold plate: C. BRYAN, SUPERINTENDENT. She drew a deep lung full of air, then let it out through her nose. She knocked before her resolve could waver, and entered when a voice called out. A man she took to be Mr. Bryan sat behind a large oaken desk. Framed certificates and photos adorned the baby blue walls and an ornate shelf with glass doors flanked one side. She spotted a fanciful decatur and glasses sitting on the surface, then sent her gaze to the eloquent crown molding and exquisite woodwork along the baseboard. Sunlight fell through a big window and dappled the lush green carpet.

Jessy had never been inside the Oval Office, but she imagined it couldn't be much more richly-appointed than this.

Or imposing.

Her step faltered, and for a brief moment, she was in danger of turning around and running away with her tail between her legs. Flip's wasn't _that_ bad: She did well with the customers and hadn't dropped a single thing in six months.

 _Don't you dare,_ she admonished herself. _You will see this through even if you don't get the job. You're a grown woman, stop acting like a frightened child._

That was the motivation she needed.

"Good morning, Ms. Loud," Mr. Bryant said. He leaned forward and they shook over the desk, then Jessy sat. He did indeed have a combover, Jessy noted, but it wasn't especially remarkable.

 _Alright, Jess, look him in the eyes and speak clearly. Show him you not only_ want _the job, but that you can excel at it._

Mr. Bryan settled back and slouched slightly to one side, his elbow propping on the arm of the chair and his thumb hooking under his chin. "Are you any relation to Ronalda?" he asked.

Jessy nodded. "Yes. She's my aunt. She…" she hesitated, not wanting to hit him over the head with her life story, but it was too late. "She raised me."

"Ah," Mr. Bryant said, "she mentioned adopting one of her nieces."

"That's me," Jessy said and flashed a smile.

"Your aunt's a fine woman and a top notch educator. I trust you learned a thing or two from her."

She had. Auntie Ronnie Anne was probably a better teacher than even her professor, and Jessy hung on every word she said. _With kids, you have to be consistent and firm. You are there to teach them, not to be their friend, but it helps if you try. Don't let them run over top of you but don't be a dictator. No one likes a dictator._ She'd always looked at Auntie Ronnie Anne as the paragon of grace, confidence, and intelligence, and strove to be just like her in every way she could.

Above everything, Auntie Ronnie Anne was self-assured, and that was the one trait Jessy admired most. She knew what she was doing and how to do it - unlike Jessy, she never wandered aimlessly in circles until her chest bust and hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. She was like a mountain that stood tall and proud no matter what life threw at it.

That's what _she_ herself had to be. "I picked up a thing or two," she declared.

"Excellent," Mr. Bryan said. "Tell me a little about yourself and what draws you to teaching."

Jessy sat up straighter and folded her hands in her lap. She told him about her hobbies and interests (reading and history chiefly among them), then about her desire to foster a love of learning in children the way a love of learning had been fostered in her by Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne. She told him about the children she'd tutored over the years and about her volunteer work at the Boys and Girls Club in Chippewa Falls. As she spoke, her nerves loosened and she relaxed. She showed him her transcripts, her teaching certificate, her test scores, and her _Philosophy of Teaching_. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and closely inspected each paper while she talked.

When she was finished, he hummed interestedly and looked at her over the top of the page. "You just answered, more or less, every question I was going to ask you."

Uh...was that a good thing? Did she ramble? Alex said she could be a real motor mouth when she talked on a topic she was passionate about. _You just don't stop,_ she moaned once. She didn't _think_ she did that now, but what if she did?

"That's very impressive," he added, and the ball of anxiety forming in Jessy's chest released. "I can tell you're very driven and goal oriented. You'd be a credit to any faculty you joined." He returned the sheet to her folder, closed it, and pushed it across the desk. "I cannot give you the job outright, but I will say that you are at the top of the list. I will be in touch."

Jessy smiled, thanked him, then left. When she was in the car, alone, a big, sunny smile broke across her face and she couldn't suppress a girlish giggle. That went a _lot_ better than she expected, and, truth be told, she was _very_ pleased with her herself.

Now, she just had to wait and see if they really called her back.

She very much hoped they did; she wanted to make Auntie Ronnie Anne proud.

Turning the key in the ignition, she backed out of the parking spot, turned left, and started back to Flip's.

* * *

Lincoln pulled into the parking lot of Oak Springs nursing home at 3:15 that afternoon, the radio on and the windows cracked. He had trouble finding the place because Ronnie Anne's directions were vague, rushed, and wrong. She told him to take a _left_ on Ridgecrest instead of a right, and he wound up following it all the way to the interstate before stopping at a Texaco and asking the woman behind the register.

The first thing he saw when he got there was an old man sitting in a wheelchair and staring off into the distance while a nurse stood behind him smoking a cigarette, and the second was Alex standing by the rear entrance with a tall, broad man with glasses and longish blonde hair. Six feet, maybe six two, he wore the makings of a goatee and a light white jacket over maroon scrubs, his muscular forearms straining against the fabric. He looked tough, but Lincoln could take him.

He came to a stop and Alex saw him. She said something to the man ( _took this guy long enough, I was waiting forever_ ) and started over, but he stopped her. They talked for a second, and Alex rolled her eyes, turned her head, and allowed him to kiss her cheek. Lincoln's eyes narrowed and his hands unconsciously tightened on the wheel; there was only one reason a man would kiss a woman who wasn't his mother on the face - he liked her. The little eyeroll she did suggested she was mildly annoyed, which in turn implied that this asshole must have hit on her in the past and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Call him old fashioned, but he was protective of the women in his life, and if some big, ugly looking bastard was bothering his daughter, he'd knock his teeth down his throat.

Alex shook her head in irritation and walked over. "Hey," she said and climbed in, closing the door behind her. "You're late."

The man went back inside, and Lincoln threw the car into reverse. "Your mother gave me bad directions," he said.

"How'd Jessy do at her interview?" she asked, jumping topics so suddenly Lincoln needed a moment to catch up.

"Very well," he nodded. "She thinks she has a real shot at getting the job."

They were on Ridgecrest now. Ahead, a battered Ford pick-up with a Bush/Quayle '92 sticker on the bumper and a bed full of scrap metal crept along at five miles under the speed limit. "That's awesome," Alex said with a satisfied grin. "I was kind of worried she'd freeze up or something."

"She said she's at the top of the candidates list." A rush of pride filled his chest. Like Alex, he was concerned Jessy would buckle, but she came through with flying colors. She attributed her success to the therapy and medication, but Lincoln suspected it was all her.

A few miles later, on the road to Royal Woods, Lincoln cleared his throat. "That guy you were talking to," he said. "He giving you trouble?"

Alex cocked her brow. "Tom? He gives me trouble every day." She laughed. "He's a real pain in the ass."

Lincoln stiffened. "Oh, he does, does he? He knows you're married, right?"

For a moment Alex favored him with a blank stare, then understanding dawned on her. "No," she said and laughed, "it's not like that. He's gay."

Gay?

Lincoln thought gay people were just a myth. Not really, but he honestly couldn't recall having ever met one, or even _seen_ one outside of Paul Lynde on _Hollywood Squares._ Oh, he never came outright and said he was, but there was no way in hell he was anything else.

"The kiss was for Tim," Alex said, "he's terrified of him."

Lincoln couldn't blame him, he was now too. It's one thing to fight a straight man, but he wouldn't even try fighting a gay one. Instead of throwing punches, he'd probably grope him, then, on the off chance he was able to overpower him, Lincoln could kiss his rectal virginity goodbye.

After picking Blake up from daycare and dropping him and Alex off at the apartment, Lincoln drove home with his butt cheeks firmly clenched, crazily certain that Tom would strike when he least expected it. When he arrived, he parked in the driveway, got out, and checked the mailbox, finding not only the latest issue of _Guns and Ammo_ but also a new edition of _Surplus, Inc,_ the biggest (at 192 pages) and best military surplus catalog ever published. Ha, I know what _I'm_ doing tonight.

Inside, he sat in his chair, turned on the TV for background noise, and started with _Guns and Ammo_. He was halfway through and salivating over a Colt Woodsman when Jessy got home. Fifteen minutes later, Ronnie Anne came through the door, and she and Jessy adjourned to the kitchen, Ronnie Anne wanting to hear all about Jessy's interview. When Lincoln was finished with _Guns and Ammo,_ he glanced up at the TV: The NBC newsroom was revealed in all its utilitarian glory, a wide space crammed with desks, computers, and camera operators. NBC NEWS DECISION 92 flashed across the screen in blue.

Ah. That's right. The election. In the red corner, you had George Bush, who raised taxes like he said he wasn't going to, and in the blue, you had Bill Clinton who played the saxophone. At first Lincoln had him confused with George Clinton, and was strangely horrified by the thought of a seventies funk singer running on a major party ticket.

Oh, and Ross Perot, can't forget him. His running mate was a naval admiral named James Stockdale who failed so spectacularly at a vice presidential debate that he'd probably never live it down, especially the _who am I? Why am I here?_ line. He came across as bumbling and confused, but to Lincoln, he seemed simply unprepared.

Of course those liberal sons of bitches on _Saturday Night Live_ and that fat shit Jay Leno had a field day with him, which pissed Lincoln off to no end: Stockdale was a highly decorated Vietnam vet who spent seven years as a POW. He deserved a hell of a lot more respect than Phil Hartman, Dana Carvey, and that fatass who did the Chippendales sketch gave him.

On TV, the graphics disappeared and the camera zoomed in on a desk where two men sat.

" _...Election night,"_ an excited voice intoned, reminding Lincoln of a sports color commentator, " _from election headquarters in New York, here are Tom Brokaw and Bryant Gumbel."_

Tom Brokaw and Bryant Gumbel.

Tom Brokaw.

Tom.

Triggered.

A peal of laughter rose from the kitchen. Yeah, glad you think it's funny, RA, _you're_ not the one who's in danger of being raped by a seven foot tall gay man with bulging muscles and (probably) a huge pecker.

He shuddered.

Retreating into _Surplus, Inc,_ Lincoln half listened as the polls started to close and the returns began coming in. Bush was ahead when he broke for dinner; by the time he came back, Clinton was projected to win Kentucky, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, putting him firmly in the lead. Lincoln loathed both parties, but he'd be a damn liar if he said that elections weren't interesting things to watch.

"Did Alex ever find out what was wrong with her car?" Ronnie Anne asked from the couch. She sat with her legs under her and a magazine open in her lap; she wore her hair down and no shoes.

"Yeah," Lincoln said and flipped the page, "carburetor. Easy fix."

"Ah."

By the time Lincoln was done with his catalog, NBC was calling the election for Clinton. Guess the band's gonna have to find a new sax player. Lincoln may not have liked Clinton (in fact, Clinton was an anti-Vietnam hippy in the sixties, so fuck him) but he _was_ the president now (president-elect, rather), and he wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, so he stayed up past his 9pm bedtime to hear him speak. Onscreen, thousands of cheering Clinton supporters braved thirty degree cold and packed the area before the old state house in Little Rock, Arkansas. Ronnie Anne got up, passed by, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "I'm going to bed."

"Alright," he said and kissed her back, "I'll be in soon."

She left, and on TV, Clinton, Gore, their wives, and some other assholes Lincoln didn't know came out onstage, waving and grinning all over themselves cuz _aw, shucks, I done won._ Lincoln snorted at Clinton's dopey expression and his wife Hillary's big, calculated smile. She reminded him of The Stepford Wives - she was probably a robot and not even human.

At the podium, Clinton basked in the screaming praise of 40,000 (per Brokaw) dimwits, then started his victory speech with the most cliche line in all of politics.

" _My fellow Americans…"_

Pfft, Kennedy said it better.

" _... on this day with high hopes and brave hearts in massive numbers the American people have voted to make a new beginning."_

Yeah, voting in America is real courageous; you might stub your toe on freedom or trip over a pile of prosperity. Give yourselves a pat on the back, Democrats, you really earned it.

" _This election is a clarion call for our country to face the challenges of the end of the cold war and the beginning of the next century. To restore growth to our country and opportunity to our people. To empower our own people so that they can take more responsibility for their own lives. To face problems too long ignored - from AIDS to the environment to the conversion of our economy from a defense to a domestic economic giant."_

Okay, here are a couple ideas: Get rid of all the fast food places, clean up crime, and lower taxes, that way people will start eating at Flip's again. Do that, Bill, and I might consider voting for you in '96. Actually, if you outlaw McDonald's, I _will_ vote for you in '96 and the next Democrat in 2000.

" _Not very long ago I received a telephone call from President Bush. It was, it was a generous and forthcoming telephone call, of real congratulations and an offer to work with me in keeping our democracy running in an effective and important transition. I want all of you to join with me tonight in expressing our gratitude to President Bush for his lifetime of public service, for the effort he made from the time he was a young soldier in World War II to helping to bring about an end to the cold war, to our victory in the gulf war, to the grace with which he conceded the results of this election tonight, in the finest American tradition. Let's give Mr. Bush and his family a hand."_

Yeah, he wasn't going to outlaw McDonald's, was he?

Lincoln picked up the remote, turned off the TV, and got up with a grunt; his lower back was tight and his butt sore. He glanced at the clock on the VHS, realized it was almost 10:30, and frowned. Stayed up too late again. My _one_ vice. He tried to be in bed between 9:30 and 10, but he frequently broke curfew...then regretted it the next morning. It wasn't his fault, there just wasn't enough time in the day - maybe Clinton should legislate an extra hour.

Turning out the lamp, he went down the hall and into the bedroom. Ronnie Anne lay humped under the blanket, her breathing slow and regular. He undressed, used the bathroom, then climbed into bed. America might be standing on the precipice of a new beginning, but Lincoln Loud stood on the precipice of sleep.

And shortly, he fell over the side.


	172. March 1993: Part 1

**Guest: I have seen Ed, Edd, and Eddy, it's one of the cartoons I grew up with. I like it enough, but not so much that I feel inspired to write for it. Things could always change, though.**

 **Guest: I deleted all of my sin kids stories for personal reasons and will not be writing them in the future.**

 **Guest: I was one and a half when Clinton was elected. I don't remember the election or anything leading up to it. Looking back in hindsight, Clinton was a smart choice for the Dems given his centrist views - even a lot of Republicans wound up liking him to an extent.**

 **MasterCaster: Only one of those predictions will come to pass, but wow, you're still good. Did you hack my Google Drive?**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Dreamlover b**_ **y Mariah Carey (1993)**

When she was a little girl, Alex Underwood _loved_ snow, and why wouldn't she? For one thing, if enough of it fell, they closed school, and for another...it was just plain fun. The mundane, everyday world looks completely different under a blanket of white, and a simple trek across the backyard turns into a swashbuckling adventure. You can jump in it, throw it at people _(gotta be quicker next time, Jess!)_ , and, when Mom and Dad weren't looking, you could even eat it.

One of her favorite memories from childhood was the Great Blizzard of January 1978 when over two feet of the good stuff fell on Royal Woods. The drifts were so high they reached the roof and Dad had to dig a tunnel just to get out the front door; school was closed for two weeks and she and Jessy _glutted_ themselves on wintertime merriment. Seriously, they were so sick of playing in the snow by the end of it that hey cried tears of joy when Royal Woods Elementary reopened.

Ahhh...how things change.

Sitting in the dayroom at Oak Springs on the afternoon of March 13th with a pink plastic cup full of coffee, Alex gazed out the window at the swirling, wind-driven snow. Across from her, Tom sullenly crossed his arms and stared at the wall-mounted TV, where a weatherman stood in front of a regional map. " _This is the big one folks,"_ he said with boyish excitement, " _we are already seeing huge amounts of snowfall across the viewing area, and this is just the beginning."_

Tom made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. "I oughta walk the hell out," he grumbled.

In February, she and Tom were both transferred, against their will, to the 3-11 shift. Alex didn't really care (once Dad agreed to pick Blake up from daycare and then watch him until Tim got off work), but Tom...oh, my God, he would _not_ stop bitching; from the moment she got to work to the moment she left, he pissed, cried, moaned, and bellyached. Like, jeez, calm down, dude. Because of the storm, which was even now ramping up, they were likely going to be stranded here overnight, which had Tom in an even worse mood than usual.

"Why didn't you call in?" Alex asked without turning. When she left the apartment, there was already close to two inches on the ground, and ice slicked the roads. She considered begging off too, but figured a lot of people were going to do that, leaving the facility short staffed and the residents under cared for; nope, sorry, not happening. I can live with doing a lot of things, but not running out on my patients during a blizzard.

Picking up his own cup, Tom sighed. "I tried. Shirley threatened to fire me." He took a sip. "Fat bitch."

A car, its wipers moving furiously back and forth and its headlights shining, pulled into the parking lot, fishtailed, and almost lost control before righting itself.

"Speaking of fat bitch," Tom said.

Alex looked away from the frosty pane, her eyes narrowing. When she saw a short, pudgy bald man at the coffee pot, his back to him, she realized Tom was talking about him and not her. Heh. Almost killed ya for no reason there, buddy.

"Got your snow boots, Fester?" Tom asked.

The man, clad in white scrubs, made a pretense of ignoring him, but the way he angrily stirred his joe told Alex that Tom was getting to him. He _hated_ being called Fester...which is why Tom did it.

Grinning savagely, Tom turned to face him and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the tops of his thighs. Alex rolled her eyes and tuned them out, her attention going back to the storm. If she cocked her head and listened hard enough, she could hear the low, ghostly moaning of the wind. She wasn't worried about being trapped, but she _was_ worried they'd lose power. There were back up generators, of course (a lot of the residents depended on machines to keep them alive, after all, so those were a must), but what if _those_ went out too? Her stomach turned at the prospect of BAD THINGS happening, and she forced the thought away.

"Will you stop it?" Bob snapped and stomped his foot. "You always do this." He pursed his sensuous lips and glared at Tom.

Tom snorted dismissively and tened back to the table. "You're too damn sensitive," he said, "you're worse than a woman."

Bob's brows lowered. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, snatched his cup from the counter, and stalked off. When Alex first started working here, Bob and Tom did things together...sex things...even though they weren't boyfriends. Then, over the summer, Bob started seeing someone and broke it off with Tom. Tom said he didn't care, but it was clear that he did - he was hurt and jealous, thus he lashed out at Bob every chance he got, usually under the guise of _joking_ or _kidding around_. At least that was Alex's assessment. Yes, she was more than capable of deep thought, thank you very much; she didn't do it too often, but when you're around someone as much as she was Tom, it's hard not to psychoanalyze them. She did the same thing to Bob, but wasn't as complex: Very sweet man who, if she was honest, deserved a lot better than Tom (sorry, Tom).

"He's such a pussy," Tom said sourly and took another drink. "Was I too hard on him?"

Well...Alex didn't know because she wasn't paying attention, but knowing Tom… "Yes," she said honestly.

Tom looked at her for a second, then sniffed. "You're a pussy too."

"Walk out and go home already," Alex said because she didn't have anything else. She picked up her cup and lifted it to her lips. The liquid was tepid and so sugary it hurt her fillings. Yeah, she has fillings now - for some strange and unexplainable reason, she had cavities. It's almost like she ate a lot of cakes, cookies, and candy or something.

Which she absolutely did not.

"Nah," Tom said, "if I do that, Tessa might wanna have sex."

Tessa was Tom's wife, a short, frumpy woman with glasses and graying hair who, at forty-six, was a full ten years older than Tom. Alex met her a couple times when she came to pick him up, and she was a very nice lady...which made Alex feel even worse that her husband was gay and cheated on her every chance he got. Her knowing and not saying anything made her complicit, and that disturbed her...but she wasn't about to tell her. Nooooo, leave me out of _that_ one.

Alex knew that Tom was married before she knew he was gay, and for the longest time she couldn't put two and two together. Why would a gay man marry a woman? She finally asked him and he shrugged. _She's my beard._

Uh...what?

Apparently in gay culture, a beard is someone a gay person dates or marries in order to hide their sexuality. Sometimes the _beard_ knows that they are a beard, and sometimes they do not. Poor Tessa was one of the latter. Put bluntly, Tom was using her while she probably really loved him. Wasn't that sad? Alex thought it was, and even though she liked Tom, she kind of thought he was a scumbag.

An interesting scumbag. She'd never known a gay man before and she was really curious about the gay experience. _Are all gay guys sluts like you?_ she asked in jest once.

He nodded soberly. _Yes. You can't be picky. You never know when the next gay man's gonna come along, so when you have one ready and willing in front of you, you fuck his brains out._ She wasn't entirely sure whether that rationale was shared by other gay men (she asked Bob and he said he _never_ slept with a man he didn't know _for at least a week_ ), so she didn't take it as gospel. _Don't listen to him,_ Bob told her, _he's a whore_.

The most fascinating thing about Tom was the duality of his identity. He was wide open at work, but closeted with his family. His parents, his brother, his wife, and most of his friends didn't know he was gay. _I'm not a screaming queen like Bob,_ he said one time, _he couldn't pass if he tried. The moment you see him, you know he takes it up the ass._ She didn't see how the two halves of his life didn't cross, but they never had.

Presently, he scrunched his lips to the side in thought. "I hate having sex with her. She looks like a beached whale and her crotch smells funny." He shivered disgustedly and picked his mug up. Outside, the storm raged harder, the world hidden behind a dense curtain of white. "Goddamn it," he hissed, "we're gonna be here for days. When's your son's birthday?"

"The seventeenth," Alex said. Like every year, they were having a party at Grandma's house. Blake said he wanted to order pizza and play toys; he was in luck, then, because she and Tim got him lots of cool presents. Her personal favorite was the Bump 'N' Go police car that drove around on its own - it had a sensor, so it avoided obstacles. Blake was going to go nuts for it, and she couldn't wait for him to open it.

Tom hummed. "Enjoy missing it."

"We're not gonna be here that long," she said.

Were they?

She glanced out the window and frowned. Nah. They'd be here overnight and maybe through tomorrow night, but certainly no longer.

"Yes we are," Tom predicted, "and they're not gonna pay us, either." His lips puckered distastefully and he crossed his arms. "I oughta walk out…"

* * *

In 1990, Lola Santiago took a break from music that was meant to last no more than a year, but turned into nearly three. When she was younger, singing was not a passion for her, but a compulsion: She could see herself doing nothing else, and the thought of _not_ doing it scared her. She built her entire life on singing, her identity was inextricably linked to it, if she stopped doing it, she stopped being _her._

At the dawn of the nineties, however, she was tired and burned out. She no longer felt the spark of excitement that once came with standing in front of an audience, or with entering a studio to record a new track. She did not burst with ideas or find herself mentally composing lyrics as she went about her daily tasks. She decided to go on hiatus and then determine her future course at a later date. She played wife and mother, she kept house, she occasionally went out with friends, and, in late 1992, she recorded a song for a movie that was currently doing very well at the box office. In the beginning, she expected to rediscover her love of making music, and as 1990 turned into 1991 and she hadn't, she suffered a rush of anxiety. She'd wait, she told herself; maybe she just needed more time. '92 came and went, and now '93 was here...yet she still had not recaptured the overwhelming zeal of her youth.

Which was just as well, she reckoned. The musical landscape was changing and she wasn't sure she would have a place in it much longer if she _did_ return. R&B, hip hop, and grunge were the in things, and she was none of those...although she did like Nirvana and Pearl Jam. Their lyrics were more profound than a lot of other rock bands'. She appreciated the paradigm shift in popular music and, for the first time in her life, she felt as though she could truly be herself and people would _listen._ They wouldn't demand empty Top 40 pop fodder the way they did in '83, they would take her as she came. It was the greatest of ironies, then, that being herself most likely did not include singing.

What _did_ it include?

For that, she did not have an answer, and that was beginning to nag her, because even though she loved being a mother to her children, she was getting restless. Everyone needs a creative outlet, she believed, whether it be music, gardening, working with wood, or singing. Through the first two months of 1993, she felt the keen, constipational discomfort that comes with needing artistic release but not having it. She became edgy, irritable, and depressed. Then, one night, as she read Stephy a bedtime story, it dawned on her. She'd write a book. That thought spun another which, in turn, spawned a third, and by the next morning, she had decided definitively to do it. The only question was, what would it be about?

It occurred to her initially to write her life story, but she wasn't sure if her life merited a book. She grew up poor and with an abusive mother, but so do a lot of people. What made her experience special? Also, she cared what people thought about her even though she shouldn't, and she did not want to look like an egotist who believed everyone would be so _terribly fascinated_ with her story. It was too late to scrap the idea because she honestly had the desire to write _something_ , so, she bought an IBM word processor and resolved to start work on a novel. She didn't know what it would be about, but it would, indeed, be.

For nearly a week straight, she'd sit down in front of the machine and stare blankly at the black screen, the blinking green cursor hypotonic. What to write, what to write. She didn't do very much in the way of composition, but as she wracked her brain for ideas, she _did_ do a lot of thinking, and she always wound up back to her childhood. She entertained it as little as possible over the past ten years - it was painful, why, therefore, would she dwell on it? - but she found now that, looking back, it wasn't quite so bad. Maybe it was distance or absence making her heart grow fonder, but when she gazed into the past, she didn't focus on Mama being drunk and mean, she invariably went to her and Lana, to the things they did, the laughs they shared, the bond they forged. Playing in the autumn leaves, racing bikes up and down the driveway, chasing each other through twilit summer fields dancing with lightning bugs. The world was a strange and scary place then, but she had her sister to help her through it, and though sometimes she felt all alone as a little girl, she realized that she wasn't.

Meditating so much on her childhood, she started to miss it with an aching ferocity that throbbed in the center of her chest like gnashing teeth. She loved her life now - loved Bobby and their children - but she longed to go back to being a little girl, to playing with her sister (and maybe even arguing with her too) for just a while.

At the end of February, she started to write: Two little girls with nothing in the world but each other. Long summer afternoons at the creek (pronounced _crick_ because they were southern); nights lying awake in their single bed and talking, giggling, or clinging desperately to one another for the love and comfort they received nowhere else. She started with the pretext of writing a fictional story, but by chapter three, it had plainly become the autobiography she was so hesitant to write - thinly-veiled, maybe, but it nonetheless.

Today, March 13, she sat before the screen with her arms crossed and her bottom lip clamped nervously between her teeth. The cursor flashed at the head of a blank page like a beacon in the night, warning wayward sailors away from the jagged coastline...or inviting them to come closer. She'd been working on the novel for less than two weeks, and in that time she wrote nearly fifty thousand words, the story pouring from her like blood hemorrhaging from an open wound. On the day she started, she did not know how far the story would go or how close to home it would come. As it turned out, it didn't come _close_ to home, it came straight through the living room, and was going probably all the way to her stand-in's first major concert.

That was a scene for another day, right now she stood at the threshold of another scene, one that she did not want to write but in a way, felt she had to. This novel wasn't only a story, it doubled as her therapist, her way of finally making order from the chaos so that she could move on once and for all. She never thought that she would ever come back to _this_ , though; of all the things that happened to her growing up, it was perhaps the most painful, and was one of the few events that she actively worked to forget. It wasn't viscerally terrible - in fact, most people would likely roll their eyes at her if she pointed to it as her Worst Thing - but it hurt her deeply nevertheless. So deeply that just thinking about thinking about it made her heartbeat speed up.

When she was fourteen, a family moved into the trailer next to hers. They had a seventeen-year-old son. He was handsome, charming, and for reasons Lola's adolescent brain could not comprehend, he liked her. She liked him back. For a while they spent every afternoon together, walking in the field abutting the trailer park...talking, holding hands, and enjoying one another's company like kids in love are wont to do. He was the first person outside of Lana she felt truly comfortable with and that she felt anything but fear and disdain for.

She was young, stupid, and desperate for love, and when he told her that he loved her, she gave herself to him.

Only it was a lie. He didn't love her, and once he got what he wanted, she no longer mattered to him. He stopped speaking to her and coming outside. Panic gripped her at the prospect of losing the love she thought she'd found, and she spent three days in torment, waiting for him to come see her before going to his door only for his mother to tell her he went _home_. Lola didn't understand. _I thought this was his home._

 _No, he lives with his parents._

Lola had never been more baffled in her life. _I thought you were his parents._

 _No, he's my nephew. He was visiting for the summer._

She went home in defeat, telling herself that she simply misunderstood and that he would call or write her.

Only he never did. The following summer, he came back...and it happened all over again. She was young and desperate for love, and even though her face burned with humiliation, she let him into her heart once more, only for him to leave at the end of it without so much as a goodbye. If he loved her, why didn't he call her? Why didn't he write? Deep down, she knew the reason - he was using her - but she would not let it come to the surface, because the warm feeling she got when he held her hand and told her _I love you_ was so beautiful that she did not want to lose it, even if it _was_ a sham.

The next summer, he didn't come, and she was devastated even though she realized on some level that it was for the best. That January, she and Lana left home, and looking back at it, Lola was so ashamed of herself that she vowed to never think of it again. She was young, dumb, desperate, and pathetic, but not anymore, she told herself. That was the past. She made a successful career for herself, met a man who really did love her, and had two amazing children. Those three things, especially the latter two, more than made up for it, and over the past ten years, she had no reason whatsoever to think of that incident.

Dragging the depths of her memory, however, brought it back like a corpse from the bottom of a lake, and it had been bobbing in the swell of her mind for days. She was convinced that writing it would heal it as it had healed many other mental wounds over the past fourteen days, but the prospect of reliving it in vivid detail made her cold with dread.

Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe some things are best left to rot in the dark.

Or maybe she would. All darkness must, the Bible says, come to light; everything else had so far, why not this too?

A pang of anxiety cut through her stomach, and, with a sigh, she got up. She'd play with her kids for a while and think.

By the end of the day, her mind was made up.

She was going to do it.

And she did.

* * *

On January 21st, 1993, the staff of the New York governor's mansion lined up in the main hall in facing rows, and Clyde McBride walked past on his way out of the governorship. He stopped to shake each one's hand and to thank them for their service. He'd known many of these people for close to eight years, and in that time, he grew fond of them.

At the door, he turned around and cast a wistful look around the antechamber, then went down the front stairs to a waiting limo.

He didn't think he'd feel as sentimental as he did, but he was not shocked. He spent nearly ten years in that house, and as the car pulled away, he realized he was going to miss it. He would not, however, miss the stress - when he took over from his predecessor in 1985, his hair was as black as it was twenty years before. Now, after eight years of constant pressure, it was nearly all gray. He had three ulcers, his hands trembled slightly (which concerned his doctors), and his eyesight was so bad that he needed thicker glasses. Most of it came, he thought, from the ethics investigation. He knew they would find no wrongdoing, but it ate away at him regardless. He found some succor when it did exactly as he anticipated in November (just after the election, he couldn't help but notice), but not much. The damage to his reputation was, he feared, done.

Before leaving office, he bought a modest home in the Catskills and accepted a position with a state contracted consulting firm in Manhattan. His successful future was all but assured, yet he still found himself wracked with worry. Adjusting to life after power was difficult, he'd heard, and he was nervous about settling into civilian life.

On the upside, he had Carol Pingrey to help him.

She was a morning anchor in Buffalo now and didn't want to give up her position, so they didn't see each other as much as he would have liked, but they spent every weekend together, and at the beginning of March, she took a week off to come stay with him. On the thirteenth, he woke to the sound of rain, Carol nestled in his arms. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his grainy eyes with the heel of his palm, his body riddled with aches and pains from sleeping on his side all night.

Getting up, he went to the window and drew back the curtain. The backyard was open to the surrounding hills, the low, eroded Catskill Mountains humped in the distance like frozen waves. The house sat on a ridge overlooking a stand of forest bordering a wide, rushing river. Beyond was a little traveled highway that eventually filtered out onto Route 28 at Boiceville. The nearest neighbor lived three miles away, and the most exciting thing to happen in the area were Friday night football games at the high school, which is precisely why he chose it.

He liked the house and the region surrounding it, but he was considering selling.

If Carol agreed to marry him, that is.

Turning away from the window, he threw on a robe, stepped into his slippers, then went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Leaning against the formica countertop as he waited, he turned on the built in radio next to the fridge; the morning news was on, and Clyde listened as the weatherman explained the meteorological intricacies of the storm. " _This is one of the biggest ones on record. We're already seeing snowfall from the Florida panhandle all the way up into Canada and we're likely to see white out conditions across the northeast well into tomorrow. Major highways are shut down and airports from New York City to Detroit are effectively closed. If you don't have to be out in this, folks, please don't."_

Clyde didn't care for snow, but the idea of being snowed in with Carol - drinking hot chocolate, snuggling in front of the fire - was very appealing.

He poured a slug of coffee into a cup and took a long, hot drink. The news gave way to _Imus in the Morning_ and Clyde drew a deep breath. He was on edge about asking Carol to marry him, but had decided that today was the day. They'd been together for several years and neither had grown tired of the other yet - marriage was the next logical step.

Shortly before nine, Carol shuffled into the kitchen with a yawn, her hair messy and her eyelids fluttering with the effort it took to keep them open; she wore a flannel robe that hung open just enough for Clyde to catch of flash of smooth, creamy breast.

"Morning," she said, voice thick with sleep.

"Good morning," he replied. They kissed, and Clyde's hand wandered inevitably to her chest, his fingers slipping into the robe and kneading her warm flesh.

She smiled against his lips and ficked her tongue aganst his. "It's too early for that," she said, "I need coffee first." She pulled away, got a mug from the cabinet, and filled it. "It's not snowing," she said and nodded to the window over the sink: Slack rain fell from the churning gray sky and hissed on the sparse, emerald colored grass.

"Soon enough," he said and took a drink.

His plan was to propose later that evening, over a romantic dinner, but the spirit took him now, as they drank coffee in the kitchen - such a small thing, but somehow immensely satisfying anyway. This was what he wanted most from life - not black tie galas or fancy dinners at high end restaurant: Simple domestic bliss. There was something charming in the concept of proposing during a routine life moment. It said, in the boldest terms, _this is what I want from our life together...you, as you are, and nothing else._

Excusing himself, he went into the bedroom, took the engagement ring from its hiding spot in his top dresser drawer, shoved it into his pocket, and returned to the kitchen, where Carol rooted through the pantry for something to eat. He took the ring out and hid it in his palm the best he could. "I have something to ask you," he said. "It's kind of important."

"Yes," she said.

Clyde took a deep breath. His heart pounded with suspense and his stomach flipped like an acrobat on a highwire. "Will you -?"

"I said yes," she replied and turned, her eyes instantly going to his hand.

Clyde blinked in surprise. "How did…?"

"I know?" she asked. An elfin smile ran across her lips. "I saw it when I put your socks away last night." Her brow creased cutely. "You're not very good at hiding things." Her blue eyes twinkled with a mischievous light. "But everyone already knows _that_."

His jaw dropped...then he laughed richly. "So...yes? You'll marry me?"

"Yes," she said and smiled. "I'll marry you. But not before breakfast, I'm starving."

* * *

A substitute teacher must, by the very nature of her job, be ready at a moment's notice. This was a lesson Jessy Loud learned early on in her career: Last December, Mrs. Mason, the fourth grade math teacher, slipped on ice in the parking lot and broke her leg literally within sight of her classroom. Jessy was snuggled up in bed, planning a long day of reading followed by a date with Mark, when Principal Hewitt called her in. _Please, hurry,_ he said stained tones, _the children are getting restless._ She was there less than twenty minutes later, and as she strode down the hall, she couldn't help wondering if this was how a superhero feels as they save the day. In February, it happened again. Mr. Lane, the science teacher, got a frantic call just before lunch: His wife was in labor and if didn't rush, he'd miss the birth. Jessy was _just_ getting ready to leave the house to go apartment hunting with Mark when the phone rang. _Ms. Loud, we need you._

Her exact words?

 _On it._

The substitute teaching lifestyle (and that's what it was, a lifestyle) was sometimes hectic and sometimes really dull (weeks and weeks of no work), but she'd come to enjoy it very much: She got to teach a variety of subjects and meet many different children. The longest stint she ever did was nearly a month teaching English while the regular instructor recovered from pneumonia; she grew attached to several of the kids in that class, and leaving them was sad, but she chose to smile that it happened, not frown that it was over.

Her first assignment was on November 29; the health teacher had a doctor's appointment, and Jessy knew well in advance, which gave her time to mentally prepare. Sitting cross-legged on her bed the night before, she took a series of deep breaths and forced herself to think positive thoughts instead of negative ones. She was _not_ going to fall apart, she was going to excel; the kids would _not_ be a gang of hooligans, they would respect her - all she had to do was not show weakness.

The big day came, and though she employed every technique her therapist taught her, she was still shaky with nerves when she walked through the main doors. She wore her hair in a ponytail and carried her things in a cloth tote bag with RCPS stitched across the face in gold-trimmed blue; she spent a good hour agonizing over what to wear (not too formal, but not too casual either) before settling on a gray knit skirt, white blouse with ruffles, and a gray blazer. When she came into the kitchen that morning, Auntie Ronnie Anne gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. _Awww, look at you!_ she said breathlessly and swept her into a spine-shattering hug. _Your first day of school...let me get the camera._ Her heels clicked on the tile floor, and as she made her way through the crowded hall, every eye seemed to turn in her direction. She took a deep breath and remembered what Auntie Ronnie Anne said after snapping the tenth picture: _You can do this, Jess, I believe in you._ That gave her the boost she needed, and later, as she stood in front of the class and wrote her name on the chalkboard, she kept her mind firmly on her aunt's encouragement.

At first, she was stiff and uncomfortable, but as the day wore on, she began to relax. A couple boys cut up at one point, but she quashed it quickly and without mercy just like Auntie Ronnie Anne would. She feared they'd try again, but they didn't, and the rest of the day sailed smoothly by, though at one point she _did_ misplace the lesson plan the teacher prepared for her and had to go from memory.

When the day was over, she walked to her car on a cloud of heady accomplishment, and at home, Auntie Ronnie Anne said she _glowed_. She didn't know if she really did or not, but she was _very_ proud of herself and excited for her next job.

Today, March 13, she was scheduled to fill in for the music teacher, which would be interesting, as she knew next to nothing about the mechanics of music. She couldn't sing, couldn't dance, did not have rhythm, and didn't know a high note from a doctor's note. She felt anxious over the uncertainty involved in teaching a subject she herself was ignorant of, but also giddy because for her, as for her students, it would be a learning experience.

True to the life, however, things changed.

The previous night, she climbed into bed at ten and set her alarm for 5:30. She laid awake for roughly an hour and a half, brimming with excitement, before dropping off. If she dreamed, she did not remember them when the radio clicked on at the appointed time with Mariah Carey.

 _Take me up take me down  
Take me anywhere you want to baby now  
I need you so desperately  
Won't you please come around  
'Cause I wanna share forever with you baby_

She peeled one lid open and squinted at the clock, the numbers a greasy red smear like freshly spilled blood. Already? she thought groggily. She rolled onto her back, blinked the sleep from her eyes, and scratched her head with a deep yawn. _You have a long day of fun and discovery ahead of you, Jess, up and at 'em._

Ugh. Okay.

 _Dream lover come rescue me  
Take me up take me down  
Take me anywhere you want to baby now  
I need you so desperately  
Won't you please come around  
'Cause I wanna share forever with you baby_

She swung her legs out from under the cover, sat on the edge of the bed, and raked her fingers through her hair.

When she wasn't teaching, she filled in at Flip's. Yesterday, she spent the entire afternoon helping Uncle Lincoln _winterize_ , which mainly consisted of nailing boards over the front windows so that the wind didn't blow them out. _I doubt the storm will be_ that _bad,_ he said when he noticed her biting her bottom lip anxiously, _but it's better to be safe than sorry._

Jessy agreed wholeheartedly with the latter statement (didn't she use that phrase with Alex a few times?), but not the former; the storm was going to be _bad,_ and that wasn't just her assessment: The weathermen were calling it The Storm of the Century and predicting localized accumulation totals in excess of three feet, white out conditions, and gale force winds. Uncle Lincoln dismissed it as alarmism. _We just_ had _a storm of the century,_ he said. He was referring to the so-called 'Perfect Storm' of October 1991. As Auntie Ronnie Anne pointed out, though, _that's a whole different animal, lame-o. This one's gonna blow your socks clean off._

When she and Auntie Ronnie Anne went to the grocery store, many of the shelves stood barren, and people picked over what was left with a sense of urgency that infected Jessy like the plague. _We have to hurry,_ she told her aunt as though the storm would fall upon them at any moment. _We need a lot of stuff. Like milk and bread._ The gas stations were all packed with people gassing up while they still could, a lot of major roads were subject to closure, and the governor had already declared a state of emergency. Despite Uncle Lincoln's assurances, things would be _horrendous_.

In fact, she expected the schools to be shut down, but someone made the decision to keep them open: The snow wasn't supposed to begin until noon, and it wasn't supposed to get _really_ bad until after 4.

" _That was Mariah Carey with Dreamlover on your home for new hit music, WKBBL Royal Woods, Elk Park. Good morning and hello, this is Dave Franks and The Morning Zoo getting your day started right. Hope you're ready for some snow. 2.5 feet, to be exact."_

" _So just a dusting,"_ a female voice replied.

" _Yeah,"_ Dave continued, " _it's nothing to worry about. Millions of people won't lose power, it's all good."_

Jessy's stomach flipped. Hopefully _they_ wouldn't lose power. They had extra blankets and kerosene heaters, but she wasn't sure those would be enough, not with sustained winds of forty miles per hour and snow drifts of five or six feet in places.

" _Power's for sissies anyway,"_ the woman said.

Getting up, Jessy turned the radio off, pulled a robe on over her night dress, and went to the bathroom. She took a long, hot shower, letting the water cascade over her tired body, then brushed her teeth and hair in front of the mirror. She usually wore the latter up in a bun or ponytail when she taught because nothing says professionalism quite like a bun. Today, however, she decided to leave it down.

Finished, she threw her robe over her bare skin, belted it, and opened the door.

Someone was there.

Crying out in alarm, she jumped back and nearly fell onto her butt.

"Good morning to you too," Auntie Ronnie Anne said sardonically. She wore a faded pink robe over a flannel nightgown that stopped at her knees and a pair of slippers that Alex and Jessy got her for Christmas 1980. Jessy furrowed her brows. Auntie Ronnie Anne left for work every day at six sharp - why wasn't she dressed yet?

Sensing her confusion, Auntie Ronnie Anne said, "I just got a phone call. They're closing the schools."

Oh. They were?

Disappointment surged through Jessy and her shoulders sagged. She was really looking forward to teaching this class. "I guess that means I got up for nothing," she said heavily.

"Go back to bed."

In her room, she dropped onto the edge of the mattress and took a deep breath. Knowing her, she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep no matter how hard she tried, so...a book?

That's when it dawned on her.

Mark was off today - they could spend time together.

Her mood, so recently dejected, soared, and she reached for the phone, but stayed her hand at the last moment. It wasn't even 6am yet; he was probably still asleep. She'd wait a little while _then_ call. In the meantime, she needed coffee. She got up, started to leave the room, then remembered that she was completely naked under her robe. Uh...yeah, I better get dressed first.

Before going to bed the night before, she laid her outfit for the day out on Alex's old bed: Black slacks, a forest green turtleneck sweater, and a white blazer. Standing over it, she thoughtfully stroked her chin and flattened her lips. Hmmm. Should she exchange it for something more casual? She considered for a moment, then decided to wear it anyway.

Dressed, she went into the kitchen and found Auntie Ronnie Anne standing at the coffee pot. Uncle Lincoln sat at the table in lounge pants and a white T-shirt, the morning paper spread out in front of him. "Morning," she said.

"Good morning," Uncle Lincoln said and looked up, his brow raising quizzically when he saw what she was wearing. "All dressed up with no place to go."

"Mark and I are going out later," she explained and took a mug from the rack, then: "he just doesn't know it yet."

Uncle Lincoln laughed. "That's how half of _our_ dates went."

Auntie Ronnie Anne turned and took a drink from her cup. "Damn right. If I left it up to your miserable ass, we'd have never gone anywhere."

"Staying in is cheaper."

Jessy filled her cup, added sugar and milk, stirred it up, and blew away a curl of steam. "You don't have to spend money on a date," she said. "You can take a walk in the park, or go for a picnic, oooh, or watch the stars." She loved stargazing with Mark; they had a special spot in a meadow outside of town where they would lay down a blanket, talk, and stare up at the constellations sometimes for hours. Most of their activities together didn't cost money, come to think of it, like the library, the museum, the zoo (okay, that did cost money), and the river.

"See?" Auntie Ronnie Anne asked Uncle Lincoln. She sat across from him and set the cup on the table. "She gets it. I'm not an expensive date."

He looked up from the paper and she flashed a toothy smile. "Would you like to go on a date?" he asked.

For a moment she didn't reply...then she blew a raspberry. "No. Are you kidding me? I'm too tired at the end of the day to care about _that_."

Uncle Lincoln threw his hand up in a _see I told you so_ gesture. "Then shut your pie hole."

After extracting herself before their interplay lead to blows, she went back to her room and turned the radio back on: Whitney Houston filtered from the speaker, and Jessy turned down the volume a little because she _really_ hit those high notes.

While she waited to call Mark, she contemplated the apartment they looked at yesterday: A one bedroom, one bath on the outskirts of Elk Park. They toured and rejected more places over the past year than she could count, but something about this one really resonated with her. It occupied the second floor of a house owned by a little old lady who looked nothing like Grandma but reminded Jessy of her anyway. It was built in the 1920s and all of the fixtures were original, from the woodwork in the kitchen to the clawfoot tub and pull chain toilet in the bathroom. Stepping through the front door, Jessy felt almost like she'd been transported back in time, and before she'd even seen the whole thing, she wanted it.

They could afford rent and utilities with money left over, but not very much. If Jessy could get a full time teaching position, it wouldn't be a concern, but as it stood, she never knew when she'd work or what she would bring home from month to month. She very much wanted her and Mark to have a place of their own, but their financial situation disudaded her. They could make it, yes, but she likened it to tightrope walking: One misstep and they would plummet, screaming and tumbling end over end until they splattered on the ground like meaty water balloons.

Wow, morbid much, Jess?

Anyway, she was reluctant to commit to something like an apartment without having maximum financial security; she just didn't know when they would achieve that, and she was starting to get uncharacteristically impatient. She wanted to move in with her boyfriend and start her life already! She didn't want to make any rash decisions, but she was confident that if they adhered to a sensible budget, and if she worked more hours at Flip's during her non-teaching days, they could swing it and have a little wiggle room too.

Excitement swelled in her stomach, and she broke; she picked up the phone, dialed Mark's number, and held the handset to her ear. He picked up on the fifth ring with a sleepy, "Hello?"

"Hi," she piped, "it's Jessy. Your girlfriend."

He didn't reply for a moment. "I have several girlfriends named Jessy," he said soberly, "can you give me a surname?"

"You're funny," Jessy said, "school was canceled. Would you like to go on a date with me?"

An hour and a half later, they sat across a sticky table from each other at the IHOP on Route 16, laminated menus open before them. Jessy took a sip of her orange juice and scanned the selection even though she already kind of knew what she wanted. She would have ordered coffee but if she drank too much, she got fidgety. On the drive over, light snow fell from the leaden sky but none of it stuck. Now, through the big front window, a light dusting coated the parking lot. Closing her menu, Jessy laced her hands in front of her and studied Mark as he methodically went through the booklet, his eyes flicking back and forth over the page and his lips moving but making no sound.

She waited for him to finish before flashing a pretty smile and saying, straight and to the point, "I think we should get the apartment."

Mark didn't have to ask which one. "You sure?"

Unlike her, he did not worry about their economic preparedness. He didn't worry about much of anything, which Jessy both envied and pitied. She read somewhere that people who are paralyzed from the waist down are prone to infections in their legs because they cannot feel that something is wrong - their brains do not register cuts, burns, and abrasions, so they could be rotting below the belt and be none the wiser. Her first thought on imbiling that? _Oooh, reminds me of Mark._ Of course, she had generalized anxiety disorder, so she was in no position to point out someone else's flaws. The glass house principle, you know.

She considered his question a moment before nodding resolutely. Life, Auntie Ronnie Anne always said, is about taking risks; you can't live if you sit home safe in your armchair. Ironically, that's exactly what Auntie Ronnie Anne herself did, but she'd already taken all of her risks, Uncle Lincoln too, so that didn't count. Alex took a _huge_ risk going into nursing - she knew next to nothing about it other than cleaning up people's bodily fluids was the centerpiece, but she jumped in headfirst.

With this, Jessy would too. "Yep, I'm sure."

Mark nodded. "Alright," he said.

After breakfast, he followed her home through the intensifying snow. Inside, Uncle Lincoln sat in his chair and read from an issues of _Guns_ and Auntie Ronnie Anne buzzed around the living room with a feather duster in her hand and cabin fever shining in her eyes. In the evenings, after a long day at work, you couldn't pay her to shift, but on the weekends, holidays, and snow days, she went stir crazy in the first five minutes. "Take your shoes off," she commanded, "I just vacuumed."

They kicked their shoes off and went into the hall. As they passed, Uncle Lincoln flipped the page with a crisp sound. "Door open," he said.

When Jessy and Alex were younger, the rule was they could have Mark and Tim in their rooms but only while Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne were home and if the door was left open. Since she turned eighteen, both brought up the idea of Mark spending the night, so they no longer minded, he was joking.

She never had Mark here overnight, by the way, That would be a _little_ awkward.

"We're just making a phone call," she assured him.

In her room, Jessy dropped onto the edge of the bed and Mark sat beside her. She leaned over, opened the nightstand drawer, and brought out a scrap of paper with a number scrawled in Mark's blocky, childish hand. Her heartbeat sped up as she held the phone to her ear. What the old lady rented it already? What if they were too late and missed out? What if the wind knocked the line out before she could make the call? What if she made a terrible mistake, they got it, but couldn't afford it and had to leave?

Sensing her apprehension, Mark too her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. "I can call," he offered.

"No," she said, and suddenly doing this for herself was very important. "I'll do it."

She dialed, and in five minutes, they had the apartment.

* * *

At 4pm, Lincoln pulled into the parking lot of Blake's daycare and cut the engine, killing the weatherman on WZTB off mid-forecast. It was snowing heavily and a thin blanket of white covered the world. On his way over, he passed a half dozen highway department plows and just as many salt trucks, their contents spilling out behind them in a gritty shower. Of all the things he hated about winter, salt topped the list - people tracked it into Flip's all day long, and cleaning it was a goddamn hassel. He used to pawn it off on Luan as punishment for being a hippie in the sixties, but she left to take care of Mom in November and he'd been making one of the waitresses or the dishwasher do it.

Getting out, he ducked his head against the driving storm and followed the walkway to the front door, his knit cap and the shoulders of his jacket crusted with snow by the time he got inside. A counter flanked the wall to his right and a glass door lead into the back, where all of the kiddies were kept. A woman looked up from a computer and smiled politely. He walked over and laid his hands on the edge of the desk. "I'm here to pick up my grandson," he said, "Blake Underwood."

"Alright," she said, "can I see your driver's license?"

On Blake's first day, Alex filled out a form naming all the people who were authorized to pick Blake up: Her, Tim, Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and Jessy. Since Tim and Alex were the only ones who'd ever gotten him, she needed to make sure he was on he level. Going one better, he pulled out his veteran's ID card and laid it on the counter. That was his way of subtly saying _If it wasn't for me, you'd be speaking North Vietnamese right now, lady, gimme my grandson._

She picked it up, compared it against the list, and handed it back. "You can go right in."

Lincoln took the card, slipped it back into his wallet, and started for the door, but stopped. "Uh, do you know where he is?"

"First door on the right," she said with boundless confidence.

Thanking her, Lincoln went through the door and found Blake's room; he was surprised that it was set up to resemble an organized classroom rather than the apocalyptic wasteland strewn with toys he was expecting. Blake sat in the middle of a mat with a city design on it, a little blonde girl in a yellow dress across from him. She clapped her hands and held them out, palms flat. Blake stared bemusedly at them for a moment, then giggled.

" _Patty cake,"_ the little girl explained patiently.

Blake turned away, saw Lincoln, and lit up. He pushed to his feet and toddled over. Lincoln scooped him up and held him up. "Hey," he said, "you ready to come home?"

Blake nodded.

On the mat, the little girl watched them with a tiny frown of dejection. She didn't look happy that her playmate was leaving. "You gonna say goodbye to your friend?" Lincoln asked.

Twisting in his arms, Blake leaned forward and waved. " _Bye!"_ he cried.

" _Bye,"_ she replied.

After collecting Blake's daily report from the teacher and getting him into his coat and hat, Lincoln carried him outside and strapped him into the carseat. On the drive home, the little boy gazed out the window and prattled to the snow in a mishmash of English and gibberish. Lincoln glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Was it his imagination, or was Blake starting to develop the dreaded Loud Cowlick? Poor kid, his mother really needed to give him a haircut.

Getting home from this part of town usually took no more than ten minutes, but today, owing to the heavily falling snow and the exaggerated of other drivers ( _first winter in Michigan?),_ the commute lasted nearly half an hour. He turned onto Cleveland and tensed when he saw Chandler, dressed in a heavy black coat, walking Benson down the sidewalk.

If he didn't have his grandson in the car, he'd hit the gas and take them both out, but he did, so he passed by instead, eyes forward because if the little punk so much as looked at him wrong, he'd change his mind. He slowed as he approached the driveway, then turned into it, parking next to Ronnie Anne's Buick.

"' _No',"_ Blake said.

"Yeah, snow," Lincoln agreed, "it's crap."

He got out, unbuckled Blake, and carried him inside. Ronnie Anne sat on the couch with her head back and her feet on the coffee table, completely whipped from her cleaning spree. Jessy and Mark lounged beside her, Mark's arm around Jessy's shoulders and Jessy's head resting on his chest. She was whipped too; the jumping and squealing she did after she and Mark got the apartment lasted _hours_.

Not really, but she was very excited, and excitement takes a lot out of you.

Lincoln sat Blake down and pulled his coat off, then his boots. Jessy sat up and, with a big smile, held out her arms. Blake shambled over and she swept him off his feet. "How was your day?" she asked.

Kicking his shoes off, Lincoln crossed to his chair, bending to one side and slapping Ronnie Anne's foot on the way. "Off the table," he said and sat.

"Go away, lame-o," she said, "I'm tired."

Lincoln snatched a magazine at random from the metal rack between the chair and couch and sat it on his lap. _Things You Never Knew Existed._ He liked this one - it was _filled_ with novelties, odds and ends, as-seen-on-TV products, clothes, and countless other things that, as the title suggested, he never knew existed. "Rules are rules," he said and put his reading glasses on. "I didn't die in Vietnam so could you go around breaking them."

"Oh, God, here we go," she sighed.

Lincoln smiled to himself. He loved messing with her even after almost thirty years. "When I was a POW, I followed the Cong's rules to the letter. You can't do that here?"

"Pretty sure you broke at least one rule," Ronnie Anne pointed out.

"Which one?" he demanded.

Ronnie Anne got up and stretched. "The one against breaking out."

Damn.

She had him _there_.

While she went into the kitchen to start dinner, Lincoln opened his magazine and started reading. Jessy shifted to the floor to play with Blake, and Mark scooted closer to the chair. "You broke out?" he asked flatly.

"Yep," Lincoln said absently without looking up from the page. Get this: They had a flashlight that was also a radio, a TV, and megaphone. It was big, bulky, and canary yellow, but hot damn. Only 199.95, too. "Killed a bunch of people doing it." He laughed at how matter-of-factly he said that.

He did not see Jessy stiffen slightly, or her eyes widening in shock. She pieced together that he was held prisoner during the war, but this was the first time said anything about breaking out and killing people. She jerked a tentative glance at him, and her head spun at the absurdity of it. Uncle Lincoln killed people? Obviously that's what war is about, but she could _not_ picture him taking another human life. When she looked at him, she saw...Uncle Lincoln, the man who raised her as though she were his own daughter, who hugged her, kissed her, tucked her in at night, and read her bedtime stories. How could he be a killer?

Unless he shot someone from far away.

She could envision that pretty easily: Him crouching behind a rock and shooting at someone hiding in bushes twenty yards distant. He didn't see their face, didn't look into their eyes and tighten his grip around their throat…

In her lap, Blake bounced and nearly fell forward, but she hugged him. "Be careful," she laughed, "you almost got boo boos!"

On the couch, Mark hummed in thought. "How many?"

Lincoln flipped the page. "Three," he said, "maybe four. I dunno. The last guy got away, but I'm sure I pegged him once." Hm, that juicer looked nice, even though he wasn't a fan of juice. Being a man, he drank water, coffee, battery acid, and, on special occasions, his own piss.

"Three's not really a bunch," Mark said, and Jessy cringed. Please stop talking to him about the war. "It's only a couple."

"It feels like a lot," Lincoln said seriously. "Especially when I dream about them breaking into the house and getting me back." He barely suppressed a shudder. He did not dream of Vietnam often, but every time he did, it was either of the men he killed or of the maggots he ate. Every once in a blue moon, he dreamt of the girl who helped him escape, and he always woke thinking of her. Where was she now? Did she make it out of the war alive? Did she eventually meet a man, settle down, and start a family? Did she ever think of him and wonder where life took him...or regret helping him?

Mark didn't immediately respond. "That's fair," he said. "Taking another life has to be difficult, even if it's justified."

"No," Lincoln said, "it's very easy." He looked up and favored the boy over the tops of his glasses. "It's living with yourself afterward that's difficult."


	173. March 1993: Part 2

**Guest: I would tell you the ending I had in mind for BS, but someone asked me if they could adopt the story and I'm still weighing whether I'll let them or not.**

 **Valtek: There's wrestling stuff upcoming - Lynn III gets angry over Hulk Hogan joining the NWO and decides to take action. I'm also considering a storyline involving her daughter Maddie, a wrestling nut by the late nineties, stumbling across some boys holding a backyard wrestling event and joins in..with disastrous results.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Informer**_ **by Snow (1992);** _ **I Don't Need Your Rockin' Chair**_ **by George Jones (1992)**

Through the late afternoon and evening of March 13, the so-called Storm of the Century strengthened in intensity, the wind rising until it shrieked like an angry spirit and snow blotting out the entire world; when Alex looked out the window, all she saw was white pressing insistently against the glass...a hungry ghost trying to get in for a feast of old people and CNAs. Shortly before 5pm, a violent gust slammed the building and the lights flickered. Ten minutes later, the DON tried to call home, but the phone lines were down. _White's the color of evil,_ one of her residents, a black man named James Brown (after the singer) spat as he stared at his window. A notoriously difficult patient, Alex heard endless horror stories about him before she started, and expected him to be an asshole; surprisingly, he liked her. She never knew why, but eventually found out that _really_ hated white people. She awkwardly told him that _she_ was part white, and he waved her off. _You still brown, though. White man'll fuck up you too._

Well, technically, a white man _did_ fuck her, but she didn't think of that zinger until later, and, God, she wouldn't have used it anyway.

After the lights flickered again, she broke from her rounds and went to the dayroom, where a group of CNAs sat around a table laughing. On TV, a white guy in glasses rapped through prison bars. He sounded Jamaican.

 _But the in an a-out a dance an they say where you come from-a?  
People dem say ya come from Jamaica  
But me born an' raised in the ghetto that I want ya to know-a  
Pure black people man that's all I man know  
Yeah me shoes are a-tear up an'a me toes just a show-a  
Where me-a born in are de one Toronto_

Oh, Informer by Snow. She only knew that because _In Living Color_ did a parody of this video. Jim Carrey played him and instead of _Informer_ it was _Imposter -_ another one about white people not being allowed to rap and stuff. She didn't get offended this time, though; she was too busy laughing.

She filled a cup with coffee and sniffed. Heh. Snow. Get it? Because it's snowing outside?

Sometimes the stars aligned _juuuust_ right.

A black guy took over and started rapping his own verse and Alex expected to hear the _In Living Color_ version so much that she was almost shocked when he didn't begin with _I rap in your songs with the best of my ability / You need a black man to increase your credibility._

Taking her joe to go (I'm on _fire_ tonight), she went back into the hall and spotted a call light on over Mr. Wilson's door. He probably wanted to get of of bed and sit by the window; he was a _little_ confused, and it didn't matter if he could see anything through it or not, when he wanted to, brother, _he wanted to_. She started in that direction, but the power dimmed, and she came to a sudden halt. The wind blew louder than before, and she could hear it from here, its voice full of sorrow and anguish.

Okay, _that's_ not good.

She might seem cool and fearless, but, truth be told, she got scared just like everyone else, and right now, trapped in a nursing home by a fierce blizzard, she was kind of terrified. It's times like these, she reflected, that you realize just how fragile this thing we call society really is. A little wind and snow, and BOOM, out go the lights, phone, and motor cars (leaving not a single luxury). Our world is comprised of a million and one moving parts that, despite how shiny and complexy they look, are extremely sensitive. All it takes is one tiny disruption, and civilization as we know it is gone. She liked to compare it to juggling chainsaws. Make a single misstep, and, brother, you're in for a hurting. A storm like this holds the power to obliterate towns, buildings, and yes, even people. How easy it would be for a window to break, or the roof to collapse, or the power and the generators to go out. She was less afraid for herself and more afraid for the residents. What chance do a bunch of frail, sickly old people have against sub zero temperatures? Not to mention all the patients who needed power for their life-sustaining gizmos.

On getting to work, she anticipated some kind of staff meeting where the DON would go over emergency procedures should the power and back up generators fail, but apparently the administration didn't think that was necessary. Most of those machines could be operated by batteries, but for how long? She imagined the police would have to come rescue them, and God only knew how long _that_ would take. People could die in the time it took help to arrive; thinking about it started to make her legitimately angry.

Taking a deep breath, she went to help Mr. Wilson into his chair. A tall, thin man with glasses and a mustache, he wore a blue robe and lounge pants that billowed around his twiggy ankles. He sat up in bed facing the portable TV on the dresser: _The Nanny._ Ugh. Alex hated that show: The woman's voice made her ears gush blood. The butler was pretty cool, though, but if anyone turned up dead, she'd suspect him first, since the butler _always_ did it. Growing up, Alex liked dumb sitcoms, but over the years her tastes became a _bit_ more refined: Now she liked _Cops, America's Most Wanted, Rescue 911,_ and _Diagnosis: Murder_. Everything else could take a flying leap.

"I'm here," she announced when she entered.

"Good," he said, "I wanna sit in my chair by -"

"The window," the said, crossing to his geri chair and pushing it over to the bed, "I know."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Mr. WIlson was the anti-James Brown: The first time she came in to assist him with something, he gasped and recoiled. _You're brown!_

Oh, come on, I'm not _that_ brown, buddy. Sheesh. You act like I'm mahogany when I'm anemic caramel _at best._

She had to explain to him that she was _probably_ more white than Hispanic, and that mollified him enough that he allowed her to take care of him, but even so, he never fully relaxed around her, as though he expected her to stab him in the back the first chance she got.

This didn't offend her the way it might someone else. Old people can be preeeeetty racist sometimes, but that's how they grew up. The world and times they lived in were far different than the times now, so you couldn't judge them _too_ harsh. Unless, maybe, they took it too far. Calling her brown and mistrusting her? Fine. Burning a tiny cross at the nurse's station? Not so fine.

When he was situated next to the window, he adjusted his specs and squinted at the pane. "Looking for something?" she asked.

"Nazis," he said, "they love the snow."

That took Alex aback. "Nazis?" she asked incredulously. She knew he was confused, but not _that_ confused. At least he _wasn't_. She'd have to chart this.

He nodded. "You never see them until it's too late."

Yeah, she'd definitely have to report this.

"They'd drag you off in a heartbeat," he said, "they hate coloreds with a passion."

Bending over, Alex patted his shoulder. In cases like this, the best thing to do was play along. "Good thing I have you to protect me."

He pulled away and looked at her with furrowed brows. "First sign of trouble, I'm leaving. You're on your own."

Well then.

After helping Mr. WIlson look for National Socialists, Alex made her way to the residents' dayroom, a tiny space catercorner to the nurses' station lit by soft lamp light. Old people sat in cushy armchairs knitting, on couches and reading, and in their wheelchairs watching _Wheel of Fortune_ \- for some reason that show was _really_ popular with the elderly set. She looked around like a teacher searching for infractions, and spotted one instantly: Mr. Billings, esconded in his wheelchair, wore his robe open, his privates exposed to the world. She rolled her eyes and went over; seriously, this guy was gonna be the death of her. Standing beside him, she put her hands on her hips, and he looked up at her all innocently, like he _didn't_ know why she was there.

"Now Mr. Billings," she started with a faux-stern inflection, "you know you're not supposed to have your robe open like that."

"I'm airing it out," he stated.

That's what he always said. After the millionth time, she asked Tim _Does your penis need air?_ He looked at her like she was crazy. _Uh...I guess sometimes. If it's all closed up it starts to smell_. That made sense (her crotch was the same way), but, come on, how much aeration does the average penis need?

Leaning over, she lowered her voice. "I think you just like showing it off."

Mr. Billings blinked in confusion...then one corner of his mouth twitched up in a guilty grin. "Do you like seeing it?"

"You're old enough to be my grandfather," Alex said, "no, I don't."

His lips fell into a chastised frown and he hanged his head like a little boy. "Okay," he said and closed his robe.

"Thank you!"

At dinner, Alex wheeled a cart down the hall while another CNA - a plain blonde with a big nose named Margo - took the trays into rooms. "There's gotta be a foot out there already," Margo worried as she and Alex walked. "It was halfway to my knees when I went out to smoke. We're gonna be stuck here for days."

Pfft. Sounds like Tom. Not surprising, since they pal-ed around a lot. He used to make fun of her really bad (his pet name for her was Pinocchio), then one day she broke down in tears and ran off. Patricia, the morning DON, made him apologize. _And start being nice,_ she spat, _I'm sick of you being such an asshole._ He did as he was told (grumbling as he went after her), and...I dunno, they discovered they had a lot in common or something. Not sure. Tom told Alex later _I think I banged her brother once._

"I doubt that," Alex said, even though she wasn't entirely sure anymore. A foot? Really? Man, if the stuff was coming down _that_ fast…

After the trays were all passed out, she reported to the dining room where other residents ate a circular tables. She was cutting Mr. Elmhurst's meatloaf into tiny, bite sized pieces when Tom came over. "Can you take care of Mrs. Darcy? I need a cigarette or I'm gonna kick someone."

"Yeah, give me a minute," Alex said.

A few seconds later, Tom snorted and she looked up. Bob stood a few tables away, bent over and cutting an old woman's food up much like Alex was doing. He said something and the woman laughed. "You know who he looks like?" Tom asked loud enough for Bob to hear. "Bat Boy," he said, answering his own question. "That bald head and those pointy ears."

Bob's smile turned into a tight-lipped slash and his face darkened.

"He only comes out at night cuz he's so ugly."

Bob held up his middle finger.

"He's a child molester too."

Bob whipped into a standing position and glowered so hard that Alex was surprised Tom didn't disintegrate where he stood. "Shut up," he hissed.

Alex shook her head and went back to cutting Mr. Elmhurst's meat. Taking a deep breath, Bob stormed off and slammed through the door to the hall. Later, Alex stood next to Tom and scanned the room, looking for something to do but not finding it. Bob still wasn't back, and she wondered if he was okay. "Bob took that child molester thing really hard," she commented.

"Yeah," Tom said, "he was molested as a kid, so he hates pedophiles."

Alex sputtered. "What?"

"Umhm," Tom hummed.

Okay, wait. Bob was _molested_ when he was a kid...and Tom made fun of him for it? All joking aside, that was pretty fucked up.

She said as much, and Tom rolled his eyes. "Oh, he's fine," he said, pronouncing the last word with a nasty twist. "He's just a goddamn drama queen, that's all."

"No, you're just a dick."

Tom's brow lowered. "You can fuck off too, bitch."

She liked Tom...but she never came closer to punching someone in the face as she did then. Making a sound of disgust in the back of her throat, she pushed away from the wall and fucked off.

For the rest of the evening, she kept an eye out for Bob, but didn't see him, and she started to worry that he left; if so, he might have got caught in the storm. The last time she looked out the window, the parking lot was buried in at least a foot, with more driving from the sky. There was no way in hell he could have made it out in his car. Just before eleven, when her shift would normally end, she dragged her weary body into the break room, head hung. She, Tom, Margo, and another CNA named Karen just completed a grueling struggle of life and death wherein the object was to turn Ms. DeVoe - all three hundred and seventy pounds of her - onto her side so she didn't get bedsores on her tukus. Ms. DeVoe was a nice lady and all, but...how could Alex put this? She had a more nervous constitution than ten Jessys put together: She worried about _everything,_ and when you went to flip her over, the terrors of death hit her like nuclear powered freight train. _I'm going to fall!_

Big people - that's the politically correct term - are petrified of falling, Alex had learned. At least the ones in the nursing home were. No matter how many CNAs were there, no matter if she was firmly in the center of the bed, the moment you touched her, she screamed bloody murder and clutched for any purchase she could get her hands on. Tonight...that purchase was Alex's hair.

She and Margo were on one side, and Tom and Karen on the other, one team pushing, the other pulling. Ms. DeVoe let out a strangled cry of alarm when she shifted, then shot out her hand and grabbed onto Alex's hair, yanking her head to one side. _Ow!_ Alex moaned. _That's my hair! It's attached to my head! Ow!_ The old woman shifted again, and pulled harder, bringing tears to Alex's eyes.

If it were anyone else, she would have dug her nails into the back of their hand and bit their wrist or something, but it wasn't anyone else, so all she could do was grit her teeth and take it. At the end, she pressed her hand to her wounded scalp and fought back the urge to cry - it hurt _really_ bad. _Sorry about that, dear,_ Ms. DeVoe panted; sweat sheened her face, and from her heavy breathing, you'd think _she_ just turned over a near four hundred pound person.

 _So am I,_ Alex whimpered.

Nothing a little coffee couldn't fix, though.

A group of CNAs clustered in front of the TV, a pall of disquiet settled over them like a ratty, worm-eaten blanket. " _...tonight. This is the scene on I-94 west of Ann Arbor. National Guardsmen and elements of the state police rescuing people trapped in their cars…"_

Yawning, Alex filled a cup, dumped in enough sugar to feed a family of four, then leaned back against the counter and took a long drink, her hand jerking when Bob walked in. A sour expression twisted his normally docile features, and when he grabbed a mug from the stack beside the microwave, his movements were quick and brutal, like an ax murder. She didn't know how he spent the evening, but she doubted it was cooling down. "Hey, there you are," she said in her happiest, most friendly tone. "I was looking for you."

"I had to take a break," Bob said. Unlike Tom, he _sounded_ gay, his voice soft and breathy like a warm spring breeze. It might be kinda weird, but Alex liked listening to him talk. "Tom really upset tonight."

Alex started to speak, but closed her mouth when she realized she was _this_ close to saying something that would reveal she knew about his abuse. That _might_ hurt his feelings even more. Instead, she nodded. "Yeah, Tom's a real asshole sometimes."

Bob nodded. "Umhm. You know _he_ likes young boys?" He favored Alex slyly from the corner of his eyes. "That's one of the reasons I dumped his ass."

Hmmm. Alex wasn't sure if Bob was being honest or not; the accusation struck her as a classic example of _noyouism._ Ya know, when you're a kid and another kid calls you a name, so you hit them with the dreaded _no,_ you _are._

Sensing her skepticism, Bob said, "Drive by his house one day. He always has them in his yard. Doing work, playing football." His lips screwed up in disgust. "Fifteen, sixteen year old boys. No shirts. He's a _fucking_ pervert." He angrily stirred his coffee and took a drink.

Well...if that was true...then she agreed, Tom _was_ a fucking pervert. On the other hand, when you have two people whose relationship ends in acrimony, you can't take what either says about the other as gospel. They might be lying or they might be seeing things through a prism of emotion or heartache that distorts their perception. She _hoped_ it wasn't true, but she honestly didn't know.

She needed more information.

"Does he?" she asked lowly.

"Umhm," Bob said. "I don't know if he's ever actually _done_ anything with them, but he sure likes to look. And steal not-so-innocent touches." He gave a body-wide shudder of revulsion, and, certain of the authenticity of his claims or not, Alex couldn't help but join him.

Because the 11-7 shift was snowed in at home, Alex and the others had to pick up the slack. Most of the residents were settled in bed by midnight, and the DON ordered two rotating shifts of six people to take turns on the floor: One would work until 3;30am while the other had off, then the second would relieve them so _they_ could have off. Alex chose to take the first watch because while tired, she wasn't quite tired enough to sleep yet.

That night she learned something.

The graveyard shift at Oak Springs was creeeeeepy. Sitting at the C-shaped nurse's station and filling out her charts for the day, she was acutely aware of just how long, silent, and dimly lit the hallways were. Every time one of the residents moaned (which happened a lot, actually), her stomach dropped, and when the wind howled particularly hard, it was all too easy to imagine the place was crawling with ghosts. Tom didn't help. "They say this place is haunted," he said. He sat next to her in a swivel chair, arms and legs crossed. Shirley the nurse sat behind them, facing away with her head down over her own paperwork.

"I'm sure they do," Alex said dismissively. Any place where people die is reputed to be haunted. Heh. Just stories. That's all. Hell, she'd be surprised if they _didn't_ say there were ghosts at Oak Springs.

Tom shifted. "Ask Shirley. She'll tell you."

"That's what they say," Shirley said absently.

"There's a ghost in Room 3C," Tom said, "it hates Hispanic women. If you go in there, it'll get'cha."

Alex chuckled. "You're thinking of Mr. Wilson."

"Oh, no," Tom said, "the ghost makes Mr. Wilson look like the ACLU. Rosa said she went in there one time and heard _Get out...go back to Mexico._ " He laughed richly and slapped his knee. "Have you ever seen anything?" Tom asked over his shoulder. "You've been here forever."

Shirley slipped a page out from under her stack, sat it on top, and started to write. "Well," she started, "I saw _something_ , but it wasn't a ghost."

The wind shrieked, and the lights dimmed ominously.

"What was it?" Tom asked.

Speaking of Mr. Wilson, Alex came to his chart now. In the COMMENTS box, she jotted: _Mildly confused. Asked to be sat by his window approx 5:30 so that he could watch for Nazis._ _Stated 'they love the snow.'_

"When I first started here," Shirley said, "in 1978, I worked the graveyard shift on A-Wing. There was an old man named Mr. Calfa. He was a very devout Catholic."

Alex half-listened as she started Ms. DeVoe's chart.

"One night, he died and we didn't find him until the next morning. He was cold and his blood had started to pool. It was me and a nurse - she went to check his heartbeat, and stopped because she heard something."

The wind whistled and the lights flickered; Alex's heart squeezed, and she was certain that at any moment, the roof would cave in.

"What did she hear?" Tom asked.

Shirley sighed. "Will you let me tell it?"

"Tell it then."

"He was whispering."

A tingle went down Alex's spine. "Whispering?" she asked doubtfully.

"Whispering," Shirley confirmed. "The Lord's Prayer."

Something clattered to the floor and Alex jumped a foot. In the hall, a CNA cursed and stooped to retrieve a fallen bed pan. "You're full of it," Tom said.

"I swear to God," Shirley said. "At least it _sounded_ like The Lord's Prayer. Maybe we were so worked up we heard words where there weren't any."

That story followed Alex the rest of the night. As she laid in one of the empty rooms at the end of the hall, the harsh white light spilling through the door and stinging her eyes, she turned it over and over again in her mind. Death had always kind of scared her because it was the Unknown with a capital U; no one really knew what happened when someone died, and during her more morbid moments, she dreamed up a thousand terrible eventualities. One, inspired by a book she read, was being trapped in her body after death, still conscious, aware, and able to feel pain.

Shiver.

Imagine it: Locked in your body as they cut you open and fill you with embalming fluid...then stick you in the eternal dark of a tight, suffocating, claustrophobic casket...

God, that would be _hell._

She tossed onto her side and pulled her knees to her chest, but couldn't get comfortable: The mattress was too lumpy, the blanket too thin, and the pillow flatter than a white girl's butt (I can say that since I'm white). Every time she came close to dropping off, the wind would pick up and rattle the window, or she'd wonder how Tim and Blake were doing. She picked up the phone at the nurse's desk to call, but duh, the lines were down. She hoped they were okay.

Those thoughts formed a worried knot in her stomach that didn't release until she fell into a shallow slumber stalked by dreams of snow, whispering corpses, and Snow...the rapper. Ya know, if you squint and turn your head to the side, he almost kinda looks like Tim. It was mainly the hair. Tim was cuter, though.

But not as cute as Blake.

That lead to happy thoughts of her husband and son, and in her sleep, Alex smiled.

* * *

Tim Underwood spent most of the afternoon of March 13 with his head in the guts of a blue 1979 Honda with rust spots. His father, Dave, passed it under a 1988 Jeep Wrangler whose belly had been torn to hell by the owner's recent off-roading in the Mojave. _Can you fix her?_ he asked anxiously when he brought it in. _Sure can,_ Tim said, _it's going to cost kind of a lot though._ He and Dad had to replace pretty much everything, a job that took them almost a month of near continuous work. It was close to done, though, and the Honda wasn't far behind. The latter suffered from a bad alternator, which was a quick fix...only they had to special order the part from Japan.

At six, Dad called it a day and climbed out from beneath the Jeep, his face and the front of his coveralls splotched with oil. "I oughta charge this son of a bitch extra," he said and got to his feet. He went over to the work bench and wiped his hands on an already dirt rag.

"Do it," Tim said and slammed the Honda's hood. "We put far more labor into that thing than we're getting paid for." He walked to the mini fridge, took out a glass bottle of Coke, and popped the top with a bottle opener.

Dad hummed. "Nah. That's how you get a reputation for being a ripoff."

Maybe, but it was also fair. When Tim did the initial assessment, he had no idea how extensive the job was going to be; the undercarriage looked better than it really was.

"I dunno, I'll think about it."

After cleaning up and putting everything to rights, they pulled open the big roll top doors, and what they found was unexpected, to say the least: A dense, unbroken layer of wet, heavy snow nearly a foot deep, more falling from the dark sky at a wind driven angle. It covered the parking lot, the street, the roofs of the buildings across the way, the trees, the power lines, everything. A bitter, biting gust of wind washed over Tim's exposed face, and his flesh stung painfully, making him wince.

Dad whistled. " _That_ was quick."

When they both started on their respective projects at half past three, it was snowing, but not heavily, and there wasn't much on the ground. Tim expected there to be _some_ accumulation, but damn, not _this_ much. And the road! Look at it! Where's the plow guy? He couldn't even tell where the pavement ended and the sidewalk began. "I'll never make it through that," he said mournfully.

"I will," Dad proclaimed and nodded toward his 1985 Chevy Blazer 4WD. It was midnight black and sat high off the ground like a noble steed. "Come on. I'll give you a ride."

Tim knitted hus brows. "You think we'll make it?" he asked and looked uncertainly at his father. The Blazer's a hardy vehicle, no doubt there, but, c'mon, the road was completely buried. If he _had_ to guess, he'd say there was a solid eight inches, maybe even nine.

Shrugging, Dad said, "Only one way to find out." He started over, and after a brief hesitation, Tim followed; the snow reached his ankles and trudging through it, his socks got soaked. Aw, nice. Dad climbed in behind the wheel and Tim slid into the passenger seat; a strong gust of wind ripped the door from his hand and he almost fell out.

Oh, man, this is dangerous.

Snapping his seatbelt on, Dad started the engine and turned the headlights on. He threw the truck into reverse and, slowly, backed up; the tires slipped, the engine strained, and the chassis quivered menacingly, but they made it to the street without fishtailing or stalling out. Tim curled his fingers around the handhold and braced himself for the worst. "You gotta get Blake, huh?" Dad asked as he started to drive. Snow crunched and the front end trembled; the wheel shook in his hands, and he tightened his grip.

"Yeah," he said, "he's at Alex's parents'."

Mr. and Mrs. Loud lived two miles from the garage, a short distance that suddenly seemed much, much longer. "Cleveland, right?" Dad asked. Ahead, a car sat abandoned in the opposite lane, its yellow caution lights beating a steady tempo. Barely discernible tracks lead away in the direction of Holmstead Avenue. Whether or not the person who left them made it to shelter or not, Tim didn't know, but given how cold it was out there, he hoped so, or else they'd freeze.

He looked around, but didn't see anyone, living or otherwise. "Yeah," he said, and recited the address.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the shop, they turned onto Cleveland Street at five miles per hour; the back end slid, and Dad corrected; the Blazer jostled and thrummed as though it were about to blow into a million pieces, and Tim held on for dear life. The front driver side tire went over the curb, and a long, ear-ripping shriek of metal on pavement filled the cab. "Shit," Dad muttered and spun the wheel. The Blazer jumped and the grinding stopped. "Ha. We made it."

Tim let out a pent-up breath.

They were within sight of Mr. and Mrs. Loud's house. They -

Without warning, something hard slammed into the windshield with a crack of breaking glass. Dad jumped, and the wheel ripped from his hands, spinning of its own violation. The back end swung around in a wide semi-circle, and, panicking, Dad jerked the wheel to one side. They slammed into a snowbank and started to tip; Tim's heart leapt into her his throat and he steeled himself. The Blazer rolled onto its side in slow motion, the window crunching and the door panel crumpling like an aluminum can, then onto its roof, which buckled and caved slightly in. The belt pulled tight across Tim's shoulder and he let out a cry more of alarm than pain.

Just as quickly as it began, it was over, father and son hanging upside down like bats in the dark recesses of a narrow hillside cave. "You okay?" Dad asked, a note of concern in his voice.

Tim took stock of himself. His shoulder hurt like hell, but otherwise, he was fine. "Yeah," he said, He unclasped his belt and dropped to the floor...ceiling...whatever the hell it was now. Dad did the same and tried to open his door, but it was jammed. Tim tested his; stuck. Sighing, he rolled the window down and climbed out. Dad was too big to follow suit, so turned and kicked the door until it popped open. They met at the front end; the street was desolate and empty save for the wind, the houses up and down its length huddled and warmly lit against the rising snow. Tim crossed his arms over his chest, and Dad shook his head. He started to speak, but cut off when he spotted something on the ground. He bent, picked it up, and turned it over his his hand.

"What?" Tim chattered, a gust of wind slamming into him and trying to push him back.

Dad held it out.

A rock.

"Someone threw this," Dad spat, his eyes narrowing.

Tim looked around, but didn't see anyone. He _did,_ however, see footprints trailing across three yards before disappearing around a house. "Bet'cha it was a goddamn kid," Dad said.

Another gust of wind swept down the street, blowing snow into Tim's face. "We'll talk about this later," he said, "come on."

Side-by-side, they kicked through knee-deep snow, bodies bent forward against the chill. They were almost to the house when a loud, hollow _whump_ rose in the distance, and all the lights up and down Cleveland went out.

A transformer must have blown somewhere. His first thought was of Blake, in the dark and cold, and his heart clutched. Pulling ahead of his father, he hurried across the lawn and up the steps, his entire body quivering with weariness and coated with snow. He knocked, and the wind battered him. Dad trudged up the stairs and leaned heavily against the doorframe, panting for air.

No one answered, and Tim pounded, panic threatening to creep in. He drew back to do it again, but it opened and Mr. Loud appeared. "What the hell happened to you two _?"_ he asked when he saw them.

"Flipped my goddamn Blazer," Dad huffed, "can we come in?"

* * *

Bristol, Tennessee, lost power at 9:15pm EST. Lana was kneeling next to the tub and giving Joy a bath when the lights flickered, dimmed, then cut out entirely. "Hells bells," she sighed and hung her head. She'd been waiting all day for this to happen but silently hoped that it wouldn't. The wind increased with each passing hour, though, and as afternoon bled into night, the snow came faster.

Joy splashed and let out a fearful yelp. "It's alright, honey," Lana cooed. She grabbed the towel off the closed toilet lid, spread it out in her lap, and picked the baby up. "Mama's right here." She wrapped the towel around her and held her close. She was two inches from Lana's face, but she couldn't see her in the perfect blackness.

Getting to her feet, she made her way haltingly into the hall. "Jed!"

"Puttin' my boots on!" he called from the living room.

Two days ago, they went to Sears in town and bought a diesel powered generator, a bunch of kerosene heaters, flashlights, extra batteries, candles, and other odds and ends. The store was packed and many of the shelves were empty. Significant snowfall is rare in Tennessee, and the threat of even two to three inches is enough to shut down entire cities. In the north, the ground typically freezes before it snows, here, snowstorms often start off as rain, so there's an extra layer of ice underneath that makes conditions more treacherous. A few Christmases back, Bobby and Lola spent a week with her and Jed, and when everything came to a halt over a dusting, he was right shocked. _In Michigan we get more than this in July._ A blizzard like this, with two feet expected by the end of it, might as well be the end of the world.

Walking very carefully, she went into hers and Jed's room and crossed to the changing table by memory alone. She knew she reached it when her little toe caught the end, and hot, throbbing pain streaked up her leg. "Ahhhh, damn it," she hissed. Joy tensed at the tone of her voice, and Lana patted her butt. "It's okay. Mama just hurt her foot. Like a fool."

She laid the little girl down, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a diaper. She put it on, then grabbed a onesie at random and dressed her. "There," she said. "All done." She leaned over and rubbed her nose against Joy's. The baby laughed and kicked her legs.

In the living room, a single candle sat in the middle of the coffee table, its feeble orange light flickering across the wall. Justin and Josh sat side by side on the couch, Josh with his arms folded and a sullen expression on his face, and Justin with his elbow propped on the armrest, the side of his face resting in his upturned palm. "I woulda won," Josh said.

"Nu-uh," Justin retorted.

"Yeah-huh."

"No you wouldn't."

Lana went over and dropped between them before it could escalate into a full blown fight - as things sometimes did with them. "What are y'all arguin' about now?" she asked. Joy squirmed around in Lana's lap and stared transfixed at the flame; jaw slack and eyes wide, she looked the dictionary definition of _wonderstruck_.

"I was winning in _Sonic."_

Oh, God, that damn video game again. Last year, to curb their budding addiction, she and Jed took it out of their room, hooked it up to the living room TV, and limited them to one hour a day. When she took Joy to the bathroom, they just started a round of _Sonic_ , which they recently rediscovered after several months of playing something called _The Legend of Zelda: Link's Awakening._

Justin sat up straight. " _I_ was," he said with the passion of a condemned man pleading his case. "He was losing. He _always_ loses cuz he can't play worth a darn."

"Yes I can!"

Lana threw her head back. "Both of y'all knock it off. Keep it up and I'm gonna take that thing out in the driveway and run it over."

" _No!"_ they both cried in unison.

"Then stop bickerin'," she said. "Y'all are worse than an old married couple." She smiled fondly as she said that. It was true, they were always at one another's throats. She and Lola were kind of the same way; not as bad, but they were always trying to outdo and one up each other. One time, Lola was going on and on about how much prettier she was than Lana because she got a new dress from the Salvation Army. Lana got so sick of hearing it that she went outside, got a handful of mud, then came back in and flung it at her. _You ain't so pretty now, are you?_ Another time, Lola stole Lana's frog Hopps and kept him hidden for three days as punishment for calling her gap face.

Justin and Josh did stuff like that too. Neverending cycle with kids, huh?

A few minutes later, the lights came back on, much dimmer than before, and with them the TV: Sonic stood ready to go run after his rings or whatnot. "Turn it off," she said to Justin. "Or we're gonna overload the generator."

Sighing in resignation, Justin got up, crossed to the television, and turned it off, getting back to the couch just as Jed came in the back door, a cold gust of wind flowing through the house and snuffing the candle. Joy let out a confused _uhhh_ and strained against Lana's arm like she wanted to chase the fire down and bring it back. "Mama's little firebug," Lana said and turned the baby around. "The lights are back, we don't need that fire."

Joy furrowed her brow. _But I like the fire._

"We don't need it," Lana said and tickled Joy's belly. The baby recoiled and laughed.

"It's comin' down like crazy out there," Jed said, coming in from the kitchen. He wore black work pants and a thermal undershirt. His wet boots and jacket were no doubt hanging up by the door, dripping and making a mess on the floor. As a little girl, Lana would have killed for snow, but as a grown woman, she couldn't stand the stuff; it made such a damn mess both outside _and_ in. She scooted over and he sank down next to her, his socked feet kicking up onto the coffee table. Joy turned to look at him and he patted the top of her head. "Gonna be good sleddin' tomorrow," he said.

"How much you recknon's out there?" Lana asked.

He thought for a moment. "Gotta be eight or nine inches, I imagine."

Lana whistled. She was almost thirty-two, and she hadn't seen that much in all her years combined, much less all at once. "That's a lot."

"Yeah," Jed said and nodded.

Without video games to keep them occupied, the boys started getting restless as the evening wore on. Lana slipped onto the floor and played with Joy, who made a game of crawling to the head of the hall, and then back as fast as she could, perhaps to escape imaginary monsters. Justin and Josh fought over a Transformer, when Justin yanked it out of his younger brother's grasp, Josh threw himself at him with a scream. "Y'all knock it off," Lana said.

"I got an idea," Jed said and got up from the couch.

"Does it involve your belt?" she asked, pointedly looking at her boys. They both paled, and while one part of her regretted scaring them like that, another took satisfaction in it. The day a boy ain't afraid of his daddy's belt is the day he's beyond help.

"Nope," Jed said. A few minutes later, he cut the lights and brought in a couple candles, which he sat on the coffee table. He went over to the hearth, knelt, and started a fire. Next, he vanished into the kitchen and returned with a chair in each hand. He sat them up in the middle of the room, took off again, and came back clutching a blanket. He threw it over the chair and stepped back. "There, we're gonna camp."

Lana snorted. "That's your idea?" Joy sat in her lap and watched her father with bemused interest.

Jed cocked his brow. "What?" he asked. "Campin' fun." He looked at Justin and Josh. "Y'all get in the tent."

"But -" Justin started.

"But nothin'. Go on."

Justin and Josh exchanged a glance, then crawled in. "Ladies next," Jed grinned.

"Alright," Lana acquiesced. While Jed went off to get one final thing, Lana walked to the tent on her knees and ducked under one flap. Justin and Josh sat across from each other looking unsure. Before Justin was born, she and Jed loved camping in the foothills west of Bristol - fishing, hiking, waking up in the chilly morning light and making breakfast over an open fire...sharing a sleeping bag and having loud sex. Typical outdoors stuff. They planned to take the kids one day, but hadn't gotten around to it.

Maybe this summer…

"Y'all wanna hear a ghost story?" she asked.

Justin and Josh both shrugged.

Lana searched her memory for a good one, but couldn't recall any, so she made up her own. "One day, a long time ago, there was a _big_ snowstorm. It knocked out the TV, the power, and everything. In a house, two little boys, their mama, their daddy, and their baby sister waited for it to be over. Then, out of nowhere, something knocked on the door." Her voice lowered as she spoke, and the boys watched her expectantly. She had no idea where to go with this. "They opened the door, and the bogeyman came in. He said _y'all been fightin' too much, you're comin' with me now_."

Joy twisted around to look at up at Lana curiously. Justin and Josh glanced uneasily at each other, a flicker of fear passing between them. They both said they didn't believe in the bogeyman, but Lana knew for a fact that they did. "What did he look like?" Josh asked, his voice unsteady.

"He…" Lana thought. "He wore a plaid shirt an' overalls. Had a straw hat too."

"That's not scary," Justin pointed out.

"Well...you know what he _didn't_ have?"

"What?"

Lana leaned in and donned her biggest, creepiest smile. "A face."

Justin blinked. "That's right," Lana went on, "he didn't have no face, but he _did_ have a mouth. And when he opened it, he -"

The side of the tent rippled; and Justin whipped around to look, nearly toppling over, and Josh turned to, his features crinkling in terror.

Grinning, Lana shot out her hand and grabbed his shoulder, "GOT'CHA!"

They both screamed bloody murder like a pair of girls, and Lana couldn't help breaking out in laughter. Jed poked his head in and looked around. "Scared?" he asked. He crawled in and sat between his shaking sons. He sat a battery powered Patrolman radio with a carrying handle and telescoping antenna on the floor and turned it on; the soft hiss of static issued from the speaker. "Y'all sounded like you bein' killed."

"You shoulda seen their faces," Lana hitched. "They were so scared they pooped."

"No we didn't!" Justin said. "That story wasn't even scary."

"Yeah," Josh said, "I heard scarier. Like…" he rolled his eyes up in thought. "The Legend of Butt Man."

A laugh was shocked from Lana's throat. "Legend of Butt Man?" she asked doubtfully. "What's that?"

The white noise was replaced by a voice. " _...another foot before it's all said and done. Governor McWherter has declared a station of emergency and all roads from Bristol to the Cumberland Plateau are closed at this hour. Keep warm and stay inside._ "

Twangy country started to play.

"I heard of that," Justin said, propping up his brother's lie. "It's _real_ scary."

 _I don't need your rockin' chair  
Your Geritol or your Medicare  
Well I still got Neon in my veins  
This grey hair don't mean a thing_

"Yeah?" Jed asked and nudged his son's ribs. "What's it about?"

Josh rolled his eyes. "It's about Butt Man," he said in as though that should be self-explanatory.

"How does it go?" Lana asked. Joy reached for the radio and Lana held her back. "Unless you're too chicken to tell it."

Josh's brow knitted. "I'm not chicken. I know the whole story."

 _I ain't ready for the junkyard yet  
Cause I still feel like a new corvette  
It might take a little longer but I'll get there_

"Go on and tell it then," Jed pressed.

Josh opened his mouth, then closed it again and looked at his brother for help. "One day," Justin said, "a guy was walking down the street…"

"And he turned into Butt Man," Josh said.

 _Retirement don't fit in my plans  
You can keep your seat I'm a gonna stand  
An Eskimo needs a Fridgedaire  
Like I need your rockin' chair_

Justin nodded. "Then...he pooped everywhere."

He and Josh burst into hysterical laughter, and Lana snickered because it _was_ kind of funny. "Y'all are full of it," Jed chuckled.

"Butt Man's real," Josh urged. "He lives in the woods and if you aren't careful, he'll poop in your gas tank."

Alright, that made Lana laugh. Joy giggled and clapped her hands, not understanding what was being said but enjoying the closeness of the moment anyway.

Outside, the storm raged, while inside, the low warmth of familial love flickered like a flame in the dark, sustaining them all the night through.

* * *

The power cut out in Chippewa Falls at 5am, plunging the snow battered city into darkness. At Oak Springs nursing home, the back up generators kicked on immediately, but one blew, and A-Wing went dark. Alex woke to Tom looming over her, his finger roughly prodding her forehead. "Wake up, fatty," he said, "we need you."

Blinking, she sat up and vertigo crashed over her like a wave. She started to fall, but Tom grabbed her arm. "Aw, poor sweepy baby," he pouted and stuck out his bottom lip. "Come on."

All of the residents on A-Wing were transferred to B-Wing, a process that took nearly an hour; those on support machines were moved first, followed by the infirm, crippled, and incontinent. The healthier ones were last, some of them moving under their own power (with or without canes and walkers), and others in wheelchairs. Unfortunately for Alex, the fattest person in the whole facility, a man named Mr. Stephens who weighed over four hundred pounds, resided on A-Wing, and it was up to her (and seven other CNAs) to get him onto a wheeled bed, a epic battle that made the one with Ms. DeVoe the previous night look like a game of tic-tac-toe. By the time it was over, Alex could barely stand up, and her back hurt so bad that each step sent pangs of agony into her spine.

Each wing accommodated thirty-five residents. There were twenty-four on B-Wing and thirty on A, meaning that while there were several empty rooms, there was not enough space for all of the refugees to have one. Many were put on gurneys and pushed against the wall, while others wound up in the resident dayroom. Alex moved three chairs and an end table, wincing at the twinge in her back, while Tom moved the TV set and a bookshelf. Afterward, eleven residents were stuffed into the tiny nook, packed tight as sardines in a can.

By the time she limped into the break room at half past seven, Alex was so exhausted that keeping herself from falling over took Herculean effort. A lesser woman would have crumbled, but she managed...just barely. Sitting at a table with a cup of coffee, she tilted her head back and listened to the news playing unwatched on the wall TV. " _...millions are without power and at least a dozen deaths have been attributed to the storm."_

A lump of ice formed in her stomach and worry clutched her chest. God, she hoped Blake was okay. Everyone else, too, but especially her little boy. Were the phones working again?

She got up and crossed to the one next to the fridge. She picked the handset up and lifted it to her ear.

Nothing.

Sighing, she hung up and went back to the table, where she sat with her elbow propped on the surface and anxiously chewed her thumbnail. She shouldn't have volunteered to come in; she should have called out and taken the firing if she had to, now she was cut off from her family and didn't know whether they were okay or not.

That dread uncertainty remained with her the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. The snow stopped falling shortly before one, and when she stopped long enough to peer out the window, tall drifts pushed against the side of the building, so high in places that they reached the sill. Nothing moved, not even the wind; the world might as well have been dead, and Alex's stomach twisted at the image of everyone and everything frozen solid...including her son.

Normally, she loved interacting and kidding around with the residents, but today she went through the motions of her job in brooding silence. Every fifteen minutes, she checked the phones, but they were never on, and her worry deepened. At one, she made herself a packet of instant oatmeal in the break room and ate it slowly while staring at the TV. Widespread outages blanketed the region, from Detroit to the UP, and buildings were collapsing left and right under the weight of the snow. Images depicted smashed and abandoned cars dotting the interstate, Red Cross shelters overflowing with people whose homes were destroyed or who were without electricity, and National Guardsmen evacuating a hospital in Ann Arbor, the sick being loaded into the back of troop transports backed up to the doors and the staff helping soldiers dig a path to through the parking lot. An apartment block in Detroit caught fire and burned out of control for most of the night, while in Lansing, a transformer blew and killed three technicians.

The oatmeal tasted like liquefied cardboard, but Alex forced herself to eat it anyway; she needed her strength if she wanted to make it through the rest of the day without falling out like Joe Frazier.

At some point, Tom came in and sat across from her without a word. He crossed his arms, turned his head to the TV, and glowered at the screen. "Next shift starts in thirty minutes," he finally grumbled. "We get four hours."

She assumed he meant they got four hours off, but she didn't have the energy to ask. She took a bite, swallowed, and sat the spoon back in the bowl. All of the beds were full, so she'd probably just put her head down on the table like she did in school. Or maybe she'd stretch out on the floor somewhere and use her coat as a blanket. She'd decide when the time came.

Before knocking off, she wiped three butts, changed one colostomy bag (spraying watery poop onto the floor _and_ her pantleg), turned three residents onto their sides and one onto their back, passed out lunch trays, and fed an old man from A-Wing with Parkinson's': He sat in his wheelchair, shook, twitched, and trembled as she forked anemic green beans and bits of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Se did _not_ feel like being light and buoyant, but being glum and sullen didn't seem right; she wouldn't want someone to be grumpy while feeding _her_ grandpa, she'd want them to be nice to him. "Is it good?" she asked.

"I-I've had b-better," he said.

Alex snorted. She tried the food from the cafeteria once.

Once.

"It smells pretty good," she lied.

"Y-you can have it if you w-want."

"Ew, no."

He grinned. "D-Didn't think s-so."

At 1:30, her shift ended and she went to the breakroom. She sat at a table, folded her arms, and put her head down. Ohhh, I'm so tired...and everything hurts. Back, neck, feet, shoulders - I hope Blake's okay.

Her stomach knotted and she felt like she was going to be sick. The next time it snowed like this, she'd call in dead or something. _Sorry, guys, my funeral's happening. I'll be alive again when it's over_.

She expected her troubled mind to keep her awake, but before long, she drifted off, the sound of the TV lulling her. The newscasters' voices wormed their way into her subconscious, and she dreamed of a hellish snowscape populated by stalled cars, fallen power lines, and dead bodies you couldn't see until you stumbled over them. She trekked through waist high drifts and wound up at Oak Springs. Inside, chilly darkness held sway, and she shambled down tilted halls lined with frozen old people on gurneys, looking desperately for her son but hoping she didn't find him, because if she did, he would be just as dead as the residents around her. At the nurse's station, Tom, Shirley, Margo, and others sat upright in chairs, their faces contorted in wide-eyed terror.

Alex was drawn to them by some malignant force; she fought against its pull, but it dragged her forward anyway. As a last resort, she squeezed her eyes closed, but that made no difference - she could still see their twisted features, their white, sightless eyes, their frozen screams, as though they died in the middle of seeing something so horrible and mind-bendingly petrifying that they were still afraid even in death.

"The phones are working," Tom said, and Alex's heart dropped. He grinned evilly, picked up a handset, and held it out to her. White noise drifted from the earpiece, and in it, Alex imagined she could hear the tortured whispers of the dead trying frantically to establish contact with their loved ones. "Didja hear me?" Tom asked. He thrust the phone out, and Alex recoiled as though it would bite her. The line clicked, and Blake's voice issued forth. " _Mommy, I cold and my head won't go back on."_

A shock burst through Alex and her middle clenched in horror. " _A tee fell through the window and made my head come off. Daddy won't wake up. He silly."_

Hot tears filled Alex's eyes and she shook her head in denial. _No...God, no._

"Hey, burrito breath," Tom hissed, "wake up."

Something slapped the back of her head, and she jerked into a sitting position with a sharp intake of breath; her heart slammed crazily against her breast, and blood roared in her temples...but not loud enough to drown out Blake's voice - it lingered in her ears, and through she couldn't remember exactly what he said, she knew that it was awful.

The world blurred, and she almost broke down crying.

"Oh, I didn't hit you _that_ hard," Tom said disgustedly. "Drama queen."

Alex blinked and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. A dream, it was just a dream. She turned her head away to hide her tears from Tom, who'd just make fun of her. The light falling through the window was weaker than before. "What time is it?" she asked thickly and rolled her sore neck.

"Four," Tom said.

Two and a half hours since she put her head down. She was sure she slept most of it, but it felt more like she slept two and a half minutes. She tried to move and a flare of pain enfolded her back; she hissed through her teeth and held onto the edge of the table lest she fall.

"The phones are working," Tom said.

Alex tensed. "They are?" she asked hopefully.

"Umhm. Just came on. I went looking for you and followed the snores." His nose crinkled in disdain. "You sound like a three hundred pound trucker when you sleep. And I thought _Bob_ was bad. Jesus, how does Tim do it?"

Alex was already getting up and going to the phone; screw Tom and his dumb insults, she had to make sure her boys were okay. She picked up the handset and raised it to her ear.

For some reason, she was dumbfounded to hear a tone.

They _were_ working.

She dialed the apartment and waited with swelling suspense. Tim would pick up, tell her that he and Blake were okay, and everything would be sunshine and lollipops.

Only he _didn't_. The phone rang and rang and rang; with every unanswered ring, the dread in the pit of her stomach grew heavier until her knees shook and panic clawed her chest. Terrible images flickered mockingly across her mind: Tim and Blake were dead or hurt in every single one. Tears filled her eyes and hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. She stabbed the hook and wracked her racing brain for who to call next. The hospital? The police station?

Not knowing what to do, she called Mom and Dad. She realized she was trembling, and tried to get control of herself, but couldn't. She was cold with fear; her lips quivered, her teeth chattered, and tears streamed down her cheeks. They were dead, she just knew it.

When Mom answered, she could barely speak. "M-Mom, it's me," she started to cry, her body shaking as fear and exhaustion enveloped her.

"Alex?" Mom asked worriedly. "Honey, what's wrong?"

She opened her mouth and a strangled sob broke from her throat. Tom lifted a judgmental brow and shook his head in disappointment. _Look at her, scared for her son and husband, what a ninny._ "I-I can't get ahold of Tim," she said through her tears. "He won't pick up the phone." Those last six words came out in a miserable moan.

"He's right here," Mom said, "he and Blake are fine."

Alex froze. "They are?"

"Yes," Mom said, "they stayed the night. Do you want to talk to them?"

"Please," Alex sniffed.


	174. March 1993: Part 3

**This chapter officially puts** _ **Reeling in the Years**_ **over 1 million words. I never expected it to be this long, and never once thought, when I started it in October 2017, that I would still be writing it in January 2019. I've come to love these characters and the set-up and am both looking forward to wrapping it up, and dreading it. I'm considering doing a series of oneshots set in the RITY universe (I have two ideas, one for 1959 and another for 1985). I may or I may not. I just feel like I missed a lot of opportunities for good scenes and storylines in this story and kind of want to rectify that. Then again, I don't want to write this story forever. I love all the characters (yes, I admit, I love my OCs like they're my own children) but I don't plan on them ever appearing in anything that isn't RITY related. I've never been one for making multi-purpose OCs, I make OCs that, like real people, are shaped and molded by their lives and their surroundings. Take them out of their environment and plop them down somewhere else, and they realistically won't be the same characters anymore.**

 **Anyway, thanks to everyone who's read the story thus far - your support means everything to me and I hope I can continue to entertain you with the (mis)adventures of Alex, Jessy, Vietnam vet Lincoln, and all their friends and family...but not for another million words.**

 **Maybe.**

 **PS: Coincidentally enough, this chapter deals with a snowstorm...and my neck of the woods was just hit with, like, two feet over the weekend. This chapter's been hanging around since November, so maybe I saw the future?**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Even Flow**_ **by Pearl Jam (1991)**

Tim passed the night of March 13-14 in Alex's old bed, Blake curled up next to him and Jessy flat on her back in her own bed. "Kind of strange having someone else in the room," she said into the darkness. The flickering light of a kerosene heater provided just enough illumination that he could make out her form. "I'm kind of used to being by myself now."

"Better get used to it," Tim said, "you're gonna have Mark with you every night now."

Over dinner in the living room (cold Van Camp pork and beans straight from the can), Jessy told him about her and Mark getting the apartment in breathless, excited tones. A fire burned in the heath and bathed the space in warm, golden glow. Blake sat on her lap, Dad with his back against the couch, Mrs. Loud next to her niece, and Mr. Loud in his chair, reading a magazine by flashlight. Outside, the wind wailed with disconcerting intensity, and, in a rare lull, Tim distinctly heard the snapping of branches as a tree came down somewhere in the night. An emergency weather radio that had to be cranked to work sat on the coffee table, dead and silent - there wasn't any point in listening to it anyway, a simple look outside told them everything they needed to know.

 _You ever see that boy's bedroom?_ Dad asked Jessy. _He's a pig._

Mark was a neat and orderly for the most part, but his room was _filled_ with computer parts: CPUs, screens, keyboards, mouses (mice?), home built modems, and boxes full of wires, cables, and accessories that Tim could not name. It started small, as most messes do, but steadily expanded over the years. The last time Tim was in Mark's bedroom (two or three years ago), there was hardly any space - you had to turn sideways to get to the closet, and if you wanted to open the window, you had to climb over stacks of bulging plastic totes.

 _It's not that bad,_ Jessy said, then, after a hesitation, _but he's not bringing all of that stuff with us._

Mrs. Loud nodded approval to her niece putting her foot down and took Blake. _Why don't you come join us, lame-o?_ she asked. _You're being antisocial._

 _It's called reading,_ Mr. Loud snorted.

 _It's called get your butt over here and stop acting so standoffish._

Sighing, Mr. Loud clicked off his flashlight, closed the magazine, and came over, dropping next to his wife with a grunt. _My back hurts,_ he complained.

 _Sciatica?_ Dad asked. _That's what_ I _got. Hurts like hell sometimes_. He laughed like he _wasn't_ in crippling pain when it flared up.

 _Maybe, I dunno,_ Mr. Loud said.

 _He's just a wimp,_ Mrs. Loud said.

Blake started getting sleepy around ten, and Jessy got extra blankets and pillows from the hall closet while Tim laid him out in Alex's bed. After he fell asleep, Tim went into the kitchen to get a drink of water and found his father passed out on the couch, mouth open and loud snores rising from deep in his chest. He sounded like a quieter, more considerate version of Alex, and at that thought, Tim's chest twinged with loss. Even though he saw her that morning, he missed her dearly. Was she alright? Oak Springs looked like a pretty sturdy place, so he doubted it was going to collapse or anything, but that didn't alleviate the pressure suddenly weighing on his chest.

He turned on the faucet, filled a glass, and took a long drink. Rinsing it out, he went back into the bedroom and stretched out next to his son. When Jessy spoke, he was on the verge of dozing, and her voice snapped him back. The window rattled under the assault of the howling wind, and the house groaned as if in pain.

"I know," she said, "but when Mark's with me, I sleep really well."

Tim nodded. "I know the feeling."

Now that he thought about it, this was the first night he didn't have Alex beside him in years. She used to stay the night over here from time to time right after they moved in together, but stopped when Blake was born. He was so accustomed to the warmth and closeness of her body that without it, he felt like a man missing a limb. He rolled onto his side facing the wall and draped is arm over Blake.

Before long, Jessy's breathing evened out, and Tim began to drift along the edge of sleep once more. His mind turned ponderously back to the accident: The rock hitting the window, the Blazer tipping, his stomach jumping into his throat and breaking glass showering his face. When Dad told him about it, Mr. Loud rolled his eyes. _I bet that little bastard Chandler did it. Sounds like something he'd do._ Chandler was Mr. Loud's neighbor's kid. Tim hadn't met him, but from what Alex and her dad said, he was a little hood responsible for everything from world hunger to Nazism. Tim agreed that it was screwed up the way the kid let his dog shit all over Mr. Loud's yard, but Mr. Loud _might_ be taking it just a little too far. He seriously doubted a kid would throw a rock at someone's windshield. That struck him as some pretty hardcore shit, something only a real bastard would do...a bastard with more than eleven or twelve years under his belt.

He didn't realize he dropped off until sometime later when Blake thrashed in his sleep and kicked him square in the nuts. He came awake with a pained gasp and bared his teeth against the pain swelling in his stomach. Jesus fuck, that hurt. He drew his knees to his chest and held himself for comfort. If Alex was here, she'd kiss his forehead and make it all better. Actually, she'd probably laugh at him and call him a lame-o, but that was beside the point.

After that, he couldn't get back to sleep, so he got up and went into the hall; light spilled out of the kitchen, and the telltale rattle of a coffee pot found his ears. Looks like the power's back on...and like someone else can't sleep. Mrs. Loud stood at the counter with her back to him, a crisp _scrape, scrape, scrape_ telling him she was buttering toast...or building a bomb. She wore a long pink robe and her graying hair back in a ponytail that swooped low her shoulder blades. He was so used to seeing her with a bun that he often forgot how long it was. She heard him, glanced over her shoulder, and quizzically arched her brow. "You're up early," she said.

"Yeah," Tim replied awkwardly, "I, uh, I couldn't sleep. You're up early too." What time was it anyway? He looked at the microwave, but the clock face flashed 12:00.

"This is when I always get up," she said. "Even on my days off. Mostly." She laid a butter knife across an open container of butter and took a coffee mug from the drying rack. "Want some coffee?"

"I can make it," he offered.

She filled the cup, turned, and held it out to him. "Too late," she said.

"Thanks," he said. Taking the cup, he sat down at the table and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt like he could sleep for another eight hours, but he knew that the moment he tried, he'd go back to thinking about Alex.

"Would you like some toast?" Mrs. Loud asked.

Tim shook his head. "No, thank you," he said. "I'm not hungry."

Humming as if to say _suit yourself,_ she returned the butter to the fridge, grabbed her plate, and sat across from him. "This is the _real_ breakfast of champions," she said and nodded to her toast. Two pieces cut diagonally.

They were burnt.

Tim pointed that out, and her brow darkened. "I meant to do that," she said quickly; from her tone, he inferred that she wasn't being truthful. "The char's the best part." Taking a bite, she moaned in pleasure. "Um. Good." The slight, bitter wince of her eyes betrayed her. She swallowed hard...then dropped the remainder onto the plate. "Yeah, it's crap." Snatching up her coffee, she took a drink to wash it down. Tim saw so much of Alex in her in that moment that his heart hurt; Mrs. Loud could be just as silly sometimes, though her playfulness typically manifested in a more aggressive way - like calling her husband mean names and promising to kick his ass _just as soon as Tim and Alex leave._ In a way, she intimidated him at first more than her daughter did. In the beginning, Mr. Loud downright _terrified_ him. I mean, if you aren't a little afraid of your girlfriend's father, he's not doing his job right.

Looks can be deceiving, he discovered. They were great and in all the time he'd been with Alex, neither one had so much as laid a hand on him. Except to pat him on the back or something, but that was alright.

"Alex does the same thing," Tim said, "only she means to do it."

Mrs. Loud nodded. "Yeah. She likes burned toasted because she's a weirdo."

They lapsed into silence for a while, and Tim was just about to get up and slink away when Mrs. Loud spoke. "So, how's life?"

"Good," Tim said because he didn't know what _else_ to say. His and Alex's life was the same as it had always been...although they were seriously talking about moving out of the apartment at some point over the next year or two. Blake was getting older and needed space...and so did they. Living in a tiny, cramped apartment is okay for a little while, but it eventually starts to wear on your nerves. Alex hated not having counter space, and Tim was so sick of having to heap crap on top of the fridge because they had nowhere else to put it that he could kick a hole in the wall. Human beings weren't designed to be cooped up, they were endowed by their creator with a certain, inalienable need for freedom. He and Alex couldn't afford to buy a house, but they _could_ rent, though Tim was tired of renting. He wanted a place that was theirs and theirs alone.

Mrs. Loud watched him expectantly, as though she wanted him to go on. "We, uh, we got new bedsheets," offered.

"Oh, that's nice," she said. "What color?"

"Plain white."

"Are they soft?" she asked and took a sip.

Tim thought for a moment. "Yeah, pretty soft. They're this silky fabric…" he trailed off and made a circular motion with his hand as he thought.

"Egyptian cotton?" Mrs. Loud supplied.

"Yeah, that stuff." He took a drink of his own coffee. "It's really nice."

Sitting back, she scrunched her lips to one side and crossed her arms, her brow creasing in a thoughtful expression. "Yeah? How much did they cost?"

"Like...fifteen bucks. Pretty expensive, but worth it."

"Where?"

"K-Mart. It was on blue light special, so you might have to pay more now."

Mrs. Loud nodded. "Lincoln and I could use new sheets. And a new bedroom set, come to think of it. We've had the same on since we moved into this house."

"When was that?" Tim asked.

"1970," she said instantly.

"Wow," Tim said. Twenty-three years of the same bedroom set. Not that that was especially shocking - if something's made right, it should last a lot longer than twenty-three years - but still...he couldn't even _remember_ twenty-three years ago, and the thought of having something, anything, for that long _kind_ of boggled his mind. Same thing with jobs; his father owned the garage before he was even born - man, imagine going to the same place at the same time and doing the same thing for over twenty years. People did it, sure, but...wow. That's all he could say.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Dad shuffled into the kitchen from the living room; he leaned forward and held his hand to the small of his back like a pregnant woman. "There's coffee," Mrs. Loud said.

"Thanks," Dad mumbled. He looked like he slept worse than him.

Getting a mug from the rack, he poured coffee in, came over, and sat with a wince.

"How'd that couch treat you?" Mrs. Loud asked.

"Like it didn't like me very much," Dad said. He stretched, and something in his back audibly popped. "Ah...that's better. Still snowing?"

"It's slowing down," Mrs. Loud said over the rim of her cup, "the news says it should taper off soon."

Dad sighed. "Good. I wanna go get my damn Blazer before some idiot plows it over."

When he was done with his coffee, Tim sat his mug in the sink and went back to the room. Alex's bed stood empty save for a mess of tangled sheets, and Tim froze. Where's my son?

"' _Ake up."_

Blake knelt on the edge of Jessy's bed, his face hovering inches above hers and his hand patting her on the forehead. Jessy stirred and muttered indignantly in her sleep. Relief washed through Tim and he let out a pent-up breath. Part of the little boy's morning routine was waking either him or Alex (or both) with slaps, baby talk, and, occasionally, a big, wet, sloppy kiss on the nose. Since neither he nor Alex were around when he woke up, he went for the closest target: His aunt.

He slapped Jessy again, and she whipped her head away. "I'm too tired," she muttered.

Tim went over, picked his son up, and yanked him off the bed. "What are you doing?" he asked and dug his fingers into the little boy's pudgy stomach. Blake screamed laughter and threw his head back into the crook of Tim's neck. Jessy pushed herself up to a sitting position and sat dazedly in the middle of the bed, her eyelids heavy and her head swaying back and forth.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"I dunno," Tim said and flopped Blake onto Alex's bed. "But it's daylight."

After changing Blake's diaper and putting him in a pair of jeans and a red T-shirt with blue trim around the cuffs and neckline, Tim carried him into the kitchen and sat him on Dad's lap. Dad mussed his hair and patted the top of his head. "Hey, boy," he said, "you ready to help grandpa get his truck out the snow?"

Tim filled a bowl with cereal and milk and fed Blake slowly so that he didn't make a mess. Mr. Loud drifted in, and, after him, Jessy. Sitting at the table, Mr. Loud accepted a cup of coffee from his wife with a nod and cheek-kiss, then sighed. "Wonder if the paperboy came by," he said sardonically.

"Go look," Mrs. Loud.

"I'm afraid to."

For a while, no one spoke as they ate. "So," Mr. Loud finally said to Dad, "you gonna get your truck out of my street?"

"I'm gonna try," Dad declared.

Tim didn't see how it was possible. Not only was the Blazer on its roof (and too heavy for two or even three people to tip back over), it was also covered in snow. He hadn't seen it since he shimmied out the passenger window the night before, but given the rate of snowfall, it _had_ to be under at least a foot. They couldn't just leave it there, but getting it out wasn't going to be a simple task. "I don't know," he said, "just the two of us? We'll _never_ get it out."

"I'll help," Mr. Loud said. "We'll have it out in a jff."

Dad grinned and pointed at him. "Now that's what I like to hear. Not this pessimism crap I get from him." He hooked a thumb at Tim.

"It's not -"

"Quitter talk," Mr. Loud said.

Tim threw up his hands. Alright, fine. They'd see.

Forty-five minutes later, bundled in coats, scarves, gloves, and hats, they set off for the Blazer, each carrying a shovel. Flurries drifted lazily from the steely sky, and the wind had all but died down, the rare gust blowing up Cleveland Street like the passage of a phanom on PCP. The snow was to Tim's knees in places, and at one point he kicked something and pitched forward, sinking down deeper when he tried to push himself up. Dad and Mr. Loud grabbed him by the back of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. "Watch your step," Mr. Loud said. "Mines can be anywhere. In front of your feet, even."

Tim's brow furrowed in confusion. "Huh?"

"Punji pits too."

Okay then.

They reached the Blazer in five minutes. It was buried in a drift to its wheels, the back end jutting slightly out of the snow like a hand from a grave, the license plate visible but crusted in ice. "Son of a bitch," Dad muttered.

"You and your old man take the right side, I'll start over here," Mr. Loud said. "We'll meet in the front."

Nodding, Tim followed his father around the lump and started to dig. A few people were out shoveling their walks and driveways, and before long a man in an orange knit cap and mossy oak camo jacket came over from across the street. "What'cha got there, Linc?" he asked.

"Well, Frank," Mr. Loud huffed, "this here's a shovel, you use it for moving dirt, snow, and other crap from one place to another."

Tim dug the driver side tire out and swiped the back of his hand across his slick forehead. On the walk over, he was freezing, now he was seriously considering taking his jacket off.

"I mean what'cha diggin' up?" Frank asked. Tim couldn't see him over the mound, but he sounded pretty irritating.

Mr. Loud grunted and the tinkle of breaking glass rang out. "Whoops," he said. "It's a Blazer," he went on. "What year, Dave?"

"'85," Dad said. He jammed the shovel into the snow, and more glass broke. Tim glanced over to see the mirror lying on the ground. "Goddamn thing's ruined now," he added and kicked the shards away.

"How's it run?" Frank asked.

Tim snickered. It was on its roof. Dented, broken. Buried in the snow. And this guy wanted to know how it ran.

"It probably doesn't now," Dad said. He stepped back from the Blazer and surveyed it. Flashes of it peeked out through the encasing snow, but there was so much left that he might as well not have done anything at all.

Frank was silent a moment. "What kind of horsepower does it have?"

Mr. Loud sighed. "Either go away or start digging, will you?"

"Alright," Frank said. Tim looked up just in time to see him trudging through the snow toward his house, a one story ranch.

"I swear to God," Mr. Loud said, "that guy ate paint chips as a child."

Tim flipped the shovel over and scraped as much snow from the driver side window as he could. He didn't realize someone was standing behind him until they spoke. "Anyone in there?"

He looked over his shoulder; a man in a heavy coat and hat was there, a shovel clutched loosely in one hand. He nodded to the Blazer. Tim assumed that he was asking whether or not there were dead bodies inside.

"No," Tim said, "we flipped it last night. It's empty."

The man hummed. "Need some help?"

"Sure, if you want."

Without a word, the man stepped forward and started to dig. Shortly, Frank and two other people came over with shovels of their own and fell in beside Mr. Loud, picking away at the snow packed against the Blazer's side. Other people drifted over and joined in until at least a dozen men were involved. When the Blazer was free, Mr. Loud came around the front end and stood next to Dad, his hands going to his hips. "We shovel all this," he said and nodded to where the curb should be, "then turn it over."

Someone appeared with a snowblower, and between that and twelve people shoveling, a spot was cleared in less than ten minutes. Next, everyone lined up on the Blazer's left flank. "Aright," Dad said, "push."

Grunting and straining, everyone pushed, and the Blazer rolled ponderously onto its side with a wounded groan. "Again." Everyone pushed once more, and it came down on its tires with a jostle, snow puffing into the air. It wasn't flush with the exposed portion of curb, but it was out of the way enough that the plow, when it came, would miss it.

"Good job, troops," Mr. Loud said. "Now get lost."

Operation Get Your Old Man's Blazer Out of My Street Before Something Bad Happens, as Mr. Loud dubbed it, took close to two hours. When they got back to the house, Tim's face was numb and he could hardly move his fingers. Blake sat in the middle of the living room floor, racing a toy car back and forth across the carpet, and Mrs. Loud sat next to Jessy on the couch. Tim took his coat and boots off, and went to the bathroom, where he took a long, hot shower, letting the water defrost his frozen flesh.

Done, he dressed and went back to the living room, where he sat next to his son; his muscles throbbed and his skin still tingled from the cold. He yawned, stretched his arms, and leaned back against the coffee table.

After lunch, he, Mr. Loud, and Dad went outside and cleared a path from the bottom of the steps to the driveway, then the driveway itself. Next, they went into the backyard, where a tree lay lengthwise on the ground, its jagged stump jutting out of the snow. He _knew_ he heard a tree falling last night. Muffled by the storm, it sounded farther away. "First order of business," Mr. Loud said, "is digging the shed out so I can get to my chainsaw." He nodded to a small outbuilding buried to its roofline.

Moving the snow from the door took nearly an hour. Mr. Loud went in, and passed a bag of salt out; while he cut the tree into smaller pieces, Tim took the bag and sprinkled salt on the driveway, the walk, and the porch. As he worked, his thoughts turned back to Alex, and worry pinched his chest. The last time he checked, the phones were out or else he would have called her. He was almost certain she was fine, but almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades; anything could have happened - roof collapse, electrical fire, total power failure, the list goes on.

As he worked, a big, orange highway department plow passed in the street, its blade scraping the pavement and pushing a wave of snow to one side. Salt spilled from its back and littered the slushy asphalt like flecks of diamonds. Plow drivers make good money; Dad did it for a little while in the seventies and eighties and brought home hundreds of dollars for two or three days worth of work. But that's exactly what it was: Several days working nonstop. He said he quit, but Mom said he got fired when he fell asleep in his plow, got snowed in, and needed another plow to come get him out. Embarrassing, but Tim couldn't really fault him for it: Sometimes the drivers are called up before the snow even starts and spend hours waiting around to get started.

When they were done, Dad left on foot to fetch another car from the garage. _Your mother's probably worried sick,_ he said, _and God only knows how much shovelling I have to do over there_. Tim offered to go with him, but he waved him off. _Nah, I'll probably wait 'til tomorrow anyway._ Inside, Tim stripped out of his sodden boots and coat again and dropped onto the couch next to Mrs. Loud. The house was strangely quiet...and empty. "Where's Blake?" he asked.

"He and Jessy are taking a nap," she replied.

"I could use a nap," Mr. Loud said from his chair. He leaned back, crossed his arms, and lolled his head to one side with a yawn.

"Me too," Mrs. Loud agreed.

"Oh, shut up," Mr. Loud said, "you didn't even do anything."

She started to reply, but the phone rang, startling Tim. Mrs. Loud looked at it and frowned in confusion. "Huh. Hey, lame-o, phone's back on."

"Answer it."

"I ought not to now," she said. Even so, she picked it up and held it to her ear. "Hello?" For a moment she listened, then her face darkened a little and she sat forward. "Alex? Honey, what's wrong?"

Tim turned at the mention of his wife's name. The final two words (what's wong) and the worried tone in which Mrs. Loud said them sank in, and his heart raced. Wrong? Something was wrong?

Mrs. Loud listened again, then relief rippled across her face. "He's right here. He and Blake are fine."

That's when it occurred to him that Alex probably tried calling the apartment and freaked out when he didn't pick up.

"Yes, they stayed the night. Do you want to talk to them?"

She held the phone out to Tim and he took it. "Hey," he said.

"You scared the shit out of me," Alex said thickly and laughed. She sounded like she'd been crying, but even so, her voice had never been sweeter and Tim had never been happier to hear it.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Me and my Dad got snowed in over here."

Alex missed a beat. "You and your dad? What happened?"

Taking a deep breath, he told her everything, starting with him and Dad leaving the garage the night before and ending with the community effort to get the Blazer out of the street. She listened in dark silence. He expected her to laugh, even if only in shock _(jeez, Timbo, you and your dad are doofuses_ ), but she didn't - she sighed deeply. "You're okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay," Tim said. "It happened in super slow-mo, didn't get a scratch on me."

"Where's Blake?" she asked.

"Taking a nap with Jessy," Tim said. "I can wake him up if you want."

Alex thought for a moment. "No, that's okay, let him sleep."

"When are you coming home?" Tim asked. He had no idea what conditions were in Chippewa Falls, but he imagined they weren't much better than they were in Royal Woods. The news said that all major highways were impassable and still closed _until further notice_ ; they could open again in fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. Alex's car did alright in the snow, but not if the roads were covered in slush and ice.

She was quiet for a long time. "I don't know. I have to go. I'll call back later if I can."

"Alright," Tim said with a twinge of reluctance. He didn't want her to go. "I love you."

"I love you too. Give Blake kisses for me."

"I will."

He waited until she hung up, then gave the phone back to Mrs. Loud, who sat it back onto the hook.

Tim hoped she came home soon.

He missed her.

* * *

Alex left Oak Springs the next morning at dawn. The roads were open but still treacherous. She drove slowly, the radio on but low enough that it didn't break her concentration. Another CNA named Debbie who owned a 4 wheel drive offered to give her a ride home, but she wasn't leaving until nine, and Alex turned her down: She was anxious to get back to her boys, and waiting around another three hours was out of the question.

On her back into Royal Woods, she passed three plows, five Michigan state police cars, and a half dozen National Guard vehicles. Traffic moved at a crawl, and just north of Elk Park, a Toyota fish tailed and went off the road, sliding nose first into a ditch. Alex reduced her speed and turned her head toward the wreck as she passed, ready to stop and help if she absolutely had to. Fortunately, the driver was okay: He jumped out, angrily slammed the door, and kicked the front tire.

Several times as she passed through Elk Park, she felt her own tires begin to slip, but held the wheel steady and didn't panic - panicking leads to overcorrecting, which is how you crash. When she left work, the news was on, but now music played, fuzzy guitar and vocals that she didn't try to make out but could anyway.

 _Thoughts arrive like butterflies  
Oh he don't know, so he chases them away  
Someday yet he'll begin his life again  
Life again, life again_

Her mind turned back to Tim and the Blazer. He said he was fine, but it haunted her nonetheless, and every time she entertained it, she felt like she was going to puke. How easily he could have been _not_ okay. Life is a delicate thing - one second, less even, and it's gone. The realization that she came very close to losing her husband the other night was like a brisk slap to the face, and it left her feeling cold inside.

 _Kneelin' looking through the paper though he doesn't know to read, ooh yeah  
Oh, prayin', now to something that has never showed him anything  
Oh, feelin', understands the weather or that winters on its way  
Oh, ceilings, few and far between all the legal halls of shame, yeah_

The roads in Royal Woods were clear but slick. She slowed even more and followed Main past the bank, the old Palace theater, and Flip's, which stood shuddered and closed like virtually everything else.

At Cleveland, she turned right and kept a look out for the Blazer, wanting to see how bad off it _really_ was, but Tim's dad must have come back with the tow truck and taken it away. In the driveway of her parents' house, she cut the engine, grabbed her purse, and got out. She hurried up the walk and went inside - if anyone got in-between her and her boys, she'd shove them out again _(sorry, Jess!)_. Tim sat on the couch between Mom and Jessy, and when Alex saw him, her heart jumped. He grinned and got to his feet. "You _are_ okay," she said and hugged him. She didn't really doubt that he was, but like the saying goes, she was from Missouri - she had to see it to believe it...especially when it came to someone she loved.

"Told you so," he said and circled her with his strong arms. "How was the drive?"

"It sucked," she said and pulled away. "Where's my son?"

As if on cue, Dad came down the hall and into the living room with Blake in his arms. "I knew I heard your mother's loud, braying voice," Dad said and walked over. Blake's face lit up and he held his arms out.

Alex took him and squeezed him so tight he grunted. Absence, they say, makes the heart grow fonder; that was true...it also made hugs better. "I missed you so much," she said and rocked him back and forth; tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back. "Did you get to play in the snow?"

"Yeah, for five minutes," Tim said, "then he sank over his head and wanted to come back inside."

"Did you do that?" Alex asked and hefted him in one arm. He nodded jerkily.

Being apart from her family during dangerous times really bit the big one, and Alex vowed to never do it again. She loved her residents like they were her own grandparents, but next time something like this happened, they'd have to make due without her.

"Do you wanna go outside again?" she asked. "Mommy won't let you sink like Daddy did."

Blake hesitated, then nodded again.

"Alright," she said, "let's get you dressed and have some fun."

She made sure to take lots of pictures...and to throw a snowball at Jessy's face. Hey, she felt better than she had in days, can you really blame her?

Well...she _did_ feel better until Jessy threw one back and some went into her nose. Nice hit, Jess.

Then she nearly choked to death.

Good times. Good times.


	175. March 1993: Part 4

**Lyrics to** _ **What's Up?**_ **By 4 Non Blondes (1992)**

On the afternoon of March 16 - Blake's birthday - Alex switched shifts with another girl and worked 7-3. Temperatures since the end of the storm had barely cracked twenty degrees, and the giant mounds of snow surrounding the building froze solid. On one of his his breaks, Tom, who switched too for some reason (stalking me much?) tried to kick through one for the hell of it but wound up hurting his foot instead. "Goddamn," he said around the filter of his cigarette. "That shit's never gonna melt." Owing to the bitter cold, none of the residents were allowed to go outside, which irritated the few who routinely did - strolling the grounds and sitting on one of the benches overlooking the street was one of the only ways to break up the monotony of their day. _I'm sixty-five years old,_ a patient named Mr. Sines said and stomped his foot in outrage, _I've lived in Michigan my entire life, I can handle the cold._ Alex didn't doubt he could - a former Marine, he was as healthy as her (okay, she ate a lot of junk, so maybe he was even healthier). He suffered from early onset dementia and it left him just a _little_ confused from time to time. He'd do well at home under the care of family, but his son and his wife didn't want him. How fucked up is _that?_

Fred and Auntie Luan were taking care of Grandma, and she was more confused than Mr. Sines; what was _his_ family's excuse? It's not like you needed to be up his butt 24/7.

At lunch time, she fed Mr. Wilson (the racist) because his hands trembled; up until the storm, he was fine, but ever since, he'd been shaking like he had Parkinson's. The doctor wasn't sure exactly why, but said it wasn't serious or life threatening. He sat in his jeri chair and didn't make eye contact as she spooned mashed potatoes and okra into his mouth. He, too, was confused, but shame at his state was evident in his eyes. One of the worst parts of the job was taking care of people who were disabled but in their right mind; almost all of them were embarrassed by needing to be changed and washed. Alex would be too, and they were mentally no different from her - God, she'd hate it.

To lighten the mood, she made conversation. "Today's my son's birthday."

This was the third time she fed him; going off the previous two times, she didn't expect him to speak to her, and was surprised when he did. "Oh? You gonna have a pen-yah-ta?"

Alex snorted. Pinata. Because she was part Hispanic. I see what you did there, buddy. "No," she started, "but that's a good idea." She turned down the corners of her mouth. "He might be a little young for that, though. I hear those things are hard to crack."

"Never hit one for yourself?" he asked.

"Nope," Alex said. "I don't speak Spanish either. Actually, I know one phrase. _Mi nombre es Alex y huelo a tope_."

Mr. Wilson lifted his brow. "What's that mean?"

"My name is Alex and I kick butt," she said proudly.

"Hm. How old's your son?"

Alex skimmed the spoon across the potatoes. "Three. We're going to have a little party at my grandmother's house. Mainly family, but his best friend from daycare is coming over too. They're so cute together." She lifted the spoon to his mouth and he closed his lips around it. "The teacher says they hang out all day and the little girl - her name is Jordan - pulls Blake around by the hand and tries to teach him things. She's, like, a year older. She does _not_ like it when I pick him up at the end of the day." She laughed and shook her head. Jordan, from what the teacher said, had two or three older siblings, and from what Alex read, children with slightly older brothers and sisters tend to learn things earlier than children without. Kids learn tons through social interaction and pick up a lot from their siblings.

She bet Blake would make an awesome little teacher if she and Tim had another baby. She wanted one, but now wasn't the right time so it'd have to wait - when they did finally get around to making another awesome offspring, Blake would probably be in the sullen _stay out of my room, twerp_ phase. On the bright side, their second would learn how to be a shtty teenager before they were even out of diapers. Yay.

"Sounds cute," Mr. Wilson admitted. "He your only kid?"

"So far," Alex said. "I want another one."

He chewed a piece of beef with a thoughtful expression. Swallowing, he asked, "Why do your people always have such big families?"

Uhhh...she did not know how to answer that. He was obviously talking about Hispanics, but outside of Mom, Uncle Bobby, and Bobby Jr, she didn't know very many other Hispanic people. Royal Woods isn't exactly crawling with them, ya know. "I have no idea," she said, "my mother, where I get my brown, has one brother and that's it. Ironically, it's my dad, the white guy, who has a big family."

"I'm an old child," Mr. Wilson said.

"Technically, I am too, but my mom and dad adopted my cousin, and she's basically my sister. In fact, calling her my cousin feels strange and I'm not going to do it again."

"She a Mexican too?" Mr. Wilson asked.

Gee, this guy thinks about Mexicans more than _I_ do. "Nope. She's a paleface white devil. Just like you."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "Doesn't feel so good, now does it?" she asked airly and held out the spoon. He glared at her for a moment, then took a bite.

After that, she helped James Brown (the other racist) into his chair. "I saw those fags holdin' hands last night," he remarked. "Fuck kinda place is this? Probably feelin' up the men when they passed out. They best not touch _me_."

"Tom and Bob?" she asked skeptically. As far as she knew, they were the only gay guys who worked at Oak Springs, except for a guy around her age named Tommy, but he worked the weekend shift.

James nodded. "Umhm. Ol' bald head and his boyfriend Bigfoot."

Now, that didn't make any sense. Bob _hated_ Tom, and everyday they were at each other's throats. Racist and paralyzed from the waist down though he may be, James Brown wasn't in the least bit confused. "You sure?" asked.

"Yes I am," he said. "Called 'em a couple homos, too."

Hm. Well, whatever, it wasn't her business. She had a party to plan.

At the end of the day, she drove home on Route 29; snow drifts flanked the highway like white hills, and weak sunlight filtered through the bare treetops and dappled the pavement with shimmering puddles of brilliance. She tapped the wheel and hummed along to the radio - her little man was turning three and her mood was higher than her dad during his hippie days.

 _And so I wake in the morning  
And I step outside  
And I take a deep breath and I get real high  
And I scream from the top of my lungs  
What's going on?_

First, she stopped at the supermarket in Elk Park and picked up an ice cream cake - she had the guy behind the counter write HAPPY BIRTHDAY BLAKENSTEIN across the front in blue icing. "Do you mean _Blackenstein?"_ he asked bemusedly.

Alex favored him with a blank stare. Blackenstein? What was _that?_ "No," she said, "I meant Blakenstein."

"Ah. Okay."

She collected the cake and took it out to the car, being careful not to slip on the ice that still coated the parking lot. She _hated_ this store, but as far as she knew, she was still banned from the one in Royal Woods because of her _cursing and racial slurs._ Guess he's never heard of gangster rap before.

Eh, his loss.

Next, she went to Sears and got one more present to go along with the rest: A gnarly tricycle with racing stripes on the sides. She saw it when she and Tim were shopping for storm supplies and knew she had to get it - I mean, look at how cool it is!

It was also much heavier than it looked; she waddled it to the register at the front of the store, and by the time she got there, her arms and legs quivered. Whew, all the awesomeness really weighs this thing down. Getting it into the car wasn't easy either: She fought with it for ten minutes before an older guy who looked like Tim's dad only fatter came over and took the wheels off for her with a screwdriver. "Just pop 'em back on when you're ready," he said and handed them to her. She put them in her pocket, and on the way to Busy Bees, she checked every two seconds to make sure they were still there.

She parked next to a Dodge pick-up, got out, and went inside. She signed Blake out then went to his classroom. Most of the other kids were gone save for a little black boy and a white girl sitting side-by-side at one of the desks and coloring. She looked around, didn't see Blake, and frowned. Then, as if on cue, he popped out from behind a shelf and toddled toward the other side of the room as fast as his widdle legs would carry him. His friend, Jordan, gave chase, slapping him on the back before he could escape. " _Got you!_ " she cried.

About four (give or take) with long hair the color of corn silk held up in pigtails by white butterfly clips, Jordan reminded Alex of the little girl from _Full House,_ only completely different. Mary Olsen Ashley or whatever her name was always put Alex in mind of a frail baby duckling whereas Jordan was a little more solid. Not fat, but...not as small either. Or something. She wore blue pants and a gray sweater with a picture of a kitten emblazoned across the chest. Her family moved to Royal Woods six months ago...or maybe she transferred...or wasn't in daycare before: The point was, she hadn't been here long, and Alex kind of wondered if her friendship with Blake wasn't her coping with the anxiety of a scary new environment by clutching desperately to someone like a woman to a life ring.

That was really sad. She vaguely remembered her first day of school - it was terrifying. Alone. Without her parents or her Auntie Leni or even Jessy. She put on as brave a face as she could, but watching her parents walk away and leave her, she really wanted to cry.

Blake turned to Jordan and pressed his hand to her chest. " _You ooze!"_ He caught sight of Alex and beamed. He came to her and she picked him up.

"Hi, birthday boy! You ready for the big party tonight?" she asked.

He nodded deeply.

"We're gonna have cake, and ice cream, and presents, and...it's way too cold to grill out, so maybe we'll order a pizza."

Blake _ummmm_ 'd and Alex laughed. A lot of kids are picky eaters, but not Blake, he'd pound down anything you gave him...as his pudgy little belly would attest. He _did_ have standards, though - his favorite foods were pizza, hot dogs, and chicken nuggets.

Shoulders slumped in dejection and her bottom lip stuck exaggeratedly out, Jordan watched and drew a big stage sigh that Alex couldn't help find adorable. She walked to the little girl, and she looked up at her. "Are you still coming to Blake's party?" she asked.

" _Yes,"_ Jordan said shyly.

"We're gonna have lots of fun," Alex promised. "We're gonna play pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs and…" she trailed off, not sure exactly _what_ they were going to do. She kind of hadn't thought that far ahead. There would be cake, presents, and family - everything else kind of fell by the wayside. "It's gonna be real fun," she said and looked at Blake. "You gonna say goodbye?"

He leaned against her arm and wiggled his hand back and forth. " _Byyyyye!"_

" _Bye,"_ Jordan sighed.

Outside, Alex shoved Blake into his seat and pulled the straps across his chest. "You're getting big," she said. "We're gonna need a new car seat soon."

Blake grinned at her, then turned and started when he noticed the tryke. " _Bike."_

Aw, crap, I forgot to cover it with something, now the cat's out of the bag. Why am I so air headed sometimes? I swear, I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached.

Sighing and slumping her shoulders in defeat much like Jordan had, Alex nodded. "Yep, that's a bike. Mommy's dumb and didn't hide it."

" _Wide...BIKE,"_ he said, adding excited, breathless emphasis on the last word.

"Later," she said, "we gots to put the wheels on." She held her arms up in an _I don't' know_ gesture and Blake's brow furrowed. "Mommy had to take wheels off to make it fit."

He seemed to consider a moment, then smiled. " _Wide bike."_

Sigh. Nice Job, Bunny. Real nice job.

Lame-o.

* * *

Luan took a towel from the linen closet in the hall, went to the bathroom, and laid it on the closed toilet lid. She pulled the shower curtain back and made sure everything was in order: Mom's shower chair was free of obstructions, and when she tested it by pressing firmly down on the seat, it held steady and immovable. Lincoln had it installed several years ago to cut down on the risk of Mom falling, and the contractor who did the job promised that it could survive _a woman ten times the size of your mother_. Even so, Luan always made sure it was secure before giving Mom a bath.

Satisfied, she walked out into the hall. It was just after 3pm, and Alex and the others would be here in an hour - she should have done this sooner, but she got carried away with cleaning, then took a quick shower before dressing in tan slacks and a sleeveless white blouse, the nicest things she owned that weren't either too formal or a dress. It occurred to her that she might have to change when she was done giving Mom her bath, and she sighed to herself. She'd cross that bridge if she came to it.

At her mother's room, she paused and lightly rapped her knuckles against the wood. "Mom?" she asked.

"Yes?" Mom called, a bewildered tone in her voice as though a knock was the last thing she ever expected.

Pushing the door open, Luan stuck her head in. "Hi, Mom," she said with a weak smile, "it's just me."

Mom sat on the edge of the bed with her twisted, age spotted hands resting atop her knees. She wore a light blue house dress with a square neck and pink pinstripes; her thin white hair swished along her shoulders as she turned her head and squinted critically, her features wrinkling even more than they already were. "Oh," she said, and her brow smoothed. "Hi...I was just getting ready for...for something."

The halting pause between _hi_ and _I,_ as though she meant to say her name but forgot it, was not lost on Luan. Over the past few months, she'd gotten bad with names and sometimes faces too. She remembered who her children and grandchildren were, but finer details escaped her far too often lately: She called Luan Lori and Lincoln Lynn, and when they corrected her, she'd look stricken for a second as she presumably tried to recall just exactly who was who. With everyone else, she was either hazy or totally lost: She never remembered Ronnie Anne's name (but she remembered that she was Lincoln's wife), and completely forgot Fred altogether - once or twice a week, she'd see him walking through the living room and go rigid with fear, whereupon Luan had to explain who he was. Earlier, when she told her that Blake's party was today, she smiled and nodded. _Oh, that's nice. He plays ball, doesn't he?_

 _No, he's too little for that. He's Alex's son, remember?_

Her smile faltered and a mist of confusion crept into her eyes. _I-I don't know who that is, Luna,_ she said with a hint of trepidation. _I should but I don't._ She broke down and cried, and Luan slipped her arm around her shoulders.

 _It's alright,_ she said in the most encouraging tone she could muster, _you'll remember when you see her. She's pretty unforgettable_.

It didn't take Mom long to move on from that, and by now Luan figured she didn't even recollect the conversation. Her long term memory might be impacted, but her short term memory was almost non-existent: You'd tell her something, and within five minutes she'd have totally forgotten it.

She knew she was sick, and it frustrated her; a few times, she punched herself in the forehead because she couldn't remember something, and a couple weeks ago she smashed the framed photo from hers and Dad's wedding on the floor. She said she didn't remember who they were and that having to look at it irritated her.

Her bad moods came more and more frequently as the disease ravaged her brain, and her outbursts became more violent; they typically started in the mornings and lasted all day, getting worse in the evening before petering out after she took her medication. She woke up at least twice a night and was so muddled she lashed out and hit or scratched you if you tried to calm her - faded red marks on Luan's arm bore silent testimony to those nocturnal freak outs. Mom's worst moods followed particularly hard nights - she'd be sullen, withdrawn, and paranoid, accusing Luan and _that man_ of stealing her things. On a few occasions, she got so angry that she attacked Luan - hitting her, spitting on her, and pulling her hair.

That didn't happen often, though; thank God. Mom had never hurt her (badly), but something about seeing hatred, no matter how short lived, in your mother's eyes made it all the worse, and her blows, not very painful on their own, hurt more because they came from _her,_ the woman who loved and nurtured her from childhood. She knew Mom couldn't help it, but she still walked away from those encounters with tears standing in her eyes and the insistent feeling that she did something to deserve it.

Presently, Luan stood over her mother and tenderly brushed her colorless hair from her wizened face. "The party?" she asked.

Mom's eyes filled with confusion, but she nodded anyway. "Yes. That."

"That's good," Luan said hopefully, "it's going to be a lot of fun." Her heartbeat quickened and she swallowed hard. Now came the moment of truth. "But first, it's time for your bath."

A dark shadow flickered across Mom's features, and her eyes widened in something akin to horror. "I-I don't need a bath," she said with a firm head shake.

Outwardly, Luan smiled, but inside she threw back her head and moaned. Before getting sick, Mom bathed every other day like clockwork. Since then, the prospect of getting in the tub terrified her. Water, Luan had learned, was more or less invisible to dementia patients; being in it frightens and disconcerts them. She could coax her in, but it would take effort. "Yes you do, Mom," she said, "it's been a week since your last one."

"I don't," Mom said curtly, "I'm not dirty, I'm not taking a bath."

When Mom was first diagnosed with Alzheimer's, Luan read as much on the subject as she could; all of the books recommend being calm, gentle, and encouraging through stressful events like bathing, and to walk the patient through each step of the process so they know and understand what's happening. "But you have to take a bath," she said, "that way we can have the party and see everyone. Don't you want Lori and Lincoln and all the others to come over?"

Mom's brow furrowed suspiciously. "Yes," she said, her tone guarded.

"Then you need to have a bath." She spoke slowly and with the exaggerated care one might use with a very small child. "Afterwards, we can have a nice cup of coffee and a slice of pie. How does that sound?"

For a long time, Mom considered her proposition, and Luan's stomach knotted in suspense. Sometimes bribery was enough, other times it wasn't.

This time was one of the former. "Okay, I guess," she said uncertainly.

"Great," Luan said. She took Mom's hand and helped her to her feet, then guided her to the bathroom. "We won't take very long, then we can have coffee. Do you know what you want for dinner?"

"No," Mom said. "I don't want dinner."

"Okay," Luan said, "we can just have our coffee and pie." They were in the bathroom now - Luan left the door open because closing it made Mom feel claustrophobic and she started to panic. Turning to her, Luan said, "We're going to get undressed now. I'll undo the top button. Can you do the rest?"

Anxiety flashed in Mom's eyes, and she looked away. Luan's heart broke and she wanted to hug the old woman to her chest until she was no longer afraid. Instead, she waited for an answer. "I-I guess I can," Mom said.

Luan undid the top button then dropped her arms to her sides and watched as Mom struggled with the others, her arthritic hands trembling as she worked. "Do you need help?" she asked.

"No," Mom said sharply, "I can do it."

Pretending that her rebuke _didn't_ sting, Luan smiled. "Okay. Just making sure. We all need a little help sometimes."

When Mom was naked, Luan took her hand and assisted her into the tub. "Big step up," she said softly, not realizing how patronizing she sounded, "little step down."

"I know what to do," Mom snapped. "I'm a fifty-five year old woman, I've been taking baths since the war."

Luan flinched, and her smile dropped a little, both at the invective in her mother's voice and at the perplexity of her statement. "I know," she said with a scalded lift, "I was just making sure you didn't fall down. That's all."

The old woman sat stiffly on the chair and rested her hands in her lap. Luan did her best not to look at her sagging breasts or the juncture of her thighs. Bathing is an intensely personal routine and Alzheimer patients, like the rest of us, want their privacy and dignity. She also did it because something about Mom's nakedness really drove home how vulnerable she was. For Luan's entire life, her mother was a matronly, larger than life figure, and to see her this way - frail, nude, and exposed, was too much to bear.

Kneeling on the cold tile floor, Luan took the detachable shower head from its hook. "I'm going to turn the water on," she explained. Mom tensed and moved her feet back. "I'm going to put a little bit on your toes. Just to test it and make sure it's okay." She turned the faucet on, made sure the water was warm but not too hot, then depressed the trigger and sprayed a little bit on Mom's foot. "How does that feel?" she asked.

"A-Alright," Mom said anxiously. "It's warm."

Luan washed her mother's feet, then moved onto her calves and legs. "Can you wash between your legs?" she asked.

Mom nodded. "Yes."

She handed her the shower head and looked away while she cleaned her center, then took it back and got to her feet. "I'm going to fill a cup with water and put a _little_ bit on your hair." She grabbed a plastic cup from the back of the toilet, filled it, and let the shower head dangle, the flow facing the tub wall. Mom watched her warily. "Tilt your head back and we'll be all done."

Mom reluctantly tilted her head back, and Luan carefully poured the water onto her scalp, taking great pains to avoid getting any in her eyes. She picked up the shampoo, squeezed a little onto her fingertips, and said, "Now I'm going to put shampoo in."

"O-Okay," Mom said and gulped. "Don't use too much. It's expensive."

Luan massaged it into Mom's hair, making sure to get the suds all over, then picked up the shower head and sprayed it off. Mom's closed eyelids fluttered in apprehension and her hands squirmed in her lap. "There," Luan said and cut the water. "All done." She grabbed the towel and languidly dried Mom's hair. "How do you feel?"

"Cold," she said.

After helping her out, drying her off, and getting her dressed again, Luan lead her down the stairs, walking slowly and stopping to rest when Mom's knee locked up. She and Fred were seriously considering moving Mom into the living room so she didn't have to climb the steps anymore, but when they brought it up to her, she got angry and accused them of trying to kick her out of her room. _You've had your eye on it all along, but it's mine, not yours, MINE._

In the kitchen, warm, golden sunshine cascaded through the window over the sink and lay across the linoleum in a wide bar. Luan pulled out a chair, helped Mom sit, then squeezed her shoulder. "Do you want that coffee and pie now?" she asked.

Mom frowned. "I don't drink that. I'll have some of that stuff. That you have in the morning. With sugar and...and the other stuff.."

"Coffee?" Luan asked.

Mom nodded. "Yes," she said, "that."

* * *

Every morning on her way to the car lot, Lynn Haveman stopped at Starbucks.

Housed in a tiny brick building located in front of the Meza Plata Shopping Center overlooking Sagebrush Street. Starbucks was brand new, having opened its doors in late January to much fanfare. Six months ago, the place was a Dunkin' Doughnuts, but the franchiser went bankrupt and one day, the store shut down, which really stank since it was right on Lynn's route.

Never a huge coffee drinker before, Lynn discovered the necessity of the stuff after assuming management of Big Bill's from her father - she was the first one there, the last one out, and never stopped working in-between, so she needed something to keep her going. She learned that she liked her brew black with just a hint of cream. In a pinch, she'd take it entirely black. She _never_ added sugar, though; sugar made it too sweet and hurt her teeth.

When Dunkin' closed at the end of August, she was really bummed; not only did she have to settle for bitter, barely drinkable gas station sludge from Quarles, but the people manning the drive-thru also knew how to make her coffee _just_ right...now they were gone.

Then Starbucks moved in. Lynn had never heard of it before and was hesitant to try it. Then, one morning, she was running late and finally bit the bullet. She pulled into the drive-thru and scanned the menu. _Cold foam dark coca nitro; espresso macchiato; caramel brulee latte; caffe mocha._

What the hell is _that?_

That's when it hit her: This was one of those fancy coffee places where arrogant snobs in tweed jackets congregate and look down on everyone. She'd been to a few of those - the ones with slam poetry nights, pretentious decor, and overpriced coffee that wasn't even any good.

No _thanks_.

She drove away and went without, which lead to her spending the entire day tried and regretting every choice she'd ever made in her life except marrying Ritchie and giving birth to Maddie. The next morning, she went to Quarles and, from there, fell back into her old schedule. Then, one day, one of the salesmen brought a bunch of coffee in for everyone during lunch. Lynn needed a pick-me-up and bounced into the break room with high hopes...high hopes that deflated when she saw a dozen cups of Starbucks sitting on the counter.

Ew, fag juice.

Well...it _was_ free and she could _really_ use a boost…

Metaphorically pinching her nose, she grabbed a cup at random and took a hesitant drink. Flavor so amazing it blew her pantyhose clean off filled her mouth, and her exploding taste buds struck up the Hallelujah Chorus. Her pupils dilated and her knees quivered as they only did when Ritchie went down on her.

We all have defining moments in our lives, and for Lynn, one of them was tasting Starbucks for the first time. Prior to that perfect sip, she didn't know what manna was like, but afterwards, she did. She slammed the rest then finished two more before she could stop herself; she was literally shaking, and her heart pounded in elation at the wonderful sensations dancing on her tongue. She knew in that instant that she was hooked and had to have more.

On the way home, she swung by Starbucks and ordered four different coffees, all of which she drank before she pulled into the driveway, each just as good as the last, if not _better._ Holy shit, what do they put in this stuff, drugs?

For a while, she'd get one cup in the morning and another in the afternoon. Like an alcoholic sinking deeper into her addiction, however, one quickly became inadequate - so she started getting _two_ cups at a time.

Two turned into three, and, finally, on March 15, three became four. She finished one before she got to the dealership, then nursed another as she input data into the computer. Halfway through the morning, it crashed again, and she called the IT guy. That stressed her out, so she finished her second coffee and started on her third.

Around noon, crackling with enough energy to power a small European nation for a month, she jumped up and buzzed around the showroom like a woman on cocaine, making busy work for herself and cutting in on her salesmen as they pushed ten year old cars on unsuspecting consumers. "This is a real nice car," she told a young couple, " it has everything you could ever want Cup holders for your Starbucks, cassette player, AM/FM radio, reclining seats, air bags, it even has a glove box for all your odds and ends." She smashed the hood and smiled widely. Connor, the salesman she cut off (literally...she stepped in front of him and started talking) crossed his arms and regarded the back of her head with a sour expression. _There goes my commission,_ it said.

The woman laughed nervously. "W-We'll take it then."

"Great. Let me get you set up." She turned, noticed Conner looking displeased, and snorted. What was _this_ guy's problem? If he wanted to step outside, she'd run circles around his ass, then hit him with a big boot to the face like Hulk Hogan. I'm ready, baby boy, anytime, anywhere, anyplace, hell, I'll let you take the first shot. In fact, why don't you bring a friend? You're gonna need him cuz I'm wired right now and you won't know what hit you until you're being rushed off by the rescue squad, crying like a bitch cuz a girl whipped your ass. Boo hoo hoo, she hits really hard wahhhh. " _That's_ how you sell a car, my man," she said and gave his shoulder a mocking pat.

Since she was the manager, all he could do was force a chilly smile and congratulate her through his teeth.

Feeling flush with accomplishment, she rewarded herself with another coffee - iced mocha with whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, and extra goodness. Ahhhh, life's simple pleasures! She tried to drink it slowly, but wound up ripping the plastic lid off, throwing it aside, and guzzling the contents like a dehydrating woman tasting water for the first time in days. Ummm, yum. These things might even be as good as meatball subs.

No, scratch that, they were _better_.

All of that coffee inevitably lead to two things: A crash and lots of peeing. She flew high through most of the afternoon, but just before 3:30, as she worked on payroll at the computer, the jitteres withdrew like the tide before a killer wave and she was suddenly so dizzy she could barely sit up. Whoa, she thought and lifted a hand to her forehead, I'm kinda tired. She blinked her eyes and squinted at the screen: She had a lot of work to do before she could leave, so taking a break was out of the question.

Suck it up and power through.

She took a deep breath...and woke up to someone shaking her shoulder. "Mrs. Haveman? You okay?" It was the mechanic. His worried face filled her vision and for a delicious second, Lynn thought something terrible happened...she she realized she was using the keyboard as a pillow and drooling on the keys. Aw, man. She sat up and held the heel of her palm to her achy temple; her eyes stung and the world had a distant, dreamlike quality that made her head spin. "I'm fine," she said thickly, "just fell asleep."

The mechanic's brow arched dubiously. _You just fell asleep..on the computer?_ it said. _Sure. Anything you say. Got a bridge you wanna sell me?_ "You sure?" he pressed.

"Yeah," she said and winced at the sloshing in her bladder, "I'm fine." She got up and hurried to the bathroom; in the mirror, she stared daggers at her reflection. _Your Starbucks addiction is getting out of hand,_ she chided herself. _Reel it in a little, will you?_

Lynn prided herself on being clear-headed and sober. She never drank, never smoked, and never _ever_ let her emotions cloud her judgement. She was a practical woman whose main goal in life was to succeed at whatever she put her mind to. She worked long, hard hours and did the best job she could, and took immense satisfaction in doing things to the best of her ability. She depended on nothing and no one - she was strong, quick, and her willpower as iron clad. If walking across hot coals was what it took, she'd do it _twice_ just to prove to herself that she could. Words like _failure, quitting,_ and _weakness_ did not exist in her dictionary. Uncontrollably sucking down Starbucks like a crack addict on a street corner was the epitome of weakness, and therefore, in that moment, she vowed to get off the stuff for good.

On her way home, she passed Starbucks and didn't stop even though her heartbeat sped up and the back of her throat pinched in pleasant expectation. Her taste buds brightened...then gasped in shock when she sailed past. _NO! GO BACK!_

Nope. Not happening. I will _never_ have another cup of Starbucks for as long as I live.

Like a smoker, however, the craving mowed her down like a freight train. She started to sweat, then to tremble, then to squirm in her seat. and two blocks from Maddie's daycare, she pulled a U-Turn. This was ridiculous and _really_ getting on her nerves; you want Starbucks, you're gonna get Starbucks, asshole.

At the drive up window, she ordered her favorite: An iced half-caf mocha latte, extra foam, no caramel, no-whip soy java macchiato espresso. When the barista handed it to her, she swiped her tongue across her bottom lip, took the lid off, and stared down at it with wide, frenzied eyes. She took a deep whiff and purred in delight; her mouth started to water and her lips went dry...ummmm.

Exerting every ounce of self-control she had, she put it in the cup holder and left it there.

You wanted Starbucks so bad, here you go. Enjoy looking at it. And smelling it. Cuz that's all you're gonna do.

Not snatching it up and draining it was the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she did it. Two blocks from home, after getting Maddie, her resolve started to crumble. Panicking, she rolled down the window and threw it out, watching it explode on the pavement with a mixture of horror and relief.

 _Whoop, whoop._ She looked into the mirror and tensed.

Flashing blue lights.

Damn.

She pulled to the curb and rolled down the window. In the back, Maddie drank her bottle and gazed straight ahead, her eyelids drooping sleepily. Lynn drew a deep sigh and hung her head: She could afford a ticket, but just barely. Littering was an automatic 500 dollars in Tucson, and 500 dollars was a lot of money.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Maybe if I show him my boobs, he'll let me go.

Uhh...yeah, no, I'll just take the fine.

Moments later a cop in a brown uniform strode up and bent over, his hard, weatherbeaten face filling the world. "I think you dropped something back there," he said around a lump of chewing tobacco.

Sigh. Yes, she did. Rather than lie or make excuses, she owned up - that was the responsible thing to do. "Yeah, I...I threw my coffee out," she said without meeting his eyes. "Sorry."

He favored her with a thoughtful expression. "You wanna avoid a ticket?"

God, yes. "Sure," she said evenly.

"I'll make you a deal."

Lynn smiled hopefully, then frowned. He didn't want her to do something nasty, did he? If so, he better take no for an answer. "W-What?"

Perhaps sensing her thoughts, the cop grinned, revealing his yellow, snuff-coated teeth. "Go pick it up."

Oh.

Okay, _that_ I can do.

She started to get out but stopped. "Can you watch my daughter?" she asked and glanced at Maddie, who was asleep now.

"Go on, she's fine."

He stepped aside, and Lynn threw the door open. She got out and walked between her car and his. The cup lie on its side in the middle of the street, rolling desolately back and forth in the arid desert wind. A pick-up truck blasted by, and it danced away, coming to rest against the opposite curb. Standing there and waiting for traffic to clear so she could go get it, a hot rush of shame colored the back of her neck. This was actually kind of humiliating.

Still better than a ticket, though.

When the road was empty, she darted across, picked it up, and hurried back, her step quickening as a box truck turned onto the street and approached. The cop stood where she'd left him, tall as an oak with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Got it," she said.

"Good," he said, "think twice before you litter next time."

Behind the wheel, she buckled her seatbelt and glared at the crumpled cup in the holder. "You got me in trouble," she growled.

The Starbucks logo - some kind of mermaid or something - stared mockingly back at her. _No, Lynny-Girl,_ you _got you in trouble._

She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and flicked the merthing right in its smug little face.

The next morning, she repeated her new ritual: She bought two cups of her favorite brew, brought it into the showroom, and sat them on the desk within easy reach. She logged into the computer and finished the payroll, glancing frequently at the cups and licking her lips. You're strong, Lynn, you can do this. Just keep your eye on the prize and don't give in to temptation. Just before noon, she broke, picked one up, and lifted it to her lips, the aromatic scent drifting from the little lid slot and filling her nostrils with heavenly fragrance.

She realized at the last minute that she was in danger of relapsing and forced herself to set it back down again. No, bad girl. You will _not_ drink Starbucks.

But -

I said no.

Sigh.

At lunch, she carried them into the break room, dumped the coffee down the sink, and threw them into the trash. The cravings were so strong her middle throbbed, but she wouldn't give up. She was Lynn motherfucking Haveman, and the day she let some stupid coffeehouse slop best her was the day hell froze over.

She went about the rest of her day with the specter of yummy Starbucks coffee haunting the fringes of her consciousness like a half-glimpsed shadow in her periphery. She focused on her work, but no matter how hard she tried, she could never shake the yen - it was a dull, constant ache in her throat that threatened to drive her over the edge.

At 6, she left and drove to Maddie's daycare through lengthening shadows, her hands tight on the wheel and a harried expression in her eyes. Metaphorical Starbucks coffee cups danced around her head and the sweet taste of a mocha latte lingered on her tongue like a ghost. Okay, how about one? Just one? She could do that; she could regulate her intake and stop any time she wanted.

No.

She wouldn't cave. She made up her mind and she refused to budge.

Though it was difficult, she kept her vow and never drank Starbucks again.

* * *

Alex sat a tray of chocolate balls on the coffee table and glanced around. No one was looking. Perfect. She picked one up, plopped it into her mouth, and chewed - gotta hurry up and get the crime over with so no one -

"I see you," Grandma said.

The old woman sat in her chair with her hands on her lap and a sour expression on her face. Alex swallowed hard and grinned sheepishly. "Want one?"

Over the past six months, as her grandmother's disease progressed, her moods became unpredictable: One day she was sweet and happy, the next she was mean and nasty. She saw that fairly often with residents at the nursing home, especially on C-Wing, where most of the advanced dementia and Alzheimer's patients were housed. She covered a shift there once and she hated it; the residents aimlessly wandered the halls, talked out of their heads, saw things that weren't there, screamed and cussed for no reason, then broke down in tears just as inexplicably. The ones in the final stages were bedridden and couldn't speak or understand anything that happened - for all intents and purposes, they were babies again. Worse than babies, even, with their vacant eyes, wordless gurgles, and sudden outbursts of hysterical screaming and thrashing.

The whole time she was there, she kept thinking _this is what's going to happen to Grandma,_ and that made her sick to her stomach.

"No, those aren't for us they're for…" she trailed off in thought and turned to the TV screen. Alex expected her to finish her thought, but she didn't - probably already forgot.

Today, Grandma's mood started off high but steadily dropped as the afternoon wore on. Noise and activity often frustrate and frighten Alzheimer's patients, and there was a lot of both going on. Lori, Luan, Jessy, Mark, and Tim's mother sat at the kitchen table talking, Mom and Dad chatted with Jordan's parents Andy and Robin, Tim and his father hung decorations, Bobby and Fred sat in the dining room drinking beer and shooting the breeze, and Blake and Jordan giggled and chased each other through the living room like nutty squirrels. She was probably getting overstimulated and tired out.

This is a job for the Geriatric Defender.

Going over to the chair, she knelt and laid her hands on the arm. Grandma watched warily from the corner of her eye, her chest rising and falling rapidly as though she were afraid. "Are you getting tired, Grandma?" she asked gently. "I know I am. I could _really_ use a nap."

Grandma considered her suspiciously, then nodded. "A little," she allowed. "There's so many _things_ in this place."

Alex nodded understandingly. "Yeah, there are. Would you like to lie down for a little while? That always helps _me_ feel better when I'm tired."

The old woman considered for a moment before nodding. "O-Okay, yes, lying down sounds nice." She leaned in and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't know where my bed is."

Hearing something like that from one of the residents was hard, but exponentially worse when it came from her own grandmother. Forcing a smile, she got to her feet. "I'll help you. I'm sure between the two of us we can find it no problem."

"Okay," Grandma said.

Taking her hand and threading their fingers affectionately together, Alex helped her up the stairs. "Is it coming back to you now?" she asked at the top of the steps.

Grandma frowned. "I think so. My house is that way." She nodded to right, at the door to Dad and Uncle Lynn's old room.

"No, I think it's this way," Alex said and guided her to the left. "Let's check."

When they stepped through the threshold to Grandma's room, the old woman looked curiously and and furrowed her brow. "Oh, here it is. It looks different."

As far as Alex knew, the room looked the same as it always had: The bed flanked by two nightstands, headboard pressed to the curtained window; dresser against the facing wall; wardrobe and chair standing dutifully in the corner. Muted light touched the lacy fabric and fell across the unmade bed in a stream. "The bed looks comfy, too," she said.

"It is," Grandma said, then added an uncertain, "I think."

Alex guided her over and helped her in, then pulled the covers to her chest. "Is that okay?" she asked.

"Yes, that's fine, thank you."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No. I'd rather be alone."

Alex started to get up, but froze when Grandma's hand closed roughly around her wrist. Her eyes were huge and her mouth hung open as if in shocked horror. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, and her lips started to quiver. Alex's heart dropped into her stomach and she leaned over, brushing the old woman's hair from her forehead. "What's wrong, Grandma?" she asked worriedly. Dementia sufferers got angry and sad for seemingly no reason at all, but there was _always_ a cause, as obscure or inconsequential as it may seem.

Squeezing her eyes closed, Grandma shook her head in denial. Alex sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair. "Are you uncomfortable?" she asked. "Do you need an extra pillow?"

Grandma turned her head away and took a deep, shuddery breath. "I just remembered something," she whispered.

"What?" Alex asked softly.

For a long time, Grandma stared at the open bathroom door, beyond which deep shadows seethed, then sniffed. "I-I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Grandma spat, "go away and stop bothering me. I said I don't want to talk about it."

Her words hit Alex like a punch to the guts. She got up, patted her hand, and flashed a smile that she didn't feel. "Okay. I'm going to go downstairs now. If you need me, call."

Grandma didn't reply.

Flicking her eyes sadly away, Alex left the room and went down the stairs, her steps plodding and her shoulders stooped as if under a great weight. Blake crouched beside Grandma's chair with a wicked little smile on his face; Jordan shuffled through the living room looking left and right. When she got close, he jumped out with a cry, and she screamed in terror, then giggled and ran away. Alex didn't smile at how cute it was, or tingle with the _awwws_ as she might have some other time; instead, she sank into Grandma's char with a sigh and held her face in her hands. When she was a little girl, she stood helplessly by as her Auntie Leni slowly succumbed to a similar disease, watched with dread as she was first reduced to using a wheelchair to get around, then as the warm, lovingly light in her eyes faded, leaving cold in its wake. She knew on some level that she was going to die, but she held onto childish hope that at the last minute, something would happen and Leni would be spared - a medical breakthrough, a miracle, something, anything. The human survival instinct is the strongest thing there is, and the will to live has lead to to incredible feats - people walking twenty miles to safety with broken bones, people surviving seemingly insurmountable odds and hopeless wounds and situations. Push a man into a corner, and he'll do whatever it takes to get out again. For the loved ones of a terminal patient, those feelings manifest themselves in dumb, blind faith - faith that their son or mother or aunt would find a way to pull through, that they would be the exception to the rule, so to speak. They have to be: Death happens to other people, to people who don't matter.

But everyone matters to someone, and Auntie Leni didn't make it.

The black tempest swirling in Alex's breast now was the same that raged during Leni's illness, a sharp mixture of fear, denial, pain, and, above all else, hope. She was older and wiser than she was the last time around, and she knew that whether she wanted her to or not, whether it hurt or not, Grandma was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it.

Alex wasn't very old, but she was old enough, she thought, to have experienced almost the full range of human emotions….and this feeling was the absolute worst. Save for the dread of not knowing if Tim and Blake were okay during the storm. That was worse.

Grandma had been there her entire life, and the prospect of her just stopping one day - of not being able to sit and have coffee or a Big Mac with her, to never have one of her hugs again - pushed her to the verge of tears.

A tiny hand laid on top of hers and she looked up. Blake, his cheeks flushed with exertion, smiled and threw himself at her, knocking her back and shocking a laugh from her throat. "Whoa!" she cried. "Blake hug incoming." She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. She didn't know how, but holding her little boy make all of her troubles melt away.

Nothing, she reflected, felt as wonderful as this.

Shifting him into her lap, she laced her fingers over his chubby belly and pressed her cheek to his. "Where's your friend?" she asked.

He grunted. _I dunno, Mom._

"What do you mean you don't know?" Alex asked with faux surprise. "You're not a very good host."

" _Cake."_

"You can have cake later, chub-a-lub." She spotted the chocolate balls, leaned forward, and grabbed one. "Here, have this."

Blake took it just as Jordan came in from the kitchen, head tilted back and a sippy cup pressed thirstily to her lips. "There she is," Alex said. Jordan came to a halt and regarded her warily, like she was a scary dog instead of an awesome wife and mom who moonlighted as the Geriatric Defender.

"She's shy," Alex said into her son's ear. "Do you know what breaks the ice better than a yummy chocolate ball?"

Blake smacked his lips.

"Nothing." She plucked another ball from the tray and held it out to the little girl like a woman trying to entice a skittish dog. "Do you like...chocolate?" she paused for dramatic effect and grinned at the way Jordan's eyes zeroed in on the confection. Ha. Chocolate _always_ gets 'em.

Jordan made no move to take it, though. "I won't bite," Alex said. "Promise."

The little blonde flicked her eyes distractingly between the ball and Alex's face, the cogs and wheels visibly turning in her baby mind. Should she do it? Should she not? What if the scary brown lady hurt her?

Hm. Maybe her parents told her not to take things from strangers. "Here," she said and gave it to Blake. "You give this to Jordan?"

Blake looked it for a moment...then shoved it into his own mouth. Wow, what a little pig. He was just like his father. "You are _not_ Jordan," Alex said and pointed to the little girl: She watched over her sippy cup with big hazel eyes, ready to run to her mommy if the evil Mexi-bitch made one wrong move. "That's Jordan. Your friend. Remember?"

Blake nodded. "You take a chocolate ball to her? She wants one too."

Jumping off her lap, Blake picked up a chocolate ball and walked over to Jordan. He held it out and said something that Alex didn't catch. Jordan lowered her cup, took the sweet, and shoved it into her mouth. Blake laid his hand on her shoulder and leaned in until their noses were almost touching, a big grin on his face. " _Good?"_ he asked.

Jordan nodded slowly.

She was so cute. Sigh, now I want a daughter again; and I _just_ got over it, too. She was serious about wanting a girl, but she hadn't talked to Tim yet. No point, really, since now wasn't the right now. All she could accomplish was finding out whether he wanted another baby or not. He implied that he was up for it, but she wanted to make sure. Blake wasn't exactly planned, so it's not like they ever sat down and seriously discussed having children before she got pregnant. They broached the topic, sure, but when they did, conception was always in the future, never right now. This time around, she wanted to know where he stood on the matter. If he didn't want more children, well...that blew, but okay, not much she could do about it. She was pretty sure he did want another one. I mean, why wouldn't he? Her babies were _awesome_.

Blake went over to the couch and climbed on. Jordan followed, sitting beside him and drinking from her sippy cup. Guess they're all tired out. Alex leaned over, picked the remote up off the coffee table, and turned the TV on, cycling through the stations until she found Nickelodeon. Oooh, _Rocko's Modern Life_ \- she liked that show, it had a lot, ahem, adult humor.

"You guys watch TV and relax," she said and got to her feet, "I'm going to go see what everyone wants for dinner." She start toward the kitchen but stopped when something occurred to her. "Don't eat anymore chocolate. You'll spoil your dinner."

Ew, I sound just like Mom.

The two toddlers were so transfixed by the cartoon that they didn't even know there _was_ more chocolate. Wow, her son and his friend were a couple of weirdos. Shaking her head, she went into the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Jordan looked over her shoulder, saw the coast was clear, then climbed down, picked the tray up, and sat it on the couch next to Blake. She scurried back on and took one of the chocolates; Blake grabbed another and absently jammed it into his mouth. Jordan started to do the same, but stopped and furrowed her brow in thought. If one was good, two would be even better.

In the kitchen, Alex sat beside Jessy at the table. "So, are we ordering pizza?" she asked.

"I guess," Lori said indifferently.

"Pizza sounds nice," Tim's mother said.

Alrighty then. Alex got up, crossed to the phone, and dialed the number's to Pissy''s, a new place that opened in the Royal Woods Shopping Center last year. Their pizza was the _best_. She ordered four cheese pies because she was too lazy to track down everyone's favorite toppings, then hung up. She sat next to Jessy again and nudged her in the ribs. "So, when are you and Mark moving into the apartment?"

"Next week," Jessy said.

Alex nodded appreciatively. "Nervous?"

Jessy thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Not really. I sat down and drew up a budget. If we stick to it we should be fine." She paused, then added, "barring unforeseen circumstances."

"Such as job loss," Mark put in, "protracted illness, needing a new vehicle, or alien invasion."

Tim's mother arched her brow and turned to him. "Alien invasion?" There was a hint of disappointment in her voice. _You should know better than to be so childish, Markothee,_ it said. Or would that be _Markolomew?_ Whatever the formal version of Mark was. She was the only person on earth of called her Alejandra except for the secretary at the doctor's office and the people at the DMV. Sometimes she almost didn't answer to t because she was so used to _Alex_ that she forgot it was short for something.

"It's an unforeseen circumstance," Mark said with a shrug.

"I doubt that'll happen," Jessy said. "But if it does, paying our rent will be the least of our worries."

"Not necessarily," Mark said. "They'll raise our taxes higher than Democrats."

In the dining room, Dad snorted. When you called him from the other side of the house, he never heard because _gee, I'm getting old and my ears don't work right,_ but make fun of the president or liberals, and he'd pick up on it from 50,000 yards. "I figured he'd like that," Mark said.

"Taxes are how we have things like roads and schools, Mark," Tim's mother pointed out. While her husband was more of a Republican, she was a full blooded Democrat. Last Thanksgiving, everyone came over here, and when Dad saw the Clinton/Gore sticker on her bumper, he had a heart attack. _She's one of_ them, he sneered. _A liberal?_ Alex asked. _No, a partisan in general._ She didn't sermonize, but if you blasphemed against her party (DOP?), she took exception.

Mark nodded. "It's also how we have a deficit."

Dad snorted again and Alex looked bemusedly around. Where was this guy, hiding in the vents?

"And a military."

"And…" Mark started but trailed off. "I got nothing. Sorry, Mr. Loud."

Tim's mother could have accepted that her nephew was just messing with her and let it drop, but chose not to. She started listing all of the wonderful things our tax dollars pay for, and Alex suddenly remembered that she had something to do in the living room - not listen to politics. She didn't mind, though, the living room was cooler anyway; it had chocolate balls.

Blake and Jordan sat side-by-side on the couch, their eyes glued to the screen. "Hey, guys," Alex said as she walked up, "how's that cartoon treating yo -"

Her words died. The tray sat between Blake and Jordan...entirely empty. She whipped her eyes to their faces, and oh my God, chocolate _everywhere_. Their lips, their foreheads, their hands, the fronts of their shirts, Jordan even had some in one of her pigtails...how, Alex didn't know, and she was an expert on being messy. They both looked up at her; Blake beamed, lifted his hand, and wiggled it. _Hi, Mom, how was the kitchen?_

Maybe another mom would have been angry...maybe she _should_ have been angry (since she specifically said _no more chocolate_ ), but Alex Underwood just didn't have it in her. Even if they _did_ eat all the chocolate and didn't leave any for her.

Little toads.

"Stay right there," she said, "I'm getting the camera." She found it on the dining room table, brought it back to the couch, and raised the viewfinder to her eye. "Say cheese."

She snapped a picture. "Now let's see if you spoiled your dinner."

They didn't; they both ate like three hundred pound truckers - pizza, cake, ice cream, the works. Alex sat there in stunned amazement and watched them gobble up everything on their plates then ask for more.

Wow. And I thought _I_ was bad.

All that sugar lead inevitably to a high...and to two crazy kids tearing through the living room like psychopaths. "Jesus H.," Dad muttered to himself when Blake crashed into the TV stand and nearly knocked it over. "Kid's a nutcase. Just like his mother."

Alex resembled that remark, but didn't have time to argue - Blake was climbing onto the coffee table and giggling hysterically as though the idea of falling and cracking his skull open was the funniest thing ever. "Get down from there!" she yelled and flew over. "You're gonna bust your head open."

The chocolate fueled madness last almost a full hour before Blake and Jordan finally settled down. Alex sat them next to each other on the couch and went to get Blake's presents. When she returned, they were both asleep, their heads lulling against their chests. Awwww. "Tim," Alex said, "get the camera."


	176. September 1993: Part 1

**Guest: Thanks, you too. I'm not a huge football fan, but I like the Pats. They've consistently been a solid team since I started paying attention in 2004 and I can't help but respect them.**

 **TheCartoonist294: ...do you** _ **want**_ **it to be over? Because it's still got a ways to go. I'm currently writing August 1997 right now. Home stretch.**

* * *

 _ **Runaway train never going back  
Wrong way on a one way track  
Seems like I should be getting somewhere  
Somehow I'm neither here nor there  
Can you help me remember how to smile  
Make it somehow all seem worthwhile  
How on earth did I get so jaded  
Life's mystery seems so faded**_

 **Soul Asylum, _Runaway Train_ (1993)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _All Apologies_ by Nirvana (1993)**

Tuesday, September 7, 1993 was the day Luan realized that she couldn't take care of her mother anymore.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her and her graying hair hanging messily in her face, she trembled slightly, one eye twitching and her nerves so frayed that every normal house sound - the fridge kicking on, the rattle of the coffee pot, the ticking of the clock - grated her like sandpaper to an open wound. She took a sip, the mug shaking in her grasp, then sat the mug down with a clunk. She drew a deep breath, held her face in her tremoring hands, and blinked unspent sleep from her grainy eyes. What time was it? Did it even matter? Her days smeared together in an inky blur of exhaustion and torment, broken neither by the fall of night nor the changing of seasons. She hadn't left the house since Mom became bed-bound in May and sometimes she stared out the front window with a mixture of longing and resentment that both shocked and sickened her. The house, once so big and spacious, grew smaller, more cramped, with every passing week, and hysterical panic clawed at her chest; she felt like she was drowning, water filling her lungs, choking her, closing over her head, pulling her down, down.

It was easier in the evenings when Fred was here, and Alex came over on her days off to help with giving Mom sponge baths, which was a godsend since Luan couldn't do it alone. Lori always had an excuse for why she was _just too busy,_ and not hating her was hard. Seeing Mom like this killed her, but it killed Luan too and _she_ did it. She changed Mom, fed her, got her dressed and undressed, turned her hourly so she didn't develop bedsores (Alex said she didn't have to do it that often but she did anyway), she sat with her, talked to her - what did Lori do? Nothing. She did absolutely nothing but freeze up like a deer in the headlights when Luan asked her for help. Help she needed now more than ever - Mom's lucid moments happened about as often as Lori coming over, and the amount of care she needed seemed to increase just a little with every passing minute.

This afternoon, like she was far too much lately, Luan was completely and utterly alone.

With Mom.

As if on cue, a loud, wordless cry of fury resounded through the house, and Luan jerked, her knees banging into the underside of the table. The mug tipped over and coffee swept across the surface. Hot, stinging tears welled in her eyes and she threaded her fingers through her hair, tugging as if by doing so she could wake herself from the living nightmare her life had become.

The howl came again, long, wavering, throat-rending, and Luan got to her feet. Coffee dripped onto the linoleum and the cup rolled forlornly back and forth. Another mess for her to clean up. She went into the living room, up the stairs, and down the hall, slimey dread uncoiling in her stomach; her steps were slow and plodding, delaying the inevitable. At her mother's open bedroom door, she forced herself to inhale, then exhale, but it did little to relieve the seething pressure in her breast.

It wasn't Mom's fault.

That had been her mantra for six months - Mom was sick and not herself anymore. Her mind was gone, _she_ was gone, she couldn't control the things she did; all the slapping, biting, intentionally shitting on herself and smirking contemptuously at Luan as she cleaned it up. _You missed a spot_. She repeated those same four words so many times they no longer held any meaning. It wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault, it wasn't Mom's fault.

Even so, there were times Luan caught herself glowering at the old woman and coming so close to raw loathing it scared her. If she could, she'd walk away, get one of the many photo albums from the cabinet downstairs, and go over it in an attempt to quell the darkness and recall the happier times.

She loved her mother; she loved her with everything she had and she intended to follow through on her sacred vow to care for her until the end.

But that _thing_ in Mom's bed wasn't her. It was something else...something monstrous. She could never hate her mother, the woman who stood steadfastly by her side despite what she did to Harold Manning, the woman who took her in when she got out of prison, the woman who never stopped loving and nurturing her even when she, Luan, was well into middle age. Never. Hating that _thing,_ though, was all too easy, and if she let herself...she would.

She steeled her resolve and went inside.

Because light bothered Mom, the drapes were heavily closed, reducing the room to a chilly nest of perpetual gloom that reminded Luan of an underground crypt. Strange and bellicose shapes loomed from the shadows like like the risen dead, and the stench of stale piss and disinfectant pinched Luan's nostrils. No matter how much Glade she used or how long she left the windows open, the smell lingered, so faint that it was somehow more horrible than it would have been had it been cloying. Sometimes, when she was working in the garden during one of Mom's naps, she imagined she could smell it over the roses.

Mom lay in bed, flat on her back under a pile of blankets; she was always cold, and in Luan's darker moments, she imagined it was with the chill of coming death, Her head whipped back and forth, her thin white hair rustling against the pillowcase like a soft, foreboding whisper, and a pained moan burst from her working throat. Luan's step faltered and her stomach twisted as though she were approaching an alien and potentially dangerous being. Every muscle in her body quivered with the command to turn around and leave, but she forced herself on, standing at the bedside now, staring down at Mom's sunken face. Her sallow flesh was thin and splotched with age spots and bruises from where she hit herself in mindless frustration. Her eyes, yellow like those of a sickly animal, were clouded with dementia, and her chapped lips moved in silent speech. She'd lost a lot of weight over the past year, going from 190 to 120 as the life gradually drained from her shrinking frame. Luan reached tentatively out and laid her hand on Mom's forehead. Her skin was clammy and slick with sweat. She stopped moving and stared up at her. Luan swallowed and found her voice. "What's wrong, Mom?"

"They're making too much noise," Mom breathed. "I can't sleep in a place like this."

"No one's making noise, Mom," Luan explained as patiently as she could. She stroked Mom's hair and inwardly recoiled at the greasy feeling of her skin.

Mom pulled sharply away, her decrepit features hardening. As Luan feared, she was going to be upset. "Yes they are!" she replied indignantly. "They're thundering the walls and keeping me up. Stop _lying._ " She hissed the final word with shocking venom. She could tell herself that this wasn't _really_ her mother, that she was confused and even crazy, but none of those excuses made her words sting any less. Sometimes when Mom did this, she got carried away and plead her case as though Mom's thought processes were normal and she was upset over a legitimate misunderstanding. On some level, she knew it was hopeless, but she didn't want her mother to be angry with her regardless.

"Mom," she said, keeping her voice steady and non-confrontational, the way the books said to, "no one is here but me and you. Maybe it was a dream." She ran her fingers comfortingly through Mom's hair and forced a winning smile. "Or something outside."

Luan could see the cogs and wheels turning in her mother's beleaguered mind. For a hopeful second, she thought the situation had been defused...then a shadow rippled across Mom's face and she raked her nails hard over the back of Luan's hand. Pain shot up her arm and she gasped in surprise. "Get away from me," Mom spat, and the unbridled _hatred_ in her voice knocked Luan back a step. The old woman's eyes blazed with malice and her lips pulled back from her crooked teeth in a vicious sneer. Luan gaped at her in horror...the thing didn't even look like Mom anymore, but a grotesque and mocking parody instead. Mom said something else, but Luan was already crying into her hands and running into the hall, her determination crumbling and everything she'd been bottling up for the past six months - the hate, fury, exhaustion, terror, grief, and misery unleashing in a raging torrent. Mom's menacing voice followed her all the way down the stairs and through the living room, where she tripped over her own feet and fell to the floor in a tangled heap.

The tears came faster, and she gave into them, her hitching, broken sobs rising like a white flag of surrender. She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't stand to watch Mom sinking irrevocably into madness; couldn't stand to stay up with her around the clock; couldn't take the abuse; couldn't bear to feel bitter acrimony. She wanted to be there for Mom the way Mom was always there for her, but she couldn't, she just couldn't.

She was a failure as a daughter, and that realization made her cry even harder. She rolled limply onto her side, drew her knees to her chest, and hugged herself tightly. _I'm sorry, Mom,_ she thought, _I can't do this._

" _...I can't…"_ she wept.

* * *

September 7 was the first day of school in Royal County, and the first day of Jessy Loud's full-time teaching career. Up until then, she was but a lowly substitute - basically an intern - and worked when one of the _real_ teachers couldn't. In May, however, the sixth grade history teacher at Royal County Elementary put in his resignation and she was the first one the administration offered the position to; they cited her hard work, positive attitude, dedication, and flexibility.

The latter meant _working whenever we ask you to_. Owing to the nature of substitute teaching - not knowing you were going to have a class sometimes until the very last second - a lot of substitutes have to forego working in favor of other obligations. Not Jessy. She made sure that her schedule was clear just in case, and if it wasn't, she _made_ it clear. Because of this, she quickly became the school district's go-to, an arrangement she was more than happy with as she got to teach many different subjects and grade levels, from first all the way to eighth. She could confidently cover science, history, English, math, and civics.

In March, she and Mark moved into their new apartment in Elk Park. Finances were tight, but after a long evening sitting at the kitchen table with a calculator, bills, pay stubs, a pen, and lots of writing paper, she worked out a budget that would carry them well into next year. Adhering to it was hard for neither her or Mark. They weren't expensive or materialistic people, and since both of them loved to read and talk, they didn't even need cable. They had a TV and a VCR, but they watched movies only occasionally. Most evenings, they cuddled on the couch and read, or Mark worked on one of his computers while Jessy graded papers.

She didn't like not having very much wiggle room when it came to money - life is filled with unforeseen circumstances - and that, in part, lead her to take any class she could get. On days that she didn't teach, she worked at Flip's, sometimes from open to close. Most of her income came from tips, which inspired her to be the best waitress she could. In the beginning, walking up to someone she didn't know, smiling, and engaging them wasn't easy...at all...but after doing it so much, social interactions didn't make her as nervous as they once did. Teaching helped too - almost every time she went to school, she walked into a new classroom filled with new faces. Ten years ago, the prospect of doing that would have struck terror into her heart. Today, it was just a matter of course.

On the morning of September 7, she woke to her alarm at 5:30. Mark's arm was draped over her shoulder and his face buried in her hair, the rhythmic puff of his hot breath against the back of her neck making her skin tingle. She shifted, and his morning wood insistently prodded her butt cheek. Sorry, no time for that, maybe later.

She leaned over, slapped the OFF button, and sat up. Mark stirred and rolled onto his back, one hand fluttering to his bare chest. "You can sleep a little later, you know," he muttered.

Class didn't start until 7:15. She had to shower, get dressed, drive to school, and get everything ready for her students. As it stood, 5:30 was pushing it. "No I can't," she said. "I should really get up earlier...but I'm lazy."

He turned his head and pried his eyes open to narrow slits. "Shower in the evening and -"

"No," she said, "I like showering in the morning."

He shrugged. Too tired to argue. "Okay."

Leaning over, she pecked his forehead and got up. In the bathroom, the tiles cold underfoot, she pulled her nightgown over her head, tossed it into the dirty clothes hamper, and turned the faucet on. Like everything else in the apartment, the bathroom was cramped, but she didn't mind. When the temperature was to her liking, she pulled the converter and got in, the water pounding against her back. She lathered with soap and rinsed, then washed her hair, an airy hum slipping from her lips. She was _very_ excited for today. Not only was she finally a real teacher, but she would be making more money. Hers and Mark's budget would no longer be suffocating - they could afford extras now. Like...she couldn't think of anything roff the top of her head, but something would come to her eventually. Most of the surplus money was going into the bank, though. Her plan, as vague as it may be, was to buy a house by the year 2000. Not a big house, just enough for her, Mark, and any children they might have.

She and Mark decided to put on having a baby until they were both settled into good jobs. Jessy, for her part, already was, now Mark just needed to find something better than repairing computers. He and a friend from the shop named Will were developing an operating system that, he claimed, would be faster, cheaper, and more efficient than Microsoft Windows - they spent Fridays and Saturdays working on it in Will's garage. Jessy still didn't understand how things like operating systems, the internet, the World Wide Web (used interchangeably with _internet_ but not the same), or software worked, even though Mark patiently explained it to her a thousand times over the years, but he thought they were onto something. _This is going to make us rich,_ he said once, _hope you like caviar, because we'll be obligated to eat it every night_.

No, she didn't, but being rich sounded nice. Their children could go to the best schools, then maybe to Harvard, and she and Mark would never have to worry about restrictive financing ever again.

Cutting the spray, she grabbed her towel, dried off, and got out. She wrapped it around herself, brushed her hair in the mirror, and pulled it back into a bun. After brushing her teeth and gurgling with mouthwash, she dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white blouse, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her shoes on. Mark lay on his side, snoring, and before she left, she kissed his nose. "I'm going now," she said.

"Good luck," he muttered tiredly. "Imagine them in their underwear."

Jessy's brow creased. "What?"

"To help with nerves," he added, barely above a whisper. "I...I hear it helps."

Oh. She smiled and patted his chest - his skin was warm soft under her touch, and she regretted not having time to slip under the covers and touch him more extensively. "I don't need to do that," she said resolutely.

"Not nervous?" he asked.

She considered her reply. "A little, but I _am_ officially starting my career today and I want to make a good impression. I don't think envisioning my students in their underwear will help with that."

"Yeah," he mumbled, "probably not. Imagine the principal in his."

Jessy gasped in horror. The principal, Mr. Sellers, was forty-eight, balding, and weighed approximately three hundred pounds; he panted and perspired the entire time Jessy had known him, even when he wasn't moving. She would never think of him as disgusting or anything like that, but she still did not particularly want to see him in his underwear. "Ew, Mark." She bopped him on the head and he chuckled. "I have to go. I love you."

"I love you too," he said.

Outside, the day was bright and warm, a fragrant wind slipping through the boughs of the trees lining the street. Sleepy little houses, their facades cast in shadows by the dense foliage around them, sat back from the sidewalks, putting Jessy in mind of quaint woodland cabins where elves went about their chores while sing merry tunes. She loved this neighborhood and hoped that she and Mark could one day find a house in it, but that was maybe a little much to ask.

She went to her Beetle at the curb, climbed in, and threw her purse onto the passenger seat. She started the engine, and the radio came on with a spot for _Seinfeld_. That was one of the few television shows she liked - the cerebral and irrelevant humor made her giggle.

Pulling away, she set a course for school...and her future.

* * *

From the time he was a boy, Clyde McBride loved the sea. He didn't know what about it attracted him, but just looking out into the vast blue expanse of an ocean made him feel warm and tingly. Before joining the service, he read everything pertaining to water he could lay his hands on, from dry oceanographic texts to pulse pounding adventure stories like _Moby Dick_ and _A High Wind in Jamaica_. Every summer between 1955 and 1965, his father would take him and his mother to Lake Michigan for a week, and Clyde passed the majority of his time in the water or sitting on the shore and contemplating the power and majesty of the surf. He always knew, deep down, that he wanted to be a mariner of some sort; when he entered the navy, he imagined himself as a deck officer on an aircraft carrier or as the captain of a destroyer. Shortly after, however, he fell in love with flight, and became a helicopter pilot instead.

His infatuation with the sea never waned, however, and it was only logical that for his honeymoon, he would suggest a cruise.

On August 30, he and Carol were married in the First Methodist Church in Buffalo, a quaint building with white clapboard siding and a steeple that looked out of place in the gray urban sprawl surrounding it. The pews, mostly empty, were gleaming oak and the floor covered with carpet the color of baptismal wine; a giant wooden cross stood upon the altar, the sunlight streaming through a stained glass window suffusing it with a heavenly glow. Clyde was not a religious man, but he believed in God, and standing before it, he could feel the presence of the Almighty.

He wore a tux that fit tight around his chest because he gave his tailor the wrong measurements, and Carol a white dress and vail far too beautiful to be seen by only a handful of people. She carried a bouquet of pink carnations not because they symbolized anything, but because they were her favorite flower. Watching her come down the sun lit aisle, Clyde couldn't help being bowled over by the fact that she was his. He wasn't what one would call a ladies man, but he'd been with women; none, however, were as beautiful and vivacious as Carol Pingrey, none exuded the same radiance of heart and mind, none felt so right in his arms and by his side. On reflection, there were so many dimensions to his love for her that he couldn't even begin to name or categorize them all. Simply saying that he loved _her_ would have to suffice.

They exchanged vows, kissed, and went back down the aisle together as man and wife. They spent that first night of holy matrimony in their American Foursquare on Busti Avenue overlooking Front Park. They snuggled on the couch and watched CNN; ate take out Chinese, and made love in their big, four poster bed. A quiet and unremarkable evening, but one that Clyde would forever cherish. He flew missions in Vietnam and Iran, served two terms as governor of New York State, and once crashed a Boeing CH-47 into the South China Sea - he was content with being boring from here on out.

In the morning, they ate breakfast together, kissed, and went their separate ways, Carol to the studio and Clyde to his job at the Buffalo Policy Institute, a conservative think tank that worked closely with the Republican Party. He started in in June, shortly after he moved to the city and bought the house with Carol. Democrats controlled the White House, the Senate, and the House, so much of their work was focused on crafting policy that would help secure Republican victories in the 1994 midterms. Clyde's pet project was pushing for an agenda that better targeted black and Latino voters; both groups voted for Democrats en masse, but were socially conservative. If the GOP put more effort into courting them, they'd not only gain a valuable voting block, they'd also effectively steal two important cornerstones of the Democratic foundation. Of course, the main focus was still on values voters - the evangelicals, pro-lifers, and Christian coalition. He did not believe that any of the men or women he worked alongside were racist, but it was a sad fact of life that many average Republicans were, and many politicians are terrified of alienating them by appearing to "pander" to minorities.

Both parties have a base. The way to win an election is to built upon it with moderates and independents while at the same time retaining your base. Doing something to disenfranchise your base is largely verboten. Clyde believed the risk was worth it, but everyone else at the BPI were overly cautious and (perhaps unironically) conservative, therefore unwilling to take a leap of faith. He couldn't say they were wrong in being apprehensive, it _was_ a gamble, but one that would pay off tenfold if done right. The GOP had a largely unwarranted reputation for being unfriendly, apathetic, or even outright hostile to minority voter. It desperately needed to shed that image going into the 21st Century by appealing more to blacks and Hispanics, but Clyde wasn't sure it could - if it didn't, one day, maybe in twenty years or maybe forty, it would fall into the ashbin of history.

Another issue he concentrated on was immigration reform. He was a staunch supporter of Ronald Reagan during the eighties, but he vehemently disagreed with the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986, which granted sweeping amnesty to illegals who entered the country before January 1, 1982 (under certain conditions such as not having a criminal record and possessing at least a passing knowledge of U.S. civics and the English language). Our borders exist for a reason, and so too do the laws that govern them. You can work to change them, but failing to enforce them is indefensible. No president, no congressman, and no police officer, should be allowed to cherry pick what laws will be applied and which will not. On the more pragmatic side of things, the '86 amnesty was little more than a flashing neon sign to every inhabitant of every other country: WE'RE NOT SERIOUS ABOUT OUR IMMIGRATION PROCESS! COME IN ILLEGALLY, IT'S OKAY! It would only inspire more people to come in illegally. Yes, the immigration process was needlessly complicated, but it was in place, and until reformed, Clyde believed that it should be respected. If it was not, and if the system was not comprehensively overhauled, illegal immigration would be a hot button topic for decades to come...and the Democrats would play white knight standing at the border with open arms. _We're here for_ you, _padre, just vote Democrat on November 4th and we'll make all your little dreams come true_.

Same thing they did with blacks.

All that day, people stopped by his office to offer their congratulations and well wishes. On the way home, he stopped for milk at the supermarket, and in the check out lane, the cover of the _New York Post_ stared back at him from the magazine rack, a blurry photo of him and Carol exiting the church splashed across the cover. _**Ex-Gov Marries Mistress in Secret Ceremony**_ screamed the headline. Aw, God. You can't do shit in this country as a politician without someone selling it to the tabloids. Plus, the wedding wasn't secret at all - they just didn't advertise it.

He grabbed a copy, and later, at home, he and Carol read the story together, laughing at all the inaccuracies. "I can't stand them," she said at the end and shook her head. "They are the biggest purveyors of yellow journalism in the state."

"The Weekly World News is worse," Clyde pointed out.

"Well, that's _obviously_ fiction," Carol replied. "The New York Post purports to be an actual newspaper."

True. Their sensationalism was legendary (who could forget the _**Headless Body in Topless Bar**_ headline?) and if he had his way, they'd be shut down. He believed wholeheartedly in freedom of the press, but the media needed to be held accountable for perpetuating lies.

On September 2, he and Carol flew to Miami from LaGuardia and boarded the _Carnival Ecstasy_ the next day for a five day, four night excursion around the Caribbean Sea with stops in Jamaica, The Bahamas, Barbados, and Aruba. The ship towered over the waterfront, sleek, lean, and twelve decks high with a red funnel on the aft poop shaped like a whale's back fin. Glimpsed from the back of a taxi, it was the most breathtaking vessel Clyde had ever seen. "Oooh, it's pretty," Carol said from beside him; and squeezed his hand. "And very big."

"I've seen bigger," Clyde said honestly.

"Have you seen _better?"_ she asked with a playful hilt.

He thought for a moment. "No, I haven't."

The ship departed an hour later, and Clyde stood at the railing and watched the crowded Miami skyline drift slowly into the distance, the Art Deco buildings lining the South Beach waterfront standing tall against the dusty blue heavens like a canvas backdrop. Carol slipped her arm around his waist and hummed. "For some reason, I never knew Miami was so _big_."

A warm, salty breeze rushed over them like Poseidon's gentle caress, and gulls cried overhead. Bright sunshine danced on the surface of the crystalline water.

"Compared to New York, it's not," Clyde said.

"Well of course it's not. There aren't many cities as big as the Big Apple." She rested her head on his shoulder. "Los Angeles, maybe."

"Tokyo," Clyde said instantly and circled his arm around her shoulders.

"That's not an American city, it doesn't count."

Clyde turned his head to face her. The wind rustled her hair and the sun sparkled in her blue eyes. A sharp pang of affection cut through his stomach and he put his forehead to hers. "You didn't say it had to be an American city," he said.

"I just did," she replied with a smug, closed mouth little grin.

Clyde kissed her. "That's cheating."

On September 7, the final day of the trip, the _Carnival Ecstasy_ docked at the port of Nassau, in the Bahamas. Clear blue water lapped at white, sandy shores and colorful, Spanish flavored structures flanked narrow lanes. Many tourists stick to the beaches and resorts that cater specifically to American vacationers, but Clyde and Carol decided on a more "authentic experience" as Carol put it. They browsed the open air market near the harbor and watched street performers in traditional Bahamian garb dance like frenzied Pentecostals in the midst of religious rapture. Sweat sheened their brown faces and the pounding of drums lent the scene an almost hypnotic air. They had a lunch of cracked conch at a corner cafe where the blades of a laboring ceiling fan barely stirred stagnant air and the walls peeled neon blue paint.

Afterwards, they made their way toward the ship, the top of which could be seen over the roofs of shops and pubs along the street, getting there just as a whistle blew, calling all passengers to return for departure. From Nassau, they would sail west back to Miami, arriving before sundown.

"I almost don't want to go back," Carol said later. They stood arm and arm at the railing again, the sun beginning to sink over the horizon and its reddish light lying over the waves like liquid fire.

"Me too," Clyde said.

"Maybe we should do this again," she said. "For Christmas."

"Maybe."

"And my birthday."

"Well…"

"And _your_ birthday."

"Hmmm."

"Fourth of July. President's Day. Veteran's Day."

Clyde laughed. "How about we just buy the ship? That'd be cheaper."

For a long moment, Carol was silent, then: "Okay, that works."

* * *

Alex Underwood had a new nickname at work thanks to Tom, a nickname that genuinely got under her skin, a nickname that she was _this_ close to blowing up over because he just would not stop calling her by it.

On the last day of August, Alex was tasked by the DON with cleaning out one of the empty rooms and filling it with unused medical equipment: Heart monitors, EKG machines, etc. It took her most of her shift, but she did it. She went to the nurse's station, waited for the DON to be done berating a new hire for letting Mr. Gerkin fall out of bed, then lead her to the room. "I arranged it all according to size," she explained proudly. "Biggest to smallest. Took for _ever_."

She opened the door with a flourish. "Wah-lah!"

"Oh my God!" the DON cried in horror.

Huh. Guess she doesn't like -

That thought cut off when Alex turned. Water gushed from a giant, ragged hole in the ceiling and splashed onto all of that sensitive electrical stuff like Niagra Falls. A pipe that hadn't been touched since the place opened in 1965 picked this of all days to burst, and it ruined nearly a hundred thousand dollars worth of life-sustaining technology. It wasn't her fault (act of God, the DON called it), but she blamed herself nevertheless. In the breakroom, she sat heavily on a thin, institutional sofa, held her face in her hands, and drew a deep sigh while Margo attempted to console her. _It's not like you did it,_ she offered. _Things happen._

True, but still.

Anyway, she was just starting to not hate herself anymore when Tom came in, big as life and twice as ugly. A few months back, Alex walked into an empty room to change the linens and found him and Bob...doing something, and ever since, she had the impression that he was mad at her. Like, sorry I caught you and Bob having sex AT WORK, how silly of me to not assume you guys were in there taking turns at each other's butts. She didn't know if they really took turns or not, but when she walked in on them, Bob was, uh, "the man" and Tom was "the woman." That's to say, uh...goddamn it, Bob was fucking him in the ass, okay? Knowing Tom, he didn't like that someone caught him in the submissive role since he made such a big deal about not being a fag. His words. _I'm not a fag like Bob. Bending over and taking it in the ass like a woman, pfft. I'm the dom._

Because she could say first hand that that wasn't the case, he resented her, and had been picking on her extra hard. That didn't bother her...until the day he called her "Blunderwood" for the first time.

 _Hey, Blunderwood, heard you pulled a boner. Way to fucking deplete our overstock, dumbass. Hope no one needs a defibrillator tonight. You killed the only one that worked._

Oh, Jesus, she did?

She spent the whole night laying in bed and worrying that someone was going to die because of her, but thank God they didn't. Whew. She was out of the woods, folks.

Except when it came to Tom. Every time they crossed paths, he nodded in greeting. ' _Sup, Blunderwood?_ At first she took it like she did all of his other insults, but after the twenty thousandth time, it started to get on her nerves. Then, the DON accidentally called her that instead of Underwood, which sent the entire break room into a fit of hysterical laughter: _Hehehe, hawhawhaw, hohoho._ After that, _everyone_ was doing it.

But no one more than Tom. She hinted around that he was starting to piss her off, but that only made it worse. They'd pass in the halls and he'd favor her with a sadistic twinkle in his eye, the corners of his mouth carving up in a sharp, reptilian smile. _What'cha gonna drown today, Blunderwood?_

You if you don't knock it off.

Tom, she decided, was, at heart, a bully, and the way you deal with a bully is to ignore them; if they see that they're getting a rise out of you, they'll keep at you like cancer. If they _don't_ see a reaction, they'll move onto easier prey. Alex couldn't let him know how much he was agitating her, but she was starting to reach the end of her rope with this Blunderwood shit.

On September 7, she switched shifts with another girl and worked 7-3 so that she could take Blake to Jordan's birthday party at five. She went the entire day without hearing that awful, awful moniker, and by the time she jumped in her car and started home, she was lighter and happier than she had been all week. Driving through the golden autumn pre-autumn sunshine, she sang along to Nirvana on the radio.

 _What else should I be  
All apologies  
What else could I say  
Everyone is gay  
_  
Even as she spoke it, that last word reminded her of Tom, and her eyes narrowed. She'd known a lot of people in her life, but she had never both liked and disliked someone at the same time the way she did him. The term 'love-hate relationship' came to mind, though that implied that the emotions occur separately, like a half and half pizza (one side meatlovers and the other side veggie lovers...ummmm). What she fet for Tom was more like a chocolate and vanilla swirl soft serve, the hate mixed inextricably with the love.

Great, now she was hungry.

Half an hour later, after stopping at McDonald's for an ice cream cone and pounding it down as quick as she could, she picked Bake up from Busy Bees. He was zooming a car back and forth on the carpet with Jordan and a little black boy when she walked in, all three of them on their knees and staring intently at the toy like cats at a ball of yarn. Alex walked over and waited for him to acknowledge her, but he didn't. "Ready to go?" she asked.

He looked up, smiled _real_ big...then went back to playing.

Guess not.

She finally lured him away with promises of ice cream, but not before he and Jordan enthusiastically shook hands as if to celebrate a job well done. "Are you coming to my party?" she asked Alex, her head tilting back and her little teeth baring in an anxious smile.

"Of course we are," Alex said and picked up her son. "Blake got you a _real_ cool gift." She looked at the little boy. "Didn't you?"

"Yeah!" he cried and kicked his legs. He probably didn't remember what "he" got her, but the mention of the word _gift_ was enough to get him excited.

"Okay," Jordan said, then her brow furrowed severely. "Don't be late." She held up index finger and flexed it like the little boy in _The Shining_.

Well, I was planning on it, but not anymore, sheesh.

At home, Alex threw Blake in the tub and gave him a bubble bath. "Remember what you got Jordan?" she asked and smeared a dollop of white foam across the tip his nose.

He nodded.

"What?" she asked.

His smile faltered and his eyes flicked to the side in thought. "Toy," he said shyly.

"What _kind_ of toy?"

He hummed...then smacked the water with a laugh, his way of deflecting the question.

Jordan, being a girl, loved anything having to do with Barbie. She had a Barbie backpack, a Barbie lunchbox, and walked around with a Barbie doll shoved into the back of her pants like a gun in a holster. When Alex took Blake to K-Mart to look for a gift, she knew that it had to be Barbie themed, but that was it. A doll? Nah, too generic. This was her favorite guy's very first friend, she had to _really_ go the extra mile. She went up and down the girl alse, the sheer amount of pink around her disorienting (like being in the heart of a blinding snowstorm). Barbie cars, Barbie Dream Houses, big packs of little plastic accessories (Jordan was turning four, and those were labeled 3+, so she put them in the maybe pile). None of that stuff really jumped out, snatched a handful of her hair, and screamed BUY ME, BITCH!

Then she turned a corner and came face-to-face with the _perfect_ gift. A pink Barbie Power Wheel Jeep thing. The picture on the box showed two little girls sitting in it and giggling like they were having the best time ever. "Oh, wow," she said and picked it up; it was heavy as hell and awkward, but so were a lot of her residents, so she was used to it. "Score," she sang. "You wanna get this for Jordan?"

Blake didn't reply because he was munching a chocolate bar, but she figured he'd agree: He had one that looked like a monster truck and he _loved_ it: He drove in circles and crashed into things with a maniacal laugh that melted Alex's heart. _Mommy's little villain,_ she called him, because he reminded her of that guy in James Bond when he thought he was going to take over the world.

"Of course you do," she said.

Presently, Blake picked up a rubber ducky and squirted water at her; it shot from the blow hole in a jet and hit her in the face. She winced and waited for the stream to die before fixing him with a faux-stern look. " _You're_ the one taking a bath, mister, I take my baths later." She dipped her hand into the tub and splashed him. He whipped his head protectively to one side and laughed.

Bath time over, Alex wrapped Blake in a towel, carried him into the living room, and laid him on the couch. "Stay right here," she said and held up a finger. She went into his room, grabbed his clothes, and got him dressed: Tan pants and a little sweater vest over a blue shirt and red tie. She picked the outfit up at the Salvation Army in Chippewa Falls a couple weeks ago on one of her payday shopping sprees and had been itching for an excuse for him to wear it since. "You look like a little college professor," she crowed and clasped her hands to her chest. "How's my GPA doing, teach? Am I gonna pass?"

Blake shook his head.

"I'm not?"

He nodded.

"I am?"

He shook his head.

Jeez, kid, make up your mind, am I gonna flunk or not?

At 4:30, she strapped Blake into his car seat and drove through the sun drenched streets of Royal Woods with the windows down and the radio on: Someone named Yasser Arafat from the PLO (didn't they sing _Don't Bring Me Down?_ ) signed a peace accord in Washington along with a Yitzhak Rabin - Rabin, Rabin...wasn't he a music producer? _Today we bear witness to an extraordinary act,_ Bill Clinton said in that slow, sleepy drawl, _in one of history's defining dramas._ A rivalry between a singer and a record producer is a history defining drama? Pfft.

Just kidding. She knew what they were _really_ talking about. _Those assholes fighting over a sliver of dirt and rock,_ Dad called it - Palestine, Israel, bombings, war, blah blah blah. Alex didn't get political, but she agreed with her father that the Palestine Liberation Organization was a terrorist group and Yasser Arafat was a _pudgy little towel head fascist, fuck him._ Dad said we should go into Israel and "mop up" which, she assumed, meant _butcher the population, raze the buildings, and salt the earth so nothing ever grows again._ She couldn't say she believed in that...and Dad probably didn't either, he just liked listening to himself talk sometimes.

Jordan's family lived in the Marsh Run trailer park on the outskirts of Elk Park, a vast field of gleaming prefab metal arranged across a series of gentle hills and the flat land immediately surrounding them. A maze-like network of streets meandered through the community, passing a playground, a pool, and a big white Grecian-style building with marble columns that Alex took to be some kind of clubhouse. People in light, summery clothes walked dogs, washed cars, and mowed lawns while kids rode bikes, played hopscotch, and skipped rope. Oooh, compared to this place, the apartment complex is a cemetery.

The Nichols' double wide was on Fox Meade Lane, which grades up one of the many hills before evening out and curving sharply to the right. The gray, corrugated metal siding reflected the sun and sparse grass grew up along the white skirting. Cool shadows nested in the wide, covered front porch, and as Blake and Alex climbed the stairs, windchimes tinkled in the warm breeze. A glass patio table surrounded by cushiony chairs sat to the right and a swing like the one at Grandma's house hung suspended from metal chains on the left.

At the storm door, Blake knocked, and a moment later, Jordan appeared in a pair of jean shorts and a black T-shirt with a flower across the chest. She wore a pink fanny pack around her waist and no shoes. "Hi!" she brightened. She reached up and fumbled with the latch, her brow pinching in frustration when she couldn't get it.

"Here, let me help you," Alex said. She pulled the latch and the door pulled open.

"Thank you!"

Blake walked right in like he paid rent and Alex followed, stopping to look down at Jordan. "What'cha got in there?" she asked and nodded to the fanny pack.

"Toys," the little girl piped. She unzipped it and pulled out a tiny doll with blonde hair and a pink skirt. In her fist, it looked like a terrified woman being held fifty stories off the ground by Godzilla. Jordan lifted it up so Alex could see. "Polly."

"Polly's really small," Alex said.

"She didn't eat her vegetables," Jordan said soberly.

"Vegetables are important," Alex said.

Alex had never been inside a trailer before and didn't know what to expect, but every time she saw one of TV, they were dirty, tumbledown, scummy, and host to roaches, rednecks, and Confederate flags. She was mildly surprised, then, by how _nice_ the Nichols' place was. A bar separated the living room from the kitchen, a couch with an Afghan thrown over the back pushed up against it. A highboy laden with knickknacks, doilies ornamental plates on little wooden stands, and framed photos flanked one wall, and an overstuffed armchair faced the TV set. A placard reading BLESS THIS HOUSE was nailed to one wood-paneled wall, and a dining room table straddled the threshold between the living room and kitchen. The brown carpet was clean, the pleasant scent of cinnamon lingered in the air, and a sign saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY hung over the archway. Jordan lead Blake to a toy box in corner, took out a giant Barbie doll, and handed it to him with a proud glow. Blake cocked his eyebrow and took it, turning it this and and that in confusion. _What am I supposed to do with_ this _thing?_

While they played, Alex sat at the bar on a _very_ uncomfortable stool and talked to Jordan's mother, Robin. Slight and thin with curly brown hair and bright red lips, Robin was a senior when Alex was a freshman and currently worked as a dental assistant in Elk Park. Alex vaguely remembered it going around school that she was pregnant but she graduated before she could start showing if she was. Doing a few quick mental equations, she deduced that Robin's oldest, a girl named Veronica, was born less than nine months after her mother accepted her diploma.

Ooooh, scandalous.

Since leaving the hallowed halls of RCHS, Robin had three kids. Veronica in 1984, a boy named Steven in 1988, and Jordan in 1990. Alex loved children and really wanted a daughter of her own, but three kids seemed like a little much. "They're all good kids," Robin said, "they fight a lot though. Veronica just _loves_ picking on her brother." She said the last part with a long suffering inflection, and her smile strained ever so slightly at the corners.

During the course of the afternoon, Alex met both Steven and Veronica - they came in with a giant group of kids, flushed faces abounding, and Robin handed out ice pops to each one, depleting her stock just as surely as Alex depeted Oak Spring's stock of surplus medical equipment. Nine and tall for her age, Veronica wore cargo shorts and a button up with teeny, tiny polka dots, the front tails tied off to reveal a sliver of midriff; her pale blonde hair spilled down her shoulders like wheat and her skin was a sun-baked bronze from spending the entire summer outside. Steven wore jeans and a red T shirt with a dinosaur on the chest; his hair, like his father's, was black and his countenance swarthy.

Jordan's father Andy came home at five in a pick-up truck with HEATON'S HVAC stenciled on the door and a roof rack filled with ladders and staging poles. If Alex had to describe him, she'd say _Good ol' boy Jesus._ His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail and a neatly-trimmed jet black beard covered his face. He wore dark blue work pants, a light blue button-up with his name stitched across the left breast, and a mossy oak camo baseball cap. When she first met him at Blake's party in March, she expected him to have a Southern accent thicker than Lana's, and was shocked that he didn't (even though she kind of knew he wouldn't).

Before cake and ice cream, Alex and Robin's conversation turned to the trailer. The more Alex saw of it, the more she liked it. Trailers get a bad rap, but this one was _nice_ , much bigger than the apartment. It had to be really expensive, not to mention lot rent - they charge you that in trailer parks, right? "How much does this place run you?" Alex asked. Per Robin, it had three bedrooms, two baths, a laundry room, and trash and water were both included.

Robin told her, and her jaw dropped. "That's _it?"_

"It's a little steep, I know."

No it's not, it's a steal! Jeez, she and Tim could afford one of these and have butt loads of money left over.

The rest of the afternoon, Alex turned the prospect of getting a trailer over and over in her mind. She liked that there were lots of kids for Blake to play with, and a playground...oh, and the pool! Man, this place has it all.

Following cake and ice cream, Alex went and fetched the present from the back of the car. It took her two hours and lots of muttered curses, but she wrapped it in pink paper and put a big white bow on top. If she was a little girl and someone brought this to _her_ birthday party, she'd cream her jeans the moment she laid eyes on it. When she brought it through the door, Jordan did just that: Her jaw dropped exaggeratedly and her eyes grew ten times their normal size. Alex felt a rush of pride; ha, blew your fanny pack right off, huh? "What's _that?"_ she asked in breathless wonderment.

"This is your gift," Alex said, a quiver in her voice because wow, this thing's getting heavier. She sat it on the floor in front of the highboy and gave the box a slap. "From Blake. I had nothing to do with it. At all. Except bringing it in just now." She swiped the back of her hand across her brow.

Perhaps hearing his name, Blake toddled over to see what was up. Jordan spun, clasped her hands on his shoulders, and bounced excitedly. "Thank you!" she cried. Blake watched her with a tiny nonplussed smile. _I don't know what I did but, uh, you're welcome._

All of the guests gathered in the living room, the adults on the couch and the kids on the floor. Jordan, as Alex predicted, went for Blake's gift first - come on, look at it, it's irresistible. Sitting on her knees, she lifted up and ripped a long strip of paper from the side, exposing a sliver of pink. She ripped another, bigger piece off and visibly started when she saw the picture of the Jeep. Getting to her feet, she tore the rest of the paper off and let out an ear-piercing cry of elation that made Alex wince. "What's that?" Robin asked and leaned to one side to see around her daughter.

Jordan turned. "A car!"

Curious now, Blake stood and waddled over, laying on hand on the box and bending until he was face to face with one of the girls in the picture. _Huh, what's this? Let me take a look._

"Wow," Robin said uncomfortably, "that's...a big gift." She issued a nervous titter.

Very expensive too. My family and I are going to have to skip a couple meals because of that damn car; the last you could do is send us home with extra cake.

It was past sundown when Alex and Blake finally left. He fell asleep before they were even out of the trailer park and snored the whole way home, leaving Alex alone with her thoughts. Ten minutes later, she pulled into the slot facing their building, and made up her mind. She couldn't believe she was saying this...but she wanted to live in a trailer.


	177. September 1993: Part 2

_**Don't turn around  
I don't want you seeing me cry  
Just walk away  
It's tearing me apart  
That you're leaving  
I'm letting you go**_

 **Ace of Base (Don't Turn Around, 1993)**

Nothing Lincoln Loud had ever done - from completing basic training to fighting in Vietnam to trying to raise two wonderful girls without somehow fucking them up along the way - was harder than finding a facility for his mother.

He'd been looking on and off for almost six months despite Luan's vehement refusal to _throw Mom away_. He visited the Franklin Avenue house at least once a day, and he saw the effect that taking care of Mom was having on her - she reminded him of a flower wilting in the sun, and he knew that eventually she would admit that she couldn't do it alone...or die.

On the evening of September 7, he was sitting in his armchair and watching _ABC World News Tonight,_ where Peter Jennings went over the _monumental_ peace accords signed that afternoon in Washington, when the telephone rang. Ronnie Anne, still cleaning up from dinner, picked it up, then called him into the kitchen. "Hello?" he asked into the handset. Ronnie Anne bent over the sink and vigorously scrubbed a pan, her teeth baring in determination.

"Hey, Linc," Luan said, and from the slight tremor in her voice, he knew instantly that something was wrong. "Are...are you busy?"

"What's the matter?" he asked. With Mom being sick the way she was, the dread anticipation of a call relaying Really Bad News was always there, deep in his soul and waiting to stir like dust disturbed. For the past two years, he fully expected to be woken at three in the morning, or pulled away from his dinner, by Luan phoning to say that Mom died. He did not want to lose his mother (does anyone?), but he was prepared for it in a way that he had not been prepared for Luna or even Dad to go. When Leni finally went in the fall of '81, he was hit hard, but not as hard as he could have been. Time heals all wounds, they say, and in cases like these, it gives you time to come to terms with the inevitable and grieve before your loved one is even gone.

Luan was quiet for a moment, the only sound the metallic hiss of steel wool against cooking sheet. "Nothing," she sighed, "I just...need to talk to you. In person."

A half an hour later, he sat across from Fred and Luan at the kitchen table of the Franklin Avenue house, a mug of coffee untouched before him. Purple late summer twilight streamed through the window over the sink; a soft kiss of air blew through the screen and rustled the floral print curtains. The clock on the wall ticked the moments by as Luan collected her thoughts; elbows propped on the edge of the table and long, slender fingers threaded through graying reddish brown hair, eyes wide and staring, she was the very picture of a woman at her breaking point, and Lincoln knew why before she even spoke. "I can't do this anymore," she said, and her voice broke on the word _do_. Tears shimmered in her eyes and streaked down her face like diamonds, and she sniffed deeply, the heel of her palm going up to blot her pain away. Fred, looking lost and dour, stroked her back in a long, gentle motion.

The admission hung heavy between them, and Lincoln nodded slowly, not knowing what to say. He didn't want to uproot Mom and put her in an institution either, but he believed it was for the best. His conclusion was one reached through logic. Luan's steadfast commitment to keeping Mom at home was one born of emotion. She wanted to take care of Mom the way Mom always took care of her. It was a point of pride, and coming to the realization that she couldn't hurt far more deeply than maybe it should have.

"I tried," she said hollowly. "It...it...I just feel like I'm going crazy sometimes. I don't sleep, I don't leave the house, I don't know what day it is anymore, and she hates me. My own mother hates me." She lowered her face and her shoulders shook as sobs racked her body. Fred put his arm around her and drew her close. He looked like a deer in the headlights, and Lincoln felt just as badly for him as he did for Luan.

Reaching across the table, he took his sister's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "She doesn't hate you," he said, quiet but firm. "She's sick, and you did everything you could, but you're one person, Luan." He took a deep breath and let it out, searching for the right words but not finding them. "You're not a doctor or a nurse, you're an ordinary person who took on someone extraordinary. You're not a professional, and right now...Mom needs a professional."

Luan sniffed again and swallowed with an audible click. "She does," she said. "I get so frustrated sometimes I want to hit her. My own mother. A-And I don't even _think_ of her as my mother anymore. She's that _thing_." She pulled away from his grasp and wrapped her arms around her chest as if against a chill. "I know it's not her fault and it makes me feel even worse." She shuddered and hugged herself tighter. "She never gave up on me...but now I'm giving up on her."

That sent her into another crying fit, and Lincoln could only watch with a frown. When she was calmer, he told her that she wasn't giving up on her - that keeping her here to prove some kind of point was giving up. "We need to do what's best for Mom," he said. "And a facility where she has round the clock care, by trained professionals, and easy access to medical attention, is what's best."

"It doesn't feel like it," Luan said to her coffee.

"The right thing rarely does," he said. He could have added that he did the right thing twenty-five years ago when he shot three Vietcong guards at point blank range but still had nightmares about it, still heard the bloody gurgle of a man dying when he was alone in silence, but didn't. "I'll start looking for a place," he said, "can you handle another couple days?"

Luan nodded. "I think."

"Alright, I'll talk to Lori too. Get her to come help you."

Luan uttered a harsh laugh. "Good luck."

Before going home, he drove to Lori's house. They sat on the front porch together, and Lincoln told her about his conversation with Luan. She listened intently, and when he was done, she sighed deeply. "Alright," she said at length, "I'll...I'll go over there tomorrow."

He knew seeing Mom in her current state was hard on her (it was hard on him too) but Luan needed help and with the restaurant, he couldn't give it to her - at least not physically. "Please do," he said solemnly. "This is harder on Luan than it is on us. She's on the frontline everyday."

Lori favored her lap with a castigated stare. "I know," she muttered. She blinked against a crop of tears and took another breath. "I just…"

"I know," he said. _I just can't take it._ Over the past six months, Mom had been on a steady decline. Some days she didn't remember him and no matter what he said or did, she regarded him with puzzlement. The first time it happened, he tried for over an hour to get her to remember who he was, but she couldn't. That stung much worse than he expected it would, but not nearly as bad as when she forgot Alex and Jessy. The hurt in their eyes and their desperate attempts to get her to remember them was like a knife twisting in his heart; he could stand it for himself, but not for his girls. Their grandmother had always been important to them, vital even; now she didn't even recognize them. If it stung for him, it must have been double for them, if not triple.

She still had her lucid moments, but they didn't come very often anymore. The last time she had one that Lincoln was there for, she broke down crying and told him through her tears that she killed Leni. At first he assumed she was confused again, but she explained, with mental alacrity, how she overdosed her during her final moments. _She was suffering so much...I shouldn't have but I couldn't stand to see her in pain._ Lincoln wasn't entirely convinced that she actually did what she claimed, but if she did, he couldn't fault her; many times over the years he tried to see the deaths of Leni and Luna from her perspective, but couldn't. He liked to think he was strong, but imagining losing one of his daughters was a feat that he would openly admit he couldn't pull off. The last thing Mom said during her final moments of lucidity stayed with him for days afterward. _I hope I go soon...I'm so scared of losing more children._

That night, when he got home from Lori's, he sat slump-shouldered at the kitchen table with an array of brochures fanned out in front of him: A smiling woman with her grandmother against an autumnal backdrop; a group of happy seniors playing bingo; a stately white mansion under the legend MARSHALL MANOR: JUST LIKE HOME. He'd been collecting and going over these for months, but now was different, now Mom was actually going to wind up in one. He read each one carefully, as though his mother's life depended on it, and then organized them from first choice to last, the first being Marshall Manor and the last being a place almost fifty miles away in Warrenton called Pine Harbor. Marshall Manor was the most expensive option and provided a "caring and comfortable homelike atmosphere." During its twenty years of operation, it won the American Healthcare Association's National Quality Award seven times (most recently in '92, '91, and '89) and the Prestige Center's Best Nursing Home medal four times. The pictures in the booklet were of sumptuous and softly-lit sitting rooms, lush gardens where elders could sun themselves and visit with family, and tastefully appointed rooms that reminded him more of a hotel than a care facility. It's promise of "exacting standards", ""rigorous, highly trained, and professional staff", "dedication to enhancing the quality of your loved one's life", and "commitment to providing the best care possible" greatly appealed to him.

Later on, in bed, he lay with his hands laced over his chest and stared up into the darkness. The more he thought about Marshall Manor and the other facilities, the more doubts crept in. "It sounds nice," he said. "But...I dunno. It's a facility. They can say it's like _home_ all they want, but it's not."

"No," Ronnie Anne replied, "but you said yourself, she needs a level of care she can't get at home." She was quiet for a long time, and Lincoln could sense her tension, as though she wanted to continue, but didn't want to say something discouraging. "From here," she said gravely, "she's only going to get worse."

Lincoln nodded. "I know."

Alzheimer's is a terminal disease - like with AIDS, there's no cure, and once you have it, it's all downhill, no stopping, no clawing your way back, nothing but a gradual tailspin and eventual impact.

Ronnie Anne turned onto her side in a rustle of sheets and laid her hand on top of his; she tenderly stroked his knuckles but did not speak; no words would suffice, and none were necessary. She was here for him as she had always been and always _would_ be; that's all she needed to communicate, and that's all he needed to hear. They faced a lot in their thirty-six years together and they would face this too. Mom being sick and dying was not a pleasant thought, nor was it something that Lincoln was at peace with, but it was the natural order of thing, and he accepted it, albeit reluctantly. Alone, who knows how he would cope? Poorly, perhaps. But he _wasn't_ alone, he had Ronnie Anne. She was his rock and with her, he could overcome anything.

The next morning, he called Marshall Manor from Flip's and set up a tour for later that afternoon. At one, he left Fred in charge and drove to Chippewa Falls through misting rain, one hand on the wheel and a cigarette jutting from his mouth. The place was a bitch to find: It sat on a patch of rolling pasureland on Route 11 west of town. Set well back from the road and veiled by the drizzle, it resembled a manor house on an English moor, which, Lincoln thought, was fitting given its name. He followed the long horseshoe drive and parked by the front steps: Between marble pillars, old women sat in canned rockers and knitted while a raucous group of old men played a lively game of checkers.

Inside, the foyer was ambiently lit and richly carpeted. Leather upholstered wingback chairs occupied a waiting area, and a large mahogany counter flanked the wall to the right. He signed in with the receptionist and sat in one of the chairs. Shortly, a woman in a purple power suit that made her look like The Joker came out to meet him, her red smile impossibly large and her curly, carrot colored lending her an almost clownish appearance. "Hi, Mr. Loud," she said in low, practiced tone, "I'm Deborah Messinger, the administrator, if you'll follow me, we can start the tour."

The tour began in her grandiose office on the first floor administrative wing. Sitting behind her giant desk, she regarded him over her steepled fingers like a principal inspecting a wayward student. "Tell me a little about your mother's situation. You said over the phone that she has -" here she consulted a sheet of paper, then looked at him again " - Alzheimer's?"

"Yes," Lincoln said with a nod. He explained the character of Mom's disease - the confusion, mood swings, incontinence - and Mrs Messinger listened, nodding politely here and there and made faces calculated to express sympathy and understanding. He ended with, "My sister's been taking care of her for the past couple years, really, but it's getting to the point that she can't and I'd rather Mom be somewhere like this." His cheeks burned with inexplicable shame as he spoke. This woman made her living on people who couldn't care for their aged relatives, but he couldn't shake the feeling that she was silently judging him...disgusted by his and his siblings inability to do it themselves. _Throwing your mother away, are you? Fine then. Sign here._

"Caring for an Alzheimer's patient is extremely difficult," Mrs. Messinger said when he was finished, "and as the disease progresses, it only gets harder." She laced her fingers and sat up straighter. "Alzheimer's takes a devastating toll on caregivers. Compared with caregivers of people without dementia, twice as many caregivers of those with dementia indicate substantial emotional, financial and physical difficulties. There is no shame in seeking in-patient help. That's why we're here." Her smile widened and Lincoln smiled nervously in turn.

Next, she lead him through the building - to his surprise, it was far nicer than the photos let on, and Lincoln's impression of it being more like a hotel, or a lavish estate, grew. At the end, he drew a deep breath. "I'm going to have to talk of my sisters before I decide," he said.

"Of course."

On the drive home, he went back over the tour again and again. The staff was friendly, the residents he saw seemed happy, and of all the places he'd looked at, it was the highest rated. Mrs. Messinger didn't strike him as entirely genuine, but that was most likely him seeing her through a distorted prism of suspicion. No one would give Mom the same tenderness that he and his siblings would, and though he realized that going in, it gave him pause once he was actually there, staring it in the face.

What could he reasonably expect from a nursing home, though? They could care for her and treat her with dignity and respect, but they couldn't love her like a son or daughter.

That evening, he, Lori, Luan, and Fred met in the kitchen at Mom's house like a jury deciding a condemned woman's fate. He told them about his visit to Marshall Manor, and Luan hugged herself, her eyes pointed at the table and pooled with guilt. "It's the best," he said in closing, "and I think we should go with it." That was not easy to say, and felt clumsy coming out. The back of his neck reddened and he, too, darted his gaze to the table.

"It _sounds_ nice," Lori said uncertainly.

"It is," Lincoln said. _But it's not home,_ he thought. He looked around the room and sighed. Mom had lived here for nearly fifty years. It as not just her home, but her world. Taking her away from it struck him now as cruel - in her final days, she deserved the comfort that comes only with being surrounded by love, family, and familiarity.

She also deserved the best care available, and a bunch of middle aged knuckleheads couldn't give it to her. "What do you think?" he asked and looked at Luan.

For a long time, she didn't speak, and in what Lincoln could see of her downcast face, a struggle raged in her heart: One half wanting to keep Mom home, and the other knowing that it couldn't. Finally, in a broken mumble, she said, "It sounds nice."

* * *

Alex Underwood took September 14 off so that she could accompany her grandmother to Marshall Manor. As a CNA, she was the closest thing to an expert on nursing homes this family had, and why Dad didn't bring her along when he toured the place baffled her. _Hello, I know a thing or two about this stuff, I can help make informed decisions._

In all honesty, though, she was a little offended that she and Jessy were kept out of the loop. They might not be Grandma's children, but they were close enough that she would have appreciated at least being told what was happening before the 25th hour. Her grandmother was precious to her, and the whole point of her going was to make sure the facility was on the up and up. In the nursing home community, it had a reputation for being the _Titanic_ to everyone else's...I dunno, fishing boat or something. The _Titanic_ was breathtaking in all its splendor, but Alex was _pretty_ sure a bunch of people died on it. Marshall Manor might be big and beautiful and drowning in awards, but she was from Missouri - that meant she had to see something to believe it cuz they call Missouri the show me state and...nevermind. She loved Grandma and wanted what was best for her just the same as Dad and everyone else, and being in the field, she knew what red flags to look for.

She and Dad went over to Grandma's house before lunch, and she helped Auntie Luan give her a sponge bath while Dad got all of her paperwork in order. "Ready to get all clean?" Alex asked. The old woman stared warily at her from the bed.

"I don't need it," she said.

"Sure you do," Alex said, "you're going on a very special trip today."

Grandma's brow furrowed. "Where?" she asked guardedly.

Alex sat a tub full of warm, soapy water on the nightstand. "A _very_ nice resort," she said. It felt like a lie even though it wasn't really. To keep a dementia patient calm, you had to avoid using stress inducing words and phrases. Calling a bath a "spa" for instances, since baths often scare them. With them, you take things one step at a time, and introduce change slowly. "You're going to be staying there for a while."

"Why?" Grandma asked.

"Because you, my friend, need a vacation."

Grandma opened her mouth to argue, then seemed to reconsider. "I guess I need one. Where am I going?"

"To a _very_ nice resort. I hear it has a pool and everything." Alex winced when she realized she mentioned the pool. Alzheimer's patients are like cats when it comes to water.

A shadow of anxiety rippled across Grandma's face and she shook her head. "I-I don't like pools. They're dangerous. They kill more people than they save."

"You don't have to go in," Alex said, "it's just there if you want to."

"Want to what?"

"Relax."

"Oh. I-I _do_ like relaxing."

She and Auntie Luan got her undressed, bathed her, then put her in a nice dress. "It comes with a hat," Grandma said. "I-I need my hat. It's cold this summer."

Alex looked at Auntie Luan. _Does it come with a hat?_ Luan shook her head. Hm. No problem. Grandma had a couple hats in the hall closet. She went to grab one and wound up spending ten minutes trying to settle on one. Did she say Grandma has a _couple?_ Yeah, she misspoke, she had a _lot_ of hats. Two for every occasion. It was like Noah's Ark in that closet, only more crowded, and instead of smelling like fresh manure it smelled like moth balls. She finally settled on a wide brim straw affair with a flower on the front. When she handed it to Grandma, Grandma eyed it with uneasy mistrust. "Oh, t-that's not mine."

It wasn't? Alex looked at Auntie Luan, who nodded that it was. "I bought this one special," Alex said and held it up. "It has a flower on it. Pretty nice, huh?"

Grandma took it in her hands and studied it closely, as though searching for a way it could possibly hurt her. "Here," Alex said and took it back, "let me help." She put it on her grandmother's head anc took a step back,. "That looks _really_ good on you."

"It feels strange," Grandma said.

"It's really nice, Mom," Luan said.

At half past one, the ambulance arrived and backed into the driveway. Luan lead two drivers in crisp white uniforms upstairs, and when they came into the room, Grandma stiffened. "W-Who are _they?"_ she asked worriedly.

"They're here to take you to the resort. Remember? For your vacation?"

That mollified her enough that she allowed them to put her on a stretcher and put her in the back of the ambulance. "Do you mind if I ride with her?" Alex asked one of the medics.

"Sorry, ma'am," he replied, "that's against regulations."

Sigh. Just like Dad always said: Bureaucratic red tape bullshit. She _could_ have flipped her hair, bobbed and weaved her head, and made a big scene, but that would only stress Grandma out even more than she already was. Instead, she quietly slunk off with her tail between her legs and rode with Dad and Aunt Lori. Aunt Luan didn't want to come, and as they backed out of the driveway, tears spilled down her cheeks and she darted her gaze ashamedly down to her feet.

It's common for the families of an Alzheimer's sufferer to feel guilt over admitting their loved one to a facility. Alex would probably feel that way too if she was in Luan's shoes. After working with dementia patients, however, she agreed wholeheartedly with her father that putting Grandma somewhere was the best thing for her sake. Alex dealt with confused seniors daily, and she'd seen them fall, hurt others, hurt themselves, and go into maniac episodes that required three or four CNAs to handle. Two months ago, a woman named Mrs. Fremont became convinced that Alex and the others were going to harvest her organs, and fought so hard it took her, Bob, and Tom to hold her down lest she roll out of bed and break something. She knew Auntie Luan really wanted to avoid this, but Grandma would be much safer and better off.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the horseshoe drive, and Alex's brows shot up. Oh, wow, this place is _swaaaaaanky_ : Dormers, covered wrap around porch, columns, thick, well-manicured gardens. It looked more like a mansion than a nursing home, and as they parked, all she could do was gape. Inside was even nicer: Green carpets in the hall, ambient lighting, cream colored walls, and best of all, a quiet, tranquil atmosphere that somehow put her in mind of lazy rain days curled up with a good book and nothing to do but relax.

Grandma's room was at the very end of the second floor hall near a door marked EXIT. It was billed as a _private suite,_ but, meh, it wasn't much bigger or nicer than the ones at Oak Springs. On the other hand, they weren't as utilitarian either. The floor was carpeted and the walls wood paneled, whereas at Oak Springs the former was tile and the latter flat white. The geri chair by the heavily curtained window looked comfy, and the table was, uh, okay...as far as tables go. The TV surprised her - at Oak Springs, residents or their families have to provide their own radios and television sets. Did they come standard in all the rooms here, or did someone leave theirs behind? Oak Springs _did_ have a few on hand that residents' families donated after said resident stopped needing it (AKA died), so maybe this one was a hand-me-down?

When she, Dad, and Auntie Lori walked in, Grandma was sitting up in bed and flicking her eyes distrustfully around, her brow angled down in a sullen glare. "What is this place?" she demanded. "I don't like it."

Before Dad or Auntie Lori could say something dumb and make the situation worse, Alex stepped in. "It's the resort I told you about. Remember?"

The old woman fixed her with a withering gaze that made her falter. "You didn't tell me anything," she snapped nastily.

"Sure I did," Alex said, keeping her composure. "Remember I gave you your new hat and said you were going on a vacation? This place is really nice, huh?"

Grandma's nostrils flared. "No," she said petulantly. "I don't like it."

"Well, you have to give it a chance," Alex said and went over to the bed. Grandma watched her approach with slitted eyes, and it took everything she had to keep her voice even. "You just got here."

"It's a really nice place, Mom," Lori said and forced a smile. "I saw a couple ladies playing mahjong. Maybe you can join in."

Grandma's forehead smoothed. "You did?" she asked, a curious inflection in her voice. Mahjong was one of the old people games that Grandma liked; she started playing it a few years ago to occupy her time since she was all but confined to the house. Alex played it with her sometimes, but stopped because as her illness progressed, she forgot how to play.

"Yeah," Dad said, "a whole group of them."

While he and Lori talked Grandma out of a fit, Alex went around the room and checked to make sure everything was up to snuff, starting with the window - _some_ facilities had a bad habit of nailing them shut. Not Oak Springs, but she heard a ton of horror stories about a place called Heritage Hall from CNAs who used to work there: Neglect, rats in the pantry, fire code violations out the ying yang, and structural issues galore. The window here was nail free and opened easily when Alex tried it. Next she went into the attached bathroom and checked for mold, scum, and mildew.

Nothing.

She got on her hands and knees and looked behind the toilet.

All clear. She got up, went back into the room, and put her hands on her hips (The Geriatric Defender, away!).

That's when she saw the smoke detector over the dresser. Ah, the single most important piece of equipment in the whole room...and often the most overlooked. Many of them have a little green light that tells you when it's operational. This one, however, did not. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn't. There was only one way to tell.

Walking over, she climbed onto the dresser, held her arms out to balance herself (whoooooa), and reached out to unscrew the device, but stopped when her father spoke. "What the hell are you doing?"

He looked at her like she was crazy. Pfft, see what I mean? It never once occurred to this rube that maybe the smoke detector might not work. He carelessly frolicked through life like a little girl, totally heedless to the hidden dangers of the world that only a seasoned veteran such as herself would catch. "Making sure the smoke detector is properly functional," she chirped.

Dad furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as though he were simply speechless. Wow, first time for everything. "Get down from there," Grandma glowered, "you're going to gouge my dresser."

Alex started to protest, but did as she was told and hopped down. She no sooner touched shoe to floor than a nurse in blue scrubs entered. She went over to the bed and introduced herself to Grandma, but Alex was already back on the hunt for alarm bells. What did the sockets look like? She spotted an outlet, checked it, and pronounced it safe. Oh, the call button. You know, come to think of it, she didn't see a light over the door when they came in. How did these people know when a resident needed them?

She started to ask, but gasped when she saw something racing along the baseboard. A mouse! Dropping to her knees, she tracked it with her eyes; nope, sorry, false alarm, heh: Just a dust bunny. She pushed back to her feet and turned.

Everyone stared at her. "Can I help you?" the nurse asked.

"It's okay," Alex said. She whipped out her laminate ID badge from work and held it up with a flush of importance. "Alex Underwood. CNA."

"Oh," the nurse smiled as if to say _how nice_.

Alex returned her badge to her pocket and moseyed on over. Since her cover was blown, it was time to get serious. Her grandmother's safety and well-being was at stake. Doing her best _NYPD Blue_ impression, she said, "I didn't see a call light over the door. You people psychics?"

The nurse blinked in surprise. "No...there's a switchboard at the nurse's station." She twisted around and nodded, as though Alex could see from here and be satisfied.

She wasn't.

"What's the staff to resident ratio around here?" She laid her hand on the bed rail and looked pointedly at her prey.

"Three residents to one staff member."

Hm. Not bad. At Oak Springs it was five.

"What's your staff turnover?"

A stable staff was an encouraging sign. If the turnover rate was high, it suggested a problem. Maybe working conditions weren't good (which could lead to apathy and inattentiveness), or the hiring process wasn't selective enough. Taking care of seniors isn't like flipping hamburgers at McDonald's - not just anyone could walk in off the street and do it.

"Well," the nurse said at length, "I don't know the actual statistics off the top of my head, but it's fairly low."

At Oak Springs, it was on the higher side. People would start, last a week or a month, then quit, some to go somewhere that paid better, and others out of the field entirely. You'd be surprised how many people don't know they can handle poop, pee, puke, and heavy lifting until it's too late. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Alex called those people 'lightweights.'

"If you have more questions, I'll be happy to address them once I'm done meeting with your grandmother."

She did, in fact, have more questions, and as soon as the nurse was finished, Alex followed her into the hall. Before she could start interrogating her again, the nurse took a deep breath. "We assign the same staff members to the same residents daily so that they can get to know the residents and understand their needs. We turn bed-bound patients over every two hours. We require each of our nurses and CNAs to receive yearly up-to-date immunizations to minimize the risk of infections. Every nurse and CNA who will be working with your grandmother is state certified to care for dementia patients, which means that in addition to our mandatory pre-hire twelve week course, they've taken a special state administered _sixteen_ week course. This _is_ a good facility, I would trust my own grandmother here."

Alex listened and nodded. That was, uh, pretty detailed...and answered almost every question she was going to ask. "What's corporate like? Is this a good place to work?"

"Most everyone seems to like their job," the nurse said.

Huh. "What's the starting pay?"

"Thirteen an hour. For specialized staff - such as the ones who will be working with your grandmother - it's sixteen."

Good gravy, that's a lot of money! Alex made nine an hour at Oak Springs, and from what she heard, the CNAs on the dementia unit only got eleven. Shoot, I'd be happy too if I was making sixteen bucks every sixty minutes. She did a few mental equations, and arrived at 128: 128 dollars for an eight hour shift. That was before taxes, sure, but wow.

"Anything else?"

"Can I get a job application?"

* * *

Lincoln sat with Mom until nearly 5pm and would have stayed longer, but Alex needed to pick Blake up from daycare. At first, he held her hand and talked about favorite memories she couldn't recall, then stopped when her polite smile turned into a stormy scowl. It frustrated her that she didn't recollect things, and if you kept on, her mood would darken.

For a while, they watched television. Bobby Jr. slapped a blonde girl across the face and hissed a death threat through his teeth _("I'll kill you if you breathe a word of this!"_ ) and Lincoln chuckled. His nephew was famous, but he couldn't see why - the kid's acting was awful. Then again, all soap opera stars' acting is awful. "I don't like this show," Mom proclaimed, "turn it off. It's too violent."

Lincoln picked the remote up off the nightstand and changed the channel to The Home Shopping Network. On the other side of the bed, Lori brushed her hair away from her face and swallowed thickly. Mom had as much trouble remembering Bobby Jr. as she did Alex and Jessy, and it hurt Lori just the same as it did Lincoln. The last time Mom talked to him on the phone, she asked him his name three times and hung up believing he was an old school friend.

Just before four, Mom sighed. "I'm tired. I want to take a nap."

"Alright," Lincoln said and got up. "Lori and I have to go now, but we'll be back tomorrow." He looked at Lori, and she nodded deeply.

"Don't bring the brown girl next time," Mom said sourly, "she tried to steal my thing on the wall."

Lincoln had never been more grateful that his daughter was somewhere else. "O-Okay," he said, his voice catching. He flashed a smile and blinked against a wet tickle in his eyes. "Do you want anything before we leave?"

"No," Mom said.

"Do you - ?"

"Will you go away?" Mom snapped. "I'm tired and you won't let me sleep. I'm tired. I want to take a nap."

For a long time he lingered, not wanting to leave her, then he drew a deep breath. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow." He leaned over to kiss her forehead, and she shoved her palm into the side of his face. "I'm married," she growled indignantly.

Lincoln didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

No one spoke on the drive home; the air in the car was heavy with tension and the only sound came from the tires humming along the pavement. For well over a year now, Lincoln pushed to have Mom admitted to a place like Marshall Manor, but now that she was, a great weight pressed against his chest, and no matter what he told himself, he felt like he just abandoned his mother. When he was a child and sick, she worried tirelessly over him until he was better - she made him soup, pressed her hand lovingly to his forehead, spoke softly and tenderly - she didn't shove him into a facility and walk away. The circumstances were different and putting her in a home where she could be cared for _was_ the right thing, but he still felt dirty.

And, he imagined, he would for a long time to come.


	178. September 1993: Part 3

**Thunderstrike16: Thanks, man, I'm glad you like it. I'm always surprised when someone starts reading RITY knowing it's over a million words. I'd be scared off personally.**

 **Slim Shady: Oh, don't worry, my man, I was already planning on using at least one of his songs.**

 **TheCartoonist294: The ending I've had in mind since the beginning will take RITY to the year 2001. I may, however, end it in 2000. I'm not sure. Like I think I said before, this story's going to be around for a while longer.**

* * *

Alex Underwood knew lots of stuff and _tried_ to keep her mouth closed when a topic she wasn't familiar with came up - that way her embarrassing lack of knowledge wasn't exposed for all to see like a big, pimply butt. Take Mark for instance: The moment he started talking computers, Alex shut her trap because she knew zip about 'em. All kidding and fake bragging aside, she considered herself smart, but if a subject didn't grip her, she couldn't really get into it. At all. Again, take Mark. She made an honest attempt to understand computers, but everything he said went in one ear, rattled around a little, then went right back out the other. If a subject _did_ compel her, she'd retain every tiny little detail and sound like a professor when she spoke on it. _You see, my dear Jessica, AC/DC's music has often been categorized as heavy metal, but is, in fact, hard rock characterized by a heavy blues inspiration, as blues was highly popular in both Australia and the United Kingdom in recent decades_.

One such area of interest that really sank its claws into her lately was trailers. The day she came back from Jordan's birthday party, she and Tim had a nice long talk about moving into one...said talk consisting of him laughing and using the phrase _white trash_ and her pleading her case. Okay, first of all, I'm not entirely white, so you're gonna have to find a different slur, racist. Second, that trailer I was in today was _not_ trashy. Third...uh...I got nothing.

She didn't know trailers very well, so her argument kind of stalled out. She could make educated guesses about them, but she didn't know for certain. She let the matter drop but decided to learn as much about trailers as she could. Alright, buddy, you win this round, but I'll be back, and when I return, it's gonna be with _lots_ of firepower.

The next day, on the way home from work, she stopped at the library and, after searching high and low (too proud to ask for help since she'd been here a million times and should know where everything was), she picked up a book on trailers. Okay, Timbalina, to start with, the politically correct term is _manufactured home_ : All trailers built after June 1976 are referred to as such and are required by law to meet FHA certifications. That's Federal Housing Administration in case ya didn't know (because I sure didn't). They are A) just as safe and stable as the traditional site-built home and B) lived in by all sorts of people, not _just_ poor white trash.

Mobile home parks do not often own the trailers inside of them, they only own the land. Since trailers are prefabricated off-site, they need to go somewhere. Some people own or lease land, but others do not, which is where a place like Marsh Run steps in. They have power, water, and sewage hookups, but you need to provide your own MH (that's shorthand for mobile home...I just made it up). Of course some people set their trailer on a lot then rent it to a third party, but that's beside the point: As long as you live in a trailer park, you're basically a renter even if you own your own home.

Hm. Now _that_ was lame. The very land your home sits on isn't even guaranteed. You could theoretically be kicked off of it at any time for any reason.

She didn't like that.

But, on the other hand, she didn't want to live in a mobile home forever. The end goal was to buy a house, a trailer was just a stepping stone. Certainly better than this dump we call an apartment. Look how tiny it is. And the neighbors! God, don't get me started on _them._ To the left was an old couple who argued all the time - the walls were paper thin and Alex heard every single word if she listened hard enough. The man was no angel, but the wife was such a _nag_ ; she started in on him the moment he set foot in the room. Jeez, lady, leave the guy alone will you? On the right was the complete opposite: A lovey-dovey young couple who just moved in a few months ago. They gave each other Eskimo kisses and giggled like schoolgirls.

Then...at night...they fucked like demons. Seriously, hers and Tim's bedroom abutted theirs, and man oh man, nothing like waking up at 3am to the rhythmic _slap-slap-slap_ of your neighbor's headboard against the wall, and to the grunting, gasping, and breathy cries of _Oh, here it comes_ and _faster, Derrick, faster!_ One night it drove Tim so crazy that he leaned over and pounded the plaster like a cop with a warrant. _Hey, Derrick, hurry up! I wanna go back to sleep!_ For almost a week, nothing, and Alex was just beginning to think that they'd learned their lesson when _slap-slap-slap_.

In a manufactured home community, you don't have to worry about that. Sure, the lots are small and the trailers close together, but not so close that you'll hear your neighbor's every fart. You know what else you won't have to worry about? Your trailer being an inferior piece of junk; they're made with the same quality materials that go into building houses...if not better, since they're designed by their very nature to be moved from one place to another. You can't slap something together all slipshod if it's going to be hooked to a truck and transported on a major highway. If they bought a trailer rather than rented, they could move it anywhere in the country. Moving to California to be closer to Bobby, Lola, and the kids? No problem, take your home with you.

Armed with all this new information, she cornered Tim in the living room and pounced him like a hungry lioness. By that, she meant she sat next to him, crossed her arms, and started spouting facts and figures. Blake sat in the middle of the floor watching _Dinosaurs_ on ABC - the one where they're all puppets, and the baby always like _I'm the baby_ like that excuses all of his bad behavior. Grandma liked that show too and seeing it reminded Alex of her. She was doing well at Marshall Manor, though she didn't remember Alex at all except for her trying to steal something at some point.

Anyway, Tim favored her with arched brows, and when she was done, he sighed. "You really wanna move into a trailer?" There was a disbelieving hilt to his voice, as though living in a trailer was the worst thing ever.

"I'd rather a house," she said, "but that's not gonna happen right now."

He rolled his eyes. "Come on," she said, "the trailer Jordan's family lives in is really nice, and the park itself is _amazing._ They have a pool, a playground, lots of kids for Blake to play with. Who does he have here? Ashley?"

Ashley was the closest child to Blake's age in the complex - she was ten.

"If you _really_ wanna do this, fine," Tim said, "I'm not hot on the idea of living in a glorified tin can -"

Alex gasped. Did he not understand everything she just told him? "Mobile homes are not glorified tin cans. They are prefabricated to meet FHA standards."

"Okay, okay," Tim said and held his hands up in a gesture of supplication. "I'm game if you are."

Oh, she was.

The next day, on her way home from work, she took a detour and drove through the winding streets of Marsh Run looking for FOR RENT signs with eagle-eyed vigilance, ready to swoop out of the sky like a hawk on a timid little mouse. _Kawww, here I come, Jess!_

Actually, Jessy wasn't very much like a timid little mouse anymore. Maybe it was the medication, or the teaching, or both, but she exuded confidence now...which made her seem _bigger_. Literally, she was almost as tall as Alex, and though she searched her memory banks with a fine tooth comb, she couldn't remember if she'd always been tall or if her meekness only gave her the _illusion_ of being small. She still wasn't loud, proud, and in your face like Alex, though, but that's alright. Is anybody?

Trailers lined the roads, broken by narrow strips of grass, slight hills, the occasional tree, and power transformers, and Alex whipped her gaze back and forth. Wow, there's so _many_ of them; it's like a veritable _forest_ of trailers. Oooh, oooh, no, it's like one of those cemeteries in New Orleans crammed with above ground tombs because the water table's so high they can't bury people.

Call her morbid, but Alex liked Marsh Run even more now.

During her trip through the park, she came across two FOR SALE signs and three FOR RENTs. She stopped at the curb in front of each, yanked a notepad out of her purse, and jotted down the listed phone numbers and a brief description so she'd remember what was what. The first she saw was really rundown - rust spots, sagging front porch, sheet of cardboard covering a broken window pane. Uhhh, yeah, this isn't going to help my case at all. The next one was in much better shape, but it was a single-wide, she wanted a _double-_ wide, which, as the name suggests, is twice as big. Jordan's family lived in a double wide. There were even, she heard, things called triple wides that were basically houses, but she'd never seen one, so for now she'd consider them a mythical creature - like vampires, werewolves, and honest politicians.

Ahhh, another dadism! Thankfully she didn't bust those out too much anymore; working a job that didn't include being around him all day was doing wonders for her outlook. Good thing she got out when she did, or she'd basically be him by now - sitting there with a glower and talking about how great the twenties were. _Your mother and I used to do the Charleston 'til the cows came home, twenty-three skidoo._ Would she be as annoying to Blake when he got older? _Me and your dad played Space Invaders and listened to Ratt. We were so cool._ Ugh, she hoped not, but something told her she probably would. Circle of life, you know.

The last trailer she drove past was just what she was looking for. A brown double wide with plastic shudders that looked an awful lot like blocks of chocolate, it sat on a fairly spacious lot between another trailer and a tall, spreading oak tree. The porch wasn't anything to write home about (literally just steps with a wide spot at the top), but the siding was clean and looked new. She parked and craned her neck to get a better look, but couldn't see much from her vantage point. She copied the number then went home.

Later, when Tim came through the door, they sat on the couch and she told him all about her execursion. "I really liked this one," she said and tapped the last number with her index finger. "It's big and looked brand new. I say we set up a viewing." She smiled prettily through her teeth.

"Okay," Tim said.

To make a not so long story somewhat shorter, she called that very evening and set up an appointment to meet the owner at one in the afternoon on Saturday, September 25 - that way Tim would be off work and they could see it together.

She spent the whole week in a state of excited suspense. On the big day, she and Tim dropped Blake off at Mom and Dad's and drove to Marsh Run through the gold and glorious early autumn afternoon, windows down and the radio barely audible above the warm, flowery wind.

In the passenger seat, Tim stared out the window as Marsh Run came up on their right. "That the clubhouse?" he asked and nodded toward the big white building.

"I assume so," Alex said and reduced her speed. A green sign with gold lettering sat in the center of the Y-shaped entrance: MARSH RUN. Below that: MOBILE HOME COMMUNITY.

She navigated the car to the curb in front of the club and cut the engine. It was 12:45 and they had time to kill. "Let's check it out," she said and swatted Tim's chest with the back of her hand.

"Alright," Tim said and threw open his door, "but if I hear a single banjo…"

Alex rolled her eyes. "You're a loser."

She got out, slammed the door, and crossed around the front of the car. A concrete walkway led to a set of wide stairs. Halfway down, a community events board cleaved the path in two, the papers tacked to it fluttering in the breeze. Alex tucked her hair behind her ear and went over, Tim following behind and looking warily around as though he expected a gang of rednecks to beset them. _Squeal like a pig, boy!_ He was scared of hillbillys, gay men, and probably his own shadow too.

Wuss.

At the board, she scanned the flyers and stopped on a pink one with blocky black writing. Bending and clasping her hands to her knees, she read: FAMILY MOVIE NITE THIS FRIDAY 7. BRING YOUR BLANKET, FAVORITE TEDDY, AND JOIN THE MARSH RUN HOA FOR A SPECIAL SCREENING OF THE LITTLE MERMAID. "Look at this," she said and jabbed it with her finger. "They have movie nights here." She squinted to read the text at bottom. "Ooooh, refreshments provided." She turned to Tim. "Pretty cool, huh? Blake would _love_ that."

Tim leaned over and read it. "Hm. That does sound nice. They have a bingo night too."

"I'm too young to care about bingo," Alex said dismissively.

"The grand prize is _one of Ms. Sheridan's famous pies_."

Alex's ears perked at the word _pies_. "Pie? Where?" He pointed to a lie green sheet of paper held in place by a pushpin and she glanced it over. You might not know this, but Alex _loved_ a good pie. Her favorite was blueberry but she'd eat just about any flavor you handed her. Except rurarb. And pot. She _hated_ pot pies: Flaky crust, meat, and vegetables do _not_ mix well. In fact, she hated pot pies almost as much as she hated chicken and dumplings. Grandma _loved_ making those, and she never had the heart to tell her how yuck they were, so she held her nose and choked them down.

Before going to the trailer, she and Tim took a quick look around the clubhouse. There was a library (whoa!); a reading room filled with armchairs, lamps, and writing desks; an arts and crafts room; and a gym. "Wow," Tim said as they walked back to the car "I'm actually kind of impressed."

Off to their right, kids screamed laughter and climbed over the playground equipment like crazed monkeys. "See?" she asked. "And you thought it was white trash. Do white trash people have a library and a gym? Huh? Do they, Tim?" She fixed him with a demanding expression, and he shrugged one shoulder noncommittally.

"Probably not," he allowed.

At the car, she turned and looked up at him. "No, they don't," she said smugly.

Tim leaned over and pecked her mouth, and she responded by shooting out her tongue and swiping it across his lips. He winced...then did it back. "Ew, lame-o germs," she smiled.

He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and snaked his hands around her hips, pulling her closer and squeezing her butt. "Okay, stop!" she laughed. "There are kids over there."

"They gotta learn sometime," he said and came back in for another kiss. She laughed and shoved him away. Gotta learn sometime. Pfft. What a weirdo.

Pulling away from the curb, she hung a left and followed Marsh Lane, Marsh Run's main thoroughfare. "Jordan's family lives up there," she said as they passed Andrews Street. "The place we're looking at is, like, two blocks over."

She came to a rolling stop as, ahead, a gaggle of kids streamed across the street on their bikes.

At the trailer, she parked across the street in front of a pink single wide with sharp angles (that's gotta be a late sixties model) and killed the engine, cutting Radiohead off in the middle of _Creep._ When it came on she nodded to the stereo. _It's your theme song,_ she said. _Cuz you're a creep. Gotta learn sometime, right?_ *snort* Sitting back in the seat, she studied the facade of the double wide with the critical appraisal of a woman who knows what she wants and won't settle for less. Lacy white curtains hung in the windows facing the street and a lawn gnome sat in a tuft of grass, a smile frozen to its ruddy face. "Thar she blows, Timbuktu," she said. "Pretty, huh?"

"Not bad," Tim said. "It does look kinda big."

"Doesn't it, though? I bet'cha it has three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Probably a full laundry room, too."

Tim gazed at the trailer and hummed thoughtfully.

At one sharp, they got out and went to the door. Alex knocked and smoothed out the front of her blouse. "Stand up straight, Tim-o-thee," she said, "I want us to make a good first impression."

"Then go away and let me handle this."

Her jaw dropped at the implication that in order for them to make a good first impression, she should not be present, and she lifted her palm to slap the piss out of his arm, but the door opened and she hurriedly clasped her hands innocently in front of her. A thin old woman with bushy white hair and clad in a summery short sleeve blouse appeared, the uncertainty melting from her face. "Oh, you must be...the young lady I talked to." She faltered as though she forgot Alex's name. You wouldn't be the first old lady to do that recently.

The other one's my grandmother.

Ignoring the painful twinge in the pit of her stomach, she flashed a big, sunny smile. "I'm Alex," she said and held her hand out, "this is my husband Tim.'

"I'm Florence," the old woman said and they shook. "Come in." She stepped aside and Alex entered.

The first thing she noticed was the tiny dog curled up on the couch, its face nestled into the cushions. The second was the old man sitting in an armchair and watching _Matlock._ Clad in tan trousers, a white button-up, and suspenders, a thick pair of glasses perched on his bulbous nose, he wasn't just old, he was _super old_ , his face so creased with age that his features were all but swallowed. He wore a hearing aid hooked around one ear and panted for air like a fat guy after taking the stairs. Florence closed the door and came over. "Dad, this is the woman I talked to the other day."

He turned his head creakily and regarded them with bewilderment. "Huh?"

"This is the woman who wants to rent the trailer."

"She's a sailor? The Navy'll let anyone in these days."

Well then.

Florence sighed, went to him, and bent. "She. Wants. To. Rent. Our. Trailer."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oh. Okay. That's nice." He returned his attention to the screen.

Shaking her head, Florence turned to Alex and Tim. "He's hard of hearing."

"How old is he?" Alex asked, then realized that might sound rude. "I work with seniors. They're kind of my...forte."

"He'll be ninety-nine in November."

Whooooooa! She pegged him as being north of eighty-five, but not almost one hundred. Holy schnikes.

"We're moving to Florida," Florence explained, "so we're renting the trailer." She held up her hands to indicate the room. Wood paneled walls; brown shag carpeting; highboys, end tables, knicknacks, and lamps; heavy curtains covering the windows. "It's only ten years old, it's been here the whole time, no major damage. It's a little drafty in the winter, so our heating bill's on the higher side."

She showed them the trailer from one end to the other. Alex checked the bathroom for signs of mold and leaks, but found none. As she and Tim followed behind the old woman, she tapped the floor with her foot, looking for weak spots. There weren't any. She asked questions, and the answers were satisfactory. No evidence of roaches or mice; the door to one of the bedrooms stuck a little and you had to force it, but Tim could fix that easy. The rooms were all big and clean, the kitchen had everything a kitchen should, and no alarm bells went off during the tour.

Back in the living room, Alex held Tim's hand. "It's really nice," she said seriously, "I like it."

She could already picture the living room laid out with their things - the couch over there, and the TV there. "What do you think?"

Looking put on the spot, he shrugged one shoulder. "It's nice," he said, "I think we should -"

"So you want to rent it?"

"Well, I mean, we should take a little - "

Alex turned to Florence. "We'll take it."

Tim snapped his mouth closed and nodded resignedly to himself.

Outside, he took a deep breath. "You know, we -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Alex dismissed, "you wanted to hem and haw for a week then finally agree with me like you always do. I just expedited the process."

Tim opened his mouth, but closed it again. He _did_ like the trailer, and the park too, so that probably _would_ have been the eventual outcome. Still, they should have at least taken the rest of the day to talk about it - diving right into something like renting a trailer didn't seem right. You had to ease you way in...like making love for the first time.

"Don't say you wouldn't have. There's a pool, Tim, and movie night. _Movie night_."

He sighed. "Okay, fine, I would have agreed with you. Happy?"

She beamed. "Yep. Now come on, I wanna get a jump on packing." She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his. He had (slight) reservations, but seeing her so happy made _him_ happy.

"Alright," he said, and his stomach growled. "But you're paying for lunch."


	179. February 1994

_**And I swear by the moon and the stars in the sky  
I'll be there  
I swear like a shadow that's by your side  
I'll be there  
For better or worse, till death do us part  
I'll love you with every beat of my heart**_

 **All 4 One ( _I Swear,_ 1994)**

Lincoln Loud sat beside his mother's deathbed and stared sightlessly at the creme colored wall ahead, the rattle of her labored breathing sending pangs of dread rippling through his stomach. Fabric rustled next to him, and he darted his eyes to Alex - she held her grandmother's hand and shed silent tears, her bloodless lips pressed tightly together and quivering with misery. Jessy clutched the other, head bowed somberly. Lori, Bobby, Lynn, Luan, and Fred crowded around her, their faces drawn and dark. Lynn III and Bobby Jr flanked Alex on either side, and Ronnie Anne stood at the head of the bed between the latter and the wall. Lola was here, but left a few minutes ago with Stephanie and Val - the kids were hungry, and from the haunted look in Lola's eyes, she was grateful for an excuse to be somewhere else when it happened.

Taking a deep breath, Lincoln glanced away from his daughter and focused on the floor instead. Months ago, maybe years, he came to terms with the fact that this was going to happen sooner rather than later, and while watching her rapidly fade left him feeling cold, he could deal with it. He could _not,_ however, deal with seeing his daughters in pain. Since Mom's diagnosis, he'd been sick with dread at the thought of Alex and Jessy having to see their grandmother die. He did not believe in God, but he prayed nevertheless that Mom would go quickly, in her sleep. God, if He _was_ there, did not answer those pleas.

Not that Lincoln expected Him to. He knew in his heart of hearts that Mom's death would be grueling and protracted, yet he hoped, because without hope, what do you have? People said he was a pessimist, but he wasn't; pessimists don't have hope, he did. His hope carried him through eight months in a bamboo cage - it faltered, like a candle in the wind, but it did not go out; it remained.

He sighed and got to his feet, his hand going to Alex's shoulder. She made a spot for him, and he shoved in-between her and Lynn III, who blotted her eyes with the heel of her palm with a deep sniff. Mom lay beneath the covers, her thin white hair fanned out on the pillow and her eyes closed; she sucked great gulps of air, her chest sharply rising and falling. All her life, she was slightly overweight, but now, in her final hours, she was frail and thin, her sallow flesh stretched tight across her bones like old parchment. A skeleton wrapped in rotting burial cloth, dead but somehow still alive.

Hot tears filled his eyes, and he held them back. On the opposite side of the bed, Lynn gripped the metal railing and concentrated hard on the blanket, as though counting the threads to avoid having to look at Mom. Behind him, soft purple twilight pressed against the frosty window pane. A deep layer of snow covered the ground, and cold wind blew through a stand of barren trees. More snow was forecast to fall before midnight. More shoveling. Heh. He hated shoveling.

Lori swiped the back of her hand across her nose; unshed tears stood in her pink rimmed eyes, and in that moment, she looked every bit of her fifty-three years. Luan regarded Mom with open anguish and rubbed Jessy's back, her free hand laying on the rail. Lincoln never realized how wrinkled it was until now. The years really _do_ sneak up on you. Caught in the headlong rush of life, it's easy to lose track of time. He did that with the girls all the time when they were young; he'd look at a picture of them from less than a year before, and it would hit him how much they'd changed - growth in all things happens slowly, and unless you pay careful attention, you'll miss it. Luan was fifty, soon to be fifty one, and he'd seen her almost every day over the past nine years; she changed before his very eyes, but only when he really stopped to look at her did he notice.

The same could be said of Lynn. There were a lot of grays in his hair, and more than a few lines on his face. When he thought of his brother, Lincoln saw him as he was at twenty, and it was always a little shocking to see that he wasn't twenty anymore.

Mom's eyelids fluttered open to reveal two rheumy pools of sickness and confusion, then mercifully closed again. Her breast heaved and she exhaled with a phlegmy sound. Her hand closed spasmodically around Alex's, like a drowning woman seeking salvation, and Alex lovingly brushed her thumb over the old woman's knuckles. The muted glow of the bedside lamp cast her face in shadows, and Lincoln slipped his arm protectively around her shoulder. He vowed to keep her always from harm, but he could not keep her from this, and though he could not control the cruel whim of fate, he still felt a rush of shame at failing in his promise. She buried her face in his shoulder, and her tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt. She trembled slightly, like a frightened animal, and he tightened his hold. Jessy drew a deep, watery breath, and Luan took her hand.

Aside from Mom's breathing, deafening silence held sway. Someone coughed in the hall, and a Doctor Howard was paged over the intercom. Lincoln leaned his forehead against Alex's head to block out his mother's dying visage, but she filled his periphery like a prowling specter, and he closed his eyes.

In _Psycho,_ Norman Bates says, "A boy's best friend is his mother." Lincoln didn't know whether that was true or not, but Mom _was_ the only constant in his life. She'd been there for everything from his birth (obviously) to right now. She was not forever, but she was close; she was like the sun, always present, even when it's not, or the moon - you may not see it every night, but you know it's in the heavens, waiting to shine its light on you once more. The prospect of her no longer _being_ was as strange and incomprehensible as the stars going dark.

Nothing in life is permanent, however, not even the mountains or the sun; everything must die eventually.

Mom's chest stilled, and Lincoln's heart lurched sickly. She started to breathe again, but more shallowly than before, the rise and fall of her breast nearly imperceptible, like the faint stir of autumn leaves. Through the window, the last, anemic light of day drained from the sky, and the darkness spread over the land. Mom's wheezing exhalations paused, then started, then paused a second time. She gave a body-wide shudder, and her eyes flung open; raw panic flooded them, and she gasped fruitlessly for breath, a low, breaking moan issuing from deep in her throat.

Every story has its end, and Rita Loud's had reached its. She clawed weakly at Alex's hand, and Alex held fast, refusing to let go. Lincoln turned to his mother, not wanting to watch her die but needing to see her one last time. Her lips moved soundlessly, lending her the appearance of a fish, and her eyes welled with fear. Did she understand what was happening to her? Lincoln didn't know, but in the moment before she died, the mist of confusion that swirled in them for nearly two years seemed to clear. Her sober gaze flickered from Alex to Jessy to Lynn to Bobby Jr., and a tiny smile touched her lips.

Then she was gone.

A loud sob burst from Lori's throat, and Jessy broke down crying. Luan took her daughter in her arms, stroked her hair, and whispered words rendered unintelligible by her own weeping. Lincoln closed his eyes and staved off the tears before they could overwhelm him. Alex held one shaking hand to her face and hitched silently. Ronnie Anne wrapped her arms around her and held her to her chest. Lincoln took a deep breath and let it out slowly; unexpected agony seethed in the pit of his stomach and his heart throbbed like an abscessed tooth. A steely band closed around his lungs and his knees went weak. Next to him, Lynn III pressed her hand to her mouth and stared at Mom with wide, watery eyes. Lincoln looked at her, and then swept her into a needy embrace. She melted into him and whimpered pitifully. Bobby put on arm around his wife and the other around his son, and Lynn bowed his head, his knuckles white on the rail. Fred hesitated, then patted him uncomfortably on the back. _There, there._ Lincoln felt the urge to laugh, but didn't dare - you don't fart when you have to shit, and you don't laugh when you have to cry.

Shortly, a nurse came in and checked Mom's vital signs, then drew the sheet over her face. Lincoln reluctantly let go of his niece and squeezed her shoulder. "You alright?" he asked. His voice was brittle.

Lynn III nodded and wiped her eyes. "I'm fine. You?"

"I'm fine," he said and forced a smile. It was not necessarily a lie: Numbness was beginning to settle in, and the initial pain had already begun to fade. He couldn't allow himself to fall apart even if he wanted to - there was a lot to do.

First, he used Bobby Jr.'s cellular phone (a blocky thing that looked like the walkie talkies they used in 'Nam only smaller) to call the funeral home. Next, he notified Mom's lawyer in Royal Woods. Lincoln and Lori handled most of Mom's finances over the past three years and rarely spoke to the attorney. Mom had him draw up a new will in 1990, following Dad's death, but Lincoln didn't know what was in it, nor did he care. Mom said several times that Luan would get the house - which had been paid off for almost twenty years - and that she wanted them to split the proceeds of Luna's estate. He imagined that and more was covered, but he wouldn't know until the reading, which would happen after the funeral.

Two orderlies came in to transport Mom to the hearse, and everyone filtered out of the room. Lincoln waited by the door, and when they came out with Mom on a gurney, he followed them to the rear loading dock. He signed a series of forms from both Marshall Manor and the funeral home, then watched slump-shouldered as the car carrying his mother's remains pulled away and turned right, disappearing around the corner in a red flash of taillights. One of the ordelies came over and took the clipboard from him. "I'm sorry for your loss. Your mother was a nice lady."

Lincoln couldn't tell if he was being earnest or not, but nodded and thanked him anyway. Inside, he found Ronnie Anne and Alex sitting in the waiting room and holding hands, the former looking tired and the latter staring blankly into space, cheeks wet, eyes muddled. "You ready?" he asked, his voice wavering.

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne muttered and got to her feet. Alex stood too and sniffled. Lincoln put his arm around her, and together they went out into the frigid night. Chunks of ice littered the well-lit parking lot, and heaps of snow kept silent vigil; cold wind gusted over the mounds and roared in the treetops.

In the car, Lincoln turned the key in the ignition and turned the radio off. Music, like talking, seemed wrong; none of them spoke on the drive, the only sound the humming of the tires and Alex's occasional sniffles. As the approached town, Lincoln glanced in the rearview mirror; the girl gazed out the window with a strained expression on her face. "We're going to the house," Lincoln said and faltered - he couldn't call it Mom's house and calling it Luan's struck him as absurd even if it was now. "Do you want to come?"

Alex sniffed and shook her head. "No, I just want to go home."

"Alright."

At the next intersection, he turned left and followed the road to Marsh Run, the twinkling lights of its many trailers looming out of the darkness like a fleet of ships in the night. He pulled in and navigated the streets, arriving at Alex and Tim's double wide just as snow began drifting from the sky. Alex leaned forward and hugged both of them. "I love you guys," she said, a serious edge in her voice. Nothing like a death in the family to make you realize just how much your loved ones mean to you - Lincoln knew that feeling well. "I love you too, honey," he said and kissed her cheek.

"I love you too," Ronnie Anne said. "Give Blake a kiss for us."

"I will," Alex said and threw open the door, "I'm going to be giving him lots of kisses tonight." She slammed the door and hurried up the walk. Lincoln stayed where he was until she was safely inside, then pulled a U-turn and followed the street back to Marsh Lane.

They were in town before Lincoln spoke again. "You alright?" The question sounded lame and clumsy to his own ears, but he suddenly needed to break the oppressive silence and it was either that or start talking about the time Sgt. Hellman sat on his back and made him do thirty push-ups. _Bugs! That's how a girl does push-ups, start over!_

"Yeah," Ronnie Anne said glumly, "I'm..I'm fine." She turned to the window, and Lincoln caught a glimpse of her reflection: Her lips were a tight, white slash and she blinked rapidly as if against a fresh crop of tears. When she was eighteen, her own mother died of a stroke, and she turned to Mom as something of a surrogate. While Lincoln was in captivity on the other side of the world, Mom and Dad took her in and gave her, as best they could, the love and emotional support she needed. Some families never take to their children's spouses, but his parents always saw Ronnie Anne as their daughter just the same as Luna and Luan. Losing them was just as hard on her as it was him, but she wouldn't show it. Not because she was concerned with being brave or stoic, but because she felt like she didn't have the right. Nearly a week after Dad died, he found her sitting on the couch and crying into her hands. She reluctantly told him that she missed his father. _He wasn't mine, but I loved him anyway._

All he could say was _he loved you too,_ and he did. So did Mom. His parents weren't perfect people and they made many missteps along the way, but they were filled with love, and they welcomed each new addition to the family completely and without reservation. They loved Lana and Lola the same as they loved Lynn III and Bobby Jr., and had they lived forever, that love would not have diminished, but grown as the family itself grew.

"You sure?" he asked.

Ronnie Anne stared out the window, and Lincoln was beginning to think that she wasn't going to reply. "Yeah. I'm just glad it's over."

He nodded. So was he; Mom was at peace now, and for that he was endlessly thankful.

At the Franklin Avenue house, he parked at the curb behind Lola and Bobby's rented Audi. Lights blazed in the front windows and a shadow fell across the curtain as someone passed. Lincoln cut the engine and sat back, his fingers raking through his hair. He was conflicted: Part of him wanted to see everyone, and another wanted to crawl into bed and drop into the blissful void of sleep. Making up his mind, he snatched the keys from the ignition, shoved them into his pocket, and got out into a blustery blast of wind. Ronnie Anne got out and looked at him over the top of the car. "I don't wanna stay long." There was a beseeching quality to her voice that told him she felt the same way he did.

"We won't," Lincoln promised.

Closing his door, he walked around the front end, and together, he and Ronnie Anne went up the walk. Tiny footprints crisscrossed the snowy yard, bearing witness to someone's playtime, and a small, malformed snowman grinned mockingly at Lincoln from beside the oak tree. _How does it feel to be an orphan, Linc? D'ya like it?_

He barked a harsh laugh, and Ronnie Anne's brow lifted quizzically. "Nothing," he said.

 _You feel like an orphan yet, Linc? Huh? No parents left. No one to change your diiiie-die!_

No, he didn't feel like an orphan: He was a forty-seven year old man who'd been on his own in the world since he was eighteen. One tour of duty in Vietnam, twenty-plus years of running a restaurant, two successfully raised daughters, and a healthy, stable three decade relationship with a good woman ensured that he felt like anything _but_ a child. Plus, to his reckoning, you lost your right to think of yourself as an orphan if your parents died after you left home. Of course, in this day and age, people pushing thirty considered themselves children, so he wouldn't put it past one of the little bastards to try. _Dude, my mom and dad died, dude, who's going to pay for my fortieth birthday party now?_

That didn't mean he didn't feel like shit, though.

At the door, he tried the handle, and it was unlocked. He turned the knob and stepped aside so Ronnie Anne could enter first. Lynn III and Jessy sat on the couch with Maddie between them. Three and a half with very light brown hair like her father, Maddie wore a red sweater with a sunflower across the chest, purple underwear...and snow boots.

Lincoln blinked like a cartoon character, but the vision remained.

Uh...alright then. Parent how you wanna parent, Lynn.

Ronnie Anne wasn't quite as permissive. "Oh, that's an interesting outfit," she said.

"She wanted to keep her boots on," Lynn said. "She really likes them."

Maddie gave a big and boisterous nod.

"Did you have fun in the snow?" Ronnie Anne asked her great-niece. She took off her jacket and hung it from the coat rack.

Maddie smiled and babbled out a stream of words and sounds from which Lincoln was only able to pick _snow, fall down,_ and _troo_...whatever _that_ meant. While everyone else was at the nursing home, Kathy stayed back with Maddie so _she's not running around and getting into things_. Lynn, however, told him the real reason. _She can't handle death, it really gets to her_. She lost her father in 1974 and her mother in 1992, and both times, Lynn said she was a nervous wreck for weeks after. Lincoln couldn't blame her - nothing like a good old fashioned death to get you thinking about your own mortality and that of everyone you love.

What she needed was eight months in a bamboo cage.

Lincoln slipped out of his coat, hung it up, and sat next to Jessy: She stared at the TV with a strained expression much like Ronnie Anne's and Alex's, as though she were fighting to keep it together and only barely winning. Lincoln nudged her arm with his elbow and she looked at him. "How you doing?" he asked.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again as though she didn't trust herself to speak without crying. She nodded and turned back to the screen, her arms folding defensively over her chest. Lincoln hesitated, then put his arm around her shoulders. He started to say _she wouldn't want you to be upset,_ but would that really do any good? The pain of losing someone isn't a burn and words are not balm. Perhaps if you believe in heaven, you can find solace in the belief that your loved one is in a place of eternal light and happiness where all tears are washed away, but he did not, and he did not raise his girls to either. Even if he had, knowing Mom was in paradise did little to assuage the selfish longing everyone feels when someone they love dies. Mom could be in the great by and by, but she wasn't _here._ No parent who loses a child would be content with their son or daughter being in heaven; if they could, they'd bring them back in a heartbeat. Any who assert differently are either lying or deranged.

Even if Mom was singing in the choir with Saint What's-his-name and that Judas guy, Jessy would call her home and so too, for that matter, would Lincoln.

Jessy too a deep breath. "I'm okay," she said. "I just...I miss her."

"So do I," Lincoln said honestly.

They lapsed into silence and stared at the TV screen where that awful _Ren and Stimpy_ show Blake liked so much played in bright hues and obnoxious sounds. Before long, Stephy bounced in from the kitchen dressed in a pair of black stirrup pants and a sleeveless pink tank top that was ill-suited to Michigan winters but perfect for those chilly 70 degree February days in Cali. Her pale blonde hair, which had lightened significantly over the past several years, spilled over her shoulders in a careless and tangled fall, and her brown eyes sparkled with perpetual mischief. She saw him, flashed an evil smile (both front teeth stylishly missing), and lowered her head ever so slightly like a bull getting ready to charge.

Uh-oh. Move over, grief, here comes terror.

Bobby, Lola, and the kids got into town three days ago, and every time Lincoln came over, Stephy made it her mission to try and break him. Literally. She climbed onto the couch and jumped onto his back; swung off his arm like a monkey on a vine; ran out of nowhere, kicked him in the back of the leg, and streaked away again, her sadistic giggles trailing behind her like smoke from an open hell pit. The funnest thing in the world to Stephanie Santiago was hurting her uncle; she said so herself. _The funnest thing ever is picking on you, Uncle Lincy._ Every time she appeared, his testciles tightened in anticipation of a savge kick, punch, or headbutt that, thankfully, hadn't come.

Yet.

Coming over, Stephy dropped onto the cushion next to Lincoln as hard as she could (was she hoping he'd take off like a rocket and smash his head on the ceiling?). The couch shook and Lincoln let out a placating _oof_. She leaned into him like she wanted to cuddle, grabbed his hand in both of hers, and studied it with a lopsided smile. "Hi, Uncle Lincy!" He accommodated her by splaying his fingers like a cat unsheathing its claws.

"Hi, Steph," Lincoln said with a calculated and long-suffering sigh. _I'm not happy to see you, but secretly I really am,_ it clearly said. _Even if you do beat my ass harder than the Cong did._

She pulled his hand close to her face and squinted her eyes in concentration. "Why does your finger look funny?"

He was absolutely _not_ expecting that question. It's not like she asked him three times a day, everyday. "Victor Charlie," he replied, like he always did.

"Who's that?"

"A bad guy."

"Why did he make your finger funny?"

"I slapped him for asking a bunch of questions. Like a five year old girl."

Stephy dug her fingers into the calloused padding of his palm and widened her eyes like a woman in the throes of hair-raising madness. "I'm seven," she intoned, "practically _groooooooown_."

That made him laugh just as hard as the first time she said it. Because her mother was Lola - she of prideful intelligence - Stephy knew a handful of big words that she almost always misapplied, sometimes unintentionally, and sometimes on purpose to annoy her mother. Yesterday she was tearing back and forth through the living room and tripped with a loud crash. Lincoln, Lola, and Luan came in from the kitchen to find her sitting in a heap in the middle of the floor. _I stubbed my cranium_ she cried dramatically and squeezed her big toe.

 _That's actually your hallux,_ Lola said.

 _Yeah, I hurt my halibut too._

"You're far from grown, kid," Lincoln pointed out now. "Grown people pay taxes."

Twisting his hand like a steering wheel, Stephy hummed. "I don't pay taxes. I make my dad do it. He has lots of money. When's the last time _you_ had steak for dinner?"

On his other side, Jessy got to her feet, went around the couch, and climbed the stairs. Maddie looked over at him and furrowed her brow in stern disapproval as though he did something wrong.

"Last Tuesday," Lincoln said honestly. "I'm not a big steak guy. I like ground beef better."

Bobbing her head from side to side, Stephy said, "I have steak everyday. And I drink champagne. Then...I smoke cigarrrrrrettes."

"No you don't," Bobby Jr. said and squeezed between her and the arm of the couch. She threw Lincoln's hand away like yesterday's paper, turned to her father, and tried to tickle him, but he got the upper hand and tickled _her_. Squealing, she slid off the couch and landed on the floor in a tangle of limbs and hair. She spun on her butt and lashed out with one bare foot; Bobby caught her by the ankle. "No you don't," her grinned. She kicked the other leg, and he grabbed that one too.

"Let me go! I captivate!" From her knowing giggle, Lincoln inferred that she meant _capitulate._ Maddie leaned forward and stared at her cousin with great interest. Stephy got her arms under her, braced them against the floor, and tried to scuttle away like a crab.

Smiling, Maddie kicked her in the head.

Going limp, Stephy lay on the floor, closed her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest in an X. "I died," she said.

Just being in the same room with her made Lincoln tired: She was nonstop hyperactivity from the moment she leapt out of bed in the morning to the moment her parents chased her into it at night. Bobby said the doctors were thinking of increasing the dosage of her medication since she'd built up a tolerance. Yes, she was a nutcase, but did they really need to put her on pills? Those Hollywood shrinks are in bed with the pharmaceutical companies, and make a fortune swinding rich people into believing they're sick. _I'm sorry, Mrs. Santiago, but your daughter has a rare and potentially lethal mental disorder called_ BEING A KID. _We suggest Thorazine. And a lobotomy._

"Bet you can't stay like that for five minutes," Lincoln said.

Stephy darted her gaze to him and hardened her features. "Of course I can. I have _power._ "

"Do it then."

The little girl's eyes narrowed. "What's in it for _me,_ old man?"

A shocked laugh escaped Lincoln's throat. Outside of Alex and Ronnie Anne, no one had ever called him old man to his face. Except for Lynn, but coming from a four hundred pound used car salesman a full two years older than him, it didn't mean much. Reaching into his back pocket, he took out his wallet, opened it, and removed the first bill he came to. Honest Abe stared back at him from a crisp five. He held it enticingly up...and Stephy rolled her eyes. "Five bucks? That's _it?_ "

'That's it it?' When he was a kid, he would have killed someone for five dollars. You know how much money - ?

Oh, right, it's not that much anymore. Still, she was seven, she should be going through the roof for one of these babies. "How much allowance do you give her?" he asked his nephew.

"Twenty a week," Bobby said after a thoughtful moment and let go of his daughter's legs.

"Damn," Lynn III drew disbelievingly. "Twenty a week?"

"Thirty if she doesn't get into trouble at school….so twenty."

That was crazy.

Nevertheless, Lincoln slipped out a twenty. Stephy's eyes went to it, and her lips curled up in a smile. "No you're talking." She started to reach for it, but Lincoln yanked it away.

"No, you have to be completely still for five minutes."

"Okay!"

She crossed her arms over her chest like a corpse laid out in a casket, and Lincoln was uncomfortably reminded of his mother, who was even now being dressed by a mortician like a Thanksgiving turkey, her veins filled with fluid and...he shut that thought down before it could become even more disturbing. Stephy lay flat on the floor, her eyes locked with his and a big, crazed smile on her pink lips. Lincoln was prepared to give her the twenty if she actually stayed still for five whole minutes, but he didn't think she would.

Two minutes in, her smile feel a little and her legs started to twitch with pent-up energy. Her pink polished toes curled and uncurled; her fingers trembled; she brushed her teeth across her bottom lip and wiggled her hips like she had an itch she couldn't reach. Lincoln smiled smugly, and she bared her teeth in a nervous little grin. "You're moving," he said.

"No I'm not," she said quickly.

"Yes you are," Lynn said.

Stephy swallowed thickly and rolled her ankles. "See," Lincoln said, "you just moved."

"No, _you_ moved."

Lincoln started to put the twenty back into his pocket, and like a coil, she sprang, sitting bolt upright and grabbing for it. "My money!"

"You lost, kid," Bobby said. "You should have stayed still."

"I _can't_ ," Stephy moaned and sullenly crossed her arms. "Staying still hurts. I need to _move_."

Taking pity on her, Lincoln handed her the five. "Here. Consolation prize."

She fixed it with a withering gaze...then smiled and took it. "Now to spend it on hair dye just like my mom!"

* * *

Alex slept poorly on the night of Friday, February 8 - tossing, turning, the works - and when Tim's alarm went off at 5:30, she decided to stay up. While he showered, she went into the kitchen with a yawn and brewed a pot of coffee, her hand absently scratching her butt. Beyond the sliding glass door to the back porch, cold, purple dawn slowly crested, its weak light rimming the edges of the curtain. Alex shuddered against the chill, and goosebumps raced up and down her arms. Going to the stove, she turned the oven on 450, opened the door, and leaned against the counter. Florence wasn't lying when she said the trailer was drafty in the winter - Alex looked high and low but she couldn't ascertain where it was coming from, which annoyed her to no end.

Since the central heating system worked harder to compensate, the bill was far higher than it was in September. Florence said _oh, it's not too bad,_ but Florence was a damn liar. Pfft, if you can't trust a senior citizen, who _can_ you trust?

Grabbing a mug from the drying rack, she filled it with coffee and took sip just as Tim came in, his boots clunking heavily on the tiled floor. She tried to summon a hearty greeting, but it came out as a broken grunt instead. Tim grunted back, opened the fridge, and took out his lunch pail. Alex glanced at the Care Bears sticker on the side and grinned to herself. Heh. Last night, after she made his sandwich and stuck it in, she slapped the sticker over the scoured remains of the last one. Would he notice?

Nope. He sat it in front of the microwave, opened the cabinet, and took out his special mug - the one she and Blake made for him last Christmas. It was lumpy, deformed, and fell over if you tried to sit it down, but he used it every morning anyway.

Crossing to the coffee pot, he poured some in and sipped. "I think the hot water heater's busted again."

Alex's shoulders sagged. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yep. The water was lukewarm...then it wasn't."

Ugh. They'd been in the trailer less than five months, and already the heater went on the fritz three times - three times! Since their landlord lived in Florida now, they had to take care of it themselves: Tim and his father fixed it the first time, then the second, Tim spent the entire day on it before she broke down and called Dad for help. At the end of it, Dad crawled out from under the trailer covered in dirt, snow, and scum and dusted his hands. _There. That should hold for a while_.

That was a week and a half ago.

"I'm getting really tired of that damn thing," Alex grumbled. She lifted her cup to her lips. "She really needs to give us a discount on our rent."

Tim chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, doubt that'll happen." He finished his coffee, sat his mug in the sink, and kissed her cheek. "Love you," he said.

"I love you too."

When he was gone, Alex considered going back to bed, but Blake would be up soon; best to just stay up. In the living room, she dropped onto the couch, stretched her legs out on the coffee table, and turned the TV on: An infomercial played on TNT. Unlike Mom and Dad, she and Tim had basic cable - like sixty channels if you count TV Guide. That's where she went now: Channel listings scrolled endlessly up while a tiny screen on top played a loop of commercials. Nothing good was on, but it rarely ever was in the morning - midnight to noon was kind of a TV dead zone save for stuff like _USA Up All Night_ with Gilbert Gottfried on Fridays and Saturdays.

Saturday was the best day for TV period. You had _Cops, America's Most Wanted,_ and _Saturday Night Live_ all within a couple hours of each other, then _Up All Night_ and sometimes _Monstervision_ on TNT - they played old horror and drive-in movies like _Billy the Kid vs. Dracula, The Howling,_ and _Plan 9 From Outer Space._ Last night, she sat up and absently watched _Night of the Lepus,_ reluctant to go to bed because in bed, she would be alone with her thoughts.

Sure enough, when she finally relented and laid down, her mind instantly turned to Grandma - to the rattle of her dying breath, the chill of her touch, and the fear in her eyes as she sank into death. Presently, a shudder went through her and she took a sip of coffee.

A few minutes later, the telltale creak of rusty hinges filled the trailer, and tiny feet pitterpatteed through the kitchen. Blake shuffled into the living room in a diaper and a T-shirt, his brown hair sticking out and his eyes muddled with sleep. Alex sat the cup on the table and swung her legs off. "Hey, buuuuu-dee," she said in her best Pauly Shore (which was better than the real Pauly Shore, of that she was certain). She held her arms out, and Blake regarded her warily. "Are you grumpy?"

He whipped his head from side-to-side.

"Then come see mommy."

Stooping his shoulders, he dragged himself to the couch and stood in front of her, arms dangling and head down. He was always a sourpuss in the morning; ya know, going to sleep at a decent hour would clear that _right_ up. Last night wasn't his fault, though: She kept him up with her until he passed out because she didn't want to stop holding him.

Taking his face in her hands, she pushed his cheeks together, and his lips puffed out. "Do you wanna go hang out with your cousins?"

" _Noooo."_

"Sure you do. We'll -" she started to say _stop at McDonalds_ but stopped herself. It was barely past six, and McDonald's didn't start serving lunch until, like, noon - Blake didn't like the breakfast food because it didn't come with a toy. He'd eat it, but he'd fuss that he didn't get something to play with. She wasn't planning to leave right this minute, but much sooner than twelve.

Blake cocked his head and waited for her to finish her thought. "We'll have lots of fun," she said and flashed a please-buy-my-bullshit smile. "How about some food?"

After eating a balanced and nutritious breakfast of Cocoa Puffs and bananas (gotta get your daily serving of fruit, Blakeula), Alex dressed Blake in a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt, then put his shoes on. Leaving him in front of _The Moxy Show,_ she went into her room and got her own clothes on: Jeans and brown knit sweater that itched, but was warm. In the living room, Blake sat transfixed before the TV, jaw slack and eyes dancing with soft electric glow. "Ready?" she asked.

He waved her off.

"Come on, couch potato," she said. She went to the TV and pressed the OFF button. Blake kicked and grunted his outrage. "You can watch TV anytime, but your cousins are only gonna be here for so long." She held out her hand, and sighing cutely, Blake got up and toddled over.

At the door, she put his jacket on, then her own. Outside, a biting wind blew between the trailers with an eerie whistle. In seconds, her face went numb and her nipples started to ache. Ow. I-I-I h-h-hate w-w-w-winter.

Shivering, she picked Blake up, locked the door, and carried him to the car, the treads of her boots crunching solid snow. Another gust buffeted them, and Blake burrowed his face into the crook of her neck. "I agree," she said.

She strapped him into his carseat, slammed the door, and slid in behind the wheel. "Buuuuurrrr," she said. January and February were the worst months - to her, they epitomized the phrase _dead of winter_. Bleak skies, dead trees, frozen ground; at least in December you had Christmas to look forward to, in February you had _nothing._ Except Valentine's Day, but Valentine's Day was lame; it didn't have any good candy, just those chalky nasty heart things that said BE MINE and I'M TAKING THE KIDS AND LEAVING. Ugh.

Putting the key in the ignition, she started the engine and turned the heater on. Throwing the car into reverse, she backed out of the driveway and into the street: Ahead, an old woman walked a small dog on a leash, and in the rearview mirror, a guy sprayed the dirt, salt, and grime from his car with a hose. Jeez, don't you think it's a little chilly for that? She drove to the entrance, waited for traffic, then turned left.

When she got to the Franklin Avenue house, she parked in the drive and looked up at it with a rush of apprehension. Walking through the door, she already knew, she'd be bombarded by memories of her grandmother. This house and Grandma were inextricably entwined in her mind - it would always be Grandma's house, and her spirit would always dwell in it. Right now, the wounds were so fresh that she wasn't sure she could handle being surrounded by Grandma's presence.

Killing the engine, she got out and went inside anyway. When she crossed the threshold, Stephy was in the middle of doing a somersault in front of the TV and while Maddie stood on the sidelines grinning, dressed in a red and green flannel nightgown and snow boots. Lola sat on the couch with Val in her lap; the little boy munched a piece of toast and observed his sister and cousin with something approaching disdain.

Stephy rolled onto her butt and looked up at Maddie. "Now it's your turn!"

Maddie bent forward, splayed her hands on the floor, and lifted one foot off the ground...then toppled over.

At the sound of the door, Lola turned her head and flashed a tired smile. "Hey," she said.

"Hi," Alex said and sat Blake down. She stripped his jacket off and hung it up, then pulled his boots off. Stephy did another somersault and Maddie jumped in excitement. She tried to emulate her big cousin again, and again, she crashed and burned.

Crossing the living room, Alex sat next to Lola with a weary exhalation and glanced at Blake, who stood next to Maddie and watched Stephy tumble head over butt across the floor. "I'm getting dizzy!" she cried. "I'm gonna voluptuous!"

"Vomit, Steph," Lola said with a playful eyeroll, "you're going to vomit."

"That too!"

Val shoved the last of the toast into his mouth and laid his hands in his lap. Alex twisted around and poked his arm. "Morning."

He pulled away. "Go 'way," he muttered.

"He's grumpy," Lola explained. "Stephanie Nicole decided to wake the whole house up last night by jumping off of her bed and onto the floor. Repeatedly."

Aw, that'll do it. Stephy couldn't weigh more than eighty pounds (if that), but somehow she sounded far heavier. Felt far heavier too: Yesterday, Alex was stretched out prone on the floor playing with Maddie when Stephy leapt off of the couch and came down on her like a ton of bricks. "Did your sister wake you up?" Alex cooed and leaned in to her little cousin.

"Yes, woke me up," the four-year-old grumbled, "Stephy stupid."

"That's not nice," Lola admonished.

Val wiggled off of her lap and sat next to her, his arms crossing petulantly. "Are you off today?" Lola asked Alex.

"No, I work," Alex replied. She took yesterday off to be with Grandma and would have called in today too if she hung on, but since she didn't, Alex had no reason to not go. The world doesn't stop just because your grandmother does - bills still need to be paid and groceries bought. Sad fact of life. Sigh. She didn't really mind, though; nothing gets your mind off bad things like hard, physical labor.

"What time?" Lola asked.

"3 to 11," Alex said. "I'll probably leave here around one, take Blake to daycare, and -"

"Leave him here," Lola said. "I'll watch him."

Blake and Maddie both tried to do a somersault, but bumped into one another and fell, Maddie to one side and Blake to the other. Stephy, on her knees, grinned sadistically. "Fight, fight for my amusement." She held her hands out, palms up, and curled her fingers like a mad scientist whose monster just opened its eyes.

Before Alex could say _Uh, I'll probably just take him to daycare anyway,_ five sharp talons dug into her shoulder and she jumped. "Me too," Lynn III said. "Hanging out with _me_ will put some hair on his chest." She let go (ouch, are those fingers or claws?), came around the arm, and sat down. "Toughen him up a little."

"He's plenty tough, thank you," Alex said.

"Like you?" Lynn asked and poked Alex's squishy stomach. She, uh, _maaay_ have gained a little weight over the past couple months. That wasn't her fault, though: Her body was accustomed to working at Oak Springs so it didn't metabolize the same way it did when she started. Back then, the bending, squatting, and lifting was new and actually got things done in terms of fat burning. Now it didn't.

"I've lost weight," she countered.

"That's not what your jiggly butt says."

Alex gasped. Okay, she may have packed on a few extra pounds, but her butt did not jiggle. It was firm, toned, and, uh, not fat. Face darkening, she jammed her finger under Lynn's nose. "Nice mustache."

"I don't have a mustache," Lynn said soberly.

Oh, maybe not, but she had the beginnings of one. When she, Ritchie, and Maddie first got into town, Alex noticed the rectangular dark patch above her cousin's upper lip almost immediately. At first, she thought Ritchie hauled off and hit her and almost kicked him in the nuts. The more she looked at it, though, the less it looked like a bruise and more like the first hint of a luscious Freddie Mercury. She should know: A lot of the female residents at Oak Springs had that same discoloration...a few even sported hair.

"What's on your lip, then?" Alex asked. "It's either a mustache or you talked back to Ritchie and he punched you."

Lynn snorted. "Ritchie knows better than to try that. I'd kick his ass."

Pinching a spill of her own hair between her thumb and forefinger, Alex pulled it tight across her upper lip and deepened her voice. "Don't mess with me, Ritchie."

Flashing, Lynn slammed the heel of her palm into Alex's shoulder. Pain shot into Alex's skull, but she laughed nevertheless. "I'm the man now."

Lynn's brow creased angrily and she did it again. Okay, _this_ time it hurt. She balled her hand into a fist and crashed it into Lynn's shoulder; her knuckle hit bone and they both yelped. "Bitch!" Lynn hissed in pain.

"You're all bony and disgusting," Alex said and shook her hand; hot tendrils of agony throbbed up her arm and needled the center of her brain. Ugh, it was as bad as hitting your little toe on the coffee table...or stepping on a Lego on your way to the bathroom at 3am. "You need to _gain_ weight."

Stephy slapped her palms on the edge of the coffee table, bent slightly so that her hair obscured her face, and kicked her leg behind her. Blake and Maddie stood on the sidelines with bemused smiles. "Now you try!" Maddie stepped forward, bent, and paused as her tiny mind processed what she just saw. Lifting her leg was apparently too much to comprehend, so she jumped instead, one hand pounding against the surface and a giggle bubbling up from her throat. Stephy, kneeling now, brushed her hair behind her ear, rocked forward, and grabbed the front of Blake's shirt. "You _must_ try this." She yanked him forward and he fell into her lap. He pulled away and landed on his butt in front of her, his face hardening. Uh oh. Stephy laid her hands on his shoulder and leaned in until the tips of their noses were touching. "Jumping is _fuuuuuuuuun."_ She bounced giddily up and down, and Blake threw Alex a worried glance. _Save me! This girl is crazy!_

"Stephy," Lola said, "let him go."

The little blonde unclasped Blake's shirt. "Later," she whispered ominously, "we jump."

"You work today?" Lynn asked and slapped the back of her hand across Alex's chest.

"Yes, 3-11. I just told you that."

"Then leave Blake here. We'll take good care of him, won't we, Lo'?"

" _I_ will," Lola said, "I can't speak for you."

"I can," Lynn said. She settled back and draped her arm over the back of the couch. "I take care of my daughter all the time, and look at her, the picture of health and happiness."

Maddie took a step and fell on her face. "She's been wearing snow boots for two days straight," Lola pointed out.

"She won't take them off!" Lynn lifted her hand strickenly up. "She slept in them last night. She loves those damn things."

Getting back to her feet, Maddie took another step and pitched forward again, her little arms flapping on the way down and her mouth an exaggerated O of surprise. "She's going to kill herself," Lola worried.

Forsaking walking, Maddie crawled around the end of the coffee table on her hands and knees, the slack laces of her boots trailing behind her like snakes through grass. Ah, there's your problem. Lola picked the little girl up and spun her so that her feet landed in Alex's lap. "Didn't your mommy teach you how to tie shoes?" she asked.

Maddie shook her head.

"Oh, yes I did," Lynn said. "Remember loop-de-loop and pull?"

Alex tied the laces, then moved onto the other one. "Loop-de-loop and pull?" she pressed. "Did mommy tell you that? No wonder you can't tie, they're called _bunny ears._ Everyone knows that." She cried out when Lynn pinched her earlobe.

"Bunny ear!"

Giggling, Maddie leaned forward and snatched Alex's other ear. " _Unny eeeeear!"_

Alex thought having one Lynn was bad...now she had two.

Oh, happy day.

* * *

Rita's funeral was held at noon on Tuesday, February 12th at Grace Methodist Church in Royal Woods, a white clapboard building with a steeple and multicolored stained glass windows depicting scenes from the New Testament: The birth of Christ, His baptism in the Jordan River, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection - heavenly light bathing an empty tomb, a massive stone rolled aside. Unbroken blankets of snow bordered the walkway, and a tiny graveyard peeked out from around the back corner, the tombstones slanted under the weight of years. Inside, Lincoln sat in the front row with Ronnie Anne, Lynn Jr., Kathy, Lori, Bobby, Luan, and Fred, his hands resting in his lap and his eyes pointed at the covered riser upon which his mother's casket lay. He knew she was dead...knew it before she even closed her eyes that final time...but seeing her at the viewing really brought it home and he barely managed to hold himself together. He didn't want to gaze upon her upturned face, cheeks rosy with a grotesque parody of life, but once that coffin lid closed, he would never see her again; deep down he knew he would regret it if he didn't.

Behind him, Alex held Blake on her lap and focused on her father's broad back. Like him, her stomach was knotted in dread at the prospect of looking down into Grandma's face - the mortician did a good job, she looked like she was only sleeping. Alex found that somehow more disturbing than if she'd been obviously dead; at the viewing, she kept expecting her to turn her head and open her eyes. _Don't steal anything._ That night, she dreamed that Grandma was back from the dead and sick again, sitting in her armchair and absently stroking Russel's face. Alex instinctively knew that Grandma could die at any moment, and the eerie _wrongness_ of the scene struck horror into Alex's heart. _You shouldn't be here...it's not right...please die._ She woke with tears in her eyes and snuggled up to Tim for comfort.

Down the row, Jessy clung to Mark's hand as if to keep herself from being swept away on a tide of emotions. Tears brimmed in her clear eyes, and her pink nose, rubbed raw by a thousand tissues, twitched as she sniffed. Teaching children had brought her a level of confidence that she never imagined she would have; it made her feel bigger, stronger, and like she could handle anything life threw at her. At the viewing however, all of that drained away from her, and when she glimpsed the coffin across the room, her grandmother's profile just visible, she froze up and started to shake. With her newfound self-possession, she believed that she could go to Grandma's casket, that she could touch her hand one last time and stare down at her upturned face, but she couldn't: She was weak and small again, and the thought of looking into Grandma's face and seeing only cold death where warm love and affection once shone, pushed her over the edge. She couldn't do it...she couldn't.

She sniffed again and dabbed her eyes with a shredded Kleenex. She forced her gaze to the casket: Grandma lay stretched out like an offering to a cruel pagan god, her hands folded over the chest of her blue dress and her eyes closed. Cloying heaps of flowers surrounded her, and their sickly-sweet stench turned Jessy's stomach. The minister stood at a podium and addressed the congregation in a high voice that resounded without the aid of a microphone. Jessy tried to focus on what he was saying, but couldn't; instead, she swallowed thickly and bowed her head. At the end of the service, everyone would get up and file past the coffin to pay their final respects. Like her uncle, she knew that this would be the last time she would ever get to see Grandma outside of faded snapshots and sepia toned memories and that if she didn't, she would always wish she had.

Suddenly the nave was very stifling and her lungs burst for air even though she was breathing. Something tickled her neck and she scratched. Now her arms pricked, and her legs too. She squirmed uncomfortably; her skin was crawling now, tingling under the faint brush of a thousand phantom bugs. Licking her lips, and tossed a stricken look around; the walls were closing in, slowly but inexorably like the march of years. Why was it so hot in here?

The minister held up his hand, dirty gray daylight sheening the lenses of his glasses like quicksilver. Everyone bowed their head as one, the rustle of fabric and the creaking of pews deafening. A quiver went through her and she pulled her hand from Mark's. She snatched her purse up from between her feet and fumbled through it for her pills, panic clawing insistently at the inside of her chest. "Are you alright?" Mark whispered.

Her hand shook as she pulled the bottle out; tablets rattled within and sweat started coursing down her face in warm, slimy rivulets. She tried to twist the top off, but his fingers were trembling too badly. Her panic turned to frustration, and a low growl rumbled in the back of her throat. Mark reached out, plucked the bottle away, and unscrewed the lid. He upended it, tapped one into his palm, and held it out. Jessy grabbed it with frantic urgency, tossed it into her mouth, and crunched it between her teeth. Astringent bitterness coated her tongue, and closing her eyes, she swallowed the chalky powder with a pained gasp. Mark watched her with a trace of concern that someone who didn't know him might not notice, but was all too clear to her. She worked up a mouthful of saliva and swallowed again.

Taking a series of quick, deep breaths, she nodded. Mark closed the bottle, slipped it into his jacket's inner pocket, and took her hand. Her heart pounded a frenetic tempo and her lungs still burst for air, but she could feel herself beginning to relax. "I'm okay," she muttered.

Mark squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back, her wan lips turning up in a tiny smile that lit her watery eyes like a sunbeam on the surface of a still pond. Almost a year ago, they decided to marry _when the time is right_. The time, she thought now, was as right as it would ever be…rather, soon it would be. She couldn't bring herself to think about her wedding - her own happiness - while her grandmother was barely in the ground. A month or two, surely no more, just enough time to get her balance again.

On Mark's other side, Lynn laced her fingers around her daughter's stomach and rested her chin atop the little girl's head. Tears stained her cheeks, but she no longer cried. She didn't see her grandmother very often, but she loved her just the same. Her only regret was not getting to know her as well as Alex and Jessy did.

A memory bubbled up from the recesses of her mind like a corpse from the deep of a cold, dark lake: Her grandfather, Mama's dad, lying in a coffin much like Grandma, his hands folded on his chest and his eyes closed. She recalled furrowing her brows and trying to puzzle out why he was in that strange looking bed when Dad said he went to live with God. She remembered Mama and and her other Grandma crying; drawing a reflexive breath through her nose, she gagged on the taste of funeral flowers - whether they were here now or only in her memory, Lynn could not say, nor did she want to.

She was...five when that happened, and when she tried to look back at her grandfather from the here and now, his face was always hazy and indistinct, like a vision glimpsed through swirling snow. He had a big white mustache and wore a cowboy hat - Lynn vaguely recalled him sitting her on his lap and perching it on her head; she smiled unexpectedly at the recollection of it sliding down her face and blocking her eyes. She _thought_ she remembered driving somewhere with him in a convertible: Strapped into a metal car-seat that afforded no padding, comfort, and safety, the wind whipping her hair and Big Band and Swing music on the radio. It was too faded to trust, though. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn't.

At the end of the pew, Lola shot a withering gaze at her daughter, who sat beside her in a black dress, and tapped her knee. "Be quiet," she said.

Stephy, her hands splayed on either side of her, threw back her head and blew a puff of air that turned into a moan; it filled the silent church like thunder, and Lola bared her teeth. The entire time they'd been here, Stephy hummed, kicked her legs, and sang softly to herself, only in the preternatural quiet, it wasn't so soft. _I saw the dime, picked up and I saw the dime_ over and over again to the tune of _I Saw the Sign_ by Ace of Base. Lola appreciated her daughter's ability to conceive clever lyrics at the drop of a hat, but not at a time like this.

Pursing her lips, Stephy pretended to lock them and throw away the key. Lola glared at her, then turned back to the altar, her eyes going inevitably to Mrs. Loud's face. Less than two years ago, hers and Lana's mother died, and aside from a slight twinge of loss at what could have been (but would never be), she felt nothing. Now, however, she felt the deepest sense of grief, like a ball of ice in the pit of her stomach. _You should have been my mother,_ she thought, and the tears came again, streaking down her face and splashing onto the front of her black dress in droplets.

Presently, the minister concluded the prayer and everyone stood. Jessy's grip on Mark's hand tightened, and as they made their way to the casket, she sucked a deep, fortifying breath. Falling in behind Alex and Tim, she kept her eyes on her feet, not wanting to see Grandma until the last possible minute.

Somewhere behind, Stephy sighed. "Are we almost done?" she asked, her voice edged with pleading.

"Almost," Lola said.

Auntie Lori walked away from the casket with tears in her eyes and sat; the line stepped forward and someone bumped into Jessy's leg. "How rude," Stephy said, perhaps in imitation of the little girl on _Full House._

"Stephanie," Lola hissed through her teeth. "Knock it off."

In front, Lincoln let go of Ronnie Anne's hand and went to the side of the coffin. Mom's cheeks blazed red as though embarrassed by all the fuss being made over her, and her gnarled fingers were locked together upon her chest in a way that her arthritis hadn't allowed since 1980. It was a cliche to say a dead person looked like they were "only sleeping," but Mom really did. There was even a slight smile on her lips as though she were having pleasant dreams. Even though he knew she was dead - knew that the funeral home embalmed her - he reached out and tentatively touched her hand anyway, just to make sure.

Cold.

Lincoln had touched several dead bodies before (didn't he carry out this same routine with Luna, Leni, and Dad?), but there are some things that you never get used to, and the unnatural chill of death is one of them. It was unlike anything else he'd ever felt - you could liken it to cold clay or marble, but even that didn't fully compare.

He looked at her face one final time, then moved away and sat heavily down. Ronnie Anne stood over the casket for a moment, then laid her hand on Mom's and stroked her thumb affectionately across the old woman's knuckles. When she turned, tears shimmered in her dark eyes; she sat next to him and blotted them with the pad of her middle finger. Lincoln slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. Alex and Tim were next. Alex sucked her quivering lips into her mouth and blinked, two tears streaking down her cheek, then a third. Blake, in Tim's arms, leaned over and stared down at his great-grandmother with pinched-browed confusion, as though he couldn't figure out what was happening or why.

Hanging her head, Alex went to the left and looped back around to her spot, Tim trudging behind. Jessy took her place, her eyes closed and her chest rapidly rising and falling. She laid her hands on the edge of the coffin, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes. A strangled sob escaped her lips, and Mark circled his arm around her waist, then lead her away.

At the end of it all, Lincoln, Lynn, Fred, Bobby, Bobby Jr., and Tim carried the closed coffin out to a waiting herse and slid it into the back. The front steps were clear of ice, but Lincoln worried that he would slip anyway - there was no greater indignity, he thought, than being dropped at your own funeral, and no greater shame than being the one to _do_ the dropping.

From the church, the funeral procession made its way through Royal Woods to the cemetery. A short graveside service followed, the mourners clustering around the coffin. When the final words were spoken, the casket was lowered, and Rita Loud was committed to the bosom of the earth beside her husband and daughters.

Three days later, her surviving children gathered in the office of her lawyer for the reading of her will. When she died, there was nearly 1.5 million dollars in her bank account. It was divided equally between Lincoln, Lynn, Lori, and Luan, the latter of which also got the house. The quarterly royalty checks from Luna's estate were evenly distributed between each grandchild: Bobby Jr., Alex, Jessy, and Lana. The figure worked out to be nearly twenty thousand apiece annually.

In June, Jessy and Mark married in the backyard of the Franklin Avenue house like Alex and Tim before them, and one morning in July, Luan came into the kitchen to find Russel, her mother's beloved companion in her final years, lying on his side, still. He never got over his master leaving, and spent most of his days curled up in front of Mom's chair and watching it with sad eyes. Fred buried him in the backyard, and though Luan was not particularly close with the animal, she cried.

Lola's novel, _Sisters,_ was published by Doubleday in August. The general consensus among reviewers was that while touching, it wasn't especially well written. Oh well, she figured, she enjoyed doing it and it sold well.

Maybe she'd write another.

Or record a new album.

In life, the possibilities are endless and one never knows what's around the next bend.

And _that_ is what makes it interesting.


	180. August and September 1996: Part 1

**STR2D3PO: Nope, we still have a little ways to go. The end is in sight, however.**

 **Dread55: That's the point, although I think I might pull up a little short of that and let the characters ride off into the sunset. I've had an ending in mind since the very beginning but I'll most likely stop before I get there.**

 **So there's no confusion, I skipped '95 entirely. Nothing of note happened that year anyway. Except something about Oklahoma City. Idk.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **I Love You Always Forever**_ **by Donna Lewis (1996)**

Alex Underwood had a problem...a _huge_ problem…

Her stomach.

When she started at Oak Springs in 1992, she weighed close to 140 pounds, which was the biggest she'd ever been.

Until now.

Standing in front of the mirror on the back of hers and Tim's bedroom door, bright summer sun spilling through the blinds and bathing the room in rich, golden hues, she pressed her hands to her jiggly gut and frowned at her reflection. There was a scale in the bathroom, but she was afraid to use it - the last time she did, she topped out at 175. That was six months ago, and in that time, she'd gotten _bigger_.

Okay, her eating habits were bad but not _that_ bad. Since starting at Marshall Manor in September '94, she worked the morning shift and was home to cook dinner every night. She even used vegetables and stuff. Then there was all the exercise she got at work - seriously, a job at a nursing home is better than a gym membership. She bent, lifted, squatted...and walking, God, so much walking.

She knew for a while that she was packing on the pounds, but it didn't really hit her that she was _fat_ until January. Tom, whom she hadn't seen since leaving Oak Springs, got a job at Marshall Manor on a different wing, and they met by chance one day when they both came in to collect their paycheck. He saw her...and his jaw _dropped_. _Holy shit, Alex is that you?_

Yep, it's me. I did my hair this morning and put on a little make-up, so I can't blame you for not recognizing me; I might look like a supermodel, but…

 _You're a fucking heifer._

Her smile fell.

At first she dismissed it as Tom being a dick - he always had a thing about making fun of women probably because he resented the fact that he wasn't one - but when she got home, she took a good, long look at herself in the mirror, and dick or not, he was right, she _was_ a heifer.

Resolved to _not_ be a heifer, she cut sweets completely out of her diet, which was preeeeetty hard but by no means impossible.

Only that didn't work. She kept gaining and gaining and gaining, like a balloon being slowly filled with air. She ate two meals a day - lunch and dinner - and drank water instead of soda. She took the stairs at work rather than the elevator, didn't snack the way she used to, and took long walks around the trailer park on her days off. She eventually stopped gaining, but didn't start losing. The doctor said her metabolism was _probably_ slowing down, which meant she was pretty much stuck being a fatty unless she submitted to a gruelling exercise routine.

Sigh.

Drinking Slim Fast was easier...and yummier. That stuff was _soooo_ good. When she first tried it, she didn't even know it was supposed to help you lose weight: She just bought it because it looked delicious.

Speaking of which, she needed to go to K-Mart and pick some up - she finished her last one that morning.

The front door opened and the sound of a thousand stampeding feet filled the trailer, followed by excited talking and laughing. Oh no. Not again.

Opening the door, Alex went out into the kitchen; a dozen kids jostled for position in front of the fridge, their faces red and sweaty from the August heat. Blake, chubby himself with short, bristly brown hair freshly cut, moved a chair over, climbed on, and opened the freezer. He reached in, pulled out a box of Rocket Pops, and began distributing them to all his little friends. Jordan, clad in blue shorts and a baggy yellow shirt, her blonde hair in a tight French braid, took one, chirped her thanks, and ripped it open. Going over to the trash can, she dropped the wrapper in and jammed the Popsicle into her mouth. The others threw their trash onto the floor and stomped out like a herd of elephants.

Alex rolled her eyes. Every day they did this. It was like an army of vikings plundering a village or something.

Jumping off the chair, Blake dragged it back to the table and stood next to Jordan, both of them sucking on their treats, patriotic shades of red, white, and blue smearing their faces. Blake had many, many, _many_ pals, but Jordan was his best friend - they spent every second of every day together, riding bikes, playing N64, and watching TV.

"Your friends are animals," Alex said and started picking up the discarded wrappers.

"I told them not to do it," Jordan said. "They didn't listen."

Alex threw them into the trash and went over to the sink, where she washed the stickiness from her hands. Blake and Jordan went into the living room and sat on the couch. "I wanna play Mario," Jordan piped and crunched the tip of the pop between her teeth.

"We have to go to K-Mart," Alex cut in and dried her hands on a cloth. "So...don't get involved in anything."

Blake sighed. "I don't wanna."

"Can I come?" Jordan asked.

"Ask your mother," Alex said.

"Okay," Jordan said. She got up, crossed to the door, and opened it, then stopped. "Are you coming with me?" she asked Blake.

Blake shook his head. "No."

She lingered for a moment. "Alright," she said, "I'll be right back." She ducked out and let the storm door slam shut behind her.

Alex went into the room, snatched her shoes up off the floor, and went into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, she pulled them on and leaned back. "I talked to grandpa," she said, "he says he's going to pick you up at six tomorrow. Do you have everything you need?"

"I think," the six-year-old said.

Dad was taking Blake and Jordan fishing, which was kind of funny...since he didn't know the first thing about fishing himself. _We'll learn together,_ he said over the phone. Alex wasn't sure where _that_ came from (except for out of the blue), but Dad was adamant. _That's what grandfathers do,_ he said, _they teach you how to fish and shit_.

Since Dad was suddenly hot to take Blake fishing, Alex went out a bought both him and Jordan children's fishing poles - his was blue with a reel shaped like Flounder from _The Little Mermaid,_ and hers was pink with a fin for a handle. Alex assumed it was supposed to be Ariel's tail, but, to be honest, it was a pretty lame attempt.

Getting up with a grunt, she went to Blake's room - strewn with toys and clothes because he didn't listen when she told him to pick it up yesterday - and checked the closet, where she stored all the fishing stuff last week. Poles, tacklebox, little hats with lures and hooks threaded through the fabric, boots...yep, we should be good.

Back in the living room, Jordan stood by the door. "She said yes."

"Alright, then," Alex said, and motioned for Blake to get off his lazy butt, "come on."

Outside, the sun sat high in the dusty heavens and an arid breeze rustled the parched brown grass. The laughter of children rang out in the distance, and across the street, a shirtless man bent over the engine block of an El Camino, a nearby boombox blasting _Another Brick in the Wall_ by Pink Floyd. Sweat instantly sprang to Alex's forehead, and within moments her rolls rubbed slickly together. She locked the door, descended the steps, and crossed to the car. Blake and Jordan following behind; Blake threw his Popsicle stick to the ground and Jordan's brow knitted. "Your mom said not to do that."

Sighing, Blake picked it back up and shoved it into his pocket.

Behind the wheel, Alex checked the rearview mirror to make sure the kids had their seatbelts on (they did), then started the engine. Backing up, she paused to turn on the radio and cycled through the stations Ever since WKBBL, the old Royal Woods standby, switched to a lame-o _adult contemporary_ format last year, she'd been kind of lost. Sure, there were other stations that played the same music (and better), but that was, like, a part of her childhood, and nothing else fit as well. She finally settled for one playing a commercial and pulled into the street.

"I spy," Jordan started, "with my little eye...something blue."

Alex navigated the car to the main thoroughfare and turned right toward the highway. Kids mobbed the playground, and a group of teenagers in backwards hats and baggy shorts sat on a picnic table flanking the clubhouse.

"The sky?" Blake asked.

"No."

At the exit, Alex waited for traffic to pass, then hung a left. Yummy Slim Fast, here I come!

"I don't know, what?"

"Your shirt."

The commercial ended and the deejay took a request - something about _this song makes me think of my girlfriend because I'm a sappy dork,_ Alex didn't really know, she was focused on Slim Fast.

Light piano music and breathy vocals drifted from the speaker, and Alex instinctively turned it down. Ugh. Why couldn't it have been Alanis Morissette? She liked Alanis Morissette. Sheryl Crow too. They weren't as good as AC/DC or Snoop Dogg, but they were cool as far as modern pop went. Of course, everyone else set the bar kind of low, so being better wasn't a hard feat to pull off.

 _Feels like I'm standing in a timeless dream  
Of light mists with pale amber rose  
Feels like I'm lost in a deep cloud of heavenly scent  
Touching, discovering you_

At least it wasn't the macarena. It wasn't a bad song...the first fifty million times they played it, but after that, it got just a _little_ excessive. The dance that went along with it was pretty dumb too - she saw the video on MTV and rolled her eyes. The worst part was: Half the song was in Spanish. She had to go to her mother and ask what the lyrics meant. _You should have learned Spanish when I tried to teach you,_ Mom said indignantly. Well, excuse _me_. Maybe you shouldn't have married a white guy if you're so big into speaking Mexican. That was _your_ fault.

 _I love you always forever  
Near and far, closer together  
Everywhere I will be with you  
Everything I will do for you_

"Your mom's hair?" Jordan asked curiously.

Huh?

"Yep," Blake said.

"What's wrong with my hair?" Alex asked.

"We're playing I Spy," Jordan explained.

Oh, right. Blake must have spied something black. Wow, kid, you're lazier than I am.

K-Mart appeared on the right, a long, low building at the head of a vast parking lot. Smaller stores - Dollar Tree, a laundromat, Blockbuster - flanked it on either side. "Can we get a movie?" Blake asked.

"Maybe," Alex said. She spun the wheel, turned into the entrance, and guided the car to a slot facing the street. She cut the engine and got out, the kids following suit. They crossed the parking lot and went inside, the store cool and dim after the dazzling heat of the the day. To the left, a tiny, half-hearted arcade occupied a little alcove. "Can we have quarters?" Blake asked.

Alex reached into her purse, felt around, and grabbed a handful of change. "Here," he said and handed it to him.

While Blake and Jordan went off to play, Alex grabbed a cart and made straight for the Slim Fast. Next, she walked to the home department for a new shower curtain, since the old one in the master bathroom was starting to get kind of scummy. After _that,_ she tried on a few pairs of shoes - fun fact about being a fatso, it hurts your feet like a _mofo_ and if your shoes weren't comfy, you were SOL - shit out of luck.

Done, she went through check out and pushed the buggy to the arcade, where she found Blake playing _Crusin' USA_ while Jordan stood at his right and supervised. "Don't hit the tent," she worried, "there are people in there."

Blake jerked the wheel to the left, and Jordan winced - that told Alex that Blake hit the tent after all.

"You're going too fast," Jordan said, "you're gonna crash."

"No I won't," Blake responded, his teeth bared in determination.

A loud, pixelated explosion sounded, and Blake threw his hands up in frustration. Jordan regarded him with a serious expression. "I told you you were gonna crash."

Blake sighed and threw up his hands. "Because you kept talking!"

Jordan's face darkened and her brow pinched. Oh, great, here we go again, another one of their famous tiffs. "You kept doing everything wrong."

Suddenly, they were both making wild hand gestures and shouting over each other.

"...told you not to hit the tent…"

"...dumb girly voice in my ear…"

"...drive worse than my dad…"

"Butt munch."

"Dill hole."

Alex gasped in shock and both kids turned to her. "Blake Michael and Jordan I-forget-your-middle-name! You don't say stuff like that!"

Blake and Jordan both hung their heads, scolded, and Alex crossed her arms sternly over her chest. She started to tear into them some more, but her lips twitched up into a smile that she hurriedly swallowed. Heh, okay, it _was_ kind of cute hearing them say that in their little kid voices, but using language like that was _not_ cool, and it was her job as a mom to make sure they understood that. Where in the world did they even hear that kind of talk? God, first grade playgrounds must be _really_ bad places these days. Graffiti everywhere, second graders dealing dope - not like when _she_ was a kid. She was bold, but not bold enough to call someone a butt munch.

Hehehehe. Butt munch.

"Get in the car," Alex said, struggling to keep the laughter from her voice, "we're going home."

Heads still bowed in contrition, Blake and Jordan followed her out of the store and into the day. Behind her back, Jordan shot out her arm and swatted Blake's arm. He looked up at her, and she glared. _You got me in trouble,_ she mouthed.

He fixed her with a dirty look and swatted her back. At the car, Alex unlocked the back door, and the kids climbed in, sitting on opposite sides with their arms sullenly folded. Alex opened the trunk, put the stuff in, and slammed the lid, the metal burning her hand. Y'ouch. This heatwave was really starting to get on her nerves. She liked it warm and all, but it hadn't rained in weeks, and every day lately had been 90 degrees or higher. 90 or higher! That's insane! A few years ago, this climatologist testified in front of congress about global warming, and you know what? Maybe he was onto something. Then again, last winter was really cold. Alex honestly couldn't say which was worse: Freezing to death or baking to death.

Shaking her head, she pushed the cart to a corral, then got behind the wheel and pulled the door closed. "Movie?" Blake asked hopefully.

Oh, shoot, she completely forgot. She started to say _sure, Blakezilla, coming right up,_ but stopped herself. Didn't he just say butt munch? It wasn't as terrible as "damn" or "shit", but she still didn't like him saying it. Alone with his friends, sure, okay, fine, but not in front of her. Gotta learn to respect your elders and stuff, dude. "Nope," she said and threw the car into reverse, "ask me on a day you _didn't_ use a bad word."

Blake groaned and flopped his head back.

She did soften the blow by stopping at McDonald's, though. Yeah, yeah, yeah, she was just bitching about her weight, but she really wanted to try the new Arch Deluxe - the commercial said _it's the burger with the grown up taste._ Well... _she_ was a grown up, wasn't she? Pfft, Big Macs? Those are for little doody diaper babies, classy sophisticates such as herself ate only the most refined and adult hamburgers.

Pulling to the speaker, she cranked the window down and waited. " _Wel...donald's, can I…?"_

"Can I have the grown up hamburger, please? And two happy meals? One's for a boy and one's for a girl."

Static crackled. " _...burger?"_

"Arch Deluxe."

" _Okay...is 10.53...second window."_

Alex pulled to the first window, paid, then proceeded to the second, where a black boy in a visor handed her the food. Blake and Jordan waited giddily for her to pass theirs back, Jordan bouncing slightly and grinning through her teeth; she handed Blake his, then Jordan hers.

"Thank you, Mrs. Underwood," Jordan piped.

"You're welcome," Alex said. She _loved_ how polite Jordan was. It was really refreshing, since all the other kids Blake hung out with were the complete freaking opposite.

She looked in the rearview mirror and waited for Blake to thank her as well, but instead he unwrapped his cheeseburger and shoved it into his mouth. Well then, his little friends must be rubbing off on him. Or maybe he was rubbing off on them.

On the way home, she took her burger out of its cardboard container and glanced down at it. Split top sesame seed bun; uh...looks like some bacon; cheese; meat; veggies. Looks high end to me. She picked it up and took a deep whiff. Ahhh, smells like cultivation. This is truly a sandwich for those with the most discriminating tastes. She pressed it to her lips and took a big, classy bite.

Then promptly spat it back out. "Oh, yuck."

Tangy, bitter mustard coated her tongue, and a piece of wilted lettuce stuck to the roof of her mouth. The meat was mushy, the cheese was cold and hard, and the sauce...oh, God, the sauce, it was like horseradish mixed with baby puke and left to ferment in the hot sun for six weeks _then_ slathered in a thick, slimy layer of poop.

She snatched her Coke up from the cup holder and took a drink to wash the horrible, wretched taste out of her mouth. Gah. Is that what adult food tastes like?

Next time, I'm getting a happy meal.

* * *

Lincoln Loud jammed the end of a splintered pencil into his mouth and chewed, flecks of yellow painted wood flaking onto his tongue. This goddamn crossword puzzle was really starting to fucking piss him off, and if he didn't get hold of himself, he was gonna whip the gun out from under the counter and start shooting. _Five letter word for out of style._ He didn't son a bitching know; he ran a restaurant and served as a grunt in the army before that...he didn't know shit.

"So," Bobby said, a mocking inflection in his voice, "how you doing?"

It was two in the afternoon and Flip's was nearly empty save for Bobby, an old man in pants pulled to his nipples (expecting a flood, asshole?), and a fat woman in a shower cap (second milkshake of the day, porky, gonna make it three?). CNN played on the TV and the ceiling fan creaked in protest as its blades spun lazily around, barely fast enough to stir the dry air. Sweat coursed down Lincoln's face in rivulets and stained the underarms of his white T-shirt, and a sickly twinge over his left eye threatened to turn into a full-blown migraine if he so much as made a single wrong move. The thermometer on the wall said it was 92 degrees, but it felt more like nine hundred and ninety two.

He bit down and the pencil snapped. "Fuck you, that's how I'm doing."

Bobby laughed and shook his head. Dressed in a white beater and tan work pants, he sat perched on a stool like a scrawny Hispanic bird, his graying hair slicked back from his forehead and deep lines creasing his cracked leather face. He looked every bit of his fifty-six years and almost nothing like the teenager Lincoln still somehow thought of him as. That Bobby, the one that existed only in memories, wore a leather jacket and talked like a smartass. This one wore Dickies and talked like he was about to get his teeth knocked out.

"Yeah, laugh it up," Lincoln grumbled. He plucked the pencil from his mouth and flung it onto the floor.

"How long's it been since you had a cigarette?"

Lincoln sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. "I dunno," he moaned, "three days...maybe four."

Bobby winced. "Ouch. First week's the worst."

In July, Lincoln turned the big 5-O, and in September, it was Ronnie Anne's turn. _We're getting up there in years, lame-o,_ she said, _our bodies can't handle certain things anymore._ She wanted them to start eating healthy, exercising...and not smoking. Her logic was: It's all downhill from here, the best we can do is slow the descent a little. He agreed not because he was a henpecked wimp, but because she was right - smoking was taking a toll on them and if they kept up, it would only get worse. As it stood now, every morning he hacked up sticky brown phlegm - if he smoked more than usual, he did it before bed too.

Three days ago...or four...he and Ronnie Anne shared one final dart, then crumpled their leftover packs and threw them away.

Quitting was hard the first time, and Lincoln expected to be a little cranky for a week or two, but this was fucking _torture_. He was tired, irritable, jittery, sweaty, grumpy, shaky, and WHY IN THE NAME OF SHIT DID I START SMOKING AGAIN? What a fucking idiot! Fifteen years...he went fifteen years without one of those fucking things, then one day he bought a pack because _hur hur hur, I miss 1960, everyone, let's all Twist._ Fuck 1960. 1960 was the worst year of the entire decade, worse even than 1967, and someone fucking _shot_ him in 1967. What was even going on in 1960? Nothing worth remembering, that's what. Oh, the election, yeah, wahoo; Nixon was a goddamn criminal and Kennedy was an adulterous scumbag who couldn't even handle a high powered rifle bullet to the head. Guess what, Mr. Camelot, I got plugged too, I'm still here. Seriously, Kennedy cheated on his wife _so fucking much_. A lot of people talk about it like it's a joke. _Oh, yeah, JFK, haha, what a playboy._ Fuck that. When you marry someone, you bind your heart and soul inextricably to theirs - a marriage is something sacred and special, and when you sling your dick to other women, you're committing the most disgusting form of betrayal and blasphemy imaginable. You're a piece of shit, I don't care _how_ handsome you are, or how many liberal assholes ride your dick. _One of the best presidents ever._ Bullshit. Lee Harvey Oswald did this country a real favor the day he took that dirtball out.

Now Lincoln was _seething_ , and the droning of the TV was like fuel to a fire. Turn that goddamn thing off, I hate CNN. You know what CNN stands for? Clinton News Network, because they're always kissing Clinton's ass. He was another cheating fuck if that Paula Jones woman could be believed; she come out in '94 and said Clinton exposed himself to her. At least Kennedy had the decency to only fuck with women who wanted it, this guy, however, was barely one step above a flasher. _Hey, honey, wanna vote Democrat this November?_

"You're shaking, Linc-o," Bobby teased, "and your face is turning red. You gonna make it?" He took a drink from his glass and waggled his brows. Can you believe Lincoln used to think this guy was cool? He was…

Then it dawned on him.

"It's _your_ fault," he hissed through his teeth.

" _My_ fault?" Bobby asked and sat his cup down with a clunk.

Lincoln nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, his lips puckering in distaste, "you're the one who got me hooked on those goddamn things."

"Yeah, 'cause I shoved it in your mouth and _made_ you smoke it," Bobby said sarcastically. "You could have said no."

"I was a dumb kid," Lincoln said, "you did your whole greaser song and dance and I thought you were the greatest thing ever. You could have asked me to suck your dick and I woulda done it."

Bobby flinched. "Aw, Christ, you're gross."

"You're to blame for this. For Ronnie Anne too."

"Alright," Bobby said, a sudden defensive edge creeping into his voice, " _she_ stole 'em behind my back and _you_ were a cube who looked up to a seventeen-year-old loser in a leather jacket. That's not on me. And it's _really_ not on me that you two dopes started again twenty years after you stopped."

Lincoln was half-joking when he accused Bobby of getting him addicted to cigarettes, but now he was starting to get mad. "Yeah, sure," he said and looked pointedly away from his brother-in-law. _I'm in a shitty mood, Bobby, let it drop._

Thankfully, Bobby was smarter than he looked; he went back to eating his hamburger and didn't say another word.

Good. Dumbass.

On TV, an anchor with a bad combover chuckled good-naturedly. " _Well, the Democratic National Convention really put the_ party _in Democratic Party this week."_

Yeah, this was an election year. Just like 1960. How could he forget _that?_ I hope they all lose. Fuck Bill Clinton, fuck Bob Dole, and fuck Ross Perot. Why the hell was _that_ guy around anyway? Didn't he know three's a crowd?

Footage rolled on screen of delegates doing the Macarena at the DNC - a bunch of white, middle aged Democrats dancing around like jackasses while Hillary Clinton - a creepy smile frozen on her face - slowly and monotonously clapped her hands, reminding Lincoln of a cheap, wind-up monkey toy.

Of all the disturbing shit he'd seen in his life, that took the cake, and he got to his feet. "Watch the register," he told Bobby, "I need a break."

"You're not giving in, are you?"

Lincoln reached under the counter…

...and brought out a pack of Big Red chewing gum. "No," he said, "I have this."

"Ah," Bobby said, "alright. Carry on."

Lincoln went through the batwing doors to the kitchen, where Fred grilled burgers on the flat top and Dustin, the dishwasher, scrubbed a greasy pan. Short and bullish with black, brillo pad hair and beady little eyes, Dustin reminded Lincoln of the dishwasher he had back in the late sixties, when the place still belonged to Flip, only white - that kid was black. God, what was his name? Lincoln stopped and cocked his head in an attempt to shake the memory loose, but it stuck to the anterior wall of his mind and wouldn't budge. Eh, fuck it. There'd been so many dishwashers over the years it was hard to keep them all straight; lot of cooks, too, though not as many. When he hired Fred back in 1980, he expected him to last five years tops, _maybe_ eight. That was...hmm...sixteen years ago. Jesus. That's a long time. So long, in fact, that Fred was almost at retirement age: He turned sixty-three in June. It's funny, he looked older, but not quite _that_ old. Must be a drill sergeant thing: Sgt. Hellman looked sixty but was probably pushing ninety back in '66. _I've been training maggots like you since Fort Sumter; grab your muskets and follow me, we're gonna reenact Pickett's Charge the_ right _way._

On further reflection, sixteen years really isn't that long at all.

Pulling a stick of gum out, he unwrapped it and tossed it into his mouth. The high, sizzling hiss of frying burgers and the heat of the grill made Lincoln's headache even worse. He passed behind Dustin, went out the back door, and dropped onto an overturned bucket next to the humming HVAC unit. The stinging light of the sun soaked into his flesh like poison and his stomach flipped like a slimy old one rolling in its deep sea slumber. His mouth tingled with cinnamon flavor and his parched throat cried out out for the sweet, cooling bliss of cigarette smoke.

Bobby was right - he and Ronnie Anne were dopes to start again. At the end of the day, though, he, Lincoln Loud, was the biggest dope of all - Ronnie Anne was practically an innocent bystander knocked off the wagon by a careless POS who walked through the door reeking like Joe Camel.

Now he felt like shit.

Or even _more_ like shit.

At least he had the fishing trip to look forward to.

He grinned despite himself. Tomorrow, he and Blake (and Blake's little girlfriend, Jordan) were going up to Lake Massanutten for a little bonding time. Lincoln didn't know shit about fishing, but that seemed like something a grandfather did with his grandson. He'd just learn on the fly and pretend that he was old and wise or something, Blake would never know. Really, how difficult can fishing be? You put a worm on a hook and throw it in the water.

The gum was a tasteless blob now; Lincoln spat it out and replaced it with another. Better get back in there before Bobby robs the place - you know Mexicans, they always steal.

Case in point, Ronnie Anne.

She stole his heart.

He gagged. God, that was the cheesiest thing he said in twenty years.

But it was true.

Standing, he went back inside.

* * *

The sun sank gradually behind the horizon, and cool purple dusk welled up from the ground; fireflies danced in the twilight mist, their green incandescent darting and zipping like constellations against the backdrop of coming night. Dogs barked in the distance and the shouts of children rang through the streets. A woman called for someone named Marco to come home, and a girl laughed at something nearby. Alex crossed through the living room and stuck her head out the front door: Blake and Jordan rode their tricycles in a circle on the concrete walk flanking the driveway.

Lots of parents in the trailer park let their kids run wild, but not Alex. She didn't hover over him when he was outside, but she made darn sure that he stayed on their street and didn't go anywhere else. The only exception was Jordan's house, and that was two streets over: All he had to do was cut across a couple lawns and one avenue. He was good about listening, but one time he was playing with a group of older boys and wound up on the playground. When Alex couldn't find him, she panicked and jumped in the car, driving almost every single street in a rising fluster before finally finding him. She rarely ever raised her voice at him, but that day she practically shirked. _You gave me a heart attack! Never wander off again!_

"Dinner's almost ready," she said, and they both looked up.

"Pizza?" Blake asked hopefully.

*Wince* Oooh, no, sorry. "Nope. We're having healthy food~"

Blake threw his head back and moaned. Before Tom pointed out what a sloppy, disgusting porker she was, she made junk food every other night: Pizza, corn dogs, Kraft macaroni and cheese, Hamburger Helper, and other yuck high in fat and low in nutrition. Now she prepared honest to God meals: Tonight's offering was all white meat chicken with a side of long grain white rice seasoned with sauteed green peppers and onions and served with a glass of sparkling cranberry juice. Ummm, now _that's_ what adults eat, not that awful Arch Deluxe crap from McDonald's.

Letting the storm door fall closed, she went back to the kitchen and checked on the food. Almost done. She leaned against the counter and craned her neck to see the TV, where _Aaahh! Real Monsters_ played unwatched. Was this show supposed to be scary? Cuz it wasn't. _Are You Afraid of the Dark_ was. And wouldn't you know...the one show on Nickelodeon that she actually liked, Blake didn't. When she was his aged, she _loved_ scary movies, but not him. One time she put _Are You Afraid of the Dark_ on for him and Jordan, then went to go make lunch only for their high-pitched screams of terror to call her back: They sat on the couch hugging each other and shaking like they just saw the most horrible thing ever. _Turn it off! Turn it off!_ Jordan moaned. _That guy's a vampire!_ Blake screeched and shook his head as if in denial.

Okay, wow, are you really my son? Vampires are _awesome_.

While we're on the topic of vampires, tonight's Saturday, and you know what _that_ means: _MonsterVision_ with Joe Bob Briggs AKA the best show ever. Wonder what movie they're playing tonight. Hopefully something extra cool.

She checked the food again just as the storm door opened and Tim came in. "Hey, Timberella," she chirped, "dinner is _almost_ done. Can you tell Blake to get his butt in here?"

Tim backed up, opened the door, and poked his head out. "Dinner's done," he said.

I said almost done, but that works too. She took the lid off the rice and stirred it, jumping when Tim took her hips in his hands. "That smells good," he said and kissed the side of her neck. He ran his palms over her stomach and a sharp, sudden pang of desire cut through her center. Ooooh, I was just thinking I could use a little exercise.

Heh.

Sexercise.

She bent slightly forward and wiggled her butt against his crotch. "It tastes even better."

He cupped her breasts through her shirt and stroked his thumbs over her stiffening nipples. Her heartbeat quickened and a deep red blush spread across her face; she wasn't horny a minute ago, but she sure was now. "I know it does," he said huskily and nipped her earlobe.

A giggle burst from her throat. "Wow, _someone's_ randy."

Before he could reply, the door opened and closed, and Blake and Jordan came in. Tim let go and stepped back with a sigh. "We'll pick this up later," he said.

"Yes we will," she hummed.

After the kids washed their hands, everyone sat at the table while Alex made four plates. She set one in front of each of them then took her place next to Tim. Blake stared down at his food with a sneer of disgust and Jordan curiously prodded her chicken with her fork. What, doesn't your mom feed you the good stuff? "How was your day?" she asked Tim.

Carving a piece of chicken, he nodded. "It was alright. Dad lost his wedding band again."

Alex snorted. Tim's parents had been together about as long as Mom and Dad, and in that time, Tim's father had gone through a dozen wedding bands. "What happened _this_ time?" she asked.

"It cracked and fell off," Tim said around a mouthful.

After dinner, Alex did the dishes, then went into the living room, where Tim sat on the couch with his legs on the coffee table. Blake and Jordan sat side by side on the floor, their legs crossed and their heads tilted back. Alex checked the clock on the VCR and nodded - it was time.

Picking up the remote, she changed the channel to MTV and snuggled up next to Tim, her hand landing casually and innocently on his upper thigh...inches from his, uh, you know. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and laid his hand on hers.

On the screen, the MTV News graphic came on - a spinning globe behind little paddles spelling out NEWS (just so you knew it was news) - and a guy in a blazer popped up. " _Hi, it's Kurt Loder with MTV News,"_ he said, speaking as quickly as he could to, Alex assume, say everything he needed to before his time was up, " _Lola is back. The multi million selling recording artist is reportedly working on a new album, her first since 1990."_ A picture of Lola appeared in the top right corner.

"Hey, it's Lola," Alex said.

"I had no idea," Tim said sarcastically, and she slapped his leg. Jerk.

" _She was spotted outside the Paramount Recording Studio on L.A.'s Santa Monica Boulevard recently days after signing to the label."_

A snippet of video played. Lola from a distance, clad in a pink dress, striding toward the front entrance of a building. "Hey, it's a recording studio."

Tim nodded slowly. "I see that," he said in a low, wow-you're-dumb tone that he might use with a particularly idiotic child.

The scene cut back to Loder " _That's the news for now, stay tuned to MTV throughout the day for more."_

Alex lifted her head to make sure Blake and Jordan weren't looking...then cupped Tim's crotch in her hand. "I see something else," she said, her fingers tracing the outline of his erection. His breath caught and his hips squirmed instinctively closer to her touch. She leered at his growing bulge and bit her bottom lip; wet heat pooled between her legs and blood surged against her temples. Wow, she was _really_ turned on. When was the last time she and Tim had sex? It had to be a week at least….a long, dry, empty, lonely week.

 _That_ was about to change.

On TV, the unmistakable twang of the _Beavis and Butt-Head_ theme song start, and Blake and Jordan both squealed like giddy schoolgirls at a Beatles concert. Oooh, Alex liked this show too…they played music videos and had Beavis and Butt-Head make fun of them. Remember Michael Bolton, the guy Mom likes so much? Turns out he used to be cool: He did a metal album in the eighties, and she specifically remembered one of his song being on the radio a lot in '84 and '85. They ran the video on _Beavis and Butt-Head_ and she was just as stunned as them.

Beavis: Oh, my God, it's Michael Bolton!

Butt-Head: No it's not. Uhhhh, wait a minute...it is.

As much as she liked this show, however, she liked Tim's weiner more. Looking at him, she lifted her brows suggestively and brushed her thumb across his head. He grinned salaciously and pushed the hem of her shirt him, his palm scraping over the flesh of her exposed hip. Tendrils of electricity raced through her body and she sucked a sharp intake of breath. "Okay, stop," she said and pulled her hand away, "or I'm gonna maul you right here."

Tim considered for a moment, then pulled his hand back as well. "Yeah, anymore of this and I'm gonna cum in my pants."

Beavis and Butt-Head fought over their remote control. " _Cut it out, butt munch,"_ Butt-Head warned.

" _No way, dill hole,"_ Beavis shot back.

Blake and Jordan giggled.

Alex laughed too and laid her head on Tim's chest, her brow knitting as something fluttered deep in the back of her mind like the faint kiss of butterfly wings. Hmmm. Butt munch and dill hole. That was familiar for some reason...but eh, probably not important.

After _Bevais and Butt-Head, Pop-Up Video_ came on, and Alex sent Jordan home, then Blake to bed. In the living room, she dropped onto the couch and changed the channel to TNT: Joe Bob Briggs, dressed in jeans and a western style shirt complete with bolo tie, sat in front of his trailer and introduced that night's movie: _The Gate._

Tim sat came out of the bedroom, fresh from a shower and clad in basketball shorts and a white T-shirt, and sat next to her in a swish of fragrant air. He put his arm around her shoulders, and cuddled close, her hand going to his stomach and her head resting on his chest. She drew his scent deeply into her nose and rolled it over her tongue like a wine snob sampling the finest Merlot. _I say, Howell, this vintage is smashing._ She rubbed his stomach in a slow, lazy circle, her breathing coming faster as her desire quickly reached critical mass. She slipped her fingers under the waistband of his shorts and kissed his chest. She rolled her eyes up to him, and he watched her with a boyish smirk.

Taking him in her hand, she ran her thumb along his shaft, his flesh soft and hot with arousal. He shifted closer, and they kissed, their tongues swirling and lapping with hungry ardor. He snaked his hand up the front of her shirt and beneath her bra, his thumb mashing and kneading her nipple. She smiled against his lips and licked his tongue. "Bedroom," she panted, "now."


	181. August and September 1996: Part 2

**Guest: I've been planning on bringing Maggie back in for a cameo. Whether or not it will involve her reuniting with Luan or not remains to be seen. I've tried to stay as close to real life in this story as possible, and one thing about life is that sometimes, you can be really close to someone for a long time, then part ways and never see them again.**

 **Valtek: Alex doesn't really put much stock into race either way, but given her life and upbringing, she** _ **is**_ **very disconnected from her heritage. I've been doing that with her to illustrate how children and grandchildren of immigrants lose touch with their ancestors over time. Bobby and Ronnie Anne were both born in America and, given the time period in which they grew up, felt pressure to conform. They both retained a few aspects of their Spanish heritage and their children retained even fewer. Heritage is something that seems to filter out over the course of generations, rightly or wrongly. Some people hold onto the trappings of it, but that's really all it is. Take me, my family came from Ireland and Scotland starting in 1773 and, tbh, I feel no connection to Ireland whatsoever. I might have Irish blood, but I see myself as an average white American, which is how Alex sees herself. I do think that as she gets older, she'll take more of an interest in where she comes from. That seems to be a trend with children and grandchildren of immigrants.**

 **Scriptythelonely: Nah, she's just a fatty. At least for now. Who knows what the future holds?**

 **Thunderstrike16: I don't know if I'll do a sequel, I doubt it. I was thinking of doing a prequel, but I probably won't. I'll probably reference all that stuff when the time comes. I don't want the story to verge into nostalgia porn territory, but sometimes it happens.**

 **Celrock: I'll be honest, I've never had an Arch Deluxe. From what I read, it was a perfectly fine hamburger that just didn't catch on with most people. Kind of shitty for me to give it a bad rap like that; maybe Alex's was just prepared wrong. The Royal Woods McDonald's is a dump.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Caress Me Down**_ **by Sublime (1996)**

Ronnie Anne Loud was, despite her fearsome reputation, as good-natured and even-tempered as they come. She rarely got angry, never yelled unless she absolutely had to, and tolerated a lot from her family and friends...like Lincoln leaving his dirty underwear on their bedroom floor and Alex robbing the cookie jar blind every time she came over. If something annoyed her, she took a deep, calming breath, let it out _real_ slow, and told herself that getting mad wouldn't solve anything; it would only make it worse.

Today, however, all that went out the window before 7am.

Her morning started like any other. Lincoln's alarm clock woke her at 6:45, and while he showered and shaved, she threw on her robe and went to make coffee. In the kitchen, she started for the sliding glass door, but remembered, oh, yeah, I don't smoke anymore. Ha. How could I have forgotten _that?_

The truth was, she didn't. Ever since she came up with the dumb idea to stop smoking dumb cigarettes and be healthy (dumbly), her life had been a waking nightmare characterized by sharp cravings, mood swings, and torment...lots and lots of torment. It wouldn't be so bad if she could lose herself in work like Lincoln, but it was the dead of summer and school was _clllloooosssseeeed_. The first day, she sat at the kitchen table with her legs crossed and jittered her foot until it was numb; the second, she paced the house after a long, sleepless night, going from one end to the other and sweating profusely; on day three, she weeded the entire yard, front and back, and dug a hole with her trowel, then filled it in again just to get her mind off the endless yearning.

Days were bad, but nights were even worse: Lying awake and staring into the darkness, unable to sleep or even relax, she cursed Bobby, Lincoln, and herself. It wasn't this hard the first time - she found out she was pregnant and that was that, she stopped; she had cravings, but nothing like _this._

She _knew_ she was making a mistake when she started again, but she did it anyway. She could have resisted temptation, she could have gotten up and walked away when the smell of smoke raidinting from Lincoln became too much...but she didn't, she gave in.

That made her mad.

Then the coffee pot.

The stupid, dumb, cheap, piece of junk Sears coffee pot Lincoln bought fifteen years ago stopped working. She tapped it, shook it, called it a mean name, but it wouldn't brew. Her frustration crested, and just as Lincoln came in, she slammed her fist onto its top, and the plastic cracked.

" _Pedazo de mierda!"_

"I take it there's no coffee," Lincoln grumbled.

" _¿Parece que hay café, idiota?"_ she spat and brushed the hair from her face. Realizing she was speaking Spanish (which happened in times of great stress), she heaved a deep breath. "Does it look like there's coffee?"

Lincoln favored her with a blank stare. "You called me an idiot."

"Because you're acting like one," she said and threw up her hand. "This goddamn thing's broken. How can there be coffee without a coffee pot? Huh?" Her voice rose as she spoke and so, too, did her anger. She tried to reign herself in, but couldn't; she was coming apart at the seams and wasn't strong enough to hold it together anymore. Hot tears filled her eyes, and the world took on a blurry sheen. Laying her hand on the counter, she hung her head and started to cry.

A moment later, Lincoln put his arm around her, and she tensed. "Hey," he said softly.

"Our coffee pot's broken," she moaned even though it wasn't about the coffee pot, it was about her body going haywire as her brain cried desperately out for nicotine. She couldn't sleep, she couldn't think, she couldn't do anything but _crave_.

Lincoln hugged her tightly and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her tears coming faster and soaking into the fabric of his shirt. "This is miserable," she said.

"I know," he replied, "but we can do it." He held her at arm's length and flashed a weak, uncertain smile that was beautiful despite its pallor. "We've both been shot, we can handle quitting smoking."

A harsh, humorless laugh burst from her throat. "Being shot was a cakewalk compared to this, lame-o."

Lincoln started to reply, but closed his mouth when he presumably realized she was right. Of course, saying that quitting smoking was worse than being shot was an exaggeration, but not by much. At least after Kevin Jenner let daylight through her, she was on painkillers and could sleep. God, she slept so much, and so _deeply._ Now she was lucky to get a three hour doze in. She hoped like hell she was over this before school started or she was fucked.

"I can go get my gun," Lincoln offered and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

Ronnie Anne snickered and pushed him away. "Go to work," she said.

"Love you."

"I love you too," she said, and they kissed.

Alone, she sighed and sank into one of the chairs, her hand going to table and her head flopping back. She was already going without cigarettes, she was _not_ about to go without coffee...which meant getting up, getting dressed, and driving to 7-11.

Just thinking about it drained her.

Blowing a puff of air that rustled her harried bangs, she got up, went into hers and Lincoln's room, and dressed in a pair of black pants and a pale blue blouse. She pulled her shoes on, grabbed her purse, and went outside into the blazing hot August morning, her eyes squinting against the brain melting intensity of the sun. The weatherman on NBC said the heatwave was going to break on Monday, but for right now, Royal Woods remained at the mercy of that big ol pounding death ray in the sky. Nary a breeze blew, and haze shimmered in the air, lending the houses across the street a dreamlike quality. She sniffed the air, and her nose crinkled at the foul odor of shit.

She looked around, and there, next to the bottom step, was a big, brown dog turd. Her eyes went to the driveway next door; Chandler was bent over the engine block of his red 1993 Camaro. Bare chested and clad in a pair of jean shorts, black Nikes, and a backwards baseball cap, Chandler bore little resemblance to the boy who moved into the house next door six years ago. Gone was his reddish brown hair, replaced by a skinhead level shave, and his body, once rail thin, had begun to expand; glistening rolls of sweaty flesh spilled over his waistband and a tattoo of a dream weaver covered one hairy leg. Tools, auto parts, and cigarette butts littered his work station, and a black radio sat on a kitchen chair nearby, the volume turned obnoxiously loud; someone rapping in Spanish with a painfully white accent.

 _Me gusta mi reggae  
Me gusta punk rock  
Pero la cosa que me gusta más, es panochita_

Ronnie Anne's jaw dropped. Jesus Christ, did she hear that right?

 _Pon la nalga en el aire if you know who you are  
Pon la nalga en el aire, empieza gritar  
No tenga miedo, I'm your papí  
Take your chones y los manden a mí_

Hot rage gripped her. Didn't he realize there were _children_ in this neighborhood? How _dare_ he blare... _trash..._ like that! He might be eighteen and out of school, but he was the same disrespectful little punk he always was. She spent four years putting up with that thug at RCH - he came and went from her office more than she did, and if a whole week passed without him talking back and winding up in detention, it was one of the weeks he skipped or was already suspended. Of all the troublemakers she'd had over the years, she liked him the least; his smug tone made her want to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until he passed away. _Aw, jeez, Mrs. Loud, I didn't_ mean _to shove Tyler into that locker. It just...kinda happened._ He actually said that to her once - he pushed a freshman into a locker, closed the door, and walked away with a whistle on his lips. When he talked to you, it was with thinly-veiled contempt, and every word was a challenge. _Call me out for lying...bet you won't, bitch._

A wrench clattered from his hand and he cursed under his breath. Ronnie Anne considered letting it go, but she was in a bad mood, so fuck it. "Chandler?"

The boy jerked a glance over his shoulder; he wore polarized sunglasses, and a cigarette stub jutted from between his lips. Ronnie Anne's gaze went immediately to it, and her mouth watered. There was no wind to speak of, but she imagned she could smell it from here - warm, sweet, and tempting...like Lincoln's aftershave. Whenever he wore it, she pounced him like a puma in heat. If she pounced Chandler, it'd only be to steal his cigarettes...then to kick him while he's down, maybe.

A cold, reptilian smile crept across Chandler's face. "Hey, Mrs. Loud," he said, a knowing inflection in his voice. He probably thought she was going to complain about the droppings.

"That's not a song you should be playing in public," she said, "it's inappropriate."

The corner of Chandler's lips sharpened; she knew him well enough to know that he was about to lie. "Is it? I mean, I don't know, the lyrics are in Spanish. He could be saying anything."

It occurred to her that any child who overheard his…"song"...would probably not understand it. That wasn't the point, it was dirty and obscene and right now, she was going to go full Tipper Gore on his ass. " _You_ know what he's saying," she charged. He did very well in Spanish class, and during sophomore year, he made it his mission to use as many dirty words in front of teachers as he could, probably just to see if he could get away with it.

He snickered to himself. " _Pero la cosa que me gusta más, es panochita_."

" _Curioso, siempre pensé que preferías el pene,"_ she said.

His smile fell and his brow angled down in a V. Stooping down, he picked up his wrench, went over to the radio, and, looking directly into her eyes, pressed a button that started the song all over again.

 _Mucho gusto. Me llamo Bradley  
I'm hornier than Ron Jeremy  
And if you wanna get popped in your knee  
Just wipe that look off your batty face_

Ronnie Anne's stomach bubbled with acid and she came _this_ close to stalking over, snatching the radio up, and slamming it against the pavement. Instead, she glared, then went down the front steps and crossed to her car.

Pequeño bastardo, ¿quién se creía que era? Debería dejar que Lincoln le dispare. Y el perro estúpido también.

She threw her purse into the passenger seat, slid in behind the wheel, and slammed the door. Chandler reached into his car, pulled out a can, and cracked it open. Ronnie Anne's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward to see better.

¿Eso es cerveza? ¡Sí lo es! Ooooh, you're tentador me, aren't you? Mírame, soy menor de edad and I'm drinking beer, what can you do about it, Sra. Loud?

She was flush and shaking with rage now. She knew she shouldn't be upset, but, goddamn it...cigarette…

Clenching her teeth, she took a deep breath and let it out evenly. It's okay, it's fine, Lincoln was right, si puedes sobrevivir a un disparo, puedes sobrevivir a esto.

She blinked in confusion. Have I been thinking in Spanish this whole time? I'm more stressed than I thought.

Forcing herself to calm down, she started the car, backed into the street, and went off to get her coffee.

* * *

Lynn Loud III came into the living room and sat on the couch next to her daughter, a bowl of chips in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. Maddie was perched on the edge of her seat, her hands fisted to her knees and her limpid eyes wide with wonder. She wore jeans, white Adidas with pink stripes on the sides, and a black shirt with Hulk Hogan's face on the chest, her pale brown hair tucked under a hat emblazoned with WCW in blue. Lynn wore a similar shirt but no hat - there was only one at the store and, being a good mom, she let Maddie have it. After all, Maddie was a bigger Hulk fan than her. Six years and three days old, Maddie loved wrestling the way her mother once loved baseball. Instead of Barbies, she played with Ric Flair and Randy Savage action figures; posters of Sting and Undertaker plastered her bedroom walls; and every Monday night, she religiously plopped down in front of the TV to watch _WCW Monday Nitro_. She liked _WWF Monday Night Raw_ as well, but _Raw_ didn't have Hogan - Hogan was Maddie's idol, and every time he came out to the ring, her eyes shimmered with adoration.

 _I wanna be just like him,_ she said. _And kick bad guys' butts_.

"How're we doing?" Lynn asked anxiously.

"We lost Lex," Maddie moaned, "they took him away on a stretcher."

Lynn's heart skipped a beat. "Oh no."

"I know!"

On screen, Sting and Scott Hall circled each other in the ring, the former's features slashed with his trademark multi colored face paint, and the latter looking like a scumbag with long, curly black hair - she didn't see a toothpick in his mouth, but one was probably there, just like always.

Only dirtballs chew toothpicks.

Hall lunged at Sting, and Sting ducked to the side, bringing his elbow up and into Hall's ribs. "Yeah!" Lynn and Maddie cheered in unison.

Recovering, Hall grabbed Sting and swung him into the turnbuckle. "No!" Lynn screeched, her heart slamming in suspense. Normally, she didn't get _this_ worked up over wrestling, but this wasn't just _any_ match, this was what commentator Tony Schiavone called a Hostile Takeover Match - basically the WWII of wrestling: The Good Guys vs. the Bad Guys in a fight to the death, the fate of the entire world hanging in the balance. This was perhaps the most single important wrestling match in the history of the sport, and if the wrong side won...Lynn didn't know, but it wouldn't be pretty.

It all began in May, when Scott Hall, who wrestled for the WWF, came out of the crowd at a _Nitro_ event, climbed into the ring, and proclaimed (in his fake Cuban accent) that he and his _allies_ were going to wage war on the WCW. A few weeks later, Kevin Nash, also a WWF wrestler, joined him, and over the ensuing weeks, they appeared ringside at random, causing trouble, interfering in matching, and perverting all that was good and holy in the world. It was pretty clear that they were working for the WWF and trying to sabotage the WCW, since WCW had all the best talent and was just plain ol' better, but Scott and Hall (dubbed "The Outsiders" because "The Pieces of Shit" was already taken or something) swore they weren't.

Hall roughed up WCW President Eric Bischoff and demanded that WCW give them a match with their best representatives at the _Bash at the Beach_ pay-per-view. That match, a six man tag, was happening now: Sting, Lex Luger, and Randy Savage, giants and heroes among men, against Hall, Nash, and a third man who hadn't shown up yet. Guess he got held up kicking puppies and burning down orphanages.

Lynn was confident that with numbers on their side, Team WCW would win handily, but now Lex was out and Sting wasn't looking too swift: Hall punched him in the face and he dropped limply to his knees while Savage paced back and forth outside the ropes like a spring ready to snap, just _itching_ to get there and lay down some justice. Hall punched Sting again, and Sting dropped to the mat like a dead man. Lynn's stomach twisted and the breath rushed out of her lungs. No, no. no.

Hall pinned Sting.

NO! NO! NO!

"Get up, Stinger!" Maddie yelled, on her feet now.

One.

Two.

At the last minute, Sting kicked out, and Lynn sagged in relief. "If he doesn't tag Macho Man, he's done for," she said.

Hall tagged Nash, and together they started working Sting over like the creeps they were. Macho Man leaned over the top rope and frantically held out his hand. "He can't," Maddie said. "He's too far away."

Hall got out of the ring, and Nash body slammed Sting, then hooked his legs for a pin. "Noooo!" Maddie cried and bounced, her hands fisting defensively to her chest. "Kick out! Kick out!"

One.

Two.

Summoning energy he probably didn't know he had, Sting kicked out.

Maddie sank onto the sofa and took a deep, exhausted breath, as though _she_ were the one fighting Kevin Nash. "Here," Lynn said and handed her a box of apple juice.

"Thanks." She took it, stabbed the straw through the slot, and sucked. The front door opened, and Lynn was vaguely away of Ritchie coming in.

"You guys still watching this junk?" he asked playfully. He sat in his armchair and crossed his legs. The cuffs of his brown Dockers were stained green from mowing, and the damp fabric of his polo shirt clung tight to his defined chest. Lynn glanced at him, flicked her eyes appraisingly up and down his body, and decided that later on, they were going to have a match of their own.

"It's not junk, Daddy, it's wrestling," Maddie said.

Lynn nodded. "What she said." She grabbed a handful of chips and shoved them into her mouth. Like a man possessed, Sting suddenly came to life and attacked Nash with a flurry of punches, then ducked to miss Nash's relatiatory swings. "Yeah!" Lynn said, spraying wet chip crumbs.

The crowd went wild as Sting ran to the turnbuckle, decked Hall, then threw himself at Nash, reaching over the bastard's shoulder and tagging Macho Man in the process. Maddie screamed and Lynn scooted to the edge of the cushion. Ha, it was gonna be over in a second, and WCW would be victorious.

Macho Man climbed onto the turnbuckle and jumped on Hall, who slipped into the ring illegally. The ref just stood there and watched with a stricken expression like a bumbling moron. Nash got woozily to his feet, and Macho Man slammed his and Hall's heads together.

" _The savage is loose!"_ one of the commentator cried over the excited roar of the crowd. " _The savage is loose!"_

Grabbing Hall, Macho Man flung him over the top rope, then knelt next to a fallen Nash and hit him with a frenzied rain of punches. Adrenaline coursed through Lynn's system and she pumped her fist wildly. Next to her, Maddie grinned through her teeth, looking for all the world like a Roman Emperor pleased with the gladiator battle in front of her.

Breaking from Nash, Macho Man got onto the turnbuckle again and jumped on Hall, then threw him back into the ring. Lynn had never been a big fan of Randy Savage, but he was on _fire_ , and new respect for him swelled in her like a lead balloon.

Nash and Hall both lay dead in the ring; Sting somewhere, probably half dead himself. The ref stood over Hall with his back to Nash and Macho Man. Macho Man grabbed Nash by the hair, and that's when it happened - like the low down dirty dog he was, Nash hit Macho Man below the belt. Macho Man dropped and so did Nash. Now everyone was laid out, and the ref threw his arms up in confusion. _What happened?_

Then he started to count.

"Get up! Get up!" Maddie cried.

Just then, the camera turned to the entrance way: A ramp made to resemble a boardwalk surrounded by sand, surfboards, and beach chairs. When Maddie saw who was making his way to the ring, she let out a high, ear-piercing squeal.

Clad in yellow boots, red tights, a yellow tanktop with HULKSTER across the chest in red, and a yellow bandana, Hulk Hogan strode purposely past a line of police officers flanking the ramp, then the metal crowd control barriers keeping the crazed audience back. Lynn's chest filled with pride, and in that instant she knew, WCW was safe; Hulk was here, and Hulk was a hero - he'd been fighting for truth, justice, and the American way for fifteen years, and like he had a thousand times in the past, he was going to save the day.

" _Hulk Hogan is here! Hulk Hogan is in the building! Go get 'em, Hulkster!"_

" _Who's side is he on?"_

" _...What are you talking about?"_

Hulk climbed over the ropes, and like sinners fleeing before a furious God, Hall and Nash scattered from the ring. Hulk ripped his shirt off and flung it aside, revealing his bulging bronze muscles. Nash watched warily from the ground, and Macho Man lay on his back like a dying pillbug, rolling slightly from side to side. Hulk Hogan looked down at him - surely moments away from helping him to his feet and giving him a big, friendly hug - then backed into the corner. Pushing the ref away, he came forward and hit Macho Man with a might Atomic Leg Drop.

Lynn's jaw struck the floor, and next to her, Maddie gasped in horror. The crowd exploded, and the announcers screamed over each other.

" _Is he the third man?"_

" _What the hell is going on?"_

" _Hulk Hogan has betrayed WCW!"_

Hogan repeated the Atomic Legdrop on Macho Man, then got to his feet as Hall and Nash came into the ring. When he gave each one a high five, Lynn's heart fell into her stomach. B-B-But Hulk was supposed to be the good guy…

Maddie whimpered pitifully, like a puppy whose beloved master had just kicked it.

Swaying like a drunkard, Sting stumbled into the ring in a futile attempt to help his fallen comrade, but Hall hit him with a punch that knocked him clean out, then dragged Macho Man into the center and crossed the unconscious man's arms over his chest as though he were dead.

Grabbing the ref, Hogan shoved him out of the ring.

" _Oh my God,"_ Tony Schiavone said mournfully.

Hogan bounced off the ropes and hit Macho Man with another legdrop.

" _The career of a lifetime...right down the drain, kids, I hope you love it, you just sold your soul to the devil."_

Hogan pinned Macho Man, and Hall, on his knees, slapped the mat three times.

No bell rang.

" _We're not even going to acknowledge that three count."_

Ritchie watched the screen with bemusement, almost like he _didn't_ understand what was unfolding before his very eyes.

Hall, Hogan, and Nash clasped hands and mugged for the audience, which had begun to boo and pelt the ring with trash.

Lynn was stunned. She never in a million years would have thought Hulk Hogan...her hero...would do _this_. She glanced at Maddie, and her heart broke when she saw tears sliding down the little girl's face. "Honey," she said, and Maddie started to cry.

Scooting over, Lynn put her arm around her daughter's shoulders and drew her close. Maddie bit her quivering lower lip and fought back the storm, making a visible effort to do as Lynn always told her: Suck it up and power through. "W-Why did he do it, Mom?" Her voice was small, shaky, and hurt.

"Because he's an asshole," Lynn growled. Black, gnawing hatred - for Hulk Hogan and what he did to her little girl - filled Lynn's breast, and her free hand curled into a fist.

On TV, Mean Gene Okerlund, clad in a dark suit, castigated Hogan for _joining up with the likes of these two men_. Hogan leaned into the mic. " _Well, the first thing you gotta realize, brother, is_ this _right here is the future of wrestling. You can call this the new world order of professional wrestling, brother."_

Maddie stiffened and pulled away. The tears were gone from her eyes, and in their place was fury. "I hate you, Hulk Hogan!" she screamed at the TV. She pulled her hat off, threw it aside, and yanked her shirt off. She flung it to the ground, got to her feet, and jumped on it.

Taking her own shirt off, Lynn did the same, mother and daughter, both stripped to the waist, grinding Hulk Hogan beneath their soles. RItchie watched with something like shock, then chuckled and shook his head. He understood being passionate about sports - he was with baseball and soccer - but jeez.

"I'm ripping down my Hulk Hogan posters," Maddie said indignantly, then stomped off.

Before Ritchie could speak to, Lynn went into the kitchen, her breasts bouncing with every angry step. She picked up the wall mounted phone, stabbed a series of numbers, and held the handset to her ear. After three rings, a woman answered. "Hello?"

"Lana," Lynn said tightly. "It's Lynn."

"Oh, hi, hun!" Lana said happily. "How's it going?"

"Nevermind that," Lynn said, "do you still have that Hulk Hogan mug I sent you?"

The line was silent for a moment. "Uh, yeah, why?"

Lynn's eyes flashed red and her lips peeled back from her teeth in a ferocious grimace. "Break it," she said.

* * *

Sometimes, a package arrives in the mail...and the contents are broken. You don't know where it happened or _how_ it happened, but somewhere in transit, that vase your aunt sent you, or that award from The Freedom Center, turned to shards. For many years, Clyde McBride suspected that he was like one of those ill-fated parcels, dropped, kicked, or thrown across a mail room by a frustrated postal worker, shattered and defective long before arriving in his mother's mail slot (Christ, why did I use that analogy?). He didn't sleep with many women over the years compared to someone like Bill Clinton (all you have to do is look at him to know he's an oversexed scumbag), but he did sleep with women, and every once in a while, an accident would happen. By and large, his self-control was good, though there were times he finished before pulling out, and one woman, in the throes of her passion, wrapped her legs around his hips, thus he _couldn't_ pull out.

Yet, none of the women he'd ever been with became pregnant.

That didn't bother him at first - as callous as it may sound, a child would have been an inconcvience, and looking back, he never truly _loved_ any of the women he was with - but after he met Carol, it slowly dawned on him that he might be sterile. They took precautions early in their relationship, but after a few months, they stopped using condoms, and after they married, he never pulled out: She was his wife, after all, and they both wanted children, so why would he? No matter how often they had sex, though, they did not conceive. She said _It'll happen when it happens,_ but he imagined he could see disquiet in her eyes. She was thirty-one when they married, and in the following years, her biological clock continued ticking unabated. Thirty-two, thirty-three, like one of the supposed lost cosmonauts floating deeper into space, Carol's chances of bearing children grew just a _little_ more remote every year. They discussed the matter in late 1994 and visited a specialist in New York City, both knotted with dread and certain that _they_ would be to blame.

The doctor eventually sat them down, and they clutched each other's hands as they braced themselves for the bad news.

It didn't come.

At least not fully.

The doctor explained that while he could find no problem with either of them, the quality of a man's sperm decrease with age, which could be a contributing factor to their difficulty conceiving. _Men over forty produce fewer healthier sperm than a younger man,_ he said. He looked pointedly at Carol, and though the man's face bore professional and practiced neutrality, Clyde could only think of his countenance as grave. _A woman's eggs, likewise, also deteriorate with age. A man over forty can still manufacture viable sperm, but, on average, a woman's eggs cannot be fertilized after a certain age - forty to forty-five for most, but as early as thirty-seven in some cases. There are exceptions, of course. You are both healthy, though, and I find no reason for you to be unable to conceive at the present moment._

In other words, they had to keep trying.

And try they did, even if they didn't want to: Every night, come hell or high water, they had sex. Tired? Have sex. Sore from tennis? Have sex. Not in the mood? Have sex. Their motto during the first half of 1995 was _Just do it,_ like Nike - Nike sued, though, and they had to change it.

By June, Clyde had all but lost hope. It was his fault, and he would have to live with the knowledge that he was responsible for depriving Carol of a baby. They sat down at the kitchen table one summer evening and had a very long and serious discussion; they decided that if they couldn't have one of their own, they would adopt.

During July and August, state party leaders urged him to make a presidential bid - it was never explicitly stated, but they wanted a New Yorker in the White House just as badly as they wanted a Republican. _You're our best hope, governor,_ the chairman of the New York GOP told him. Maybe for getting a New York Republican in, but not a Republican in general. Clyde, you see, was black, and unfortunately, to many right wing voters that was a dealbreaker. The NY establishment knew that, but they _really_ wanted one of theirs in power, and like the chairman said, Clyde was their best hope. Maybe Clyde was suffering from Black Man Paranoia, but when he said it, he didn't sound especially happy, as though he knew it was a losing proposition that was just worthy enough to try.

Clyde took a few weeks to think it over and talk to Carol. He didn't think he had a chance - Clinton was a centrist and popular with the decisive working class voters _already,_ it wasn't much of a stretch for certain Republicans to switch if forced to choose between him and a nigger. The party would be better off if a white man ran; admitting that to himself was hard and, frankly, pissed him off, but it was true. He wanted the implementation of conservative policy, and sometimes, when you want something, you have to put it above yourself.

In early September, he declined to run and continued his work at the institute. One afternoon in early October, he came home to find Carol waiting for him in the kitchen with a giddy smile. It had been a long day and he was dead on his feet, so exhausted that he could barely drag his feet across the floor. "Welcome home," she said excitedly.

"Hi," he muttered. She presented her cheek and he kissed it.

"How was your day?" she asked.

Clyde sighed. "Crap."

Carol preened. "Well, it's about to get a whole lot better."

"How so?" Clyde asked and opened the fridge.

"I'm pregnant."

Clyde's stomach lurched. "You are?" he asked disbelievingly.

She nodded. "Yep. I took a test the other day, then went to the doctor to make sure. I am 100 percent with child."

A surge of joy crashed through Clyde like a wave, and a big, dumb grin spread across his face. "That's great!" Closing the fridge, his thirst completely forgotten, he went to her and swept her into his arms. She laughed merrily, and Clyde peppered her face with jubilant kisses.

Because she was over thirty, there was a higher than average possibility that the baby would be born with Down Syndrome, but each ultrasound showed, to Clyde, a healthy and growing child. He was not a proud man, despite his accomplishments, but as he watched Carol's stomach begin to swell with their baby, he overflowed with the stuff. In his life, he flew combat missions over Vietnam and Iran, served two terms as governor of New York State, and crafted domestic policy that would go on to form the foundation of Bob Dole's 1996 campaign, but nothing compared to _this_. Sitting on the couch with Carol in the evening, _Spin City, The Drew Carey Show,_ or _Everybody Loves Raymond_ unwatched on TV, he ran his hand over her distended stomach with wonder, caressing every inch and placing soft, loving kisses on it. In early 1996, it began to move, and when he touched her, their baby would swish to his hand like a small, enthusiastic dog. Sometimes, it even kicked him, which never failed to draw a laugh from deep in his belly.

In February, they went in for a routine ultrasound, and as the tech moved the paddle over Carol's exposed stomach, he hummed thoughtfully. "Huh."

"What?" Clyde asked, worry creeping into his voice. A puzzled _Huh_ is the last thing you want to hear from your doctor.

"Huh."

Carol's smile faltered and her grip on Clyde's hand tightened. "What?"

"Well," the tech drew, "there seems to be, uh, a second baby in there."

Clyde and Carol's jaws both dropped. "A second baby?" they asked unison.

The tech turned the screen to face them, and sure enough, there were two babies nestled together in Carol's womb; it looked like they were cuddling. Carol whispered a breathy and emotional, "Oh, my God," and Clyde simply gaped, unable to comprehend what was in front of him. The tech tried to coax them apart so he could determine their sex, but they snuggled closer, as though to keep from being separated. Warm, gentle tears filled Clyde's eyes and he bore down on his quivering lips with his teeth lest he break down and cry.

Throughout the spring and early summer of 1996, Carol's stomach grew, home to not one life, but two. By June, she was so big that she had trouble getting around the house. _It feels more like there are five babies in here_ she sighed. Each time they went in for an appointment, the twins huddled together and kept their genitals hidden. _They're stubborn,_ Clyde said at one point. He was beside himself with suspense, and every failed attempt to learn their sex pushed him closer to the edge of his seat; pretty soon he'd be on the floor.

 _Just like their daddy,_ Carol grinned.

He would have been offended at the insinuation that he, _the_ Clyde McBride was stubborn...he might even have punched her...but being called "daddy" (in its proper context) made him too warm, soft, and tingly to care.

Waiting, as the old song said, is the hardest part, and boy was that guy right: Days and weeks dragged by at a crawl, and the closer Carol got to her July 20 due date, the less Clyde could force himself to concentrate on anything else. At work he found himself staring off into space and absently tapping his fingers on the desk, his mind spinning grand daydreams of the future - bedtime stories, tag in the backyard, family vacations to the Grand Canyon, blanket forts in the living room. _That's_ what mattered, not Bob Dole. Hate to break it to you, guys, but Bob Dole's going to lose. Clinton is middle of the road enough that getting our base fired up to vote him out _and_ luring away independents just isn't going to happen especially after the '95-'96 government shutdown.

God, _that_ was a debacle.

During 1993, the GOP was gearing up for the 1994 midterm elections and hoping to sweep both chambers of congress. In a meeting at the institute, Clyde proposed running on reform and transparency, as reform movements create a sense of importance, of Things Happening. _That's_ how you fire up the voters. Make them feel like something is changing...then, when you have power...make good on your promise. He envisioned tax cuts, anti-crime measures, welfare reform, and, most important of all, a constitutional amendment requiring term limits and a balanced budget.

 _We need to go to the American voters,_ he said, _and engage them. We need to look them in the eye and say 'this is exactly what we are going to do if we win.'_

The GOP stood a good chance; The HillaryCare fiasco - demanding universal healthcare and an enforced mandate for employers to provide insurance coverage to all of their employees - hurt Clinton's standing with the heartland voters, which left the door open for the Republican Party to swoop in and take their ballot...if done right.

 _Make clear cut promises,_ he said, _we can worry about implementing them once we're in, right now, it's_ getting _in that's paramount._

Throughout 1994, Clyde worked closely with his fellows at the institute and with GOP senators in Washington (Newt Gingrich, Dick Armey, Tom DeLay, and John Boehner among them) on this proposal. He described it to Gingrich over the phone as _a contract with America_ , and that's what it came to be called.

Released six weeks before the election, the Contract with America lead the GOP to a decisive and historic victory - they took both the House and Senate and though Clyde didn't see for himself, he was sure Clinton spent the night crying into his pillow while Hillary patted his back. _There, there, Bill, you still have two more years before it's you being massacred._

One of the key components was cutting government spending. Clinton had other ideas...ideas that involved him pissing away money like a drunken sailor on shore leave. At the end of the fiscal year in September 1995, Clinton and Congress hadn't reached a budget. Clinton wanted more money for Medicare, education, and public health. Gingrich, now Speaker of the House, and the others crafted a proposed budget, but Clinton vetoed it, and in December, the government shutdown, remaining so through the beginning of January. Clyde agreed that Clinton's budget was outrageous, but not worth shutting down the government. Republicans could continue to work within the existing structure, but if they brought things crashing down, their chances of winning '96 were out the window. They might even lose one or both chambers.

A gallup poll conducted in January 1996 found that over forty percent of Americans blamed the Republicans for the stand-off vs just under twenty who blamed Clinton. Clinton didn't get off scot free though - his approval rating dropped from 51 to 42. The GOP would have fared a little better, but Gingrich mentioned being "snubbed" by Clinton on a recent state trip and forced to sit at the back of the plane (been there, done _that,_ Clyde thought), which made it look like the budget battle was him getting back at Clinton.

The shutdown lasted twenty-two days and was finally resolved when Clinton and Gingrich reached a compromise - _some_ spending cuts for _some_ tax increases. Neither side was completely happy, but that's how a compromise works - you don't get everything you want, but neither does the other guy. Clyde didn't think the GOP would suffer significant losses in congressional races, but he didn't think they'd win the presidency, either. Right now, everything he was doing was glorified busy work, and none of it mattered.

At least it kept him occupied - Carol, on the other hand, was on leave from work and stuck in the house, her stomach so large she could hardly roll off the couch. She said it felt like there were five babies in there, and as June turned into July, she certainly looked like she was carrying more than two.

Early on the morning of July 18, Carol shook him awake from a deep slumber. "Clyde," she hissed lowly.

His eyelids fluttered open; her face hovered over his, blurry like a vision glimpsed underwater. He blinked and pressed his hand to his forehead, his muddled mind beginning to turn but only with great effort. "Huh? What's wrong?"

"My water just broke."

 _That_ burned the fog away. "What?" he asked dumbly even though he heard her clearly.

"You're laying in it," she said and threw up her hands.

Now that she mentioned it, the bed _was_ kind of wet.

Crying out in revulsion, he jumped up, tangled in the sheets, and fell back against the wall, the back of his head denting the plaster. "How do you think _I_ feel?" she asked, fraught, "I'm covered in it!"

There was panic in her eyes, and that made Clyde himself feel panicked. He'd been shot at over Iran, dumped a chopper in the ocean, and debated some of the best orators New York State could throw at him - none of it so much as fazed him.

This, however, did.

"A-Alright, we gotta go," he said and tried to get to his feet, but tangled even more and flopped forward. Wrapped in the sheet like beef in a burrito, he inched out from between the bed and the wall, freed himself, and stood, his hands going to his head in a gesture of loss. "Uhhh…" what next? What next? He totally blanked and had no fucking clue what to do.

"Get my bag," Carol said with strained control and nodded to the bag next to the door: They packed it weeks ago with all the things she would need during labor. "Put it in the car, then come back and get me." She spoke slowly, struggling to keep a grip on herself. Nodding, Clyde broke, grabbed the bag, and hurried down the stairs, reaching for the switch at the bottom but missing. He didn't have time to stop or go back, he had to hurry, hurry, Carol's water broke and she was going into labor, there wasn't a moment to lose.

Outside, the night was cool and breezy, the street empty and the low roar of traffic on the distant bridge overlaying the chirruping of the crickets. He unlocked the car, threw her bag into the back, and went back upstairs. Carol sat on the edge of the bed with her legs far apart and her head bowed. "Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Help me up." She held out her hand, and taking it, he pulled her to her feet.

After they both got dressed, he carefully helped her down the stairs and got her into the back of the car, then jumped behind the wheel. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and sweat sheened his brow; as he threw the stick into reverse and backed into the street, it was almost like he was twenty-nine again, sailing over the South China Sea toward beleaguered Saigon, the bitter sting of betrayal in his slamming heart. Behind the controls of a helicopter, anything could go wrong, and if you go down on enemy territory, you're shit out of luck.

In the back, Carol hissed through her teeth. "Contraction," she said and held her stomach. "God, that hurts."

"We'll be at the hospital in five minutes," he said. His foot itched to slam the pedal to the floor, but he forced restraint - he was carrying precious cargo, wasn't he?

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot facing Fauquier Memorial Hospital, a tall, modern building with a brick facade and wide windows situated on a hill overlooking Buffalo's West Side. Beyond the river, the lights of Canada twinkled like diamonds on black velvet. In the east, a long strip of molten red dawn crested over the horizon, and Clyde glanced at the dash clock. 5:45.

Carol moaned when another contraction hit, and Clyde winced. It sounded painful.

Getting out, he helped her through the door, and half an hour later, sat anxiously in a tiny waiting room cast in the feeble glow of a table lamp. Past the window, the sun started to rise, the first rays of its light spreading through the streets of Buffalo and chasing shadows into the gutters. Clyde propped his elbows on his knees, balled his hands to his face, and slipped his thumbs under his chin. Wow...this was really happening. He was going to be father.

That wasn't news to him, but until this very second, it didn't seem somehow real.

Now it did.

The dim, silent halls brightened with the advent of morning, the desolation giving way to a building buzz of activity: Nurses going back and forth, phones ringing, doors slamming, doctors being called over the PA. Restless energy crackled through him and he started to tap his foot. He checked his watch, and sighed: 7:30. He knew it took a long time to have a baby (probably longer to have bay- _bees_ ), but shouldn't someone have come to him already?

He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. If he let himself, he'd start to worry, and if he started to worry, he'd get carried away with terrible thoughts: Carol dead, the babies dead, Carol _and_ the babies dead, the babies coming out Democrat...best to not let himself think that way.

An hour later, just when he was beginning to think that maybe he _should_ let himself think that way, a doctor in green scrubs came up, a white face mask hanging limp around his neck. "Governor?"

Clyde's heart leapt and he got to his feet. The doctor grinned and held out his hand. Confused, Clyde shook it. "I voted for you," the doctor said.

Oh. That's nice. Now what about my children?

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Clyde said.

The doctor nodded. "If you'll come with me, I'll take you to your wife. And kids."

Carol's room was on the other side of the building, the curtains heavily drawn against the searing sunlight and ashen gloom thick in the air. She sat up in bed, her blonde hair messy and her pink rimmed eyes hazy and unfocused; she stared down at the their babies, a bundle in each arm, and a tired smile played across her chapped lips. She looked drained, exhausted, and wrung out, but Clyde had never seen her more beautiful.

She looked up when he walked in, and their eyes met. "Hi," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he said and went to the bedside; his hand laid on the rail and beamed proudly. Both babies, their caramel brown faces wrinkled and puckered, lending them the appearance of newborn puppy dogs, were swaddled in a white blanket and wore a cap on their head.

One blue, one pink.

"Do you want to hold them?" Carol asked.

He took one in each arm and looked between them - they were both as beautiful as their mother, and his heart swelled with love.

They named the boy Christopher and the girl Collette, and thus began their adventure in parenthood.


	182. August and September 1996: Part 3

**Ink: I have a Fiction Press account under the same name where I have posted a few stories.**

 **THXXX11138: I've always been interested in the time period from roughly 1957 to 1990 - the clothes, the music, etc - so this story was inevitable.** _ **American Graffiti,**_ **in a way, was an inspiration, I guess, as it's one of the period movies I've seen and enjoyed over the years, along with** _ **It, Stand By Me, Dazed and Confused, GoodFellas,**_ **and a bunch of others.**

 **STR2D3PO: I would have loved Austin, then. I didn't watch the invasion storyline. I was a WCW die hard right up to the very end, and after WWF bought it out, I was like no, fuck Vince McMahon. I caved after a year or so. By then it was WWE and a good portion of WCW talent had already been buried, like DDP. I hear they stuck him with some stupid stalker gimmick then canned him. Sad end for a great wrestler. Then Sting finally joined years after I stopped watching and I hear they buried him too. For that alone McMahon can go to hell.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **You Learn**_ **by Alanis Morissette (1995);** _ **How Bizarre**_ **by OMC (1996)**

Scarlet late afternoon light filtered through the wavering treetops up and down Cleveland Street, and shadows grew long across the ground like spreading ink. Lincoln loaded his pole, tackle box, and a cooler into the back of his forest green 1994 Jeep Grand Cherokee and slammed the hatch. He wore a plaid shirt tucked into tan cargo pants, a brown vest, and a brown bucket hat threaded with lures and jigs because that's what _all_ the fishermen wore. He pulled a pack of gum from his pocket, slipped two sticks out, then unwrapped them and threw them into his mouth as Ronnie Anne walked up, her arms loosely folded over the front of her pink dress. A warm puff of wind blew a strand of graying black hair across her face and she brushed it away. "Got everything you need?"

Lincoln put his hands on his hips and ran through a mental checklist: Snacks, Cokes, pole, worms. He'd been planning this trip for two weeks, and made sure in advance that everything was packed and ready to go, but there's always that one item that somehow gets left out. Not this time - he had it all. Except knowledge and experience, but those aren't necessary. Life is about learning as you go; anyone who says differently is either ignorant or a liar. "Yeah," he said, "I have it all."

It briefly occurred to him that he'd miss this week's episode of _American Gothic,_ the only TV show he half way liked (the sheriff was the Devil or some damn thing), but eh. That's why God invented reruns.

A loud clang drew their attention to the driveway next door; Chandler's feet stuck out from under his car and shitty music blared from a radio on a kitchen chair and plugged into an extension cord. " _Son of a bitch!"_ the boy roared. Benson, lying flat in the grass nearby, lifted his head and curiously cocked his ear.

"He's been working on that dumb car for days," Ronnie Anne said, a mocking edge in her voice, "and he _still_ hasn't fixed it."

Lincoln snorted. No, he hadn't...and he wasn't going to. "I bet someone put sugar in his gas tank," he remarked. "As payback for what he did to Dave's Blazer...and for letting his dog shit in my yard."

Furrowing her brow, Ronnie Anne turned to him and tilted her head in a gesture so much like Benson's it made him grin. "You did what?" she asked.

"I poured a bag of sugar in the little bastard's gas tank the other day," Lincoln said with a dismissive shrug. Three years ago, during the legendary Blizzard of '93, Chandler threw a rock at Tim's father's Blazer while he and Tim were navigating Cleveland, and because of him, they skidded out of control and flipped. Neither were hurt, but they _could_ have been, and all this time, Lincoln had been meditating on getting back at him. He considered whipping his ass, but that might be a little extreme since, technically, he _was_ just a kid. Then, last year, he came home in that fucking clunker, and Lincoln knew in an instant what he was going to do. Tit for tat. His car for theirs. You don't fuck with my family and get away with it, you little cocksucker. Just thank God I didn't cut your brake lines.

Ronnie Anne put her hands sternly on her hips and glared...then she snickered and slapped his arm. "You're an asshole."

"Kid brought it on himself," Lincoln said.

With another curse, Chandler slid out from under the car and got to his feet. He wore a pair or black shorts, Nikes, and nothing else, his naked chest slathered in sweat and smeared with grease. Flashing, he kicked the front passenger tire. "Piece of shit."

"Car trouble?" Lincoln called.

Head hung, Chandler laid his hands on the hood and nodded. "Yeah," he said sharply, "car trouble."

Ronnie Anne smirked and shook her head. _You're too much sometimes, lame-o._

"You know," Lincoln said, "my son-in-law's old man runs an auto shop. I can talk to him if you want, maybe get you a good deal." If Chandler said yes, Lincoln would talk to Dave, to whom he'd already told his suspicions, and let him take it from there. Would he rip the kid off? Fuck his car up even more? Charge him double? Drag him into the garage and beat his head in with a wrench? Lincoln didn't know and he didn't care.

His hopes crashed when Chandler shook his head. "I got this," he said.

"You sure about that?" Ronnie Anne teased. "You look like you could _really_ use some help."

"I got it," Chandler said impatiently. He pushed away from the car and went into the garage; he didn't have a tail, but if he did, it would be between his legs.

Ronnie Anne laughed. "Really, you're an asshole," she said. She leaned forward and Lincoln kissed her lips. "But I love you. Now go on, it's getting late."

"I love you too," he said.

Tipping his hat like a cowboy in a western, Lincoln turned, went to the driver door, and climbed in; after baking in the summer sun all day, the inside was an oven, and sweat sprang to his forehead. He buckled his belt, started the engine, and adjusted the mirror. Ronnie Anne's reflection waved at him, and he waved back, then pulled out of the driveway and cut a right. The wind streaming through the window washed over him like a cooling tide, drying the sweat on his face. Just like old times. Just need some music and a cig -

Stick of gum, music and a stick of gum,

Remembering what was already in his mouth, he chewed furiously as he fiddled with the radio, the Big Red doing little to quench his craving.

He found a station playing The Supremes and left it.

From Cleveland, he turned onto Main and followed it out of town. At Marsh Run, he passed the sign guarding the entrance and followed the winding streets to Alex's, slowing and stopping several times to allow gangs of kids on bikes to cross. Wonder how many trailers are in here, it's gotta be a lot.

When he reached Alex's double wide, he parked at the curb and killed the engine. Blake and Jordan sat facing each other in the yard, a battered yellow Tonka dump truck between them. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with _Goosebumps_ across the front in green writing meant to resemble slime; she wore yellow shorts, a pink and white patterned blouse, and her dirty blonde hair back in a ponytail.

Blake looked up and brightened when Lincoln walked up. "Hi, Grandpa!" He shot to his feet and hit Lincoln like a small, European car; the air rushed from Lincoln's lungs and he stumbled back a step. "Hi," he said breathlessly and patted the boy's back. "You almost killed me. You're gonna make a good football player one day."

Jordan watched them from the ground, then went back to playing.

"I like football," Blake said and released Lincoln, "it's fun."

"Your great-uncle likes it too," Lincoln said, "he's just too fat to play it anymore."

"I'm fat," Blake said and smacked his stomach.

"Nah," Lincoln said and waved his hand, "you're big boned. Lynn is a heffer."

The storm door opened and Alex came out onto the porch in a pair of jean shorts and a faded orange tank top, her crimped black hair falling over her shoulders. "I knew I smelled lame-o," she said with a mischievous grin. "I said either Tim's home or Dad's here, one of the two."

"It's me," Lincoln said. "Where's Tim? Thought he was off Sundays."

"He's helping his dad with something," she said and came down the steps. "You ready to go fishing?" she asked Blake.

"Yeah!"

She turned to Jordan. "You ready to go fishing too?"

The little girl hummed and shrugged noncommittally. Lincoln didn't think she'd enjoy fishing very much, but she and Blake were like a package deal sometimes: Buy one, get one free. "It's gonna be fun," Alex said.

"Okay," Jordan said airly. She pushed to her feet and brushed the front of her shorts, but neglected the back - dirt coated the seat. "I need to make sure I have everything first." She unzipped the pink fanny pack around her waist and dug through it. She wore that thing all the time, probably even when she slept. Lincoln's curiosity got the better of him and he walked up to look over her shoulder, his shadow falling across her. She started and looked up, her blue eyes guarded. "Hi."

She looked nothing like Alex, or Jessy for that matter, but she reminded him of them anyway. When Jessy was little, she had a stuffed rabbit she'd drag around behind her, and for a long, long, long time, Alex slept with a record like it was a teddy bear. What was it called? He remembered _pie_...the pie band.

That brought a wistful smile to his face and he wondered if she still had it somewhere, or if maybe it was in the attic.

Jordan watched him warily, and he flashed a disarming smile. "What'cha got in there?" he asked.

Her features softened. "Lots of stuff," she said and returned her attention to the fanny pack. "Beanie Baby," she said and pulled out a tiny white lion plush, "fruit snacks, marbles, Chapstick because my lips get dry, and this." She held something out, and Lincoln squinted: A tiny doll was clutched in her fist, its blonde hair in pigtails and its gruesome red smile frozen in place. "That's Polly," Jordan piped, then her forehead crinkled. "She's embarrassed about her size," she whispered, "so don't bring it up."

Lincoln chuckled. "I won't," he said, "promise."

"Can we get our stuff, Mom?" Blake asked, looking up at Alex with animated suspense, as though there was a _good_ possibility she would say no.

She laid her hand on his head...then grinned and gave him a noogie. He cried out and pulled away. "Go on," she said.

He brushed past her...then rammed his elbow into the back of her leg, driving her forward with a startled exclamation. "You little monster," she laughed as he streaked up the stairs and into the house, his giggles trailing behind. "Sometimes I wonder about that kid," Alex said with a contented sigh. "He might be as big a dork as you and Tim. My genes are the only thing keeping him in check."

"You mean the genes you got from me?"

"Nope," Alex said quickly.

Down a playmate, Jordan took to twirling in the yard with her arms out like a ballerina...or Christ suffering an agonizing death at Calvary.

"The ones you got from your mom?"

Jordan started to hum.

Crossing her arms, Alex lifted her brow, and Lincoln laughed out loud; before he left home to come over here, Ronnie Anne did pretty much the same thing. "Absolutely not. The ones that I got from me."

"Face it, honey," he said, "you're a mix of two lame-os."

"Ah," she said like a woman who had the perfect rebuttal to a moronic point, "but the combination of your genes created the opposite. It's like how green and blue make yellow when you mix them."

The front door slammed open and Blake came out with an armload of stuff. His and Jordan's poles, a tackle box, and other, less nameable things. His fishing hat was perched askew on his head, and as he came down the stairs, he started to trip. Lincoln's heart skipped and Alex sprang forward to save him, but he righted himself, wobbled, and descended the rest of the way. "Here," Alex said and took the poles, "let me help you. You almost broke your neck."

"No I didn't," Blake assured her, "I was okay the _whole_ time."

"I wasn't," Alex said and started for the Jeep, "I think I need a new pair of shorts."

Following, Blake furrowed his brow in confusion. He looked questioningly at Lincoln. "She pooped herself," Lincoln explained.

Blake's face screwed up in a sour pucker, and he drew back as if away from something foul. "Ew."

"Yep," Lincoln nodded, "pretty gross, huh?"

Shivering in disgust, Blake ran after his mother and Lincoln leaned against Alex's car. The laughter of children, the tantalizing scent of an unseen barbeque, and the rapid _pop-pop-pop_ of fireworks leftover from the Fourth seasoned the air. The sun sat well above the horizon, but its light was beginning to a fade, and its color to drain from the sky, leaving it an anemic shade of orange. Jordan spun faster and faster, slowly gaining speed, and Lincoln watched, his head starting to spin with her. He remembered being a kid and _loving_ the feeling of dizziness, not he'd probably throw up.

Blake came back over with Alex in tow and something clutched in his hand. He walked over to Jordan. "Here, you gotta put on your hat," he said and held out a pin fishing hat. Jordan stopped and swayed drunkenly, then fell backwards with a scream. Blake reached out to grab her, and she caught his hand, but instead of holding her up, she pulled him _down_ ; Lincoln winced as both kids hit the grass with matching thumps. Blake groaned and Jordan giggled madly.

"It's not funny, buttknocker!"

"Yes it is, chode smoker," Jordan hitched.

What smoker?

Blake got up and Jordan held out her hand, but he whipped away. "Do it yourself."

"Fine," Jordan said. She staggered to her feet, spotted her hat, and snatched it off the ground. Setting it on her head, she grinned. "We can go now. I have _all_ my stuff."

Her smile fell a little. "I think."

She unzipped her fanny pack and rummaged through it. "Yep, we can go now."

Fifteen minutes later, they were rolling north along US28, the kids sitting side by side in the back and happily eating popsicles Alex gave them. Lincoln gripped the wheel tightly and smacked a giant glob of gum between his teeth; the craving was stronger now than it had been all day, and he was starting to feel feverish. A gas station appeared ahead and he briefly considered stopping for a pack of cigarettes, but he remembered what he said to Ronnie Anne yesterday morning. _If we can handle being shot, we can handle this._ He took a bullet in Vietnam, then spent eight months in a bamboo cage - he was beaten, starved, fed maggots, and passed many long, lonely nights curled up on the ground, nearly in tears and believing that he would never see his family again.

Even so, he never gave up and he never lost hope - persevering was the only way of defying the Cong he had.

If he didn't let _them_ break him, how in the name of God could he live with himself if he let cigarettes break him?

He couldn't.

So he wouldn't.

He'd just deal with it. The way he dealt with Vietnam and everything else life had thrown at him.

All the way to the lake, he worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, tearing shreds of skin and chewing them between his bicuspids. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, nodded his head, and rolled his neck as the craving steadily increased. This was awful. He threw another three pieces of gum into his mouth and chewed.

In the back, Jordan turned to Blake and lowered her voice. "Your grandpa really likes that stuff."

"I think he's swallowing it too," Blake replied conspiratorially.

Jordan gasped. "You're not supposed to do _that,"_ she said gravely.

"I know," Blake sighed, "he's gonna blow a bubble out of his butt when he farts."

Jordan giggled. "That won't happen. It'll make it so he can never poop _again._ " Her eyes widened seriously.

"Really?" Blake asked worriedly.

Jordan nodded quickly. "It happened to Veronica. She kept swallowing her gum even though I told her not to. Then they had to cut her open and take it all out. Now she poops in a bag."

Blake opened his mouth to speak, then frowned. "You're lying." He didn't know for sure whether she was or not, but he _thought_ she was; she lied a lot. One time she said her dad had a real pet dinosaur like one from _Jurassic Park,_ but when he asked _his_ dad if they could get one, he said they weren't real.

Sucking her lips into her mouth to hide her smile, she shook her head; an elfin light twinkled in her eyes. "Swallowing gum stops you up. Remember when we put all that toilet paper in your mom's potty and the water wouldn't go down?"

Did he ever, Mom got so mad she turned red and screamed like she did when she stubbed her little toe on the coffee table. There was so much water it soaked into the carpet and Dad had to replace it; they grounded him for a week, took away his SNES, and wouldn't let him watch TV...not even _Beavis and Butt-Head._

Jordan nodded seriously. "That's what gum does to your butt. You better tell your grandpa to stop or he's going to have to poop in a bag for the rest of his _days_." Her smile intensified as she spoke, and by the end, she was almost laughing.

Yep, lying.

"Shut up," he said and turned away.

"He'll never poop again," she sang, "never poop again, never poop again." She kicked her legs and swayed from side to side.

"Shut up, butt wagon," he said.

Jordan's brow darkened. "Don't call me butt wagon, bunghole."

"Butt nugget," Blake said challengingly.

"Dill weed."

"Assgoblin."

Jordan started to say retort, but Lincoln cut her off. "Hey," he said firmly, a pair of hard set eyes in the rearview mirror. "I heard something I don't like."

"Sorry," Blake mumbled and hung his head. In his periphery, Jordan smiled smugly. _Fartknocker,_ she mouthed.

 _Peckerbutt,_ he responded.

Twenty-five minutes after setting out, they turned onto a narrow, rutted dirt road flanked on either side by dense walls of pine trees. The tires dipped into potholes, and the frame shook: Blake and Jordan both screamed in delight as they were jostled and thrown.

The lane continued for nearly a mile before the trees fell away and Lake Massanutten took shape ahead, the land sloping down to its dusty banks. Tree crowded the opposite shore, the water's surface still and unbroken. The sun was nearly all down and the sky shimmered with a cool mix of purple and pallid orange, the final amber rays spreading through the woods like light through a prism. Lincoln parked under the shade of a leafy tree and cut the engine, killing Tommy James off in the middle of _Draggin' the Line_. "Alright," he said, "here we are. Ready to catch some fish?"

"Yeah!" Blake and Jordan cried.

He chuckled. "Okay, hold onto your hats."

Both kids pressed their hands to the tops of their heads. He forgot how literal children take things. One time he told five-year-old Alex to put a sock in it when she was complaining about something, and a few minutes later, she came out of her room with a pink sock in her hand. _Where do I put it?_

Sharp loss cut through him and he frowned. Some days he really missed Alex and Jessy being young. There's a saying... _they grow up so fast_...and it's true. Just twenty years ago they were both starting school and still small enough that you could snatch them up and run them through the living room like they were airplanes. He chuckled softly at the memory of how that made them squeal laughter. _Again! Again!_ Now they were grown women - Jessy was a teacher just like her aunt and Alex had a little boy who was already six. Now _that_ happened fast. It was only a little while ago that Blake was a baby; in six more years, he'd be twelve, basically a teenager.

The years come like snow, falling slowly and accumulating a little at a time; before you know it, that dusting has turned into six feet and you finally realize just how much there is.

This was not a new revelation, nor was this the first time he thought along these lines - he'd been nostalgic and introspective a lot over the past ten years. He watched his girls fall in love, graduate high school, start careers, get married, and, in Alex's case, have children; he went from the father of two teenagers to being a baby booming grandfather presiding over an empty nest. All of that reflection had taught him one thing: All you can do in life is enjoy the present moment. Don't look into the past or the future - if you do, you'll miss what's right in front of you.

Throwing the door open, he got out and went around to the back hatch. He had some bonding to do with his grandson and he was not going to let the past, or his deepening sentimentality...or this crippling nicotine withdrawal get in his way.

Blake and Jordan joined him and stood on either side as he pulled out the poles and the tacklebox. "Here," he said, handing the latter to Jordan, "you this this, and you take _these_." He gave Blake the poles. He scanned the shore and spotted a flat spot off to the right. "Take it all over there," he said and nodded to the lake.

While they started over, he stacked the other tackle box on top of the cooler then slid them out. He carried them to the spot and sat them down in the grass. Jordan carefully placed the tackle box onto a patch of dirt, and Blake dropped the poles onto the ground. Lincoln returned to the Jeep, got his own pole, then slammed the hatch and went back to the water. Jordan, on her hands and knees, leaned over the edge and stared into the lake, her head turning slowly back and forth as she scanned the depths. "Tadpole," she sang out.

"I found a cricket," Blake said from a stand of brush. He emerged with his fist closed and a proud smile on his face.

"Those make good bait," Lincoln said authoritatively; he had no idea whether they did or not. He sat on the cooler, picked up Blake's fishing pole, and stared strickenly at it.

Okay.

How do you work this thing?

Last week he watched an instructional video and took down notes, but...remember that one item that never makes the boat? Yeah, apparently he _didn't_ have everything like he thought he did. That wasn't a big deal, his memory was good despite his age. He just needed a moment to think.

Closing his eyes, he searched his mind. First, you had to tie your line to your reel. Since all three of these poles were brand new and had never been used, the line was probably already tied. He turned the pole over in his hand, and yep, pre-tied for his convenience. Good. Next was...uh...was it adding the bait? What about the hook? He checked, and it was already there. Okay, good. Lifting up, he opened the cooler lid, reached in, and pulled out a small plastic container. Blake and Jordan gathered around, Jordan with her arms crossed and Blake leaning quizzically forward to see better. "What's in there?" Jordan asked.

Lincoln peeled the lid off and sat it aside. "Worms," he said.

The little girl's face wrinkled and her tongue shot out. "Gross." Even so, she took a curious step forward, her eyes wide with inquisition. Fat, slimy earthworms wiggled and writhed in damp, black soil, and Lincoln plucked one out. Jordan fell fearfully back and Blake watched, transfixed.

"Just gotta put this bad boy on the hook," Lincoln said more to himself than to them. Wasn't there a special way to do it? He thought there was, but come on, it's putting a worm onto a sharpened piece of metal, how many different ways can you do _that?_ Bracing the pole between his knees, he pinched the hook and slowly, carefully, impaled the worm on, the tip spearing through its body in a little spurt of blood.

Jordan's jaw dropped in horrified wonderment and Blake grinned like witnessing the ritual sacrifice of one of God's Creatures (™) was the coolest thing ever. The worm's thrashing grew more frantic as it desperately tried to escape its fate, and Lincoln could imagine it shrieking in agony. "What do you know?" Lincoln muttered to lighten the mood; he pushed the hook deeper. "Where are your troops heading?"

The worm didn't reply.

Well, guess it's time to whip out the bamboo shoots. We have ways of making you talk, capitalist scum-dog.

Done, he held the pole out to Jordan, who pressed her fists defensively to her chest and crinkled her nose. "Come on," he urged, "it won't bite."

She thought it through, then reached out one hand and tentatively accepted it. "Give me yours," Lincoln said to Blake. Blake looked around, then turned in a confused semi-circle before spying his pole on the ground. He picked it up and handed it over.

"Can I do it, grandpa?" he asked hopefully.

No, Blake, you can't, I don't want you to bear the stain of having to torture and kill - I'm already besmirched, let _me_ handle it. "Sorry," he said, "but this requires expert precision."

 _Plop._

"My worm fell off," Jordan said. She loomed over it, head bent; the hapless wretch lie in two on the dirt, both halves wiggling in panic, connected only by a thin, silvery string of guts.

Lincoln frowned. Huh. "Alright, I'll put another one on. Just give me a minute." He pinched Blake's hook between his thumb and forefinger, drew another worm from the mass, and tacked it on. Maybe he should ball it up or something. Isn't that what the guy on the video did?

Nah, he didn't think so. Stabbing it through the middle was the way to -

The worm flopped off and landed in his lap.

\- go.

Sighing, he picked it back up, folded it in half, and sank it onto the hook. It flipped and shimmied, but didn't come free. Ha, take _that_ , you little bastard.

He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth (all outta gum and he _really_ wanted a smoke). "Let me see your pole again."

Jordan gave him her rod and he took out another worm. Now at least he knew how -

 _Plop._

"Uhh, Grandpa?"

Blake's worm slithered across the dirt, leaving a trail of blood and intestines in its wake. Somehow, it was still in one piece. Lincoln sighed deeply, and a gaseous ball of anger formed in his chest. He needed a new approach.

Holding the worm around the middle, he jammed the hook deep into its ass (or its face, he couldn't tell them apart) and didn't stop pushing until the tip came out the other end. The worm gave a spadomic shudder, then fell still. "Here you go," he said and gave it back. "Be careful."

He took Blake's and started to do the same thing.

 _Plop._

"Blake's grandpa? My worm fell off again."

Oh, goddamn it!

A burning mix of shame and frustration spread across his face and his hand tightened into a fist; something wet filled his palm, and when he opened it, the worm was mangled and limp. He took a deep breath and ground his teeth together; he was suddenly much, much angrier than he should have been, and if the next fucking worm didn't stay where the goddamn motherfucking hell he put it, he was going to snap the pole over his knees and go on a rampage like Godzilla through downtown Tokyo.

Blake and Jordan stared at him expectantly, and he couldn't help seeing disappointment and disdain in their gazes. _He can't even bait a hook. What a loser._

 _Pfft. And he calls himself a man._

"These aren't the best worms for...for fishing," he said with a nervous laugh. Sweat trickled down his face and his hands trembled slightly. He yanked another worm from the container, brought the hook close, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Alright, you little bastard," he said through his teeth. _Don't make me look bad in front of the kids, huh? I don't want them knowing I'm a schlub. Okay?_

Breathing slowly like he did when he target shot in boot camp, he bunched the worm up, inhaled, exhaled, then impaled it on the hook.

Uncoiling, it fell off in three pieces, and a tiny pile of guts landed on top of his shoe. Lincoln's eyes widened in madness and his lips peeled back from his teeth. Blake and Jordan shared an uneasy glance, then jumped when Lincoln grabbed the pole around the middle like a psychopath clutching a prostitute's throat. He shook it back and forth and sputtered a wordless oath, spittle flying from his lips.

He felt himself losing control, and pulled himself back from the edge moments before tumbling over. He sat the pole aside with exaggerated care and looked at the kids; they regarded him the way one might a dithering madman.

Let's face it, this isn't going to work.

"Screw it," Lincoln said, "you guys wanna go to the arcade?"

Blake and Jordan's faces lit up. "Yes!" they screamed.

"Alright," Lincoln said and got to his feet, "let's put this crap away."

* * *

For nearly a month, Jessy DuChamp procrastinated...something that she didn't do much anymore. Long ago, she would put unpleasant things off until the last minute and come to them knotted with anxiety. As a grown woman, however, she came to realize just how much stress she caused herself by doing that, and resolved to always get those vexatious matters over and done with as quickly as possible, like ripping off a Band-Aid. The sooner they were over, the sooner she could put them behind her.

This, though...this was _kind_ of major, and she dreaded telling her family, especially Alex. She and Mark spent most of the summer discussing it, and had mutually decided it was best for them...and for their eventual family. Even if Jessy couldn't say that it _was_ , Mark's dreams were coming true and she couldn't stand in the way of them, not after all the hard work, long hours, and sleepless nights he put in. He wanted this so badly that, when he spoke, he became animated in a totally un-Mark-like way that was both cute and unsettling - she wasn't used to him being anything but flat and monotonous. Jessy loved her family - Mom, Auntie Ronnie Anne, Uncle Lincoln, and Alex especially - but she was an adult and sometimes, the course of adulthood takes us away from familiar ports. The trepidation she felt inspired her to assent all the faster, because over the past five years, she'd come a long way from the nervous little girl she once was, and the prospect of reverting, even temporary, back to that sent ripples of panic through her chest. She still couldn't bring herself to tell her family; she'd build up the courage, set a date and time...then balk. _I'll do it some other time,_ she would think, her heartbeat quickening, but like a mirage shimmering in the distance, some other time never came closer; September 15, however, did, with every passing day. If she waited much longer, she wouldn't be telling them, she'd be _springing_ it on them. _Oh, by the way, next week…_

That wasn't right. Her family needed time to digest the matter just as she had, so on Sunday evening, she elected to tell them, starting with Alex - she considered getting them all together and doing it at once, but after meditating on the matter, she reached the conclusion that it would be better, and easier, to do it one on one.

She left the apartment at half past six, just as the light began to bleed from the sky and the street lights flickered on. Kids raced bikes up and down the sidewalks, skipped rope, and jumped hopscotch; a group of boys all about twelve played hockey in the street...every time a vehicle approached, one called "Car!" and they scattered like roaches. Her new car, a tan 1995 Nissan Maxima, sat in the little gravel parking lot flanking the house. There were three apartments, two upstairs and one down, and both were occupied. The latter's Dodge wasn't in evidence, but the former's battered blue Buick LeSabre station wagon was parked uncomfortably close to Jessy's driver side door, like it always was. There wasn't very much space, but certainly enough that he didn't have to get _that_ close. Mark's car, a silver 1994 Honda Accord, was parked equally close to the passenger door, but that she could excuse.

Sucking in an imaginary gut, she slipped between her car and the LeSabre, opened the door just wide enough to allow her passage, and slipped in. She sat her purse on the passenger seat, buckled her seatbelt, and turned the key in the ignition. Glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure no one had wandered behind her, she put the car in reverse, backed up, and swung the front end around, rocks crunching under the tires. She started toward the exit, but applied the brakes when Mark came around the corner of the house and gave a casual wave. He opened the passenger door and leaned in. "We need milk," he said. "I decided I'm going to have that bowl of cereal tomorrow after all."

"Okay," she said. "Anything else?"

Mark rolled his eyes to the sky in thought. "I think that should be it," he said, not sounding entirely convinced.

"Alright. If you think of anything else, call Alex's. You might catch me. Should I pick something up for dinner?"

Mark mulled that over a minute. "A pizza."

Ooooh, pizza did sound good. There was this place on the outskirts of town that had the _best._ She and Mark ate there often - so far they'd tried (and loved) every one on the menu except for anchovy. Mark liked anchovies, Jessy did not - yuck, they're tiny fish! "Okay," she said. She tilted as close as the belt would allow, and he met her lips half way with his. "I love you," she said.

"Love you too."

He closed the door and stepped back; Jessy put the car in DRIVE and paused at the street while the hockey players dispersed.

The drive from her front door to Alex's took twenty minutes if traffic was light, and the whole time, Jessy ran what she was going to say over and over again through her head and fretted over how Alex would take it. She was apprehensive and thinking too deeply about it made her chest squeeze with anxiety.

She came to a rolling stop at the curb in front of Alex's trailer just as night consumed the sky. Warm summer stars twinkled in the heavens and the moon drew aloft of the treetops, its pale light dappling the roofs of the trailers and drenching the ground in silvery brilliance. Despite the darkness, roving gangs of kids still troweled the streets, their tiny forms revealed in the harsh spills of arch sodium lamps up and down the sidewalks; shadows zipped by, boys on bikes, and somewhere a little girl yelled at someone named Will to _stop or I'm telling Mom!_

Jessy cut the engine and slumped back against the seat, her hands resting on the wheel and her mouth twisted in a pained grimace. She was starting to feel fluttery and hot, like she always did before an episode; if she waited any longer, she'd fall into the same old trap of overthinking and tormenting herself with terrible visions not of what might be, but probably _would_ be.

With a deep breath, she yanked the keys out of the ignition, threw them in her purse, and grabbed the strap - Alex said someone was breaking into trailers and cars and to _never leave anything in your ride unless you wanna buy a new one._ She suspected a teenage boy named Robbie who lived down the street; white as sour cream, he dressed like a rapper in baggy jeans, a white T-shirt, and a backwards baseball cap. Jessy saw him walking through someone's side yard with a group of friends once - he didn't look like Chandler, but he still reminded her of him, so she knew he was trouble. Throwing the door open, she got out, slammed it, and went up the walk, noting that Tim's car wasn't in the driveway but Alex's was.

The front door was open but the storm door closed, yellow light spilling through the grimy pane. Music played so loud that Jessy could hear it on the street, and the closer she got, the more it hurt her ears.

 _...the fire trucks are coming up around the bend_

 _You live you learn  
You love you learn  
You cry you learn  
You lose you learn  
You bleed you learn  
You scream you learn_

Jessy peeked through the glass, but the living room was empty - TV off and the face of the stereo beneath it lit green. She balled her fist and knocked, then waited and knocked again when no one answered.

Though Alex might seem irresponsible on the surface, she was anything but (at least where it mattered), so Jessy didn't think she would have gone somewhere and left the door open. She was in there, but probably couldn't hear her over the music.

 _We're sisters, so…_

Jessy opened the storm door and walked in, wincing because the music was ten times louder: The walls shook, window screens thrummed, and Jessy's teeth rattled.

 _You grieve you learn  
You choke you learn  
You laugh you learn  
You choose you learn  
You pray you learn  
You ask you learn  
You live you learn_

The living room and kitchen were open to each other and mostly separated by a waist-high counter that was technically called a bar, but using that word implied there would be drinking, which neither Alex nor Tim did. A hall led from the kitchen to Tim and Alex's bedroom, and another hall on Jessy's right serviced a bathroom and Blake's room. A wicker chair with a pale blue cushion sat near the TV and an open can of Coca-Cola greeted her from the coffee table. Alex, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, bent over the running sink, scrubbing a pan and singing along to the radio...very off-key. "Alex?"

Alex rhythmically nodded to the music and sat the pan in the drying rack; her hands were covered in soap almost to the elbows, and a strand of black hair, freed from its binds, brushed across the tip of her nose.

"Bunny?" Alex said she didn't mind being called Bunny anymore, but she had the uncanny ability to hear when you referred to her by that name - you could be standing on opposite sides of a crowded room and whisper it...and she'd look at you with an almost imperceptible crease of the her forehead. _I heard that, Jess._ "Bunny?"

The first song ended and another began, harmonica, brass, and Spanish scented guitar...she thought; it sounded Spanish, anyway. Alex shook her hips back and forth and bobbed her head from side to side.

 _Destination unknown, as we pull in for some gas  
Freshly pasted poster reveals a smile from the past  
Elephants and acrobats, lions snakes monkey  
Pele speaks "righteous," Sister Zina says "funky"_

Alex cocked her hips and sang along at the top of her lungs, which was barely loud enough for Jessy to hear her over the music. She plucked a glass from the water and sat it in the rack without drying it; soap suds coursed down the sides and dripped onto the counter. Jessy cracked a grin and covered her mouth with her hand to keep laughter from spilling out. She was reminded of all the times she walked into their shared room growing up and found her sister dancing around like a woman in the throes of a grand mal seizure, and her heart pinched keenly. As a little girl, Alex was her friend, steadfast playmate, guide, teacher, and best friend - she had her her entire life, and had imagined that she always would.

 _Ooh, baby, (ooh, baby)  
It's making me crazy, (it's making me crazy)  
Every time I look around (look around)  
Every time I look around (Every time I look around)  
Every time I look around  
It's in my face  
(It's in my face) _

Alex tossed her head, ponytail cracking like a whip, and ran the sponge over a plate.

 _Making moves and starting grooves before they knew we were gone  
Jumped into the Chevy and headed for big lights  
Wanna know the rest? Hey, buy the rights_

Jessy _really_ wished she brought her camcorder.

Shaking her head, she went over to the radio and pressed the off button, plunging the trailer into silence. "Hey," Alex called. She turned, face red with exertion, and her guarded expression softened. "Oh, hey, Jess. Just doing a little spring cleaning."

Jessy arched an eyebrow. "It's August."

"Better late than never," Alex said. She turned the sink off and dried her hands on a cloth. "You know, just walking into someone's house constitutes a breaking and entering."

"I didn't break anything," Jessy said with a smug grin.

Alex faltered. "It still counts," she said after a moment's thought.

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does." Alex reached for the phone sitting atop the microwave and scrunched her brow. "I'm calling the police."

Oh? She wanted to play like _that,_ did she? Swinging her purse around, Jessy reached in and took out a small canister. "Do it and die."

Alex blinked in surprise, then flew over. "Oh, cool, is that pepper spray? Can I see it?"

"No," Jessy said and snatched it away from her excited sister. "You'll wind up burning your eyes out."

Alex sagged. "Aw, no I won't," she said disappointedly.

Jessy dropped it back into her purse and Alex hung her head. "Fine," she grumbled, then looked up. "Want something to drink? I have coffee."

She started to say that it was a little late for coffee, but shrugged and said, "Sure," anyway. She sat at the dining room table and set her purse on top while Alex filled two cups. "Where's Tim?" she asked.

"Helping his Dad," Alex said and came over. "With his roof." She put one of the cups down in front of Jessy and sat; the chair creaked under her weight. Alex had always been thin despite her poor (and voracious) eating habits, but her dietary misdeeds were finally starting to catch up with her: Her squishy hips and stomach formed a muffin top over the waistband of her shorts and her arms were starting to get flabby. She didn't look _bad_ with the extra weight, but seeing her was always a culture shock; Jessy had an image of Alex firmly in her mind, and it didn't include the recent weight gain.

"A roof?" Jessy asked and took a sip of her coffee.

Alex nodded. "Umhm. Tim's dad hired a contracted to strip and reshingle his roof, but the guy kept showing up late and working, like, two hours, so he fired him and drafted Tim. He said Tim owed him for all the money he spent raising him." Alex chuckled.

"Really?" Jessy asked, her lips puckering.

"He was playing," Alex assured her.

"Oh." She took a drink.

"So what's up?" Alex asked. "I doubt you came over just to bask in my presence. But if you did, that's okay too."

Jesy snickered and darted her eyes to the table. Her heart screamed at her to delay, put it off one more day, but her brain told her to do it now...and she listened to the latter. "I have to talk to you about something."

Alex noted the gravity in her voice, and her playful smile settled into a neutral expression. "Sure," she said, "everything okay?"

Still not able t meet her sister's gaze, Jessy nodded. "Yeah. I...you know Mark and his friend have been working on an computer operating system for years, right?"

Mark and a friend from the computer shop named Will had been developing an operating system for three years, working evenings and weekends in Will's garage. It was intended to be faster, less expensive, and higher functioning than Microsoft's OS, and was based partially on that company's Windows 1.0.

"Yeah," Alex said. She leaned forward, tense with anticipation.

"Well...uh...they…" she smiled down at the table, a surge of pride going through her chest. She looked up and Alex nodded for her to continue. "They sold their work to Microsoft," she said, "for three million dollars."

Alex's eyes widened. "Holy shit," she muttered, then sat back and grinned. "Wow. That's a lot of money."

Owing to the money Grandma left her and the periodic checks from Auntie Luna's estates (which got a little bigger after the movie inspired by her life was released in '94), Jessy hadn't worried about money in over two years. She put most of it in the bank with the expectation of using it to buy a house. Alex did the same with her portion and had been slowly adding to it a little at a time since. She and Tim had a plan: Alex would study to become a registered nurse beginning in January 1997 and (hopefully) land a job at a hospital in the area, then, by September 1998 at the latest, they would buy a house.

Jessy nodded. "It is," she said. In the grand scheme of things, three million wasn't all _that_ much, but to her it was...and she had no idea how to spend it. Other millionaires (she still felt strange calling herself that) bought expensive toys like jet skis, boats, and helicopters, but she didn't care about any of those things.

"That's not all," she added.

Now came the...she hesitated to call it bad news, but in a way it was, just like all good news. The song says every silver lining has a touch of gray, and what she was going to say next was that gray.

"What?" Alex asked.

Like ripping off a Band-Aid, Jessy said, "Microsoft hired them both and we're moving to Washington State next month."

There.

It was out.

It had been done.

"Oh," Alex said. "Oh...wow. Y-You are?"

Jessy nodded. "Yeah. We, uh...we had a long talk, and we decided that when we get there, we're going to try and have a baby."

For a moment Alex stared at her, jaw slack, then she shook her head like a woman coming awake from a fugue. "That's great," she said with a wan smile. "I mean...it sucks that you're leaving, but...wow. How much are they gonna pay him?"

She could try to rush the topic along as much as she wanted to, but the hurt in her eyes wasn't lost on Jessy. They were sisters, and before Alex moved in with Tim, they scarcely knew a day apart. Even though they could go a week without seeing each other, the other was only a short drive away. Any time they wanted to, they could hop in their car and be together in twenty minutes...and sometimes they did. Jessy and Mark came over for dinner and to see Blake all the time, and more than once, Alex turned up at Jessy's door unannounced to hang out - they'd drink coffee at the kitchen table like they were now and talk for hours about everything and everyone. Jessy's first thought when Mark told her about Microsoft offering him a job was _then I won't have Alex anymore._ The prospect of not being close to her sister left her feeling gutted and cold.

Which was one of the main reasons she said yes. She needed to do this...to prove to herself that she could and that she was no longer the timid little mouse she was only five short years ago.

That...and she wanted a baby. She'd been waiting patiently and biding her time, but now that it was a real and present possibility, she was over the moon with excitement. During their conversation, she and Mark decided that she would be a stay at home mom for the first few years, then, when their baby was old enough for daycare, she'd go back to work. Jessy, on her own, resolved that her son or daughter would go into daycare early - no later than three - because daycare provides children with valuable socialization, and if she could help it, she didn't want him or her to be a nervous wreck like her. Some people are wired for nervous constitutions, but she hoped that her child wouldn't be - she desperately wanted them to have a good start.

"One hundred fifty thousand a year," Jessy said.

Alex whistled. "Wow. I'm actually kind of shocked. I always kind of thought he would stay a geek and work a dead end job for the rest of his life." She shook her head in pleasant disbelief. "I'm really happy for you guys," she said.

"So am I," Jessy said. "But I'm really going to miss you. And everyone else."

"I'll miss you too." Alex said earnestly. She reached out, took Jessy's hand, and threaded their fingers together. "But since you're rich now, you can have us out for vacations all the time."

"Or I can bring you with us and make you my maid."

Alex's eyes narrowed and, lifting her index finger like a woman making a point, she took a deep breath. "I am not...actually, what kind of pay are we talking? Fifty an hour and I'll do _all_ your house work." She leaned in and grinned. "Throw in an extra fifty and I'll even call you ma'am~"

Jessy laughed.

Later, Alex finished off her coffee. "Have you told Mom and Dad?" she asked.

"No," Jessy said, "I was thinking of doing it later." She twisted around and glanced at the clock on the VCR, shocked to see that it was almost nine. Every time she came over to Alex's, she lost track of time. "But I'll probably do it tomorrow."

"You want me to come with you?" Alex asked. "For moral support?"

Jessy shook her head instantly. "No," she said, "I can do this myself."

After leaving, she stopped at 7-11 got a gallon of milk, then drove to the pizza place in Elk Park. She ordered a large veggie lovers, and a half an hour later, walked through the apartment door. Mark sat at the dining room table in a wife beater and jeans, wire snippets, screws, microchips, and a motherboard laid out in front of him. He looked up when she came in and nodded his greeting. "Working hard?" she asked and kissed the top of his head.

"No," he deadpanned. "I got bored and started tinkering. How did Alex take it?"

"Well," Jessy nodded.

"How did _you_ take it?"

"Well."

In fact, they both took it so well that they laid awake in their respective beds for a long, long time that night.


	183. August and September 1996: Part 4

**Joni C69: A liberal SJW Lisa would be interesting. I have a liberal SJW OC I was working on a while back and I think I'll develop her further in the future.**

 **MasterCaster: We hear of him in a later chapter.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Wannabe**_ **by The Spice Girls (1996)**

There comes a time in every child's life when they must spread their wings and fly. Lincoln Loud knew this and had long ago come to terms with that fact. Even so, when Jessy sat him and Ronnie Anne down at the kitchen table and told them about her and Mark moving to Washington in September, a pang of dread rippled through him. Jessy was not his daughter biologically, but as far as he was concerned, she was his regardless, and the idea of her being so far away disturbed him deeply. He rarely saw his brother or his nephew, and something told him that once Jessy got into her car and struck off west, he'd barely see her, too. Such is life, he supposed, but there are a lot of things in life - you don't have to like them all. You _do_ have to accept them...unless you want to spend your life fighting against things you can't change or throwing daily temper tantrums. He was honestly excited for them, and proud too...he just wished they wouldn't go.

Luan didn't take it any better than he did; he stopped by one afternoon after work to help Fred fix a broken pipe, and she looked tired. That was the only word to describe it: Tired. _I'm gonna miss her,_ she said and hugged herself; that was all he could get out of her. Yeah, he and Ronnie Anne would miss her too.

The final days of August marked the end of Flip's busy season, which was only busy when you compared it to the rest of the year. Teenagers came in, hung out, ate, and played video games; once upon a time, Lincoln would have kicked them out after an hour or two, but now he let them stay - it's not like people were lining up for tables the way they did twenty years ago. The money he got from Mom and Luna's estate ensured that he didn't have to worry as much about the business for the time being, and that came as a huge relief. Without it, he would have had to sell, and after that...he didn't know, and that scared the hell out of him.

It was okay for now, though. He could keep the business afloat for a long time...long enough, hopefully, that he could make it to retirement and start collecting social security.

If Flip's could get him that far, he thought, he'd be happy. Twelve years, baby, just twelve years. 2008. You can make it to 2008.

On August 28, the last day of summer vacation, the dining room, for one brief, glorious hour-long period, was almost half full. The next afternoon, it stood empty save for a construction worker eating a hamburger and watching _Leeza_ on the wall-mounted TV. Lincoln hated daytime talk shows - sensationalistic tabloid trash, if you asked him. Jerry Springer was the worst, but Donahue and Sally Jessy Raphael weren't much better. He put Jerry Springer on once for five minutes, then turned it the hell off when two fat women started flipping chairs and pulling each other's hair while the raucous audience pumped their fists like bloodthirsty spectators at a gladiator fight. " _Jer-RY! Jer-RY!"_ What kind of lowbrow meathead watches something like that?

Something moved in his periphery, and he turned to find one of his waitresses, a girl with short rust colored hair named Becky, staring rapt at the screen, her arms crossed. Ah. That answers my question.

A recent hire. Becky was the only waitress on duty. He sent the other one home when the lunch rush fizzled out. From the tax papers Flip left behind (all neatly organized and filed in cardboard boxes by year), Flip's dd its absolute best sustained business between 1953 and 1961, and during its peak year (1959), it employed fifteen waitresses. Fucking fifteen! Can you believe that? The most Lincoln ever had at one time was nine.

Of course, if he closed his eyes and called up a vision of Flip's as it was then, it made perfect sense: On any given day, the dining room was packed and so, too, was the parking lot, people eating in their cars, served by pretty carhops on roller skates and listening to ball games on the radio, or Alan Freed's Top 40. Man, it was really a sight to see, and sometimes he got so caught up in how it was now, and had been since the late sixties, that he totally forgot it was once a nonstop party.

He was perfectly aware that he was like every other old man who believes _his_ time period was the best (when he was a kid, the geezers would _not_ shut up about the Roaring Twenties), but objectively, that _was_ a whole lot better than this - one guy making love to a double bacon cheeseburger and watching crap television, wahoo. We're really cooking with grease _now_.

The bell over the door dinged and Alex came in wearing pink scrubs and white tennis shoes. A tall man with glasses and -

Oh, God, it's that queer.

Alex looked around, saw him, and lit up. "Hey!" She came over and sat down, her friend following and sitting next to him. Even on his butt he towered over the room; biggest goddamn homosexual Lincoln had ever seen. Lincoln breathed through his nose, and got a strong whiff of cigarettes; his mouth started to water and inside, he groaned. Over the past two weeks, the cravings weakened and came less frequently - now it was only unbearable when he smelled it.

Damn it.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Alex, bemused.

"Getting lunch," she stated matter-of-factly.

No shit? "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Alex waved her hand. "Nah, I switched with another girl. I work 3 to 11 tonight." She glanced at Tom and nodded to Lincoln. "That's my dad. He owns this dump." Her eyes widened as if at a memory, and she swatted Tom's arm. "He picked me up one time and saw us kidding around. He thought I was cheating on Tim with you."

Tom gagged. "Ugh."

"But I told him you like men."

Lincoln sighed. He loved Alex, but Jesus jumping Christ, she could be embarrassing sometimes.

Apparently, Tom thought so too. "Oh, that's nice," he grumbled. "You tell everything you know, huh?"

"You don't hide it," Alex replied dismissively.

He turned to her. "I also don't blab about it to everyone I meet. That's personal." He lifted his hand. "Do you tell everyone _you_ like men?"

"If the subject comes up."

"When did it come up?"

Alex rolled her eyes. "I just told you, he thought we were having sex."

The construction worker whipped his head around, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. _DId someone say 'sex'?_

Yes, they did; keep it in your pants, buddy.

"You didn't have to give him my entire history. Did you tell him where I live too? And what my favorite food is?"

Lincoln held up a forestalling hand; he was starting to get a headache, and knowing Alex, this would go on for hours if he let it. "Are you going to order food," he asked his daughter, "or are you going to just bother me?"

"Both," Alex said.

Figures.

"Give me a...actually…" she trailed off and scrunched her lips thoughtfully to the side. She drummed her fingers on the counter and hummed the Song of the Indecisive...or was it the Ballad of the Girl Who Couldn't Make Up Her Mind?

Lincoln made a circle with his hand ( _hurry it up, I don't have customers waiting_ ). Alex made a show of stroking her chin and wiggling her lips back and forth with a long hum of consideration. "Come on," Lincoln said, "you worked here for, like, six years. You should know the menu front and back."

"I do," she said, "that's the problem. In case you haven't noticed…" here she patted her stomach and lifted her brows, "...I need to lose weight, and everything you sell is junk."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she had a point - none of the food on the menu was exactly what you'd call _healthy_. Fried chicken, fried fish, fried shrimp, hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, onion rings, fried okra...hell, even their bread was unhealthy. "Best I can do is a sandwich," he offered.

"Nah, bread is really bad," Alex said. "Just..,cook me a hamburger, no cheese, and put it on a plate. No bun."

Lincoln nodded and looked at Tom. "You?"

"Burger and fries," he said. He darted his eyes to Alex then back. "And a chocolate milkshake."

Alex's eyes narrowed and she shot him a dirty look. "You're trying to tempt me, aren't you?"

"No," Tom said, "I just want you to suffer."

Oh, nice. You really know how to pick good friends, honey. I'd hate to see what your enemies look like it. Lincoln jotted Alex and Tom's orders onto a ticket, ripped it from the pad, and laid it in the window. Fred came over, grabbed it, and scanned it. His bristly white hair glistened with sweat and his wrinkled face glowed red with heat.

"No bun for Alex's."

"Because I couldn't see that right here in front of me," Fred said and held up the ticket: _NO BUN ON ALEX'S_ was heavily underlined.

Lincoln glared. "Just do what I said."

"Yes, sir."

While he slapped two burger patties on the grill, Lincoln returned to the register, grabbed a handful of candy from the dish beside the toothpick holder, and threw it into his mouth. The craving was so strong in that moment that he could eat an entire pack of darts, filters included; he chewed the candy instead, relishing the way it crunched between his teeth. Alex brushed behind him, grabbed two cups, and took them to the fountain. "Hey," Lincoln said.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"Employees only."

She rolled her eyes. "If you gave us our Cokes…"

"If you'd be patient."

She shook her head and went to fill the glasses. Lincoln reached for the paper but his fingers closed on empty countertop. Huh? He looked around, and saw it open in front of Tom. The gay stared down at it with a mild look of distaste written across his sharp features. "Never anything good in here," he groused.

"Nope," Lincoln said and sat down.

"You vote?"

Lincoln blew a raspberry.

"Me either. They're all bastards."

"They always have been," Lincoln said. "They say they care, but they don't."

Tom hummed. "Oh, they care. About money and votes."

Alex returned with the Cokes, sat them down, and dropped into her stool. Tom sighed, got up, and asked, "Is there a bathroom?"

"Second door on the left," she said and nodded toward the hall, "past the Street Fighter cabinet."

When Tom was gone, Lincoln sat back and crossed his arms. "He's alright."

"He's a bellyacher," Alex said. "Figured you guys would get along."

Lincoln's face crinkled. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"That you're a bellyaching baby just like him."

"You can leave."

"Not until I finish my food," she said.

Shortly, Tom came back and Fred put the plates in the window. Lincoln made Tom's milkshake, sat it in front of him, and went to check the bathrooms. Someone pissed all over the floor in the men's room, and it was either Tom or the construction worker, since it was clean the last time he came in here.

Maybe he's _not_ alright.

Muttering under his breath, Lincoln grabbed the mop from the janitor's closet across the hall and swabbed the tiles. I better not get AIDS, goddamn gay men are _swimming_ in the stuff. Done, he returned the mop and the bucket to the closet and went back to the register just as Alex whipped a ten from her purse and laid it on the counter. "What's this?" he asked.

"Your pay, my good man," she said jauntily.

With a sneer, Lincoln picked up a pencil and pushed it back across the surface. "Your money's no good here." It was either that or ball his hands, bat his eyelashes like a lame-o, and gush that _family doesn't pay_ _dur de dur._

Instead of fighting him to preserve her own pride, Alex shrugged, grabbed the money, and jammed it back into her purse. "Okay," she piped.

Lincoln shook his head. "What?" she asked.

"Shameless," he said.

"You told me you didn't want my money."

"Well, I changed my mind."

Alex reached into her purse and pulled the ten back out. "Here."

Lincoln waved her off. "I don't want that."

Throwing her head back, Alex groaned. "Oh, my God."

Lincoln cracked a sly smile. He enjoyed picking on Alex almost as much as he enjoyed picking on her mother. More, probably, since Alex just got exasperated whereas Ronnie Anne hit him. Kind of a double standard if you thought about it. If he hit her, people would lose their goddamn minds, but her hitting him? A-okay, com-pod-ray. Women's lib.

Now he regretted not belting Ronnie Anne when men were still allowed to beat women.

"Your money's no good here," Lincoln said, "you know that." He splayed his hands on the counter, leaned over, and presented his cheek.

Alex shook her head then gave him a quick peck. "You drive me up the wall sometimes," she said.

"Now you know how I felt for...oh...how old were you when you moved out?"

"Eighteen," she said, "and I would have done it a _looooooot_ sooner, but the law wouldn't let me."

After she and Tom were gone, Lincoln sat down again and picked up the paper. Sometimes she drove him up the wall too, but he still missed her living at home - without her and Jessy around, the place was so quiet and sedate that he could barely keep himself awake past eight-thirty. Jessy and Alex were both lively girls, and with them together, the house crackled with electricity; never a dull moment, and the second you went off your toes was the second something would happen.

On the bright side, he and Ronnie Anne could have sex anywhere they wanted _and_ they could walk around naked. They tried the latter once, but put their clothes back on after fifteen minutes because it didn't feel right. Call him strange and old fashioned, but hanging out in the nude was for weirdos, hippies, and perverts...and he was none of those things. Especially a goddamn hippie.

Now not only were both of his little girls gone, one was moving to the other side of the country...over a thousand miles away...and he wouldn't be there to help her if she needed it.

 _She's not a little girl, Linc, she's a grown ass woman. Almost twenty-six._

Yeah, well, she was still _his_ little girl and would be even if he lived to see grays in her hair and wrinkles on her face.

Wonder how strange that was for Mom? Lori was fifty-four when she died and fifty-two when she really started getting sick. Looking at your baby and seeing a senior citizen _has_ to boggle your mind. Alex and Jessy were far from over the hill, but if things turned out okay, he'd be there to hand them their first issue of the AARP Bulletin. _Here you go, honey. It has a handy list of restaurants in the back that offer an early bird special. And you do_ not _wanna miss out on that cane sale at Old White Top's - it really pays for itself after the second hip break._

That brought a morbid chuckle up from his throat. On TV, a fat slob in a Hawaiian shirt danced around with jars of Old El Paso salsa while a song Lincoln knew but couldn't place played.

 _Nacho, nacho man_

 _I got to be a nacho man_

More footage from the DNC?

He grabbed a handful of candy and tossed it into his mouth. The dining room was completely empty save for the dusty rays of the sun. He sighed and looked around for Becky - she was sweeping a patch of floor that hadn't been trod upon in weeks. It was pushing two and he'd probably close down by four unless a plane full of hungry customers just happened to crash nearby. "Becky?" His voice echoed, and that grated on his nerves; echoing suggested desolation.

She looked quizzically up. "You can go."

"Okay," she said. She carried the broom and dustpan to the janitor's closet then came to the register, stopping to reach around her back and undo the straps of her waist apron. "How much did you make in tips?" he asked and slipped his reading glasses on.

Plastering her tongue to her upper lip, Becky dug in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. She hurriedly counted them, her lips moving silently, then nodded to herself. "Eight dollars." She puckered her lips as though she just tasted something unpleasant. "And twenty five cents."

"Someone left you a quarter," Lincoln asked knowingly, "didn't they?"

Becky nodded. "Yeah," she sighed, "they did."

Opening the register, Lincoln said, "That used to be a lot of money. Not a _lot,_ but it meant more than it does now."

"I'll just go back in my time machine to when it had more buying power."

At the end of every waitress's shift, Lincoln gave them that day's pay, then covered the tax work later. He usually slipped them a little extra because he remembered working in this dump for slave wages - he was going to give Becky a twenty but subtracted ten for that smart ass remark...then added ten for using the phrase _buying power._ "Here," he said and handed the money. "In exchange for the last six hours of your life."

"Rather have this than that," she said and pocketed the bills. She left, and Lincoln was alone in the dining room - the only other person in the building was Fred; Lincoln sent Dustin home earlier because having him around just wasn't worth it. On _really_ slow days like this, Fred put him to work cleaning the kitchen since he himself had trouble doing it anymore (bad knees getting worse with age). By now, that kitchen was more sterile than a goddamn operating theater. Lincoln would be 100 percent comfortable having a major surgery back there. The county health department probably wouldn't be too happy, but fuck them. _Mr. Loud, your tesctiles were cut open with the same instrument used to chop the onions your customers eat._ Yeah, I washed it, though.

Fred came through the doors and leaned against the counter; he blew a puff of air and shook droplets of sweat from his forehead like a wet dog. "That's it, huh?" he asked.

Taking one last, longing look around the dining room, Lincoln nodded grudgingly. "Looks like it," he said. "Did you shut the grill down?"

"Yeah," Fred nodded.

"Alright, then," Lincoln said and got to his feet, "let's move out."

* * *

Luan sat at the table in the sun washed kitchen of her childhood home and slowly, methodically, clipped coupons from the paper, some for things she and Fred used (like toilet paper and kidney beans), but many for things they didn't (liverwurst, diapers, peanuts...Fred was allergic). She did it not because she was keen on saving money - though she kind of was - she did it because unless her mind was occupied, it would drift back Jessy, and she did not want to think about her daughter right now. If she did, she would be reminded that in just a few short days, Jessy would move to the other side of the country.

When Jessy sat her down, at this very table, and told her, it hit her in the chest like a fist. She winced, missed a breath, and couldn't immediately reply, but she smiled and congratulated her anyway, fighting back sudden and inexplicable tears as she did so.

She was genuinely happy for her and Mark, and excited that they were going to try and have a baby, but the thought of Jessy being so far away turned her stomach. It was bad enough that Jessy was distant in heart, but now she would be distant in body, too.

Pain pinched Luan's chest and the heavy, black handled scissors trembled in her hand. She stopped, took a deep breath, and blinked away a stray tear.

Before she was released from prison eleven years ago, she suspected that it was too late to build a strong bond with her daughter, but she had hope, hope that she could take Jessy back from Lincoln and salvage what she could of their relationship. It was only natural that once she was free, Jessy would live with her. Things would be awkward at first, but it would get easier over time. With every visit, however, she saw just how close Jessy was with Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and Alex. Afterwards, lying in bed and staring up at the bottom of the bunk above her, she would struggle against the eviscerating feeling that for better or worse... _they_ were her family. She was loved, happy, and stable, and she, Luan, could only ruin that, like a hurricane sweeping into Jessy's life and destroying everything she held dear.

She was not surprised that Jessy wanted to stay with Lincoln, but she wasn't happy, and still wasn't even now, long after Jessy grew up and moved out. Luan missed out on being a mother and even though she wrestled with it every day, she was coming to believe that she would never get over it, like a child who misses out on the love of its mother then grows up inherently and irreparably broken. There was a hole in her heart and no matter what she did, it would always abide.

At least Jessy lived close by; she could see her and hug her and have coffee with her. Their meetings always felt hollow to Luan, but she cherished them nevertheless.

Now she wouldn't even have those. Jessy was moving away and somewhere along the way, what little toe hold Luan had gained in her heart would slip. Lincoln was enshrined there, Ronnie Anne and Alex too, but she was not; her footing was shaky and the ledge beneath narrow, precarious. One wrong move and she would fall.

She told herself that she was being unfair to Jessy by assuming this, but she couldn't help it. Perhaps it was her own shame and guilt breeding paranoia the way stagnant water breeds mosquitoes, or maybe it was the truth...Jessy was a good girl, kind, loving, and compassionate, but Luan just didn't mean the same to her that Lincoln and Ronnie Anne did. How could she? And how could she ever expect Jessy to shoehorn her into her heart? She was Jessy's mother in name alone, and that was all there was to it.

Setting the scissors down with a clunk, she took a deep breath and braced her hands on the table, a strand of graying hair swishing across her face. She didn't want Jessy to go, but what right did she have to even voice her feelings?

She had no choice but to accept this and to support her daughter as best she could. She was a pauper with little to give, and Jessy a queen with all the riches in the world, but she would give everything she had.

Because no matter what she meant to Jessy, or how Jessy saw her, Luan loved her.

And always would.

* * *

Bobby Jr. crossed his legs, propped his elbow on the arm of the couch, and rested his chin in his unturned palm, his index finger tapping the side of his face. On TV, Mac Tonight, McDonald's crescent moon headed, sunglasses wearing mascot from the eighties sat behind a piano soaring through an LSD fueled dreamscape and banged the keys like Jerry Lee Lewis on meth. These commercials were big about ten years ago but dropped off the air entirely one day; Bobby was kind of shocked (it looked like ol' Mac was gonna take Ronald's job), but not upset - dude was a fucking creep. _I'm da moon, hunny, and Imma shine on_ you _tonight._

Stay away from me and my family.

Bobby didn't know if he was singing the same song he used to, though, because all he could hear was -

 _I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT!_

 _SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT!_

Bobby massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger and grimaced at the hot pain above his left eye. Though it couldn't be possible, it sounded like it was getting louder - the walls trembled, picture frames danced, and the windows rattled in their frames. Next to him, Val plugged his ears and scowled at the television screen.

 _IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER, YOU GOTTA GET WITH MY FRIENDS_

 _MAKE IT LAST FOREVER, FRIENDSHIP NEVER ENDS_

It was Friday night and Lola was at the studio laying down tracks for her new album, leaving Bobby alone with the kids. Normally, she took Stephy with her, but today she elected not to, since Stephy got too fidgety and wound up wandering around like a kid in a candy store. The last time she tagged along, she barged into the middle of a recording session by some weirdos called The Butthole Surfers and ruined a whole take. Stephy loved going to work with her mother, but she didn't mind staying home and listening to her new Spice Girls CD.

Heh.

She _really_ didn't mind that.

 _SO HERE'S A STORY A TO Z, YOU WANNA GET WITH ME, YOU GOTTA LISTEN CAREFULLY_

 _WE GOT EM IN THE PLACE WHO LIKES IT IN YOUR FACE_

*Forced laugh*

Stephy had always been fond of music - she was surrounded by it her entire life, wasn't she? - and she heard the occasional song on the radio that she liked, but nothing like this Spice Girls shit. Jesus. They were driving home from dinner in Hollywood a few weeks ago when it came on the radio, and Stephy, talking a mile a minute like she always did, went _silent_. He looked into the rearview mirror, expecting her to be choking or something, and she sat stock still listening, her eyes wide and her jaw slack - she looked like a woman in the middle of a religious experience. And that's exactly what she was - one day a normal little girl, Stephanie Nicole Santiago was now a Spice zealot who proudly thumped the jewel case of _Spice_ and endlessly prattled the praises of Scary, Sporty, Baby, Ginger, and Posh - sounded like the ghosts in a Pac-Man game, didn't they? Ever since he and Lola bought her that album, she'd blast it at random times - like five in the morning - and would replay the same song again and again and again and again.

 _SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND WIND IT ALL AROUND_

 _SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND WIND IT ALL AROUND_

 _SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND WIND IT ALL AROUND_

He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. He'd already gone in there twice, and God help him, he was starting to lose his temper. She knew she wasn't supposed to have her music that loud - she was ten years old, goddamn it, and not stupid.

The song faded, and for a moment, blessed silence fell over the house. Val tentatively removed his fingers from his ears, then jammed them back in when it started again, a concussive blast of British pop like a skull cracking explosion.

 _YO, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANT_

 _SO, TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT_

Alright, that's enough. He got to his feet and stalked into the hall, his hands fisting and his eye twitching. At her door, he forced himself to take a series of deep breaths before turning the knob. The music crashed over him in a sonic wave, and his cheeks rippled under its assault; dressed in pink leggins and a white floral top, her blonde hair back in a tight braid, Stephy jumped on the her bed, up and down, up and down. The blanket and pillow lie in a heap on the floor, and the mattress creaked sickeningly every time she landed. Posters of the Spice Girls - group shots, each member individually, the band's name, each letter bearing a different design (leopard print, Union Jack, etc) covered the walls, and the TV on the dresser played soundlessly. _All That,_ it looked like, the sketch where the girl sits on her bed and yells psychotically about things - Stephy thought that was the funniest thing in the world.

She saw him and her grin widened. "Hi!" she shouted over the music. Bobby tracked her with his eyes: Up, down, up, down, up, down. Just watching her was making him dizzy.

 _I WANNA. I WANNA, I WANNA_

 _I WANNA REALLY. REALLY, REALLY ZIGAZIG AH!_

"Turn it down," Bobby yelled, but couldn't hear himself and wasn't sure if he'd actually spoken or not. Huh, is this what being deaf is like?

Stephy jumped, tucked her legs under her, and landed on the bed in a cannonball. Snapping, Bobby strode over to the stereo - pink and covered with stickers - and jabbed the OFF button. After the blaring music, the sudden silence was almost as deafening - Bobby's ears rang and the roar of blood in his temples reminded him of the surf crashing against the shore at Big Sur. Stephy slumped her shoulders in disappointment. "Awww," she said.

"I've told you a thousand times," Bobby said with strained patience, "not to play the radio that loud."

"But -"

Bobby held up his hand. "Next time I'm taking it away."

Stephy, being Stephy, didn't listen. "But, Daddy," she said and jumped to her feet. "The Spice Girls are the coolest thing ever." She grabbed his hand, tilted her head back, and flashed a toothy smile so wide it looked painful. "They're even cooler than _meeee_ ," she intoned, then began to bounce excitedly.

"That's fine," Bobby said, "but you're gonna bring down the house. I'd like to not sleep in a little pile of rubble tonight. Okay?"

She giggled. "That won't happen. The Spice Girls can only make the house _better."_

"I disagree, but okay. Please keep the music down. And no more jumping on the bed."

"Okay!" She sank onto the mattress and looked at the television. "I'll just watch a little TV." She stiffened her back and folded her hands innocently in her lap. She threw her head back and let out a contrived laugh. "Oh, Amanda Bynes, you're so funny."

Bobby didn't like the sound of it. Sound like…

...she was up to something.

"I'm being serious, Stephanie," he said soberly, "I will take the CD away."

A sly smirk tugged at the corner of Stephy's lips and her eyes twinkled with mischief. Alright, then. Bobby went back to the CD player, and Stephy exploded to her feet. "Noooooo!" she wailed dramatically. "Not my Spice Girls! Please, Daddy, I promise I won't! I'll play it at a whisper, you'll never knooooow!"

Bobby sucked his lips into his mouth to hide his smile. Stephy was a nut, a drama queen, and a ball of self-feeding energy that never dimmed - it ran him ragged sometimes, but he loved it. Lola, on the other hand, thought she needed a higher dosage of Ritalin. Maybe she did, but Bobby wasn't keen on doping her up _too_ much. Her ADHD was manageable now, if difficult, and for him, that was good enough; she might be a handful, but better that than a comatose zombie drooling down the front of her shirt. Sandy, his co-star on _The Brash and the Bountiful,_ was one of those anti-drug liberals who believe in herbal treatments and shit, and when he brought Stephy's ADHD up one day, she nearly went into hysterics. _Oh, God, no, Bobby, no, don't have her on that stuff. It's dangerous. Try green tea instead._ Bobby rolled his eyes at her New Age bullshit, but she cited all these statistics about Ritalin messing kids up - weakening their hearts - and the authority in her voice gave him pause. Admittedly, he wasn't the smartest, and when someone sounded like they knew what they were talking about, he listened. He brought his concerns to Lola, who _was_ smart, and she dismissed them. _Ritalin has been fully vetted by the FDA,_ she said in a tone that ended the matter. _Those statistics are grossly inflated and refer to children and teens who abuse it. Stephy doesn't abuse it._

No, she didn't; he and Lola kept the Ritalin in a locked drawer in Lola's office. Stephy couldn't get to it with a jackhammer.

He put his full trust in Lola, but that didn't mean his worries were fully assaused. When she first suggested they ask the doctor to up her dose, he flat out refused, leading to an argument. Stephy was fine as she was - too hyper, but you know what? He was hyper as a kid too and _his_ parents didn't pump him full of dope. Lola saw it differently, however, and so far, they hadn't come eye to eye. He did, however, succeed in fighting her to a draw - she hadn't brought it up in weeks, though he could sense it lurking just below the surface. Sooner rather than later, it would rear its ugly head.

Stephy grabbed his wrist and bounced, her big brown eyes filled with pleading. "I swear!"

With a sigh, Bobby looked indecisively at the CD player, then into his daughter's upturned face. He didn't relish being a disciplinarian with her (and Val too, for that matter), but over the past couple years, he'd been working on not being a pushover either. Kids, as Lola said, need discipline, not a glorified yes man masquerading as a father. She called him that once, and it stung so bad he called her a bitch in return. Even now, he smarted from it, but, as much as he hated to admit it, she was right.

Stephy pouted.

Sigh.

"This is your last chance," he warned. "Do it again, and the CD goes away."

"I won't," Stephy swore, "promise."

Why did Bobby feel like he was making a deal with the devil? "Fine," he sighed. He bent, kissed Stephy's cheek, then went back to the living room, where Val had moved onto quietly playing with Ninja Turtle action figures on the floor.

No sooner had Bobby's butt touched the cushion -

 _YO, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY, REALLY WANT_

 _SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY, REALLY WANT!_

A bomb blast of fury detonated in the center of Bobby's chest and spread through his body, turning his insides to cinders and his heating his brown flesh bright red.

Val slapped his hands to his ears and tucked his chin against his neck. "Make her stop! I _hate_ the Spice Girls!"

"Me too," Bobby said through his teeth. He got up, stormed down the hall, and threw the door open. Stephy jumped on her bed with a mocking smile, and didn't stop when he ripped the CD out of the player, being careful to not break it...because he really, really fucking wanted to. "Gone," he said. Stephy jumped faster, higher, and let out a giggling _nooooo_ that made Bobby wince. He loved his daughter and spoiled her sometimes, but he was getting _really_ sick of this not listening shit. He'd tell her to do something and she'd look him dead in the eyes, smile slyly...then do the complete opposite.

Like she was _daring_ him to lay down the law.

"I told you not to blast your music," he trembled. His heart slammed and his skin burned with fever. He'd been called a spic before, spat on, dragged out of his car and beaten because of his race, kids in school called him names, the producers of _The Brash and the Bountiful_ threatened to sue him _and his family_ into the streets - his life, like any normal person's, was filled with slights, slanders, and degridations...but somehow, nothing was more insulting than the self-satisfied little grin his daughter wore now.

"I said I won't promise," she said.

"Yeah?" Bobby asked. "Well, I promise you're grounded."

Stephy came to a crashing halt. "What?"

Without replying, Bobby turned, grabbed the TV from the dresser, and yanked the cord from the way.

"Wait, no…"

Bobby fixed her with a severe expression. "You don't listen, you get grounded. End of story." He started toward the door, and Stephy jumped onto the floor.

"That's not fair!" she cried indignantly.

"Yes it is," Bobby said.

" _NO IT'S NOT!"_

And here it was, another one of her famous temper tantrums. She balled her fists and stomped the floor with one foot, her face screwing up in flushed mask of umbrage and her eyes flooding with tears. " _I WANT MY CD!"_

"I want you to listen to me when I tell you something," Bobby shot back, "did I get what I want? No? Neither do you."

Before she could detain him anymore, he turned and left the room, wincing when Stephy slammed the door behind him so hard it shook in its frame. Anger burst in him and he _almost_ went back in there, but decided not to. He was shaking and on edge; God only knows he could too easily say or do the wrong thing. Instead, he carried the CD and the TV to his and Lola's bedroom and sat them on the bed. She still had the radio; he'd be nice and let her keep it, but one wrong move and she'd lose that too.

Later, when Lola came home, he told her about it, and she rolled her eyes. "The meltdowns are symptomatic of something else. Probably bipolar disorder. Like the doctor said. We _need_ to increase her medication. For her own good."

Bobby sighed.

Maybe she was right and he was wrong. She was the most intelligent woman he had ever met and he was a dumb spic from a podunk town.

"I don't know," he sighed. "I just...I need to think."

And think he did, but in the end, he wound up agreeing with Lola.

And Stephy's medication was increased.

* * *

Lincoln Loud wrapped a glass in the sports section of the _Royal County Republican_ and sat it in the box with the others.

He was standing at the kitchen counter of Jessy and Mark's apartment, late summer sunlight streaming through the window of the sink and making warm, golden bars on the linoleum floor. Jessy sat at the table with Blake, who bent over a sheet of construction paper coloring a farewell card for his aunt and uncle. Jessy watched him work with a wistful smile, her fingers absently threading through his bristly brown hair. In the living room, Tim and Mark each grabbed one end of the couch and lifted, their knees bending and grunts bursting from their throats. Lincoln turned to watch, and shook his head at their poor posture. With your back, Mark, not your knees. Or was that other way around? Hm, come to think of it, he didn't know. Not that it mattered; he pretended he hurt his leg at work so he didn't have to carry anything too heavy. Hey, he did his heavy lifting in Vietnam.

"Slow," Tim said. He (stupidly) elected to hold the side facing Mark - the side that necessitated him backing up. Mark went right to the other one, a smart move on his part.

Straining and shaking, they ponderously carried it out the door and down the stairs. Lincoln picked up the box and followed. Ronnie Anne swept the wood floor with a broom and Alex, unseen but _not_ unheard, presumably cleaned the bathroom, screeching at the top of her lungs in either agony or song, Lincoln couldn't tell which. Jessy, being Jessy, insisted on the apartment being cleaned before she and Mark left ( _It wouldn't be fair to Mrs. so-and-so if we didn't)_ , and Lincoln was proud of her...until Ronnie Anne tasked him with scrubbing baseboards, then he wished she still lived at home so he could ground her for a week. _Screw Mrs. so-and-so._ He half-assed it, and though Ronnie Anne played nitpicker at first, she quickly got tired of it herself and let him get away with a quick wipe.

At the threshold, he shifted the box, got a better grip, and went down the narrow interior stairway, being damn careful to mind the black runner lest it trip him (again). At the bottom, the door stood open and warm September wind rolled in like the caress of a ghost trying to coax him into sleeping with it. _I promise_ , _Linc, I'll be real gentle...I'll only put the head of it in._ The moving truck sat on the other side of the gravel parking lot, its nose pressed against a stockade fence separating Mrs. so-and-so's yard from the next over and its roll top door open. Mark and Tim slid the sofa in and jumped off the tailgate.

Walking to the truck, he sat the box on the tailgate and shoved it in. Mark and Tim stood panting and slumped on either side, their cheeks red and their foreheads slick with sweat. Lincoln reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, realized he didn't have any because he didn't smoke anymore, and crossed his arms. The cravings were gone for the most part, but the mechanical habits that went along with smoking were harder to crack: Sometimes he held a pencil between his fingers like a dart, and after dinner every night, he got up and started for the back door, but caught himself. _Where ya goin', Linc? To smoke a cig on the back porch?_

...Nooo.

"Not much left," he commented and stared up at the house. He didn't know what the architectural style was called, but it was nice; once upon a time, he saw houses like that all the time, the same way he saw lots of cars from the forties on the road. Over time, new makes and new styles came along and supplanted the old. Circle of life, like in that _Lion King_ movie Blake liked so much.

"The kitchen table's the last the big thing, right?" Tim asked Mark.

Mark thought for a moment. "It should be, yes. The refrigerator isn't ours."

As soon as the truck was packed, he and Jessy were driving to the Franklin Avenue house to see Luan before leaving for Washington. They were renting a house in Bellevue, a fashionable bedroom community of Seattle on the east shore of Lake Washington. Microsoft HQ was located in nearby Redmond, and from what Jessy said, the commute was half an hour. That might not be much, but Lincoln's commute had always been five minutes, so the idea of taking that long just to get to work boggled his mind. Then again, didn't he once commute halfway across the globe for work?

Sitting on the tailgate, Tim swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and drew a deep breath. "You look tired," Lincoln commented and clapped the boy on the back.

"A little," Tim allowed.

Lincoln cocked his brow. "Come on, don't tell me your dad doesn't work you ten times harder at the garage. I know he does."

"He does," Tim agreed, "he's a tyrant."

Mark crossed his arms and planted his feet wide apart. "Your father _is_ kind of a tyrant. " He looked down at his feet, and shuffled them so that they were perfectly aligned. "My boss at the computer shop is a tyrant too. Maybe it's working with external hardware. Engine components, motherboards...though, by that logic, Hitler would have been the German army's best mechanical engineer."

"I work with food," Lincoln said, "and I'm anything but a tyrant, so maybe. I dunno. Maybe working with your hands makes you a dick."

Tim glanced at Lincoln and squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun; a puff of warm wind stirred his lank brown hair. "Not a tyrant? That's not what Alex says."

Lincoln sniffed. "Alex says a lot of things that aren't true."

"Well, Jessy says it too," Mark put in.

"Alex told me you used to walk around the house with a red armband on."

"Screaming about the Vietnamese."

Tim shot his cousin a dirty look, and a laugh was shocked from Lincoln's throat. _That's not something you joke about,_ he didn't see Tim mouth. Mark furrowed his brows in confusion and tilted his head as he tried to figure out what he said wrong. Lincoln wiped a tear from his eye. Screaming about the Vietnamese. "You're a dumbass," he chuckled. "I'm the only reason you aren't eating rice and wearing a stupid pointy hat right now."

"I like rice," Mark said.

"In Vietnam, that's _all_ they eat. That and American POWs."

"They have to have more than _that,"_ Tim said.

"Bugs," Lincoln said, "they eat bugs too."

The last thing to go was the table; Tim and Mark carried it out between them while Alex, Ronnie Anne, Jessy, and Blake followed, the latter dragging a kitchen chair behind him. Jessy clutched the card he made her in her hand: A drawing of her and Mark driving away in the moving truck with up U-shaped smiles. HAV FUN N WASHINTON it said. She teared up when he presented it to her and hugged him fiercely. At the door, Jessy paused, and Lincoln stopped beside her. "I'm going to miss this place," she said with a nostalgic sigh. She cast a slow look around, as if committing every detail to memory. The corners of her mouth turned downward in a tight frown, and Lincoln laid his hand on her shoulder. He knew this moment was coming for over a month and thought he was at peace with the inevitably of her leaving, but now that it was here, a lump of emotion filled his throat and hot tears threatened to overwhelm him.

Outside, Tim and Mark put the table into the back of the truck, and Mark climbed onto the tailgate to pull down the door. Jessy and Lincoln joined Alex, Blake, and Ronnie Anne, who stood in a group by the door. Mark got into the truck and backed it out of the spot, then Tim pulled Jessy's car forward until it was almost kissing the tailgate. He got out and hooked it to the truck's hitch, then nodded to himself.

It was time.

Ronnie Anne hugged Jessy tightly and stroked her hair. "Be safe and call me as soon as you get there," she said.

"I will," Jessy said.

Next was Blake - he threw his arms around her leg and squeezed. "Love you," he said lightly.

"I love you too."

Alex came over and took a deep, fortifying breath, like a woman preparing to reluctantly do something that she knows will hurt. "Guess...this is it," she said. Her brown eyes shimmered with unshed tears and she sucked her lips into her mouth as if to keep from crying. Jessy had always been such a vital part of her life that she never once stopped to consider the possibility of not having her. She took her for granted, the way people take their limbs for granted, now she was losing her arm, and a tight band of anxiety closed around her chest.

A long time ago, she vowed to always protect and love her little sister. She couldn't do that from across the country, and that realization stuck in her guts like a knife.

"Yeah," Jessy said and swallowed thickly.

Alex hugged her, and Jessy hugged her back. "I'll miss you," Alex said ardently. She gripped Jessy as tightly as she could and briefly considered not letting go. _You're not going anywhere, missy. Back in the apartment._

"I'll miss you too. Bunny."

Alex half laughed/half sobbed.

Lincoln was last. He held her in his arms and rocked her back and forth, memories washing over him and pushing him uncomfortably close to the edge. It felt like a piece of him was leaving, and as long as it was gone, he would never be whole. Moving on is the most natural thing a person can do, but that knowledge didn't make it any less painful. "Be safe out there," he said and pecked her forehead.

"I will," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He released her and she stepped back, tears dribbling down her cheeks.

Then, she and Mark got into the truck and drove out of their lives.

* * *

Late evening gloom lay across the land like black velvet, and the streetlamps up and down Franklin Avenue winked on one by one, puddles of harsh orange light pooling on the sidewalk. A lawnmower whined in the distance, and the distant laughter of children on the next street over seasoned the air. Jessy walked through the front door and Luan, hugging herself tightly as if against a chill, followed, her steps slow and reluctant. The longer she tarried, the longer Jessy would remain in her life.

On the porch, Jessy looked around, taking in the front yard and the empty street bordering it, and frowned slightly. "I kind of don't want to go now." She forced a humorless laugh and nervously played with her hair.

"I don't want you to go either," Luan said. Her voice was feeble and forceless. She'd been on the verge of breaking down since Jessy and Mark showed up an hour ago, and sitting at the kitchen table, holding her daughter's hand, only pushed her closer. She tried, and failed, to tell Jessy all of the fears, worries, and regrets locked in her breast...and that she couldn't, she decided, was for the best. That dark weight was hers and hers alone to bear; burdening Jessy with it would be cruel and unfair. She was leaving to start a new life, and you didn't have to look very hard to find the excitement in her eyes. Maybe what Luan had to say _needed_ to be said, but she couldn't bring herself to cast a pall over her daughter's happiness...to send her on her journey with the gnawing worry that her _Mom thinks I don't love her_.

Keeping it inside might be the wrong thing for her, but it was the right thing for Jessy.

Of that she was absolutely certain.

At the curb, Mark leaned against the flank of the moving truck with his arms crossed, clad in jeans and a T-shirt. He was a millionaire, Luan reflected, one of the people whom, thirty years ago, she was sworn to fight against...but he didn't look like it. And, she thought, he didn't think like it either. At least not yet. Wealth, fame, and love are things one needs time to adjust to. Maybe he would change eventually, but for now, he was the same boy he'd always been, and Luan hoped he stayed that way.

Her eyes went to Fred, who stood in front of Mark; she couldn't hear their conversation, but she imagined it was only marginally more superficial than the ones she had with Jessy. At least they felt superficial, but given their lack of a connection forged in fire, almost everything did.

Jessy turned, and the frown on Luan's lips deepened. She was so achingly beautiful and perfect, and the knowledge that she wouldn't have her anymore in any capacity gutted her.

They say if you love something, let it go, and the time had come for her to let her daughter go.

She unfolded her arms and they embraced, Luan rocking her from side to side and rubbing a slow, affectionate circle between her shoulder blades. "I love you," Luan whispered, for if she spoke any louder, the dam would break and all of her tears, and her misery, would spill forth and take Jessy farther away than a moving van ever could.

"I love you too, Mom," Jessy said, and though deep down Luan dismissed that title - Mom - as something she was not worthy of, and as empty, meaningless tribute she had not earned, she smiled.

Holding Jessy at arm's length, Luan scanned her face, committing every detail to memory like a squirrel storing nuts for the long winter ahead. "Be safe," she said and hugged her one last time. "Make me lots of grandbabies."

Jessy laughed. "I can't promise _lots_ , but I can promise at least one."

"Only lots will do," Luan said.

Arm in arm, they went down the stairs and crossed the lawn. Mark stood up straight and slipped his hands into his pockets, and Fred, glancing at Luan, took a step back. "Ready?" Mark asked.

No, Luan thought, she wasn't, but she hadn't been ready for anything in a very long time.

"Yep," Jessy chirruped, "when you are."

For the second time that day, Jessy and Mark climbed into the truck and drove away. Luan stood at the curb and watched the taillights fading into the twilight, loss sweeping through her like bitter December wind. She folded her arms over her chest and Fred slipped one arm around her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Luan sniffed wetly. "No," she moaned, and started to cry. "I'm not."

Fred took her in his arms and held her as her frame shook with the power of her sobs. It was all he could do, and if you asked Luan, it was more than she deserved.

Worthy or not, she was endlessly grateful, and she buried her face in his broad chest. Night fell around them, but neither made any move to go inside for a long time.


	184. January 1997

Lincoln Loud hated winter...not because the cold bothered him (he was used to it at this point), but because it bothered _other_ people. See, when it's sub zero outside, everyone has a way of staying indoors, which affected his bottom line. Can't sell food to someone when they're hunkered under a blanket in their living room. Theoretically, he could deliver (a concept he'd considered and rejected a number of times in the past), but that's a pain in the ass. What good would it do anyway? Hardly no one ate here, he doubted they'd suddenly develop an appetite for Flip's if he started delivering. But maybe…

That's the train of thought he was following on the morning of January 20. Ice crusted the front windows and the parking lot, dotted here and there by frozen clumps of snow, stood empty save for his car, Fred's truck, and Becky's battered Honda; the dining room was completely deserted, and the TV played unwatched - Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg stood at a podium and faced Vice President Al Gore, reading something Lincoln couldn't hear. Inauguration Day, wahoo, same song and dance it would have been had Dole or Peroit won. At the very least, Lincoln was used to Clinton the way he was the cold. Didn't like him, but eh, he could live with him. With a new guy, you gotta go through the familiarization process; every last name sounded strange prefixed by _president_ until you heard it a few times, and every face looked wrong in the Oval Office at first. Over time - as with everything - you settled into it and grew to accept it even if you didn't like the guy. Clinton wasn't terrible - hell, he was _far_ better than the last Democrat, Jimmy "By Golly Gosh, I Farm Peanuts" Carter. That guy was a fucking mess. Lincoln bet he had a weak handshake too.

Like every day, Lincoln was sitting by the register with the paper folded in front of him. Today, instead of worrying over the crossword puzzle, he read the funnies, ingesting one strip at a time like a man savoring a favorite meal. He liked the comics enough, but he lingered only because if he blew through them like a drunken sailor blowing through his money on shore leave, he'd have nothing to do.

Should he offer delivery? People _might_ go for it. Look at it this way: They were getting lazier and lazier. Twenty years ago, going to a restaurant, sitting down, and taking your time was...normal. You didn't think twice about it. Now people didn't even want to get out of their cars - they drove up to windows to get their microwave shit burgers like feeding time at the zoo. What's the next logical step?

Answer: Not even wanting to get off their couch. McDonald's didn't deliver, Taco Bell didn't deliver - none of those assholes delivered. If he started, he'd have a leg up on the competition, and all those layabouts would come crawling.

Well...they wouldn't _actually_ because crawling takes too much effort, but you get the idea.

Across the dining room, Becky ran a feather duster over the wall and the metal brackets holding the TV up. Bill Clinton beamed as some asshole in a black robe swore him in, chest puffed out, hand raised, other hand on a Bible held by Hillary doing her best Jackie O ripoff in a pink overcoat. Chesla, their daughter, stood next to her mother, right in Lincoln's crosshairs, but he spared her. He didn't believe in making fun of someone's child, and the way Saturday Night Live and everyone else mocked her for being ugly kind of pissed him off. There's a line you don't cross, America, and you sauntered over it like Mick Jagger at a Rolling Stones concert. Fuck you.

Of course, unlike a lot of people, Lincoln had empathy. He could put himself in someone else's shoes, and when he imagined it was him up there (being a Democratic dumbass) and Alex or Jessy being called names, his stomach clutched like someone punched it. The President might be one thing or another, but leave his kid out of it, huh?

He pushed the paper aside, propped his elbows on the table, and hooked his thumb under his chin. A car pulled into the parking lot and his heart blasted in excitement...only to sink when it pulled a U-turn and left again. _There's a fee for using my parking lot as a turnaround, asshole._ He sighed and glanced at the screen, where Clinton basked in the adoration of a million idiots.

" _My fellow citizens, at this last Presidential Inauguration of the 20th century, let us lift our eyes toward the challenges that await us in the next century. It is our great good fortune that time and chance have put us not only at the edge of a new century, in a new millennium, but on the edge of a bright new prospect in human affairs, a moment that will define our course and our character for decades to comes. We must keep our old democracy forever young. Guided by the ancient vision of a promised land, let us set our sights upon a land of new promise."_

The crowd went wide and Lincoln hummed dismissively. Politicians always said such inspiring and promising things...then turned around, dropped their pants, and showed us their ass. Every president since Eisenhower said things Lincoln found himself nodding in agreement with, but they didn't mean them, they were just a shiny distraction so the public didn't see what the left hand was doing. That's why he hated politics, and that's why he hated politicians. In fact, he respected the Vietcong more than he did Bill Clinton - at least they had the decency to let you know where you stood with them instead of hiding behind pretty words and rousing lies. He'd rather someone shove bamboo under his fingernails and laugh in his face than pat him on the back...then stab him in it.

Becky ran the duster over the screen. The picture quality had been degrading for years, and jagged white lines flickered across the screen. If you stood close enough, you could hear the speakers buzz. It was probably going to go any day now.

He'd keep it under the counter with his and Ernie's radio. For old times' sake.

" _Now, for the third time, a new century is upon us and another time to choose. We began the 19th century with a choice: to spread our Nation from coast to coast. We began the 20th century with a choice: to harness the industrial revolution to our values of free enterprise, conservation, and human decency. Those choices made all the difference. At the dawn of the 21st century, a free people must now choose to shape the forces of the information age and the global society, to unleash the limitless potential of all our people, and yes, to form a more perfect Union."_

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you. Lincoln sat back and slapped his hands on the counter. Well, it's barely ten and the place is a wasteland. Three customers (no, wait, five) in two hours and next to nothing in the till.

Maybe if I did delivery, though…

Hmmm. Who would be the delivery boy, though? It sure as hell wasn't going to be him. Becky? He studied her car through the window - thing looked like it was being held together by duct tape, Band-Aids, and well wishes. She'd break down on her first run and have to hoof it - the food would be cold by the time it got to where it was going, the customer would reveal himself to be a big time food critic, he'd write a scathing review of Flip's, and Lincoln would be out on his ass by the 4th of July. _Hey, Uncle Sam, still need someone to kill Asians?_

 _Sorry, son, we're not killing Asians anymore. Now...it's Arabs._

Oh, never mind, then; Arabs are _totally_ different. I wouldn't even know where to start. Aim for the turban?

Where was he? Oh, yeah, Becky ruining him because her lemon couldn't make it two miles down the street. Well...Fred could do it.

No, no, Dustin the dishwasher. Perfect. He never has much to do anyway, send _him_ out in the cold. Lincoln would probably have to bump his pay up a little bit in exchange for adding an extra duty to his job description, but eh, he wasn't worried about money - he wasn't rich but he had enough to keep this shitshow on the road for at least a _few_ more years. He'd sell it right now, but he could already hear Flip when they met again on the other side. _So...ya sold the restaurant I gave you._

 _Well, Flip, you said you didn't care what I did with -_

 _I was being polite, Loud. That place meant everything to me. And you sold it. Nice work. Didja piss on my grave too?_

No, but now I wish I did, you old bastard.

You know, maybe he could hire Luan back. She and Fred were doing well with money (the house was already paid for, and what Mom left them would probably stretch forever) and she volunteered at the library during the week. If he laid it on real thick _("I really need your help, sis...please, for your little brother")_ he could lure her away...then underpay the fuck out of her. Hahahahahaha. _What? You're a millionaire. Greedy much? What happened to fuck capitalism? Huh?_

She sold out.

What a shame.

Not him, though. He was the same grumpy bastard he'd been since Charlie made him eat fly babies and kicked him into the dirt. Older, wiser, more successful and even more handsome, perhaps, but deep down, no different than he was in '68. No different than he was...actually, he was a lot different before he went into the army: Soft, weak, sheltered, a real lame-o. Then he grew some hair on his chest and came out an American hero, it was really a helluva transformation. They say the army shapes you up, and they're sure as hell right. Weak? Join the army. Got an arm you wanna get rid of? Join the army. Wanna wake up from nightmares covered in cold sweat and panting? Army. Wanna be bossed around by Methuselah's grandfather for eight weeks in basic? Army.

Another car pulled into the parking lot...and Lincoln's heart leapt because holy God, it's not leaving. "Look alive, people," he called, and Becky looked up at him from the soda fountain, "we got us a customer."

He rubbed his hands crisply together and licked his chops like a hungry dog. Now to overcharge the SOB.

* * *

"I know it hurts, honey, but he's in a better place."

Alex Underwood, arms crossed over the breakroom table, blew a puff of air that rustled her bangs. She wore her hair in a ponytail at work, but long strands inevitably worked their way loose and hung in her face like spider silk. Normally, she stopped to fix it a dozen times throughout the day, but right now she didn't care - she was sad, angry, and hurt all at once. "I guess," she said even though she didn't believe in A Better Place (trademark symbol).

Across from her, Harvey Winslow favored her with a sad frown, his faded blue eyes staring out from under a permed mane of thick chestnut hair and his leathery, beginning-to-wrinkle face set in a soft expression of motherly concern. He sat ramrod straight with his chest thrust out to give the illusion he had breasts; he wore maroon scrubs and a silver chain around his delicate throat at the end of which danged a tiny cross. A recent hire, Harvey was from Mississippi and put Alex in mind of every sweet, genteel old southern woman she'd ever seen in the movies - prim, priggish, saccharine, ostentatious, and _very_ flamboyant. Alex thought he _was_ a woman until she noticed his Adam's apple.

Alex flicked her eyes to her folded arms and breathed a deep, wet sigh. Working with old people was, from what Jessy said, a lot like working with kids. You see them everyday, you talk to them, you laugh with them, you grow _attached_ to them...then one day they move on, the kids to another class and the old people to the grave. In Alex's almost five years taking care of the elderly, she became close with dozens of residents, only to watch many of them die, some peaceful and in their sleep, others shaking, crying, and gasping for breath. People like Tom treated the residents as though they were human cattle, just another task to carry out before clocking off at the end of the day, but they meant something to her, even the mean, grumpy ones. Standing at their bedside as they died never got any easier no matter how many times she did it, and even though she knew it would possibly lead to her getting hurt, she still allowed them into her heart.

The latest blow happened that morning; she came in to the news that her buddy Mr. Garcia died the night before. A thin, bald man with a pencil line mustache who always wore cardigans like Mr. Rogers, he reminded her so much of her own grandfather it was uncanny. Like Grandpa, Mr. Garcia told corny jokes, was fully of great stories, and taught her things - like how to play chess. He _loved_ chess, and at least once a shift he'd talk her into sneaking off to the dayroom and playing a game with him. He took it easy on her until she got offended and asked him to do his best...two games later she begged him to put the kid gloves back on. _I knew you were good, but wow. You want that last one in three moves. I-I didn't even know that was possible._ He used to have her smuggle cookies in for him, and in return he'd shove a five dollar bill in her face even though she told him time and again she didn't want his money. _Here,_ he'd say and shake it, _take it. It's a lotta dough. I don't need it._ One time she took it just to shut him up, then slipped it back into his nightstand before leaving at the end of the day. The next morning, she found him waiting for her, his arms sternly crossed and his foot tapping. If I had a dollar for every time Dad did that, I'd be rich.

 _You forgot something,_ he said and whipped that damn bill out.

Alex glanced at it. _Never seen it before._

 _It's your money._

 _No, it's not._

 _Yes it is._

That lead to a week of them going back and forth - he'd lay it on the dinner cart when she wasn't looking, then she'd shove it down the back of his sweater as he watched TV in the dayroom. Finally, he left it on the desk at the nurse's station and someone swiped it - he thought she finally caved, but nope, wasn't her. Probably Tom.

Yesterday, he wasn't feeling well and slept most of the morning. Around midnight, long after she left, he went into cardiac arrest. When she heard, it was like being kicked in the stomach, and ever since, she'd been down in the dumps.

Presently, Harvey reached across the table and gave her hand a tender pat. "He wouldn't want you to mourn, dear. He'd want you to be happy."

Yeah, probably, but she was going to mourn anyway. "I know," she sighed.

"That's cold consolation, honey, I know," Harvey said in that sugary southern accent of his - it reminded her of Lana's, but different. "I've been doing this for twenty years, and Lord knows it's happened to me more times than I can count. You just have to pick yourself up, smile through the pain, and keep on going."

"You're right," she said, more to get him to leave her alone than because she believed that. He was a sweetheart, but right now she just wasn't in the mood for friendly advice, no matter how well intentioned. She glanced at the clock on the wall - her break was almost over. Maybe talking to Mrs. Hensen would make her feel better; she liked Mrs. Hensen a lot.

"Of course I am, sweetie," Harvey said and winked exaggeratedly, "I'm old and wise."

Alex didn't know Harvey's age, put she put him in his mid-to-late forties. She casually asked him one day, and he gasped in shock, his hand flying to his chest. _You never ask a lady her age._ Alex wanted really badly to point out that he was not a lady, but that struck her as rude, so she accepted it and went on. Tom called him a _screaming queen -_ which is gay man speak for a gay guy who's really effeminate - and Harvey called him _that man_ with a bitter infection, his lips puckering sourly and his nose wrinkling as if at a foul smell. Harvey couldn't _stand_ Tom, one of the reasons being that on Harvey's very first day, Tom made a pass at him and wouldn't quit when Harvey told him he was with someone. _I've been with my boyfriend for fifteen years,_ he told her later, _I love him, and I was raised to be faithful. I would_ never _cheat on him._ The fact that Tom kept hitting on him really, really, _really_ offended him. _That man has no scruples,_ Harvey said with a sad shake of the head. _Can you believe he didn't_ stop? She told him about how Bob fooled around with Tom despite having a boyfriend, and Harvey's hand went to his mouth in horror. _That's awful,_ he drew. _That poor man. Did he ever find out?_ Alex didn't know if Bob's boyfriend knew about Tom or not, and simply shrugged.

 _What kind of man would do such a thing?_ Harvey asked indignantly. _Lord, I could_ never _do that. That is the greatest betrayal_ ever.

Speak of the Devil (as Harvey would say), Tom strode into the dayroom wearing light blue scrubs and his name badge around his neck on a black lanyard. A fat black woman in pink pants and a floral top named Sonette Gibbons walked beside him, talking a mile a minute and throwing her hands violently around in what Alex took to be the sign language equivalent of cussing someone out. _Whoa, there, ma'am, your cursing and racial slurs are making the other customers uncomfortable, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave._ Oooh, maybe it was a sign language rap song, and any deaf person who saw it would be left shaken by all the b-words and f-bombs. Tom's face was screwed up in displeasure - Alex was really surprised by how racist he was. She didn't know if he adhered to a compex white supremacist ideology or anything, but if the things he said about blacks, Asians, Hispanics, and Russians was any indication, he didn't like minorities. Funny, you'd expect a gay man to be a little more open minded. A couple months ago they came into the dayroom together, and a couple black CNAs were sitting at a table and talking over plates of KFC. _Gnawin' on chicken bones,_ he sniffed low enough that they couldn't hear him. _Dat's de wey we do, honky._

Was Alex a terrible person for laughing? She felt like it, but she laughed when he made fun of Mexicans too. _Hey, taco breath, c'mere._ Hahaha.

She _was_ a horrible person.

Sigh.

"Oh, God," Harvey said with vague disdain and turned away. "It's _him_." He crossed his arms and looked pointedly up at the TV, where Rod Roddy cried for _Tessa Blanchard_ to COME ON DOWN on _The Price is Right_. It was clear that he wanted nothing to do with Tom...which is why Tom grinned.

"Harv the hammer," Tom said and went to the coffee pot. Tom had been calling him that for weeks and Alex didn't get it - she _thought_ it was supposed to be insulting, but it was actually kind of a cool nickname. Tom told her (and Harvey) that it was the name of a rapist from the seventies or something, and Harvey _hated_ being compared to _low-life scum like_ that.

She liked Harvey a lot, but he got offended pretty easily, and despite being gay, his outlook was staunchly conservative - he didn't even like seeing men without their shirts on TV because it was _obscene._ Alex's rule of thumb was: Anything that would have upset her grandmother would probably upset Harvey.

"Can't say hi?" Tom asked as he filled a cup. Sonette went over to one of the tables and sat down, then dragged the chair close, its metal legs scraping the floor. Harvey went on looking at the TV, and Alex suddenly felt _really_ uncomfortable, like a fair lady caught between two Old West gunslingers. Uh...should she dive behind a barrel?

Tom took his cup over to Sonette's table, staring at Harvey the whole time, and sat. "My break's over," Harvey said and got to his feet. Alex wasn't keeping track, but she was _preeeetty_ sure that he had at least ten minutes left.

Ignoring Tom, he strutted out, and, after a moment, Alex followed; Harvey's break might not be over, but hers most certainly was. In the hall, she paused and took a deep breath. About now, Mr. Garcia would be trying to steal her away for a game of chess and offering her old-man wisdom whether she wanted it or not.

One of the things that bothered her most was that he was one of those old people whose families stick them into nursing homes and forget about them. He had a grown son and daughter who came by every once in a blue moon, and they always looked grumpy, like visiting their father was a chore that neither was particularly keen on carrying out. They were impatient with him, spoke to him like he was stupid, then left as quickly as they could.

She tried to be fair - maybe he wasn't a very good man when they were growing up (people change) - but the man she knew was warm, witty, and always smiling. Seeing them treat him that way bothered her, and the thought of him dying alone and afraid, wanting nothing more than his children by his bedside, drove her to the edge of tears.

Dad always said there's no problem that can't be solved by a little hard, physical labor, and he was right. Taking a deep breath, she threw herself into her work - changing diapers, feeding bedridden seniors, and interacting as cheerily as she could with residents in the dayroom. At one point, as she was walking down the hall, Harvey's voice drifted from an open door. He sounded perturbed. "Mr. Greyson, honey, please, all I wanna -"

" _NO!"_

Mr. Greyson was ninety-one. Hale and healthy enough when he first arrived, he suffered a stroke in October that paralyzed the right side of his body.

Backing up, Alex went into the room; Harvey stood by the head of the bed with his arms limp at his sides and his head back in a posture of annoyance. Mr. Greyson, emaciated with short, scraggly white hair, fixedly stared at him with wide-eyed fear. Alex frowned. "What's wrong?" she asked, and Mr. Greyson shot her a confused glance.

"T-That fruit," he said, "he's trying to molest me!"

Alex blinked and looked at Harvey for an answer. Uh...were you trying to rape Mr. Greyson? You weren't, were you? Didn't think so.

Rolling his eyes, Harvey explained. "I need to change his underpants, and he does not want me to." Harvey called diapers underpants because...I dunno...it was more proper than shit bag, which is what Tom called them. _C'mon, Mr. Harrington, time to change your shit bag_.

"No I don't," Mr. Greyson slurred in agreement. "He's gonna do something to my penis!"

Alex couldn't suppress a chuckle. Oh, wow. What was it with old men and their penises? "Mr. Greyson," Harvey said sharply, "I would _never_ do that to you. I have a partner and while I'm sure you were a handsome man in your day, you're a little too old for me."

"A prick's a prick!"

Harvey's nostrils flared, probably more because Mr. Greyson used a dirty word than anything else. "Suge, can you put yourself in my shoes? Say you were a young man and you came in here to change an old lady. Would that turn you on?"

"God, no!"

"Alright, then. You don't turn me on either. Now can I please change your underpants? If you sit in your mess much longer, you're going to get a rash."

Mr. Greyson hesitated. "Alright. But she has to stay here and make sure you don't try anything."

Harvey pursed his lips and turned to Alex. "Hun, can you stay in here, please? Just til I'm finished?"

"Sure," Alex said. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. "I'll be right here. If Harvey tries anything, I'll beat him up, okay?"

"Aim for the nuts," Mr. Greyson advised.

"Mr. Greyson, please," Harvey said in a scandalized tone.

While Harvey changed Mr. Greyson, Alex thought of Mr. Garcia. She missed him dearly.

She just hoped it was a long time before any of her other favorite residents died; after she finished studying to become an RN and moved onto a hospital job preferably.

The courses for becoming an RN started in a week, and she was looking forward to them, even though she was basically adding school to her already overloaded schedule. In a year, she'd be a full-fledged nurse and hopefully working on a maternity ward.

That was the plan, anyway.

Shortly, Harvey finished with Mr. Greyson (somehow managing to keep himself from fondling the old man's irresistible penis), and Alex went back to her shift. Later, after clocking out, she drove home through the gathering twilight, dirty gray snow flurries falling from the leaden sky like ash. She got there just before four and parked in the driveway. Inside, Blake and Jordan sat side-by-side on the floor, staring up at the TV and playing _Super Mario 64_ , their coats, shoes, and backpacks strewn across the floor and a bag of potato chips open between them.

Blake got home a full half hour before either Alex or Tim; she used to have Mom or Dad meet him at the bus stop and take him to their house for a while, but he begged her to let him be a latchkey kid. _There's no N64 at Grandma and Grandpa's house,_ he said in disbelief, _all they have is a dumb, old Super Nintendo._ Okay, wow, the Super Nintendo is freaking _awesome,_ how dare you call it dumb. Go to your room….and just wait until your father gets home. She was hesitant at first, but he was very responsible, and it was only for a little while, so she agreed to give it a test run. _Don't open the door, don't cook anything, don't answer the phone (and if you do, say I'm in the shower), don't play with matches, don't break anything, just sit perfectly still with your hands in your lap so I know you're safe, 'kay?_

Onscreen, Mario carried a baby penguin to the edge of a wintery precipice and tossed it over the edge. Jordan gasped and whipped a withering look at Blake, who giggled madly. "Oops," he said, "my hands slipped."

Alex rolled her eyes. Her son didn't like horror movies, but he was really morbid nonetheless. Like, who throws a baby penguin off a cliff? Sure, she did it when she and Tim were playing the other day, and she laughed just like Blake was now, but...

Okay, nevermind. I forgot: My house is made of glass. Better not throw that stone.

"Hi, Mom," Blake said over his shoulder.

Jordan turned around. "Hi, Mrs. Underwood! Blake just killed the baby penguin."

"I know," Alex said with fake severity. She closed the door behind her and slipped her jacket off. "Blake's bad."

"Am not! It was an accident!"

Alex went over, bent, and kissed the top of his head. "That wasn't an accident, that was premeditated murder."

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Blake asked, " _What_ murder?"

"It means you meant to do it," Alex said.

"Yeah," Jordan piped in, "you're a killer."

"Am not."

Jordan leaned in like she was going to kiss him, which wouldn't surprise Alex, actually. She narrowed her eyes and jutted her chin smugly out. "Killer, killer, cherry chiller."

For a moment, Blake regarded her blankly, then they both broke out giggling.

Alex patted the top of his head and got to her feet. "Yeah. What she said. Killer." She went into the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge, and her stomach rumbled. Oh, no, you; dinner is not for another three hours.

Since setting out to lose weight, Alex went from 175 to 160, and boy, was it hard maintaining that magic number - if she so much as took a deep breath in the presence of chocolate she gained two pounds, and actually eating it...oh brother. At first, breaking the habit of snacking was a constant battle, but over time she got used to not nibbling on chips, peanuts, cookies, cakes, pork rinds, and other junk. Lately, however, she'd been _really_ craving some good old fashion snackage. Like pretzels. Ummm, she loved pretzels. And Lays. Lays were awesome. Oh, and buffalo chicken strips slathered in peanut butter. She never had that last one, and it sounded really awful, but just thinking about it made her mouth water.

 _Rumble._

Nein, you are _not_ eating right now. Suck it up, buttercup.

 _RUMBLE._

She opened the freezer, and her eyes went instantly to the Tony's pepperoni pizza within. _Rumble-rumble, Bunny, it's your tummy._

No…

 _I'm hungry, Bunny. Feed me. FEED ME._

She chewed her bottom lip and glanced at Blake and Jordan, who were back to playing their game.

Alex had many flaws, she knew that, and one of them was being weak. What's the opposite of _perseverance?_

Bunny-verance.

"You guys want some pizza?" she asked.

"Yeah!" they cried in unison.

Alright. One slice, that's it.

Surprisingly, she stood firm and had only one slice.

Topped with whipped cream.

* * *

Jessy shrugged into her coat, pulled the gray wool cap over the top of her head, and threw one end of the plaid scarf casually over her shoulder. Picking up her purse from the end table, she opened the door, went onto the front step, and pulled it closed behind her again. Cold drops of rain pelted her face, and a needling gust of wind crashed into her like an icy wave. She shivered, locked the handle, and hurried down the walk to the driveway. Big, expensive middle class homes and thick, barren trees flanked the slick pavement, and a 1995 Jaguar passed at the unrushed leisure of independent wealth. Situated on the fashionable Hunt's Point peninsula north of downtown Bellevue, the Harbor Crest neighborhood was what many people referred to as The Gateway. Its denizens ranged from upper middle class to "well off" but were not _rich_. Follow Hunt's Point Road north, however, and you would find the palatial homes of those were were, many of them giants in the tech industry. She and Mark went sightseeing on their third or fourth day in town, and the opulence stunned her: Gated mansions set well back from the tall, stately pine trees lining the road...some replete with helipads.

Let that sink in for a moment. Some of these people were so well-to-do that they had a place in their yard for helicopters to land. The decadence both enchanted and disgusted her; she admired it at the same time she deplored it. She believed in capitalism, but sometimes people take it too far. Case in point, the restaurants. North Bellevue is a cluster of high end shops, eateries, and broad avenues overlooking Lake Washington, which separates Bellevue from Seattle - from any point in town, you could see the looming monolith of the perpetually mist shrouded Seattle skyline, as big and inescapable as life itself. It caters to the cremedelacreme of the region, and its food reflected their tastes - caviar, truffles, French cuisine with strange and repellent ingredients. One place she and Mark tried served pizza topped with gold flakes.

Yes.

Flakes.

Of.

Gold.

Jessy was not her mother - at one point in her life, Luan Loud hated rich people. Jessy did not, and she did not believe that their money should be forcibly taken and given away (given away, in theory that is, in practice it's usually kept by the government), but the fact that some people flaunted their extravagant wealth by literally eating gold filled her with outrage. _Maybe you_ do _have too much money...maybe Uncle Lincoln's wrong and we should raise your taxes._ Call her what you will, but she'd rather see money go into education than into a golden pizza. Auntie Ronnie Anne told her that education funding was _virtually nothing,_ but she didn't fully understand the gravity of the situation until she began her own teaching career. She made very little money and was often forced to use it on school supplies because the budget just wasn't there. President Reagan only made things worse by cutting spending and trying to do away with the Department of Education; by the time Jessy started in 1993, the Republicans were running President Bush, who vowed to continue Reagan's policies for yet another four years. Bill Clinton won, and when he tried to increase education spending, the Republicans in the House and Senate shut down the entire federal government.

That's to say, over the years, she'd come to a conclusion about herself.

She was probably a Democrat.

She agreed with her uncle that both parties were largely concerned with power, votes, and money instead of the average American's wellbeing, but it was clear to her that of the two, the Republicans were just a _little_ worse.

If she had her way, people who made enough money to regularly enjoy pizza ala gold would have their taxes increased, and all of the extra revenue would go into public education. The United Negro College Fund's motto was _a mind is a terrible thing to waste,_ and they were right. A good education is the foundation upon which happy and healthy lives are built. With a better educational system, crime rates will go down, poverty will go down, drug use will go down. Look, people don't join street gangs for fun, they do it because they live in economically depressed areas and don't have any money. Most crime is carried out by people who want money. Give them them a better education so that they can get higher paying jobs, and you slash all of that yuck in half. She believed in welfare - people need help sometimes - but she believed even more in giving someone the tools to do something themselves rather than giving them something already gift-wrapped. Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day, the saying went, but teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime.

That belief alone was what carried her to the polls in 1996. She voted Clinton with high hopes, and just that morning watched as he was sworn in for a second term. His positive message of building a better tomorrow resonated with her as she navigated the streets of Harbor Crest, the radio low under the hiss of rain - by the time she got to the grocery store, it was pouring. Precipitation was a daily fact of life in the Pacific Northwest; on average, it rains 150 days a year in the Seattle area, mostly in the form of a light, persistent drizzle. There were places in the United States that got a higher _amount_ of rain, but none, to Jessy's knowledge, that had as many rainy days. Adjusting was a challenge, but after awhile she grew accustomed to the wet weather, and the promise of a sunny day gave her something to look forward to as she passed her days in solitude waiting for Mark to come home. She was hoping for a baby to occupy her time, but after getting here, they mutually decided that it would be best to wait until Mark was fully settled into his new job at Microsoft. He was on a development team, she knew that much, but they made him sign a confidentiality agreement when he started, and he took it so seriously that he absolutely refused to talk to her about anything having to do with work. Jessy respected that and didn't ask questions.

Well...she'd ask one today.

But it wouldn't have to do with what he was doing at work, per se. It would be a simple three word inquiry - _Are you settled?_

If he felt that he was, they could start trying. If not, she would dutifully wait. Not forever, though; she would be turning twenty-seven in September, and her biological clock was _g._

The grocery story, an upscale place that sold brands and, indeed, entire items Jessy had never heard of before, sat on a hill. Behind it, the choppy gray waters of Lake Washington spread out into the distance. The buildings of Downtown Seattle, glimpsed darkly through the fog, resembled massive headstones marking the final resting place of even more massive creatures, and as she did every time she looked across the waves, Jessy thought of Mordor in _The Lord of the Rings_ novels - a mysterious and forbidding place where the sun never shone and the very air was poison. Seattle was far nicer than her mental interpretation of Mordor, however - in fact, she liked it a lot. It had something of a bohemian atmosphere that attracted artists, intellectuals, misfits, and weirdos from across the country. She and Mark went into the city once or twice a week to attend poetry readings in after hours cafes and coffee shops, or to visit one of the many museums or cultural centers.

Yes, she liked Seattle very much, but there were periods - sometimes lasting days - where she missed home so badly it made her nauseous. She longed for the familiar sights and sounds of Royal Woods with stomach churning intensity, yearned to walk the streets she knew so well and to see the shops along Main, the high school, everything in its place as it always had been and probably always would be. Royal Woods was like a comfortable pair of shoes long broken in - Washington, on the other hand, still pinched her toes.

Killing the engine, she got out and hurried across the rain swept parking lot, her head ducked against the deluge. Grabbing a cart, she went inside, the aroma of spices, fresh bread from the bakery, and cooking food from the in-store deli tantalized her senses, and she couldn't help but take a deep breath. She might miss Royal Woods, but she did _not_ miss Meijer's - this place was _far_ better. The prices were steeper, yes, and some of its stock was unconventional, but the bakery and cafe were both really good, and she appreciated the ambient decor: Low, warm lighting; wood floors; soft classical music piped over the loudspeakers; and plush reading chairs next to the book section: It reminded her more of a lounge than a supermarket, and if she were looking for non teaching work, she'd apply here.

Going to the meats first, she spent ten minutes debating whether to get ham steaks or ground hamburger before throwing both into the cart and moving on. At the back of the store, a lady in a red apron over a white shirt stood behind a table bearing trays of crackers, cookies, and fruit and little plastic cups of juice, all of which were provided to _our guests_ (it was never _our customers,_ as though they wanted to be your friend, not sell you something) free of charge. The woman smiled and offered Jessy something to eat, and after a moment, she took a chocolate ball and nodded her thanks.

After getting everything she needed, and passing a little time at the book aisle (tossing _We Were The Mulvaneys_ by Joyce Carol Oates and _Primary Colors_ by "Anonymous" into the cart for later), she went through check out. The rain had slowed to a light sprinkle and the sun peeked tentatively through the steely clouds. She waited for a truck to pass, then went to the car, loaded the bags into the back, and returned the cart to the corral; a few sat discarded at careless angles, and she put them in too.

Why were people so heedless sometimes? It takes two seconds to put your cart away; instead, you leave it sitting in the parking lot where it could potentially roll away and hit someone's car.

Sigh. Inconsideration was a _big_ problem these days.

Oh, I know.

Better educational funding!

That was her answer for pretty much everything. Except for war, there's no correlation between intelligence and armed conflict. Look at the Nazis. At the Nuremberg Trials, each high ranking official brought before the tribunal was administered an IQ test and found to be shockingly brilliant. IQ scores are not static and are not a 100 percent reliable indication of actual intelligence (people continue learning new things their entire life, don't they?), but it's good enough that when someone tests at a certain number, you can get a general idea of how intelligent they are. Those men were geniuses...yet they still waged war. Smart people, you see, are people too - some are petty, some are selfish, some are hateful, and some want power, money, land, or respect.

She was behind the wheel now, pulling to the exit, her thoughts drifting. She stopped, waited for traffic, and turned right, following the sloping street to Fairweather Place, then to Pine Ridge Drive. Five minutes later, she pulled into the driveway. The house, a one cozy story brick cottage with a gray slate roof, European style windows, and attic dormers, sat nestled in a grove of foliage that screened it from the road. It was the smallest on the street, but Jessy loved it - she and Mark had talked about buying it from the owner (they rented), but that, like having children, would have to wait.

Getting out, she carried the groceries inside - a hall led from the foyer to the kitchen at the back of the house, and the living room spread out on the left. She sat the bags on the table, then went back to the front door and hung her coat up, flicking on a lamp on her return trip to the kitchen. She put the groceries away, then went into the living room, where she sat in her favorite chair by the window; rain sluiced down the glass, and the low lamplight provided just enough glow to hold back the gloom.

She read for a while, _Primary Colors,_ but her mind kept wandering. At some point, she dozed off, and didn't wake again until she heard Mark's key in the lock. She sat up, and winced at the stiffness in her neck. Outside, twilight the color of dirty dishwater pressed against the pane. For a second, she was so disoriented her head spun. Mark usually got home between 6:30 and 7, but if he and the development team were working on an intensive project, he stayed as late as eleven. She had no idea what time it was or, for that matter, even what day it was.

The door opened then closed, and Mark came in; dressed in a white polo shirt tucked into tan Chinos, he reminded Jessy of a cop from _Miami Vice_. "Hey," she said and smiled sleepily.

"Hey," he said. Laying his hand on the back of the chair, he bent and pecked her lips.

"What time is it?" she asked.

Mark consulted the Rolex on his wrist - an anniversary gift from Bobby Jr. "7:33pm," he said.

Jessy started. The last time she remembered looking at the clock, it was barely past four, which meant she'd been dozing for over three hours. Normally, she had dinner done or almost done by the time Mark came home, but today _that_ didn't happen. "I have to get up," she said, "get dinner started."

"Don't worry about it, we can order out. Or not eat. I don't care, I'm not very hungry." He dropped onto the sofa flanking the chair, leaned back, and laced his hands behind his head.

Jessy blinked the sleep from her eyes and squinted at him. "Are you alright?" she asked.

"Just tired," he said.

That wasn't unusual - he was normally frazzled by the end of the day. People might not think that mentally taxing jobs can exhaust you just as much as physically demanding ones, but they do, Jessy knew that all too well. You know what helps, though?

Cuddles.

She got up, transferred to the couch, and curled up beside him, her hand and head coming to rest on his chest; his warm, soothing smell filled his nose, and she drew in a deep, relishing breath. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

Though they went places here and there, they passed most of their evenings thus, holding each other and watching TV in companionable silence. Or, talking; they'd been together for almost eleven years and they still never ran out of conversations to have.

Oh, speaking of conversations…

"How was your day?" she asked and looked up at him. His eyes were closed and his breathing steady, rhythmic.

"Long," he said. "We're working on something and it's fairly complicated. We've been trying to figure out simple schematics for a week now and we're just getting it. Mr. Gates is getting pissed."

It went without saying that Bill Gates, the famed founder of Microsoft and the world's richest person, was Mark's boss - he was everyone's boss at Microsoft. Mark rarely interacted with him, but had heard of (and once witnessed) his legendary temper and acerbic tongue. _He's very blunt,_ Mark told her once, _he called our project manager a moron and said he couldn't find his own ass with both hands, a flashlight, and directions from his boyfriend._ One time Mark did something in his presence to displease him (he wouldn't tell her exactly what) and he said _You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age...if I was a complete idiot._ Another time, Mark and his team wasn't moving fast enough for Massa Gates' liking, and he with a disgusted sigh, he said, _Nevermind, I'll do it over the weekend._ He apparently talked down to everyone that way; Jessy didn't think she'd like working for him, but Mark loved it.

"Yeah?" she asked and rubbed his chest. Asking after his day was not the conversation she had in mind, but every great talk has to start somewhere, doesn't it? "I was wondering something."

Mark hummed. "What's that?"

"Are you settled?"

The air, to Jessy at least, crackled with expectation like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Mark looked down at her with a bemused expression. "At work?" he asked, oblivious to the implications of her question. "Pretty much, I think."

"Settled enough that we can have a baby?"

True to form, Mark turned what could have been a tense moment pregnant with meaning (no pun intended) into a quick and painless affair with his matter-of-factness. "Sure," he said.

Jessy's stomach knotted and her heartbeat quickened with excitement. "Yeah?" she asked.

"If you want," he said. "We can try right now, but...I'm tired so you're gonna have to be on top."

She was already on her feet and dragging him to his. "Let's go," she chirped and lead him to the bedroom.


	185. February and March 1997: Part 1

**Guest: I imagine** _ **The Rolling Stones**_ **being an entirely separate band in this universe.**

Lynn Haveman's motto had always been _suck it up and power through,_ but during the latter months of 1996, she adopted a new one: _Don't get mad, get even_. Mama always said she was overprotective of Maddie; at first Lynn denied that charge, then, gradually, she came to accept it. _You hover over her like a helicopter,_ Mama said once with disdain, _don't keep your apron strings too tight, honey, it'll only hurt her._ Lynn disagreed in the beginning, but assented that Mama was right. You can't always be there to hold your baby's hand and block for them like a defensive lineman, you have to let them stand on their own.

Despite that, Lynn was a mama bear, and if you messed with her daughter, you were in deep shit. One time a teenage girl, about fourteen, shoved Maddie down at the park. Lynn was sitting on a bench when it happened, and like a shot she was up and running, her arms and legs pumping furiously. The girl saw her coming like a freight train out of hell, screamed in terror, and fled; Lynn chased her two city blocks before stopping, satisfied she got the message. No one hurts my little girl and gets away with it, no one.

And no one meant _no one_.

Then...someone did, and Lynn was powerless to take revenge. That helpless feeling was the worst thing Lynn had ever known, and starting in September, she decided that one way or another, she was going to get back at the person who hurt Maddie; all she needed was time and patience.

She started hitting the gym and working with a personal trainer in preparation for her upcoming fight; weightlifting, cardio, she even took up boxing, kicking boxing, and judo, attending classes five nights a week and pushing herself to the brink of exhaustion. She spent her down time studying her opponents - their moves, style, weaknesses, and strengths. She wormed her way into their head, and by January 1996, she was certain she could take them.

Now to wait.

Thankfully, she didn't have to for long. In December, she was scanning the newspaper when she saw it: Her foe would be in Phoenix on February 26 at the Desert Coliseum (TICKETS ON SALE NOW). An evil grin sliced across her lips and she looked up from the ad with cold, icy eyes. Bingo. She called and used her credit card to buy three front row tickets - one for her, one for Ritchie, and one for Maddie. She considered going alone, but changed her mind at the last minute: Maddie would _love_ to go, and the vision of her face lighting up decided her.

After securing the venue, Lynn ramped up her workout routine while coming up with a strategy. She didn't want Maddie to see the pain she was going to bring on her adversary, so she would have to sneak away, which shouldn't be too hard. _I gotta hit the ladies, be right back._ Boom.

Two weeks before the event, she whipped the tickets out during dinner and laid them on the table. _Guess where_ we're _going on the 26th._ Maddie leaned over, saw what they were, and gaped in shock. Ritchie picked one up and squinted. _Oh,_ he said flatly, _this oughta be fun._

Lynn looked at Maddie, who stared at the remaining ticket like a Christian at the holy grail. _What do you think?_ she asked around a grin.

Sucking air deep into her lungs, Maddie let it out in an ear piercing squeal that shattered plates, glasses, window panes, and skulls ten miles out. Ritchie winced and Lynn beamed with pride; she loved making her daughter happy. It was the best feeling in the world, far better than...whaddya call it again? Faceball? Yeah, screw spacefall, being an awesome mother is _waaaaay_ better.

On the day of the big event, Lynn positively thrummed with energy; she was ready for the confrontation, and knew that she would emerge victorious. Every eye would see what happens when you trespass against Lynn Haveman's family. Jesus might forgive you, Father McTouchy might forgive you, but she sure as hell wouldn't.

They left the house at 4, Ritchie driving and Maddie in the back, a big smile plastered to her face and her eyes sparkling with excitement. She wore a black T-shirt with a picture of Diamond Dallas Page emblazoned across the chest and a baseball cap sporting the WCW logo, her ponytail threaded through the slot in back. She bounced giddily in her seat and played with a collection of action figures she brought along for the ride, slamming Sting into Hulk Hogan and cursing him for being _NWO scum_.

As Ritchie navigated through the stark desert, then, eventually, the crowded streets of Downtown Phoenix, Lynn pumped herself up for what was to come; she was nervous and shaky, her flesh hot from head to toe and her stomach quivering with anticipation, but she wouldn't back down.

The Desert Coliseum, a giant dome shaped building surrounded by hardpan dotted with scrub and thistle, sat on the very edge of the city, where the pavement gives way to open wilderness and the buildings to cacti. The massive parking lot was packed, and Ritchie whistled lowly. "Wow." They circled for nearly ten minutes before finding a spot well away from the door.

Lynn glanced into the back; Maddie stared out the window like a Muslim sighting Mecca in the distance. "Got your sign?" she asked.

The previous night, she and Maddie sat at the kitchen table and made a sign out of lime green paperboard. Brightening, Maddie picked it up from next to her and smiled broadly. "Right here."

The line to get in zigzagged away from the box office, metal barriers marking its boundaries, and as they waited, Maddie looked around in wide-eyed wonder. "Look, Mom!" she cried at one point and grabbed Lynn's hand. "It's Ric Flair!" She pointed, and Lynn followed her finger - an older man stood up ahead with his arms crossed and chatted with another man. His hair was white, like Flair's, but he was _not_ The Nature Boy.

"No, it's not," Lynn said gently, "he looks like him, though."

"I hope he beats up Hulk Hogan tonight," Maddie said with a savage grin.

"Maybe he will," Lynn said noncommittally.

 _Or maybe_ I _will._

Shortly, they filed inside and through a massive archway that lead to the arena: The ring sat in the middle, the head of the entrance ramp flanked by metal rigging and giant letters spelling WCW. Maddie let out a breathless "Wow," and Ritchie chuckled, his hand affectionately squeezing her shoulder.

"You're gonna have a front row seat," he said.

"I know," she thrilled and held up her sign. "I hope DDP sees me."

Diamond Dallas Page was Maddie's new favorite wrestler, since her old favorite wrestler stabbed her in the back like the cowardly piece of shit he was. A giant picture of DDP - long, curly blonde hair and a goatee - adorned the sign under big, glittery letters spelling DDP I LOVE YOU.

Ritchie was right about the front row part, but not the seats part...there were no seats in the front row. Slatted metal barricades lined the matted apron ringing the, uh, ring. Lynn laid her hand on one and puzzled out its height; she could vault over this thing easy. She leaned over and craned her neck to see the broadcast booth: Tony Schiavone, in a blazer and wearing headphones over his ears, sat at the desk and scanned a sheaf of papers. Mike Tenay sat next to him, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup, and, as she watched, Bobby "The Brain" Heenan strode up and dropped into the chair on Schiavone's left. Maddie came up, laid her hands on the barricade, and pushed up on her tippy toes. "Wow," she said, "this is _so_ cool."

Lynn rubbed her daughter's back. "If we're lucky, we'll get bled on."

"Cool," Maddie drew.

Nearly half an hour after arriving ring side, the lights dimmed and pyrotechnics burst from cannons hidden along side the entrance ramp. The crowd went wild, pumping their fists, waving signs, and cheering as _Monday Nitro_ went out live to a billion TV sets around the world. "It's starting!" Maddie cried and jumped up and down, her ponytail whipping. She shoved her sign well over her head and swayed from side to side, proudly displaying her love of DDP for all the world to see.

"I hope none of them fly out of the ring and hit us," Ritchie shouted to be heard over the din.

"I do!" Maddie said. "I hope it's DDP. He's really cool and I want to meet him and ask him all sorts of questions, like how it felt to give Scott Hall the diamond cutter. I bet it felt _really_ good cuz Scott Hall is NWO scum and hurting NWO scum looks really fun. _I_ wanna hurt NWO scum. Can I hurt NWO scum, Mom? Please? I'm really big and strong, I know how." She bared her teeth like a scrappy dog and kicked the barricade...then her face twisted in pain. "Ow!" She hopped on one foot and hissed through her teeth, and Lynn smirked. She was a fighter, just like her mama.

"Maybe when you're older."

Shortly, the show began.

The first match of the night saw Dean Malenko beat up some jobber no one cared about.

Next, the Steiner Brothers fought The Outsiders in a tag team match. The crowd booed when Kevin Nash and Scott Hall strutted out in their dumb T-shirts: Black with NWO on the chest in sloppy writing meant to resemble spray paint. Lynn's eyes narrowed as they made their way to the ring, her hand closing in a fist. In August, they joined forces with Hulk Hogan and named their little outfit the New World Order. Since then, the NWO's ranks had been steadily swelling as WCW wrestlers turned coat and defected. The biggest blow came when Eric Bischoff, the president of the company, was revealed to have been a member from the very beginning. He issued an ultimatum last month to all the guys in the locker room: Join or leave. The president of Turner Sports, of which WCW was a division, suspended him for abusing his power, and Lynn laughed because finally, the smarmy little weasel looking bastard got his.

Hall and Nash lost, and the crowd erupted in jubilation because fuck Nash and Hall. The third bout had Chris Benoit defending the Television Title against Buff Bagwell, a piece of NWO shit who wore sunglasses and a durag and flexed in the ring like he was the greatest thing ever. His saying was _Buff's the stuff._ When Maddie wasn't listening, Lynn called him _Butt Fagwell._ She bet he let Hogan and the other NWO guys take turns railing him from behind; he probably sucked Eric Bitchoff to keep his job, too.

Lynn watched the proceedings impassively, suspense coiling in her stomach. She was so lost in thought that she didn't realize the match had ended and a new one was about to begin until Maddie shrieked. DDP came down the ramp in blue pants, black boots, and a black tank top that revealed his muscular, tattooed arms. He brought his hands up, pressing his thumbs and forefingers together in the shape of a diamond, and whipped them down in time with a burst of pyrotechnics. Maddie screamed in delight and jumped so high Lynn thought she was going to spill over the barricade.

DDP walked to the ring and slid in under the bottom rope. He went from one side to the other, throwing his arms up to frenzied cheers. When he came over to the ropes facing Lynn and Maddie, Maddie screeched and thrust her sign into the air, waving it back and forth to get his attention. He spotted her, grinned, and pointed at her as if to say _hey, nice sign._

Maddie went through the _roof_. "HE POINTED AT ME! MOM, DIAMOND DALLAS PAGE _POINTED_ AT ME!"

Lynn laughed. She'd never been so happy for someone who wasn't herself in her life. "I saw."

"I think he likes your sign," Ritchie said.

"MY MOM HELPED!" Maddie screamed at the ring, where Page was waiting for his opponent. Curt Hennig, an ugly man with a blonde ponytail and wearing a leotard, came down the ramp, and the match started. Both men were good, clean technical wrestlers - faces, which is short for _babyface,_ or good guy. Hogan's punk ass was a heel, or bad guy. Faces respect each other and don't use dirty moves, heels didn't respect anyone but themselves and cheated every chance they got.

Maddie watched the match with unwavering intensity, cheering when Page landed a move and crying "NO!" when Henning landed one. In the end, Henning pinned Page fair and square for the win. Maddie threw back her head and yelled in frustration. "He should have won!"

"You can't win 'em all, honey," Lynn said. That was something her mother and father both told her as a kid, but she never listened. To her, winning was everything. That's why you play a game, right? It's certainly not to lose. As she grew older, however, she came to realize just how right they were. Nobody's perfect and no one can triumph every single time.

She said as much, and Maddie blew a puff of air. "Mom." she said seriously, "that's quitter talk."

Oh.

She's, uh, she's a chip off the old block, isn't she? Heh.

Half way through the show, Ritchie went to the bathroom and returned with an order of nachos and cups of Pepsi from the concession stand. Lynn took her drink and started to reach for a nacho (that one with all the cheese and jalapenos is just begging to be eaten) but froze at the sound of the NWO entrance theme. She whipped her head toward the ramp, and sneered; Hulk Hogan strutted out from the back in black pants, a black NWO shirt, a black headband, and sunglasses, the bottom half of his face covered in dark stubble and his blonde mustache where it had always been. He wore fingerless black gloves and carried a belt over his shoulder, the front defaced with a spray painted NWO. The audacity of vandalizing the storied Heavyweight Championship belt with graffiti made Lynn's blood boil, and every muscle in her body tensed.

"I gotta hit the ladies," she growled.

Before either Ritchie or Maddie could stop her, she took her drink, disappeared into the seething crowd, and made her way toward the broadcast booth. People booed, flipped Hogan off, and hissed. A few she met along the way wore NWO shirts and looked at Hogan with the adoration of last days' sinners on the advent of the antichrist. Lynn clenched her teeth and held her fists back, even though it was difficult. Didn't these idiots understand what Hogan was doing? He was mocking everything good and pure in wrestling.

AND HE MADE MADDIE CRY!

Fuming, she looped around behind the booth and made her way to the other side of the ring. She looked across it and spotted Ritchie through the bottom rope. Someone bumped into her, and she turned; a little girl with red hair done up in pigtails looked up at her and grinned. Lynn noted her NWO shirt and she tsked. That should count as child abuse. "He's my favorite wrestler _ever_ ," she said of Hogan, who stood in the center of the ring now, flexing and mugging for the crowd.

"He's a butthead," Lynn said since _asshole_ would have been too extreme for little ears.

The girl's face darkened and she planted her hands on her hips. "He is _not_ a butt head. He's the raddest person _ever."_

Okay, _that_ was too much. Bending over until her nose was bare inches from the girl's, Lynn spoke, pronounced each word slowly and with bitter venom. "He's a big, fat, crybaby _doofus."_

The little girl snarled...then pulled back her leg and kicked Lynn hard in the shin. Hot agony exploded up her leg and she dropped to one knee with stunned gasp. Some of her drink splashed over the side of the cup and dripped down her knuckles. "You little _monster,"_ she hissed.

"Hollywood Hogan is the best and you're just gonna have to get used to ti," the girl said smugly. Whipping around in a swish of carrot colored hair, she vanished into the crowd.

"I hope your parents spank you!" Lynn cried.

Maybe she was imagining things, but she thought she heard the girl's voice under the crowd noise. _They don't._

Lynn got back to her feet as, in the ring, Hogan locked up with Ric Flair, the latter dressed in red tights and boots, his flabby, leathery flesh glistening under the hot floodlights. Hogan threw Flair into the ropes and charged him, only for Flair to kick him in the guts. Ha! How did _that_ feel, you son of a bitch? Lynn shouldered her way to the barricades and fell in between a fat guy in a Sting T-shirt and a teenage boy in glasses. She took a sip of her soda as she watched the two wrestlers going at it; Hogan knocked Flair to the mat, and Flair responded by grabbing Hogan's ankles and pulling him down too.

Her muscles ached with tension and she looked around - there were no security guards or cops in sight, both of which had been putting in an increased presence at WCW shows since the NWO formed. Why none of them rushed Hogan, Bischoff, or their cronies and beat them to death yet, Lynn would never know, but whatever, she'd do it for them.

Flair cornered Hogan against the turnbuckles, and bending at the knees, Hogan threw up his hands in a gesture of supplication. Flair hesitated, then hit him across the chest with a backhanded chop. He turned to the crowd, let out a high pitched _woooo_ , and did it again. The audience _woooo'_ d back and Hogan fell to one side...then rolled out of the ring like a yellow belly coward. The ref started counting to ten; Flair stood tall and proud, shouting at Hogan to _come back and fight me like a man_. Hogan slunk around the apron like a shark circling an innocent swimmer, and Lynn's heart clutched; he was headed in her direction, too far away to lean over and grab but not by much. Lynn's stomach roiled with nerves and her heartbeat picked up. She laid one hand on the barricade to balance herself when she jumped over and tightened her grip on the cup.

He was right in front of her now, facing away, scuttling slowly to the side like a crab. Lynn wasn't aware of calling out to him until she heard the sound of her own voice. "Hey, Hulk!"

Perking up, he turned...and the contents of Lynn's cup splashed him in the face. "Fuck you!"

A shot of adrenaline went through her veins, and before she knew it, she was leaping over the barricade, her legs tucked up and the cup crushed in her hand. Her ponytail fluttered behind her like a battle flag and for one glorious moment, she was airborne...then she hit the mat and stumbled. She rushed at Hogan, who was still recovering from his bath (heh), and without warning, someone slammed into her from the side and knocked her hard to the ground. The air went out of her in a rush and her teeth clacked painfully together. Three security guards dragged her to her feet, and in a flash she realized she failed.

Uh-uh. You messed with _my_ daughter, it's gonna take a lot more than three rent-a-cops to stop _me_. She lunged at Hogan again, and one of the guards grabbed her from behind in a tight bear hug that cut off her oxygen. She thrashed in his grasp, tossed her head wildly from side to side, and kicked her legs, fighting with animal desperation to free herself. Another guard grabbed her around the ankles and the other yelled for her to stop. Hogan watched with a bemused expression.

"Let me go!" Lynn cried. "I'm gonna kill him!"

"Ma'am, calm down!" one of the guards shouted. The crowd noise intensified and people along the barricade laughed, cheered, and urged her on. _Get him one for me!_ And _kick him in the nuts._ Her eyes locked with Hogan's, and she saw in his a flicker of uncertainty.

"You're dead meat, Hulk!" Lynn screamed.

Hogan blinked. "What's your problem, lady? None of this is real."

Lynn let out a thunderous roar. "MY DAUGHTER'S TEARS WERE REAL!" She gave a body-wide shudder in one final attempt to escape, but they were already hustling her up the ramp to the jeers of the crowd. Backstage, they rushed her down a long, concrete hall lit by harsh fluorescent lights. She no longer fought, but instead resigned herself to having lost - like she told Maddie, you can't win 'em all.

She expected to be put in handcuffs and thrown into the back of a cop car, but thankfully they only kicked her out. "Lady," one told her, "it's a storyline. Relax."

"He made my daughter cry!" Lynn said. "He was her favorite wrestler and he stabbed her in the back." She hesitated, then blurted, "He was mine too."

And he was - she'd looked up for that man for over ten years...then he turned around and hurt her daughter.

"Lady," the guard sighed, "are you gonna beat up every actor in every movie that makes your kid cry? The people who wrote it and directed it? Whatever you thought Hulk Hogan was, he ain't. He's a balding, money hungry primadonna. Get over it."

For five months, Lynn had seethed with hatred for Hulk Hogan, but hearing those words was still like a brisk slap in the face.

"Word to the wise, relax. You can't have your apron string tied around your little girl's neck forever."

Then he was gone, the door closing behind it and the light spilling through extinguished. Lynn stood alone in the dark, cool wind in her hair and the warm smell of colitas rising up through the air. Stars twinkled in the clear sky overhead, and the roar of traffic on a nearby interstate found her ears.

 _You can't have your apron string tied around your little girl's neck forever._

She didn't have her apron string tied around Maddie's neck, she was…

...being too overprotective. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but still - she tried to beat up a man from TV who made her daughter cry. Instead of taking Hogan's heel turn as an opportunity to teach Maddie something (sometimes people aren't who they appear to be, suck it up and power through), she immediately started plotting revenge. She loved her daughter more than life itself and seeing her cry was like being gutted. Was wanting to shelter her from the worst life has to offer really such a bad thing?

No, but the sad truth was: You _can't_ shelter your baby forever. Children are like flowers, they need freedom and sunlight, not to be chained up in a dark, hermetically sealed safety chamber. Bees sting, tears happen, and people you love and respect sometimes turn out to be NWO scum in hiding. You can't stop any of those things, but you can help and guide your child through them.

Now Lynn felt like shit _and_ a failure. Slumping her shoulders, she dragged herself around to the front of the building. Arch sodium lamps cast harsh pools of harsh orange light on the parking lot, and the box office stood empty and shuddered, lit only by the feeble glow of a single bulb near the door. Lynn dropped onto the curb and put her face in her hands. Well...hopefully she didn't ruin Maddie's good -

"There you are."

Ritchie.

Sharp.

Accusatory.

Disapproving.

She winced and hazarded a glance over her shoulder. He and Maddie walked up, her hand swallowed in his and a glower on his face. Maddie grinned ear-to-ear, and her eyes danced with wonderment. They stopped and stood over her, Ritchie's brow lowering even more than it already was. "What the hell was _that?"_ he demanded.

Lynn opened her mouth to lie, but flicked her eyes to Maddie instead. The little girl watched her intently, and in her gaze, Lynn saw the raw, uninhibited adoration of a child. Kids learn by seeing, and right now, Lynn had a choice: Tell the truth, or show her daughter that lying was alright.

Heaving a sigh, Lynn looked ashamedly down at her lap. "I tried to beat up Hulk Hogan," she admitted.

Maddie gasped. "Didja get him?" she asked. "How bloody was it? Did he say he was sorry for turning his back on the WCW? Did he _beg_ for his life?"

"Maddie," Ritchie admonished firmly, then to Lynn. "Are you...serious right now? You tried to attack someone?"

"I know," Lynn said, "it was dumb. I just...I let my emotions get the better of me and made a mistake" She looked up at Maddie and flashed a wan smile. The moment called for a profound nugget of motherly wisdom, and for a moment she wracked her brain for what to say. "Hulk Hogan's a loser."

"Well...duh," Maddie said as though that should be plainly obvious, "that's why I like DPP now. Hulk Hogan's the past; I don't care about him anymore."

Lynn smiled. "Good," she said. She looked at Ritchie, who pursed his lips. "Sorry," she said.

He regarded her for a moment, then snorted laughter. "You're crazy."

"I know."

"But I love you."

And thus ended Lynn Haveman's war with Hulk Hogan.

* * *

Lincoln Loud took a drink of coffee and scanned the newspaper, big bold headlines and grainy black and white pictures just like every newspaper he'd ever seen in his life. It was 1997, how come newsprint wasn't in color yet? TV was in color and had been for thirty years, but not the _Royal Woods Republican_. Funny, huh? All the superficial trappings of modern life - the cars, the fashion, the technology, hell, even the morals - were vastly different now than they were in 1967, but the newspaper remained...a mountain standing tall against the winds of change.

Like him.

The bell over the door rang and Lincoln looked up. _What's that noise? I haven't heard it in so long…_

A man wearing a blue work shirt tucked into dark pants entered and looked around like he'd never been here before. He was roughly sixty with iron gray hair and wrinkles radiating out from faded, deep-set blue eyes.

"Hey, Linc," he said as he came over to the counter and sat.

"Hi,Burt," Lincoln said and went back to _Republican_. **SHEEP CLONED IN SCOTLAND;** **MILOSEVIC RECOGNIZES OPPOSITION VICTORIES IN YUGOSLAVIA.** Ah, Yugoslavia. Lots of war over there lately. Bosnia, Croatia, something about Turks or Muslims; he wasn't too sure. He tried to pay attention as best he could, but it was a tangled clusterfuck of commies fighting commies, Croats fighting Serbs, and CroatSerbs fighting commiecommie's (he thought), so he eventually gave up **.** "Been a while."

Burt was once one of Lincoln's regulars - he was a foreman at the calculator factory in Elk Park and came in everyday for lunch. Six months or a year ago, he stopped coming in, and Lincoln was certain he'd lost yet another customer. _What, does my breath stink?_

"Yeah," Burt said, "they had me on the graveyard shift."

"Ouch."

Burt nodded. "Tell me about it. Up all night, sleep all day, miserable. I'm back to days now, thank Christ." He glanced left and right. "Place is pretty dead."

The sole customer was a county sheriff's deputy in brown pants and a green jacket with the Royal County crest on the arms. His brown Stetson sat on the table and he gazed up at a rerun of _Judge Judy_. Lincoln liked her because she reminded him of Dear Abby: A no nonsense arbitrator of other people's problems. Whereas Dear Abby occasionally ripped someone apart, Judge Judy did it every single day. "Yeah," Lincoln said, "business has been slow lately. You want something to drink?"

"Yeah, I'll take a Coke."

Lincoln got up, went to the fountain, and filled a cup with Coca-Cola. Through the order window, Fred flipped the cop's burger, and Dustin stood by the shelf along the back wall with a clipboard, taking inventory. Lincoln brought the Coke to Burt and sat down again. "Thanks," Burt said. He picked it up, took a drink, and sighed in contentment like a pitchman in a TV ad. _Wow, that's a good soda. Why don't you buy one and see for yourself? Only eight easy payments of 19.95, plus shipping and handling._ "You say business has _been_ like this?"

"It's been like this for a long time," Lincoln said, "you don't remember from you used to come in?"

"Not _this_ bad. Hell, it's almost noon and you got two guys. Where's everyone else?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Hell if I know, and hell if I care anymore." He unfolded the paper and swept the health and lifestyle section for something good. **FIVE NEW AGE PARENTING TIPS FROM DR. LIPSCHITZ.** Nope, sorry, the last child expert I believed in was Dr. Spock, and he turned out to be an anti-war commie, fuck him. Bet one of those tips is _don't spank your child._ Yeah, well, sometimes a kid needs a swift kick in the ass. Neither Alex nor Jessy did, but they aren't every kid.

The thought of his niece's name brought a slight frown to his lips. She and Mark had been out in Washington for five or six months now, but Lincoln still missed her. They came out for Thanksgiving but spent Christmas with her hippie dumbass father in California.

Mark was supposed to get a week's paid vacation in March, and Jessy said they were going to use it to come out and see everyone. Hopefully that panned out - Mark's boss, that Bill Gates guy, sounded like a real hardass. _He calls Mark names,_ Jessy said over the phone, _and other people too._ What a dick. Lincoln _never -_

*Flashback montage*

To Joey, the old dishwasher: "Hey, fuckwit, c'mere."

To Becky: "Hurry it up, will you? You're slower than Forrest Gump."

To Luan: "Get your head of of 1968 and get back to work, I got hungry customers waiting."

To Scott, the old, old, old cook (and a heroin junkie). "Look alive, needles, here comes the lunch rush."

To Ray, the cook _after_ Scott: "Look, fatso, you been here three days and you're already calling out, what gives?"

To Alex: "If I find you playing that damn game when you're supposed to be working one more time, I'm going to kick your ass.

To Robert, the cook _waaaaaay_ back in 1970. "Move the hair out of your ears and listen up, flower power, you better clean that grill before you leave, or don't bother showing up tomorrow."

All at once, it hit him.

He was an asshole too.

You know, on second thought, Bill Gates doesn't sound all that bad. I mean, when you own a business and your employees are all fuck-ups, what are you going to do? Get down on your knees and kiss their precious little butts? _It's okay if you deliver over budget and behind schedule, I really don't mind. While I'm down here, let me suck you._ Pfft.

Presently, Burt shook his head. _Ain't that a shame._ "Boy, when old Flip owned this place, it was _jumpin'."_ His eye twinkled with a nostalgic glint, and one corner of his mouth twitched up; he resembled a man drifting down memory lane on a tide of the sights, sounds, and smells of yesteryear.

"Yes, it was," Lincoln agreed.

"The parking lot was full, in here was full, the jukebox going, cute little carhops…"

Lincoln surveyed the room and frowned. The walls were grimy, the floor scuffed and cracked in places, the vinyl upholstery covering the booths crisscrossed with rips and scratches…

Hot shame crept across the back of his neck and he hung his head in contrition. Business declining wasn't something he could control, but, regardless, he was the captain of this ship, and it was floundering under _his_ watch. Flip kept her steady and on course for over thirty years...then Lincoln Loud comes along and sails her right into an iceberg. _Full steam ahead, fellas~_

He could see Flip in Heaven now, looking down at him and sadly shaking his head. _I spent my entire life building my legacy, and you knocked it down in twenty-five years. Fuck you, Loud, I'm gonna make sure Jesus sends you to hell._

Oh, so I'm gonna die and go to Flip's?

In Heaven, Flip glared.

On earth, Burt just kept going. "Man, it was somethin' else, wasn't it, Linc? Those were the days. The kind of days that come along once, maybe twice, in a lifetime."

Okay, I get it, this place was better when Flip own -

"Yeah, it's a real shame seeing it like this." Burt shook his head. "Back in the day -"

Lincoln couldn't take it anymore. "Alright," he said and held up a forestalling hand, "Flip was a better man than me. Probably had a bigger dick too."

Burt laughed heartily. Yeah, laugh it up, asshole, it's not _your_ pride that just got fucked in the ass by a yokel who manufactures dollar store calculators for a living. "Hey, I didn't mean it like that, Linc. Times change. You've had this place almost as long as Flip himself, and you done damn good with it." Leaning over the counter as if to impart great and secret wisdom, Burt held up his hand and lowered his voice. "What you need is a gimmick."

"A gimmick?" Lincoln asked slowly, rolling the word over his tongue like a new and not-entirely-palatable taste.

Burt nodded. "Yeah," he said, "a gimmick. Come on, people _love_ that sorta thing. You ever see that restaurant they got now? Rainforest Cafe or something?"

"No, never heard of it."

Burt leaned in closer, and Lincoln instinctively leaned back. "Get this. It's a restaurant...but it's got jungle stuff in it. Like, uh, a waterfall, and fake trees everywhere. Almost like you're eating in a real rainforest."

Lincoln's brow furrowed. "That's the stupidest goddamn thing I've ever heard."

Stupid or not, he couldn't deny that he was intrigued. A restaurant set up to resemble a jungle. Huh. Who the hell came up with _that_ idea? And where in the name of God did they find the balls to actually go through with it?

And what did it look like inside?

"Yeah," Burt said, "me and the missus ate at the one in the Mall of America. They had fish tanks, statues of animals, mist in the air, the works. The food was good too, but we didn't go there for that. We went for the experience." Burt grinned. " _That's_ what people want. This place...it's got nothing going for it."

Hey, fuck you, this is my legacy.

In Heaven, Flip cleared his throat.

 _Our_ legacy.

While that was true, Burt wasn't wrong. Flip's was a dump...and not even an interesting dump at that. At least some places keep you on your toes by having ceiling tiles falling down, but not here. You never got the heady rush that goes along with wondering if you're going to die or not; you sat down on a lumpy booth, ate, then left. Exciting, huh?

Did people really want _an experience_ though? The rain jungle cafe sounded interesting and all, but Lincoln was a practical, middle aged man from rural Michigan; he was perfectly happy to eat in a place like this. Sure, it wasn't fancy, but neither is McDonald's. What kind of experience is _that? Oh, boy, eating in my car, how exotic. Mable, get the camera._ Burt was a good guy (if a little annoying), but he had no clue what he was talking about. The man supervised pieces of plastic on a conveyor belt, what did _he_ know about running a restaurant? Jackshit. It was like a trucker telling a lawyer how to operate his practice. Oh, you saw a couple episodes of _Law & Order _and now you're an expert? Fascinating, tell me how to better do my job, please, I'm _dying_ to hear your sage advice.

Burt ordered a burger and fries to go, and after he was gone, Lincoln went back to the paper, his mind drifting back to what Burt said about gimmicks. _People want an experience._ Alright, say he gave Flip's a schtick. What would he do? Fill it with water and call it undersea dining? Cover the floor in snow and serve traditional Eskimo fare like whale blubber and uncooked baby seals?

Then, in a biblical flash of revelation, it hit him.

Cafe Vietnam. Instead of booths, he'd have big bamboo cages, and the waitresses would all dress up like Cong. Dishes would include maggot surprise, napalm chili, draft lottery lasagna, and POW potluck. When you went to the men's room, someone would jump out of the trees and stab you, and if you stepped on the wrong pile of leaves BOOM, landmine, there goes your leg. Oh, can't forget the tykes - there would be a playground featuring vats of Agent Orange, live hand grenades, and Cafe Vietnam's beloved mascot, Tong the Torturer. He'd make a _killing._

Literally.

He chuckled to himself and looked around the deserted dining room; a new anchor droned from the flickering TV screen, Becky swept crumbs and a balled up napkin from under the recently departed cop's table, and the ancient heating system pumped warm air through the vents with a low whirr. Perhaps Burt was onto something - adding a gimmick sure as hell wouldn't hurt. You know what they say: You can't kill what's already dead.

I'll think about it.

He was still thinking when he left at three-thirty, a headache throbbing in his temples; the afternoon sun sat low in the west, its cold amber light spreading across the frozen earth, and a frigid blast of wind swept over the parking lot, making Lincoln shiver. He pulled his jacket closed at the throat, ducked his head, and hurried to the Jeep. Behind the wheel, he slipped on his seatbelt and started the engine - music issued from the speakers, and with a wince, he turned the radio off. Not today.

 _But, Linc, The Beach Boys…_

Eh, they're crap anyway, a glorified novelty act that somehow made a full career for itself. How many songs about surfing can you really have?

Before going home, he stopped at the store for milk, then the post office to pick up a book of stamps. The lady behind the counter at the latter was so old she sat behind Eve in the third grade and moved at the speed of dead; he waited, and waited, and waited, and waited before his turn finally came. Sheesh, I spent less time as a POW.

His stomach rumbled.

And at least they fed me.

Done, he drove home and parked in the driveway next to Ronnie Anne's car. Hm. She's home early. Probably cheating on me with Chandler. He smiled sardonically and got out, slamming the door behind him. If walked into their bedroom and found her with that boy, he honestly didn't know what would offend him more: That his wife of thirty years, whom he loved deeply, was being unfaithful...or that it was with Chandler. Okay, if it was Fabio or Michael Bolton or something like that, you know, a hunky, handsome guy with money, he could understand, but a teenager who works at Pizza Hut? How would he react? Shoot them booth? Shoot himself? Shoot just Chandler? Shoot himself _then_ Chandler? Turn his head so that the bullet he puts through his skull exits out the other side, hits Ronnie Anne, then ricochets off and takes Chandler out last? So many possibilities.

Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he went up the walk and through the front door. Ronnie Anne was stretched out on the couch, her arms crossed and her head turned away from the living room; her hands lay folded upon her rhythmically undulating chest, giving her the appearance of a vampire at repose, and her closed eyelids fluttered rapidly as though she were dreaming of being staked by Van Helsing. _No, not the heart!_ He glanced at the TV, where CNN played to an empty house: **SHOOTOUT UNFOLDING IN NORTH HOLLYWOOD FOLLOWING BANK ROBBERY** screamed the text. Above it, shaky footage from either a chopper or a reporter with wings _and_ Parkinson's, showed two men in black ski masks and tactical vests standing in front of a building and shooting at unseen foes with high powered rifles. Looked like AK47's, but Lincoln couldn't be sure.

Going to the TV, he laid his hand on top, bent down, and squinted, his nose so close to the screen that static electricity (or whatever the hell it was) gave him a soft, tingling kiss. He still wasn't sure, but it looked like one was an AK and the other was a Heckler and Koch HK91. Lincoln salivated over that damn thing in _Guns and Ammo_ the way a teenage boy might salivate over a naked woman in _Playboy._ It was expensive as all hell, though, and taking it to the range every once in a while for target practice wasn't enough to justify the price. _You already have a gun, square for brains,_ he could hear Ronnie Anne saying, _why do you need another one? Planning to start a cult like that guy in Waco?_

No, he wasn't; David Koresh was a dumbass, Lincoln Loud wasn't. To be fair, though, the way the ATF handled that whole mess left a bad taste in his mouth. He understood they needed to end the standoff (those cultist spent, what, two months hold up in their little fort?), but not by throwing a tear gas canister through a window and _golly gee, why is the place suddenly burning down?_ You ever notice how often tear gas "accidentally" explodes and causes a fire? Way too often. You'd think the government would get that, but nope, they kept using the shit on people. There were fucking children in there, and they did it anyway.

Probably on purpose. _Oh, no, it was an accident, we didn't mean to -_

Yeah, just like Ruby Ridge was an accident. They shot that little Weaver boy in his back, then sniped his mouth through a window three days later...while she was holding her baby. Lincoln wasn't an anti government nut, but if they did that to Alex and Ronnie Anne? He'd take a goddamn HK91 and kill a bunch of feds too.

Patting the TV as if giving the robbers a show of encouragement, he went over to the couch and perched on the very edge, his hand going to Ronnie Anne's face. She opened her eyes to watery slits and grunted. "Hey," he said, "you're home early."

Being the highest ranking officer onboard the USS Royal County High, Ronnie Anne stayed on deck some days until 6:30 of 7. Other days, she jumped ship early and left her crew to fend for itself. The Navy hadn't court martialed her yet, but Lincoln fully expected it to happen soon. It'd be her own fault, too. Enjoy Leavenworth, bitch.

She stirred and crossed her arms. "Don't feel good," she muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach. I got the bug."

Ah. He was expecting that too: Recently a stomach bug had been making its way around school. He was probably going to get it now, too.

Lovely.

He tenderly caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "You want anything? Ginger Ale? Soup?"

She didn't immediately reply, and Lincoln waited. He was just about to ask again, thinking she fell back asleep, but she finally spoke. "I want you to hold me."

Lincoln smiled and stroked her hair. "Alright." He laid out beside her as best he could, turned onto his side, body hanging precariously over the edge, and wrapped his arms around her. A faint smile touched her lips and she snuggled against him. "Better?" he asked.

"Better," she sleepily confirmed.

* * *

Bobby Santiago Jr. was self-confident. He was never shy or awkward, and, after spending nearly ten years as one of daytime TV's most iconic villains, he was certain he could find roles if they killed him off. He was _not_ assured enough that he thought he could carry a show by himself, yet on the morning of February 28, that's exactly what they asked him to do.

Filming for the next season wasn't slated to start until April, and when the producer called him the day before to come in for a meeting, he was puzzled; if it pertained to his character, he'd find out during the table reading. No forewarning, no time to prepare, just: _EXT. DAY. Richard Parker closes his eyes and fades away, one last evil smile spreading across his lips. END_. Sudden and without warning, like an ax murder.

Years ago, an impromptu meeting would have scared him silly, and he'd spend every moment leading up to it on tenterhooks, so sick with worry he felt like he was dying. Now, it didn't even cause a ripple. He played with his kids, ate dinner, watched TV, then caught a full eight hours sleep _after_ making love to his beautiful wife. The next day, he got up, showered, ate a full breakfast, then kissed his family goodbye and drove to the studio. The day was warm, bright, and breezy, and as he navigated the congested freeway (no more surface streets...not after '92), he tapped his fingers on the wheel along to Andrea True. Man, the older he got, the better disco sounded. Maybe it's the fine wine principle; you know, it improves as it ages or something. He didn't know much about wine (it tasted like shit and gave him a headache), but that's what he heard. Maybe it wasn't true, maybe it was.

He got to the studio just before eight, parked in his spot, and got out. The guy from _Friends -_ the dumb looking one - stood against the wall talking animatedly into a cell phone, his free hand making wild and possibly obscene gestures. Bobby slipped off his sunglasses, hooked them into his black button-up, and frowned. What was his name? Joey? That was his character's name, though. Or was it? Bobby honestly couldn't remember; he didn't watch that show. Most of his daily TV intake was cartoons...and Nick News with Linda Ellerbee. Shiver. Neither Stephy or Val actually watched it, but God help help if you touched the dial when it was on. _Noooooooo! Not my Nickelodeon!_ Guess which kid said _that._

Hint, it wasn't Val.

Inside, Bobby went to the waiting room at the front of the building, signed in, and sat in an armchair facing the windows. He picked a magazine up from an end table at random and flipped idly through, his attention half on the page and half on his surroundings - generic landscapes hung from peach colored walls, and threads of the industrial carpet had come loose, bunched here and there like dead worms. Not very fancy for a TV studio. Last year he had a bit part in an Adam Sandler movie called _Happy Gilmore_ (as "Golf course spectator number 12") and the waiting room at Universal was breathtaking. Literally. Wood floors, gilded craftwork, brass fixtures - it reminded him of something you'd see in a turn of the century gentleman's club...back when a gentlemen's club didn't include cheap drinks, loud music, and half naked strippers.

Twenty minutes after sitting down, the secretary called for him to go in, and he got up and made his way into the producer's office, a wide, bright room with light blue carpet and white walls. A large oak desk dominated the space, and the producer, a fat man with thinning hair named Hugh Greenbaum, smiled at him from behind it. "Morning, Bobby," he said. Bobby's eyes went to Sandy, who sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, her graying blonde hair pulled back from her Botoxed face in a tight ponytail. She wore gray knit slacks and a sleeveless white blouse that bared her slender arms. She offered a warm smile, and Bobby missed a beat. He wasn't expecting her to be here.

"Good morning," he said, bewildered. He went over to the desk and shook Greenbaum's hand, then sat.

"Traffic?" Greenbaum asked as he opened a drawer.

Bobby snorted. "It's L.A."

Traffic in L.A. was notorious. Of all the major cities Bobby had been to (basically L.A., New York, and Vancouver), Los Angeles had it the worst. NYC was a contender, but not nearly bad enough that the city of angels had to worry - its title was safe now and for the foreseeable future.

Greenbaum removed a cigar from a box and offered it to Bobby, who shook his head. "What we need," Greenbaum said, "are more freeways. Or _bigger_ freeways. Seven or eight lanes. That'll get things moving again."

Bobby might not be the smartest, but even he knew there was no space for that many new lanes. Unless you tore down entire neighborhoods. Admittedly, some areas were pretty bad and not many people would be sad to see them go, but what would you do with all the people such a project would displace? Shoot them to Mars?

Sticking the ass end of the cigar into his mouth, Greenbaum lit it with a match and took a grand puff, fragrant smoke filling the air. "So we have a...development," he said at length, hesitating uncertainly. Bobby lifted his brow quizzically, and without further preamble, Greenbaum said, "Sandy's leaving."

It took a moment for those words to sink in; when they did, Bobby looked at Sandy as if for confirmation.

She nodded.

He couldn't say he was stunned, Sandy had been talking intermittently about retiring for years, but she always dropped the matter and went on as normal. He figured she'd go back and forth with it until they were either canceled or she died, whichever came first.

God, she was really doing this? She _was The Brash and the Bountiful,_ though. She'd been the series' one and only constant. Directors came and went, actors came and went, characters came and went, but Sandy remained, immovable as a mountain. Seasons changed, empires went up then came back down again, centuries passed, millennia, eons, and still Sandy stood. _The Brash and the Bountiful_ without her would be like...like... _The Andy Griffith Show_ without Andy Griffith, _Seinfeld_ without Seinfeld - strange and kind of pointless.

That's when it hit him.

They were ending the show.

Despite all that stuff about being confident, a tight band of anxiety closed around Bobby's chest, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from breaking out in a cold sweat.

"We're going to continue," Greenbaum said, and Bobby couldn't hide the sigh of relief he breathed. "With you as the star."

Bobby started. "Me?" he asked, his hand going to his chest.

The producer nodded. "You," he said. "You're a good actor and your character is, I think, strong enough to replace Susan as the villian." He looked at Sandy, as though for her blessing, and she gave it.

"I think so," she said, "Richard's a huge scumbag and everyone feels _something_ for him, be it love, hate, or both. That's the hallmark of a successful lead."

Greenbaum turned back to Bobby and flashed a big, sharky smile. "There you have it. Richard Parker will be the focal point. I don't think it'll be a hard transition, either. We'll kill her off and start following you. Simple as that." He sat back and took a self-satisfied puff. Pointing the cigar at Bobby, he continued. "I talked to the writing team and they're already cooking something up. It's gonna be bigger than that incest thing. Bigger than who shot J.R? Bigger than anything daytime's ever seen."

Bobby reeled. Him? The star? A television program is not a one man endeavor, there are many, many, _many_ people who put it together, from the actors you see to the writers and technicians you don't, but the success of the product rests largely on the shoulders of the lead. It doesn't matter how good everyone else is, if the lead is a fuck-up, the whole thing falls apart, and the show neither sinks or they get a _new_ lead. If he stepped up to the plate and missed, they'd kill him off for sure. No going back to being part of the supporting cast, oh no; once he became the center, he would either sink or swim on his own. If he sank, no one would extend their hand to help.

"You look intimidated," Greenbaum said.

Bobby realized his mouth hung open, and closed it with a snap. He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn't produce sound. Yeah, he was intimidated! He shifted and crossed his legs. "A little," he said and smiled nervously, then glanced at Sandy. "I have big shoes to fill."

"You'll do fine," Sandy said. "You're pretty much the star anyway. Everyone always talks about you. Never me."

He wouldn't say that, but Richard Parker was a pretty major character. Ratings weren't as high as they were in the beginning, and no one asked him to be in commercials like the Jiffy Pop one anymore, but he was still one of the biggest names in the soap world, bigger even than Victor from _The Young as the Restless._ It stood to reason that as long as he kept doing what he was doing, he would be fine, but...wow...what if he wasn't good enough to be the lead? People might like him now, but that's like saying you like green bean casserole; it's great as a side, but as the main attraction?

"You think you're ready?" Greenbaum asked.

He didn't _know_ what he thought, but he said yes anyway. What else was he supposed to say?

The meeting ended shortly before nine, and he left by the side door, stopping to slip on his sunglasses before going to the car. Behind the wheel, he started the engine, pulled on his seatbelt, and fiddled with the radio as he navigated the narrow lane between the studios. At the security booth, he nodded to Sam, the new guard, and pulled out. George, he of the motor mouth, retired last year; Bobby bought him a 10,000 dollar Rolex with his name and the date engraved on the back. He never thought he'd say it, but he kind of missed the old guy; Sam was cool and efficient, he opened the gate, waved you through, and that was it, no personal touch at all.

He left the dial on a station playing news and set a course for home, driving north through Hollywood along the Sunset Strip. Beautiful people in bright clothes and sunglasses moved up and down past elegant storefronts and tall palms, some holding bags from upscale shops, and others sat in the shade of awnings before sidewalk cafes. At his road, a long, narrow ribbon of concrete twisting through jagged hills, he turned just as a police car came screaming up behind him, its sirens blaring. Another followed, then a third, and a fourth. Bobby braked and turned to see a fifth and a six speed by. Holy shit, something _big_ was happening.

His heart skipped a beat.

I hope it's not another riot.

Stepping just a _little_ harder on the gas, he drove the rest of the way home. Lola was at the studio putting the finishing touches on her new album, _Persevere_ (at least that's what it was called right now, it _could_ change) and the kids were in school, so he had the house all to himself. This didn't happen often, and while he loved his family, a man needs a little time to himself every now and then.

The wail of sirens rose in the distance, and he remembered the cops cars on Sunset. Sinking onto the couch with a sigh, he picked the remote up from the coffee table and turned the TV on. Might as well see what's going on - if it's another riot, we're going to Royal Woods instead of Bristol, I'm sick of Lana beating me at arm wrestling. He flipped through the channels until he came to Fox 6. BREAKING NEWS blazed across the bottom of the screen in red and yellow. A white car, its trunk standing open, drove slowly through the parking lot of what looked like a bank while a man in a ski mask walked alongside it, a rifle in his hands. He lifted it to his shoulder, aimed over the roof of the car, and raked gunfire back and forth. The camera pulled back, and Bobby sat forward. Holy shit, that's the Bank of America in North Hollywood - his bank!

The car stopped at the street, and the gunman started down the sidewalk, twisting at the hips and spraying rounds back and forth in a wide arc. A black and white sat at the opposite curb, one cop crouched behind the front end and another at the rear. The latter popped up and took aim, but ducked again when the gunman opened fire; the back windshield exploded and bullets pinged off the side. Bobby watched transfixed, jaw slack and heart racing.

While the gunman disappeared behind a tractor trailer parked at the curb, the car sped by, then stopped just beyond an intersection - Bobby couldn't be sure, but it looked like he was waiting for his buddy to catch up. The gunman emerged from behind the truck; his rifle was gone in favor of a pistol. He fired a few rounds, then went around the back of the truck again. He appeared a few seconds later heading down the sidewalk and firing at random. At the intersection, people dropped behind cars and ran across their yards for cover. The car took off and the gunman hesitated before moving on. A cop appeared ahead, and as Bobby watched in horror, the gunman shoved the pistol under his own chin and pulled the trigger at the same moment the cop did; he dropped limply to the ground, and the screen quickly cut to the car driving down the street at a crawl.

Okay, that's enough.

Shaken and sick, Bobby changed the channel.

Uncle Lincoln was right.

Nothing good _ever_ happens on the news.


	186. February and March 1997: Part 2

Alex Underwood had March 1 off work, and celebrated the best way she knew how: By eating a whole pie while watching MTV in her underwear. Not _fully_ in her underwear, come on, what do you think I am, an animal? She wore purple panties and a white T-shirt she filched from Tim's dresser drawer. It was so big on her that it kind of counted as a dress,so...was she really in her underwear? Was she _really?_

Sitting on the couch with her legs kicked up on the coffee table, she shoveled spoonfuls of chocolate pie into her face, getting whipped cream on the tip of her nose, and nodded along to Metallica. You know, in the hustle and bustle of being a Mom and a CNA, things like her favorite music got lost in the mix. The only time she listened to the radio anymore was in the car or when she was cleaning, and then she kept it tuned to 101.5, The River, which didn't play stuff like this. It was all Toni Braxton, Celine Deon, and Mariah Carey. Ugh. What, no one likes metal anymore?

When she was done with the pie, she sat the aluminum tin asde and patted her gut. "Happy now?" she asked.

No reply.

Perfect.

She crossed her feet at the ankles and wiggled her toes as Metallica gave way to Krokus. Ahhh, I forgot all about these guys, they had, like, two big hits then *blows raspberry* This is why she loved _Headbanger's Ball,_ it played all your favorite metal songs, whether you remembered them or not. They ran that Michael Bolton video the other day, the one from when he _didn't_ suck. Maybe she was just comparing the guy to his new stuff, but his old stuff sounded _so_ cool. Like _why_ would he switch? To make money and get fans? Pfft, what a lame-o. No, no, he's not even a lame-o, he's a lame- _ass_ , which is the highest ranking lame-o under Lamecoln. That was a portmanteau of her father's name and the word _lame_ , is case you didn't know. The first time she called him that last week, he fixed her with the most expressionless stare she'd ever seen. _Alex...go home._ She, Blake, and Tim were over for dinner, so she didn't leave until he fed her.

 _Rumble._

Oh, you are _not_ hungry again. I _just_ fed you lots of yummy pie.

 _RUMBLE._

Oooh, _that_ didn't feel too good. Her stomach turned and in an instant all of that yummy pie was rushing back up her esophagus in a hot, stinging flood. She slapped her hand to her mouth, jumped up, and rushed to Blake's bathroom - she couldn't make it to hers. The door, just her luck, was closed, and she _maaaay_ have thrown her shoulder against it like a cop on _Crimetime After Primetime_ ( _Forever Knight_ was the best cop show ever, by the way, since the cop was a FREAKING VAMPIRE!). At the toilet, she dropped to her knees, bent her head over the rim, and let loose a steaming brown torrent that did _not_ taste as good coming back up as it did going down. She gripped the edge, vaguely aware that her fingers were slipping in piss (damn it, Blake, I told you to _aim_ ), and puked so hard the edges of her vision grayed and her brain throbbed against the inside of her skull like it was going to burst. She wretched and gasped, and the thick taste of bitter stomach bile made her hurl again. Ugh! I will never eat a whole chocolate silk pie ever again!

When it passed, she dug her fingers into the porcelain hand panted for air, the stench of stale urine and fresh barf pinching her nose like a mixed drink in hell. She threw her head back and let out a low, miserable moan that hurt her raw throat; a long strand of slobber dripped from her chin and landed on the front of her shirt. Her stomach, heavy with nausea, roiled like hot water on a stove, and she hung her head again, her black hair plastering to her sweaty forehead. Her stomach clutched again, and for a horrible second, she thought she was gonna upchuck one more time, but it passed, leaving her cold, hollow...and empty. She glowered down at the mess in the bowl and sneered. Well, there goes my pie. What a waste.

Guess it's my fault for sucking down it down in the first place. The box said _feeds_ six, not _feeds Alex Underwood and no one else._ You know what this is? This is God smiting you for your greed and gluttony.

Yeah, maybe, it feels more like -

Deep in the folds of her brain, two wires touched together with a spark.

"I'm pregnant," she said aloud, an edge of bemused certainty in her voice. It was all so clear to her now: The strange cravings, the constant, never ending hunger, the atomic vomiting (seriously, there were wads of gum in the bowl they didn't even _make_ anymore). Timmer's swimmers must have done it again - his sperm fertilized one of her eggs, his seed sewed her garden, uh...there are other literary metaphors but she couldn't think of any.

She was pregnant and there was no doubt about it; she was suddenly sure enough that she would bet money.

Getting to her feet, she flushed the toilet, washed her hands, then cupped her palms under the flow and splashed water into her mouth. In the mirror, her face was drawn and her eyes rimmed with pink. She looked awful.

Cutting the faucet, she went through the trailer to hers and Tim's bathroom, bent, opened the cabinet, and rummaged through toiletries until she found a box of pregnancy tests she picked up on sale two or three years ago. Huh, it's been a while. Wonder if these things still work? She turned it over in her hands and found an expiration date stamped on the bottom.: BEST BY 052396.

Well damn.

Sighing heavily, she dropped them into the trash, went into the bedroom, and rooted in the dresser for a pair of pants, grumbling under her breath the whole time. She didn't _wanna_ wear pants today, it was her special no work day and she was supposed to pantless until Blake got home. She really wanted to see if her hunch was right, though - a hot, throbbing ball of excitement pushed against her ribcage like a swelling balloon, and her stomach fluttered so hard she almost doubled over. Wait, that's just gas...no it's not, it's the sweet tingle of anticipation. She and Tim weren't actively trying to have a baby - she was still in nursing school and getting preggo kind of interfered with that - but if the stork just _happened_ to drop one off, you wouldn't hear _her_ complain. Especially if it was a girl - she kinda really wanted a daughter.

Her excitement grew, and she hurriedly pulled out a pair of jeans and yanked them on, sucking her stomach in so she could button them; they fit kind of tight around her waist, thighs, and butt. Hmmm. Must have gotten shrunk in the wash.

She went into the living room, snatched her shoes from the floor, and sat on the couch to put them on. _Road Rules_ replaced music videos, and Alex silently thanked God she had somewhere to be, cuz she hated this show, _The Real World_ too. The only "reality" shows she liked were _Cops, America's Most Wanted,_ and ...um….she knew there were others but she couldn't think of them off the top of her head. She preferred stuff like _MadTV_ \- that was the best sketch comedy show in the world since _In Living Color_ went off the air.

Getting off track. She tied her shoes, threw on her coat, and went outside just in time to be battered by an icy wind. Buurrrrr. The plan was to _not_ do this today. She locked the door behind her, scurried to the car, and started the engine, her teeth chattering at the deep chill. God, I hate the cold; my bronze flesh was made for Cancun, not an igloo.

She started for Rite-Aid, but got sidetracked and wound up sitting at a booth in McDonald's and stuffing her pie hole with an Egg McMuffin. She didn't know exactly how she got there, and for a moment she regarded her sandwich with a puzzled frown. Hm. Oh well. As far as misadventures go, this is my tastiest one yet. When she was done, she sucked her fingers one by one, smacked her lips, and thoughtfully scanning the dining room. Other patrons ate at cramped, sticky tables, and a line of black people and rednecks waited at the counter as a stricken women in a McDonald's uniform darted between the register and the cup rack - not very much diversity around here. Growing up, Alex knew one Asian girl (Meagan), two Hispanics aside from Mom, Uncle Bobby, and Bobby Jr., and...that was pretty much it on the non-black-or-white front. As for black and white people, they were all of the generic variety - no Jamaicans or Russians or anything but plain ol' Americans.

Boooooring.

Anyway...she kinda of wanted another Egg McMuffin. She looked down at the hash brown on her tray, its brown body poking from a crinkly waxpaper wrapper with a yellow M in a red square across the front. It reminded her of a fascist symbol, kind of like the one from _The Stand_ miniseries. Imagine it: A world where a right wing Ronald McDonald ruled with an iron fist; Grimace and Mayor McCheese kicking in the doors of political dissidents at three in the morning, the Hamburglar herding vegetarians onto cattle cars for a trip to Auschwitz, that duck girl with the aviator goggles at the head of a fighter squadron in a V-shaped formation, dropping McDoubles and Big Macs over enemy territory…

Huh. My mind is a strange and often absurdist place.

That's what makes me me, and I'm pretty cool, so…

She slipped the hash brown from its wrapper and took a big, crispy bite. She never liked this things as a kid, but now that her taste buds had matured and sophisticated, she could appreciate the flavor profile - the perfect balance of hash and brown with a hint of salt and...uh...I don't know, other stuff. What do I look like, Julia Child? Leave me alone.

Setting the brown aside, she picked up her cup and took a long, thirsty drink of Coke. She almost went with orange juice to keep with the breakfasty theme, but she liked Coke better - nothing puts some pep in your step like Coca-Cola. Mr. Pibb was good too, but for whatever reason, this place was always out of the stuff. McDonald's must be against her, just like Jiffy Pop used to be. She flashed back to that Jiffy Pop commercial Bobby Jr. did years ago and shook her head. _Villains like burning their popcorn too, ya know_ *evil smile* Nice to see her big cousin showing his family loyalty.

Cramming the last of the hashbrown into her mouth, she washed it down with the last of her pop, got up, and carried her tray to the overflowing trash bin by the side door. She hesitated, torn between wanting another Egg McMuffin and not wanting to be a big fat fatty, then shrugged and went outside. Cold wind blew through her hair, and her teeth clacked together. Okay, where was I?

Oh, right, pregnancy test.

A ripple of angst cut through her stomach, and she nervously chewed her lower lip as she hurried across the windswept parking lot. She was conflicted; She really wanted another baby but really wanted to wait until she was done with nursing school - if she was pregnant, great, she'd be happy (you wouldn't like her opinion on women who get abortions or give their kids up for adoption, so don't even ask), but right now...she was evenly split: 50 percent for being preggo, 50 percent against. In the car, she pulled her seatbelt on and started the engine, then backed up. If she _was_ 'in the family way' then it really shouldn't interfere with the whole trying to be a nurse thing - she couldn't be more than a month along, so...let's say November makes nine months. She'd be done in...was it August or September? Something like that. She'd be big and uncomfortable, but that never stopped her before.

A little of the tension squeezing her chest released. Yeah, she'd be long out of school by the time baby number two made his or her appearance. Other than that, there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Well, actually, there kind of was. In addition to taking classes, she obviously still worked, which presented kind of a problem. See, in case you haven't gotten the memo yet, being a CNA requires a _lot_ of physical labor. Bending, squatting, lifting, pole vaulting (the last one was a joke). Those are literally all of the things a pregnant woman _shouldn't_ do.

During her time lugging Blake around, she learned, both through books and good old fashioned first hand experience, that preggers women are _not_ made of glass. The human body is a durable thing, and since its primary purpose is to propagate life, it pulls out all the stops to protect a baby in the womb. That doesn't make it okay to deadlift a 500 pound patient, though. She'd have to take time off or see if she could be put on light duty. She and Tim were okay on money, but she didn't want to find out _how_ okay by going nine plus months without working.

Now the tension was squeezing tighter again. Deep breath, Bunny; take it one step at a time.

She pulled onto Main and followed it three blocks to the Rite Aid on the corner, a newish boxy gray building with diamond shaped windows running along its drab flanks. She parked in a slot facing the wall and got out just in time for the wind to throw a sheet of newspaper into her face. Ugh. I swear, you just can't get away from current events these days. TV, radio, even the internet. Mark gave her and Tim a Sony VAIO computer for Christmas, this big, clunky gray thing that took up more room than an aircraft carrier, and every once in a while she logged onto WebCrawler to search for something - the homepage was filled with news headlines and if she let her eyes linger too long, she'd find out what was going on in the world.

Yuck.

They didn't go on the internet very much because it was connected through the phone line via dial-up and you couldn't make or receive phone calls while it was in use. It was also really slow - she could go to the library, pick up a book on whatever topic she wanted to read about, come back home, finish it, and still have time left over before her results were loaded. Wave of the future? Yeah, wave of molasses.

Peeling the paper from her face, she balled it up and dropped it into the trash can on her way inside. Automatic doors swept back and gleaming tile floors, metal shelves, and cardboard displays of mitten, toboggans, and wool socks greeted her. _Hey, Bunny, nice head you got there, shame if something made it...cold._ She wasn't in the market for gloves or caps; she was here strictly for a pregnancy test.

Now...where were they? She'd been here before but never for _that._ She started in the front and went methodically through the aisles until she found them near the pharmacy counter. She picked a box up at random and turned it idly over in her hands - I guess I'll just go with this one. There's not much difference between brands when it came to something like this.

Up front, she waited in line behind a guy in a baseball cap with an extra long bill (compensating for something, buddy?) and leaned around him to see the candy bar rack next to the register. Oooh, a Caramello sounded good, so did a Twix, and Skittles, and Twizzlers, and a Payday. Saliva filled her mouth in sweet anticipation of dissolving yummy chocolate, and she swallowed it down. You just dissolved a McMuffin and hash browns. Wait until lunch time.

 _Can we have chocolate for lunch?_

...well...okay!

When Big Hat took his leave, she stepped forward, grabbed a Caramello, a Twix, and a Milky Way, and sat them on the counter, along with the test. The cashier, a teenage girl with frizzy blonde hair and a snotty you're-scum-I'm-soooo-much-better-than-you expression rang up her purchases and dropped them into a plastic bag. "15.50," she said and smacked her gum; Alex got a whiff of spearmint and her stomach turned. Of all the chewing gum on the market...ya went with spearmint. That's the worst flavor there is behind peppermint. Big Red...now _that's_ a gum. She chewed it sometimes when she was tired at work; kinda hard to be drowsy when your mouth is on fire.

Alex fished a twenty from her purse, handed it over, and waited for her change, the chocolate singing a siren song and beginning to be eaten. It's not lunch yet, nice try.

Money in hand, she went outside, looked suspiciously around for rogue sheets of paper, then scurried to the car like a timid mouse across a field. No hawks swooped down and attacked, and she climbed in behind the wheel unmolested. She dropped the bag on the passenger seat, clicked her belt on, and turned the key in the ignition.

Alright, let's see if there's a baby in there, shall we?

On the drive home, she tapped the wheel and sang along to Alanis Morissette, her voice high, cracking, and breaking every so often. If the windows weren't rolled up, her voice would have been unleashed on an unsuspecting world like the plague (only twice as deadly), but they were, so the denizens of earth were safe...for now.

"IT'S LIKE RA-A-A-AIN ON YOUR WEDDING DAY

A FREE RIIIIIIIIIDE WHEN YOU ALREADY PAID!"

 _Ironic_ was one of her all-time favorite songs because it was so freaking genius. In it, Alanis rattles off this huge long list of things that are supposed to be ironic. None of them are, though - rain on your wedding day? Sweetie, that's called weather. Plane crash? Bad luck. A no smoking sign on your cigarette break? Go smoke somewhere else. It is, therefore, a song called _Ironic_ that's not really about irony...which is ironic in of itself. Hahahahaha. That sailed over most people's heads, but not hers - I see what you did there, Alanis; you think you're slick but you gotta get up _pretty_ early to get one over on Alejandra Carmen Loud. In fact, you have to stay up all night long, like Gilbert Godfrey on USA.

She turned right at the entrance to Marsh Run and followed the maze of streets to the trailer, braking to let an old man cross, then parked in the driveway. Inside, she shrugged out of her coat, tossed it onto the couch, and carried the bag into hers and Tim's bedroom, where she sat it on the bed. She unbuttoned her jeans, wiggled out of them, then pulled down her underwear. She took a pregnancy test two years ago after three consecutive days of her stomach feeling kind of funky and made the mistake of leaving her panties around her ankles as she sat on the toilet. No big, right? Well, when she slid the test out from under her, she hit the rim of the john and spilled all that warm, stinky pee onto her underwear.

Never again.

Naked from the waist down, she took the box out and opened it as she walked into the bathroom; she paused in the doorway to rip a strip of adhesive off, then snapped the light on. She yanked one of the three tests out like a sword from a scabbard _(I am Alejandra Carmen Loud, you killed my father, prepare to die)_ , crossed to the commode, and lifted the lid. She sat, spread her knees as far apart as she could, and dipped the test between her thighs, one eye squinting and the tip of her tongue plastering to her upper lip in concentration. Maybe she was dumb, but finding her pee hole was _kinda_ hard. Positioning it just so and hoping for she best, she released her bladder and winced when slimy liquid dribbled onto her knuckles. Ugh,

She carefully moved the test aside so as not to spill any of the fluid, finished, then held it up. A single blue line appeared in the results window and she hummed. Guess I'm not -

Another line materialized and Alex's heart bounced.

...not pregnant. Guess I'm not not pregnant.

A big, beaming smile crested across her lips and a bright, twinkling light shone in her eyes. She glanced up at the shower curtain as if to share her joy with it, then got up. "I'm pregnant," she sang, "that means I can eat anything I waaaaaant."

And right now, she wanted that Caramello.

"Come on, kid," she said and patted her stomach, "stick with me and I'll show you how to live."

* * *

Lincoln Loud lay curled on his side and clutched his throbbing stomach. Hot pain sliced through his center like an ax blade and his pale, sweaty face contorted in anguish as another spasm hit him. He bared his teeth, issued a tormented moan, and rocked slightly back and forth.

This was it...he was dying. He survived a tour of duty in Vietnam, eight months as a POW, and twenty-five years owning a radioactive waste heap masquerading as a restaurant only to be felled by a stray bullet he neither saw nor heard. One minute he was fine, the next it slammed him in the guts and blew out his spleen, gallbladder, kidneys, and probably his liver too. Blood oozed through his fingers and darkness lingered at the corners of his vision, waiting to sweep forward like a deadly tide and blot out his sight for all time. Would they play Taps at his funeral? Would Ronnie Anne be able to make it without him? They had enough money stored up that she wouldn't go into poverty, but she might not take well to him not being around. If she was anything like him (and she was no matter _how_ strenuously she denied it), losing him would be like losing her head - can't live without your dome piece. Almost thirty years ago, he vowed to blow his own brains out if she died in childbirth (to be fair, he would have stuck around if Alex lived), and he was worried she'd do something similar.

Or worse.

Get remarried.

A spasm wracked his midsection, and a miserable moan escaped his trembling lips. He could see it now: Another man sleeping in his bed, wearing his slippers, reading his paper at his table while eating his toast. Lincoln didn't believe in God or ghosts, but if he was wrong, he'd come back and haunt them into the nuthouse.

How would Blake do without his old granddad? Lincoln loved that boy like a son and without a strong male role model in his life, he'd probably turn out gay. There was Tim, but Tim was a henpecked wimp. Mark might be able to step in, but his Asperger's made him a real weirdo. Give it a year, and Blake would be making patterns out of Sweet and Low packets and trying to decipher whether that pat on the back you gave him was a friendly show of affection or a physical attack.

And Flip's...Jesus, what would happen to _that?_ They'd probably turn it into a fast food joint and "honor" him by naming it after him. The Lincoln Loud Memorial McDonald's, only instead of Ronald McDonald, the mascot would be a big headed Vietnam vet with a cowlick and PTSD. _Hiya, kids, don't make any loud, sudden noises or your old pal Linc might get triggered._ He'd rather they just dig up his body and piss on his bones.

On the upside, he wouldn't have to pay taxes anymore. And that bastard Chandler - still living with mommy and daddy like the fat loser he was - wouldn't wake him up at 3am revving his clunker's shoddily built Chinese engine.

Then again, you know what hangs out in graveyards?

Maggots.

Maggots hang out in graveyards. He wasn't sure how they got into coffins (what, do flies burrow underground?), but somehow they did. He pictured himself laid out in his burial suit, hands folded on his chest like Dracula at repose. The lacy lining above his head ripped, and a flood of maggots plopped onto his face with a wet squelch; they poured into his mouth, wiggled up his nose, slipped into his ears, then started eating his flesh between tiny, Alvin and the Chipmunks like cries of _revenge! Revenge!_ Later on, some poor bastard was forced to choke them down and the circle of life, like in that _Lion King_ movie Blake loved so much, was complete.

Another pang rippled through him, and he hissed through his teeth.

"Will you knock it off, lame-o?" Ronnie Anne asked. "You're fine."

He pried one eye open and the world swam into focus: She crossed to the nightstand and sat a tray down. The smell of chicken soup found his nostrils and he buried his face in the pillow like an ostrich hiding from a hungry jackal. "I'm dying."

"No you're not," she said.

The _stray bullet_ that he never saw coming was The Bug, a nasty stomach virus that had been tearing through Royal County High like a buzzsaw for weeks, hell, maybe months. Ronnie Anne was its latest victim and she, in all her wifely generosity, passed it onto him. This was not the first time she brought a plague home from work yet Lincoln was still a little surprised when he caught it, just like he always was. His reasoning was this: Something that knocks a teenager on their ass shouldn't bother him since his immune system was so much more advanced. Think of it like a scrape. A five-year-old skins his knee and cries bloody murder, but a twenty-five year old barely registers it. Almost every time there was a major outbreak at RCHS, however, Lincoln wound up with a case and half. The only one he missed was lice back in '83, but to be fair, the moment he caught wind of it, he shaved his head. _You look like that guy!_ Blades cried the next time he came into Flip's. He pounded the counter and laughed so hard he cried. Lincoln never found out who _that guy_ was, but it was just as well, because if he did and he looked stupid, he would have ended up knocking Blades on his greaser ass.

Ronnie Anne leaned over the table and threw the curtains open; blinding winter sunlight surged into the room and Lincoln winced as though his flesh would burn if it touched him. "You need to eat something," she said, her voice dropping into a more serious tone, "it's been two days."

"Not hungry," Lincoln said. The last time he ate, he spent three hours shitting and puking, then woke up from a deep sleep only to shit the bed. It wasn't much, just enough to stain his underwear, but the stomach dropping horror and the panicked flight to the bathroom more than made up for it.

Sighing, Ronnie Anne sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and pressed her hand softly to his forehead. "Please?" she asked beseechingly, "for me?"

He thought for a moment, calling up all the times she did things for _him._

"No," he finally said, "go away."

Her brow darkened and her fingertips curled against his skin ever so slightly; if she had claws, they'd be digging into his skin any moment now. "You're eating whether you like it or not," she said sternly. She turned, picked a Saltline up from the tray, and held it to his lips. "Here."

"I really don't want to," he sighed.

"Just eat a couple."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine." He obediently opened his mouth, and she shoved the cracker in, its pointed corners scraping the insides of his cheeks. He bit down, and the salty taste of stale wheat coated his tongue. He chewed then swallowed.

"There," she said, a pleased note in her voice. She twisted around, grabbed another, and held it out. He took it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "One more, then Ginger Ale, okay?"

"Yes, mother," Lincoln said heavily.

She picked up another cracker and slipped it into his mouth, then handed him a fizzy glass of Ginger Ale, ice cubes clinking together with _tinks_ that reminded him of toasts at fancy dinner parties where snobs bragged about all the draft deferments they got in the sixties. _You see, I was simply too important to fight in the war. I hear an old chap named Lincoln Loud went in my stead._ *Raises glass* _To Loud._ He took a drink then handed it back. She sat it on the tray, leaned over, and kissed his forehead, thus completing the ritual. "Now take a nap."

"I'll try," he said.

He expected to lay awake in agony until the plague inducted heart attacks lulled him to sleep, but he dropped off minutes after Ronnie Anne left, and didn't wake again until evening. Pallid purple light pressed against the window pane and Chandler's lemon _vrrrrrrroooooommmm_ 'd as he gunned the engine. Lincoln rolled onto his back and swallowed thickly, then ran a self-inventory. The pain was largely gone, but his stomach still rolled and when he sat up, a quick burst went through his middle. He raked his fingers through his sweaty hair and waited to see if he was going to keel over. When he didn't, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, clasped his hands to his knees, and took a deep breath; inhaling was uncomfortable, but exhaling was like being shived in the guts by a dozen hardened convicts out for venege _(you ate the last pudding cup, Loud, take_ that _and_ that). Outside, Chandler's engine roared again, then started knocking and sputtering like an emphysema patient trying to laugh but giving himself a stroke instead.

Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?

Steeling himself for excruciating anguish that didn't come, Lincoln got to his feet and leaned over the nightstand, one hand drawing back the curtains. Chandler, dressed in shorts and a T shirt despite the practically-still-February temperatures, stood over the exposed engine block of his lemon with one hand resting on the open hood and the other resting on his gelatinous hip. The boy's weight gain never ceased to amaze Lincoln - to him, Chandler would always be the scrawny little punk he was at thirteen no matter _how_ fat he got. Lincoln had half a mind to go out there and punch him in his face, but instead he turned away and went into the living room, where Ronnie Anne sat on the couch with her legs under her. She stared at a file in her lap, her reading glasses slipping down her nose and her hair spilling over her shoulders. On TV, Dan Rather read the day's news in a somber tone that suggested calamity and woe; video of Bill Clinton speaking to Congress rolled, and Lincoln snorted. Fitting.

He dropped into his chair, and Ronnie Anne glanced up at him. "Hey," she greeted, "how do you feel?"

"Better," Lincoln said, "still a little queasy and sharp pains every now and then."

She nodded knowingly. "Sounds like you're getting over it." She was off her feet for two days before it passed, which was about how long he'd been under.

"Thank God," he said, "that was worse than Vietnam." He reached for his reading glasses and slipped them on, then picked up the issue of _Guns, Guns, Guns_ he was working his way through before his closest-ever brush with death.

Ronnie Anne pulled a piece of paper from the file with a crisp sound and sat it aside. "Maybe for you," she said gravelly, "but it wasn't for me."

He opened his mouth to reply, but what could he say to that? He knew how hard him being away, then missing, was on her. Mom, Leni, and Lori all told him how depressed she was; Flip said the day Mom called her at work to tell her he'd been found, she broke down crying. Over the years, he fell into making light of his time in Vietnam as a coping mechanism, forgetting that he wasn't the only one who suffered and that sometimes his joking touched a raw nerve. She passed many sleepless nights worried sick about him and hurt every single day for eight months because while he wasn't officially dead, he might as well have been.

Then here he comes like the biggest, most tone deaf klutz ever. _Hahaha, remember the time I got shot and you thought you were a widow for almost a year? Hehehehe, good times, huh?_

Feeling two inches tall now, he frowned at the magazine and glanced up at Ronnie Anne. Her face was placid, showing no signs of lingering emotional distress, but he couldn't help thinking his comment bothered her more than she let on. Or maybe he had a guilty conscious. Who the hell knew? He was fifty years old and there were facets of his personality - corners of his heart and mind - that were still a mystery to him. He felt bad, but was he...what was the word?...projecting? He sat the magazine in his lap and tensed at the sudden spasm of his stomach muscles. "Maybe it wasn't _that_ bad," he allowed.

"Of course it wasn't," she said. She picked up a pen, brushed her hair behind her ear, and jotted something down. "You're just a primadonna."

Normally he would have argued the point ( _I'm a war hero and a successful restaurant owner, I have your primadonna hanging_ ), but he wanted his maybe-possibly faux paus behind him as quickly as possible, so he gave in and agreed. "Yeah, I'm a baby." He opened the magazine and scanned a selection of handguns, seeing but not registering. Was it his imagination or was the air between them just a _little_ tense? He stole a sidelong glance at her; she went about her business with the aplomb of a woman's whose biggest concern was filling out paperwork and _not_ remembering the eight months of depression and fear she suffered thirty years ago. Hm. He had to be sure. "What's for dinner?" he blurted, and his stomach seized indignantly. _Why'd you ask her that, dumbass? I'm still sick down here!_

Maybe she didn't hear -

"You're hungry?" she asked. "I can make us a couple microwave dinners."

"Sounds good," he lied.

She sat another form aside. "Alright. Just let me finish."

Twenty minutes later, Ronnie Anne sat a free standing TV tray in front of him and plopped a plastic container of food on top. The smell turned Lincoln's stomach, but his mouth watered anyway. It _had_ been a while since his last decent meal, and while nothing could beat home cooked, Swanson's salisbury steak wasn't half bad. She laid a fork next to a glass of Ginger Ale and leaned over to kiss him. "There you go, lame-o. You took care of me while I was sick, now I'm taking care of you."

"Thank you," he said, a tingle of sentimentality in his chest. This, to him, was what marriage was all about - devotion, dedication and commitment. Once you enter into matrimony with someone you're bound to them in a way you are bound to no other person, except maybe for your children. They become your partner - when you're tired, they carry you, when you're upset, they listen and offer advice. Life is a strange, cold, and lonely journey fraught with misery, danger, and the unknown, and having someone there with you...there _for_ you...was really a beautiful thing. He liked to think he was an independent tough guy, but he shuddered to think what his life would be like now if he weren't married to Ronnie Anne. Darker, he thought, and colder...dirtier, too, since he had a habit of being a slob sometimes.

On the other hand, he'd never have to eat her goddamn tuna casserole ever again.

Hm. You know, I take it back. Marriage is a sham; give me a divorce, bitch.

She touched the side of his face and smiled warmly, and he changed his mind yet again. Nevermind the divorce, honey, and, uh, sorr about calling you a bitch. I didn't mean it.

Pulling back, she went into the kitchen, grabbed her own food, and brought it to the couch, where she sat. It was full dark now, the lamp on the end table producing a soft, ambient glow, and _Grace Under Fire_ played on ABC. He watched as he ate, mesmerized. He spent most evenings in his chair reading, fragments of whatever show was on finding their way into his mind, so while he knew the names of all the characters, he had no clue what they looked like. Wait, that's Grace? Given that firm voice of hers, I thought she was a man! He was just finishing up when someone knocked on the door. _Shave and a haircut. Two bits._ There was only one person in town who knocked like that.

Ronnie Anne pushed her tray aside, got up with a weary groan, and crossed the living room. She unlocked the door and opened it: Blake stood on the step with his mother behind him, her hands on his shoulder and a big, goofy smile on her face. "Hi," Alex chriped. "Can we come in? It's really cold out here."

"Well, this is unexpected," Ronnie Anne said, and something about her tone made her sound like a dotty old woman. She stepped aside and Bake came in, dressed in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt under a brown zip up coat, a bright orange watch cap pulled low on his forehead. His chubby cheeks were ruddy with chill and silvery snot ran freely from his nose. He swiped it with the back of his hand and started toward the couch, but Ronnie Anne stopped him. "Excuse me?"

Spinning on his heels, he went over and gave her a hug. "There," Ronnie Anne said, pleased, "that's better." She held the little boy at arm's length and smiled proudly. "How are you? It's been so long since I saw you."

Lincoln furrowed his brow in thought. As best he could remember, Blake was over last weekend - Lincoln showed him how to properly handle an unloaded handgun. _This is_ not _a toy. If you point it at anyone, even when you think it's unloaded, your peepee will fall off._ Blake's eyes widened. They were standing in Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's bedroom, the Colt Bobby got him for Christmas years ago in Lincoln's hand. _I don't want my peepee to fall off,_ Blake said, horrified.

 _Then use your gun smarts._

Two days later he was reading the paper in his chair when Alex came in, walked over, and pushed it down with her index finger. _Hi,_ she said with strained patience, _uh, did you tell my son his penis was going to fall off?_

 _If he points a gun at someone_

Alex nodded to herself. _Okay, great,_ she said, her voice tight, _now he's having nightmares about it._

Whoops.

Heh, bet he won't forget to use his gun smarts, though.

"Good," Blake said now. "I lost a tooth and the Tooth Fairy came. See?" He opened his mouth as wide as he could and pointed to the back bottom row.

"I see," Ronnie Anne said, "how much did you get?"

"Five bucks."

Her jaw dropped, and she looked at Alex, who smiled sheepishly. Alex and Tim were nowhere near poor, even before the quarterly payments from Luna's estate, but five dollars was a hell of a lot of money for a kid. You start handing out five bucks for every baby tooth and pretty soon your kid's spoiled and you gotta throw them away. "She's very generous, isn't she?" Ronnie Anne asked through her teeth.

Alex shrugged. "Well...she's making up for being so stingy when _I_ was little."

Ronnie Anne's brow darkened and she put her hands on her hips like an angry teacher, which she basically was. "Okay. She'll remember that."

Unconcerned with the drama unfolding between his mother and grandmother, Blake went to the end of the couch and plopped down. "I lost my tooth, Brandpa," he said. "See?" He opened his mouth again and Lincoln made a show of studying his teeth over the tops of his reading glasses.

"I see," he said, "made some money too."

Blake nodded. "Five dollars. I spent it on candy."

"All of it?" Lincoln asked, taken aback. Five bucks didn't have the same buying power today that it did forty years ago, but holy smokes, that's a lot of candy.

"Yep," Blake said. "I already ate it all too."

Alex came in from the front step, followed by Tim, whom Lincoln had assumed was still at work, and Ronnie Anne returned to her spot on the couch.

"Not all of it," Blake added. "I gave some to Jordan, but only the stuff I didn't like"

Ah, smart kid - pawn the crap off on your girlfriend. He'd been doing that to Ronnie Anne since they were twelve years old.

Of course, Jordan wasn't really Blake's girlfriend, but if their friendship continued down the path it was currently on, it might very well go in that direction. They were very close, and half the time when Blake came over on the weekends, she tagged along. They fought like cats and dogs sometimes, but for the most part, they got along well - they'd kick off their shoes, snuggle close on the couch, and watch VHS tapes. _The Little Mermaid, The Tom and Jerry Movie, Fievel Goes West, The Land Before Time_ oh, and can't forget _The Lion King._ They talked, laughed, and even poked fun at some of the things on screen. _That cat's really fat, he needs to go on a diet,_ Jordan might say, or _that woman's butt is bigger than my whole bedroom._ One time Lincoln walked in on them watching a cartoon on MTV in which a brown headed boy with braces and a blonde boy with a severe underbite sat on a couch and called each other colorful names like _choad smoker, bungmunch,_ and _butt monkey._ That he could tolerate, but when braceface called his buddy _dumbass,_ he gaped in shock, then scrambled to turn the TV off. God alive, what kind of shit are they putting in children's shows these days? What's next, Mr. Rogers teaching the kids at home home to make love using Mr. McFeely's ass hole as an example?

"I hope you waited until _after_ dinner," Ronnie Anne said and fixed him with a raised-brow expression. Blake nodded quickly and said that he did...the way he fumbled and coughed told Lincoln that that was a lie.

"I made him eat all his veggies," Alex said with a resolute nod. She and Tim stood side-by-side in front of the coffee table, Tim's arm around her shoulders and his fingers affectionately rubbing her up her arm. There was a certain glint in his eye that gave Lincoln pause. It was the look of a man who won the lottery. My daughter's great, but she's not _that_ great, calm down.

God, that sounded awful. Alex _was_ great and he loved her very much. In fact, did Tim ever thank him for walking her down the aisle and handing her off? Lincoln couldn't recall, but he was pretty sure he didn't.

Ingrate.

"I ate my veggies too," Alex said and patted her stomach. "I really need them now."

"Yes you do," Ronnie Anne agreed, "you've put on weight."

Alex gaped. "Yeah, weight that I'm losing," she challenged.

Ronnie Anne had never been a fitness fanatic - in fact, her eating habits were just as bad as Alex's sometimes - but when Alex started gaining weight, she turned into Hitler, if Hitler burned fat instead of Jews. She hounded their daughter incessantly about _eating right_ and living a _healthier lifestyle._ She was worried about her, like any mother would be, can't blame her for that, can you? She also didn't like that Blake was chubby either, but that never stopped her from shoving cookies and cakes down his throat. It's a grandma thing - they literally can't help themselves.

"You're doing a very good job with it," Ronnie Anne said encouragingly. "Just don't gain any of it back."

Alex pursed her lips in annoyance. "Well, I'm going to. Because I'm pregnant."

It took Lincoln a moment to fully comprehend what she was saying. Ronnie Anne sat forward like a shot, her face lighting up. "You are?"

Alex grinned and nodded. "Yep. Totally pregnant. With a baby." She swatted Tim's chest with the back of her hand. "His baby."

"At least she says it's mine," Tim said. Alex shot him a dirty look that he pretended not to notice. Ronnie Anne jumped to her feet, came around the coffee table, and swept Alex into a big, spine snapping hug; Alex's eyes bulged from their sockets and the air rushed out of her in a breathless _oof_ that reminded Lincoln of a boxer taking an uppercut to the midsection.

"Congratulations," he said with a pleased smile. He never said so out loud to anyone but Ronnie Anne, but he'd been secretly hoping they'd eventually have another one. Having come from a large family himself, he had some kind of weird fetish for big families the way that guy on the radio had a fetish for big butts. He and Ronnie Anne hoped to have lots of children, but she was rendered barren after Alex, so their last hope was that she (and Jessy too) would go baby crazy and start popping them out left and right. That hadn't happened yet, and he was beginning to fear that it wouldn't. _She's in her prime,_ he told Ronnie Anne a couple weeks back. He was sitting in his chair with the newspaper, _Cybil_ playing in the background, and Ronnie Anne was on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table and her eyelids fighting to droop closed. He snapped the paper to emphasize his annoyance. _If I was her, I'd be pregnant with baby number five by now._

He was only half joking.

 _I doubt you'd make it past one,_ Ronnie Anne said, voice thick with sleep. _Labor hurts and if the way you act when you're sick is any indication, you'd cry and scream the entire time._

 _No I wouldn't,_ he sniffed, _I bear every burden with stoic and manly silence._ He knew even then that he was exaggerating, but after his most recent bout with The Misery (as old Ernie would have called it), he realized just how right she was. He saw himself in a hospital bed with a team of doctors between his legs and Ronnie Anne standing next to him. _I'm never letting you touch me again, bitch,_ he hissed.

Turning to Blake, he favored the little boy over the tops of his reading glasses. "You excited to be a big brother?" he asked.

Blake nodded deeply. "Yeah. It's gonna be fun." He didn't sound overly enthused, but he didn't sound particularly disappointed either. Boys often aren't as nurturing as girls so to them a baby's nothing to write home about.

"He's gonna teach the baby lots of new things," Alex promised.

"Like how to play Mario," Blake added with a grin.

"That's the most important lesson of all," Alex remarked.

No, Lincoln thought, the most important thing a big brother can teach you is how to take a punch to the arm, just like his brother taught him. _I'm just trying to toughen him up,_ Lynn used to say when Mom yelled at him. _He's a weak sister._ He did damn good job of it, too. By the time he was fifteen, Lincoln was an expert in being taunted, beaten up, strong-armed, manhandled, and threatened. Lynn did him a hell of a favor - all those Indian burns, noogies, titty twisters, slaps, kicks, and shoves started him on the path he followed to this day. Why, without Lynn, he would have been such a wimp they'd have kicked him out of basic and he never would have gone to Vietnam.

So it's _his_ fault.

Fat bastard. Lincoln oughta call him and give him what for. _You made me too tough. You're the reason I had to eat maggots in 'Nam. Next family reunion, your ass is grass, mister._ He decided not to, though, life had already punished him enough, Mr. Someone-Handed-Me-A-Car lot-When-They-Died. Totally different from behind handed a restaurant.

Totally. Different.


	187. February and March 1997: Part 3

**Wow, I didn't know so many people hated the Tom and Jerry movie. Personally, it was one of my favorites growing up, but I can understand why some people don't like it.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Quit Playing Games With My Heart**_ **by The Backstreet Boys (1997)**

Lola Santiago shifted uncomfortably in the stool and looked up at the window between the studio and the production booth. The engineer and the producer sat side-by-side before a control panel and talked in an animated, hand-waving fashion that suggested a disagreement. Lola drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. They had been at each other's throats since day one, and their constant bickering had already delayed the process three times. The producer, moderately famous for handling several pop and country-pop albums, wanted a _specific sound_ but had no idea what said specific sound was. _It's like porn,_ he said once in a tone that indicated the matter was closed, _I'll know it when I hear it._ The engineer, who was often in the right, couldn't capture a sound without knowing exactly what that sound was and kept losing his patience. The album, tentatively titled _Renaissance,_ was originally supposed to be completed by December and released sometime in the spring, but now it looked as though it wouldn't be finished until April, maybe even May.

The fighting wasn't the only thing slowing them down. The producer was one of those legendarily fussy Phil Spector types who would spend hours obsessing over a vocal harmony and make his charge re record the same two seconds of song fifty times in a row to _get it right_. Lola had never worked with a more demanding person, and was not prepared for the long, punishing hours singing the same part again and again and again and again. Her days typically started at 9am and ran well past midnight with only two or three breaks in between; she barely slept, barely ate, and was always mentally and physically exhausted; just sitting straight took great effort, and if she closed her eyes for even a second, she'd probably drift off and fall on her face.

Even so, he insisted on working harder and longer. She recalled reading somewhere that during the filming of _The Shining,_ Stanley Kubrick's tough work ethic and fanatical attention to detail drove the actress Shelley Duvall to a mental breakdown; that's what this guy was doing to her. She'd already blown up on him twice and almost fired him; luckily for him, she was so sputteringly angry she couldn't get the words out. So far, they had eight tracks of thirteen laid down and finished, though the producer could go back to one at any moment and decide he wasn't happy with something, which would lead to yet _another_ pass.

Hopefully that wouldn't happen; the record company was starting to get impatient, and so was she. Working on these songs - her deepest and most introspective set to date - she realized how badly she missed making music...but nothing was worth staying in a goddamn recording studio for seventeen hours at a time and singing until your throat bled. Before she started recording, she was in love with these songs - they were so meaningful and so _her_ \- but now she was coming to hate the damn smelly things. God, imagine playing them every night on tour. She'd probably wrap her microphone cord around her neck and hang herself if she had to sing _Ray of Light_ again.

Sad, because that was her favorite of all; it was about Bobby, the kids, and her life as a wife and mother. They were her ray of light and if she didn't have them, she would be cast in perpetual darkness _like a candle in the night, you'll always be my ray of light._ She thought its sentimentality was a little cloying after she wrote it, but the producer argued it would be a number one hit. She disagreed, but the more she listened to the whispered vocal track and airy melody of the finished product, the more she began to believe it would most likely receive decent radio play. She honestly didn't imagine any of the songs were number one material, but that was okay with her; she wasn't finishing for a hit or trying to go platinum - she just wanted to finally make music her way. If the public loved it, great, if they didn't, oh well.

Alright, perhaps she wasn't quite _that_ blase at the thought of commercial and critical failure, but she was prepared for it...she thought. None of the songs she'd ever recorded were as intensely personal and close to her heart as these. In this batch, she was, after a fashion, exposing her soul. If they were rejected, it would sting because it would feel as though _she_ was being rejected. She could handle people hating a meaningless pop trash filler song someone else wrote and put in front of her, but she didn't know how she'd take people hating a song that was actually a piece of her heart.

In the production booth, the producer faced the engineer, lifted his hand, and said something extremely sarcastic, given his facial expression. The engineer threw his head back and either groaned or shouted _serenity now_ like George on _Seinfeld_ trying to keep from losing his temper. He pressed his hands to his temples and threaded his fingers through his lank, graying black hair then shook his head in disbelief. _Wow, are you really_ that _much of an asshole?_ Lola slipped the headphones off her ears and around her neck. Leaning into the microphone propped in front of her, she started to ask if they were done (and ream them out if they weren't), but froze when she realized something.

Stephy was missing.

Last year, when Lola decided to return to the studio, Stepjy excitedly asked if she could come too. Lola absolutely adored the idea of spending time with her daughter while simultaneously sharing her passion for music with her, so she jumped at the chance to bring Stephy with. When school wasn't in session, Lola would leave the house early with her in tow then, more often than not, call Bobby to come get her because it was going to be yet another long night. Owing to her ADHD, Stephy could still still for only so long before getting restless. Normally she started off in the production booth then wound up wandering the halls, much to Lola's chagrin. The last time it happened, she innocently went through a door (that, to be fair, was marked KEEP OUT) and stumbled into the middle of a recording session, ruining the take. Lola forbid the little girl from wandering, and so far she'd been good about it.

Until now.

"Where's my daughter?" she asked into the mic, a note of apprehension in her voice.

The producer and engineer both looked at the spot where Stephy had been sitting and offered identical shrugs. Sighing, Lola ripped the earphones off and threw them to the floor. "When I come back," she said tightly, "we're going to finish this song, then I'm going home. We can do the rest tomorrow."

Looking unamused, the producer leaned over the panel and flipped a switch, his tinny voice filling the studio. "We need to have three songs done by the end of the session," he pointed out, "it's gonna be…"

"It's not going to be another long night because I'm going home," Lola snapped. "You've held us up for months, you can stand to be held back by me for a day."

He sat heavily back in his chair and threw his hands up. "Perfect," he said irritably, "just perfect."

Ignoring him, Lola crossed to the door and went out into the hall, a drought of cool air washing over her face and drying the sweat to her forehead. Being insulated with soundproof padding and stuffed with lights and heat emitting musical equipment, studios are almost uniformly hot, and leaving one is always a shock to the system. She closed the door behind her and looked left and right. The corridor stood empty, puddles of harsh fluorescent lights on the tiled floor, and Lola took a deep, calming breath.

First, she checked the women's room at the end of the hall, but the only person in there was a black woman washing her hands; she looked in the dayroom and found the guys from Green Day eating lunch; she even poked her head into the janitor closet, but the closest thing to Stephy was a mop propped in a corner and looking forlorn. Her pique developed into annoyance then become outright anger. Stephy was almost eleven years old, she knew better than to do something like this. Why didn't she listen? Lola loved her to death, but sometimes talking to her was like talking to a brick wall, in one ear and out the other.

She was approaching the lobby now, her fists clenched at her sides and her breathing rapid; she was flushed with anger and her left eyelid danced a twitching jig. At the front desk, a secretary sat behind a computer and pecked at the keyboard, a confused scowl on her face and electric glow reflected in her eyes. Lola laid her hands on the counter and leaned over; the woman started, then flashed a shamefaced smile. "Have you seen Stephanie?" Lola asked without preamble. She didn't need to explain who Stephanie was - she was a social butterfly and everyone knew her.

"She's in Studio 8," the receptionist said and nodded down the hall. Oh, God, she was?

Muttering her thanks, Lola pushed away and stalked down the hall, her heels clicking on the marble like the hoofbeats of coming doom. At the door to the production booth, she stopped, took a deep breath, and went inside, fully prepared to find her daughter in trouble for ruining someone's take...and to receive yet another of the _this is a recording studio, lady, not a playground_ lectures she'd become so familiar with lately.

Four men sat at the instrument panel, a gleaming cornucopia of kobs, levers, buttons, and speakers, two mixing, one staring through the window into the studio with his arms sullenly crossed, and the fourth berating the band within through a microphone. "More emotions, guys, come on. This is your lead single, sing it like you mean it." Lola looked around and spotted Stephy on the end, staring at the window with a giddy smile on her face, her back ramrod straight and her braided blonde hair laying across one shoulder. She wore pink stretch pants, white tennis shoes with pink stripes, and a billowy white tank top that bared her scrawny arms.

Lola let out a pent up breath; it didn't look like she was making a nuisance of herself, at least. She walked up to her and crossed her arms. Stephy went on grinning, completely oblivious to her mother's presence. In the studio, a group of wispy teenage boys with headphones over their ears clustered around a single microphone. One wore a backwards hat and sunglasses like one of the hoods who hung out on Sunset Blvd and another was dressed in denim overalls over a red sweater. One of them, a blonde with shaggy hair, rolled his eyes and bit his bottom lip as if to keep from talking back. "Keep singing like that," their producer said, "and your record's gonna be in the dollar bin at K-Mart by Christmas."

Lola flicked her eyes from them to Stephy, who chewed her bottom lip. Hm. What does this studio have that mine doesn't?

Eyecandy.

"Stephanie Nicole," Lola said firmly.

Stephy jumped and looked up at her, then smiled brightly, as though she was exactly where she was supposed to be and _not_ clear on the other side of the building. "Hi, Mom," she said. "I have a new favorite band now. They're…" she trailed off and knitted her brow in thought. "I forgot their name. But look how _cute_ they are." A dreamy tone crept into her voice her eyes misted with the fog of a girlish crush. She turned back to the window and put her face in her hands with a deep sigh.

"Take it from the top," the producer said, "and this time, don't screw it up."

The tech pushed a lever, and a generic drumbeat filtered through the speakers. The boys nodded and swayed to the music as they picked up the groove. The blonde held his hand earnestly to his chest and shook his head slowly from side to side with emotion.

 _Even in my heart, I see  
You're not being true to me  
Deep within my soul, I feel  
Nothing's like it used to be _

The producer and the engineer talked quietly, the mixer mixxed, and the other man watched the boys sing with a critical and overbearing eye. His demeanor and dress - tweed jacket, jeans, and loafers - screamed MANAGER.

 _Sometimes I wish I could turn back time  
Impossible as it may seem  
But I wish I could so bad, baby_

The blonde's voice cracked on the last word, and the producer threw his hands up in frustration. The engineer cut the music and the manager blew a puff of air. "Goddamn it, Brian's voice broke _again,_ " the producer said. He glared at the manager and looked him up and down as though he were scum. "How about next time, you bring me some vocal artists who _aren't_ going through puberty?"

"How about next time I bring them to someone else?" the manager offered dryly.

Turning her attention back to Stephy, Lola said, "I told you not to wander. Why? Why didn't you stay with Mutt and Dave?"

"I had to pee," Stephy said unconcernedly, "then I saw _them_ coming in here." She giggled. "So I followed."

Lola sighed. "Yes, they're adorable, but I have work to do. Come on."

Stephy whipped her head around, eyes wide. "No, I wanna stay. Please?"

"Stephanie, no -"

"Please? Please? I really wanna stay here. Pleasepleasepleaseplease?"

Lola started to tell her no, but the manager cut her off. "Let the kid stay," he said. "She's our target demographic." He leaned back in his chair and looked at Stephy. "Which one you like best, honey?"

"Nick," she replied instantly, "he's so beautiful."

"You think so?" he asked, weighing her answer as though it were an expert opinion. "Maybe we'll give him a verse too."

"Can I stay, Mom?" Stephy asked and balled her hands. "Please?"

Lola sighed. "Fine. But don't be a pest. And don't bother those boys. You're too young for them and you'll just annoy them."

For some reason, the manager uttered a hearty laugh. "It'll be good practice," he said. "Give it a year there'll be a _million_ little girls bugging them."

"If Brian's voice will stop breaking," the producer countered with a hint of disgust. He glowered through the window. "Can we make it through this one, guys, please?"

Brian, the blonde, lowered his gaze ashamedly to the floor and muttered a castigated, "Yeah." Lola couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Producers can be extremely difficult to work with - as she knew all too well - and while it's a pain in the ass for an adult, it had to be hell for a sixteen year old kid, being yelled at, talked down to, insulted, constantly worrying yourself sick that your big breakthrough is going to turn into a big bust. She had half a mind to tell the producer to lay off a little.

Instead, she uncrossed her arms. "Fine, you can stay."

Stephy's face lit up and she bounced excitedly in her chair. "Thank you, Mom!"

"You're welcome," Lola said, amused by her daughter's happiness. She remembered being her age and thinking Donnie Osmond was the cutest boy ever; she used to imagine them married and driving around Hollywood in a convertible with the top down, the wind fluttering in their hair and his smile ten times more beautiful than it was on TV. God, if she actually met him, she would have devolved into a gooey, gibbering mess.

She laid her hand on the girl's shoulder, bent over, and kissed her forehead. "Behave," she said, "please?"

"I will, Mom," Stephy said, "promise." She spun the chair around, propped her elbows on the panel, and rested her face in her upturned palms. Lola smiled, shook her head, and left. Hopefully those two jackasses had it all figured out so she could get home at a decent time tonight.

Fortunately, for once, they did.

* * *

Some things never change, but others totally do. Take the human sex drive, for instance. As one ages, it tends to diminish: When you're fifteen, just the brush of your night dress against your crotch is enough to rev your engine; when you're seventy, you can have the sexiest man alive naked in front of you and instead of pouncing him like a hungry lioness, you fret because he'll catch his death of cold if he doesn't put some clothes on. At least that's what Alex had observed from her charges at Oak Springs and Marshall Manor. Most old people just don't get down the way they used to.

Some, on the other hand, _do_.

The first time Alex walked in on Mr. Winslow and Mrs. Franks having sex, it was a clear blue October day and she'd been at Marshall Manor just a couple months - she was so new that she still got lost on the way to the snack machine, meaning she got lost three times a day since she snacked kind of a lot. She was sitting at the nurse's station filling out charts when one of the lights on the desk mount went off to indicate an old person needed help. Kind of like the Bat Signal. Alex checked to see which room it was. Mrs. Franks. Seventy and in fairly good health, Mrs. Franks' major malfunction was two bad knees that made getting around difficult. It was likely, therefore, that she fell.

Or maybe she just wanted a glass of water.

Either way, Alex jumped to her feet, put her hands heroically on her hips, and flew off in a swish of scrub top.

Nah, she just got up and walked. The door was closed tight and a sock covered the knob. Huh, did it...like...get wet and Mrs. Franks was trying to dry it? Weird way to do it, cuz we have a laundry room, but okay. She turned it and went in. "I'm here, Mrs. - OH MY GOD!"

Mrs. Franks lay on her back with her legs up in a V; Mr. Winslow was on top, pumping very furiously for a man of his age, wrinkled, hairy butt cheeks clenched and flabby back jiggling. It was awful. They both whipped their heads up, got a load of Alex gaping wide-eyed and traumatized, hand pressed to her mouth, and scrambled to cover themselves. Had it been a more...ahem...normal encounter (say Jessy and Mark, shudder), Alex would have spun on her heels and fled while profusely apologizing, but this was no ordinary bow-chicka-wow-wow, this was some Rick James Superfreak level stuff, so she just stood there, frozen. It wasn't so much the visceral aspect of it (ew, old people), it was the surrealty of walking in on two seventy year olds fornicating like teenagers...in a nursing home. This was one thing her CNA classes _didn't_ prepare her for.

When her paralysis finally broke, she covered her eyes, said she was sorry, and stumbled away like Lot from Sodom. Unlike Lot's wife, she didn't look back. Should...should she chart this? Pretend it never happened? Marshal Manor had no policy when it came to residents doing the dirty with one another (though they did have one against staff doing the dirty with residents….and each other during work hours) so...question mark. It was obviously consensual, and since they were both adults…

Yeah, let's just forget that ever happened.

Fifteen minutes later, as she sat at the nurse's station and struggled to banish images of saggy skin slapping meatily together, Mrs. Franks hobbled over with her cane, dressed now in a pink muumuu and slippers. Alex saw her coming and hurriedly found something to do. Oh, wow, this disinfectant spray sure is interesting, let me study it closely and avoid making eye contact with the woman I just walked in on being boinked.

Mrs. Franks stood patiently in front of the desk, and Alex was all but forced to acknowledge her. "Oh, hi," she said, "I didn't see you there."

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Mrs. Franks said. "I feel awful."

Alex chuckled nervously. "S-See what? I didn't see anything."

She wasn't trying to convince the old woman that she somehow missed the whole….show...but attempting to subtly communicate that as far as she was concerned, she didn't see anything, nothing happened, and there was nothing at all to talk about.

Mrs. Franks didn't quite catch on. "George and I. Together."

"Oh, that," Alex said. She blew a dismissive raspberry and waved her hand. "Happens all the time."

The old woman lifted a dubious brow. "Anyway, I'm sorry. And could you not mention it to anyone? Please?"

"Sure, yeah, I-I wasn't planning on talking about it. Ever."

"Thank you."

That was the end of it...until Tom walked in on them shortly after he was hired. Alex wasn't there that day, but apparently he made a huge scene in the hall, screaming about old people fucking and alerting everyone in a ten mile radius to the not-so-young-lovers' most recent tryst. Long story short, Mr. Winslow and Mrs. Franks families (she was a widow, by the way, and he a widower) signed paperwork saying it was okay for them to...you know...and it become common knowledge around Marshal Manor that if you saw a sock on one of their doors, you didn't come a-knockin', no matter _how_ pained the moans drifting from within sounded.

On the morning of Saturday, March 15, the day of Blake's seventh birthday party (gonna have to start checking him for grays soon) Alex got to work, strode purposely down the hall toward and nurse's station...and saw a sock on Mrs. Franks' knob. Wow, at it already, huh? It's not even 7am! I'm twenty-eight and not even _I'm_ ready for lovin' this early. Unless Tim's on top, but even then, first thing in the morning, I gotta pee and sex with a full bladder is the most awkward and uncomfortable thing ever. You spend more time worrying you're gonna pee yourself than enjoying it.

Fondly shaking her head like an old lady at a couple of rapscallion kids (here's some irony for you, Alanis), Alex went to the nurse's station. Tom, eyes bleary and hair stuck out in a chronic case of bed head, reclined in a swivel chair with his hands laced behind his head. Alex came around the desk, sat her purse on the table, and shrugged out of her jacket. "You're showing," Tom muttered tiredly.

Since she was bursting with excitement over being pregnant, Alex took it upon herself to tell everyone at work the first chance she got, even though you're technically supposed to wait, primarily since miscarriages are more common in the early stages.

But let's not think about that.

She looked down at her stomach and frowned. "No, I'm not."

"Oh, right," Tom said, "you're just fat."

Alex fixed him with a pursed lipped look of rebuke and shook her head. "You've been making the same jokes for, like, five years. Why don't you come up with something new?"

"Why don't do lose weight?"

"Why don't you...go have sex with a man?" It was early and her wits weren't very sharp...or quick.

Tom grinned. "Harvey's not here yet."

Oh, like _that_ was going to happen. Harvey hated Tom with a passion and would rather lick the bathroom floor than have sex with that weirdo. Harvey suffered him with strained patience, patronizing smiles, and constant _bless your heart_ s. In the south, saying _bless your heart_ is, like, a huge slap in the face. It means you think the person you're saying it to is dumb or a slut or any other negative thing you can think of, but don't want to say it outright; evidently, everyone below the Mason-Dixon line is super polite even when they're being a dick. It can also be used at the end of a sentence to nullify the awful things you just said. _That man is a lumbering menace and ugly as a post, bless his heart._

The day Alex told everyone she was in the family way (another Dixeism), most of the shift staff was gathered in the break room. Harvey got excited like an old grandmother. _Oh, honey, I'm so happy for you._ Tom, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. _Great, another Mexican jumping bean. I'll call Planned Parenthood._

Harvey _exploded_. He jumped up from his chair, spun around, and clenched his fists. His eyes bugged from his delicate face and a fat, throbbing vein stood out on his neck. _You son of a bitch!_ He roared, and Alex jumped. His speaking voice was low and saccharine, like a gentle April breeze, his yelling voice was almost identical to her Dad's - loud, deep, and kind of scary. _How_ dare _you! That's awful!_

Like a shark tasting blood, Tom grinned evilly and leaned forward. _You're right,_ he growled, _that costs money. Let me grab a coat hanger._

Issuing a high, wavering yell, Harvey threw himself at the larger man. He crashed into him and knocked Tom back against a table, its legs scraping against the tile floor. Everyone gasped and one girl from A wing screamed in horror. Tom stood a good foot higher than Harvey and outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, but the Harvey was like a small, pissed off mammal, nails swiping, feet kicking, fists pounding Tom's broad chest and making nary a dent, like a feather duster on asphalt. Flashing, Tom grabbed him by the back of his scrubs and shoved him away; Harvey stumbled and hit the counter with a cry. _Get off of me, bitch,_ Tom hissed.

Panting and wild-eyed, Harvey tensed for another launch, but the DON's voice, ten times louder and scarier than his, stopped him. _ALRIGHT, THAT'S ENOUGH!_

After they were separated, both Tom and Harvey were dressed down then suspended for two days. _I'm sorry he said that, honey,_ Harvey said later. _I knew he was a bastard, but that was too much._

Well, yeah, it was pretty fucked up, but it didn't offend Alex...a lot. He's Tom, he says the meanest, most horrible things he can think of. It's like tourettes. Later on, she learned there was more to it than Harvey simply being mad on her behalf.

He _hated_ abortion. He called it murder and said all abortion doctors should be shot. In January, someone blew up an abortion clinic in Atlanta, and Harvey pursed his lips, crossed his arms, and looked away from the break room TV. _Good._ That was a liiiitle harsh, but Alex agreed that abortion was disgusting. People said that a baby wasn't _really_ a baby until it could live independently outside the womb, but that was a crock. The moment a sperm fertilizes an egg, life begins. If left alone in the natural course of things - ie, not ripped out by a coat hanger or dissolved by a morning after pill - that egg develops into a human being as surely as eggs and batter stuck into an oven gradually develop into a cake. When you refer to that soupy, not yet yummy concoction, you _call_ it a cake, not a _pan of gloop_. It might not be the finished product right away, but all the ingredients are there, they just need a little time to bake.

That's how _she_ saw it at least. In fact, the law kind of did too since people got hit with double murder charges for killing pregnant women. Uhhh...ooookay. Kind of speaking outta both sides of your mouth there, buddy.

If you asked her true, honest, being-serious-not-silly-for-once opinion, abortion was murder and if she dwelled on the subject, she'd start to wonder how the women who got them lived with themselves afterward. She understood that sometimes accidents happen and you get preggers when you're not readders, but that's no excuse. It's selfishness. One thing she'd learned in life was that everything you do has consequences and if you make a mistake, you gotta own up to it. Many people these days, and maybe always, refuse to live with their follies - they act stupidly, then throw little hissy fits until someone comes along and cleans up their mess. They go through life with a self-serving anything goes mindset, then gape in shock when the things they do come back to them. Next, they try to weasel out of living with them anyway they can. Abortion, in many cases, is one of those ways. Oh, you can give me sob stories all day long about how the mom can't afford the baby or she needs to finish college, but you know what?

She should have thought about that before hand.

Alex's parents both told her that a million times growing up, and they were right. Life is kind of like walking on an icy sidewalk - you have to be very careful how you step, because one wrong move, and BAM, down goes Frazier.

Of course, cases of rape were a little different - that's not the mom's fault at all. Even so...you're going to kill the baby? Really?

Bitch.

Anyway, Alex was with Harvey 100 percent on abortion being lame, but she drew the line at blowing people up, and after that day, she looked at him a _little_ differently. Oh, she still loved him to pieces, but she lived in terror of pissing him off, cuz one day she might go to start her car and start a huge, window shaking BOOM instead. _Today will be cloudy with a chance of flaming Alex pieces falling from the sky. Better pack those umbrellas, folks._

Gee, I got sidetracked, where was I again?

Oh, right, Harvey _hated_ Tom and would therefore never have sex with him. "Don't think that's in the cards," Alex said.

"Eh," Tom said, "if I really wanted him, I could have him."

Ugh, here we go again. Tom, like a lot of men - both gay and straight - was convinced that he was Casanova and could have anyone his craven little heart desired if only he tried. It didn't matter what tastes or preferences the object of his intentions had, didn't matter if they were straight men who hated tall white guys...Tom just _knew_ he could lure them into his bed and turn them gay.

"If you say so."

Following her talk with Tom, Alex reported to the dining room for breakfast and helped any old person she came across - cutting sausage links, refilling coffee, and, at one point, feeding Mrs. Moneypenny bits of scrambled eggs. All in all a normal start to a normal shift. As she was crossing the room to get a newspaper for Mr. Jones, she spotted Mrs. Franks and Mr. Winslow sitting at their customary table by the window, their right hands clasped and staring deeply into each other's eyes. Awww, how cute, they really _are_ like teenagers.

After breakfast, she assisted a few of the residents into the dayroom where _The Price is Right_ was just starting. Bob Barker, clad in a dark suit accented by a blue tie, didn't look much better off than the oldsters watching him: Thin, white hair, wrinkles out the wazoo. Wow, she thought, he looks so old. She always thought of him as he was when she was a kid - brown hair, fewer lines, and a little more solid in the middle than he was now. In fact, she pictured all of the celebrities from her childhood as they were in the seventies and eighties, and every time she saw one on TV or staring back at her from the cover of a tabloid, she was just a tee-tiddily bit shocked.

When all of her charges were settled in, some staring the the TV and others reading the paper or knitting, Alex slunk off to the nurse's station, stopping in front of Mrs. Franks' door: That darn sock again.

Wow, going for round two, huh? She didn't make it her mission to know everything about senior citizens' sexuality, but she was pretty sure the reload time for a man north of seventy was usually a while. When they're twenty, it's like an M-16, they can keep shooting and shooting. At fifty, it's like a handgun, still firing, but not as many rounds. Past sixty-five, it's like a musket: One shot and it takes forever to load another. Mr. Winslow being able to make it twice in one morning was really impressive.

Tom was where she left him, arms crossed, head back, looking miserable and like he hated life...oh wait, he looked like that everyday. "What's wrong with _you_?" she asked and sat at the desk.

"I had a late night," he said. "Me and Brandon went to that new club."

Brandon was Tom's new boytoy, a twenty-two year old male hoochie who, per Tom, sucked a mean penis and doubled as a _mindblowing_ power bottom. The club, Alex assumed, was the gay bar that just opened on Congress Street. Tom mentioned that he wanted to go, but that he'd have to ditch his wife to do it.

"What did you tell Tess?" Alex asked as she opened Mr. DeSimone's chart. She still didn't like that Tom cheated behind his wife's back the way he did, and even after all these years, she still felt guilty because she knew and let it happen.

"Said I was helping Brandon pack." He snickered to himself. "That wasn't a lie."

Oh.

 _Oh._

"Cuz I fucked him in his ass."

Alex cringed, and a shudder raced down her spine. "I knew what you meant," she said over her shoulder. She turned back around, and a terrible _thing_ stood on the other side of the counter. She started and her hand flew to her chest. _The living dead!_

Her life flashed before her eyes (oh, wow, I was cooler than I thought) and her skin tingled in expectation of being eaten.

It only took a second, however, for her to realize it _wasn't_ a zombie. With its white face, blue lips, lime green afro, and big red nose, it was even worse.

"Hi there, guys," the clown said in an exaggeratedly goofy tone.

Tom's head whipped up and his eyes narrowed. "Aw, Jesus, not _this_ shit again."

Every month, like menstruation, the clown came. A local man name Jim (or was it John?) who worked the birthday party/bar mitzvah circuit, the clown made periodic visits to all of the hospitals and nursing homes in Royal County to, in his words, spread cheer to those who need it most. That was a beautiful sentiment...but he took the clown thing _really_ seriously: Once he put that makeup on, he stayed in character until he washed it off again. Nothing could shake him, nothing could dissuade him, he was Pip the Clown and he acted as such.

Alex drew her lips back from her teeth in a smile she hoped didn't look as forced as it felt. "Oh, hey, Pip. Good to see you again."

"I was hoping you died," Tom spat. Pip was, perhaps, the most irritating creature on the face of the earth, but he meant well and all of the nurses and CNAs let him be...except for Tom. Every time Pip turned up, Tom went out of his way to try and get him to break character by being a bigger asshole than normal. He called Pip every single name in the book and battered him with a neverending barrage of insults that ran the gamut from the funny to the downright savage.

Tilting his head to one side, Pip put his hands sternly on his hips. "Someone's a grumpers today," he pouted. "You need to turn that frown upside down." He jumped back from the counter like a woman from a particularly nasty spider, threw one arm out (tah dah) and honked his nose, his mouth open in a big, creepy smile.

"Go fall down the stairs, that'll make me smile."

Pip reached into his oversized back pocket, tongue plastered determinedly to his upper lip, then brought out a seltzer spray bottle. Before either Alex ot Tom could react, he aimed the nozzle at Alex and pulled the trigger; with a cry she whipped her head away and threw her hands defensively up. A jet of water shot out and hit her palms, her face, and the front of her scrub top.

Behind her, Tom burst into cruel, mean-spirited laughter.

Water dripped from Alex's sodden bangs and dribbled down her cheeks. She slammed her hands indignantly to her lap and glared at the clown. Okay, I like to be silly and have fun, but this is too much.

Shuffling back from the counter, Pip broke into a mocking dance, his giant red shoes slapping the floor. He held his arms up, fists inches apart and elbows bent, his smile even wider now, like a snake distending its jaw to swallow a small mammal whole. Alex looked around for something to throw at him, and her eyes fell on a stapler. She snatched it up but stopped herself at the last minute. You're lucky I'm a good person, pal, or I'd hurl this at your face.

Tom laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks; he bowed his head and slapped his knee.

Alright, Pip, you wanna play? Let's play. She cast about for something to get him back with, and like a light bulb over a cartoon character's head, the panel lit up beside her. Mrs. Franks' room. Every time she and Mr. Winslow did it, they accidentally set off the call button and…

Two thoughts collided on the superhighway of Alex Underwood's genius brain, and a malicious grin spread across her lips. Pip was still doing his jig, arms over his head, palms upturned (raise the roof). In the dayroom flanking the nurse's station, an old woman looked over and went pale. She grabbed the shoulder of the man sitting next to her and pointed. "That clown," she said, horror in her voice, "he's _dancing."_

"Good one, Pip," Alex said and brushed her sodden hair from her face. "Hey, do you know who could _really_ use some cheering up?"

Pip froze, all ears.

"Mrs. Franks in 3C. She's been really down lately."

"Right on it!' Pip cried. He spun around and hurried down the hall, his floppy shoes making him waddle like a penguin.

"You did not just do that," Tom said disbelievingly.

At the door, Pip pulled a bouquet of fake flowers from his sleeve. "I did."

Pip turned the knob and stuck his head in, then jumped back when Mrs. Franks screamed. His feet tangled and he fell hard onto his ass, the flowers flying from his hand. His afro shifted to one side, then tumbled off to reveal short brown hair beneath. "I'm sorry!" he cried in his normal voice. Grabbing his afro, he tried to get up, but sprawled face first on the floor with a breathless _oof_ that made Alex wince. He pushed to his feet, one shoe coming off, and rushed down the hall, his blush of embarrassment burning through his white make up like hot coals through snow. His one clown shoe lay sad and alone on its side like a shipwreck at the bottom of a dark, icy sea.

Alex's hand fluttered to her mouth.

She went too far.

Way too far.

Tom was silent for a moment. "Wow," he drew, "you did in one try what I've been trying to do for months. Fucking bitch."

Now Alex felt bad.

She'd feel even worse later on because Pip the clown…

...never came back.


	188. February and March 1997: Part 4

**Guest: Well, the sinking ship analogy doesn't really work in this case because shipwrecks are an extenuating circumstance. In the normal course of things, the ship arrives safely at its port, just as in the normal course of a pregnancy, the baby is born healthy and happy. A shipwreck is like a pregnancy complication. If it arises, you do what you can to mitigate the damage, in one case its lowering the lifeboats and in the other its a possible abortion to save the mother. You are right about complications arising when people set out to affect their environment, though.**

 **RandomReviewerReturns: I'm not really into superhero type movies, but I sat through the whole trailer when it popped up as a YouTube ad and that new Joker movie actually looks pretty cool.**

 **Valtek: That's one question I can't answer. I'm in December 1999 writingwise and thinking of ending it at the finale of that arc. I might take it farther and use the ending I've had in mind since I started but I'm torn at the moment. We still have a ways to go, is all I can really say.**

 **DerickLakes: I have something involving Titanic, actually. It's the first movie I saw in a theater and sparked my lifelong interest in the disaster and maritime studies in general, so I couldn't** _ **not**_ **do something with it. All I'll say is that iIt centers on Stephy and Bobby Jr.**

Blake Underwood started Saturday how he always did: By eating dry cereal in his underwear while parked in front of the TV. He sat Indian style on the floor, head craned back, and absently reached into a box of Kix and shoved handfuls into his mouth, dropping some onto his lap and the floor but not noticing. On screen, Daggett and Norbert Beaver argued over Norbert drinking milk from the carton. Daggett didn't like it and yelled. Blake drank milk from the carton all the time so he was on Norbert's side.

It was March 16 and his birthday party was later that day at aunt Luan's house. He was really excited and couldn't wait to open his presents. Mom and Dad got him a Playstation; he knew because he sneaked into their room and looked under the bed. Mom _always_ hid gifts under the bed.

He crammed more Kix into his mouth and stared up at the TV, where Dag and Norb were swatting at each other like little girls. Dag stumbled back, tripped, and landed on his butt. Blake laughed, his belly jiggling.

It was 10:05 by the clock on the VCR and Blake had been up for nearly half an hour; Dad was still asleep, and if Blake listened really hard, he could hear him snoring. They were going to aunt Luan's when Mom got home from work at three, which was in forever, and Blake was starting to get impatient. How could he sit here and watch cartoons at a time like this?

Someone knocked on the door, and Blake pushed that thought aside. He got up, crossed the living room, and unlocked the handle. His Mom said not to open for strangers but his Dad was here so it was okay. Dad was strong and big, he could take care of any trouble Blake got himself into, just like how he fixed the Nintendo after Mom tripped over it.

He turned the knob and pulled the door open in a puff of cold air. Jordan stood on the step in a pair of black pants and a pink sweater, her blonde hair in a French braid that lay over one shoulder like a tail. "Hi," she said.

"Hey," Blake said and stepped aside so she could enter. She went over to the TV and dropped to the floor. Blake closed the door behind him and sat next to her. She reached into the box, grabbed a handful of Kix, and put it in her mouth.

"Wanna play a game?" she asked.

"No," Blake said.

"Why?"

Blake shrugged. He didn't feel like playing a game right now. Unless it was on his new Playstation. He hoped Mom and Dad got him _Tomb Raider,_ that game looked like a lot of fun, _Crash Bandicoot_ too.

"I wanna play Mario," Jordan said.

"I don't."

She rocked forward on her knees and reached out to switch the Nintendo on. Flashing, Blake pushed her away. "Stop," he cried. Jordan was his best friend but that didn't mean she couldn't get on his nerves like a non-best friend. She did. All the time. She was competitive, stubborn, annoying, bossy, and uptight. She was like Dag the beaver but sometimes she was like Norb, so it wasn't _that_ bad.

A shadow rippled across her face and she shoved him back. "Don't him me, I'm a girl."

"Knock it off! He shoved her again.

"I wanna play Mario."

"No, it's my game and I said no!"

Crinkling her face in an ugly mask of anger, Jordan leaned in and screamed. "YOU SUCK!"

"Get out of my house!"

Jordan jumped to her feet, stalked across the living room, and ripped the door open. She spun around, bent at the waist, and sneered. "You're a butt munch."

Now Blake was getting mad. "Chode smoker."

She went out and slammed the door. Blake looked after her for a minute, then turned back to the TV. She looked really mad...madder than usual...maybe he should have just played the stupid game with her. She _was_ his best friend.

Then again, she needed to stop being so bossy. She couldn't just come in _his_ house and turn on _his_ Nintendo when he didn't want to play it.

"What was that?"

Blake looked up as his father shuffled into the kitchen from his bedroom. He wore a pair of boxers and nothing else, his eyes bleary and his hair stuck out. He rubbed the side of his head and drew a deep yawn. "Jordan," Blake said, drawing the name out like a verbal eyeroll.

"You guys fighting again?" Dad asked and leaned against the kitchen counter.

Maybe Blake felt guilty for making his friend mad, but it sounded like Dad was accusing him of doing something wrong. He spun on his butt and plead his case with the impassioned zeal of a defense attorney trying to save an innocent man from the chair. "She wanted to play Mario, and when I told her no she got mad and tried to make me. This isn't her house, it's my house and I'm the boss here."

Dad chuckled. "Actually, your mom's the boss here. But only because I let her be. See, girls are naturally bossy, you just gotta humor them."

That was dumb. No one was the boss of him...except for Mom and Dad, but they were his parents so it was okay. Well, Grandma and Grandpa too. And his aunts. _But_ they were grown ups and you kind of have to listen to grown ups when you're a kid. It's, like, the law. Jordan wasn't a grown up; she was only less than a year older than him, and that was _not_ enough for her to be his boss. "She's a weirdo," he pronounced and turned back to the TV, where _Little Bear_ was starting. Blake didn't like _Little Bear_ but he would watch it anyway because there was nothing else on. Mom and Dad were cheap, they had basic cable. Grandma and Grandma had DirectTV which had every channel ever.

"Again, most girls are. Look at your mom."

"Mom's not a weirdo," Blake stated with utter certainty, "she's cool." Mom, his grandmothers, and his aunts were probably the only really cool girls alive. Except Grandma _could_ be kind of bossy too, and so could aunt Lori. Aunt Jessy wasn't bossy - she was too far away to boss him around.

Dad laughed and shook his head. "You think so," he said patronizingly. "I'm gonna jump in the shower, okay?"

"Okay."

Dad went back into his room and Blake returned his full attention to _Little Bear_ : Little Bear danced and twirled through a woodland clearing with his friends, Owl, Duck, and Cat. He looked at the clock on the VCR and threw his head back. It was only 10:20. His party wouldn't be for _hours_.

Ugh, he was so bored. Now he wished he let Jordan play Mario. She might be bossy but she was fun. Little Bear wasn't fun. Little Bear was a lame-o. Sighing, he rolled to his knees, pushed up, and went to the bathroom, then into his room in search of something cool to do. A dense layer of toys littered the floor, and he had to step very carefully between them to avoid falling. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets and his stuffed rabbit Bun-Bun lay across the pillow, his black button eyes gazing desolately up at the ceiling. Blake had had Bun-Bun for as long as he could remember, and his white fur, once snowy white, was matted and dingy brown from years of dirt, mud, food stains, and more than one dip in the bathtub.

Bedside, Blake reached under the pillow and felt around. His fingers brushed something hard and plastic, and he drew it out. His Gameboy, yellow with black buttons and girly unicorn and rainbow stickers on the back. Jordan put them there when he wasn't looking; he scraped a few off, but got lazy and gave up. When he played it on the school bus, other kids picked on him; a sixth grader who was practically an adult called him a homo. Blake didn't know exactly what that meant, but Beavis and Butt-Head used it to insult each other, so it _had_ to be bad.

Gameboy in hand, he started into the living room, but stopped when someone knocked on the door. He unlocked the handle and opened it. Jordan flashed a big, cheesy smile and twisted from side to side. "Hi, wanna play?"

Oh, good, she _wasn't_ mad. "Sure," he said and shrugged. "Let me get dressed."

"Okay."

He closed the door in her face and went back to his room. On the way to his bed, he kicked an overturned fire truck, and hot pain burst in his foot. Tears welled in his eyes and he sucked a sharp intake of air through his teeth. "Owww!"

Hobbling on his heel, he made it to the bed and sank onto the mattress. He checked his toe for blood but there wasn't any. That really hurt.

After the agony passed, he got up and dressed in a pair of black sweat pants and a blue T-shirt printed to look like the front of a policeman's uniform: Badge, nametag, and a belt with handcuffs and a walkie talkie. Blake liked cops, they were really cool. They got to drive around in cop cars and chase bad guys and their uniforms were awesome. When he grew up, _he_ was gonna be a cop, and if Jordan tried to boss him around then, he'd break out her taillight with his billy club then write her a ticket.

In the living room, he plopped onto the couch and pulled on his sneakers. He got up, went to the door, then remembered he had to tell Dad. Sighing because it was kind of a long walk, he turned and trudged to his parents' room, shoulders slumped at the indignity of having to go _sooo_ far out of his way. The bathroom door stood ajar and the hiss of running water drifted forth. Steam, too. He decided to save himself a few feet and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Dad?"

"Yeah?" Dad called.

"I'm going outside with Jordan."

"Okay," Dad replied. "Stay close."

Mom and Dad didn't care if he played outside by himself, but he had to stay on Thomas Street, which started at the bottom of the hill then hooked up in a big J before filtering into Andrews Street. Jordan lived on Clermont Street, which was on the other side of Andrews. If you stood at the junction of Thomas and Andrews, you could almost see her trailer. He was only allowed to go that far because it was in earshot: Unless he was inside, he could hear Mom calling him to come home.

Outside, Jordan stood with her back to the door and her hands on the splintered railing; she lifted one foot, then the other, then jumped, almost tumbling over the side. Blake pulled the door closed and she turned. "Wanna ride bikes?" she asked. She lifted the back of her hand to her mouth and licked the Ring Pop around her index finger.

Blake stopped dead. "What's that?" he asked.

"Ring Pop," Jordan chirruped.

"Can I have one?"

Jordan unzipped her fanny pack and looked down at it, then froze, her head coming slowly back up and her brow sullen. "Wait a minute, you didn't let me play Mario."

This again? Blake sighed and rolled his eyes. "If you wanna play Mario, we can play Mario."

"I don't wanna play Mario right now," she said haughtily.

Blake groaned. Jordan _always_ did this. He thought it was called _the runaround_ but he wasn't really sure. Whatever it was, it got on his nerves. But he really wanted a Ring Pop now, which meant he had to be extra nice to her. "We can play Mario whenever you want."

She scrunched her lips to one side, flicked her eyes to the sky, and made a show of mulling his proposition over. He had to admit, being almost eight, she was better at being sneaky and underhanded, and something told him that's what she was doing now. "I don't know," she drew with faux uncertainty, "you _did_ call me a bunch of mean names…"

Blake hung his head in equally faux contrition. "I'm sorry," he heaved. He wasn't really, she deserved it for throwing her weight about, but if apologizing was what it took to get a Ring Pop, then he'd apologize.

Although...maybe he did feel a _little_ bad.

"I forgive you," Jordan said. She rifled through her fanny pack, pushing toys, packs of peanut butter crackers, and other junk out of the way in search of a Ring Pop. She bent over, getting her face as close to the open flap as possible, then hummed. "I _thought_ I had another one," she said with a note of confusion.

Blake's shoulders slumped. Jordan looked up, and seeing the disappointment in his eyes, her brow softened. She glanced at the Ring Pop on her finger, thought a moment, then said, "You can have this when I'm done."

A ray of sunshine caught the candy, and it glistened with Jordan spit. "Ew," Blake said and crinkled his nose. "No."

Jordan shrugged. "Suit yourself. Come on." She bounded down the steps without waiting for him to reply and skipped to her bike; it lay on its side next to Dad's truck like a wounded animal, pink and white with tassels and a white wicker basket. She picked it up, spun it around, and walked it to the end of the driveway. Blake followed, grabbed his bike from its spot on the lawn fronting the trailer's street facing end, and climbed on. Jordan strapped her helmet on - blue with more dumb girly stickers. Blake donned his helmet, which he left hanging from one of the handlebars yesterday. It was _much_ cooler than hers. It was blue with a big yellow police badge on the front and a light on top, just like the ones on police cars. If you pushed a button, the light _really_ flashed. When he put it on, he felt like the biggest, coolest kid ever. He and Jordan played cops and robbers sometimes; he'd chase her on his bike and make siren noises, and she'd squeal _can't get me_ or _I'm getting away, copper!_

Jordan rode in circles in the street while she waited for him, ringing the bell attached to her handlebar. When Blake pushed off, the bike wobbling, she rode toward Andrews, and he pedeled after.

The day was sunny and cool with a breeze from the west that pushed it over the line into cold. Kids up and down Thomas skipped rope, played hopscotch, and threw balls back and forth. Some of them called out to him and Jordan, and they waved back. There were lots of kids in Marsh Run and most of them were okay. Some of the older ones were kind of mean, though; they made fun of him being fat (he wasn't, he just big boned like Mom said). One, a fifth grader named Kevin who lived a couple streets over, stole his bike one time and Blake had to chase him to get it back.

 _Give me my bike!_ Blake screamed. He was shaking, crying tears of rage, and holding his pants up because they were slipping down his hips. Also out of breath. So, so out of breath.

 _You want it back, porky?_ Kevin cried over his shoulder. He jumped off, and the bike swerved to one side, then crashed into someone's trailer. When Blake when to get it, a mean old woman came out onto the front porch and yelled at him. He said he didn't do it, but she refused to believe him. Someone inside called out to ask her what was going on, and she said _A little fat boy ran his bike into the house._

It really hurt his feelings when people said he was fat, and as he walked away, he had to fight really hard to keep from crying.

At the intersection of Thomas and Andrews, he pulled to a stop next to Jordan, who gazed down the sloped street toward the clubhouse. "Wanna go to the playground?" she asked.

"I can't," Blake said, "remember?"

Jordan's mom and dad let her wander all over the trailer park like a stray cat. Blake envied her freedom and tried to get his parents to give him the same slack, but they said no.

They were kind of dumb sometimes, but he guessed everyone was.

Jordan turned to face him and squinted against the glare of the sun. "But it's your birthday," she said, "you can do whatever you want."

"No, I can't," he said.

"Yes you can."

Before he could argue, she turned right and took off in the direction of the playground. Blake's heart skipped a beat and for a moment he sat there, unsure of what to do. He really didn't want his dad to get mad at him, but the playground _did_ sound kind of fun; he loved swinging more than he loved cop stuff, and he loved cop stuff kind of a lot.

If they were quick, Dad might not know he was gone.

Jordan was two blocks away, the wind rippling her shirt as she sailed down the incline. Mind made up, Blake gave chase, his legs pumping to catch up. At the bottom, Jordan hung a sharp left and flew across the street without looking both ways, shot through the gap in the split rail fence, and drove up onto the grass. The playground stood in the distance, the clubhouse off to the right. Jordan's bike jostled and shook as she crossed the lumpy, uneven ground. Blake stopped at the intersection, looked both ways, then crossed.

At the playground, Jordan jumped off her bike and threw it aside. Blake parked next to it, climbed off, and laid it carefully down. Jordan went straight to one of the swings and sat down, then stuck her Ring Pop in her mouth. Wishing he had one too, Blake sat next to her and let his legs dangle; the seats were really high and his shoes barely scuffed the mulch. The chains holding it to the frame weren't covered in the soft plastic stuff like the ones at school were, they were bare and rusty and started to bite into your hands if you held on too long. Blake grasped both and pulled back, then propelled himself forward. "Is your mom gonna have the baby soon?" Jordan asked.

"No," Blake said, "she says it won't be for a long time."

Mom told him the other day that he was going to have a little brother or sister. He didn't really know how to feel about that. Babies were kind of dumb: All they did was cry and poop. They _were_ sorta cute, though.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Blake said. He swung very slowly back and forth.

"What?"

"Where did it come from?"

Jordan sucked her Ring Pop, then pulled it out with a squelch. Her lips were stained red now. "The baby?"

"Yeah," he said. Mom and Dad blushed and sputtered when he asked how the baby got in her stomach. _We'll tell you that when you're older,_ Dad said. That only added to Blake's confusion: Why were they acting so weird about it?

Jordan licked her Ring Pop. "They had sex," she said nonchalantly.

Oh. Blake had heard that word before on TV, but he never knew what it meant, only that it wasn't polite to talk about, kind of like farting. "What's sex?" he asked and crinkled his brow.

"That's, like, when grown ups hug and kiss," she said. She pulled back and swung forward. "I saw it in a movie."

Okay, that made sense. His mom and dad hugged and kissed each other a lot.

Jordan went faster, back and forth like a pendulum; the frame groaned and shuddered under her weight. "Bet I can go higher," she challenged.

"No," Blake said, "I'm gonna go higher."

"Nu-uh."

"Yeah-uh."

"You're a butt-munch, butt-muncheses can't go high at all."

Blake pumped his legs and leaned back. "You're a pole smoker."

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"A dillweed."

They were both going very high now.

"I know you are, but what am I?" Jordan asked again.

"Dumb."

She looked at him with a smug little smile. "I know you are, but what am _I_?"

Blake opened his mouth, but closed it again. You can't really win against _I-know-you-are_ ; it was what his grandfather might call a losing proposition. Kind of like quicksand; the more you fight, the deeper you get until you're being sucked underground and dragged God knows where. Quicksand was scary, but whirlpools were even scarier. He saw one on TV once, and this boat got drawn in, then broke into a million pieces while the people onboard spun around and around, screaming in terror and clawing at wreckage in an attempt to save themselves. Whenever he saw one of those things, he always imagined it lead to some dark and mysterious hell where aquatic horrors and abominations lurked, waiting for fresh meat to blunder into their lair.

Beside him, Jordan slipped the Ring Pop into her mouth, then pulled it out with a plop. "Do you want a brother or sister?" she asked suddenly and looked at him.

Hmmm...which one _did_ he want? If he was honest, he kinda wanted neither, but he had to have one or the other, so...uh…

"Brother," he said haltingly. "So we can hang out and play games and stuff."

Jordan stared thoughtfully at her Ring Pop, then attacked it with her mouth. "Sisters can do stuff like that too, you know," she said.

True, they could, but most of them don't. Girls were really lame - Jordan was just an exception. A freak accident the likes of which you can't really explain or account for. Maybe she was really a boy inside a girl's body. "I guess," he said with a noncommittal shrug. If he went into greater detail, she'd get mad and say he was a girl-hater or something. I mean, it's kind of true, but he didn't hate _her._

Their motions had slowed, and now they sat still, the biting wind raking through their hair and raising goosebumps up and down Blake's bare arms. He should have put his coat on. Why did no one remind him to put his coat on? "I want a little sister," Jordan said and lashed the Ring Pop with her tongue; red slobber dribbled down her chin and made tiny wet patches on the front of her shirt.

He knew. She talked about having a little sister a lot, though she said she'd be happy with a little brother too. She wasn't, like, super girly or anything, but she _did_ like to do frilly crud every once in a while, liking painting her toenails and putting cucumber slices on her eyes. Her family didn't buy cucumbers a lot because no one like them and they were on a budget, so one time she used pickles and they stung her eyes. She jumped up, the slices falling from her face, and clawed madly at her hair, screaming _it burns, it burns._

It was kind of disturbing.

Anyway, every time she saw a baby girl on TV, she went _awww_ and talked about all the cool stuff she'd do with her own baby sister. "Well...if I have sister, we can share her," he offered.

Jordan considered for a moment, then her face lit up. "That'd be cool.

In the distance, a horn honked, and Blake looked toward the street, tensing when he saw his dad's truck. Uh-oh. He didn't think Dad would realize he was gone, but he did.

Dang it.

"Is that your dad?" Jordan asked.

Blake jumped off the swing. "Yeah," he whined, "I'm in trouble now. I gotta go. Bye." He hurried over to his bike, picked it up, and walked it to his father's truck, head down and feeling two inches tall the whole way. He did not see Jordan's shoulders slump or hear her sigh of dejection.

At the truck, Dad leaned over, rolled down the passenger window, and fixed him with a glare. "What have I told you about coming down here without me or your mother?"

"Not to," Blake said heavily.

"Put your bike in the back. We're going over to your aunt's house."

Blake perked up. They were?

Excited now, he picked the bike up, put it in the bed, and climbed in. As he buckled his belt, he looked up and glimpsed Jordan sitting alone on the swing, head bowed. She looked sad. He didn't know why.

 _He_ was the one who didn't get a Ring Pop.


	189. August 1997: Part 1

_**You have so many relationships in this life  
Only one or two will last  
You go through all the pain and strife  
Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast**_

 **MMMBop (Hanson, 1997)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Fly**_ **by Sugar Ray (1997)**

Thursday, August 28, 1997 dawned hot and humid; the bright morning sun crept across the trailer park like spreading ink and filtered through the thirsty brown trees. It was day five of the worst heatwave in twenty years and there was no end in sight - daytime temps reached 101 degrees and nights were sultry with barely a breeze to offer respite. Everyone was sweaty, miserable, and melting...but no one was worse off than Alex Underwood. Six months pregnant and already big as a house (okay, maybe not _that_ big...more like a _mobile_ house), Alex was basically walking around with a bowling ball attached to her stomach, which made those dog days of summer 100 times worse than they would have been otherwise. Her back hurt, her feet ached, and her knees grated with every step she took.

She agreed with what Butt-Head said in _Beavis and Butt-Head Do America_ : The sun sucks. Yeah, BH, it totally does.

That morning, she came slowly awake in a tangle of sweat-sodden bed clothes, her bangs plastered to her forehead and her lips drier than the fried chicken at Flip's (sorry, Dad, know you're proud of it, but it's awful). A fan standing in the corner stirred stagnant air, and golden illumination fell mutedly through the curtains, bathing the matted carpet in soft, sepia hues. She pried her gummy eyes open, ran her fingers through her hair, and let out a deep sigh. Is it winter yet? If I complain about the cold in December, feel free to slap me, okay?

Was the air conditioning on? It didn't feel like it. Then again, it never did. The central cooling system in this place was old and feeble, kind of like her father, and unless you stood on one of the rusted metal floor vents, you wouldn't even know there _was_ a central cooling system. She and Tim bought a couple window units for theirs and Blake's bedrooms, but Blake's was on the fritz and they gave him theirs. Therefore, the room was hot and sticky, making the start of her day just as bleh as the rest was apt to be.

Oh, except for her graduation.

Giddiness gripped her when she remembered that today was _the_ day: She was going to walk into her graduation a lowly CNA and strut out a full-fledged nurse.

Cockily.

 _Ooooh yeah, I'm a nurse now. See my certificate?_ *Shoves papers in a random person's face* _Smell that? That, my friend, is the scent of awesomeness._

She kicked the sheets off and sat stiffly up, being very careful not to jostle her stomach; too much activity and the baby would start kicking like crazy, and it was too early to have her rib bruised.

Again.

Yep, that's right, the little girl in her belly was _vicious_ , and her kicks freaking _hurt._ Alex had never been totally dominated in a fight by a kangaroo on steroids, but she was pretty sure that it couldn't be any more painful than her daughter's routine assaults. In all seriousness, though...ow. She wanted a girl _soooo_ bad, and the stork was like, _okay, here, have a kickboxer._ Be careful what you wish for, folks, ya might just get it.

In even _more_ seriousness, she was estatic that the baby was a girl. She would have loved it just the same if it was a boy, but she had her heart set on a child of the feminine persuasion. She wasn't a spoiled woman by _any_ stretch, but come on, who doesn't love getting exactly what they want?

Just then, the baby kicked the piss out of her (literally, she dribbled a little) and she gasped in shock. "No," she said firmly when she recovered. She jabbed her finger into her stomach and found the baby's heel. "You do _not_ kick Mommy. Today is Mommy's special graduation day, you _be nice_ to her."

She kicked again, harder this time, and Alex winced. "Ugh, you're so stubborn."

Oooh, what was Spanish for stubborn? That might be a good name. As it stood right now, she and Timbo the Bimbo were stuck on what to call their latest collaboration. He wanted to keep with the B theme they "established" with Blake, but Alex thought that was lame. _I love my grandparents, but they did that and it was dumb_. _Not having twenty kids running around with B names. Pick something else, buddy._

Was it _Stubborno?_ As a rule of thumb, you can add _o_ to the end of any word and it automatically makes it Spanish. Trust her, she knew, she was a fiery Latino, after all.

"Stubborno," she said, tasting the name indecisively. "Eh...probably not." _Stubborno_ was kind of dumb. Emily was pretty, and so was Emma. Oooh, and Zoey, Kaylee and Sophie…

Huh, lotta white girl names.

Not that there's anything wrong with that! She was mostly white herself, and given Tim's terminal white-a-tude, the baby was bound to be a loveable palefaced devil just like her brother. Therefore, her having a white girl name would be alright. However *puts on smart girl glasses* maybe a nod to her Spanish heritage was in order. Mom would like it; every once in a while she was all _You need to take more of an interest...blah blah blah you're going to live with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air._ Alex kind of tuned her out after a while. You know, Dad never pestered her to take an interest in _white people_ stuff. _See, honey, you dip your bread into a glass of water to negate its spiciness...then you oppress a minority. BAM._

That was a joke, she didn't really think that stuff, but still, you didn't see Dad bent out of shape because she wasn't draped in a French flag and cramming snails in her pie hole. Maybe it's a Mexican thing. Alex wouldn't know, the only other Mexicans she knew were just as white as her. God, the last time she went to see Aunt Lori, Uncle Bobby was listening to _Elvis._ Talk about white.

Actually, Mom liked Pat Boone and Michael Bolton. You can't get any whiter than that. Ronalda-Anne _really_ needed to stop throwing stones, her little glass house couldn't take much more.

Taking a deep breath to fortify herself for the possible struggle ahead, Alex got cumbersomely to her feet and winced at the tightness in her lower back. She pressed her hand to one side and leaned gradually back; her spine popped in multiple places like an old woman, and she gritted her teeth against the sensation. Dunno if I wanna go for round three. Tim's gonna have to get fixed...then again, who knows how she'd feel two years down the road. Maybe she'd want another baby. She already had a boy and a girl, so many next time she'll go for a half-and-half deal like Two Face in that Batman show Blake and Jordan watched. Part boy, part girl, _all_ awesome.

Uhh...on second thought, let's _not_ do that.

With short, shuffling steps, Alex made her way to the bathroom, pulled her panties to her knees, and settled on the toilet like an elevator goin down. _Good morning, Mr. Tyler._ Hahaha. But no, really, when you're big and pregnant, you can't rush cuz you _kiiinda_ got a huge stomach in the way. Oh, and don't even _think_ about turning around too quickly, that's a good way to fall on your buttocks and get a million dollar wound like Forrest Gump.

President Clinton: I'd like to see wound.

Alex, Purple Heart pinned to chest, turns around, bends over, and drops trou.

Hey, if the President tells you to do something, you do it. He might send ninjas if you don't.

Done, she stood, pulled up her undies, and went into the room. Owing to how hot it was, she slept in only her panties and a pale orange tank top. Presently, she grabbed a pair of brown shorts from the dresser, sat on the edge of the bed, and slid them on, then got up and went into the kitchen. Blake sat in front of the TV next to Jordan, Blake in his tighty whities and Jordan clad in a pair of shorts, pink socks, and nothing else, her flat little girly chest bared to the world.

Alex came to a halt and tilted her head in bemusement. You know, this wasn't the first time Jordan took her shirt off in front of Blake - they were best friends and too young to look at or think of each other in _that_ way, so it was acceptable - but it always gave Alex pause. Sooner or later, she'd have to talk to Jordan's mom. _Tell your hoochie daughter to keep her clothes on around my son. He's awesome like me, I know, but that's gotta wait until he's at_ least _eighteen._ How open and innocent they were with one another (like Adam and Eve in the Garden) was adorable, but it wouldn't be long before things started...developing. On them and maybe _between_ them as well.

Buuuuut that's a worry for another day. Right now, Alex was hot, sticky, and so thirsty her mouth felt like the inside of a tumbleweed - John Wayne and Clint Eastwood were about to duel on her tongue while everyone else hid like yella bellies. She crossed to the fridge, opened the door, and reached for a Coke...but they were all gone.

*Dramatic music*

Great. Looks like it's yuck trailer park water for me.

She was certain there were at least two sweet, delicious, ice cold Coca-Colas in here last night. Darn it.

Coke wasn't the only thing they were out of - the shelves were bearer than Jordan's torso and as empty as Flip's on a slow day. It looked like _someone_ was going to have to brave the heat and make a trip to the grocery store.

And that someone…

That someone was her.

Ugh. She didn't _wanna_ go outside, though. If today was anything like yesterday (and she knew from the burning light pressing against the window over the sink that it was), she'd start melting as soon as she stepped out the door.

Conversely, the inside of Meijer's was blessedly cool...all those state-of-the-art air conditioners blowing...the freezer section throwing off icy air...ahhh, she could feel it now, like the refreshing kiss of Old Man Winter himself. _Don't tell your husband, Alex._

 _Normally I wouldn't cheat on Tim cuz I love him...but your place or mine?!_

Closing the door, she grabbed a glass from the drying rack and filled it with water from the tap. Standing at the counter, she drank it and watched her son and his friend watching _Blue's Clues._ Steve, clad in a green striped shirt and looking dorkier than Dad, Tim, and Michael Bolton combined, sat in an oversized armchair and tapped the butt of a crayon against his chin. _What can Blue make with Spandex, hairspray, and no talent?_

Oooh, I know, a Warrant album!

Heh, that was mean. She liked Warrant. What ever happened to those guys, anyway? They were all over the place (mainly being made fun of) then, overnight, _gone_. She blamed Alice in Chains. She _used_ to blame Kurt Cobain - since Nirvana basically killed off metal - but he was dead now, and holding a grudge against a dead guy was pretty low, even for her.

Finishing off her second glass of water, Alex said, "You guys wanna go to the grocery store? We're out of everything."

Blake grunted and lifted a can of Coke to his lips.

"Yeah, I guess," Jordan mumbled, so enraped by Blue was she. She took a drink of her own Coke. "I have to ask my mom."

Jordan's mom was a nice woman, but she was one of those women who've had so many kids that she finally stopped caring about certain things. She let Jordan roam all over creation (as Harvey would say) and rarely allowed her or any of her other kids to have friends over. Alex couldn't blame her on the last one, since trailer park kids have a way of stampeding through your house like a herd of ravenous jackals, yelling, breaking things, fighting, and eating all your food, but she wasn't exactly impressed with her _get out of my face and go somewhere else_ style of parenting. To be fair, Jordan turned eight in September, so it's not like she was a toddler. Still, though.

Or maybe _she_ was the weird one. _Can you guys believe how tight Alex keeps her apron strings? Her son's gonna grow up to kill her, then talk to himself in her voice while dressed in a black wig and an AC/DC band tee._

Striking the perfect balance between being a liberal parent and a regulation spewing dictator was not the hardest thing Alex had ever done, but it was difficult, and no matter what she did, she secretly worried that it was wrong. She was afraid of smothering him, but she was just as afraid of being too lax. Mom said she was doing great but Alex wondered. Saying no when he wanted a new toy or video game was hard sometimes, and when he went out with Jordan, she found herself constantly going to the front window, pulling the curtain back, and scanning the street for him. If she didn't see him, she'd go out and walk to the foot of the driveway. Normally, he, Jordan, and a bunch of other kids would be playing in someone's yard, riding bikes, or roaming Thomas like a pack of zombies looking for brains to nibble on. Sometimes, though, she wouldn't see him, and her heart would drop. _Oh, no, where's my son?_ Every time that happened, she thought of John Walsh's little boy, Adam. In, like, 1979, he was abducted from a Sears...then two weeks later, they dragged his severed head out of a river 200 miles away. Alex wasn't panicky or anything, but not knowing where Blake was made her more nervous than Jessy (sorry, Jess).

Could you really blame her, though? The world was a dangerous place. Take the 29 Stalker, for instance. Since 1994, three women had gone missing on Route 29 between Chippewa Falls and Royal Woods, one after her car broke down, the second on her way to get gas, and the third hitchhiking to her boyfriend's house late last month. They never found the first two, though they did find the second one's car abandoned in the woods, but they got the third. She was naked in a roadside ditch, hidden by tall grass, stabbed fifty times in the torso...and raped. On August 5, the police linked it to the other two disappearances, and a dozen women came forward to say that they had had run ins with a strange man along Route 29. One said someone in a blue pickup truck chased her for nearly ten miles one night, and another claimed a man with wavy brown hair and a weather-beaten face jumped out of the bushes when she stopped at a traffic light and tried to open her passenger side door. By August 5, all the newspapers were headed with big bold type reading **SUSPECT SOUGHT IN RT. 29 SLAYINGS,** and **PANIC SPREADS, WOMEN UNSAFE.**

Of course, all the women of Royal County (including...yes, Alex herself) were freaking terrified. Each day, the dread of sundown was palpable in the sweltering air, and the ominous march of lengthening shadows as threatening as the advent of night in a vampire movie. No one went out after dark if they could help it, and if they absolutely _had_ to leave the safety of locked doors and windows, they were tense, flighty, and constantly tossed worried looks over their shoulder. At least Alex did. She'd also taken to carrying a steak knife under the driver seat of her car, just in case the Stalker liked half Latino women too.

To paraphrase Walker, Texas Ranger: Something, something, something, look behind you, cuz that's where the Stalker's gonna be.

That was a worry for tonight, though. Right now she needed to get her butt to the grocery store.

Sweat trickled into her eye and she winced. First, a shower - she felt gritty, gross, and hot. "I'm gonna take a shower," she said, "go ask your mom if you can come."

"Okay," Jordan said. On TV, Steve danced in his chair like a lame-o. _We just got a letter, we just got a letter, we just got a letter, wonder who it's from._

Ugh, hopefully the Unabomber.

Oh, wait, they caught him.

Darn.

Pushing away from the counter, she went off to take her shower. When she was gone, Jordan flopped back onto the floor and moaned. "It's _soooo_ hot." Her naked chest glistened with sweat and her skin was flushed. "Why is your house like this?"

"Because my house sucks," Blake said heavily and swiped the back of his hand across his slick forehead. Sweat sluiced down his flabby sides like butter on dinner rolls and his bristly brown hair dripped beads of perspiration. His chubby cheeks blazed fire truck red, and his flesh sizzled; he felt like he was going to catch on fire at any moment.

"I like your grandma's house better," Jordan panted.

"Me too. It has air conditioning."

Jordan sighed and sat up. "I'm gonna go ask my mom if I can go." She got up, grabbed a yellow T-shirt from the floor, and pulled it over her head. Blake stared up at the TV, then glanced at Jordan when she coughed; she stood by the door with her hand on the knob and a doubtful expression on her face. "Are you coming with me?"

"No," Blake said emphatically and turned back to the TV. "It's, like, a million degrees out there."

Jordan sighed. "I know," she said, "I don't wanna go alone."

"You'll be fine," Blake said.

"Your house isn't the _only_ thing that sucks," she spat.

Blake knitted his brow in confusion. "What else sucks?" he asked.

Jordan crossed her arms and lifted her brow like he was dumb or something. "What else sucks?" he asked again.

"You," she said, "you suck."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do."

"Come with me," she said.

"Why?" Blake moaned.

"Because I wanna hang out with you before I have to leave."

Jordan's parents were taking her and her siblings to see their grandma in Wisconsin or something and they wouldn't be back until Sunday. They did it every summer and Blake hated it because Jordan not being around sucked. She was annoying sometimes, but she was also really cool _and_ his best friend.

Throwing his head back, Blake let out a rush of air. "Fine." He rolled to his knees, pushed to his feet, and stalked past Jordan on his way to his room. "Let me get dressed."

Five minutes later, Blake emerged in a striped T-shirt and shorts. He couldn't find clean socks so he pulled his shoes on over his bare feet. Jordan stood by the door, her head bent and something in her hand. Blake stood next to her and waited...and waited...and waited. Come on, why does it take girls forever to do stuff? "What are you doing?" he finally asked.

"Feeding my Tamagotchi," Jordan said. She held a small egg shaped device, its plastic casing painted glittery pink. On it was a tiny screen: A pixelated 'pet' ate from a dish and happily wagged its tail in thanks to its master's benevolence. Whether it was a dog, a cat, or something else, Blake couldn't tell. Jordan told him at some point (several points, actually) but he always forgot.

Tamagotchis were really popular: All the girls at school had one and some of the boys too. Blake thought they were dumb, but Jordan disagreed. To her, having an animal to love and nature was the best thing ever, even if it wasn't a _real_ animal. She really wanted a cat, but her mom wouldn't let her have one since they peed on everything and scratched stuff. Blake thought cats were dumb even though they were kind of cute; they just sat there and licked themselves all day. He wanted a dog, dogs were cool, they ran around and played fetch and kept you safe from bad guys and slept on your bed with you. Do cats do any of those things? No. The difference between dogs and cats is that cats hate your guts until they want to be fed, but dogs _always_ love you.

Jordan pressed a button and her Tamagotchi beeped. He didn't know what that meant, but she giggled so it was probably dumb. "You _just_ ate," she said with a faux chiding inflection, "silly kitty, you don't need anymore."

So it was a cat. It didn't really look like a cat. It didn't look like much of anything.

"Are you ready?" Blake asked impatiently.

Without looking up from her toy, Jordan gestured to the door. "Boys first."

First to have his face melted off, maybe. Steeling himself, he opened the door and stepped onto the porch. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere changed from hot to _blistering_. The morning sun, its light still comparatively feeble, stung the skin of his exposed arms and face, and the wet air wrapped around him like the hand of a hungry giant. No breeze blew and the world was preternaturally still as if waiting with bated breath for something terrible to happen.

Jordan came out next, smiling at her Tamagotchi and petting the screen with her finger. When she felt the heat, she stopped and looked up, her brow furrowed. "Uhhh...on second thought, _you_ go tell my mom."

"No, we're both going," Blake said and went down the stairs. The front of his shirt stuck tackily to his basted chest.

Dropping the Tamagotchi into her fanny pack, Jordan followed. Side-by-side, they cut between two trailers on their way to Andrews Street. The grass was brown and dying and clunky outside AC units - big, boxy, and standing next to each trailer like a tugboat to a huge ship - made low thrumming sounds. Ahead, a clothes line was strung up between two slanted pieces of T shaped metal, and instead of going around, they ducked underneath. "We should see if your mom will get us McDonald's," Jordan said. "I want a McFlurry."

"Okay," Blake panted and wiped his forehead. A McFlurry _did_ sound nice. He liked the one with M&Ms but the one with Oreos was good too.

"And a movie."

"Aren't you leaving soon?" Blake asked. They were on the sidewalk flanking Andrews. Jordan's street was directly across from them, the way lined with trailers and wilted trees, their boughs completely still like paintings on a backdrop. The faint haze in the superheated air contributed to the illusion; if you walked too far, you'd crash into a wall like Wiley E. Coyote.

A red 1994 Chrysler Neon zipped by, its windows down and a teenager in a backwards hat behind the wheel. Bass and cursing-laden music trailed behind it like the impassioned tirade of a departing belligerent. "Not until three, I think," Jordan said. They crossed and walked down the middle of her street, the mobile homes fronting it silent and shuttered. The whirr of a lawnmower kicked up in the distance, and to the left, a man with long hair, a red bandanna wrapped around his forehead and his body bare save for a dirty pair of blue jeans, leaned into the open engine block of a pick-up truck. Metal clanged and he muttered under his breath. Blake's dad worked on cars too, and so did his grandpa, they took him to the shop sometimes and showed him stuff, like how to change a tire and change a car's oil.

They reached Jordan's trailer a few minutes later, its covered front porch lost in a jungle of potted plants on hangers and partially hidden behind her mom's sprawling rosebush. The flowers, once alive and vibrant, hung dead and rotting in the summer sun. Jordan's brother Steven, a thin nine-year-old with short black hair and brown eyes, sat at the patio table with a bunch of his friends, and Blake's step faltered. Steven was okay, but some of his friends were mean and made fun of him for being fat. Veronica, thirteen with sandy blonde hair like her mom and Jordan, sat in a lawn chair flanking the door, clad in a pair of denim shorts and a pink and white bikini top, the too big straps falling down the curve of her shoulders. Big, bug-eyed sunglasses covered her eyes and a thin layer of sunscreen smeared her bronze thighs. One of her friends, a black girl with bushy hair whose name Blake couldn't remember, sat next to her; she wore a purple two piece bikini and sunglasses like Veronica's. Music drifted from a little transistor radio propped against a glass of lemonade. It looked like the blue M&M guy from TV, one eye closed and the other serving as the dial - Jordan had a yellow one but it got broken.

 _Dance a little stranger, show me where you've been  
Love can make you hostage wanna do it again  
There's no time to think about the starting or the end  
We'll find out I'm told, my mother she told me so_

Blake didn't like Veronica - she was mean and _far, far_ bossier than Jordan.

As they walked up, Steven's friends exploded in excited exclamations, and Veronica snapped her head around, her brow darkening. "Knock it off," she spat. Blake could practically see the venom flying from her lips. "We're trying to relax."

 _I just wanna fly  
Put your arms around me, baby  
Put your arms around me, baby  
I just wanna fly_

Steven's friends ignored her, some kneeling on patio cheers, others standing, and Steven sitting on a straight back kitchen chair banished from the house as too wobbly. A mess of Pokemon cards covered the table's glass surface. "Charizard is a fire type, he has the advantage _,_ " a kid with glasses said.

"Nu-uh," another said vehemently, "Lozard does."

"A grass type against a fire type? You're retarded."

Blake lingered awkwardly on the top step while Jordan went inside, the screen door banging behind her. Veronica turned her head to her friend and shifted slightly like a sleeper in the middle of a restive night. The music and the scent of sunscreen seasoned the air and Blake looked down at his shoes so he didn't have to look at anyone else.

 _All around the world, statues crumble for me  
Who knows how long I've loved you  
Everyone I know has been so good to me  
Twenty-five years old, my mother God rest her soul_

"Hey, fat boy," a cruel voice greeted. Blake looked up, and all of Steven's friends were staring at him, some with predatory grins and others with curiosity, like mildly interested spectators at a tennis match.

The speaker, tall and gangly with glasses, acne, and a protruding Adam's apple, nodded at him. Blake's forehead crinkled petulantly. He _really_ didn't like getting made fun of. It hurt his feelings. "I'm not fat," he said, "I'm big-boned."

That sent the entire table into hysterical laughter, one kid stomping his feet on the porch, another throwing his head exaggeratedly back, and another still slumping against one of his pals as if Blake's comment had literally killed him. "That's what they all say," a boy with red hair and freckles dismissed. Dressed in a red, sleeveless Chicago Bulls jersey with black trim and 23 across the chest in white, he was far bigger than Blake.

Steven looked hesitantly from Blake to 23, looking conflicted, like he didn't want to pick on him but didn't want to look bad in front of his friends. Finally, he made his decision. "His tits are bigger than my sister's."

Everyone laughed, and Veronica shot him a dirty look. "Stop talking about my tits, creep."

"He's the reason your mom won't let us in the house," a boy with a bowl cut said and nodded to Blake, "he'll eat everything."

Blake's face burned with shame and anger and tears were beginning to well in his eyes. "NO I WON'T!"

"Will you leave him alone?" Veronica snapped. "You know he's a crybaby."

"I am not," Blake whined. He didn't get it, she always said that about him but he never cried at Jordan's house. Except when he stubbed his toe on the walkway, and when a neighbor boy threw a football at the back of his head, and when he and Jordan were arguing that time and she slapped his taco out of his hand.

Veronica lifted her head and regarded him from behind her sunglasses like he was the most annoying thing ever. "Yes you are. You're the biggest crybaby in the whole trailer park."

That wasn't true, he was _not_ a crybaby.

Yet his eyes brimmed with hot, stinging fluid anyway, and his chest ached as though every one of their taunts had physically cut his heart. The boys were all laughing again, and before Blake could prove them right, he spun around and stormed off, his arms crossing defensively over his chest and his bottom lip sticking pitifully out. Jordan's siblings were mean and so were their dumb friends. He tried to be nice to them so they'd be his friends too but they teased him and it made him feel like he wasn't worthy of them…

Like he was trash.

He was on the sidewalk when Jordan caught up to him, a Freezepop in each hand. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home," Blake sulked.

"Why?" Jordan asked.

"They were making fun of me," he said and blinked against bitter tears. He looked up at Jordan, and her jaw was clenched. Her blue eyes, normally placid, flashed with wrath, and her nostrils flared, lending her the appearance of a dragon. Uh-oh, she was gonna cause a scene and make it even _worse._ They'd think he was a ninny or something for sending her to fight his battle.

He started to beg her not to do anything, but before he could, she spun around and stalked back down the sidewalk, her halls balled at her sides and her body bent slightly forward at the waist. Should he stop her? She might make things worse, but he _really_ wanted to see them get yelled at for calling him those names.

Jordan's feet thundered as she went up the stairs. At the table, she leaned over, and everyone jerked her a startled glance when she screamed. " _YOU'RE ALL BUTTHEADS!"_

Steven rolled his eyes. "Sorry, didn't mean to upset your _boyfriend."_ He pronounced the last word with a mocking inflection. A couple of his friends snickered. Jordan's shoulders rose and fell with the tide of her panting, then, like a shot, she swept the cards off the table. The boys cried out in indignation, alarm, and shock, and scrambled to pick them up, as though they were priceless artifacts and being on the ground for more than .02 seconds would ruin them forever.

"Go away!" Steven shrieked and dropped to his knees. "You better not have hurt my Charizard."

Satisfied, Jordan turned around to leave, and Veronica favored her over the tops of her sunglasses with a level of disdain only a bitchy big sister can muster. "You need to take a chill pill," she sneered.

"You to take a stop being dumb pill," Jordan said tightly as she passed. Veronica started to get up, and Jordan bolted.

"Better run," the older girl grumbled and settled back into her chair.

Blake stood where he was with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He stared at the cracked sidewalk the whole time, listening to the commotion and taking savage joy in them getting a taste of their own medicine.

Instead of stopping to ask him if he was okay, Jordan blew past him, her arms swinging stiffly and her steps big and wide, like one of those Not-See guys on The History Channel. Blake stared after her, then hurried to catch up; his shorts started to slip and he held them in place. "They make me so mad," she fumed. Her hands curled around the Freezepops, and inside their plastic wrappers, they crushed into little pieces.

"It's okay," Blake said quickly, "I'm fine."

"I'm not," she barked, "I don't like them making fun of you. Only _I_ can do that."

Well...yeah, it was okay when Jordan did it because they were friends and she was never mean about it...unless he _really_ ticked her off. To be fair, he did the same thing sometimes. Like when she was trying to yank Goldeneye out of the N64 because she wanted to play Mario, and he shoved her to the floor. And when she took the last Coke the other day then smiled smugly when he asked for a sip; he snatched it out of her hand and threw it in the trash. If couldn't have it, _no one_ could. They said and did mean things to each other all the time, but they were allowed to.

They were at Andrews. Blake could see his mom's car parked in the driveway from here. "It kind of hurt my feelings," he said as they crossed. The street stood empty in either direction. Here, no one was up yet except for an old woman sitting on her porch and fanning herself with a magazine.

"Ignore them," Jordan said, "they're dillholes."

Inside the trailer, Alex, dressed in her shorts and tank top, wrapped a towel around her head and went into the kitchen just as Blake and Jordan entered. "My mom said I could go," Jordan said and closed the door behind her.

"Okay," Alex said, "just give me onnnnne minute." Where were her shoes? She needed her purse too. She spun in a slow circle but saw neither item. Ugh. Blake and Jordan stood side by side next to the counter, blocking the entrance to the living room. The latter offered her a big, cheesy smile then leaned into Blake's ear.

" _McDonald's,"_ she said in stage whisper that was _totally_ loud enough for Alex to hear. Hm. I think she's trying to tell me something.

Blake stared down at the floor with a dejected air, and Alex frowned. "You okay?" she asked.

Before he could reply, Jordan butted in. "He's really hungry, Mrs. Alex. I think he needs McDonald's, stat."

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Well then," Alex said, "let's get him some McDonald's."

Alex knew Jordan was conning her, but the joke was on _her;_ she was planning to stop there anyway.

You gotta get up pretty early to pull one over on Alex Underwood, nee Loud.

"I just gotta find my shoes and purse," she said thoughtfully.

Where were they?

* * *

Lana unzipped the tent flap and crawled out into the cool morning, clad only in an oversized flannel shirt and panties. Her hiking boots sat next to the entrance, and pressing one hand lightly against the canvas wall for balance, she stepped into them. Soft light filtered through the treetops overhead, and a breeze redolent of honeysuckle and earth stirred the leaves. Birds chirped from unseen perches, and ahead, at the bottom of a gentle slope, the translucent river chugged and gurgled over stones washed smooth by eons. Off to the left, the boys' tent was silent, and ahead, the Blazer was backed close to the fire. Jed stood before the open tailgate, his back to her and the unmistakable sizzle and mouth watering aroma of bacon drifting from a Coleman stove. He wore dirty, paint speckled jeans and a thermal undershirt, his thinning gray hair, pulled back in ponytail, rustling in the wind like a field of cotton.

Stepping carefully to avoid tripping over her laces, Lana walked over, wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, and gave him a big ol' good morning hug. "Mornin'," she said.

"Mornin'," he replied and laid his hand on top of hers. He gave it an affectionate squeeze, then picked up a fork and turned the bacon; grease popped and spat. "How did you sleep?"

"LIke a baby," she said.

Lana didn't know what it was about the great outdoors, but whenever she was here, in the low, densely wooded Eastern Tennessee foothills, she was as close to being at peace one can get. All the stress of life - not that she had much - melted away and in its place came tranquility. It was nice to get away from everything now and then; modern life takes a toll on you whether you realize it or not. Deadlines, bills, housekeeping, homework...you start to go crazy after a while. That's to say, everyone needs a vacation, and to her, there was no better place to take one than the mountains. You could do everything: Hunt, fish, hike, swim, or just sit and be one with nature.

She and Jed had been bringing the kids out here every summer for the past three years, and each time they camped somewhere different. Last year it was on the eastern side of Mount Boone, overlooking one of the deep, heavily forested valleys so abundant in the Cumberland Plateau. This year, it was on the bank of the Crockett River, a narrow, rushing stream that wound through the eroded terrain like a snake. Trees crowded the far bank, and beyond, humped mountains with gentle, rounded peaks rose against the sky, each more remote than the last.

The hidden gullies, trenches, hollers, streams, vales, and ridges crisscrossing the region enchanted Lana more and more every time she came out here, and though she hadn't said anything to Jed, she was starting to think she wanted to move out here when the kids were grown, either into the highlands or one of the small towns dotting them. She was sure he wouldn't mind it; by the time Joy was out of the house, he'd be seventy and probably ready to retire if he hadn't already. His plan was to keep the garage going as long as he could, and since he was healthy as a horse, that might very well be another fifteen years, maybe even closer to twenty. She didn't mind waiting, she was a patient woman, but one day, come hell or high water, she was going to park her butt out here and _stay._

"How long you been up?" she asked. Releasing one arm, she reached around him, plucked a half raw piece of bacon from the stove, and tossed it into her mouth. It was rubbery with a hint of gamey wildness that you only got from meat that hasn't been fully cooked.

Just how she liked it.

"'Bout an hour," he said.

Last night, they were up late around the fire roasting marshmallow, telling ghost stories, and generally enjoying the solitude of each other's company, none quite wanting to leave the warmth they'd made between them. Joy fell asleep in Lana's lap, her head lolled to one side and a spill of blonde hair veiling her face, but every time Lana tried to get up to put her in the tent, she'd wake. _I don't wanna go to bed yet, mama,_ she'd mutter, _five more minutes?_ Lana always tried to be firm and authoritative with her kids, but how could she say no to her little baby? God, don't _call_ her a baby though, she'd get madder than a rattlesnake. _I ain't_ _a baby! I'm a big girl!_ Bless her heart, Lana couldn't help needling her sometimes because her tantrums were just the cutest thing ever. Her cheeks got all red and her eyes smoldered; if looks could kill, she'd have cut Lana down _more_ than a time or two.

 _You're still my baby, hun._

 _STOP CALLIN' ME THAT!_

Normally, it's the daddy that spoils his little girl, but in this case, Lana was the one doing all the coddling and caving in. Jed loved Joy with everything he had, but he wasn't used to little girls and felt kind of lost now and then. She wasn't a girly girl, mind you, but she wasn't a boy either, and Jed's experience with boys far outweighed his experience with girls. He had two brothers, a bunch of nephews, and, eventually, two sons. Lana never felt that way with Justin and Josh...until they started getting older; Justin was twelve and in middle school now, playing football and talking to girls on the phone, a teenager in al but numerical years. Josh was ten and all about shooting and fishing and NASCAR. He and Jed watched the race every week. Jed liked Dale Earnhardt so Josh liked him too. In fact, Josh liked most the same things as his father. In the summer, while Justin was off with his friends playing ball or hanging out, Josh tagged along to the garage and fell all over himself to help out. It was adorable to see.

Where was she again? Oh, right, she loved her boys and Jed loved his little girl, they both just kinda wound up spending more time with the kids of their own gender.

When Lana realized this, it bothered her. Boys bonding with their daddy and girls with their mama ain't nothing strange or wrong, but she was worried the kids would grow up resenting the opposite sex parent or some damn thing. She didn't want her sons to think she favored Joy and didn't love them, and she didn't want Joy thinking the same about Jed, so in June she suggested they take their yearly camping trip early. Then, in July, she suggested another one. Last week, while Jed was sitting in his chair and reading a technical manual (" _these damn Japanese cars get more and more confusing every year"_ ), she plopped onto the couch, drew her legs under her, and said _I kinda wanna go campin' again._

He looked at her over the tops of his reading glasses and lifted a quizzical brow. She hadn't told him her fears because she was afraid he'd think she was being a worrywart. _You're too fussy,_ he told her once or twice, and it was true. She didn't have a loving mother growing up, so being a mama herself was like fumbling in the dark. She was the type who nagged the boys about putting on their coats before they left the house, and started panicking if Justin wasn't home exactly when he said he would be. That's what a mother should be, she thought - she nags you because she cares.

Doing that came natural to her since she loved her kids, but she was kind of tone deaf, on account of never seeing and learning it from her own mother, so she _did_ take it a little far sometimes. She resolved to work on it, and telling Jed what she thought might look like a relapse.

 _We already been twice this year,_ he said and looked back at the manual. _You need to slow down, girl._

All she could do was shrug. _I just like it, is all. Us all bein' together. No TV or video games breakin' us up. It's nice._

He must have detected something in her voice, because he turned his head and regarded her with quiet contemplation. _You got somethin' on your mind, don't you?_

Damn it all. Jed was a simple man but he wasn't dumb. He could read people like _that_ if he took a mind to, her most of all - you don't share a bed and a life with someone you love for thirteen years and _not_ learn a thing or two about them. That's how come she knew so much about him. All he had to do was walk past her and she instantly knew what kind of mood he was in. Call it martial telepathy.

 _Well,_ she started hesitantly, _there_ is _somethin' I been thinkin' on._

She told him everything, and he listened with a thoughtful expression. When she was finished, he sighed. _I kinda thought the same thing. I do spend an awful lotta time with the boys. Some days we hardly see you or Joy at all._

Lana made sure that they sat down to dinner as a family every night at 6pm, God willing and the creek don't rise, and an hour of family time was mandatory in the evening, family time usually being comprised of sitting in the living room watching _Touched by An Angel, Candid Camera,_ or _3rd Rock From the Sun_. That last one was her favorite; it was about aliens living as people and all the goofy stuff they do because they don't know no better.

Despite these measures, though, she could go days without spending real quality time with the boys. She didn't like that. At all.

Presently, Jed forked the bacon onto a paper plate next to the grill. Lana clung to him, making his movements difficult, and waited for him to say something ( _you're bein' annoying'_ ) but he didn't. Guess she'd have to find another way to pick on him. That was their thing - messin' with each other like a couple of kids. A lot of them tabloid magazines said that your relationship was dead if it lost its spice, but if you asked her, it was fine until it lost its lighthearted interplay. Jed was getting up there in years and while there wasn't' a problem with his thing now, she fully expected him to have trouble getting up and staying up at some point. Most older men do. She enjoyed sex, but she could stand that. She could _not_ stand him being a grump who just sat there and bitched.

"You know, this is our vacation, you need to sleep in more."

She reached for another piece of bacon and Jed swatted her hand with the fork. She yanked it back with a yelp of shock, and he chuckled. "I was sleepin' in," he said, "til Joy kicked me in the guts."

"Oh, Lord, you too?"

When they camped, Joy slept in the tent with her and Jed, usually between them. This morning, Lana was jolted out of sleep by a sharp, stabbing pain in her stomach. Felt like she was being cleaned by a fisherman with a wicked knife. She opened one eye and got a face full of sleeping Joy, mouth open, drool on her chin, and -

 _KICK!_

Lana gasped, rolled onto her back, and held her hands to her middle to keep her insides from spilling out. She should have anticipated as much - Joy thrashed in her sleep - so she had no one to blame but herself. She tried to go back to sleep but couldn't, so here she was.

Jed laid three strips of white, fatty bacon on the grill. "Yes, ma'am," he stated, "thought I was gonna die too."

As a little girl, or a littler one than she was now, Joy suffered night terrors. Every night an hour after going to bed, like clockwork, she'd start kicking and tossing her head back and forth, then sit up and stare dazedly into space until either Lana or Jed laid her back down again. The vacant look in her eyes unsettled Lana every time she saw it, and for a while, she agonized over her daughter's condition. Joy never remembered these episodes on waking, so Lana figured there wasn't a major problem. By the time she was four, it seemed to have run its course...other than lingering restlessness when she slept. Every morning, her bed clothes were a nasty tangle and her fitted sheet was invariably bunched up on the floor.

At least she didn't pee the bed. Josh did that infrequently up until he was eight. It still happened once in a blue moon; he got so embarrassed and it just broke Lana's heart. He was terrified the other kids would make fun of him, especially his brother, and that his father would think less of him. He didn't have to say that last one, Lana could feel it just as surely as she could feel whether Jed was in good spirits or bad.

"That girl's got a foot on her," Lana said. She let go of Jed and went to the metal coffee pot sitting next to the grill. "She needs to play a sport." She poured some into a metal cup and sipped the boiling liquid gingerly.

A few minutes later, the girl in question appeared, crawling out of the tent and pushing wobbily to her feet. Dressed in a yellow T-shirt under a pair of denim overalls that stopped above her knees, Joy looked nothing like a duckling, but she reminded Lana of one anyway. She was small for her age with clear skin and delicate features that projected an air of fragility that was more illusion than reality. Lana took great pains to raise her tough, to which her scabbed knees attested. She played in the dirt, fished, and took just as many spills as her brothers. She also loved cuddling and watching _The Little Mermaid_ and playing with her Barbie dolls. Her bedding was pink, and she had a nightlight ostensibly so she could see if she had to get up and use the potty in the night, but really she was afraid of the dark. _Butt-man's under my bed,_ she said gravelly one time, and it was all Lana could do to keep from bursting out in laughter. Butt-man was something Josh and Justin made up a long time ago being silly, and every once in a while they'd talk about him. _Butt-man lives in the woods, and if you're not careful, he'll grab you and take you back to his secret lair,_ Justin would say. _Yeah,_ Josh would add, _a big toilet._

Joy hung on every word her big brothers said, and even though Lana told her a million times that Batt-man wasn't real, she still believed.

Sitting Indian style in front of the tent, she pulled her white sneakers over her pink socks, got up, and skipped over, her ponytail swinging from side to side like a pendulum. "Mornin', honey," Lana said.

"Mornin'!" She came right over to Lana and stared up at her like a puppy begging for a treat. "Can I have some?" she asked.

Fondly rolling her eyes, Lana handed the little girl her cup. Grinning and crossing her eyes in delight, Joy lifted it to her lips and took a big slurping sip; some dribbled down her chest and onto the front of her overalls like brown rain. Lana waited a tick, then held her hand out to reclaim her coffee.

Joy took a step back.

"Gimme my coffee," Lana commanded.

Joy took it from her lips and panted as though she just ran a marathon. Lana swiped it.

Empty.

Joy smiled disarmingly, and Lana couldn't help melting. "Thank you, mama." She went to the tailgate and tried to scurry on but her legs were too short. Lana helped her, and the little girl settled in like a cat to its favorite spot, her feet dangling way off the ground. "Hi, Daddy," she piped.

"Hi, honey," Jed said and flipped the bacon. It hissed and crackled. "You sleep okay?"

Joy nodded. "I didn't hear Butt-man at all."

"That's because he don't exist, remember?" Jed asked.

" _I_ think he's real," Joy said confidently.

Jed glanced at her...then dug his hand into her stomach. She squealed laughter and kicked her legs in an attempt to get away from him, but the wheel well stopped her. Lana watched them with a misty smile. She loved seeing him interact with the kids, especially Joy.

He relented his assault and went back to the bacon. "Daddy," Joy said, "I wanna stip stones."

"Skip," Jed corrected.

Yesterday, after making camp, Jed took the kids down to the water's edge to skip stones. Joy was amazed by how her daddy could make the rocks glide over the surface, and tried to emulate him but couldn't get the hang of it; she threw over hand, spinning around and almost falling to the ground, and blew increasingly frustrated puffs of air when they sank.

Clasping her hands to her knees, she leaned toward her father and widened her eyes seriously. "Skip," she said, pronouncing the word slowly and with great care.

"In a minute," he said, "I gotta cook the bacon."

"Go on," Lana said, "I'll finish up here."

He looked at her. "You sure?"

She nodded. She'd gladly take over so he and Joy could have some father-daughter time.

Catching her intention, he turned to Joy. "You wanna go skip stones again?"

Joy's head bobbed up and down.

"Alright," he said and picked her up. He hooked his arm under her butt and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "We're gonna have you skippin' 'em like a pro."

"Better than you?" she asked with a note of breathless wonder.

Jed laughed. "Maybe one day. It's gonna take a while, though."

Joy hugged him. "Okay. I'll listen real good. I promise."

They walked down to the river and Lana watched for a moment before returning her attention to the bacon. At the shore, Jed sat Joy on her feet then picked up a stone. The warming breeze carried snippets of their conversation. " _...get a flat one, other ones dont…"_

" _...like this one?"_

" _...pretty good."_

They stood at the bank, him towering and her tiny. He twisted, then shot his arm out; a rock danced across the surface before disappearing from sight, presumably drowned. Joy cheered and jumped up and down, then, in her excitement, flung her own rock at the water - it arched through the air, hit with a splash, and sank. Her disappointed _aww, man,_ made Lana smile. "You gotta do it like this," he said. He picked another stone up from the ground, held his arm lengthwise to his stomach, and flicked his wrist. It skimmed like a motor boat breaking through choppy waves, then vanished. Joy stooped down, plucked another stone up for herself, and looked up at Jed for guidance. "Like I showed you," he said.

She stared out over the water, held her arm across her stomach just like he had, then whipped the rock at the water.

 _Splash._

Throwing her head back, she let out a groan, and Jed chuckled. "You'll get the hang of it," he said and rustled her hair.

Lana was so consumed by watching them and swelling with love that she didn't realize the bacon was burning until the tang of charred meat pinched her nose. It was black and brittle now, just the way she _didn't_ like it. "Oh, damn it," she hissed. She picked it off with her fingers and sat them on the plate, burning her skin in the process. She held her hand up to her face and examined the wound.

Eh, just a first degreer.

Nothing to worry about.

The burnt bacon on the other hand…


	190. August 1997: Part 2

**Lyrics to _Semi-Charmed Life_ by Third Eye Blind (1997)**

Jordan left Royal Woods at 3:30 that August afternoon. She spent most of the day at watching _Rock-a-Doodle_ with Blake. After conning Alex into getting McDonald's, she conned her into renting a movie. She and Blake spent nearly an hour browsing the children's section, picking up every tape, looking at the cover and the pictures on the back, and debating its merits and demerits. _That one looks dumb,_ Blake said of _Beauty and the Beast_. Jordan took one look at _Casper_ and gave a fearful shake of the head. _I don't like ghosts. They're scary_. The biggest new release, as evidenced by the cardboard cutout of Michael Jordan was Bugs Bunny, was _Space Jam._ Alex saw commercials for it; it had that guy from _Jurassic Park._ You know, the fat one. He was also on _Seinfeld_. *Disgusted sneer* _Hello, Newman._

While they did that, Alex perused the horror nook. The movies were kept on red wire metal shelves, ceased and dog eared boxes facing out like excited puppies in a pound ( _pick me, pick me, pick meeee!_ ). She'd been coming here since she was a kid - mainly on Friday nights after school - and the horror selection hadn't grown much over the years. You had your stalwart favorites like _Psycho, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween,_ and _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ , but not much else. At least the last time she came in (which was kind of a while ago, now that she thought of it). In her absence, the lame-os running the place must have had an epiphany because holy wow, there were so many new faces she could barely keep them all straight. _Pumpkinhead; Night of the Demons; Candyman._ Then there were older, more obscure titles from way back. _Pieces; Tourist Trap; Nail Gun Massacre; Return to Horror High; The House by the Edge of the Park; Zombie; Hell of the Living Dead,_ and so, so many others _._ Alex's jaw dropped when she saw the beautiful rows of lurid cover art, and she (metaphorically) fell on her knees in thanks.

Starting to the left, she went through the entire inventory with the methodical deliberation of a scholar weighing the pros and cons of each piece in a gallery. Renting movies was a time honored tradition in her home, and one unspoken rule of said tradition was to not take more than four out at a time. Weekends are chock full of hanging out, going places, and doing things; cuddling up with a good slasher flick was something you didn't do until after dark, giving you a limited amount of viewing time. This meant that she had to be _really_ persnickety in her selection process. Was _976-EVIL_ really worth giving one of her few open slots? Was it _really?_ She finally settled on _Tourist Trap, The House at the Edge of the Park, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain_ , and _Drive-In Massacre_. She was a mature adult woman - mother, wife, and nurse - but she was giddy as she paid the bored cashier. As soon as Blake-o was asleep, she and Tim were gonna pop one of these bad boys in and relive their glory days of playing Siskel and Ebert.

In the car, she tossed the bag containing the movies onto the passenger seat and snapped the belt over her shoulder. In the rearview mirror, Jordan picked up her McFlurry, ripped the lid off, and took a big drink. Blake pulled a chicken nugget from the bag and threw it into his mouth. This month's McDonald's toy was Hercules; guess there's a new Hercules movie out? Like every other toy Blake had ever gotten from there, it'd wind up broken or at the bottom of the toy box, forgotten like a mediocre memory, in two days, three tops. They really needed to start giving out better prizes.

At home, Alex made Blake and Jordan help her bring groceries inside (Blake groaned, but Jordan just smiled and said _okay_ ), and, as Alex had predicted, neighborhood kids started drifting over like vultures drawn to a carcass. She shooed them off, then went in and closed the door, making sure to lock it behind her. Kids around here are freaking predators.

While she put the stuff away, Blake and Jordan, each with a Freezepop in their hand, went to his room to play video games. "Keep the door open," she said over her shoulder as she shoved a twelve pack of Coke into the fridge. They looked at each other in bemusement, then shrugged and said okay.

Hey, it's never too early to instill good habits, like leaving your door open when you have a girl in your room.

Before putting the rest of the stuff away, she went into the living room and turned the radio on; music always put her in a mood to clean and right now, this rat nest needed it. The floors were sticky, the counters crummy, and the sink overloaded with dishes. She'd start with the dishes; a cluttered sink overwhelmed her to the point of inertia.

A commercial for _Chicago Hope_ ( _pulse pounding drama only on CBS!_ ) was replaced by one of those generic drivetime guys with an exaggerated voice. " _This is Max Powers keeping you company on WRXT FM. Day seven of the heatwave is here, folks, and everyone's wishing it was winter."_

Ugh, yes, she was; she was already starting to sweat.

" _It shows no signs of letting up in the next couple days, but there might be some rain on Sunday. Let's see how that goes."_

Alex opened a cabinet over the sink and sat a can of soup on the shelf.

" _Michigan State Police are asking anyone with information in the Route 29 Stalker case to come forward."_

Alex's heartbeat picked up. Not this again. She'd rather hear about the heat.

" _...that's 1-800-CRIMESTOPPERS. Now for some tunes!"_

The sudden change of subject - a serial killer raping and murdering women to _here's your top 40 hits, folks, yuk-yuk -_ made her head spin.

Light, poppy guitar backed by vocal harmonies ( _doo-doo-DOO_ ) blasted from the speakers, and Alex picked up the sponge, ready to work.

In Blake's room, he and Jordan sat on the edge of his bed, N64 controllers in their hands. His TV, a gray 14' Sanyo with poor picture quality, stood on his dresser, each drawer slightly open, clothes peeking out like dirty little secrets. His mom neatly folded his laundry but it had a way of becoming unfolded before he could put it away. He didn't know how. It was, like, a curse or something.

On the screen, Mario stood in front of a painting depicting a pink Bob-omb. Loud music wafted in through the open door. He wasn't planning on closing it- he and Jordan were just hanging out - but why did she tell him to keep it open? Did she think they were going to do something bad? Like break something?

 _I'm packed and I'm holding_

 _I'm smiling, she's living, she's golden_

 _And she lives for me_

 _She says she lives for me_

"Go," Jordan said. _Super Mario 64_ wasn't a two player game, so they had to take turns. Jordan always held the other controller while she waited because it made her feel better or something. He didn't know.

 _Ovation  
She's got her own motivation  
She comes round and she goes down on me  
And I make her smile  
It's like a drug for you  
Do ever what you want to do  
Coming over you_

Blake pushed the joystick and hit the button: Mario jumped into the painting and dropped into a vibrant cartoon world. A dirt path lead over a bridge and eventually to a mountain. Enemies in many shapes and forms populated the way, and within moments, Mario was on his last sliver of life and frantically running from a hissing black Bob-omb. "Go! Go!" Jordan cried like a spectator at a football game. Blake, heart racing, tapped the run button, but the Bob-omb caught up with him and detonated, killing him.

 _And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse  
Chop another line like a coda with a curse  
And I come on like a freak show takes the stage  
We give them the games we play, she said  
I want something else  
To get me through this  
Semi-charmed kind of life_

Blake threw his head back and groaned. He hated dying so quickly in front of people. It made him look bad.

"My turn," Jordan said and plucked the controller from his hands.

 _Doing crystal meth will lift you up until you break  
It won't stop, I won't come down  
I keep stock with a tick-tock rhythm, a bump for the drop  
And then I bumped up, I took the hit that I was given  
Then I bumped again, then I bumped again, I said_

Plastering her tongue to her upper lip, she raced through the stage, Mario jumping, wah-hooing, and avoiding every obstacle with grace and ease. Blake's jaw clenched, and just before she was to the trail up the mountain, her victory mocking him, he jumped to his feet. "I don't wanna play this right now," he said, "it's boring."

"What _do_ you wanna do?" Jordan asked, craning her neck to see the the TV around him.

"Watch the movie," Blake said, grabbing the first thing that popped into his head. He didn't want her to know he was jealous and felt like crap because she was better than him.

"Okay."

They moved to the living room and popped the tape into the VCR. It was kind of a dumb movie but it was a whole lot better than being beaten in Mario. Mom said the rooster looked like Elvis, which was supposedly a singer Grandma and Grandpa listened to. She said he was a lame-o, but Blake kind of liked him. The rooster, not Elvis.

Fifteen minutes from the end, the phone rang. Mom broke from mopping the kitchen floor, tossed her hair to one side, and raised the handset to her ear. "Hello?" She listened for a minute, then nodded. "Alright, I'll tell her." She hung up and looked at Jordan. "Your mom says it's time to come home."

Jordan was going to see her grandma and wouldn't be back until Sunday. She did it every year and Blake always did the opposite of looking forward to it because it was boring when Jordan wasn't here.

"Alright," she sighed. She started to push off the couch, then stopped and turned to him. "I almost forgot. My grandma doesn't like games and stuff so I need you to watch my Tamagotchi"

Blake's heart jogged. "W-What?"

She reached into her fanny pack and took her Tamagotchi out. "You have to feed it twice a day," she said seriously, "and give it water and play with it and stuff like that." She held it out, and Black darted his eyes to it, all pink and girly and dumb. So, so dumb.

He had a lot of better things to do than babysit a Tamagotchi, like play video games, and watch TV, and eat. The last thing he wanted in the world was being stuck with a dumb pet. "Actually, I'm gonna be pretty busy -"

She ignored him. "And don't let it die. I will be very mad if you kill my Tamagotchi." She narrowed her eyes and leaned threateningly in; Blake cringed. Her hard features smoothed and she pressed it into his hand. "You guys have fun." She stroked the game with her index finger and smiled at it as though it were a baby and she a loving mother. "I'll be home on Sunday. Be good and listen to Blake."

Blake rolled his eyes.

Getting to her feet, Jordan drew a deep breath. "I'll see you Sunday."

Then she was gone, and Blake was alone with the Tamagotchi. He looked down at it, and on the screen, the dog slept next to its bowl, little Zs drifting from its head like clouds of stink. Well, this sucked - his entire weekend was shot now.

Maybe it would stay asleep the whole time.

Standing, he went into the kitchen, dropped the Tamagotchi on the counter, and got a Coke from the fridge. He went back into the living room, sat down, and finished the movie. Between the microwave and the toaster, the dog woke, and the Tamagotchi beeped softly.

Unheard.

* * *

Lincoln slapped the paper on the counter and looked around the dining room, his scowl deepening when he got a load of all the empty tables. Becky the waitress sat in one of the booths and ate her lunch while staring up at the TV, and Ragan, the new dishwasher with a dumb name, sat at another waiting for his ride. A tall, gangly kid with curly black hair and swarthy features, he wore black jeans and a black T-shirt, his beady little eyes hidden behind a pair of cheap sunglasses and a black baseball cap pulled low on his head. Other than that, the place was deserted, the only sounds the TV...and disappointment.

It was almost four-thirty and Alex's graduation was at six. His original plan was to leave Fred in charge so he could go, but unless some hungry customers came in, he'd probably just shut it down for the day.

Bitterness washed through him and he pursed his lips. For almost thirty years, he provided the people of this shit hole town a delicious, diverse, and well-balanced menu...and the teenagers a place to hang out...and this was the thanks he got, an empty restaurant and an even emptier till. How do you like that? The first chance they got, they left him behind to stuff McDonald's down their pie holes. For years he blamed fast food joints, but in the end, it was people.

Or maybe it was him.

Was it something he was doing? Flip's wasn't the world's most prestigious eatery, but the food was good, the service was good, and the price was low. What more did these schmucks want? A floor show? Stand-up on Monday nights?

Alcohol?

He might be onto something with that last one. If he started serving beer, he might be able to draw in some fresh business. That meant getting a liquor license, though, and from what he heard, that was a pain in the ass.

Maybe he should just sell the place. It was more trouble than it was worth, anyway. With the money from Mom and the quarterly payments from Luna's estate, he and Ronnie Anne would be okay on money if he got rid of it. He'd be bored out of his mind, but Lori had been retired for years and did a lot of volunteer work, maybe she could set him up with something. Story time at the library. There we go. He could regale the kiddies with tales of 'Nam and all the times he and Ronnie Anne had sex. Those were age appropriate topics, right? _Then I put my dick in her. The end_. _PS: I still hear the screams of my platoon in my sleep._ He grinned wasn't true, but every once in a while, right before he dropped off, the inside of his mouth squirmed as if with maggots.

Hey, he could teach a cooking class. Delicacies of Vietnam. Maggot stir fry, army turkey surprise, absolutely nothing with a side of nada. That was what they fed their own people, you know. At least they did back then, which lead to a huge influx of refugees. Boat people, they were called. We got the same thing from Cuba. Do these communist shit heaps ever stop to think that maybe everyone defecting might be a sign they're doing something wrong?

Nope. They kept starving and taxing everyone until the population got sick of them and killed their asses like they did to that dirtbag in Romania. He heard the line of people wanting to take part in the firing squad stretched for miles. _Are those my supporters, comrade?_

 _No, Dear Leader, they're the ones who want you dead._

 _How many are there?_

 _How many_ aren't _there?_

One day, the Chinese and Cubans would get fed up and take their countries back, and Lincoln couldn't wait to see commies swinging on the gallows. That might make him sound callous, but look at what they do to people. Death camps, political prisons, forced labor, secret police forces...they were as bad as Nazis, and the last time Lincoln checked, everyone hated Nazis.

Not commies, though. Most Americans thought of communists as a weird but lovable relative who gets really worked up over politics but wouldn't hurt a fly. Ask all those dead Russians, Chinese, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Eastern Europeans, and Cubans, they'll tell you how harmless communists are.

He picked the paper up and laid it indecisively down again. He had bigger fish to fry than third world reds…like his lack of business. Flip's had been steadily hemorrhaging patrons for years but the past year had been particularly rough. He was barely breaking even now, and if the current trend continued, he'd be _losing_ money in two years. That, he figured, was when he would sell. The prospect of throwing in the towel disturbed him. In his will, Flip said he didn't care if he sold it, burned it down, or kept it, but Lincoln cared - this dumpster fire was that man's legacy, and seeing it razed and turned into apartment buildings would feel like a betrayal. Flip entrusted him with it, and he always intended to keep it until the day he died, but he couldn't justify keeping it if it wasn't turning a profit. Sentimentality aside, he had a family to worry about, and even though he imagined Flip shaking his head disappointedly in the hereafter, he knew the old man would understand.

A silver sedan pulled into the parking lot and Lincoln perked up...then slumped his shoulders when Ragan got to his feet and started toward the door. "Hey," Lincoln blurted, and the boy glanced over his shoulder. "Why don't you bring your friend in for something to eat?"

Mason looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "Uh, nah, it's cool, we're actually going to Pizza Hut."

Lincoln's eyes narrowed. In his fifty-one years of life, he had never been more insulted than he was right now. He reached for the gun under the counter but stayed his hand; kid wasn't even worth a bullet. "Go on," Lincoln said with a not entirely contrived rush of disgust. He waved the dishwasher off and shook his head. "Hope you burn your tongue."

"You have a good day too, Linc," Ragan replied with a patronizing little hilt, like Lincoln being grumpy was par for the course. _Tyyyyypical,_ it said.

Lincoln reached for the gun again, but the little squirt was gone by the time he laid his hand on it. That's right, make like a library and book.

On TV, a CNN correspondent reported from a city in the Philippines, where Typhoon Winnie had caused millions of dollars in damage and killed " _scores of people."_ The scene behind him was one of devastation: Downed trees, heaps of rubble, and a boat sitting on top of a burned out building as if placed there by a giant toddler. People in flip flops and straw hats picked through the ruins while a police officer holding a machine gun looked on, the bill of his peaked cap casting his face in shadows. Lincoln expected him to open fire on the searchers in an effort to finish what Winnie started, and was disappointed when he didn't.

Not really.

Not much, at least.

At 4:45, with a cemetery for a dining room, Lincoln called it a day, and after Becky and Fred were gone, he locked the front door and went to his car. Amber late afternoon light drenched the world, and the oppressive heat wrapped around him like a demonic hand. _Hey-ya, Linc, ready to buuuuuurn?_ For some reason he was reminded of a movie he saw on TV with Ronnie Anne - some guy was stumbling through an empty and possibly haunted building when a zombie, vampire, what the hell ever popped out of the shadows. _Come down and eat chicken with me, beautiful, it's so daaaaark._ Way to give a grown man nightmares, Hollywood. Only in his dream it was a gook with a bowl full of maggots. _Chúng ta sẽ ăn giòi, đẹp, rồi chúng ta sẽ làm tình!_ Lincoln woke screaming and drenched in sweat.

No, that didn't happen. Last time he did that, Richard Nixon was president. He had this awful dream where George McGovern won the election and everyone in America turned into a hippie but him. They formed a big circle around him, threw flowers in his face, and called him a baby killer. He raked them with machine gun fire but they kept coming.

Then Ronnie Anne appeared in bell bottoms and a tye dye cape. He put the gun down and let her turn him into a hippie too.

Joking, he shot her, tossed the rifle aside, pulled out his .45, and stuck it under his chin. Better dead than red.

He slipped in behind the wheel, pulled the door closed, and started the engine. The wheel burned the shit out of his hands, but he didn't let go - he wasn't a pussy, he liked the heat. Backing out of his spot, he swung left and drove to the street, where he waited for traffic to thin. Frankie Valli made his way through _Let's Hang On_ and Lincoln nodded along as he turned right. He always liked this guy, even in the seventies, long after he stopped listening to new music. He had a song in that _Grease_ movie Jessy liked. Lincoln rolled his eyes at the sappy love story, but couldn't help liking John Revolting as the head greaser. He reminded him a lot of Blades, only Blades was ass ugly.

It was five by the time he parked in the driveway behind Ronnie Anne's car. He had just enough time to go in and get dressed before he had to leave for Alex's thing. Next door, Chandler's feet stuck out from under his car and a radio propped on a kitchen chair blasted loud, blistering music that sounded like a goddamn plane crashing into a piece of earth moving equipment. Benson the dog lay old and unmoving in the grass flanking the driveway, too decrepit to shit on Lincoln's lawn anymore. Though Benson had been the bane of his existence for what felt like decades, Lincoln felt a certain commiseration with the aged animal. Do your joints ache in the morning too, boy?

Killing the engine, he got out and went inside. Ronnie Anne came in from the hallway, putting her earrings on. "Hurry up, lame-o," she said, "we gotta go."

"Oh?" Lincoln asked archly. "Where?"

"You know damn well where we're going," she said, "our daughter's graduation. Now go on. Be quick."

"No time for a shit and a shave?" Lincoln asked.

"No."

Alright then.

In the bedroom, he changed into a pair of dark slacks and a green polo shirt. He checked himself in the mirror on the back of the door and went into the living room, where Ronnie Anne stood by the front door and rummaged through her purse. "Did you see my keys?" she asked.

"Nope."

She sighed. "Damn it, I just _had_ them."

Thus began a frenzied twenty minute scavenger hunt that lead Lincoln and Ronnie Anne to the ends of the house and back again. "Let's just take my car," he said.

"That's not the point, Lincoln," she snapped. "I want my damn keys."

After forty years of being with her, Lincoln knew how headstrong Ronnie Anne could be - she wouldn't call off the search until she had her keys in her hand and that was that. Finally, he opened the door to go outside, and there they were, dangling from the lock. "Hey, geek, I found them," he called.

"Where?" she replied from the kitchen. She was on her knees, elbows deep in the overturned trash can, and when she spoke, there was a hint of incredulity in her voice. She got up and flew in, strands of gray hair in her face. He stepped aside and pointed an accusatory finger at the keys. She furrowed her brow. _Huh, how did those get there?_ She chuckled awkwardly and pulled them out. "How come you didn't see them when you came in?" she demanded.

Lincoln held up a forestalling hand. "We're late. If you wanna try to blame me and get decimated by reason and logic, you're gonna have to wait."

"Oh?" she asked, a challenge in her voice.

Shaking his head, Lincoln went out into the late afternoon heat. One day, Ronalda, right to the moon…

* * *

Owing to her baby bulge, Alex had a _little_ trouble fitting into her ceremonial nurse's dress. Back when she bought it, a simple white button down with long sleeves (to be matched with white panyhose and a cap that she wouldn't get until the ritual putting-on-by-the-head-nurse), she was just beginning to show. She ordered it in her normal size, expecting to return to said figure after evicting the baby in her womb, and as such, it was _really_ snug. She fought with it for almost twenty minutes before emerging victorious - so _this_ is what stuffing a sausage into its casing feels like. I don't like it.

The fabric was tight around her stomach, and even though she knew the baby was super safe deep in the protective bosom of her body, she worried it might hurt little [insert name here]. "You okay?" she asked and rubbed her belly. The baby kicked, hard, and Alex winced. "Just making sure you're not strangling in there, sheesh."

She pulled her pantyhose on, then her shoes, then went out into the kitchen. Blake sat on the couch in just his shorts and stared transfixed at the TV, where Helga wrote in a notebook before the creepy Arnold shrine in her closet. " _Will I be forever enslaved by your spell?"_ she read aloud. Oh, yuck, she'd doing poetry again. " _Why must I worship you and never ever tell? Arnold, you make my girlhood tremble."_

Alex's jaw dropped. Oh my God! Did she really just say that? On a cartoon? Okay, that is not cool _at all._

Kind of mad and really disgusted because pervert writers were pumping pervert stuff into her seven year old's programming, she went into the living room, picked the remote up from the coffee table, and turned the TV off. "Hey!" Blake cried indignantly.

"It's time to get dressed," she said, "we gotta go."

"What about Dad?"

"He's meeting us there."

That wasn't really the truth but it also wasn't a lie. Tim said he would _try_ to meet her there, but work, obviously, had to come first. Maybe she was starting to grow up, but the thought of him not being there didn't particularly bother her. If she had her way, he'd be right in the front row, but if it couldn't break away, oh well. She'd just have to model her sexy nurse outfit for him later *wink*

"Do I _have_ to go?" Blake moaned.

He sounded like she was asking him to take a train of Auschwitz. "Don't you wanna be there for my special day?" she asked, faux hurt in her voice.

"No."

Well, then.

Glad to know my own son supports me. See if I ever get _you_ McDonald's again. "Go get dressed," she said.

Sighing and dangling his arms, Blake got to his feet and dragged himself away, resigned to his awful fate. While Alex waited, she picked up the living room, wiped off the kitchen counter, and scraped her snack plate into the trash. Pizza flavored Hot Pockets, soooo good. She made two but only ate one and a half before the baby decided she was done. Hey, the second one was for _you_ not me.

Blake came out of his room ten minutes later in a pair of black shorts and his favorite policeman shirt: It had pictures of a badge, a belt, and other awesome cop type stuff on it. Kind of like those T-shirts with the tux design on the front - she thought those were funny. The fabric stretched tight across his gut and chest, and every couple steps he pulled it down to keep his tummy from showing.

Not for the first time, Alex wondered if maybe she shouldn't encourage him to...uh...be more active and eat healthier (she didn't wanna say stop being a couch potato and lose weight, but that's pretty much what she meant). Blake had always been a little on the husky side, but now he was edging dangerously close to fat territory. He played outside a lot, but he ate a lot of junk and played video games a little more than he should.

Wonder where he's getting all these bad habits?

Heh. No, she knew darn well where he was getting them.

Her.

She pigged out on chips, cupcakes, and McDonald's a lot, and while she stayed in motion at work (lifting old people, mainly), once she got home, she parked her butt on the couch and didn't move again until it was time to eat or go to bed.

Sigh. She was kind of a sucky role model, wasn't she? Kids learn by watching their parents, and what did Blake see _her_ doing?

In all seriousness, she set a pretty shitty example and had long been aware of it. She did her best to be better but she kept slipping into dumb, silly Alex mode - flippant and carefree like an overgrown child. She was twenty-eight, for Christ's sake, and she was still as irrelevent as ever. Now it was affecting her son.

That thought weighed heavy on her mind as she drove through the twilight streets of Royal Woods. She stole furtive glances at Blake in the rearview mirror and searched him for signs of being totally screwed up by his dumbshit mother but didn't see any, aside from him being big.

Alright, from now on, she was going to watch what he ate. She was the one who did the grocery shopping, and _she_ was the jackhole letting all the crap come through the door. No more fatty chips, no more sugary treats, nope, just celery sticks and carrots. She didn't want to be an overbearing mom, but she had to get real; play time was _over_.

They arrived at Royal Woods Community College fifteen minutes later and parked in a side lot filled with cars. People in suits stood around talking and waiting for the ceremony to start. She looked around for Tim's truck, didn't see it, and felt a muted rush of disappointment. She was a grown woman, she didn't need her husband there for moral support. You kidding me? I gave birth on my own, I _think_ I can stand there and let an old nurse put a cap on my head.

She _did_ spot her parents: They stood by the double doors leading into the auditorium, Mom looking around and Dad looking grumpy because it wasn't 1963 anymore. _1963 was the last year that mattered,_ he declared once,

 _W-What about 1969?_ she asked.

 _That was an exception._

 _1970, too,_ Mom added. Jessy was born in 1970, so yeah.

 _And '90,_ Alex pointed out.

 _We were married in '66, are you saying that year doesn't matter either?_ Mom teased.

Dad sighed. _Alright, it was the last year that mattered in terms of pop culture. Better?_

 _We'd be better if you stopped saying we don't matter to you, Lincoln Loud,_ Mom said, brow knitted.

That's when Dad waved her off, got up, and went into the garage. He told Alex once _every man needs a place to collect his thoughts, and that place is usually the garage._ Okay, she could respect that, but usually when men hang out in the garage, they _do_ something - fix stuff, build a birdhouse, work on their stamp collection. Dad just sat there with his arms crossed. Like a serial killer.

Gasp, oh, my God, he's the 29 Stalker!

She missed a beat, then scrunched her lips to the side. Okay, that wasn't funny. Her dad was a budding curmudgeon and perpetually stuck in the past (probably 1967 more often than 1963), but she couldn't picture him hurting _anyone,_ much less a woman. Apparently he shot guys in the war, that was excusable (that's kinda what you're supposed to do in war), but she'd never seen him do anything violent in her life, and the thought of her dad doing...that kind of thing...turned her stomach and brought a blush of shame to her cheeks. Even if she _was_ just joking.

"We're here," she sang and grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. "So are Grandma and Grandpa."

Blake looked quickly up from his Gameboy. "Where?"

"Over there," Alex said and nodded in the direction of the auditorium.

"Where?" Blake asked again, craning to see.

Did they go in? Alex threw open the door and stuck her head out. Nope, they were still standing there, Mom with her purse over her shoulder and Dad with his hands in his pockets. "Right there," she said.

"I don't see them."

Really? Jeez, this kid's so blind sometimes. She got out and pointed. "See the brown woman and the guy with the white hair?"

"Oh. I do now." He tossed the Gameboy aside, unfastened his seatbelt, and climbed out, struggling at first like a turtle on its back. Alex brushed her fingers through his hair and grazed her nails affectionately over his scalp. She noticed his collar was flipped up on one side and fixed it for him, earning an eyeroll beyond his years. "Mom…"

She touched the side of his face. "Don't _mom_ me." She pinched his cheek and he swatted her hand away. She vividly remembered being in his shoes, Mom fussing over her hair or dress...or, God, licking her thumb to rub a smudge off her cheek...and it hit her that _wow, that's_ me _now._ She was the annoying, embarrassing, and terminally dorky mom just as Ronalda Anne was before her.

And you know what? She was okay with that. She joked, but her mom was the best, and if she herself could be half as good as her own mother, she'd do alright.

"Sorry," she said and ruffled his hair, "just making sure you're presentable. If you're not, Grandma will kick my butt."

Blake took her hand and and they started toward the auditorium. "No she won't," Blake said dismissively.

"You don't know her like I do, kid. She used to kick my butt every hour on the hour. Your aunt Jessy too."

Mom saw them and waved. Alex waved back. "That's how she gets you. A friendly wave...then _whap,_ your butt is sore and you don't know what just happened."

"She never did that. You're lying."

"Ask her."

They reached Mom and Dad, and Blake pointed at Alex. "Mom said you used to kick her butt a lot. Did you?"

"She kicked mine too," Dad cut in. "When I'd hear her car in the driveway, I'd run and hide."

Mom shot him a dirty look, and he fell back a step, his hands going defensively up. "I'm sorry, please."

"If I kicked her butt," Mom explained to a wide eyed Blake, "it's only because she deserved it."

"Did you kick aunt Jessy's butt too?" he asked worriedly.

"No," Mom said, "unlike your mother, she was a good girl."

Now see here, Ronalda, I was a good girl too! I never smoked or drank or got suspended or any of that stuff. I did my school work, passed all my classes, and never caused you any grief. She said as much, more passion creeping into her voice than she intended, and Mom patted her cheek. She was kind of second guessing herself as a mom, so she was maybe just a little sensitive right now. Mom smiled warmly and brushed her thumb across Alex's skin. "You were and still are. I'm proud of you."

Alex couldn't contain the sunny simper that came to her lips. "I learned from the best."

Blake and Lincoln looked at each other and shared a contemptuous sneer. _Ew, mushy stuff._ When Mom released her, however, Dad came over and hugged her as well. "I'm proud of you too. I thought you'd be in jail by now."

"I was," she said, "it was called working for you."

He chuckled. "It wasn't a pleasure trip for me either. I can still hear your loud, braying voice in my sleep.'

"My voice is _not_ loud and braying," she laughed.

"Yes it is," Dad retorted.

He and Mom took Blake and Alex went through the door, then turned right. The backstage area of the auditorium was filled with women in white preparing for the ceremony, some looking nervous and others impatient. One named Candy (who was ironically _very_ fat) sat in a chair and dabbed her face with a cloth. The big lights mounted on the ceiling made it even hotter back here than it was outside, and Alex herself was dripping with sweat by the time the ceremony started.

Like any graduation, each student went out onstage in turn, where the head of the nursing program, an old black woman with glasses named Beulah, bestowed their cap and degree upon them. Alex leaned against the wall flanking the curtains and rubbed her stomach; the baby was _very_ active this evening, and Alex liked to think it was because she wanted to help celebrate her mommy's accomplishment. "I'm a real live nurse now," she cooed to her belly, "you know what that means. Better pay."

A few of the other women waiting with her chuckled or smiled wistfully at her in a way that only women could at a big fat pregnant lady. Most were mothers themselves or wanted to be, and during the final weeks of classes, her ever growing middle was a to them what catnip is to tabbys: They touched it, asked about it, talked about it, baby this and baby that, baby, baby, baby. Alex's theory was that seeing a pregnant woman triggered non-pregnant women like pheromones triggered animals. They saw it and their bodies, built mainly for the bearing and delivering of human life, said _yes, please!_

When her name was called, she stood up straight and leaned back to crack to her spine. "Come on, Zoe-or-Emily, let's go get capped."

She stopped. Uh, actually, that was a poor choice of words.

As she crossed the stage, she tried to focus on the black woman ahead, and the audience, the overall _moment,_ but she couldn't because Zoe Emily (or Emily Zoe) was a really pretty name. At the podium, she faced the crowd, and Beulah placed the cap reverently on her head like a Queen knighting a gallant Sir. The floodlights blinded Alex and she could barely make out the congregation, but she _thought_ she saw her Dad in the second row, fifth from left. Or maybe that was...nope, that was a guy in a white baseball cap.

Taking her degree, she exited stage right to subdued applause, a warm, tingling feeling settling over her like a woolen blanket.

So _this_ is what being a nurse is like.

Why didn't she do this sooner?

Afterwards, in the parking lot, she hugged her mom and dad and they congratulated her again. Blake sat in the backseat with his Gameboy, enthralled by _Legend of Zelda_ , his face bathed in blue electric glow.

Mom and Dad both started toward their car, and Alex went to get in hers, but her heart dropped into her stomach when she realized something.

It was night.

And do you know what comes out at night?

The Route 29 Stalker.

True, 29 was miles from here, but who's to say his hunting grounds didn't encompass other streets and roads...and maybe even trailer parks? Damn it, now she _did_ wish Tim was here. She almost called for her father _(can you follow me home so the bad scary man doesn't get me?_ ), but caught herself at the last minute. She was a grown woman, damn it, grown women don't go crying for their daddys because there's a bad man in the night. There's _always_ a bad man in the night, you either live your life despite him or you turn into a nervous wreck always looking over her shoulder.

She was _not_ going to be a nervous wreck. She had a husband, a son, a soon-to-be-daughter, and other adult stuff to think of.

Getting into the car, she slammed the door and locked it, then made sure the passenger door was locked too. "Lock the doors," she told Blake.

Without asking why, he locked his door then leaned over and locked the other one. Good. Now they were safe.

Safe or not, she still drove faster than she had to, and every so often, she glanced into the rearview mirror, expecting to find an ominous pair of headlights rushing toward her like the inferno eyes of an oncoming demon. They were never there, but she could feel the presence of the stalker all around her, and when she pulled into the driveway, she was relieved to see Tim's truck and lights in the trailer windows.

"We made it," she sighed.

"Yeah," Blake said without looking up from his game, "why wouldn't we?"

Because The Stalker, little man, The Stalker.

"No reason," she said, "come on, I want ice cream."

"Me too," Blake said.

Forgetting all about diets and exercise - for now - Alex and her son went inside and had big bowls of ice cream.

And it was _sooo_ yummy.

* * *

For Bobby Santiago Jr., the summer of 1997 was a busy time. Sandy filmed her final installment of _The Brash and the Bountiful_ on May 15, and after a retirement party with cake, champagne, and well wishes, she strode out of Studio 12 for the final time, leaving the weight of the entire series on _his_ shoulders. He knew well in advance that that day was coming, but while he prepared himself as much as he could, he still felt lost. The past seven years had gone by quickly, too quickly, and he feared he wasn't ready to make the move from supporting role to main character.

In-story, Richard poisoned Susan, to whom he was married, in order to take over her estate. He made her a romantic candle lit dinner, then, without warning, as he gazed into her eyes across the table, she began to choke and went into convulsions. Richard's eyes narrowed and a cold, evil grin spread across his face. _Farewell, my dear,_ he said, _it's been a pleasure doing business with you._ Dark understanding filled her eyes, for in that moment she realized he was conning her all along, then she flopped face forward into her soup, dead. Richard got up, strolled slowly around the table, and planted a venomous kiss on the back of her head. _Now sleep, my love, and never wake._

Sandy had been the star of the show for over twenty years at that point, and her character being killed off left the viewers stunned. Soaps typically run for years, even decades, and the major characters are as dependable as the rising of the sun, so to see one killed off so suddenly caught many people completely off guard. The soap magazines were abuzz with it all summer, first expressing shock, then doubt that Susan was really dead, then, finally, with nothing else to go on, outrage at how "violent" her death was. " _...most vulgar display of crass brutality in the history of daytime television…"_ one wrote. Another stated: " _Certainly the most appalling on-screen death perhaps ever shown at 3pm. The look of horror in Susan's eyes as she realizes she is going to die, and the froth foaming from her lips, left numerous viewers both sickened and shook. The producers of_ The Brash and the Bountiful _ought to be ashamed of themselves for unleashing such a tactless and disturbing scene on an unsuspecting public."_ It went on to single him out for praise, saying, " _Roberto Santiago Jr. once again offers us a glimpse into Richard Parker's heart of darkness, playing the role with such aplomb that one must wonder if he isn't really the psychopath he portrays._

I'm not, I promise.

The controversy surrounding Susan's murder, and the lingering doubt over whether she actually died, promised increased ratings for the next season. The first few episodes were filmed in mid-July, during one of the deepest droughts California had seen in decades. Wildfires raged in the hills outlying L.A., their presence marked by thick black smoke during the day and a faint, hellish glow at night, and he and Lola were beginning to worry they would have to evacuate.

In June, Lola's new album _Renaissance_ was released, and its lead single, _Ray of Light,_ crawled up the Hot 100 from #89 to #21 by the middle of August, replacing _Invisible Man_ by 98 Degrees but unable to supplant _Look into My Eyes_ by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony. The second single, _Everything,_ debuted at #28 on August 21. Lola pretended to be indifferent, but her restlessness, and the way she checked the charts on AOL every couple hours, betrayed her excitement. The last time Bobby remembered her being this amped was early '86, when her duet with Mick Swagger hit #3, held off the top spots by Starship's _Sara_ and _Kyrie_ by Mr. Mister. That, he reflected, was about the time she started losing interest in music. He didn't notice it at the time, but it was clear in hindsight. She wasn't as passionate as she was before; she didn't talk about music, and when she did, her face didn't glow as it once had; she didn't call her manager three times a day asking how sales were and where her latest single was on the charts; she didn't agonize over a song stalling at eleven and not reaching the magical Top Ten.

She just stopped caring.

The old fire was back, however, and Bobby relished it - he'd forgotten how much he loved seeing her happy and fulfilled. Her management was planning a world tour for November through March and Lola was meditating on whether to bring the kids or not. They would miss school, but they could always hire a tutor. If Bobby could get time off from work, he'd go too, but he wasn't sure that would happen until at least January.

Another major change was Stephanie. Her mood had always always fluctuated between extreme highs and concerning but manageable lows. One minute she'd be bouncing around the house, the next she'd be curled up in bed with melancholy eyes. In early June, he found her lying on the couch with tears streaming down her cheeks. His heart squeezed in alarm and he dropped to one knee, his hand going to her face. _Honey, what's wrong?_

She stared vacantly into space, her clear eyes brimming with a keen misery that plunged into Bobby's stomach like a blade of ice. _I don't know,_ she said barely above a whisper, _I'm just sad._

All Bobby could do was stroke her hair and tell her he loved her; the doctors already made it clear that she was bipolar and would only get worse when she entered puberty. Bipolar, from what Bobby had learned, was a congenital disease, inborn and usually unrelated to external factors. Outside forces - being picked on, overly stressed, job loss, etc - could trigger it, but for the most part, it simply happens and nothing in his power could stop it. No words would cheer her up, no actions would brighten her day - he simply had to sit there and take it. Seeing his child in distress and not being able to help her was the worst feeling Bobby had ever known.

Normally, Stephy's down periods were brief and mercifully far between, but this one lasted most of June, its severity waxing and waning like the cycle of the moon; some days she was a little glum, others she was virtually crippled with depression. She'd either lay in bed, blankets heaped protectively on top of her, or sit on the couch with a pillow clutched to her chest and gaze into nothing. By the time it broke in late June and she went back to her old self, he and Lola were worried sick. They made an appointed for her in July, and after a full check up, the doctor increased her dosage of Ritalin and prescribed her something called Risperdal as well.

Over the month long period between mid-July and mid-August, the medication seemed to take effect. She didn't slip into any fugues, but she also wasn't what Bobby would call classic Stephy either. She was quieter, more subdued, not the ball of boundless energy he had grown to love even if she frustrated him sometimes. He and Lola both resolved to spend extra time with her; he took her to the beach and the park and the aquarium, just the two of them. He also made sure to do the same with Val so that he didn't feel left out.

Eight and tall for his age with lank black hair and liquid brown eyes, Val was the opposite of his sister. He was reserved around people he didn't know, but opened up fast, and when that happened, you couldn't pay him to shut up. His favorite thing in the world was Pokemon cards, some Japanese thing that Bobby couldn't grasp but tried for Val's sake, and his second was boxing. Every child has one life-defining moment, and Val's came the previous year when Bobby took him to see Mike Tyson defend his heavyweight championship against Evander Holyfield in Las Vegas. Sandy bought the tickets for her and her husband, and three days before, his sister in Connecticut died and they had to fly out for the funeral. She gave the tickets to Bobby and even though he didn't know shit about boxing, he hung onto them and decided to use it as a father-son bonding trip. Val had never even heard of boxing before, but the moment they got to the arena, his eyes went wide with wonder and the hook was baited. He watched the fight the way a schoolgirl might have watched The Beatles in the sixties: Jumping, screaming, and practically creaming his jeans.

Afterward, he threw himself into boxing like a newly converted Christian into his religion, rapidly learning everything there was to know about boxing, up to reading lengthy biographies of famous boxers and buying VHS tapes of past matches. Within months, he could tell you the stats, scores, career highlights, and ratings of every notable champion from 1900 on. His all time favorite was Muhammad Ali, but Mike Tyson held a special place in his heart.

Perhaps feeling guilty for spending more time with Stephy - and wanting to give Lola time with her too - he bought two tickets to the Tyson v. Holyfield rematch in Las Vegas. They left on the 26th and drove through the Mojave Desert, reaching Vegas at sundown, its sprawling neon lights thrusting suddenly and without warning from the wastelands like a ship at sail. They got a room at the MGM Grand, ordered room service, and stayed up late wandering the Strip, where tourists snapped photos, woebegone gamblers stumbled broke from casinos, and hookers in fishnets and fur coats watched with cool detachment, scanning the passing faces for hungry eyes, lonely hearts, and bulging wallets.

Billed as _The Sound and the Fury,_ The bout was held on June 28th at the MGM Grand Garden Arena. Bobby and Val packed into the stands with countless thousands of other fans to watch Holyfield defend his title. _You think Tyson's gonna do it?_ Bobby asked his son.

 _He_ is _the number one ranked heavyweight_ , Val pointed out. _He's 45–2–0 to Holyfield's 33–3–0. He has more KOs too._

Bobby knew KO meant "knock out" but beyond that, Val might as well have been speaking Greek. He had no clue who the better boxer was (though Val said they were both in their prime), but Holyfield came out of his corner swinging and overwhelmed Tyson in the first round. In the second round, Tyson threw a quick right, and Holyfield ducked then headbutted him. Blood flowed from a cut over Tyson's right eye and he didn't look happy about it: He squared his shoulders, lowered his head, and glared at Holyfield with clench-jawed intensity. The ref declared the headbut unintentional, and the fight continued. _You think it was?_ Bobby asked, soliciting his son's expert opinion.

 _It looked like it,_ Val said, _but I'd have to see the tapes._

At the beginning of round three, Tyson came out of the corner, but the ref forced him back, and he slipped something into his mouth, most likely his guard. The fight resumed, the two men circling and lightly jabbing each other. Then, all at once, Tyson rushed in, and they seemed to embrace,,,then Holyfield ripped away, hopped up and down like a rabbit on speed, and spun around mid-jump, one glove going to his right ear. From his vantage point in the front row, Bobby could clearly see the look of pain wavering across the black man's features. What happened?

Holyfield turned his back to Tyson and started for his corner, and Tyson shoved him roughly into the ropes. The ref got in between them, and Holyfield returned to his corner, panting and grimacing in pain. Without taking his eyes off the scene, Bobby leaned close to Val. _What's going on?_

 _I dunno,_ Val said, confused.

The doctor entered the ring and after a few moments, the match restarted, Tyson and Holyfield trading a flurry of blows that Val emulated, ducking weaving, and punching at the air. _Nice form,_ Bobby said proudly and slapped him on the back. He had no idea whether his form was nice or not, or even if it was called form (was it stance?).

A few minutes into the round, Tyson and Holyfield locked up again, and again, Holyfield pulled away and returned to his corner. Suddenly, a dozen trainers, security guards, men in red blazers, and other people whose role Bobby couldn't even guess at flooded into the ring. Val threw his hands up in frustration. _What's going on?_ A fight broke out between two groups, and guards got in between them. The crowd watched with a mixture of quiet surprise and rapt curiosity. _He keeps biting him,_ someone on Bobby's left commented. Huh? Someone got got bit?

The ring was packed so densely with people that Bobby couldn't pick one from another. A nervous ripple went through the throng, and Holyfield and his people climbed out and made their way out through the crowd, passing so close to Bobby he could touch him...and see the blood seeping from his mangled ear. Val froze up like a boy in the presence of greatness, and tracked Holyfield with wide, wonder-filled eyes. Shortly thereafter, the announcer proclaimed the match over and Tyson disqualified for biting Holyfield twice. As they left, Bobby tried and failed to wrap his head around it. Why the hell would Tyson bite him? Was he hungry?

 _Sorry about that,_ Bobby said to his son, _that wasn't much of a fight_.

Val gaped up at him. _Are you kidding? That was a_ great _fight!_

 _How do you feel about Mike Tyson?_ Bobby asked, expecting the little boy to be hurt or outraged over his idol's bad behavior.

He simply shrugged. _Evander kept headbutting him. He deserved it._

 _I wouldn't say that,_ Bobby replied cautiously, _you know, two wrongs never make a right._

Val just rolled his eyes. _Okay, Dad._

Well, Bobby consoled himself, he tried.

That's all you can really do.


	191. August 1997: Part 3

**STR2D3PO: I didn't do a chapter set in April 1999, but it is mentioned in passing later on.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Walkin' on the Sun**_ **by Smash Mouth (1997)**

"I'm gonna die," the boy huffed and dropped to his butt. He leaned back against a rock jutting from the ground and hanged his head. Sweat dripped from his brow and fell onto his lap like tropical rain. His scrawny chest rose and fell as he drew quick, rattling breaths and his face blazed an unhealthy shade of crimson.

Beside him, his older brother drew his knees to his chest and threw his head back. "This sucks," he panted.

"Oh, y'all hush up," Lana said. She stood before them in a pair of hiking boots, cargo shorts, and a plaid shirt, the long sleeves rolled up over her forearms. She wore a green Jansport backpack, a canteen on one hip and a knife on the other, and a red bandanna around her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes. Before she and the boys left camp on what she'd come to think of as _our mother-son bondin' trip,_ Jed told her she looked like a lesbian.

She laid her walking stick against the gnarled trunk of a tree, unclipped the canteen from her belt, twisted the cap off, and took a long drink; the water was warm but wetted her dry throat just the same. She screwed the top back on and hooked it onto her belt again. She put her hands on her hips and studied the two boys in front of her. Justin, clad in denim shorts and a black T-shirt with that wrestler on it - the one with the long hair and wore the black and red mask - was tall and solidly built with lank reddish brown hair and freckles. His legs were toned from years of football and his arms just beginning to show the first strands of muscle. Every time Lana looked at him, she felt a hint of loss: He was almost a man and not her little baby anymore.

Josh, in tan shorts and a black T-shirt emblazoned with Dale Earnhardt's simpering face superimposed over a giant white number 3, was slighter than his brother, his short hair dirty blonde and his eyes the most beautiful shade of hazel Lana had ever seen. His girlish hands, translucent skin smudged with dirt, rested on his lap, and his delicate cheeks were flushed with exertion. They stared back at her in misery, pleading to go back to camp without saying a word. "Y'all act this is a death march or somethin'."

"It _is_ a death march," Josh groaned.

They were currently on a narrow trail winding through thickly wooded hills. Sunlight filtered through the treetops and made golden coins on the forest floor. Drifts of leaves, fallen trees, and moss covered rocks dotted either side of the path, and a faint, humid breeze stirred foliage but hardly touched human flesh. It was Lana's idea to take the boys off on her own while Jed spent time with Joy, and they set off after lunch, much to the boys' chagrin. From the way they groused, you'd think going on a hike with their mother was the worst thing ever.

"It ain't a death march," Lana said and sat. She crossed her legs Indian style and winced at the popping in her spine. She was thirty-five, almost thirty-six, but some days her body was convinced she was older. "We're almost there anyway."

Their destination was the summit of Mount Jackson, the largest peak in the region. From its top, you could see for miles.

"How much longer?" Josh asked.

Lana rolled her eyes to the sky in thought. It was entering late afternoon, and amber rays of sun crept across the heavens like spilled blood. "Bout a mile or two."

The boys moaned in unison, and Lana knitted her brows. "It ain't that bad."

"We've been going uphill for days," Josh rejoined dramatically.

Lana couldn't help a snort. "It hasn't been days."

"It feels like it," Justin said.

Lana looked him up and down. "You play ball. This should be a walk in the park for you."

"I'm on vacation," Justin said.

"Well, hikin's what you do on vacations." She got to her feet and grabbed her walking stick. She found it lying next to the trail a few miles back, a long, smooth piece of pallid birch slightly bowed on one end. She tapped it on the ground like Moses parting the Red Sea. "Come on. Daylight's wastin'."

Josh sighed and Justin flopped his head forward, but both got up...albeit grudgingly. Lana got back on the path and started up, the terrain sloping gently beneath her feet. Justin and Josh dragged behind, walking side-by-side with their heads down. Josh's shoulder bumped Justin's arm, and the older boy elbowed him away. "Stop touching me."

"Stop touching _me,"_ Josh shot back and shoved him.

Justin punched him in retaliation, and he cried out. "Mom! Justin punched me!"

"Tattletale."

Lana threw a deadly look over her shoulder, and they both stiffened. "Y'all knock it off or I'm gonna give y'all a reason to complain." She turned back to the trail and drew a deep breath through her nose. Boys bicker and fight all the time, so she shouldn't take it personal, but she did anyway. They'd done nothing but nag her and each other the whole way...almost like they didn't want to be with her.

A sharp pang rippled through her stomach and she blinked against an inexplicable rush of tears. She knew her cycle well enough to know she was due for her period, so maybe she was extra emotional on account of that - either way, she couldn't help being hurt. Knowing it was her fault for not spending enough time with them made the pain that much worse.

The path curved gently to the left, then sharply to the right again. The ground dropped off on the right, and a low, steep hill matted with dead leaves rose up on the left. Birds, bugs, bullfrogs hidden in a concealed swamp, and cicadas formed a cacophony of noise that did little to sooth Lana's nerves. It could have been her imagination, but she could sense dark tension radiating from her sons in sickly waves, like fever from an addled body. She glanced over her shoulder, and they both stared down at their feet, trudging reluctantly along and probably wishing they were with their father, fishing, laughing, having a good time instead of here with her.

"It ain't much farther," she said because the silence was becoming too great, too suffocating. The path wound around the base of the hill and graded up, narrowing as more of the world disappeared to the right. The tops of the massive trees crowding the valley were only feet over their heads, and over them a rounded mountain, its edges smoothed by eons of wind and rain, watched with stoic majesty, like an old queen wizened and white-haired, sore, sluggish, and tired, but still observing her subjects.

"It's _too_ far," Josh sighed.

"My feet hurt," Justin added.

"My everything hurts. This was a dumb idea."

"Can we go back?"

"I hate hiking. I wanna fish with Dad."

Each one of their gripes struck her like a fist, and the final was a wicked uppercut to the stomach that knocked the air from her lungs and made her tear up. A flash of resentment went through her and she bore down hard on her lower lip to keep from snapping. "We're almost there," she said tightly.

Fifteen minutes later, the trail turned to the left and filtered out into a grassy clearing ringed on three sides by pine trees and open on the fourth. The wind here was stronger and cool, drying the sweat on Lana's forehead and slipping through the branches with a soft whisper. "Finally," Justin said with a long suffering sigh.

"This is it?" Josh asked disappointedly.

"No," Lana said more sharply than she meant. She took a deep, calming breath and told herself that she was acting stupid. "No," she repeated, sofer this time, "over there is." She nodded toward the open vista, and started walking toward it. The boys fell in behind and followed.

At the edge, Lana stopped and admired the view. A wide, still river carved through a valley, and across the way, a mountain thrust up from the forest. More mountains rolled away in the east and west, and though the trees, Lana caught flashes of a train moving along a distant hillside. The boys stood on either side of her, and she glanced between them. "It's nice, isn't?" It was not a question so much as it was an abject plea. Feeble hope, like the tiny spark of a candle in the night, flickered tentatively in her chest...only to snuff rudely out when Josh spoke.

"No, it's dumb."

"We came all this way to look at a mountain?" Justin asked. "We could have stayed at camp and done that."

"Death march to Lameville," Josh pronounced.

The grim revelation that she failed came over her like a cold, dark shadow. All she wanted was to do something fun and special with her boys but she screwed it up. Neither was happy, neither wanted to come, and both would have been better off staying with their father. She'd never been one to doubt herself, but in that moment, it hit her that she was probably a far worse mother than she thought. When she was their age, she would have given anything in the world to go on a hike with her own mother, but both her sons would give anything in the world to _not_ be on a hike with her. She didn't know how she did it, but she was literally worse than Mama.

Bitter, stinging tears welled in her eyes and she fought not to give in to them, but they took her by force, spilling down her cheeks in rivulets of misery. She pressed her hand to her face to hide her shame and dropped to the ground in a heap, strangled sobs ripping from her throat. Justin and Josh both stared at her in horror, then at each other. "What's wrong, Mom?" Justin asked, concern in his voice.

"Are you alright?"

The fearful tone of Josh's voice made Lana cry even harder. She was scaring them because she was an emotional wreck and she couldn't stop it. "I-I wanted today to be s-special," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "I wanted us to spend time together but I messed it all up."

"No you didn't," Justin said quickly. He knelt next to Lana and put his hand on her shoulder. "Josh did."

"No I didn't! _You_ did!" He was on both knees now, his hands resting on the tops of his thighs.

Lana sniffed and wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Neither of y'all wanted to come. I shouldn't have made you but we don't hang out enough. You're always with your dad and I'm with Joy and...and I'm afraid y'all are gonna think I don't love you."

Just speaking those words made Lana's stomach knot. She remembered how awful it felt to think - to know - that her mother didn't love her, and she was horrified at the prospect of Josh and Justin feeling even a fraction of the pain she did growing up. The pain she felt now was worse because while she knew it was irrational and horrible, she couldn't help thinking they didn't love her either.

"We don't think that," Justin said, "a-and we love you too. Right, Josh?"

Josh nodded vigorously. "Yeah," he said, "and we wanna spend time with you too. We just didn't wanna do it on a dumb hike."

Justin shot his younger brother a dirty look that he was oblivious to. "We coulda fished, or did crafts, or built a fort, anything but a retarded -"

His words turned into a cry when Justin slapped him in the back of the head. "Stop," Lana said without force. "I'm just bein' emotional, that's all. I'm sorry." She wiped her eyes again. "I didn't mean to be like that."

"It's okay," Josh said, "we're sorry we made you think we didn't love you."

"We _do_ kinda hang out with Dad a lot," Justin admitted. "We don't mean to."

"He's just really cool," Josh added. Justin glared and cocked his fist, and Josh cringed. "I mean he sucks and I only do it out of pity!"

Something about that made Lana laugh. Josh was what you'd call a card, and he always managed to break out something totally unexpected. "We love you, Mom," he said seriously. He rocked forward on his knees and threw his arms around her neck. The pit of despair in her chest filled with warmth and she hugged him back, then held her other arm out to Justin. He leaned in, and she pulled him to her chest, her fingers threading tenderly through his hair. A satisfied smile spread across her lips and she breathed a contented sigh. Moments like these came rarely, what with the boys being older now and not as quick to hug their mother, but when they did, they served to remind her just how blessed she was. Her life wasn't the best growing up, and she still felt the lingering effects of it even now, but none of that mattered anymore. She had a wonderful husband and three amazing children with him. Deep down, she was afraid of losing it all...of going back to being alone and hurting...how could she not when what she had now was so precious?

"I love you guys," she said soberly.

"I love you too," Josh replied.

"I love you more."

Josh's brow darkened. "No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Will y'all stop?" Lana laughed. "You two'll fight over anything." She looked up at the fading light; the sun sat low in the west and shadows grew long. "We better head back." She got to her feet and the boys did likewise, both brushing themselves off.

It was almost dark by the time they got back into camp; a crackling fire roared in the pit, and Joy sat on the tailgate with a serving platter in her lap and a big, cheesy grin on her face. Jed stood next to her, using the gate as a table and cleaning a fish. "Mama!" she cried. "We caughted fish! Look!" She held the tray out; three pale slabs of meat sat side by side.

"Good job," Lana said and ruffled her hair. "You caught 'em yourself?"

Joy nodded. "One. Daddy fell in the water."

She looked at Jed, and he offered her a reluctant nod. "Yeah, I slipped."

Joy giggled. "He got real mad."

Josh went over, laid his hand on his father's arm, and looked up at him. "This is why I pity you."

Lana burst out laughing, and Jed looked from Josh to her like they were both crazy. "I'm gonna pity you when you don't get no fish," he told the boy. "Now go wash up. Supper's almost ready." He took the tray from Joy, and she jumped off the tailgate, dust puffing beneath her feet. She joined her brothers, and together they went down to the water's edge through a gathering swarm of fireflies, muted green glow like swirls of irradiated snow. Joy jumped up and tried to catch one, but it danced mockingly away.

"I'll get it," Josh cried. He hunched down, then leapt into the air and swatted the gathering.

"You missed," Justin pointed out.

They continued onto the water, and Lana watched after them, deep and endless love like a gentle spring breeze in her soul. She turned to Jed, wrapped her arms around his waist, and hugged him from behind. "Thank you," she said.

Jed twisted around to face her and circled her shoulders with his arm. "For what?" he asked.

"Our family," she said.

Jed chuckled. "Darlin', you had a hand in that too."

At the side of the river, their three children knelt and washed their hands in the water. Justin said something Lana couldn't hear, and Joy giggled sweetly. "Got it!" Josh cried. He held something up, and his siblings leaned curiously in.

"Can I pet him?" Joy asked.

Josh cradled whatever it was in his palms, and Joy ran her finger over it. "Cute crawdaddy," she cooed, "we should keep him."

"Yeah," Lana said, somehow amazed that those three beautiful babies came from _her_. "I guess I did."

Jed pecked her on the forehead. "The best part," he grinned.

Lana laughed. "Pushin' 'em out."

"It wasn't that bad," he dismissed. "If it was, you wouldn't have done it three times."

No, it really wasn't that bad. In fact, she'd happily do it again. She slipped her hand under his shirt and laid her palm over his heart, its beat strong, smooth, and steady. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, safe and protected, and sighed. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he said.

Night fell as Jed and Lana shared a kiss, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the delighted laughter of children.

* * *

Blake Underwood spent the weekend at his grandparents' house, where the air conditioners actually worked and smell of cookies permeated the air even when none were baking. Before Mom dropped him off on Friday evening, he overheard her telling Dad she was going to be his naughty nurse for the weekend. He assumed that meant she would leave him in bed, not change his diapers, and let his sores fester.

Poor guy.

That night, Grandma let him hook his Playstation up to the TV in the living room, and watched him play _Batman Forever_ while Grandpa read the _Royal Woods Republican_. She sat next to him with her arms and legs crossed and gazed at the screen in open amazement. _Hey, lame-o, get a load of this,_ she'd say, and Grandpa would turn down one edge of the paper with a hum. _Looks like a movie, huh?_

 _Almost,_ he said and went back to reading. _The graphics on those things are getting better and better every year._

Eventually, he sat the paper aside, came over, and sat down on Blake's right. _Let me try._ Blake handed the controller over without protest - he loved when Grandpa played games with him - and proceeded to watch Batman get his butt kicked by the weakest, lowest level villains in the world.

 _You're getting your ass handed to you, lame-o,_ Grandma smirked. Onscreen, Batman lay face down on the floor of a factory, a guy in a tank top walking back and forth waiting for him to get up. Grandpa stabbed the X button in an attempt to make Batman stand, but it took a while because his health meter was so low. _Come on, come on, come on,_ Grandpa muttered. He swirled the joystick with his thumb and mashed random buttons, getting desperate. As soon as Batman stood, the guy punched him, and GAME OVER appeared.

 _Damn it,_ Grandpa hissed.

 _He got you good, lame-o,_ Grandma said.

Grandpa turned to her and narrowed his eyes. _Let's see_ you _do better._

Definitely, she held out her hand. _Give it here._

She didn't do better, though. If anything, she did even worse. Blake had owned that game for over a year and never once had he seen Batman trip over his own feet and fall down, but Grandma found a way to do it. She cried out and rapidly tapped X, and Batman staggered to his feet, only for an enemy to dropkick him from behind. He flew forward, crashed into a barrel, and died.

Grandpa laughed and clapped his hands. _I didn't celebrate when_ you _lost,_ she said. She held the controller out, and Blake reached for it, but Grandpa grabbed it and started playing again. Okay. He could have another turn, Blake didn't mind.

Batman got jumped by a bunch of bad guys, and died. Grandpa gave the controller to Grandma, then when she died, she passed it back to him. Okay, guys, is it my turn yet?

No, it wasn't. The controller went back and forth in front of his face like a steak before a starving dog, and Blake started to get kind of upset. _Can I have a turn?_ he asked, but his voice was drowned out by Grandma laughing at Grandpa's latest death. He sighed, gave her the controller, and actively rooted for her to get _clobbered_.

Okay, this is getting dumb.

Finally, after the third time he asked only to be ignored, he jumped up and stormed into the kitchen. Fine, I'll just have a snack then. He got a chocolate pudding cup from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer, ripped the lid off, and threw it in the trash. He leaned against the counter and ate in quiet resentment. They weren't even any good. He should have the game back - he was much better.

When he was done, he dropped the cup in with the lid and put the spoon in the sink. In the living room, Grandma and Grandpa laughed because Grandma died again. _Can I have the game back please?_ Blake asked with strained patience. _I've been waiting a long time._

Grandpa looked bemused. _Sure. Why didn't you just ask?_

Eyeroll.

On Saturday morning, he woke to the smell of bacon and eggs and the sound of soft, hushed voices from the kitchen. He rolled out of bed, went to the bathroom, then shuffled into the kitchen. Grandpa sat at the table in a white T-shirt and a pair of blue sweatshorts, a cup of coffee in front of him. Grandma stood at the stove in slippers and a pink apron that was probably as old as she was - Blake didn't know how many years that was, but it had to be a lot. _Morning,_ Grandpa said as Blake sat.

 _Morning,_ he replied.

Grandma put eggs, bacon, and toast on a plate, then sat it in front of him with a kiss on the forehead. _How did you sleep?_ she asked and sank into the chair next to him.

 _Okay,_ he said. He slept better than he had in weeks because even though he had an air conditioner in his room at home, it didn't work very well. The air conditioning here did, and he didn't lay awake sweating to death as he had most of the summer. He pictured his dad lying under a heap of blankets while Mom stood over him cackling, her palms up and her fingers curled evilly like talons. _Warm enough for you, Timbo?_ Wow, she _was_ a naughty nurse.

 _I was thinking we could go to the beach today,_ Grandma said.

Blake didn't know what the phrase _the beach_ meant in other places, but here it meant Curtis State Park, a vast expanse of forests, hiking trails, playgrounds, and barbeques bordering a sandy strip of shore along Lake St. Clair south of New Haven. Blake perked right up because he _loved_ the beach: Swimming was the greatest thing ever, almost as cool as video games. He didn't get to go very often with his parents and Grandpa working all summer, so every trip was special. He searched his head and recalled that the last time he was there was in June, when he went with Jordan and her family.

Thinking of Jordan put a damper on his mood; he really missed her. She'd be back tomorrow, but that was, like, forever away. He wasn't used to them being apart so long. He saw her every single day, even if it was just for a few minutes. Every once in a while he couldn't, like if she had to go somewhere or her mom wouldn't let her come outside, and that always made him sad. She could be bossy, but she was still his best friend in the world, and not having her around was really lame.

Despite that, he still wanted to go to the beach.

Grandma turned to Grandpa. _How's that sound, lame-o?_

 _Fine to me,_ he said, _I have to mow the lawn first._

 _Can I help?_ Blake asked. Grandpa had this cool riding mower that he let Blake drive in the backyard. When he did, Blake pretended he was a cop chasing a carload of bank robbers, ducking as a guy popped out the back window and sprayed imaginary bullets, swerving to avoid pedestrians, and finally hitting the bad guys with a PIT maneuver. That's where a cop pulls alongside a fleeing vehicle so that his front end is flush with its back end, then he turns sharply, making the suspect's car spin out of control. PIT stood for Pursuit Intervention Technique and was developed by the Fairfax, Virginia police department. He knew that because it was in a VHS tape he had called _The History of Police Work._ It was one of his favorites but Jordan never wanted to watch it because she thought it was boring.

Grandpa took a sip of coffee. _Sure._

A half an hour later, Grandpa pulled the garage door open, went inside, and yanked a threadbare blue tarp from the lawnmower like a magician ripping the cloth from under a lavishly set table. Blake stood in the driveway and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead; the sun was high and bright, and the dry air felt like fire on his already gritty skin. _Heat's suppose to break tomorrow,_ Grandpa said. He climbed on the mower and started it with a loud roar. Blake stepped aside and Grandpa drove it out, then around the side of the house, Blake following impatiently behind. In the backyard, Grandpa jumped off, and Blake giddly climbed on. The torn leather seat vibrated under his butt and the wheel jiggled in his hands. Grandpa pulled a speed control lever to the right (taking the setting from rabbit to turtle), then pulled the clutch. _Don't hit anything,_ he warned as the mower crept forward. Slouching a little, Blake pushed the pedal to the floor, and the mower sped up...but not by much.

 _I won't,_ he promised. He gripped the wheel and grinned. Alright, bad guy, get ready for justice; I'm on official police business.

He approached the wood stockade fence and turned left, following it to the west corner andt turning again. Ahead, a battered car with loose fifty dollars bills flying from open windows like smoke sped up, and Blake gave chase. A man in a ski mask leaned out the back window and took aim with an AK-47 (Grandpa said only bank robbers and communists use AK-47s). Blake hunched and bullets whizzed by, striking the squad car with metallic pings and cracking the windshield. He reached for his gun and lifted his head only see the fence closing in fast. He screamed and collided with it; a shudder ran through the mower and it came to a grinding halt.

Still in the throes of his imagination, he cried out as the engine caught fire and filled the cab with dense black smoke. He tried to escape, but his stomach bumped against the wheel, and he was trapped. Flames licked his legs like tongues of agony, and he let out another yell. He wiggled, came free, and fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees in the brittle brown grass. Grandpa ran over and knelt next to him. _You alright?_ he asked worriedly.

 _They got away,_ Blake panted.

 _Who did?_ Grandpa asked, confused.

 _The guys with the AK-47s._

Grandpa's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. _Commies. It's always commies._

While Grandpa finished mowing, Blake went inside where it was downright cold after the heat of the day. Grandma got him a Fudge Pop from the freezer and he ate it on the couch in front of _Kenan and Kel._ He didn't really like this show but it was better than the news or something. After a while, he started getting impatient. Was Grandpa almost done? He _really_ wanted to go to the beach, and at this rate they'd get there just in time to go home again.

Grandma started off sitting next to him, but she started getting jittery, which happened a lot in the summertime because she missed going to work. She got up, disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with a feather duster and dusted the entire living room. Grandpa came in while she was hitting the pictures on the wall (Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, and Aunt Jessy from so long ago it boggled Blake's mind). His face was flushed and coated in sweat; he came into the living room with a can of Coke and dropped into his chair. Blake's heartbeat sped up and he looked at his grandfather expectantly. Grandpa glanced at him, and recoiled a little in surprise. _Beach now?_ Blake asked.

 _Give me a minute to catch my breath,_ Grandpa said, and Blake's soaring hope fell back to earth like a plane crash. He slumped his shoulders and hanged his head, certain that they would _never_ go to the beach now. Panic clutched his chest and breathing was hard. He wanted the beach _now._

 _I'll pack the things, you take them out to the car,_ Grandma said to Grandpa, and Blake brightened. Back in the game!

 _Yep,_ Grandpa said, unenthused.

Putting the feather duster back, Grandma went down the hall, and Blake burst with nervous energy while he waited for her to pack the beach stuff. Come on, come on, come on. Grandpa flopped his head back and closed his eyes, and Blake's stomach rolled. Oh no, if he fell asleep, they wouldn't go to the beach. Thinking fast, he spoke, rousing him: _Grandpa?_

 _Yeah?_ Grandpa asked tiredly.

 _What was World War II like?_

 _I wasn't in WWII,_ Grandpa said.

Oh. That's the only war Blake knew. Except for World War I and the Civil War. Was he in one of those? _I was in Vietnam._

 _What was it like?_

 _It was fun,_ Grandpa said with a nod. _Got to meet new people, try new foods, saw lots of sights._

 _Did you shoot anyone?_

Grandpa hesitated. _No,_ he stated, _I didn't._

Something in his voice told Blake was lying. He looked at the old man as if for the first time, trying but failing to imagine him killing someone.

Grandma came in from the hallway with a bag in each hand and sat them on the floor. _Alright, lame-o, take her away._

 _I'll take_ you _away,_ he said and pushed stiffly to his feet.

 _You already took me to a loving marriage and motherhood, where else can you take me?_

 _Right to the moon._

She playfully slapped his arm.

Grandpa carried the bags outside and loaded them into the back of his Jeep. Blake watched him from the front window, then went to get his things from his room. Twenty minutes later, he sat in the back seat and thrummed with excitement, at last on his way to the beach. Grandpa backed into the street, swung left, and followed Cleveland to Main. _I hope there's parking,_ Grandma fretted. _It's always so crowded._

 _If they'd build another goddamn parking lot, it wouldn't be so bad._

They got there a half hour after setting off; a long, narrow road wound through the forest and passed gazebos, grills, and playgrounds before reaching a dirt parking lot at the top of a hill overlooking the sparkling blue waters. Blake's excitement reached fever pitch and he pressed his face to the glass. Cars faced filled the lot, but there were a couple open spaces on the far side. Grandpa pulled into one and cut the engine. _Alright, troops, move out._

At the back hatch, Grandpa handed Blake one of the bags, then slammed the door. The three of them made their way down a grassy hill to the soft sand. People swam, splashed, flew kites, and lay on towels. In the distance, a concrete building containing bathrooms sat under the spreading branches of an oak tree. _Go change into your bathing suit,_ Grandma said as she laid a towel out on the sand.

 _Okay,_ Blake said. He grabbed his bag and hurried over; the quicker he got there, the quicker he'd be in the water. The bathroom was dim and wet, like a cave, the floor littered with crumpled paper towels, shreds of toilet paper, and other stuff; by one of the urinals, Blake spotted a pair of underwear with poop crusted on the back. Ew, gross.

He went into one of the stalls, took his clothes off, and pulled on his trunks. Shirtless, he bundled his shorts, shirt, and briefs into a ball, and went back outside. He started back toward the beach, but stopped when he heard something around the side of the building. He furrowed his brows,went to the corner, and peeked around.

What he saw made him freeze.

A girl about fifteen or sixteen with long red hair stood under a shower head jutting from the wall; water sprayed from it in a cascade and slucided down her nearly naked body in silvery rivers. She wore bottoms...but nothing else, her chest bare, pale globes of pink tipped flesh.

Blake's jaw dropped and something deep in his stomach seemed to shift, like a great and terrible creature stirring in its sleep. She turned away from him, and her bottoms rode low on her butt, revealing her crack. Normally, he'd think that was gross, but for some reason, right now...he kind of liked it.

She turned back to him and her eyes, hitherto closed, opened. Their gazes met, and horror flickered across her face. She squealed and covered her chest with her hands, and Blake stumbled back a step as if struck. _Get out of here, you little creep!_ she cried. He tried, but his legs were locked, his eyes prying at her hands, desperate for even the slightest flash of silken skin. Her jaw clenched and she came forward; Blake's paralysis broke, and he fled, holding the budle to his chest like a quarterback running a football down to the end zone. He glanced over his shoulder and slowed; she wasn't chasing him, whew.

For the rest of the day, the memory of her boobs followed him like a fragrant scent that he just couldn't get out of his nose. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the sunlight glistening on her skin, and it made him feel funny, like he was going to be sick. He knew boobs were something you weren't supposed to see but were supposed to _want_ to see, but he didn't think he ever had and never really cared to. Like, what was so great about someone's chest? He saw his own chest all the time, and Jordan's too, and his dad's - no big. He liked seeing that girl's chest, though, and he wanted to see it again. An hour afterwards, he went back to the bathroom to see if she was still there, but she was gone, and the shower area stood empty. Bitter disappointment went through him like battery acid, and he returned to the beach, where Grandma and Grandpa sat on the towel, Grandma with a book and Grandpa people watching; she wore a purple one piece bikini and he was clad in nothing but a pair of black shorts, his hairy, wrinkled chest exposed to the world.

Blake didn't like it the same as he liked the girl's chest.

In fact, he didn't like it at all. It was kind of gross.

 _That man's wearing earrings,_ Grandpa said. Grandma looked up from her book and knitted her brow in confusion. He nodded toward a lanky teenage boy talking to a girl with blonde hair and sourly puckered his lips. Grandma followed his gaze, then went back to reading.

 _That's the in thing these days._

 _Why?_

She shrugged one shoulder. _I dunno, I don't like it either. I really don't like sagging._

Grandpa looked at her as though she were crazy. _Sagging? What the hell is_ that?

 _It's what the rappers do. They let their pants slip down over their butts. You can see their underwear and everything._

Grandpa flinched. _People do that?_

 _They do,_ Grandma confirmed, _it's the dumbest thing ever._

Since they were talking about dumb stuff that held absolutely no interest for him (which was what they usually talked about), Blake went down to the water, the sand hot under his feet. During the day, he made friends with a little black boy and they played until his parents called him away; built a sand castle with Grandma; got Grandpa to come in the water with him...then splashed him; swam out to the orange buoys marking the edge of the swimming area (for which his was very proud of himself, because it was, like, six feet deep there); and ate ice cream Grandpa bought from a man with a cart. They left at sundown, and Blake was pleasantly exhausted...and really hungry. They stopped at Pizza Hut in Elk Park and sat in a red vinyl booth next to one of the big front windows commanding a majestic view of the parking lot. The dining room was lit by ambient light from overhead lamps and pop music played over loudspeakers Blake endlessly searched for but couldn't find.

 _So don't delay, act now, supplies are running out  
Allow if you're still alive, six to eight years to arrive  
And if you follow, there may be a tomorrow  
But if the offer is shun, you might as well be walkin' on the sun_

A waitress in a maroon shirt and black waist apron came over and took their drink orders, then returned with three glasses and a placemat for Blake to color. He took a crayon and set immediately to work, filling stark black lines with shades of purple and yellow.

 _Some were spellbound, some were hell bound  
Some they fell down and some got back up  
And fought back against the melt-down  
And their kids were hippie chicks or hypocrites  
Because fashion is smashin' the true meaning of it_

Grandpa looked around with a sneer of distaste and shook his head. _What does this craphole have that I don't?_ he asked rhetorically. He was talking about Flip's again. He hated other restaurants because, in his words, _they're stealing all my business._

 _Pizza, lame-o,_ Grandma said, _they have pizza._

 _Should I add pizza to the menu?_ Grandpa asked earnestly.

Grandma shook her head. _Nah, you're mess it up like you mess everything up._

Grandpa glared at her, and she laughed. _I'm only joking._

 _One of these days,_ he said and lifted his fist, _right to the moon._

When Blake was done with his coloring, he proudly showed it to his grandparents, then, with nothing else to do, he shook and examined the glass garlic and crushed red pepper shakers. Grandpa said the peppers were really hot but Blake wanted to try them anyway, so when he pizza came out, he sprinkled some onto his slice and took a big bite.

Instantly, his mouth caught on fire and his face turned red; water filled his eyes and snort dripped from his nose like slime. _Told you,_ Grandpa chuckled.

 _It's okay,_ Blake said quickly, not wanting his grandparents to know just how big a mistake he actually made. _I like it._

He didn't, though; his tongue sizzled and the insides of his mouth stung like they had a sunburn; his breathing quickened and his throat screamed in pain. Being as casual and nonchalant as he could, he picked up his Pepsi and took a long drink, the blissfully cooling liquid barely quenching the flames in his mouth.

 _You're sweating,_ Grandma teased.

 _It's just hot in here,_ Blake covered, and looked at his grandfather for help. _Right?_

 _I'm comfortable,_ Grandpa said.

Gee, thanks.

After the burn abated, Blake finished his pizza with his head down and resolved to never try anything spicy again.

He had trouble sleeping that night because Jordan was going to be home tomorrow, and he was excited. The next day, Mom and Dad picked him up at noon. At home, he played video games and watched TV, trying to kill time until Jordan got back; the suspense grew over the course of the afternoon until he couldn't sit still. Mom got called into work at two, and afterward, Dad went outside to work on his truck, leaving Blake alone. He didn't mind that, though; he'd fidget and be impatient for Jordan to get home either way.

On TV, _Doug_ ended and _Hey Arnold!_ started. Blake got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of Coke, and shut the door. He started back into the living room but stopped when his eyes fell on something sitting between the toaster and microwave...something small and shaped like an egg.

Curiosity piqued, Blake picked it up and held it in his palm.

When he realized what it was, his heart sank.

Jordan's Tamagotchi.

Panic burst in him like a bomb and his breath caught in his throat. He flashed back to Thursday afternoon, Jordan pressing it into his hand and jabbing an admonishing finger at him. _You have to feed it twice a day._

But he didn't.

"OH NO!"

Onscreen, the dog lay on its side with little Xs for eyes.

X's mean dead!

He shook the game, irrationally hoping that that would bring the dead dog back to life, but it remained where it was, and Blake's chest knotted tightly. Oh, no; oh, no; oh, no...Jordan was going to be so mad. She trusted him to take care of it but he failed...he failed so hard it starved to death and now all that was left was a bloated carcass rotting in the summer sun.

Maybe if he shook it harder!

Holding it in both hands, he shook it as fast as he could, his teeth bared and frenzied desperation in his eyes. His heart slammed in his throat and hollow, gut-wrenching dread raged through him like an ice storm. "Please work, please work, please work," he chanted beseechingly. Terrible visions of Jordan being angry...so, so angry...flickered across his mind, and his stomach turned sickly.

The Tamagotchi was still dead, its little tongue lolling out of its mouth and mocking him. _You let me die, Blake 'n' Shake, now Jordan's going to haaaaaaaaate you._

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? He looked strickenly around the kitchen as if for help, but he was alone in his folly. Let's see, let's see...he could lie, yeah, that might work. _It was okay last time I checked, maybe it got cancer._ Would she know? He wasn't a very good liar but what choice did he have? Be honest and tell her he forgot? Pfft, no, that was dumb. She'd be mad at him if she thought it was an accident, but she'd be _real_ mad if she knew it wasn't.

Suddenly, he wasn't so excited for her to come home. Maybe she wouldn't...maybe she'd stay at her grandma's house an extra day and he could put off having to face her. Maybe -

Someone knocked on the door, and his blood ran cold.

Maybe it was Dad.

Gulping, he crept to the window beside the couch and pulled the curtain aside.

Jordan stood on the porch in a pair of bright orange shorts and a white shirt, a blue bow in her French braided hair and her fanny pack around her waist...waiting to reclaim the Tamagotchi.

A cry of alarm exploded from Blake's throat and he fell back a step; his feet tangled and his legs went out from under him, dropping him hard on his butt.

It's like a nightmare!

He wracked his brain for what to do, his chest heaving, heart blasting. If he stayed quiet and didn't move, she might go away.

As if on cue, his father spoke outside, his voice muffled. _You can go right in._

AHHHHHHH!

Blake sprang to his feet as the door opened and Jordan slipped in, closing it behind her. Oh no, it was too late, he was done for. "Hi!" she chirped happily and came over. "I'm back from - are you okay?" Her brow pinched and she looked him appraisingly up and down, concern touching her eyes. Oh, God, did he look as guilty as he felt? Could she see the lie already?

"H-Hey," he said, "uh...welcome back. How was your trip?"

She regarded him warily for a moment, then replied haltingly. "Uh...it was okay. I got to play with my grandma's doggies. It was lots of fun." She smiled at the memory and Blake's throat went dry. Please don't ask about -

"Where's my Tamagotchi? I really missed him."

Crud.

Between a rock and a hard place (at least he thought that saying applied here), he blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I don't have it. It's-It's in my room."

"Okay," Jordan said breezily, "I'll go get -" she stopped and narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Blake?"

"Yeah?" Blake asked, his heart racing faster now.

"It's in your hand."

Blake glanced down at his hand. Darn it. "Uh...no it's not."

Jordan's features hardened and she crossed her arms over her chest, one hip cocking sassily out. She only did that when she started getting annoyed. "Give me my Tamagotchi," she demanded.

"But…"

"I know it's fun, but it's _mine_."

Sighing, Blake hanged his head and held it out, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his chest throbbing in anticipatory fear. What would she do? Hit him? Scream at him? Stop being his friend forever? He didn't know...and he also didn't know which one of those choices was worse.

She plucked it from his grasp and shot him a dirty look. "Ask your mom to get you one." She donned her biggest, prettiest smile and looked down at the game. "Hi, Mommy's bac -"

Her words cut off, and Blake winced.

"M-My Tamagotchi," she said, her voice breaking, "it's dead."

Blake nodded miserably. "Yeah, it, uh, it was fine until I…" he looked up and paled. Jordan glared at him with clench-jawed intensity, her face crimson and her eyes two boiling pools of rage. " - forgot to feed it."

"You….killed...my...Tamagotchi," she said tightly, drawing each word out like a blade across a transgressor's throat.

"I'm sorry! I -"

"YOU KILLED MY TAMAGOTCHI!" she screamed.

Blake quivered. "Please, I -"

"I'm not talking to you for the rest of the afternoon, Blake Underwood." She pronounced his name as though it were vile in her mouth, then spun on her heels, stalked to the door, and ripped it open. She gave him one final, withering look, and he shrank back. "And probably part of the evening, too!"

With that, she slammed out the door and down the stairs. Through the window, Blake caught a flash of her stalking across the yard between trailers, her fists balled and her shoulders hunched, then she was gone. He let out a pent up breath and bowed his head in contrition. Aw, man, he really screwed up this time. Dumb or not, that Tamagotchi pet meant a lot to her. Why did he set it down and forget about it?

Because he was dumb and fat and an awful friend, that's why. Selfish too. Very, very selfish. He didn't mean to be, it just happened, like pooping your pants. It's bad and something to be ashamed of, but you couldn't control it. Or maybe you could and _he_ was the one who couldn't...because he was dumb and stupid and all the other bad stuff in the world. Gay (whatever that was), retarded, lame, and...and _everything_. Jordan was his best friend and he really let her down.

Now he felt like dirt.

The storm door opened and Dad came in, dressed in tattered jeans and a white, sleeveless tank top with DEF LEPPARD across the front. Grease and motor oil coated his face, lending him the appearance of the star in a racist minstrel show, and he absently wiped his black hands on a dirty red rag. "What was _that_ about?" he asked.

Blake sighed and dropped onto the couch. "I killed Jordan's Tamagotchi."

"Her what?" Dad asked bewilderedly.

"It's a fake pet that's not even real," Blake said. "She made me babysit it and I forgot, so it starved to death now she's really mad at me."

Understanding dawned in Dad's eyes, and he came over and sat beside him. "That's a tough one," he said and glanced at him. "Did you apologize?"

"I tried," Blake said and crossed his arms sullenly, "she wouldn't listen."

"Well," Dad said, "when I mess up and make your mother mad, I do something nice for her."

Something nice? Blake considered that for a minute. Jordan was furious with him, would she let him do something nice for her? "What do you do?" he asked his father.

Dad spread his hands. "I get her flowers, chocolates, bring her McDonald's, that kind of thing. And most importantly, I tell her I'm sorry and regret what I did." He patted Blake's leg. "First of all, I let her cool off first. Give Jordan some time to calm down then do something really special for her."

Well...Dad _was_ one of the smartest and most wise men to ever live. The question was…

...what could he possibly do to make up for murdering Jordan's Tamagotchi?


	192. August 1997: Part 4

**MasterCaster: Not really taking requests or anything right now, but I'll listen to it.**

 **Joni C69: Hm, that piques my interest. I'm going to have to look it up.**

 **Nuterino: You got me, I goofed.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **One Headlight**_ **by The Wallflowers (1996)**

 _My boss is coming to dinner, by the way,_ Mark had said matter-of-factly. Jessy was standing at the kitchen cutting board chopping onions and peppers that would then go into a Ziploc bag and, afterwards, the freezer.

It was a gloomy mid-August afternoon in Redmond and had been raining off and on since sunrise. Muted white light fell through the window over the sink and lay across the tile floor in a silvery shaft. The room was dim and cool, classical music drifting from a built in radio. Jessy liked listening to classical music while she completed mundane household tasks. She listened to other types, of course, but there was something about light, airy orchestral sounds that instantly put her in a good mood.

They just got back from a trip to the grocery store and Jessy was mentally preparing herself for another pregnancy test, her first since Thursday. Like a restless woman constantly opening the over to see if the roast is done, she took a test every other day. She was aware that spreading them out a little more would be prudent, but the ever growing suspense lead her to check again and again; the alternative was sitting on her hands and watching the clock, counting down the hours until she could take another.

She was beginning to get impatient. She and Mark had been trying to get pregnant since March. Not every sexual encounter results in conception, she knew that, but with as many as they'd had since deciding to have a baby, you'd think that she'd be pregnant five times over by now. They had a routine: Sex every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, They stuck to it religiously, whether they felt like doing it or not. Occasionally, the mood struck on off days and they did it then as well, but they did not miss an appointment and Jessy was coming to worry that one of them was dysfunctional: Either he was sterile or she was barren, and they would never conceive no matter _how_ many times they tried.

Jumping to horrible conclusions, she reminded herself, was what the old Jessy would do, the one who existed in a state of perpetual anxiety and self-conscious dread. Things like this take time. Some women were so fertile that they couldn't be in the same room with a man without getting pregnant, and other women had to wait. The same went for men. It would happen at its own pace, and no amount of agonizing would change that, nor would it revitalize her body or Mark's if one of them _was_ impotent.

Were that the case, she was open to the idea of adopting. There are so many children out there who don't have parents or a home of their own, and Jessy couldn't think of anything more heartbreaking, save for childhood disease. When her mind turned in that direction, she remembered those awful ASPCA commercials that depicted dogs and cats in kennels, shaking, skittish, and regarding the camera with wounded vulnerability, as if begging for someone to come along, take them away, and love them until they were whole and happy again. She pictured little boys and girls with that same expression, silently hoping she would pick them to come with her, and it brought tears to her eyes.

As selfish as it may be, however, she wanted her own baby, one that was hers and Mark's, his seed and her egg incubated in her body and shaped into _their_ child. If they couldn't have one of their own, adoption would suffice, but she was getting ahead of herself. They talked about it in July and if they were not pregnant by next summer, they'd see a specialist. Depending on what he or she said, they would either keep trying or investigate other options.

When Mark spoke, she jumped and came within inches of slicing her finger open. On getting home, he went off to work on a project in his office. Situated across the hall from their bedroom, it was a wide space with bright blue carpet and white walls, a combination that made her head ache if she looked at it too long. Mark claimed it was conducive to concentration; how, she couldn't say, but certain aspects of Mark's personality were an enigma to her even after eleven years of loving him.

 _Sorry,_ he said flaty, _didn't mean to startle you._

 _I'm fine,_ she replied _Uh...what did you say again?_

 _My boss is coming to dinner next Saturday._

Oh, okay. Mark worked under three different supervisors at Microsoft, and at various times, all of them had come over for dinner and drinks. Mark called it _professional socialization,_ which meant that the point of these social calls was, in essence, to enhance team unity by fostering a sense of camaraderie and encouraging fraternizing outside of work. Jessy personally believed that one's work life should be kept separate from their personal life, but it seemed to work. At first, she didn't think she would like playing hostess to her husband's friends, but she discovered that she actually enjoyed it. _Alright,_ she said, _which one? Jeff? Howard? Lionel?_

 _Mr. Gates._

Jessy choked. _Bill Gates? The owner of the whole company?_

Mark nodded. _Yeah, that Mr. Gates. Given his position as head of Microsoft, it's a pretty important dinner, so we should really go the extra mile._

A nervous tremble raced through Jessy's body. It was one thing to cook for Jeff and Howard, but the founder of Microsoft? The man Mark himself described as _Mussolini, but with glasses?_ The man who held hers and Mark's new life in the palm of his hand? That was something else entirely. It was…

Terrifying.

 _Will's coming too. For moral support._ Mark patted her on the shoulder then walked away, leaving her alone with the stark realization that in one week, the richest man in the world, and perhaps the grumpiest, would be sitting at her dining room table...eating _her_ food...judging her home, her appearance, her abilities as a hostess. Her stomach knotted and she began to hyperventilate for the first time in nearly five years. She gripped the edge of the countertop and regulated her breathing. Okay, okay, okay, it's not that bad, you're a great hostess, everyone says so, and you're a good cook too. Relax. Calm. Breathe in, breathe out. He's just a man like any other.

Yeah, a notoriously persnickety and temperamental man...who also happens to be Mark's boss. Do you believe in God, Jess? No? Well, joke's on you, He's coming to dinner, prepare thine self.

She drew a sharp intake of air through her nose and let it out slowly. Going to pieces wouldn't help anything. Mark was right, this was a _very_ important dinner, and if she wanted to make a good impression, she had to keep it together. First order of business was finding out what his favorite food was. And everything else about him. She needed to know it all: What he liked, what he didn't like, if he was allergic to anything...a vision of him bloated and choking from ingesting peanuts or shellfish danced mockingly across her mind, and she nearly doubled over. That would _not_ happen on her watch, she vowed. He could suffer a fatal reaction at someone else's house; here, he would have a good meal and he would _like_ it.

On Monday, she waited anxiously for Mark to come home with a list of his boss's preferences and favorite things. _Make sure to be as exhaustive as possible,_ she told him that morning before kissing him goodbye.

 _I'll try,_ he said.

To occupy her mind, she drove into the city and visited the yoga studio she'd been going to for the past six months. Howard's wife introduced her to yoga and she took to it because it was very relaxing. Afterwards, she ate lunch at a sidewalk cafe overlooking Puget Sound and stopped at a second hand bookstore called _Riverby's_ , where she browsed towering shelves crammed with a crazy assortment of titles. She read far more these days than she used to, since she had so much free time on her hands. Some women might like to stay home with nothing to do, but not her; she was considering looking for a teaching job, but she'd hate to find one only to get pregnant and immediately quit.

At home, she sat in her favorite armchair by the window and tried to lose herself in _Faust_. When Mark came home at six, she jumped up and met him by the door. _So?_ she demanded.

 _So what?_ he asked.

 _Did you find out what I asked you to?_

Mark blinked. _Oh. I forgot._

Jessy threw back her head. _Mark, this is_ really _important. Can you please treat it a little more seriously? This man is your boss. He could fire you at any moment, then what? We'll go back to living in a one bedroom apartment and budgeting every sheet of toilet paper. I don't want to do that again. I like not worrying about finances._

 _That's not going to happen,_ Mark said and placed his hands comfortingly on her shoulders, _I'm one the best developers they have and he knows it. Just relax._

 _Well, that's easy for you to say, you're not the one who has to cook for him. What if I make his least favorite food? What if I feed him something he's allergic to and he dies?_ Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs and her lungs burst for air. She was getting carried away and she knew it...but she could not stop it.

 _He's just a guy, Jessy,_ Mark said pointedly, _if he gets a hair across his ass and fires me, I'll go work for Steve Jobs. Or better yet, I'll start my own company._ He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. _Calm down. We're fine._

She nodded and took a deep breath. He was right. The next day, she met him at the door again, and he gave her a mournful shake of the head. _No one knows anything about him. I considered approaching him directly but decided that that might not be in good form._

Jessy's heart sank. Great. She was flying _completely_ blind here, and what happens when you fly blnd? You crash. You crash and you _burn_.

As the appointed day approached, Jessy's anxiety deepened. Perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, she searched every cookbook she had for the fanciest, most impressive dish she could find, made a list, and eliminated each one containing common food allergens such as peanuts, milk, and shellfish. She started to settle on beef wellington, but, oh God, what if he was a vegetarian? She saw herself holding out a platter of beef, and him sneering at it. _You murdering bitch,_ he hissed, _GET THIS AWAY FROM ME!_ She scrapped everything and went back to the drawing board, choosing only vegetarian dishes this time. She finally settled on soy stir fry with rice, bamboo shoots, and a vegetable medley.

Next came drinks. On Friday, she picked up the most expensive bottles of white and red wine she could find, then stocked up on horderves. Her plan was to provide an excellent meal and drinks, but to let Mark handle the rest. The less she had to do with it, in her opinion, the better.

On Saturday, Mark went into work for a few hours, and Jessy ran through the house like a chicken with its head cut off, dusting, vacuuming, rearranging things, lighting scented candles, and making sure everything was absolutely perfect. In the kitchen, she cut, peeled, chopped, mixed, diced, and got everything prepped, which took far more time and effort than she imagined it would; by the time she was finished, sweaty bangs hung in her eyes and she panted like a dog in the heat.

Mark called from his car phone at 3 to say that he, Will, and Bill Gates were en route. Her heart rocketed into her throat and she had to wrestle control of herself from the jaws of panic. Taking a deep breath, she centered herself, just like the yoga instructor taught her, then went to hers and Mark's bedroom, where she put on her nicest black dress, a strand of pearls, and diamond teardrop earrings. Back in the kitchen, she filled a tray with horderves and sat it on the coffee table, then started dinner, listening for the door with rising suspense.

Finally, at 4, after what seemed like an eternity, she heard Mark's key in the lock, and her chest crushed. Alright, he's here, smile, act crodial, remember he's just a guy. You know, better yet, don't even go out there, hide.

The door opened, and Jessy took a deep breath. She went to the archway to the living room and poked her head out. Mark came in, followed by Will, a tall black man with a gleaming bald head; they both clutched brown paper bags with big yellow M's on them. Bill Gates, a thin man with glasses and brown hair, brought up the rear, clad in a dark suit accented by a red tie. He, too, carried a McDonald's bag. And a case of Bud Lite.

"Hey," Mark greeted.

"Hi," Jessy said, bemused, "w-what's that?" she nodded to the bag in his hand.

Mark looked at it as though he'd never seen it before. "Oh, we grabbed dinner on the way." He went over to the couch, sat down, and snatched the remote from the coffee table. Will dropped down next to him, and Bill Gates sat on the edge. Mark turned on the TV and flipped through the channels, then stopped on a tennis match on ESPN.

"There we go," Bill Gates said approvingly. He ripped open the case, took out a bottle of beer, and twisted the top off.

Jessy stood where she was, frozen in shock and gaped as the richest man in the world drink beer and ate a Big Mac. Uh...so I made dinner for nothing? Mark said something she didn't catch, and Will and Bill Gates laughed uproariously, a hunk of beef flying from the latter's mouth and landing on the floor. "There's something wrong with you," Will said fondly.

"He passed the psych eval," Gates said around a mouthful of food, "we should have failed his ass."

O-Okay then.

Jessy went back into the kitchen and stood mournfully over the stove, where dinner simmered. Sighing, she took it off and sat it aside, then sat at the counter in an unconscious posture of dejection. In the living room, Bill Gates pumped his fist and cheered. She worked really hard to make this perfect...and it was all for nothing.

That made her very and inexplicably sad.

After Bill and Will left, Mark came into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. "How did it go?" Jessy asked, her voice cracking.

"He said this was the best dinner he ever had."

Well...that was reason enough to be happy. "At least he enjoyed himself." She blinked back tears and wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm.

"Yeah, I'll probably get a promotion."

He did...and that made it all better.

For the most part.

* * *

Blake sat on the top porch step with his face in his hands and aching pain in his chest. It was five and gray clouds filled the sky, promising rain and a respite from the heat. He'd been here for nearly an hour thinking of ways to make up for what he did to Jordan, but he was fresh out of ideas and beginning to despair. Dad said he should wait, but knowing that Jordan was out there, even now furious with him, made him feel breathless and claustrophobic. Part of him wanted to go over to her house and try to talk to her, but another part was afraid she'd yell at him again and get even madder.

He considered getting up, going inside, and playing a video game, but he tried that already and couldn't concentrate. Sitting still was starting to get to him and nervous energy crackled through him like electricity through a high tension wire. He drew a deep breath of humid air and let it out in a rush.

It was bad enough before, but when Mom got home and he told her, she made it even worse. _Well, she trusted you and you let her down. Her feelings are probably really hurt._

Great. Now I feel awful.

All he could do was wait.

A single raindrop fell on his head like a tear, and he squinted up into the sky, another one landing on his forehead. He caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and turned just as Jordan sat heavily next to him, her knees together and the corners of her lips turned down in a tight frown. Dark vibes rolled off of her in choking waves; Blake's stomach twisted and he looked hurriedly away, her presence palpable and her sullen form filling his periphery.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The rain picked up, turning to a light sprinkle and a cooling wind blew from the west, rustling the trees and stirring an American flag jutting from a porch across the street. "How was your weekend?" Jordan finally asked through her teeth.

"Uh...g-good," Blake replied, perplexed by her question. "I-I went to the beach." He paused. "I thought you weren't talking to me."

Jordan inhaled, nostrils flaring, then exhaled, her little shoulders lifting and falling like the ebb and flow of the tide. "It's evening now," said sourly.

Oh. Well...she _did_ say she wasn't talking to him for the rest of the afternoon. He assumed she meant to say _the rest of afternoons,_ as in, forever. He looked down at his feet and bit his bottom lip, searching for something to say but afraid to jeopardize their fragile peace. "I'm really sorry for killing your Tamagotchi," he said. "I'm dumb and stupid, okay? I sat it down on the counter and forgot about it. If you wanna be mad at me, that's okay. I deserve it."

The words hung heavy in the sodden air between them. Thunder rumbled lowly in the distance and more rain fell, dampening Blake's head and shoulders. Jordan stared off at the street, the wheels and cogs visibly turning in her head as she weighed his apology. He watched her with needling anticipation, his breath bated and his eyes brimming with hope.

"I'm not mad," she said, "in fact...I'm kind of glad I get to raise a new one. That's the funnest part." She looked at him, and the doleful look in her eyes quelled his rising joy. "I'm just really disappointed. I trusted you to take care of him and you didn't." The wounded accusation in her voice stuck in the pit of his stomach like a knife, and he reflexively swallowed.

"I know," he sighed, "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to do it."

Jordan regarded him with a sad frown and hurt eyes. A gust of wind rustled her hair and she flicked her gaze to her lap. "It's okay," she mumbled resignedly, and the tone of her voice - _what else should I have expected?_ \- cut him deeply.

"No it's not," he said and looked down at his feet, "I was a dillweed and screwed up. It -" he cut himself off, suddenly afraid of making a promise he couldn't keep. _It won't happen again,_ he meant to say, but it probably would - he was a dumb fatboy and selfish crybaby, and they mess things up all the time. But wasn't that reason to not mess things up? He sucked in lots of ways but Jordan was his friend anyway; if he needed help, she gave it to him, and if she could do anything to make him feel better when he was sad or mad, she would without a second thought. That's a real friend - everyone else was just fair weather. They were cool to play with, but when you needed them, you find that they don't need you. Jordan, for all her flaws and bad habits, meant a lot to him, and if he wasn't willing to make a sacred vow to her...then he wasn't really her friend at all. "It won't happen again," he said solemnly.

He looked up at her, and their eyes met and held. She searched him for traces of deceit, and allowed a wan, closed-lipped smile when she saw how much he meant it. "Okay," she said, "I believe you."

Holding her gaze, Blake leaned slightly forward, licked his lips...and stuck out his hand. Jordan took it without question and gave it a hearty shake. "Friends?" Blake asked.

"Friends," Jordan swore.

* * *

Lincoln stood over the tool bench in the garage with his hands on his hips and scanned the spreading pile of junk he'd pulled out since launching Operation Clean-This-Shithole-Up. Hammer handles with no heads, broken shears, odds and ends in a battered coffee can marked GOOD 3/15/78, and a box of records he found buried under a pile of soiled rags and dust. At first he couldn't remember where the hell they came from, then it hit him: Robert, his old cook, gave them to him when he moved to California. He played one for Alex once but it was filled with cussing and sex talk so he put it back and...he cocked his head to one side in thought. Apparently he put them back in the garage instead of throwing them away like he should have. The box was starting to rot and the album sleeves were all yellowed, faded, and tattered in places. How long had they been there? He did a few mental equations and arrived at twenty-five years.

Hm.

Too late to list them in the paper.

A long, low _vroom,_ like the sickly purr of a big, dying cat sounded next door, and Lincoln's jaw clenched. Chandler the Amazing Boy Who Never Left Home was at it again, fixing the Loser Cruiser for a night on the town. I oughta put sugar in his gas tank again; looks like you're taking the bus, asshole.

Sighing, Lincoln turned from the table and went to the open roll top door. The sky was leaden with patches of black, and a cool wind made the trees along Cleveland sway with a hissing whisper. Chandler, shirtless, was balls deep in the engine block of his car, the windows down and the radio on. Chandler's girlfriend stood next to him, her hand rubbing a slow, suggestive circle in the small of his back. A bleach blonde bimbo whose pudgy fat spilled over the waistband of her microshorts, she reminded Lincoln of that country singer...the one who looks like a tramp...only less talented and far sluttier. Lincoln turned to go back into the garage, but stopped when his eyes fell on Benson; he lay flat in the grass on Chandler's side of the lawn, watching Lincoln with melancholy eyes. His back rapidly rose and fell as he panted for air and foam crusted his closed mouth.

He looked old, tired...and sick.

The same way Lincoln _felt._

"Hey," Lincoln called, but Chandler didn't hear him over his girlfriend's braying laughter. She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward the front door, a wicked grin on her chapped, pink lips. "Hey, asshole, there's something wrong with your dog."

But Chandler was already gone.

Benson shifted and seemed to wince as if at the pain of old bones. He panted harder, rattling like a coffee pot, and darted his eyes down in a display of shame and agony that was too human for Lincoln's liking. Yeah, there was something wrong with him alright.

In a flash, all the dog shit he'd stepped in over the past five years and all the roses, holiday decorations, and newspapers that wound up mysteriously strewn across the yard came back to him. He had half a mind to leave the bastard, but his feet were already carrying him to the animal's side. Lincoln stood over him, arms dangling. Benson looked miserably up, then down again. "What's the matter?" Lincoln asked. "Your conscious finally catching up with you?"

That was supposed to lighten the mood, but the pitiable whine Benson emitted made his frown deepen. Lincoln dropped to one knee and tentatively laid his hand on the dog's hide. Benson watched warily, steeling himself for a double cross. "What's wrong, boy?" Lincoln asked soberly. "Are you sick?"

The dog sneezed its answer, then whined again. Lincoln had no idea how old Benson was, but if he had to guess, he'd say _ready to kick the bucket._ He barely moved anymore, and when he did it was with arteritic sluggishness. His fur was faded and missing in spots, and he coughed these days instead of barked. Not that long ago, Benson was the bane of Lincoln's existence, now he barely even saw the creature.

Something in Lincoln's back popped and he grimaced. Sitting stiffly next to the dog with a pained grunt, he gave its back an awkward pat. Benson watched him from the corner of his eye, still unsure of Lincoln's intentions - they'd been enemies for years, locked in a neverending battle of the wits that often saw dog besting man. Lincoln yelled at him, cussed him out, and threw things at him (that's how his #1 Dad coffee mug was lost)...why was he being nice to him now?

The music coming from the radio petered out and a newscast came on. " _Police in Elk Park have made an arrest in connection with the Route 29 Stalker case. 33-year-old Jason Massey was arrested at his home this morning after a two week investigation turned up what Sheriff Lewis Creed calls a 'wealth of evidence.'"_

Lincoln stroked the dog's back and stared across the lawn at the house he'd shared with Ronnie Anne for the past twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years that he loved and relished no matter how much he groused. The other night, Blake asked him about the war. _I went in a boy and came out a man,_ Lincoln proudly proclaimed. _No,_ Ronnie Anne said, _you came out a whiner. You haven't stopped complaining since_. He waved her off, but in a way, she was right. He'd been the way he was for so long that he forgot he was someone else once...a different man changed irrevocably by war.

The newscast ended and the music started again, mournful and sad like a funeral dirge. Lincoln reached the spot behind Benson's ear, and the dog shivered slightly.

 _So long ago, I don't remember when  
That's when they say I lost my only friend  
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease  
As I listened through the cemetery trees_

He'd long known he wasn't the same man he was on the other side of Vietnam, but only when he stopped to think about it did he realize just how dramatic the change was. Before he went over there, he was a carefree kid. After, he was heavy and battle-weary, weighed down by the things he did and the things the VC did to him.

It wasn't that bad...they hit him and made him eat maggots...so what? Why couldn't he get over it? Why did it affect him even thirty years later? Why couldn't he let go and be the boy he was in 1966 again?

 _I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn  
The long broken arm of human law  
Now it always seemed such a waste, she always had a pretty face  
So I wondered how she hung around this place_

Because that boy was dead. He died that day in May 1967, and this Lincoln, the new one, took his place. This Lincoln was jaded, cynical, and aged. Just like Benson. "We're not that different," he said and scratched the dog's head. "Victims of circumstance. Your master's taught you to shit in my yard and mine taught me to kill or be killed." He chuckled harshly at that. "It's not your fault."

 _She said it's cold  
It feels like Independence Day  
And I can't break away from this parade_

Raindrops splattered Lincoln's head, and thunder rolled away in the west. The Devil beating his wife again.

Benson ponderously lifted his head and rested it on Lincoln's knee. Their eyes locked, and in that moment, each forgave the past misdeeds of the other. They'd been at war for half a decade, but the fighting was over, peace had been made, and old enemies were now new friends.

 _And I seen the sun up ahead at the county line bridge  
Sayin' all there's good and nothingness is dead_

Memories flooded over Lincoln, and he smirked like a young boy recalling a lewd joke he heard on the playground. Four Christmases ago, coming outside to find Benson shaking the inflatable Santa in his maw; two Halloweens before (maybe three), Benson jumping up to rip one of Ronnie Anne's patent shopping bag ghosts from the tree; a few Januaries back, slipping on the frozen walkway and elbowing a fresh pile of poo. "You got me good," he told the dying animal, "and no matter what I said, I've always kind of liked you."

Benson sneezed as if to say _thank you. I liked you too, Linc._

 _I'm so alone and I feel just like somebody else  
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same  
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams  
I think of death, it must be killin' me _

A tremor went through Benson's body, his side expanding and contracting quickly. A rusty wheeze burst from his working throat and panic filled his eyes. His legs twitched and he tried to shift, to get away from the coming night, but his body was heavy, his breathing labored and shallow. He whined again, a gut-wrenching plea for salvation, and Lincoln tenderly brushed his head. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm right here."

 _Come on, try a little  
Nothing is forever  
There's got to be something better than  
In the middle_

The dog's trembling stilled and its breathing faded as the life drained from its ancient frame. Its back legs kicked, as though it were dreaming of chasing rabbits through summer fields, and it tried to toss its head. Lincoln held it in place and grazed his nails across its head, giving it as much comfort as he could. Life is a journey and can be taken in company - friends, spouses, children - but death is a trek well all must make alone. Benson was even now crossing that divide, and while Lincoln couldn't go with him, he would see him off. Irrationally, he found himself hoping that his pats and affection would sustain the dog until it got where it was going.

 _But me and Cinderella  
We put it all together  
We can drive it home  
With one headlight_

"I'm here," he repeated as the dog went gradually limp, "you're not alone."

With a rattle and one last shudder, Benson gave in and bounded across the border between this world and the next.

For a long time, Lincoln sat in the intensifying rain and stroked the dog's wet fur. At some point, he got, went back into the garage, and finished what he was doing. Death happens, but life goes on.

Life _always_ goes on, for like time itself, it waits for no man.

Or dog.

Outside, the rain picked up, and the heatwave, as all things eventually do, passed forever away.


	193. October 1997: Part 1

**DreadedCandiru2: I have a question for you. Long ago, you said that Alex was the worst traits of both her parents crammed into a denim jacket. Has your opinion of her improved at all?**

 **Guest: I remember one time when I was a kid, my grandparents were watching** _ **Jeopardy!**_ **The clue mentioned Menlo Park, and the answer was "Thomas Edison." I blurted it out and they were both impressed. "How'd you know** _ **that**_ **, Little Flagg?" "The Simpsons." There was an episode where Homer became obsessed with Thomas Edison. One thing I hope this story can accomplish is to teach people random bits of information. Like, if at least one person can do what I did and answer a trivia question because "Oh, I read this in a Flagg story," I'll be happy and feel like I've done something with my life.**

 **EmmsMarieRIPFFVN02: Bro, that chicken was pink in the middle and drizzled in Dollar Tree BBQ sauce, shut up.**

As a rule of thumb, females are smaller than males. You can make all the feminist arguments you want for equality, and you'd probably be right (girls deserve the same pay as boys for doing the same job, etc), but you can't change biology. 99 percent of the women Alex had known in her life were lighter and less muscular than guys, Lana was an exception, but there are exceptions to every rule. Why, you might ask, was she thinking along these lines? Because Zoe Sophia Underwood was _heavy._ Far heavier than Blake was at eight months along. Standing up was hard, moving was hard, and laying on her back was impossible, because when she did, oof, you're crushing me, kid. Some days, Alex wondered if there was really only one baby in there, but every ultrasound showed just the one - a big one, too. Pushing her out was _not_ going to be fun.

Neither was getting out of bed. On the morning of October 28, she lay on her side and stared at the alarm clock on the nightstand, its digital face glowing red. 9:58. Wow. It's really late. I gotta get up.

There was no reason to be up since she was on leave from work, but come on, who lays in bed all day? Maybe her when she was a dumb teenager, but now she was an adult, and after years of being one, she had grown used to keeping an active schedule. Up until last week, she rose every day at 6am for work, and if she slept later on the weekends, she felt all out of sorts. What, 8 in the morning? Aw, man, the day's practically half over!

Actually, what am _I_ talking about? There _is_ a reason to get up. Jessy!

Jessy, Little Miss Move-Across-The-Country, was flying in from Seattle this afternoon. Alex hadn't seen her since Christmas, and was really excited….like, giddy, jumping, peeing in her pants excited. She adjusted to life without her sister, but there were still times she'd see something that reminded her of her, and she'd suddenly (and briefly) get depressed. That happened a lot sometimes because Royal Woods was _full_ of Jessy related memories. She couldn't pass the park, the ice cream shop, the arcade, or anywhere else without thinking about her. For the longest time, it was her and Jess against the world, two sisters united, then dumb Tim came along and ruined everything, and dumb Mark was the final nail in the coffin. _I have an idea, how about we move 20,000 miles away, Jessica? That way I can work for Bill GAAAAAAAAAAAtes._

Just kidding, she was really happy for them. She just wished she got a little more Jessy time. Like she always said: Everything's better with a Jessy.

Sighing, she ran her fingers through her messy hair and blew a puff of air. Alright, now for the fun part. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her back screamed and she nearly toppled over like a defective weeble wobble that _did_ fall down. She planted her feet on the floor, far apart to accommodate her massive stomach, and waited for the sloshing in her midsection to stop. The baby gave an outraged kick and Alex grimaced. "You're making this pregnancy much more difficult than it has to be, little girl."

Zoe kicked again. _Screw you, Mom._

Oh, she's gonna be a feisty one. Alex foresaw lots of confrontation in their future. Blake grumbled about things but wound up doing them anyway, albeit begrudgingly. Zoe, on the other hand, would probably skulk, talk back, and have to be forced on pain of death or lengthy imprisonment.

"I'm gonna take you back to the baby store," Alex said emptily as she got shakily to her feet. Zoe didn't have a reply to that, and Alex liked to think her threat worked. I wouldn't really take you back, but I might demand a discount on my next purchase.

Pressing her hand to her achy lower back, she shuffled into the kitchen. Murky light bathed the living room in ashen hues, and rain sluiced down the window panes in silvery rivulets. Over the summer, Royal Woods was gripped by a seemingly endless heatwave. Now, it was at the mercy of a freaking rain-wave. Seriously, it had been raining almost non stop for three days, and the Royal River was close to spilling over its banks. The ground was completely saturated and big puddles stood here and there like duck ponds in a park. The weatherman on Channel 2 said a low pressure system had stalled over the region and wouldn't be out until the weekend, which sucked because that meant Halloween was going to be a washout. There would be a party at Marshall Manor like every year, but that wasn't the same. Blake loved going house to house in his costume and Alex loved watching (and snapping lots of pictures). Can't do that in an apocalyptic downpour.

At the fridge, she grabbed a can of Coke and carried it into the living room, where she lowered herself slowly and ponderously onto the couch. Her knees buckled and gave out, and she dropped the final six inches. Pain shot up her spine and she sucked a sharp intake of breath through her teeth, then shot it back out in the form of a long, broken, "Ahhhhhh."

She waited for the throbbing in her back to subside, then popped the tab and took a long, thirsty drink. "I can't wait for you to come out," she said and sat the can on the coffee table. "So I can hold you, and play with you, and not be in misery 24/7."

Zoe shifted positions as if to get away from the braying sound of Alex's voice.

Snatching the remote, Alex steeled herself for another burst of discomfort, then stretched out on her side. She turned the TV on and sat the remote on the floor, then crossed her arms and snuggled her butt deeper into the couch.

There.

Why lay in bed all day like a moody teenager when you can lay on the couch all day like a big girl?

Zoe kicked, and Alex let out a groan. "Come on, can't I have five minutes of peace? Please?"

The baby responded with another kick, this one much harder than the first. Alex squeezed her eyes closed and patted her stomach in a vain attempt to calm the little monster within. The closer her November 7th due date drew, the more active Zoe had become, almost like she was throwing herself a personal farewell party for one. _See ya, womb; aidaos, umbilical cord; sayonara, uterus; I'm bustin' outta here._

Yeah, but not soon enough.

She shifted, and without warning, something wet, sticky, and warm gushed from between her legs.

Uh oh, did Zoe kick my bladder and make me pee myself again? She slipped her hand down the front of her shorts, then brought her fingertips to her nose.

Nope.

It wasn't pee.

It was amniotic fluid.

 _Not soon enough, huh, Mom? We'll see about_ that.

"Well, _I_ spoke too soon," she said, feeling really dumb. Heaving a sigh, she pushed up, swung her legs over the edge, and shivered as more fluid trickled down her legs. A few times over the past couple months, Zoe kicked her bladder at just the wrong moment and it released, no questions asked, as though she, and not Alex, was in charge. That's what this felt like, only it wasn't stopping. At the peak of pregnancy - about 35 weeks - a woman can expect to lug around a full quart of amniotic fluid...the stuff your baby floats around in. Alex was thirty-nine weeks, the home stretch. Since amniotic fluid starts to decrease after thirty-five weeks, she was probably carrying less than a quart. Whatever the amount, though, it was a lot, and just...kept...coming. Back in the old days, before she had Blake and became _kiiind_ of an expert on the birthing process, she would have freaked. _Oh no, all the fluid's coming out! My baby! Nooooo! Hurry!_ Now, her biggest worry was tracking it through the house on her way to the phone.

She waited for as much of it to drain as possible, shivering at the sensation of it sliding down her legs, then got stiffly to her feet. She felt no pain, no pressure, nothing except hunger. She didn't even get to eat breakfast yet, pout.

"You picked a really bad time to do this, Zoe Sophia," Alex chided as she waddled into the kitchen. "Mommy can't even have her breakfast. How can I deliver a baby on an empty stomach?" She crossed to the microwave and picked up the phone sitting on top. Actually, she was glad she didn't eat beforehand. She was _terrified_ of pushing something other than a baby out, if you know what I'm saying.

Poop. She was afraid of pooping herself. With all that grunting and straining, you stood a good chance of dropping a bomb if you weren't careful. It happened to women all the time, and maybe she was strange, but the prospect of taking a big 'ol steamer in front of a bunch of doctors and nurses during what is supposed to be the most beautiful moment of your life disturbed her. The abiding shame and humiliation of loosening your bowels in such an undignified manner would forever besmirch the memory of bringing your little boy or girl into the world. Furthermore...eh, she had nothing. She just felt like talking smart and wanted to keep it going.

Seriously, though, skipping breakfast was probably a blessing in disguise.

Brushing her hair away, she pressed the handset to her ear and dialed. Zoe kicked, and she patted her stomach. "Hold your horses. We gotta call your daddy first. He _might_ wanna know about this."

The line clicked, and a woman's voice answered. "Underwood Auto Body, how can I help you?"

"Hey, Jeanette, it's Alex. Is Tim there?"

Jeanette, who replaced the last receptionist two years ago, was Alex's kind of people. One day, when Alex dropped Tim off at work because his truck was broken down (again), Jeanette pulled up with her car windows down and Aerosmith blasting from the radio. Oooh, Alex thought, a fellow traveler. She went over, and they talked shop for a good half hour before Alex realized she was running later than David Letterman. Jeanette was okay - she'd be _cool_ but Alex had to deduct points because she thought Sammy Hagar was a better frontman than David Lee Roth. Can you believe that? When Roth was around, Van Halen kicked butt. With Hagar, it just dangled its wrist and said "fabulous" a lot.

Presently, Jeanette hummed. "Uhh...hold on."

Alex crossed one arm over her chest and wedged it under her boobs, taking some of the weight off her back. Breasts, like tummies, swell up during pregnancy. Alex was a solid B-cup before, but now she was verging on D territory. Tim loved it, even though he feigned indifference, but Alex hated it. God, the tension in her back, especially between her shoulder blades, was torture. She'd rather be tied to a chair, blind folded, and tickled until she went crazy than lug these awful things around. How do well endowed women do it? Hers had only been big for two or three months, and her spine was ready to snap in half. Did they exercise? Do Tae-Bo to strengthen their muscles?

The line clicked and Jeanette came back on. "Dave just sent him to McDonald's. I can have him call you when he gets back."

"Alright," Alex said, "my water just broke and I'm going to the hospital so I might not be here when he calls."

Jeanette gasped. "Your water broke? You're going right now, right? You're not waiting? Is there an ambulance on the way?" A note of panic crept into her voice, and Alex couldn't help snickering. You can tell _this_ girl's never had a kid before.

"Everything's fine," she said, "I'm gonna call my mom or dad. Probably my dad. I'm not having contractions yet or anything so...we're good."

After she hung up, she hesitated deciding which parent to call, then dialed the high school. Sorry, Dad, I love you, but a girl in labor needs her mamacita.

That's Spanish for mom.

She thought.

* * *

Jessy stared out the rain slicked window as the plane began its descent over Detroit, her hands resting limply in her lap and her eyes grainy with exhaustion. It was barely 10am and she'd been sitting here almost nonstop since departing Seattle at midnight. She did not sleep, because when she slept sitting up, she always developed a crick in her neck that lasted for days; she remained awake, dividing her time between reading one of the paperback romances she picked up at the airport gift shop and absently rubbing her stomach while gazing out the window. For much of the flight, the world beyond the pane was inky and black, but toward dawn, the sky began to lighten, and dawn spread across the clouds in pallid oranges and pinks so beautiful they stirred her soul.

She was alone save for an old man in the aisle seat. He was fat with a white walrus mustache and reminded her so much of Wilford Brimley that she was tempted several times to ask if he was. Getting past him to go to the bathroom without waking him was tricky; she had to suck her chest in and shimmy by like a woman on a narrow ledge. Mark was hesitant to take time off from work and stayed behind. Jessy missed him dearly, but she understood. She had no idea how long she would be in Royal Woods. Alex was due on the seventh, but that didn't mean Zoe would come then. She could be late. Plus, being so close to Thanksgiving, she was seriously considering staying, then flying back at the end of the month. She wasn't sure, though. Maybe.

Fifty miles out, the clouds thickened and blocked the sun. There was turbulence and the plane shuddered. Jessy's heartbeat sped up and her fingers dug into the armrests, but she didn't have a panic attack...for which she was grateful. Flying didn't bother her, but there was always the knowledge, buried deep in the back of her mind, that if something went wrong, she was doomed. Studies show that air travel is far safer than driving, but if there _is_ a major malfunction, well, you don't have much hope of walking away. That thought didn't usually weigh heavy on her mind, but this time was different, and every tremble that ran through the fuselage tightened the steel band circling her chest until she could hardly breathe.

Presently, the low, grimy buildings comprising Detroit's industrial section loomed through the clouds, dark and huddled along narrow streets bustling with activity like a network of anthills. The Detroit River, a slender channel of gray, churning water separating Detroit from Canada, appeared directly below, and slightly to the north, five lanes of I-75 crammed with morning traffic cleaved midtown in half, putting her in mind of major arteries running through a body. She didn't know the city very well, but she recognized the skyline, and a sense of coming home swirled through her like warm, gentle winds. She drew a deep, contented sigh and rested one hand on her stomach.

The captain's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, informing the passengers that the plane was beginning it's final descent and asking them to fasten their seatbelts. Jessy didn't have to. She was already wearing hers.

A stewardess in a blue skirt and blouse combo went down the aisle and disappeared, and Maybe-Wilford-Brimley pulled his harness tight across his lap.

With a jolt and a squeal of tires, the plane set down on the runway, its speed slowing by degrees until it drew gradually abreast of the terminal. After a few minutes, the plane docked, and everyone got up and grabbed their bags. The old man pushed to his feet with a weary sigh, winced at the popping in his knees, and fell in behind a black woman holding a baby. Jessy stood, twisted around, and opened the overhead compartment. She took out her carry-on and slipped into the aisle behind a man in a business suit. The line filed to the door, where a different stewardess nodded and thanked them for flying TWA.

Jessy slipped her arm through the strap, hefted the bag onto her shoulder, and followed the others through the jetway to the terminal. She packed a lot and it was heavy enough that her back started to ache almost instantaneously. Would that hurt her? She wasn't sure, but figured she was being overcautious. That happens when one finds themselves in a new and uncertain position. She doubted a little bit of clothes in a gym bag would cause any problems, though anything was possible.

In the terminal, she stopped and looked around. A waiting room sat on her left, big windows looking out over the runway, and a bank of payphones lined the wall ahead. A man in a leather jacket and sunglasses talked into one, his hand gesturing wildly, and Jessy got the impression he was high on drugs. She didn't know why, but she instantly didn't like him, and laid her hand protectively on her stomach.

She spotted her mother standing by the bathroom in tan slacks and a forest green sweater, and a warm smile crossed her lips. Mom wore her graying hair in a ponytail and a gazed through the window at the tarmac below, a contemplative expression on her lined face, as though she were fastidiously meditating on the meaning of life.

For the first fifteen years of Jessy's life, Mom was a distant figure whose biological relationship to her, while known and understood, admittedly meant very little. Her mother was always Auntie Ronnie Anne and to this day, she was far closer to her than she was to Mom. Even so, Jessy had come to love Luan fiercely, and seeing her after what felt like forever filled her with bubbling happiness. She started over, and Mom glanced at her; her face lit up and her lips widened in a sunny smile. She pushed away from the wall, and they met in the middle. Mom wrapped her arms around her and Jessy did likewise. "Hi, honey," Mom said and rocked her back and forth.

"Hi, Mom," Jessy said and giggled, "you're gonna knock me over."

Mom held her at arm's length and reached out to smooth Jessy's hair. "I missed you. How was the flight?"

"Long," Jessy said, "and cramped too."

"That's air travel for you. They cram as many people into those things as they can for profit." She spoke the last word with a faint disdain that still lingered from the sixties like ancient odor in a closed space. Jessy did not share her mother's more radical views - at least the views she held as a young woman - but she agreed with many of her current opinions, such as unchecked capitalism being detrimental to human and workers rights. Too many people in business and government care only about profit and completely disregard the safety and wellbeing of society in the pursuit of the almighty dollar. Corporations acted like gangsters on the mean streets of the free market, and the government was a prostitute batting its eyes and enticing them to come spend their ill gotten gains.

Jessy believed that there was nothing wrong with succeeding and making money, but that the rich should give back to the community through higher taxes. A man like Bill Gates could afford to shoulder a larger portion of the burden. And so, too, for that matter, could she and Mark. She did not, however, believe in communism the way her mother had. Unfettered communism is just as destructive as unfettered capitalism. To paraphrase Winston Churchill: Capitalism is man exploiting man, communism is the opposite. History demonstrated that pure, unadulterated ideology leads to prison camps, mass graves, and economic hardships. It happens under both far right and far left regimes. The only real difference, as far as she could tell, was the belief system the gunman labored under as he carried out his executions. Some people killed in the name of profit, others in the name of God, and others still in the name of Marx.

Two years ago, an anti government radical blew up a federal building in Oklahoma City. Jessy remembered the horrible images of bloodied faces, rubble strewn streets, and blasted concrete well. Twenty-seven years ago, her mother and father did something similar to a courthouse in Oakland, California. They both told her that they did not mean for anyone to get hurt and she believed them, but common sense dictates that a bomb in public could very well maim or even kill someone. Jessy forgave them, but she could not pretend that their aims were any different than the man who destroyed that building in Oklahoma. They weren't. The political spectrum, they tell us, is a straight line, but Jessy saw it as a horseshoe, with communism and Nazism on opposite ends, but still on the same level.

None of that mattered right now, though. Whatever her mother did in the past, and however their relationship suffered, Jessy was genuinely happy to see her, and hugging her felt really good.

In the car, Mom drove with her hands at ten and two, her eyes trained at the road ahead. Jessy gazed out the window at the depressed neighborhoods below the raised interstate, brooding buildings and vacant, overgrown lots fronting cracked and rutted side streets. Music whispered from the speakers, and the hum of the tires lulled her. "How're things in Seattle?" Mom asked.

"Good," Jessy said, "Mark's working on a secret project he can't talk about but he says it's big. It rains a lot." She searched for something else to say, but there was nothing; she enjoyed her life, but it wasn't very interesting. She kept house, shopped, had lunch in the city, went to yoga classes, and, every once in a while, she and Mark played tennis with one of his coworkers and his wife. All in all, her existence was boring, but _she_ was happy with it.

She said as much, and Mom smiled wistfully. "There's nothing wrong with that. Boring can be a good thing. Are you planning on going back to work?"

Jessy confided in her over the phone that she and Mark were having trouble getting pregnant and that she was considering giving up and looking for a teaching job. Their plan when they moved to Seattle was to have a baby and for Jessy to find work later. If she wanted. Mark's income was enough to support them and he said she could stay home. She probably would at least until their son or daughter was in school.

"No," she said simply, "not yet."

"It's up to you," Mom replied, "I can't stand staying home. I'm not a very good housewife."

For a while after grandma died, Mom volunteered at the library, the homeless shelter, and the community center in Elk Park. She and Fred had enough money from Auntie Luna's estate that neither one had to work, but neither one liked being inactive. Fred stayed at Flip's even though he was pushing sixty-five and Mom worked three days a week as a receptionist at the social justice center in Chippewa Falls. Mom told her about her attempts to get pregnant before grandma got sick, and Jessy felt awful that it never happened. In a way, she feared she would wind up like her: Lost, presiding over an empty nest, and filling her life with meaningless busy work to distract herself from how incomplete she was. She also regretted not being a better daughter. For her, Mom was more of a strange, spinster aunt than a mother, and while she tried hard to build a deeper relationship with Mom, she kind of failed. _Sorry, Luan, the position is already taken, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere._

She understood Mom's reasoning for wanting another child and respected it. She may have been hurt when she was younger, but not know, for she was intimately familiar with the tight, clawing panic that a woman feels at the prospect of being robbed of her biological purpose - to bear, love, and nurture new life.

"I'm not the best either," Jessy commiserated, "sometimes I burn dinner."

They both laughed.

For a while, they rode in silence, Jessy dazing and rubbing slow, soothing circles in her stomach. The rain picked up the closer they got to Royal Woods. The windshield wipers squeaked across the glass and Mom turned the radio up to drown them out. "This rain is awful," she said, raising her voice to be heard, "it hasn't stopped in days."

"I hardly even noticed," she said, "it _always_ rains in Seattle."

On average, rain fell in Seattle 150 days a year, the default forecast being cloudy with a light, persistent drizzle. She wasn't enamored of it when she and Mark first moved there, but over time it grew on her. A year ago she ached for the sun, now when she woke in the morning and glimpsed its light falling through the curtains, she rolled her eyes _Oh great, that big dumb death ray in the sky is back._

"You do look a little pale," Mom worried.

A sly smile touched Jessy's lips and she glanced at her mother. "I'm not glowing?" she asked, unable to help herself.

Mom turned, knitted her brow, and scrutinized her for a moment. "Just a little pale. Not much."

Well, her complexion couldn't be helped. She might look a little peaked, but she was 100 percent healthy; she was just at the doctor's last week and he pronounced her _fit as a fiddle._ She elected to take vitamin supplements anyway. Your health can never be _too_ good, after all.

"Maybe I should go to a tanning salon," she said in jest.

"No," Mom said quickly, "those things give people cancer all the time." Her lips twisted into a bitter frown and she shook her head. "I don't know why they're not against the law. They really should be." Her nostrils flared indignantly, and for the most fleeing of instants, Jessy saw the ghost of the woman her mother was thirty years ago: Passionate, determined, and disgusted with the injustice around her. She thought Mom's younger self misguided, but she never for a moment questioned the purity of her intentions. She longed for a better world, but like many before her - many who were admittedly far more intelligent and world wise than a twenty-five year old college girl from rural Michigan - she fell into the trap of consequentialism, the philosophy that promotes the idea that the ends justify the means. In other words, if an outcome is morally important enough, immoral actions are acceptable in pursuit of it.

On its face, that ideology, while unpleasant, made a terrible sort of sense, but when you look deeper, you realize that by that token, something worth killing to establish is worth killing to maintain - all threats to your communist or fascist utopia must be mercilessly stomped out to protect it. That is how you wind up with death squads, labor camps, and laws against freedom of speech, expression, and the press. Oftentimes, a dictator's worst enemy is not the opposition, or the people, or even themselves.

Their worst enemy is the truth.

Mom didn't have the foresight to comprehend that at the time. Jessy liked to think that she herself would, but if she found herself caught up in the zeitgeist of the moment, she may be just as blinded as Mom was in the sixties.

Turning away from her mother with a flash of sadness, she pressed her hand to her stomach as though to shield it from the zealot her mother once was.

"What you need is sunlight," Mom said. "You can always divorce Mark and move back here." She winked to show she was joking, and Jessy forced a smile.

"Mark _is_ my sunlight," she said dreamily.

Mom glanced at her with a soft smile as if to say _awww._ "How is he?"

"Good," Jessy said, "he says Bill Gates wants to put him in charge of his own development team by the end of the year."

Mark wasn't at liberty to discuss his work, and Jessy respected that. If she really wanted to know, she was certain she could press him into sharing with her. She never would, though; he took his oath of secrecy _very_ seriously, and Jessy admire that about him. She had loved him for a long time - she wouldn't have married him if she didn't - but lately, her feelings had deepened in a strange and unexpected way. The bond between them was stronger now - unbreakable - and Jessy felt more tender and loving toward him than ever.

"Oh, honey, that's so wonderful," Mom said. "I'm so proud of you guys."

"I'm really proud of us too," Jessy declared.

Shortly, they crossed into town over the rain swollen Royal River. The familiar sign (ROYAL WOODS in gold on a brown wooden background) kindled feelings of warm sentimentality in Jessy's breast and the village's mist shrouded profile - church steeples, the water tower - sent pangs of loss through her stomach. The trees lining the road fell away, and all the old buildings Jessy knew so well closed in. The Methodist church, the VFW hall (old men sitting out front and playing checkers in the drizzle), the Texaco station on the corner. Dull nostalgia throbbed in the center of Jessy's chest and she drew a heavy breath. Looking at her hometown from the passenger seat of her mother's car was like reliving a fond memory, one that she could see, smell, and even taste, but couldn't quite touch. This place was no longer her home, no longer her life - it was a picture on the mantle, and the realization that it always would be filled her with melancholia.

"It looks the same," Jessy heard herself mumble, as though she expected everything to have fundamentally changed in the ten months since she last laid eyes on it.

Mom hummed in understanding. "It always does. It's comforting. If I squint, I can almost see 1960."

"I see 1980," Jessy said, then grinned, "and Bunny getting me kicked out of my favorite store."

Mom laughed. Jessy told her the story at some point. "She's _big_."

"Is she?" Jessy asked. "She was pretty big with Blake."

They were on Main Street now. Quaint storefronts, tree lined sidewalks, and slanted parking spaces that looked like they belonged in a Rockwell painting glistened in the rain. The arcade was ahead on the left, and Jessy craned her neck to see it as they passed. "She's even bigger this time," Mom said and laughed, "I told her she's carrying a litter and she went white as a ghost. She said _I like babies, but not_ that _much._ " She laughed again. "She's excited to see you."

"I'm excited to see her too," Jessy said. She missed Alex probably more than she missed anyone, Mom, Auntie Ronnie Anne, and Uncle Lincoln included. All through her childhood, Alex was her constant companion, her rock, and sometimes, even as a grown woman as self-assured as she would ever be, she felt her loss as a sharp ache in the middle of her heart.

Life is about moving on, however. Alex couldn't hold her hand forever, and in the end, Jessy didn't want her to.

Flip's appeared on the left, and Mom changed lanes. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, I could eat," Jessy said.

Mom put on the blinker, slowed, and pulled into the parking lot. Jessy looked for Uncle Lincoln's car but didn't see it. Not that she saw _any_ cars other than Fred's pick-up; through the front windows, the dining room stood as empty as a tomb on resurrection day, as Grandma used to say. The glowing red OPEN sign next to the door was the only proof that it wasn't bankrupt and closed. Mom guided the car into a slot facing the window and killed the engine. "I don't know why your uncle hangs onto this place," Mom said, "no one ever comes here."

"It means a lot to him," Jessy said, "he won't admit it, but it does."

"I'd hate to see it close," Mom admitted, "but I just don't know if it's worth the time and effort anymore." She threw open the door and got out.

Jessy followed suit. "You can't really put a value on something like that," she said, looking up at the restaurant. Uncle Lincoln wasn't the only one sentimental over it. He'd owned it her entire life, and though it was really cheesy, Flip's was part of the family, at least as much as the house on Cleveland Street. She and Alex spent a lot of time in that diner growing up - eating, hanging out, and playing Pac-Man until their eyes were grainy and the constant waka-waka-waka rang through their heads. Her very first job, as well as Alex's, was waiting tables here; Flip's was a big part of her childhood and the thought of Uncle Lincoln giving it up stoked dread in the pit of her stomach.

"True," Mom said and slammed the door, "I just don't want him to lose his shirt over it."

Well...neither did Jessy. She doubted he'd let it drag him down - if it was going to sink, he'd let go - but she really hoped that didn't happen.

She and Mom went to the front door and Mom pulled it open; the overhead bell dinged, and if Jessy didn't know any better, she'd say the sound echoed. A single, bored looking waitress sat at the counter with her chin resting in her hand. A tuft of red hair spilled over her broad forehead, and she blew a puff of air that rustled but did not move it. She glanced apathetically at Luan and Jessy, her eyes dull. She was clearly a woman who just didn't care anymore. "Hey, Becky," Mom said.

"Hey," Becky muttered and looked away. Uncle Lincoln wasn't at his customary spot behind the register

Mom went around the counter and to the window, where she pushed up on her tippy toes to see over. Jessy crossed to the counter, took off her coat, and draped it over one of the stools, then sat on another. Becky made no effort to get up and take her order, or even to look busy; she went on staring into space and fighting to keep her eyelids open. Jessy looked around to confirm to herself that the dining room was indeed deserted, and frowned when she saw that it was. She didn't understand why Uncle Lincoln was losing business like this. Flip's was an institution in Royal Woods and had been for decades. Granted, there were more fast food restaurants than there were twenty years ago, the mean average income in the area had been dropping for years, and the parts of town weren't the best anymore, but was that really enough to turn a once bustling eatery into the pitiful shell it was today? She glanced over her shoulder and through the rain slicked window as though an answer would present itself, but none did.

At the window, Mom talked to Fred, and Jessy only heard her mother's side of the conversation because Fred spoke so softly. "He did? Oh, she _is?_ Now?" Jessy strained to listen, then drew instinctively back when her mother turned. Hers and Jessy's eyes met, and she flashed a quick smile. "Change of plans," she said, her voice lifting. "We're going to the hospital."

Jessy's heart missed a beat. "Why?" she asked.

"Alex is having her baby."

Oh. Jessy relaxed; for a second there, she thought one of her family members was hurt or even dead. Hahaha. "Talk about good timing," she said as she got to her feet, then frowned slightly. "I was hoping to rub Bunny's big baby belly, though."

"Well, if we hurry, maybe you can get one last pat in beforehand," Mom suggested.

Jessy was already putting on her coat. "Let's roll," she said.


	194. October 1997: Part 2

**EmmsMarieRIPFFVN02: It was 'ight.**

 **Valtek: I've been trying to take Alex in a different direction for a while now, but she's stubborn. What she needs is eight months in a bamboo cage. I'm kind of curious, though, since you said you don't like Lincoln and this story has been mostly Lincoln's. What keeps you coming back?**

 **Also of note, I have just started the last story arc of Reeling in the Years. I'm past the year 2000 and the end is within sight. I'm pretty excited. Once I finish the last chapter, I will post every other day, like I do with my other stuff, until it's over. Hopefully that will be in the next month or so.**

When Alex had Blake, Royal Woods Hospital did not let men in the birthing room during delivery - they had to wait outside like dogs for their master to finish sipping their latte in a fancy, anti-dog coffee shop. Somewhere between 1990 and 1997, they changed their policy, and now, just past eleven, she sat up in bed, her feet in cold metal stirrups, a cool breeze tickling her unmentionables, and Tim to her left and Mom on her right. Mom sat in a padded geri chair with her hands restively on her lap, and Tim stood, his fingers weaved with Alex's. He wore dirty black coveralls with a zipper on the front and his name over his heart, and clunky brown work boots that left a trail of mud in their wake. Mom was in a dorky purple old lady dress (say that five times fast), her hair pulled back in a crisp, professional bun that said _no running in the halls!_ She looked like she wanted to speak to your manager, then take his place and fire you for not working hard enough.

Alex scraped the inside of the Jello cup with her spoon and sucked the quivering green chunks off with a rude slurping sound. She held it up, checked for any stragglers, then licked it even though it was already clean. "Are you happy now?" Mom asked with a trace of sarcasm.

"Sure am," Alex said. She handed Tim the spoon and container, and he sat them on the nightstand among the others - seven in total. Hey, she was hungry and Tim didn't bring her breakfast. Bad Tim. I'm taking your #1 HUSBAND mug away. Maybe forever.

A nurse came over, bent between Alex's legs, and casually shoved her fore and middle fingers into Alex's vagina. Alex winced, then sucked a sharp breath through her teeth when she felt them prodding her cervix. "Eight centimeters."

Oh, wow, really? That's a lot. The contractions were closer together than they were an hour ago, but she was _kiiiind_ of on drugs, so she didn't feel them as keenly as she did with Blake. Those were like being stabbed by Jason, these were like gentle love taps from Freddy. You know Freddy, right? WIth the claw glove? They kind of hurt, but she was able to bear them in stoic silence and -

Her stomach clenched. Oh, oh, oh, here comes one now. She clutched Tim's hand and bore down with all her might. "Ow, ow, ow," she chanted. Tim ran his fingers comfortingly through her hair and whispered soft words of encouragement. A spasm hit her and she crushed Tim's hand even harder. "Ahhh, shut up, this is your fault," Alex said. She grasped the rail with her free and and and curled her fingers around the metal; it dug into her palm but did little to blot out the pain in her middle. Tim, undaunted by her unfair accusation, grazed his nails over her scalp, and even in the depths of her misery, she regretted snapping at him. One, he was a wonderful husband and she loved him deeply. Two, there was a 50/50 chance she initiated the encounter that got her preggo. And three, she wanted a daughter more than anything, and here she was. Even if it wasn't a girl, she'd smother it in love and affection, so implying that it was a bad thing - someone's _fault_ \- was a little jerkish.

But could you _blame_ her? It felt like that big stone guy from _The Fantastic Four_ was squeezing her stomach.

When the knot in her guts finally released, she let out a deep, rattling breath. Okay, that one kind of hurt. Maybe she spoke too soon again. Guess that's the theme of the day. _Today's Sesame Street letter of the day is H. For hubris. Yay!_

Leaning over, Mom laid her hand on the back of Alex's, then skimmed her fingertips across Alex's knuckles. "Mamacita, that hurt," Alex pouted.

Mom blinked in surprise, then grinned bemusedly. "That's not how you say mother in Spanish."

Really? "What is it?"

"Madre."

Oh. "What is _mamacita?"_

Mom considered for a moment, trying to come up with a way to phrase it. "That's what you call your girlfriend," she said.

Ew! Okay, even _if_ Alex was gay, and even if Mom _wasn't_ her Mom...no way! She didn't date lame-os. Tim was the exception, because look at the guy, he's handsome! Plus he likes metal and horror movies. You rarely find all those awesome qualities in the same guy, and when you do, sister, you snap him up. "Uh...okay, nevermind, then."

"This is why you should have learned Spanish," Mom pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, 'cause I'm a fiery latino, I know."

" _Latina,_ " Mom corrected.

Tim snickered. "Even I knew that."

"See?" Mom asked patronizingly. "He knows more than you do. Isn't that sad?" She looked at Tim and lifted her hand. "No offense."

Tim shook his head to indicate that he was not offended. He shouldn't be, Alex took great pains to toughen him up by constantly battering him with racial slurs and domestic discrimination. She'd take Blake into the living room and leave him in the dining room. If he tried to join them, she shook her head. _Sorry, Hispanics only. White devils stay in the kitchen._ She taped a sign to their bathroom door once saying NO WHITES ALLOWED in the hopes he'd rush in having to pee, find it, and walk away in defeat, but it didn't stop him. She was sitting in the living room innocently watching TV when he walked in with it in his hand, balled it up, and threw it at her face. _Oof, what was that?_

 _Your racism._

Oh. That. Heh. I was _wondering_ where I put it.

She opened her mouth to explain to her mother, yet again, that she was a half white girl in a lily white town so far north it was practically Canada so why should she learn a whole new language she would only ever speak with, like, one person, but her words cut off in a gasp when another contraction tightened her stomach. She gritted her teeth, squeezed Tim's hand, and pushed a hiss through her teeth. Tears of exertion welled in her eyes and she bowed her head. Ow, ow, ow, damn it, TIM IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!

The contraction ended, and she sucked a gulp of air. Jeez, this was gonna suck, wasn't it? Zoe was big and big babies typical equal hard labor. She opened her eyes and looked up at Tim ( _never touch me again, buddy_ ) but got a faceful of Jessy instead.

Did I die and go to Seattle?

"Hey," Jessy said happily. She stood next to Tim in a fashionable black peacoat thing (it looked like a peacoat at any rate) and black leather boots. Her reddish brown hair was drawn back in a vintage-Jessy ponytail the likes of which she forsook long ago in favor of a lame-o teacher bun like Mom's.

Alex's heart leapt with excitement and a big, goofy smile shot across her lips. "You have good timing," she said archly.

"What can I say? I'm punctual. How many centimeters are you?"

"Eight," Alex said, "feels like more now."

Jessy knitted her brow. "You can feel it?"

"No," Alex said, "but I feel these contractions."

While Jessy went to the other side of the bed to hug Mom hello, Alex brushed her sweaty hair out of her eyes and took a deep breath. "How do you feel?" Tim asked and cupped the back of her neck.

"Like I'm going to have a baby very soon."

"That's how you're supposed to feel," Mom said. Jessy sat perched on the arm of the chair, face pinched in discomfort, and Mom absently stroked her back like a woman petting her second favorite cat after a long day away. Second because Alex was first.

Right?

"You don't s -" Alex's words cut off as her muscles clamped yet again. She threw her head back and did her best to grind Tim's hand to dust as punishment for giving her exactly what she wanted. Learn to say no every once in a while, huh? Jessy watched with a perturbed frown, looking for all the world like a woman tenatatively peering into the future and dismayed by what she saw.

A nurse in pink scrubs came over, patiently waited for the contraction to end, then slipped her fingers into Alex. "Ten centimeters," she said, "looks like your little girl's coming."

Touch me like that again and I will too.

Not really! Like Dad said, sometimes you either laugh or you cry and right now I don't feel like crying.

Actually...yes I do.

* * *

Lincoln Loud crossed his legs, folded the paper, and skimmed _Dear Abby_ over the tops of his reading glasses. He liked _Dear Abby._ She gave sensible advice and wasn't shy in ripping someone a new asshole if they needed one. If he wasn't happily married, he'd track her down, put a ring on her finger, and make her his wife. Since he _was_ happily married, he'd just settle for reading her column everyday. Aside from the comics, she was the only thing worth looking at anyway.

It was half past eleven by the clock on the wall and Lincoln had been sitting in the lamp lit waiting room outside the maternity ward for nearly two hours. Tim's parents, Dave and Connie, occupied chairs to his right, Connie in a black dress and Dave wearing denim shorts and a gray T-shirt that did little to cover his bulging stomach. He looked like Lynn...only thinner.

 _We meet again, Underwood,_ Lincoln said when they came in. Almost eight years ago, they hunkered down in this very alcove waiting for Alex to deliver them a grandson. Not much had changed in the interim. Connie was grayer, Dave fatter, and Lincoln's business slower, but otherwise, it might as well have been a flashback to good ol' 1990. When men were men and music was good.

Oh, wait, I was thinking of 1960.

He grinned at his wit and turned the paper over. Every once in a while, he heard himself talk about the old days and realized with drawing horror that he was just like one of those old coots who used to sit outside the pharmacy and reminiscence about the twenties. _Hotdog, what a time! It was the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas._

 _And how!_

It was times like that when he got the sneaking suspicion that he was turning into a bitter old man. That revelation never failed to sink his stomach to his knees. It's strange how quickly time goes. He could vividly remember being a kid - hell, he could just see his childhood if he squinted - but that was forty years ago. Once you fall into the ebb and flow of life, you lose yourself. You smart over an insult or transgression only to realize one day that it happened twenty years ago, but feels like only a few weeks have passed. Decades are like snow. It starts gradually, then, once you got enough on the ground, they pile up fast. To a younger man, ten years is a lot. To an old fart like Lincoln, it was a drop in the bucket.

That was never clearer to him than it was this year. In 1967, he was taken prisoner in Vietnam and held for eight months. Every May 27, he spent the day watching the clock and recollecting what he was doing at that exact time on the day he was captured. He didn't know exactly when the Cong got him, but at some point, he settled on 3pm.

3pm, Saturday, May 27, 1967.

This last time, as he glanced at the clock just before three, it occurred to him that it had been thirty years.

Thirty. Years.

At first, that didn't faze him. He knew what year it was and always had. Then he started to _think_. What happened to him in Vietnam had been echoing down through the ages like a blood curdling scream, and all this time later - almost half an average lifespan - he was still dealing with it, still letting it affect him both directly and indirectly. The memories were still so fresh and sharp that even while he recognized the numerical passing of years without, within, the beatings, mock executions, and maggot banquets were far, far closer than the calendar pages let on.

That lead him to the irrational fear that he had wasted thirty years of his life preoccupied by Vietnam. He was there for every single one of Jessy and Alex's major life events - first day of school, graduation, birth, marriage - in both body _and_ mind, but he couldn't shake the dreadful feeling that he missed all of it, everything, that while his family grew, lived, and loved, he was still trapped in that bamboo cage on the riverbank, looking out at the life around him but unable to join it. For over a week, his chest ached with loss, and just getting out of bed in the morning was difficult. He sneaked one of the photo albums out of the hall closet, took it to work, and spent his days paging through it, gazing upon snapshots of Christmases, birthdays, and family trips and trying to recall every minute detail to prove to himself that he was _there_ and not in Vietnam. If he couldn't remember what the weather was like on Jessy's firth birthday, or why Alex was grinning so cheesily at the camera (did he say something funny? Did Ronnie Anne?), he sank deeper into depression. God, if He really resides in His celestial kingdom, blessed him with an amazing wife and two wonderful daughters...and he pissed it all away.

Once, he thought he was strong, but he wasn't. He thought he escaped that cage, but he hadn't.

Finally, Ronnie Anne noticed something was wrong and asked him about it. He reluctantly told her, and do you know what she said?

 _You're fine, lame-o, you didn't miss anything. Jesus, your memory's better than mine. I can't remember what I had for breakfast two days ago and you remember what dress I was wearing on April 28, 1979?_

He just shrugged. _You looked really beautiful that day._

That made her blush like a girl, something she hadn't done in ages. She laid her had on his leg and softened her tone. _You've been here the whole time, lame-o. Maybe you take the occasional trip back to Vietnam, but that's all they are, trips._

She was right, he reckoned.

 _Too many goddamn trips,_ he said.

 _Then stop taking them._

He nodded and agreed with her, but he'd already tried that. Whether he missed out on his life or not, what happened in Vietnam was one of those things that shapes and molds a man. Everybody has an event, or several, that leaves an indelible imprint on who they are, and for him, it was the eight months he endured as a POW. People are like soft clay, and those events are the kiln that hardens them. When they come out the other side, their form is set and changing themselves is as impossible as a zebra changing its stripes. Lincoln Loud, for better or worse, was set in stone.

Presently, someone sat next to him, and he looked up. Luan tilted her head back and took a deep breath. "Any news?" she asked. She left half an hour ago to get lunch in the cafeteria.

"Not yet," he said and went back to the paper. Beetle Bailey lay in bed feigning sickness; Sarge stood over him with his hands on his hips and a glower etched on his face. If his drill sergeant was as fat and goofy as Sarge was, boot camp would have been a six week pleasure cruise.

Luan picked a six month old issue of _Time_ up from the end table next to her and opened it. Lincoln glanced at the cover: A woman with short blonde hair and clad in black knelt next to bold red type with a shit eating grin on her face. YEP, I'M GAY.

Hm. Good for you.

He scanned the rest of the comics, then flipped back to _Dear Abby._ He always read a little bit, stopped, then came back like a man savoring a good meal. "How's business these days?" he asked Dave.

"Eh," Dave replied, "been better, been worse. Puttin' on lots of snow tires lately."

That made sense; winter was just around the corner and God alone knew when the first snow would fly. Sometimes it didn't come until after Christmas, and others it happened before Thanksgiving. One year, as Lincoln recalled, six inches fell on Halloween night. That was...1982. Jessy was a princess that year and Alex was a pauper - put on ripped clothes, smudged dirt on her face, and walked around with her hand stuck out. _Shillings, guv'ner? Shillings? Just ten pence will do._ He chuckled and shook his head at his daughter's terminal dorkiness.

Now where was he?

Oh, right, it snowed that year. He and Ronnie Anne sent them out, and they came back half an hour later with more snow in their bags than candy. _It's_ really _coming down out there,_ Alex said as she tracked mud through the living room. _I made a snow Jessy._

That meant _I pushed Jessy into a snowbank._ He was the one who started that trend; in the winter of 1977 - December, to be exact - he was shoveling the driveway when they came outside to play. After throwing snowballs at each other's faces and building a deformed, three foot tall snowman, they drifted over and started pestering him. _Make a snow angel, Dad!_ Alex urged. _Yeah,_ Jessy cried. Their chants of _snow angel, snow angel, SNOW ANGEL_ got to him, and he shoved them both into a fluffy heap of white. _How about I make a snow Alex and a snow Jessy instead?_ Big mistake: Instead of slinking away to lick their wounds and leave him alone, they laughed like lunatics and begged him to do it again. Every winter thereafter, they would sneak up on each other, grin slyly, and shove. Sometimes, they did it to him or Ronnie Anne. Once ('80, Lincoln thought, though maybe it was '81), Alex pounced her mother as she shuffled up the walk with an armload of groceries. RA slipped, paper bags ripped, and before you could say AHHHHH, I'M FALLING, she landed hard on her butt, cans, jars, and boxes hitting the snowy ground, some breaking and others littering the lawn like discarded auto parts in a hillbilly's overgrown dooryard. Ooooh, she was _pissed_. Poor Alex went white and quaked in fear as Ronnie Anne loomed over her, lashing with tongue and finger; she was so mad she went back and forth between Spanish and English with seamless fluidity. Alex's punishment was riding her bike to the store and buying everything that broke with her own money.

Hm. He got sidetracked again. What was he talking about? Oh, snow tires. "You charge a lot?" he asked.

Dave crinkled his face and shook his head. "Nah. Fifty bucks for mounting but that ain't much. Most of the money's in the tire itself. I don't get to keep all that, though."

"I get to keep all mine," Lincoln said and flipped the paper back over without finishing _Dear Abby;_ he'd come back to it. "When I make it."

"Not gettin' any customers?" Dave asked.

Lincoln shook his head. "No. Place is going to hell. I think I'm gonna sell it."

"How long you owned it?" Dave asked.

Lincoln did a few mental calculations. "Almost twenty-six years."

Dave wistled. "Did old Flip own it that long?"

"Longer," Lincoln said, then thought, "Thirty-three."

"That's a long time."

He glanced at his wife as if for help. "Fifty-nine years total," she said without missing a beat. "Are you really going to sell it?"

Lincoln couldn't immediately answer that. He'd been talking about getting rid of it for years, but after two and a half decades, he was attached to it. Literally. He and the stupid, smelly grease trap fused like siamese twins sometime back in the eighties and the operation to separate them would probably kill them both. Flip's wasn't much, but it had been a steady in his life since 1961 - longer if you counted the years before he started working there. He knew it as well as he knew Ronnie Anne, perhaps even better, and though he complained about it, he found endless comfort in the familiar, largely unchanging digs; the booths might be reupholstered here and there, and the jukebox may have given way to an arcade game, but fundamentally, the place was the same as it had always been, like an old friend who's always there for you, even if he bugs the ever loving piss out of you. Getting rid of it would be like getting rid of his own arm.

If his arm was gangrenous, however, he wouldn't hesitate to lob it off or try. Better to miss it than die. Flip's, unfortunately, was riddled with cancer of the bottom line. He didn't open it every single morning just to sit behind the register and bask in the warm glow of nostalgia, he did it to turn a profit and support his family. Flip's served him well over the years in that respect, but if it couldn't anymore, why keep it? He sure as hell wasn't going to pay out of his own pocket to keep it going.

"Probably," he said, and despite his resolve, the words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Connie hummed. "I hope it doesn't close. I couldn't imagine it just being gone."

Well, come in and buy something every once in a while.

"I think you should sell it," Luan said definitely, like she was a business analyst instead of an old, washed up hippie. "It's not worth keeping open."

Lincoln started to tell her to mind her own goddamn business, but cut off when the door at the end of the hall opened. Ronnie Anne slipped out and strode up, a girlish simper on her lips and a curious sparkle in her eyes. There was only one thing in the world that could bring those things out in her: A successful birth.

She stopped in front of him and balled her hands excitedly at her sides. "We have a granddaughter now, lame-o," she said proudly.

Five minutes later, Lincoln stood at Alex's bedside between Jessy and Ronnie Anne. Tim was perched on the edge of the bed next to Alex's head, twisted around and watching his wife and daughter with starry eyes, and his parents stood next to him. Luan put her arm around Jessy's shoulders and drew her close; the girl circled her mother's waist with her arm and laid her head on her shoulder. Side-by-side, they were nearly twins, only Jessy was far more beautiful and intelligent than Luan ever was (sorry, Lu'). Favoring her with a sidelong glance, Lincoln almost saw the woman Luan could have become, and was so achingly proud of Jessy for achieving what her mother could not that sudden and inexplicable tears filled his eyes.

In bed, Alex held Zoe and stared down at her with a warm smile, her focus entirely on the pink swaddled infant in her arms, as though she and she alone constituted the world. Alex's face was sheened with sweat and the skin around her eyes was puffy and pink, but overall, she was in pretty good shape for a woman who just had a baby. Lincoln craned his neck to get a better look at his granddaughter, but a tuft of blanket blocked the side of her face. Alex tapped her index finger lightly against the tip of Zoe's nose, then laughed, presumably at the baby's expression, and glanced at Tim. _Are you seeing this?_ He chuckled, reached out, and stroked his hand over the little girl's forehead. Ronnie Anne pushed up on her tippy toes, then sighed in frustration when she didn't get the view she was hoping for. "Can one of us hold her now?" she asked impatiently.

"In a minute," Alex said testily, "I've been carrying her for nine months. I get first go."

"I haven't carried her at all," Ronnie Anne retorted. "Hand her over."

Alex shot her a dirty look and handed Zoe to Tim with a faux-defiant glare. "The father gets to hold her second. He helped make her, you didn't."

"I made _you,_ " Ronnie Anne said.

Alex opened her mouth for a rebuttal, but closed it again when she realized her mother had a point. "Be that as it may," she said evenly, "Daddies get to hold their babies before grandmas. I'm sorry, that's just how it goes."

Ronnie Anne snorted. "Okay," she relented, "I'll wait." She narrowed her eyes at Tim. "Just hurry it up."

Maybe he would have been inTIMidated years ago (damn you, Alex, now you have me doing it), but he'd been a full fledged part of the family long enough to know that Lincoln and Ronalda Loud's bark was worse than their bite...that, indeed, they _had_ no bite, at least for the ones they loved. Tim rocked Zoe in his arms, smothered her forehead in kisses, tickled her...then passed her to his mother. Ronnie Anne pursed her lips and grudgingly nodded to herself. _Should have seen_ that _coming._ Connie walked in an aimless circle between the bed and the window and cooed to her granddaughter, then passed her off to Dave, who stared down at her with the bemusement of a man who's never seen a baby in his life. "I'm used to boys," he chuckled nervously.

Finally, Ronnie Anne's turn came, and when she had the little girl in her arms, she stuck her tongue out at Alex. Lincoln, Luan, and Jessy crowded around to meet their new kin. Wrapped in a pink blanket with a white cap on her head, Zoe Sophia Underwood looked like almost every other baby Lincoln had ever seen - small, pink, and wrinkled - but she was still somehow more beautiful than any save for her brother; they were equally tied for the Cutest Newborn Ever award. She blinked her eyelids slowly, adjusting to the light, and yawned deeply, as though she, not her mother, was the one who had a long day.

"You're so beautiful," Ronnie Anne marveled and tickled Zoe's chin. "You look just like your mother."

Lincoln furrowed his brow. "How the hell can you tell that? She's fifteen minutes old."

"The nose, lame-o, she has the Santiago nose."

Lincoln's eyes darted from his wife, to his daughter, then finally to his granddaughter. Alex and Ronnie Anne certainly had the same nose structure, but as far as he could tell, Zoe's was an unformed mass like all babies'.

"You wanna hold her?" Ronnie Anne asked.

Of course he did. He took Zoe in his arms and cradled her in the crook of his elbow the way he cradled his rifle in Vietnam - in the jungle, your M-16 _was_ your baby, and if you didn't dote on it, you'd find yourself with a jammed gun when you most needed it to be _un_ jammed.

Zoe blinked and turned her head from side to side as if taking stock of her surroundings. Lincoln gazed into her liquid dark eyes, and love stirred in his chest like a warm April breeze. A dazzling beam lifted the corners of his mouth, and his heart swelled with devotion just as it had when Alex was born, and Jessy, and Blake. This little girl had been in his life only minutes, but she was already one of the most precious things in the world, and he would do anything for her.

Leaning over, he kissed her on the forehead, then reluctantly gave her to Jessy, whose eyes lit up. He slipped his arm around Ronnie Anne and glanced at Alex and Tim; her head rested against his chest and he slowly stroked his fingers through her hair. She looked up at him, and they shared a tiny, satisfied smile that made them both look much younger than their near thirty years.

"Well, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said, "there's one more of our progeny in the world."

"Good," he said, "the world can use more people like us."

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

And they both broke out laughing.

In her bed, Alex lifted a critical brow, then shook her head. "They're dorks," she said, and Tim nodded his agreement. She thought for a second. "Do you think we'll be as bad as they are when we're old?"

Tim studied his in-laws for a moment, then scrunched his lips. "I don't know," he said, "I hope."

Alex sighed deeply. Her mother and father had been together since 1958, when he was twelve and she was eleven. Childhood romance such as theirs rarely lasts - over time, people grow, change, and drift apart like islands in the sea, ponderously and inexorably pulling away from each other over millennia. In poorly written fiction, people might stay the same from one decade to another, with the same interests and values, but HERE, in real life, they evolve...or, in some cases, devolve. The happy go lucky boy loses a limb to an untimely accident and becomes a bitter alcoholic, the troubled teen finds God in his twenties and becomes a youth pastor lighting the way for others, the rocker hits thirty and starts to get into country like sinking into quicksand. The world moves ever on, and nothing, not even the highest mountain, stands still.

That her parents remained together now was beautiful. Even more beautiful was how deeply in love they were with one another. Love, as Alex understood it, sometimes cooled with time. Not for them. Lincoln and Ronalda Loud still looked at each other the way they must have when they were kids...they were just as silly, playful, and loving as she pictured them being when they at twenty. They were always kissing, holding hands, patting each other as they passed by, tiny tokens of affection that coalesced to form a mosaic of enduring passion, warmth, commitment, and intimacy. They'd been through everything you can go through at this point, and they were still standing tall.

She could only hope that she and Tim enjoyed the same destiny.

Sharp tenderness filled her breast, and she took Tim's hand in her, their fingers threading and their thumbs brushing each other's knuckles. They were a lot like Mom and Dad, a boy and girl who fell in love during childhood and grew as all kids do; only instead of two, they grew as one, like neighboring trees in a forest entwining until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. They were as in tune now as they ever were, and Alex was certainly happy; she saw herself with Tim forever, loving him in the year 2020 just the same as she loved him in 1990. She met his eyes and her heart twinged. "So do I," she said earnestly.

Dad did or said something, and Mom responded by throwing her head back, braying laughter, and slapping his arm. "They might be dorks," Alex said and squeezed her husband's hand, "but they're really cute."


	195. October 1997: Part 3

**Lyrics to** _ **Truly, Deeply, Madly**_ **by Savage Garden (1997)**

"Looking good, bud."

Blake Underwood glanced down at himself to make sure his dad wasn't lying.

He _did_ look good.

A short, chubby boy with a short, bristly black hair that started off as dark brown and dark eyes, he stood in the murky living room, chest swollen with pride. Some kids called him mean names at school like fatso and tubby and it stung every time, but right now, he felt like he could literally get shot and not feel a thing, like Robocop. Bulletproof.

It was Halloween morning and Blake had been up since 6am putting his costume together for school. His grandpa bought it for him from a magazine called _Things You Never Knew Existed_ and when Blake opened it three weeks ago, his jaw hit the freaking floor. A real police uniform in just his size - black shoes, black pants, and a black shirt with patches reading SHERIFF on each shoulder. It came with a belt, a plastic billy club, a real, working walkie talkie, metal handcuffs (they weren't real, though, 'cause they had the little tab you can pull to open them), a ticket pad, fake pepper spray, a peaked cap, and a silver badge (cops call them _shields_ because they symbolize protecting good people from bad guys like a shield). _Oh WOW!_ Blake cried when he recovered. He started to rip the package open, but Grandma stopped him. Something about it not being a toy and blah blah blah until Halloween. It was _really_ awesome, though, and he wanted to put it on so bad it literally hurt, like getting punched in the chest by Jordan when she was mad.

Grandma gave it to Mom and told her not to let him have it until Halloween. He was convinced her could persuade her to give it to him - she was cool - but she said no. _Sorry, Blake'n'Bake, you gotta wait._

UGH!

Mom put it under her bed like she put everything under her bed, and sometimes when she wasn't around, he'd go visit it, stretching out on the floor and staring at the box with wide eyed wonder, imagining himself wearing it and fighting crooks and doing all sorts of cool stuff. At night, he laid in bed and longed for it with gnashing intensity. At school, sitting in class, he rested his chin in his palm and daydreamed about it. The temptation to open it grew steadily day after day, and on October 28th, he decided he was going to open it when he got home. Dad would be at work and Mom would probably be asleep on the couch, which gave him the opportunity. Mom would probably be mad when she found out, but he'd deal with that when the time came. Getting yelled at or even grounded would be sooo worth it.

That day, on the bus ride home, he sat next to Jordan and stared absently out the wet window, visions of him in his police uniform dancing through his head. Jordan played with her Tamagotchi, giggling at the joyous backflips it did as she fed it. The bus pulled up in front of his trailer, and he immediately noticed something out of the ordinary.

His father's pick up was parked at the curb. Dad sat behind the wheel, the wiper blades cumbersomely slicing across the windshield. That was strange. Dad was usually still at work when he got home.

Jordan got up and he followed her off the bus; like most days, she got off at his stop and they played for a while before she had to go home. She didn't know about his plans to open his costume yet - he figured she would try to talk or bully him out of it. She thought being almost a year older than him made her a grown up. She was always telling him to do this and not that. _It's really cold outside, Blake,_ she'd fret, _you better put your coat on_. If he saw something interesting on the ground while they were walking through the trailer park - say, a discarded toy - and picked it up, she'd gasp and slap it out of his hand. _You don't know where that's been!_ I don't care where it's been, I care where it's going...into my toybox. He expected her to disapprove of his plan. He was gonna do it anyway, and if she didn't like it, she could go home.

They crossed in front of the bus and went to the driver side door. The pervasive rain fell as a misting drizzle, and sodden wind whipped up and down the street. Dad rolled down the window and leaned out, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a sly grin. _Hey, Dad,_ Blake said.

 _Hey_ , he said, _wanna meet your sister?_

That question caught him off guard. Mom was pregnant but wasn't due to have Zoe for, like, two weeks. How could he meet her anymore than he already had? Mom let him touch her stomach when Zoe was moving, and she kicked his hand a couple times, which was really weird and really cool at the same time.

Jordan, who was kind of smarter than him even if he wouldn't admit it, dropped her jaw in a perfect O of pleasant surprise. _Did she have the baby?_

 _She did,_ Dad confirmed.

 _Awww, can I come?_

Forty-five minutes later, she and Blake stood next to Mom's bed, Jordan with a giddy smile and Blake with a wan grimace. Jordan told him that a baby was a life changing thing and that really unnerved him because he liked his life...he didn't want it to change. Babies, if he understood them correctly, were lots of work and required lots of attention. Mom and Dad would be focused entirely on Zoe and forget all about him, like a garbage bag on the curb. When they sat him down and told him they were going to have a baby, they said they would still love him the same, but he wasn't so sure. They might mean to but people get caught up in things and before you know it, Blake's food dish is empty and he's starving to death but no one notices. The food dish being, like, his heart, and _starving_ meaning for love and affection. He confided this in Jordan; she frowned, patted his shoulder, and said _It's okay. My mom has three kids and she loves us all._

Maybe, but to be fair, Jordan was the youngest, so once upon a time, _she_ was the baby sucking up all the love and attention while her brother and sister just, I don't know, festered in the shadows.

Mom sat up in bed, a pile of pillows wedged behind her back, and held Zoe to her chest, the newborn's tiny pink face peeking out of even pinker blakents. Her dark eyes were open and darted inquisitively around the room, never resting on one thing for very long before moving on. Jordan balled her hands exaggeratedly to one cheek and _awww_ 'd at Zoe's button nose and puckered lips. _She's so cute!_ She was more excited for Zoe's birth than Blake was.

 _I've always wanted a little sister,_ she said excitedly once. Blake told her that Zoe wasn't going to be _her_ sister, and she just waved him off. _Close enough._

 _Do you want to hold her?_ Mom asked him, and he tensed. Well, uh, she was really little and looked kind of fragile, and he was kind of clumsy sometimes. Maybe he shouldn't.

 _Come on, you'll do fine,_ Mom gently urged. _Come here._

Blake sat next to her, and she held the baby out. _You have to support her neck._ Blake took his sister, making extra sure to not let her head flop, and clutched her to his chest, suddenly terrified of dropping her. She kicked and thrashed in the confines of her swaddle, as if outraged by the transfer, and Jordan pressed against his shoulder to get a better view. _Hi,_ Jordan cooed, _I'm your best friend Jordan. We're gonna play dress up and stuff._ Zoe stopped moving and looked at her with a pinched brow incedulty that made Blake grin. She looked like she _really_ didn't like that idea. Jordan reached out and Blake kind of expected Zoe to bite her hand off even though she didn't have teeth. Jordan tickled her chin, and Zoe's face smoothed in acceptance. _Okay, you're nice, nevermind._

Later on, at home, he was kind of surprised to find himself missing his little sister and wishing she and Mom didn't have to stay at the hospital. He wanted to play with her more. And teach her how to do stuff.

They finally came home yesterday, October 30, and he and Jordan spent most of the afternoon playing _Super Mario 64_ with her carseat between them. She looked even tinier in there than she did out of it. She didn't do much other than sleep and Blake was kind of disappointed. _Does she ever wake up?_ He asked in exasperation.

Mom, sitting on the couch with a blanket over her lap and a pillow behind her head, groaned. _Yeah, 2am, 3am, 5am, 5:30am, basically all night._

Presently, he slipped his jacket over his costume, pulled his cap on, then slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Too bad I can't bring my gun," he lamented, "the holster looks weird without it."

No guns were allowed in school. Not even the toy kind.

"Woody from _Toy Story_ doesn't have a gun," Dad said. He stood behind the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, a cup of coffee in front of him.

 _Toy Story_ was a cool movie, but it always bothered Blake that Woody didn't have a gun. He was a sheriff for crying out loud...in the Old West at that. A cop back then used his six shooter, like, twenty times a day. The moment he lost his piece, outlaws would take over and he'd be done for. You couldn't bring guns to school, though, and that was that.

Before Blake left, Dad came in, gave him a hug, and told him to have a good day. Outside, dense gray clouds streamed across the sky. The pavement and grass both glistened with rain, but none currently fell. He hurried to the bus stop at the bottom of the street where a bunch of kids ranging in age from six to sixteen waited. He spotted Jordan talking to an Asian girl named Stella - she (Jordan, not Stella) wore a black and red dress with orange and yellow designs along the fringe and a black cat emblazoned across the chest, orange stockings, and a black witch's hat. Stella, tall and lanky with shoulder length black hair and bangs that veiled her almond shaped eyes, wore green leggings, a billowy orange tunic, and a green cap on her head with a brown thing sticking up from the middle like a stem. Blake guessed she was supposed to be a pumpkin.

Jordan saw him and, with an elfin grin, jabbed her finger at him. "Stop!"

Bemused, Blake stopped.

Jordan glanced smugly at Stella. "Told you I had powers."

Rolling his eyes, Blake walked up. "How's Zoe?" Jordan asked.

"Good," he said. She and Mom were sleeping when he left.

"His baby sister is so cute," Jordan told Stella, "yesterday she spit up all over his dad." She giggled merilly and Blake snorted because yeah, it was kind of funny. The front of Dad's shirt was soaked with liquid white puke; a little even got on his lips and he started gagging like _he_ was going to puke. He handed her off to Mom and rushed away. _Look what you did to your daddy,_ Mom said playfully.

Not one to be outdone, Stella said, "My baby brother pooped up his back."

Jordan and Blake both gaped. "How'd he poop _up his back?"_ Jordan asked.

Taking a deep breath as if to brace herself, Stella said, "He was in his swing and had a _really_ bad explosion poop." Her eyes widened and she leered forward like a girl telling a scary campfire story, and Blake and Jordan both drew cautiously back. "When my mom picked him up, it was all up his back, and his neck, and even in his _hair._ "

"Wow," Jordan said in a breathless whisper.

Blake shivered at the image of rich, creamy, peanut butter colored poo smeared all over a baby's head.

"It took my mom almost an hour to get him clean again," Stella said, her voice rising and falling, casting a dark pall. "She had to throw his clothes away. And we haven't used the swing since."

Blake hoped Zoe didn't do that.

Momentarily, the bus pulled up and they got on. Blake went to an empty seat and slid in next to the window. Jordan sat beside him and put her backpack on her lap. "That costume's really cool, by the way," she said, "you look like a real cop."

Blake beamed. "Thank you. I wanted to bring my gun but couldn't."

The bus pulled away and hung a right onto Marsh Lane. "Guns are really violent," she said, "you can be a cop without one."

Blake rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and get shot by a bad guy who _does_ have a gun."

Jordan's mom didn't like violence and didn't let her kids play with toy guns, G.I Joes, or anything _war_ related. She also didn't let them watch violent movies or play violent video games. The first time he and Jordan played _Mortal Combat_ on his Mom and Dad's Super Nintendo, she almost had a cow. _That guy's spine just came out! Turn it off, turn it off!_ When he didn't, she rocked forward on her knees and slapped the power button. _I can't see stuff like that,_ she said in a distressed pant, _I'm just a kid!_

"A real cop can use his billy club," Jordan stated with utter confidence, "only a little baby coward uses a gun."

"Nu-uh!"

"Yeah-huh," Jordan said, a mischievous simper playing on her lips. She didn't mean to tease Blake when she said _little baby coward,_ but now she sure did. "Ask a real cop."

The bus turned left at the entrance and started down Route 29. "I see real cops all the time. They all have guns."

"That's just in case they're chickens," Jordan dismissed.

"Cops aren't chickens!" Blake's cheeks flushed and his dark eyes gleamed with righteous indignation. He wanted to be a policeman when he grew up and he really, really, _really_ liked cops, which meant you didn't say bad things about them in front of him. One time, they were playing with this little girl named Leanne and her brother, Jeffery, who was, like, seventeen or something, said cops were pigs. Blake got so mad he stormed off and Jordan had to chase him down.

Then she came back and yelled at Jeffrey because she was the _only_ person allowed to pick on Blake.

Leaning in and smiling wickedly, she lowered her voice. "Yes they are. Bad guys are better."

Blake's face darkened and he whipped away from her, his arms folding sullenly across his chest. "Go sit with a bad guy then."

"I am."

He turned to her again, eyes narrowed. She giggled. "You're a bad guy."

"No I'm _not_. I'm a cop."

"Yeah. A crooked cop."

Flashing, Blake shot out his hand and slammed the heel of his palm into her shoulder, almost driving her from the seat. Pain rippled into her chest, and her face clenched. Throwing herself forward, she screamed, " _You're the worst cop ever!"_

The driver glanced into the rearview mirror. "Pipe down!"

Jordan got up and glared at Blake. "I'm sitting somewhere else."

"Good," Blake said.

She sneered, then pushed away from the seat. Dumb Blake. He thought he was so cool but he wasn't. He was a bunghole. A big, dumb, yucky bunghole. She dropped into a seat three rows behind and across and glowered at the back of Blake's head. Someone spoke from beside her, and she flinched. "What happened?" Stella asked.

"Blake's being dumb again," Jordan said, "I said he was a bad guy and he hit me." Even as she spoke, her lips twitched into a satisfied smirk. Picking on him was fun, and so was being picked on back. Still, he was a butthead.

"Oh," Stella said meekly, "well...you kind of had it coming."

Jordan crossed her arms. "No I didn't," she declared.

Yeah, she did have it coming, even so, she wasn't going to speak to him for the rest of the day.

At school, she went to class and forgot all about Blake being dumb on the bus. Almost everyone was dressed in costumes and paper machie decorations dotted the walls, invoking a spooky atmosphere that she loved even though she didn't normally like scary stuff. By second period, she was looking forward to seeing Blake at recess. Everyday they played on the swings, competing to see who could go higher then losing track of who did in the rush and thrill of the moment, laughing, wind in their faces, hearts rocketing into their throats when the frame shook and they thought it was going to collapse.

That's why recess was her favorite time of the day. Not her favorite class, because recess isn't a class, but...you get the idea. At lunch, she sat between Stella and a girl named Cookie Milford. Stella and Cookie were complete opposites: Stella was the tallest girl in class, and Cookie was the shortest, Cookie was a snooty rich girl who liked make-up and stuff, and Stella was a book nerd. By some strange cosmic snafu, they were best friends despite their differences (or maybe because of them). Blake wasn't in their grade so he had to sit at another table, and Jordan hated it. Cookie and Stella were okay, but they weren't Blake - talking to them wasn't the same and being with them didn't make her feel as good. She had known Blake forever and was as comfortable around him as she was with her own family. More even, 'cause her own siblings were both dill weeds.

"Why aren't _you_ wearing a costume?" Stella asked Cookie. Jordan had been ignoring them; she absently ate and looked around for Blake. She _thought_ that was him way over on the other side of the cafeteria, but he wasn't wearing his hat and her eyes were kind of bad, so she couldn't be certain.

"My costume takes a lot of work," she replied, an overbearing hilt to her voice, "and I didn't feel like putting it on right now."

Stella carved a piece of beef with her fork. "What is it?" she asked.

"Princess Peach," Cookie said.

Jordan perked up. "From Mario? That's really cool."

"It's going to win the costume contest at the country club tonight," Cookie proclaimed with a condescending chin jut.

After lunch, Jordan put her jacket on, got in line, and followed her classmates out onto the playground. The sky was overcast and the wind damp, but it still wasn't raining. Big puddles of water sat at the bottoms of the slides so no one could use them, but Jordan didn't care about slides. Slides were dumb.

She looked toward the swings, and grinned to herself when she saw Blake sitting in his normal spot waiting for her. He looked up when she sat next to him. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied. She remembered their fight that morning and knitted her brow bemusedly. Seemed really dumb in behindsight. "Sorry I called you a crooked cop."

Blake blinked his surprise. He totally forgot until just now. "Sorry I hit you. That wasn't a very cop like thing to do."

"I deserved it," she said. She backed up and pushed off, wobbling at first. She pumped her legs back and forth, gaining momentum, and Blake joined her. "I saw a really gross bug," he said nonchalantly.

"Where?" Jordan asked, instantly interested. She liked bugs. Bugs were cool. Not as cool as puppies and kittens, though. And lambs and ducklings. And really _any_ baby animal. She loved animals more than anything (except for her family, Blake, and Blake's family) and when she was a grown up, she was going to be a vet. Or maybe take pictures of wild animals for a magazine. She wasn't entirely sure which, but those were the only options. Nothing else. If hanging out with cute animals wasn't part of the job, she didn't want it.

Blake kicked his legs, pulling higher than her, and she pumped to keep up. "Over there," he said and nodded vaguely to the empty basketball court. "It was dead."

"Awww," Jordan frowned. People didn't care if bugs got killed, but she did because even the ugly ones were living things, just like puppies. And babies. No one put them on the same level as puppies and babies, but she did.

That didn't mean she wasn't interested in seeing it…

She jumped off the swing and landed on her feet, knees bending. "Let's go look at it," she said.

Blake dragged his heels on the ground, slowed, and got off. "Okay," he said easily. Side by side, they crossed a wide grassy strip skirting the court; the wet vegetation dampened the hem of Jordan's dress and almost made her slip. The bug, a big, fat beetle with wickedly sharp pinchers, lay in a puddle of water before one of the baskets, its body floating across the surface like a macabre sailboat.

"Wow," Jordan breathed, her eyes glued to the insect's pinchers. Look at those things! They're like tusks! She got down on her knees, water soaking through the fabric of her leggings, and laid her hands on the slick pavement. She rocked forward like a baby crawling across the floor and studied the beetle as the wind blew it closer. _Here, look how cool this is._ She glanced up at Blake, who stared down at it with his hands at his sides, then nodded to the ground. "Come here," she said and slapped the spot next to her.

Blake hesitated. "I don't wanna get my pants wet."

His pants? Really? "Since when are you afraid of getting dirty?"

"Since I put my costume on."

Jordan hanged her head and drew a deep, long suffering breath. "I'm getting my costume wet. It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"Just get down here."

Blake threw his head back and groaned. He knelt anyway and tilted forward. "Wonder how it died," he said.

"It probably drowned," Jordan said. "Or maybe it ate poison."

Blake looked at her. "Where did it get poison?"

"I dunno," Jordan shrugged. "Poison ivy or something."

"Oh," Blake said. That made sense. There was lots of poison ivy, oak, and sumac around. When he went camping with Jordan's family the summer before last, he stepped in some and his whole foot felt like it was going to fall off. He could only imagine what eating it would do to your insides.

Reaching out, Jordan tentatively poked the creature and ripped her hand back. "It feels funny," she said with a shiver.

Blake reached out and did the same, his touch sending it floating. A grimace crossed his face; its shell was cold and hard, almost like stone. "It's weird," he said.

"But really cool," Jordan said, then felt a rush of shame. "Kind of sad it died, though." She glanced at Blake and he lifted his brow quizzically. An idea struck her, and in an instant she was doggedly resolved. "We should bury it."

"It's just a bug," Blake said.

Jordan ignored him and got to her feet. "It deserves a proper burial." she said. She bent, scooped her hand through the water, and picked up the carcass. She looked around for a good spot, and settled on a patch of mud next to a bench. She walked over, and Blake followed, brushing his knees with a grimace. Jordan lifted her dress to spare it and knelt in the mud; it was cold and squishy against her knees and she winced. Using her hand, she dug a little grave about six inches deep, laid the beetle carefully in, and covered it again. She got up and stood next to Blake, who stared blankly at the bug's final resting place. Jordan removed her hat, then nudged Blake's ribs. Sighing his annoyance, he took his cap off too. "We should say a few words," Jordan said, mainly because she knew it would irritate Blake and she liked irritating him.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, uh…" he rolled his eyes to the sky and pursed his lips in thought. "I don't remember the rest."

Jordan considered for a moment. She remembered that being in a movie she and Blake saw on TV one time. "I think it's _rest in the dust._ "

"Good enough for me," Blake shrugged.

The bell rang and Jordan sighed, not because the funeral was sad (it was) but because her time hanging out with Blake was over. "I'll see you later," she said and absently blotted her hands on her dress.

"Alright," Blake said, "bye."

He watched her go, then followed, his hands going into his pockets and his head bowing. It sucked that he didn't get to hang out with Jordan more. On the other hand, they got to go trick or treating tonight. That made up for it.

Kind of.

At the end of the day, he shoved his stuff into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and left by the front door with a rush of other kids. His costume got a lot of compliments and he was really proud of himself - it was the coolest of any he'd seen all day, and was probably the coolest in the whole town. Maybe even the county too.

On the bus, he sought Jordan out and found her sitting in a seat near the back. He shuffled down the aisle, past kids laughing, throwing paper airplanes, and teasing each other, and sank next to her. "Hi," she chirped and turned to him, "look what I got."

She whipped a pencil out of her dress pocket. It was topped with a pink eraser shaped like a kitten. "Where'd you get that?"

"We had a spelling bee in class," she said cockily, "and I won."

Jordan _was_ really good at spelling. Handwriting too. The teacher said Blake's handwriting looked like chicken scratch (the principal once asked him archy if it was Iraqi) and his spelling was kind of bad. The teacher said sound out the words...and he did, which is how he wound up with _minit_ for _minute_ and _sekint_ for _second_. How could they blame him for that? It was their fault for giving him bad advice. "Cool," he said, even though it really wasn't; it was girly.

Thirty minutes later, the bus pulled to a stop in front of his house, and he and Jordan got out. Rain lightly fell from the sky, and Blake turned his face up to the clouds with a worried frown. If it rained too hard, they might not get to go trick or treating.

Inside, Mom sat on the couch with her feet kicked up on the coffee table, her head thrown back, and her eyes closed, soft snores rising from her open mouth. Zoe was curled up on her chest, lost in the folds of a pink blanket with the face of a smiling giraffe embroidered on one corner. The radio was on, and soft music whispered from the speakers.

 _I want to stand with you on a mountain  
I want to bathe with you in the sea.  
I want to lay like this forever.  
Until the sky falls down on me_

Blake closed the door and Mom lifted her head, her eyes clouded with bewilderment. "I'm up," she said thickly. She blinked and squinted at them. "Oh, hey, guys. How was school?"

"Good," Blake said as he crossed into the kitchen.

"I got this," Jordan preened. She held up her pencil.

Mom leaned closer and raised her brows. "Oh, that's really cool. It's a cat. Wait. I've never seen one of those. Give it here."

Jordan handed it to her and she investigated it from every angle like a woman encountering a fascinating new technology. "Oh, wow. I bet erasing is kind of hard, though." She handed it back and patted Zoe's back. The little girl wiggled and yawned deeply, trying, it seemed, to burrow deeper into the warmth and safety of her mother's bosom.

Opening the fridge, Blake took out two Cokes and went back into the living room, handing one to Jordan and sitting next to Mom. Mom looked at him and did a double take. "You're wearing your costume," she said with a hint of surprise, "you look so good. Just like a real cop. You got something right here, though." She touched the front of his shirt, and when he looked down, she flicked his nose. Jordan giggled and Blake blew a long suffering sigh. "You look really cool, though," Mom said.

While Mom took Zoe into the bedroom for a diaper change, Blake and Jordan watched _Hey, Arnold!_ then Jordan had to leave. Mom sat next to him with her legs crossed and Zoe cradled to her breast. The baby drank from her bottle and watched him with unnervingly wide and unwavering eyes. Mom said that meant she was looking up to him and he had to show her how to be good and do things. Having someone look up to him was a lot of pressure, but Blake could handle it - he was going to be a cop one day, and _everyone_ looked up to cops. This was just practice.

Dad got home just before five, and they had frozen pizza before getting in the car and driving to Jordan's house. The rain had stopped and big groups of kids in costumes moved up and down the sidewalk. Blake had never been trick or treating in the trailer park; every year, Mom took him and Jordan to Grandpa and Grandma's neighborhood, which she said was better. She was a candy expert, so he accepted her logic without question.

Jordan was waiting on the porch, and hurried over when they pulled to the curb. She slipped in behind the passenger seat, Zoe separating them. "Hi," she said, then leaned over and gave Zoe a big smile. "Hi, baby. It's candy time~"

"I'm stoked too," Mom said, "Zoe's first Halloween. We didn't have to wait very long."

Putting the car in drive, Dad pulled away from the curb. "This doesn't count," he said. "She's not trick or treating."

"It does too count," Mom shot back, "it's her first Halloween no matter _what_ she does."

They were still arguing when they got to Grandpa and Grandma's house fifteen minutes later. Inside, Grandpa sat in his chair reading and Grandma sat on the couch with a candy dish in her lap. Aunt Jessie sat next to her with her arms and legs crossed, watching TV, where Peter Jennings read the day's news. Blake didn't see Aunt Jessy very much and was excited for her to come trick or treating with him.

Grandpa glanced up and regarded Blake over the tops of his reading glasses, a little smile crossing his face. "Looking snazzy in that costume, Officer." He looked at Jordan. "You should let Ronnie Anne borrow yours. I think she could put it to good use."

"You'd know if I was a witch, lame-o," Grandma said, "I'd use my powers to shut you up."

Blake presented himself to Aunt Jessy, and she smiled. "That's a _really_ nice costume," she said, "where'd you get it?"

"Grandpa got it for me," Blake said. "From _Things You Never Knew Existed._ It's this cool magazine that has _everything_ in it." Passion crept into Blake's voice and colored his cheeks. He really liked that magazine, and whenever Grandpa got one, it was like Christmas. He loved sitting on the couch and paging through it. He didn't know what a lot of the stuff was, but it looked awesome anyway.

Aunt Jessy grinned and pinched his cheek. He pulled away and she laughed. "You're so cute," she said defensively, then looked at Mom. "You should arrest your mother."

"Arrest _you,_ " Mom said and sat next to her. Aunt Jessy took Zoe and rocked her gently from side to side. "Crimes against humanity; being such a dork."

Following pictures and more doting, Blake and Jordan left with Mom, Dad, and Aunt Jessy, the latter holding Zoe and absently bouncing her as they walked. Next door, a fat guy in a baseball cap worked on his car, and when some kids came up, held their bags out, and cried "Trick or treat!" he told them to get lost, then called them dweebs.

"Lotta kids this year," Mom said and looked around. Huge clusters followed the sidewalks on either side of the street and streamed across front lawns like zombies from one of those scary movies Mom watched on _MonsterVision._ "It was never this busy when we were young."

Aunt Jessy hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know, it was a few times."

Blake and Jordan walked ahead and went up a walkway leading to the front porch of a two story ranch. "Isn't this where that guy gave us soda last year?" Jordan asked.

The previous Halloween, instead of candy, someone gave them each a can of caffeine free Pepsi. Blake thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I dunno, I can't remember."

"I hope he does it again this time," Jordan said, "I'm kind of thirsty."

Yeah, Blake was too.

He rang the doorbell, and an old woman in a floral housecoat, glasses, and threadbare slippers answered. The porch light sheened the lenses of her glasses and she smiled tersely. "Aren't you two just adorable," she said. "My husband was a police officer." She looked at Jordan. "And my sister was a witch. She cast a spell on him and POOF, he left me and married _her."_

Wow, her sister was a witch? Blake thought those were fake.

Now he was gonna have nightmares.

She reached into a bowl nestled in the crook of her elbow and dropped a single piece of candy in each bag. "Happy Halloween."

With that, she shut the door.

Blake and Jordan exchanged a frown, then took the candy out.

It wasn't candy at all.

"Bleh," Jordan said, "cough drops."

"Not even the good kind, either," Blake sneered, "store brand."

The next house yielded better results: Full sized Snickers and a bunch of mini Milky Way. At the one next door, a fat lady in a black dress and witch's hat came to the door and smiled broadly when she saw Jordan. "A sister," she said kindly, "I have something special for you." She disappeared into the house, then came out again bearing a tray. "For witches and friends of witches only," she winked.

Jordan's jaw dropped and Blake's eyes widened. "Brownies," Jordan whispered. She and Blake both took one. "Thank you," Jordan said.

"Thank you," Blake echoed.

"I made them with extra eye of newt," the woman teased.

At least Blake hoped she was teasing.

Mom, Dad, and Aunt Jessy waited at the bottom of the walkway, Mom holding Zoe. The baby drank greedily from a bottle and gazed into her mother's eyes. Mom stared back, a tiny smile dancing on her lips. "I'm really good at staring contests, kid," she said, "you don't stand a chance."

They hit a bunch more houses before Zoe started getting fussy and they had to leave. Blake hugged Aunt Jessy and got in the car. In her seat, Zoe kicked her legs and issued a high, warbling cry that hurt Blake's ears. "Zoe," Mom drew, "it's okay, honey, we're going home right now."

Zoe cried even harder.

Jordan twisted in her seat and brushed the baby's hair. "Don't cry, baby, it's alright."

"She's tired," Mom said.

It was a long trip home. No matter how many lullabies Jordan sang her or how many head pats she gave, Zoe would not stop crying. By the time they got there, Blake wanted to cry too.

He liked his little sister, but he didn't like what she did to his eardrums.

Why...she was almost as annoying as Mom.

Almost.

Because Mom, as cool as she was, could be _pretty_ annoying sometimes.


	196. November 1997

Home is a nebulous concept. What constitutes 'home'? Is it where we were we live? Where our oldest and fondest remembrances dwell? Or is it where the people we love are? Royal Woods, Michigan, was home for Jessy from birth to the moment she and Mark left it in a rented U-Haul in 1996. She grew up there, went to school there, had many friends there, happy times, sad times, neutral times, it was where her mother and her adopted parents lived. It was, in essence, what she thought of as _home._ During those first few months in Seattle, a foregin place where things were similar but indefinably _different_ , she passed many rainy afternoons longng for home the way a fish aches for water. She gradually came to accept her new surroundings, but like an ill-fitting garment, Seattle and environs never felt _right_.

Crossing the town line on October 28 was like coming home, and Jessy imagined she wouldn't want to leave again. Her sister was here, her nephew, her new niece, and everywhere she looked, she glimpsed flashes of the past that made her smile even if they weren't of particularly happy events. Gazing at a nondescript storefront that once boasted a consignment shop called White Elephant, she recalled the hurt and humiliation she felt after Alex got them kicked out. Humiliation because being told to leave somewhere was embarrassing, and hurt because Alex knew how much she enjoyed it there, and put a bowl on her head and danced around anyway...like she didn't care. Passing the Methodist church, she went back to the day of her Grandmother's funeral in 1994...and her Grandfather's in 1989...and Auntie Leni's in 1981. Those memories hurt, but she smiled anyway because they lead to other, happier memories, like sitting on Auntie Leni's bed and listening to music and baking cookies with Grandma.

Yes, Royal Woods was home and always would be.

Or so she thought.

Though she talked to him on the phone every evening during her stay at Mom's house, she started to miss Mark with deep, eviscerating intensity. At night, she struggled to fall asleep without his warmth and the sound of his breathing. When she reached out with her foot or hand, the bed was always cold, always empty, and while she knew it would be, it sent a sharp pang of loss through her chest anyway. During the day - whether she was out with Alex or at home with Mom, talking at the kitchen table over endless cups of coffee (that weren't as good as the coffee in Seattle, by the way), she'd find herself thinking of him, wondering what he was doing and if he was okay. He was a grown man more than capable of seeing to himself, but she couldn't help worry - he was a thousand miles away, almost half a world if you asked her.

Soon, she started to miss other things, too. The sky cleared on November 1 and the sun shone relentlessly. It wasn't very warm - high forties to low fifties in the day - but it was _bright_. In Seattle, the cloud cover was almost constant, and every time a shaft of natural light fell into her eyes, she missed it. She missed hers and Mark's house, and the neighborhood they lived in; she missed the high end markets in which she shopped; missed having lunch at her favorite cafe overlooking Puget Sound; missed her yoga classes; missed coming home, curling up in her chair by the window, and reading; missed the sights and smells; missed the comforting monotony of her routine. Though everywhere in Royal Woods was steeped in memory, and though she'd worn it down like a breaking in a new pair of Keds until they're just right, she no longer _belonged_. She didn't belong at Mom's house, Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne's house, Flip's, Alex's trailer...each one was a stuffy formal suit that pinched her neck, and when she realized she yearned to eschew it in favor of longue pants and a comfy T-shirt, she knew.

She was homesick.

For Seattle.

And for Mark.

Part of her wanted to stay until Thanksgiving - she and Mark would just be flying back for it in a few weeks anyway - but another part wanted to go home.

On November 7, she made up her mind. That day, she and her mother had lunch at Flip's and she told her that she was leaving in the morning. _I just really miss Mark,_ she said, and flicked her eyes ashamedly to her plate, loathe to see hurt in her mother's eyes. _It's kind of like home now._

It was noon and the dining room was smattered with people. Uncle Lincoln sat behind the register and looked bemusedly around as though disbelieving of his good fortune _(hot damn, a rush!)_ and Becky the waitress dashed strickenly from table to table like an out of practice relay runner. The TV was on when Jessy and Luan got there, jagged lines zigzagging across the screen, but the screen winked out a few minutes later. _Piece of shit,_ Uncle Lincoln had said. He chucked the remote over his shoulder...then picked it up, laid it on the counter like patient prepped for surgery, and started tinkering.

 _I don't blame you,_ Mom said lightly, _that's where your home and husband are. You're still coming back for Thanksgiving, right?_

 _Of course,_ Jessy said.

Guilt twinged her chest - she rarely got to see her mother and leaving early felt like of like running off - but her resolve was ironclad. _I want to make a big dinner and have everyone over,_ she said, _to say goodbye._

Mom grinned. _Sounds like a plan._

On their way home, they stopped at Meijer's and picked up everything they would need to make Grandma's pot roast, which Jessy missed as badly as she did Mark. Carrots, onions, potatoes, celery, beef stock, the roast itself, and fresh Italian bread. Grandma used to make her own bread but that was a time consuming process that Jessy didn't particularly want to undertake. At home, they laid all the ingredients out on the kitchen counter and stood awkwardly before them. _I've never made this,_ Mom confessed, then added, _successfully._

 _Neither have I,_ Jessy said with a tinge of anxiety. Almost every Sunday growing up, she, Alex, Uncle Lincoln, and Auntie Ronnie Anne came to Grandma and Grandpa's for dinner - always pot roast, always made the same way, and always eaten at the same time (four'o'clock). If she closed her eyes and focused really hard, she could recall the smell lingering in the air, Grandpa sitting in chair, and all the love, laughter, and togetherness those weekly visits begot. Grandma, Grandpa, and Auntie Leni were all gone now, and those dinners could never be fully replicated, but she'd settle for imitation.

Grandma's recipe book sat on top of the fridge beneath a thick layer of dust. Jessy took it down, wiped it off, and sat it on the counter. The pages were brittle and yellowed with age, Grandma's tight, pragmatic script faded by years. Some of the recipes came from _her_ mother, and the most recent ones were clippings from a magazine, each boasting a colored photo of a gelatin mold. One green, one red, and one a deep shade of blue that struck Jessy as wholly abnormal. The date in the top right corner was _Spring 1956._

 _Oh, God,_ Mom moaned, _your grandmother went crazy for these things. For a while that's all she made._

Jessy had heard of gelatin molds, of course, but had never eaten one.

 _What are they like?_ she asked warily. She wasn't fond of Jell-O, but she didn't hate it. The lime mold with orange slices inside looked decent enough. The red one, however, with its shreds of white meat chicken, turned her stomach.

 _Awful,_ Mom said and crinkled her nose. _No one liked them except for Mom. Dad never complained but he also didn't ask for seconds, and when he didn't go back for more, you knew there was a problem._ She laughed at the memory, and Jessy laughed too because Grandpa _did_ like her food. He was never fat, though he did have a little extra around the waist, but with as much as he ate, he should have weighed 500 pounds. Dad always said that's where Alex got her appetite and Jessy concurred. When they were at the same table, they looked like twins, both hunched protectively over their food and gobbling with furious speed. _Will you two slow down, please?_ Grandma would ask. _It's not a race, it's a meal._

Come to think of it, Alex still ate like that.

Carefully turning the pages, Jessy found the entry for _Grandma's Pot Roast._ She wasn't sure if that's just what Grandma called it of if it was really her own grandmother's recipe, but she liked to imagine the latter - a recipe passed down through the generations from time immemorial like a hearty (and tasty) hug. She read it carefully, wanting to make it _exactly_ like Grandma did but knowing that she couldn't; no one could make it the way she did. It was as though she imbued it with special magic inherent only to her.

The first order of business was peeling potatoes, cutting carrots, and chopping onions. She and her mother worked side-by-side, Jessy peeling over the sink and Mom slicing carrots into tiny, bite sized pieces on the cutting board. They talked as they completed their tasks: Jessy told Mom about yoga _(it's very relaxing...almost like meditation)_ and Mom listened intently, humming thoughtful interest here and there. Mom told her about her relationship with Governor McBride, something Jessy was aware of and very curious about, but had never brought up. _He was a very sweet man,_ Mom said with a hazy smile, _for a Republican. He's one of those Reagan loony toons now. Such a shame._

Jessy didn't know much about Governor McBride, so maybe Mom was right. He _was_ a conservative Republican and Jessy had come to dislike them greatly over the past several years. Maybe not them as people, but certainly their idealogy and their penchant for favoring big business, corporations, and the military-industrial complex over people. Conservatives, in her estimation, were the most vocal proponates of personal freedom and liberty, but backtracked when it came to things like gay marriage. The Democrats weren't friendly to it either - just last year, President Clinton signed the regressively titled _Defense of Marriage Act_ \- but they didn't enshrine the concept of total liberty the way Republicans did. Republicans decried big government and claimed to wait the federal apparatus shrunk and out of people's way, but hypocritcally employed it to uphold their archaic definition of morality. Jessy could respect them if they applied their beliefs across the board, but they did not.

She was not blinded by ideology enough to miss Democrats doing the same thing. Uncle Lincoln was right in that both parties were sides of a single coin. The Democrats, however, were the lesser of two evils, and could be utilized to promulgate true and meaningful change. The Republicans in Congress, led by Newt Gingrich, were a lost cause, and the tide of history would sweep them aside soon enough. After the good years of Clinton, in fact, she would be surprised if she ever saw another Republican president in her lifetime.

Mom put the roast in a baking pan, and Jessy added the celery, carrots, onions, and potatoes. They shoved it into the oven and stepped back, both crossing their arms and regarding their work with identical expressions of flummoxed pride. So far, so good. Jessy checked the clock on the wall. It was just after two, and if they followed Grandma's footsteps exactly, the roast would be done at seven. Of course Grandma's were always done no later than four, but she got started much sooner than they did.

 _Success,_ Mom said with an airy lift.

While they waited, Mom brewed a pot of coffee and they drank at the kitchen table, that eternal meeting place of mothers and their grown daughters since the two were first combined. At one point, Mom asked Jessy something that surprised her. _How's your father doing?_

Mom never asked about Dad, and knowing the painful nature of their past together, Jessy rarely spoke of him around her. For that matter, she rarely spoke of her around him. _He's doing good,_ she said with a slow nod, _he just bought a house._

 _Oh, that's nice,_ Mom said genuinely.

In 1990, Dad got a job at a janitorial company in Sacramento, cleaning office buildings at night. For a year, he had one building, but because he did such a good job, the owner gave him another, much bigger one that was cleaned by multiple people. He became friends with a man named Jimt who handled the bathrooms and lobbies, and in 1993, they decided to open their own cleaning business. They made a decent profit, and in June, Dad was able to buy a vacant two story house in Sacramento's Poverty Ridge neighborhood (it was actually a much nicer area than the name let on). Built in 1891 and abandoned after an earthquake in 1985, It was cheap, but required a lot of work, work that he did by himself in evenings and on weekends: Replacing corroded pipes, tearing up rotting floors, knocking down walls, rewiring, replacing broken sinks and toilets, repaving the driveway, and residing the exterior. His plan was to eventually sell it for a tidy profit and move somewhere else, or, barring that, divide the upstairs into apartments and rent them.

Jessy told Mom this, and she listened, intrigued. _That's good,_ she said when Jessy was finished, _I'm glad to hear he's doing well. Have you seen him recently?_

 _He came up a few days before Christmas,_ Jessy said. _He was really impressed by the house._

Mom hadn't been to Seattle yet and had only seen pictures of the house. Hopefully she'd take a couple weeks and visit in a few months. Something told Jessy she would need her presence.

Around three, Jessy checked the roast - it was coming along nicely, and a rush of pride came over her. Mom bent over beside her and took a deep breath through her nose. _It smells really good,_ she said, _I think we actually pulled it off._ She held her hand up, palm flat, and grinning, Jessy slapped it.

Oh, yeah, she thought, we are _good_.

At three-thirty, sudden fatigue washed over her, and she begged off for a nap. In her room - Mom and Aunt Luna's old room - she curled up on her side. A thin sliver of feeble late afternoon sunlight fell through the curtains and lay across the floor. In the gathering gloom, she hugged herself and dozed, half awake and half asleep, unsure where this world ended and the world of dreams began. For what seemed like hours, she was back in her chair by the window, dividing her attention between a paperback and the rain slicked window. Mark sat on the sofa watching TV, and even though they were not in close proximity, or even speaking, just having him there stoked warm, abiding feelings in her chest, and a smile kissed the corners of her lips.

It was twilight when she finally got up and went downstairs. She was groggy and nauseous and would have stayed put, but she really wanted to talk to Mark.

In the living room, Mom and Fred sat on the sofa before _ABC World News Tonight_ , Mom's head on Fred's shoulder and their hands clasped. They reminded her of herself and Mark - only because every happy couple did - and her chest tightened. _It's almost ready,_ Mom said. _And it looks just like Mom's._

 _That's great,_ Jessy said earnestly, _I'm going to call Mark really quick._

 _Okay, honey, tell him we said hi._

In the ambiently lit kitchen, where the smell of roast was strong and good, Jessy went to the phone on the wall, took the handset, and glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:45, 3:45 in Seattle. She'd try the office first.

She dialed and got the secretary, who told her that Mark left an hour ago. She called home, and let it ring ten times before giving up with a pinch of disappointment. She started to hang up, but the line clicked and Mark came on, sounding harried. _Hello?_

 _Hey,_ she smiled, _it's me._

 _Oh, hey,_ he said, relaxing, _I wasn't expecting a call this early._

Jessy shrugged. _I just felt like talking to you. What's up? Did I interrupt something?_

Mark took a deep breath, meaning he had a long story to tell. _Will and Mr. Gates are here. We were playing the Nintendo 64 and Mr. Gates decided, on a whim, that he wants Microsoft to produce a game console of its own. We've been going over logistics and sketching designs for the last..._ he trailed off and Jessy pictured him consulting his watch... _twenty-eight minutes._

 _Oh,_ she said, _that's...interesting._

 _Yeah._ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. _This might be the first project I get to manage. I'm pretty excited._

His voice was flat as always.

 _I can tell,_ Jessy said fondly. _I can't wait to be home._

 _I can't wait to have you home. I really miss you._

Jessy smiled. _Go back to work. I love you._

 _I love you too. See you tomorrow._

 _Bye._

Jessy hung up and sighed. Back in the living room, Auntie Lori and Uncle Bobby sat on the couch next to Mom. Auntie Lori, always very slender, was rail thin, and the hair at Uncle Bobby's temples was completely white, the rest streaked with gray; it was beginning to thin in spots, and before long he would be officially going bald.

Alex was next, arriving ten minutes later with Blake and Tim in tow. She held Zoe in her arms, and Jessy lit up when she saw the baby. _I smell food,_ Alex said and sniffed the air, _is it done?_

 _Almost,_ Jessy said and took her niece. Zoe stared up at her from her blanket, dark eyes watching and tiny hands squirming spasmodically. _Hi, beautiful girl._ Jessy cooed, _how are you?_

Zoe kicked.

 _That bad, huh? You can always come to Seattle and live with me._

Alex came over and flicked her ponytail. _Not gonna happen,_ she said.

 _You think,_ Jessy teased, then sized the baby up. _She can fit in one of the overhead compartments._

Alex gasped. _My daughter is_ not _baggage._

 _But her mother is,_ Jessy said.

Alex lowered her brow in faux outrage. _If the food wasn't almost ready, I'd leave._

Uncle Lincoln and Auntie Ronnie Anne showed up at 7:01 exactly. _We're fashionably late,_ he said and hung his Members Only jacket up by the door.

 _And fashionably lame,_ Alex said from Grandma's chair.

 _All these years and kid's still a dork,_ Uncle Bobby tossed over his shoulder.

 _I can't believe he made it through basic,_ Fred snorted.

Uncle Lincoln looked around the room with a sour nod. _What is this, shit on Linc day?_

 _Remember the time the health inspector failed Flip's?_ Mom asked.

 _Remember the last time Flip's had business?_ Auntie Lori asked.

 _No,_ said Alex.

 _Me either!_

Jessy couldn't help laughing, and Uncle Lincoln's churlish expression made her laugh even harder. At every family gathering, her aunts and uncles delighted in picking on each other, none more so than Uncle Lincoln. He never missed a chance to call Mom a hippie, Uncle Lynn a fat shyster, Uncle Bobby a dirty, numbskull greaser, and Auntie Lori bride of dirty, numbskull greaser. This time around, everyone piled on in a preemptive strike - shoot first or be shot.

Still nodding, he took his jacket down and started putting it on again. _I'm gonna get my gun. Be right back._

Auntie Ronnie Anne slapped his arm. _Shut up, lame-o._

Grumbling, he took his coat off and put it back.

Zoe darted her eyes to him and kicked her legs faster in either excitement or alarm. Jessy couldn't tell which, but it was super cute either way. _That's your grandpa,_ she said, _he wouldn't really get his gun. Ignore him, he's been saying that for years._

After passing Zoe off to Auntie Lori, Jessy went into the kitchen and checked the roast. It looked and smelled done to her. She grabbed a couple pot holders from the drawer, took it out, and sat it on the stove. Mom drifted in while she was cutting it, leaned against the door frame, and crossed her arms, watching with a misty motherly pride that made Jessy flush. _You can set the table,_ Jessy said archly.

 _Yes, ma'am,_ Mom said. She got a stack of plates from the cabinet and sat one at each chair, then added cups and forks. Done, she laid the bread on the counter and cut it into equal pieces. She opened her mouth like she had something to say, then closed it again.

 _What?_ Jessy asked.

She shook her head. _Nothing. I was just going to say I'm proud of you._

Hm. I didn't even do anything. _For what?_

 _For not being like me._

Those words hung heavy between them as Jessy grasped for a way to respond but came up empty handed. _You're succeeding where I failed,_ Mom continued, _and I'm so proud of that I can barely stand it._ She chuckled and tossed a spill of graying hair from her eyes. Jessy looked uncomfortably down at the roast, half carved and soaking in brown juice. _Keep being unlike me, okay?_

Jessy sighed. Mom had always been wracked with guilt over missing Jessy's childhood...and secretly distressed that she was never the mother to her that Auntie Ronnie Anne was. Jessy could understand her feelings now more than ever, and in a way...no, Mom never was her real mother, and that lack of connection between them bothered Jessy deeply, because it made her feel like an awful daughter.

She did love her, however, and in a way, she even admired her.

 _You made mistakes,_ she said, _and you paid for them. You were strong enough to come back from them. I don't want to be like you then..._ here she looked up and her mother, smiled, and laid her hand on top of hers, _but I do want to be like you now._

Mom smiled to herself. _I'm not much to look up to,_ she said, the words coming as a hard admission.

 _Yes you are,_ Jessy said. _You're proof that no matter what we do in life, we can always change and improve._

Mom blushed, and instead of seeing the young woman her mother once was, fiery and determined, she saw the girl she must have been before. _I love you, Mom._

 _I love you too, honey,_ Mom said and took Jessy in her arms. Jessy hugged back and reveled in her mother's touch like a satisfied cat. In the living room, Uncle Lincoln called Lori a washed up desk jockey on social security, and Mom sighed. _We better get this food out before they start killing each other._

Pulling apart, they went back to work, and inside of ten minutes, everyone crowded around the table, Uncle Lincoln at the head and Alex at the front, a napkin tucked into her shirt and a fork clutched in one fist. Zoe sat at her feet in her carseat, drinking from a bottle propped up by her blanket. Blake sat across from Uncle Bobby. Next to him, Tim gave Auntie Lori tips on how to get the most out of her oil change. Fred and Auntie Ronnie Anne stared at the roast like dogs peering through a butcher shop window, he chewed his bottom lip and her breathing heavy. Jessy sat next to her mother and waited for everyone else to help themselves before making her own plate. She planned for someone to say grace just like when Grandma was alive, but as soon as the food was in front of them, they all dove in with reckless abandon like a bunch of heathens. _This is really good, Jess,_ Alex said around a mouthful of roast, _not Grandma level, but close._

 _It's delicious,_ Auntie Ronnie Anne said, _Alex is a lame-o, it tastes_ just like _your grandmother's_.

 _It's drier than Mom's,_ Uncle Lincoln said. Jessy took that as a compliment; he liked dry beef. He said it was the first thing he tasted after being rescued in Vietnam and he fell in love with it.

Jessy beamed. _I'm glad everyone likes it,_ she said, _I had some help from Mom._

Mom shook her head. _No, this was mostly you._

 _Parlty,_ Jessy said humbly.

For a while, the only sound was the scraping of forks against plates and the smack of hungry chewing. Jessy ate her food sparingly, but went back for two more helpings, making extra sure to add extra carrots. When she was finished, she sat back and looked around at her family, three generations, some born, others accumulated along the way. Intense love swelled within her, and inexplicable tears came to her eyes.

That had been happening a lot lately. Must be hormones.

She waited until the others was done and cleared her throat. _I have something to say,_ she said haltingly. Everyone gave her their attention and she took a deep breath. She'd been building herself up to this moment ever since she landed in Detroit, rehearsing it in her head again and again so that it was simple but perfect.

Allowing her true joy to finally show through, she said, _I'm pregnant._

The air seemed to go out of the room, and for a moment, the world stood completely still, like a snapshot, then Mom's hands flew to her mouth. Before Jessy knew it, her mother swept her into a fierce embrace and everyone was talking at once. A merry laugh bubbled up from Jessy's throat and tears coursed down her cheeks.

 _Oh, wow,_ Alex said, _now I can threaten to take_ your _baby away. Gotta love karma._

Jessy pulled away from her mother, and she, too, was crying. _I'm so happy for you,_ Mom said in a broken whisper, her lips quivering.

 _Me too,_ Auntie Ronnie Anne said. She came over and hugged Jessy tightly.

Uncle Lincoln came over and hugged her next; he leaned over the back of the chair and took both her and Auntie Ronnie Anne in a spine crushing death grip. _Congratulations,_ he said. _I knew all along, you can tell when a woman's pregnant. I just didn't want to spoil it._

 _Oh, shut up,_ Uncle Bobby, _you didn't know anything, Linc._

 _And how,_ Fred said, and everyone laughed.

Maybe, Jessy thought as Alex and Mom joined the hug…

...it's possible to have two homes.


	197. December 1997

**This chapter marks forty in-story years since this story began. Feels kind of like forty irl too. Lincoln and Ronnie Anne have come a long way and they still have a couple of years left to go before they are parted. Again, I want to thank everyone for sticking with this story. I'm sure you weren't expecting to still be here almost two years and 1.2 million words later, and I deeply appreciate that you are. I am, I think, less than 50,000 words from the end and hope to have this story wrapped, at least writing wise, by the end of July. I may start updating more frequently in the coming week or two.**

 **Now, on with the show.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **The Stroll**_ **by The Diamonds (1957)**

It was December 11, 1997, D-Day. Lincoln Loud had been building himself up to this day for over a month, sneaking, plotting, receiving shipments at Flip's from strange trucks at all hours of the day. _Tell anyone about this and you're fired,_ he told Becky the previous Monday. It was 7am and a delivery boy in Spandex shorts and a blue shirt just wheeled something big in on a handcart. It was _supposed_ to come in a wooden crate (at least he thought it was), but it didn't; it was bared to the world like an uninhibited sun bather. _Look at my supple young body, everyone._ Becky put her hands up in a placating gesture, _Alright, fine,_ she said.

Keeping secrets from the woman you've been with for forty years is an odd and disconcerting feeling. In the four decades he'd known Ronnie Anne, Lincoln had opened to her completely, baring his heart, soul, and mind, and she did the same. Every evening, when he got home, they talked about their day, each telling the other everything of note. They didn't do it because either was suspicious, they did it because that's what you do with your best friend. Holding anything to his chest made him antsy, but especially something this big.

Then again, he was also pretty excited.

That morning, he woke to the alarm at six like he did every morning (except for Sunday). Ronnie Anne's side of the bed was empty and a crack of light shone under the bathroom door. Lincoln swung his legs over the side and sat up, his hands planting on either side of him and his head bowing. His back ached, his neck was stiff, and his eyelids drooped heavily; he felt like a goddamn Mac truck ran him over, then backed up while the driver leaned out the window, flipped him off, and cried _fuck you_ over and over again.

In other words, normal.

Oh, once upon a time he could leap out of bed like a superhero no problem, but these days, at fifty-one, he shuffled. _Geritol...must have Geritol._ The scary part was this: Fifty-one wasn't very old. To a twenty year old kid, it might as well be ancient, but in the grand scheme of things, it's still relatively young. Of course, old age is like a mirage shimmering in the distance - the closer you get, the farther away it pulls. Old is always then and never now, a destination you won't reach no matter how many miles you trod.. _I ain't old...sixty's old._ When you get to sixty: _Nah, not yet. Sixty-five._ At sixty-five: _Okay, I was wrong, seventy is old._ If he felt this way now, God, what would sixty-one be like? He pictured himself bedridden and shitting in his diaper, and smiled archly. Hey, at least he wouldn't have to work anymore.

Silver linings.

Getting to his feet, he went to the bathroom door and peeked in.

Empty.

Hm. Ronnie Anne usually turned off the light before leaving the latrine.

 _Usually_.

He slipped in, took a piss, and brushed his teeth. In the mirror, his eyes were bleary and red rimmed. He and Ronnie Anne went to bed at nine last night but he looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Felt kinda like it, too.

Done, he sat his brush in the holder, turned the light off, and snapped the bedside lamp on, low, comfortable light filling the room. He dressed at the speed of social security in a pair of tan slacks and a red and green plaid shirt (tucked neatly in so he didn't look like a hippie). He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled his shoes on, and tied the laces.

Today marked forty years to the day that he asked Ronnie Anne to the winter dance...and got turned down...then beaten up and almost stabbed for hanging with a colored. _Hey, Loud, I hear you like niggers now,_ Billy Mason said. Or did he? Lincoln couldn't remember. It didn't matter _what_ that little punk said though, because it all worked out in the end: Ronnie Anne came by, scraped him up, married him, and gave him a beautiful daughter. He wondered if things would have happened the same if Billy _didn't_ kick his ass. Probably not. He would have gone home in defeat and wound up marrying someone else. A real nag, perhaps. _Lincoln, stop having PTSD flashbacks at the table! You're scaring the kids!_ Ronnie Anne never did that; she let him go and if Alex and Jessy got scared, well, suck it up, honey, he'll stop crying and shaking eventually.

For the record, that never happened, and if it did, he would have hanged himself in the garage. Better for them to have no father than to have one who constantly hurts them.

He honestly believed that. He could never, even at his fresh from the front worst, imagined hurting his girls, and deep in the back of his subconscious mind, he was prepared to die rather than harm them. Most of the nightmares he had in the years after they adopted Jessy revolved around him doing things to them. Lashing out, hitting, punching, slapping, their cries of pain and terror fueling the burning rage in his chest. He woke from these dreams in tears or close, and the next day, he either treated them with exaggerated tenderness or avoided them entirely, terrified that one jolt or jostle would turn him into the monster from his nightmare. The latter option wasn't a long term solution - pushing them away was just as bad as slapping and hitting them - and he worked to overcome his fear with help from Ronnie Anne.

If he didn't have her, he didn't know _what_ he'd have.

Suddenly wanting to hug her tight and tell her how much he loved and appreciated her, Lincoln stood and went into the hall. Light spilled through the archway to the kitchen and fell across the carpet in a pallid white bar. He went in and stopped.

Empty.

Okay, where's my wife?

That's when he heard it. A dial tone followed by a series of beeps, boops, and a loud, ear bloodying hiss that sounded like a robot reaching the apex of orgasm. He turned, and there, sitting at the computer on the desk in the living room, her face bathed in soft electric glow, was RA herself, clad in a smart black skirt that stopped at her knees, pantyhose, a white blouse, and a gray blazer. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back in a bun and her reading glasses slipped down her nose like a big sweater down the shoulder of a small girl. She looked so much like a principal that she might as well have been wearing a nametag that said HI, I'M A PRINCIPAL, PLEASED TO MEET YOU. She leered toward the screen, her hand limply resting on the mouse, and stared into the techno void like a brainwashed cultist into the fixed gaze of Marshall Applewhite.

Ah. Should have known.

Last month, Mark flew in from Seattle for a week for Thanksgiving - Jessy was already here, in case you forgot. They divided their time between here and Luan's, and one day, Mark and Ronnie Anne started talking computers. Lincoln was reading and listening to Tom Brokaw so he didn't catch most of it, but somehow the little bastard sold her on the idea of buying a personal computer. _They're the wave of the future,_ Mark stated, _you can email, surf the web, create professional looking documents, and do pretty much anything else. In twenty years, there will be no pretty much about it. You_ will _be able to do everything._

 _Can it bring customers into Flip's?_ Lincoln asked.

 _No._

 _Then I don't want it._

Oh, but Ronnie Anne did, and...let's not kid ourselves...Ronnie Anne wore the pants in the family. The very next day, she dragged him to the mall along with Mark and Jessy. She and Mark walked ahead, Ronnie Anne asking every question a prospective computer buyer could ask while he and Jessy brought up the rear. Lincoln stole surreptitious sidelong glances at his niece's stomach, hidden beneath a stylish black peacoat. Along with her boots and scarf, that damn coat made her look rich. _How're you feeling?_ he asked. _Any sickness?_

Jessy was two months pregnant and due July 20, a week after his birthday.

 _A little,_ she said with a nod.

To make a long story short, Ronnie Anne wound up buying a 4-goddamn-thousand dollar Dell Dimension XPS H266 with a Pentium II processor...whatever the hell _that_ was. When Lincoln saw the price tag, he paled.

 _Four thousand bucks? Let's not be rash, we don't really_ need _a -_

 _I love it,_ Ronnie Anne said.

That was that. Her heart was set on the damn thing and he could do nothing about it. He turned to Mark and glared. The boy regarded him blankly. _I oughta shove your glasses down your throat._

 _As long as you don't break them,_ Mark said, _they're my only pair._

By the end of the day, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne Loud were the proud owners of a new PC desktop. He and Mark moved Alex and Jessy's old desk into the living room, and Lincoln supervised while Mark set the computer up. There it had been since, a clunky reminder of the day his wife pissed away four thousand bucks on a glorified TV set. The monitor was bulky, the fan in the CPU sounded like a tractor trailer, and since it hooked to the internet through the phone line, you got that god awful sound when it dialed up. Oh, also, you couldn't use the phone and the Dell at the same time. One or the other, jack. It had both Microsoft Windows and America Online; the former was the software and the latter the internet. He thought. Or maybe it was the other way around. Who the hell knew? He sure didn't.

 _Oh, wow, this is_ much _nicer than our computer,_ Alex said as she leaned every which way over it, touching, poking, and sniffing. _Newer, too._

 _And more expensive,_ Lincoln groused from his chair.

 _How much?_

 _Four thousand._

Alex blew a raspberry and waved him off. _Ours was..._ she trailed. _I dunno, it was a gift._ She looked at Mark. _How much did our computer cost?_

 _5,500,_ he said.

Alex smirked at her father. _Your Dell's not so nice now, is it?_

Ronnie Anne used it sparingly at first, tinkering around like a bored woman killing time until something interesting happened (Cong ambush, hehehe), but earlier in the month, she discovered the AOL chat rooms, cyberspace lounges divided by topic and category where people from all around the world could talk (type) and get to know each other. Aww, you're discussing educational standards with a teacher in Moscow, how cute. It's probably a goddamn KGB agent. They're gonna track us down, kick our door in, and put us in a gulag all because you just _had_ to buy this overpriced hunk of plastic.

Anyway, she _loved_ these damn chat rooms and spent hours in them. _Hey, lame-o_ , she'd say over her shoulder as he read _Guns & Ammo _and listened to _Everybody Loves Raymond_ on CBS _, check it out, this guy's from Nigeria. Cool, huh?_

Yeah. Happenin'.

Look, he wasn't _against_ the idea of owning a computer. He postured in front of Mark, but honestly, those things _were_ kind of nifty. They were also unnecessary. If he wanted to write someone a letter, he'd do it the old fashioned way. Need to look something up? That's why we have encyclopedias. Need the latest news? It's delivered to our door every single day...plus, we have three nightly news programs to choose from. What does a computer _really_ add to our lives? It's just another time waster. A cool toy, maybe, but a toy nevertheless.

Presently, he shook his head in disappointment, went to the coffee pot, and poured himself a cup. He took it into the living room and stood at Ronnie Anne's right hand, staring down at her and waiting for her to acknowledge him. Instead, she navigated the mouse across the pad and clicked it. The screen loaded, then went to a list of chatrooms. "What are you doing?" he finally asked.

Ronnie Anne scrolled through them, her eyes squinting in concentration, then clicked on one. "Just checking in with the gang," she muttered absently.

Oh?

Though she perused all the chat rooms like a fat woman sampling everything from a buffet, her favorite was a forum for educators from across the world called...well, he couldn't remember. She delighted in chatting with teachers, principals, and administrators in far flung locales, with a special fascination with those from developing countries. Her screen name was BossLady46.

"You're gonna be late," he said and glanced at his watch.

"I'll be quick," she said, "we were having a discussion about government funding for education in Uganda and I wanna see if anyone replied to this awesome point I made."

Alrighty then. "Well, I gotta go." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Love you."

"Love you too, lame-o," she said, then, as he crossed to the door, "happy anniversary."

He stopped and slipped on his Members Only jacket. "You too."

"Wanna go out for dinner?"

"Maybe," he said.

No, he did not.

He had other plans.

Twenty minutes later, he put those plans into action. Standing in the middle of the dining room at Flip's, his arms crossed over his chest, he supervised as Becky perched precariously on a chair behind the counter and tacked one end of a banner to the wall. Fred stood on a step stool and pinned the other end. Lincoln scanned it and nodded to himself. "Good work," he said. He went around to the register, reached under the counter, and brought out a pack of balloons "Becky," he said, "blow these up."

Becky hanged her head in defeat. "Sarge and I are old," he said, "our lungs don't work as well as yours."

Without looking up, she grudgingly stuck her hand out, and he slapped the package into her upturned palm. "Good woman," he complimented.

"Am I getting paid extra for this?" she asked.

No, fuck you. "Yes, you're getting paid extra."

"That's something," she said. She sat on his stool, ripped the pack open, took a balloon out, and, propping her elbows on the countertop, started to blow it up.

While she did that, Lincoln went in to the back, unlocked the store room flanking the back door, and pulled the overhead cord, filling the space with weak, murky light. Shelves stood against the walls on either side, and ahead, a stack of boxes loomed out of the shadows. Cobwebs danced in the corners as he went to it and hefted the top one; a wince of pain crossed his face and he sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. Damn, what's in here, rocks?

He carried it into the dining room and sat it on one of the tables, then went back for another, this one much lighter than the first. Producing a razor from his pocket, he pushed the thumb piece on the side, extended the blade, and slashed the packing tape holding the flaps closed. At the counter, Becky tied off a balloon and casually tossed it onto the floor with several others; they trembled as if with excitement for the coming festivities. Lincoln opened the box and pulled out a pack of streamers. "Here," he said and handed it to Fred, "put these up."

Next, he opened the first box. Heavy purple drapes greeted him like royal vestments. He took one out and draped it over the back of the booth. These damn things ran him almost three hundred dollars. He could have gone with something cheaper, but this was his fortieth anniversary and cutting corners was not an option. He pulled another out and flicked his wrists; it snapped and fluttered like a red cape tempting an angry bull. Becky tied off another balloon and tossed it aside, and Fred wobbled on the stool as he taped streamers to the wall.

A knock drew his attention to the door. A man and woman stood in the cold, both in heavy coats and scarves; their noses and cheeks were a jolly shade of red and air puffed out in front of them like dragon's breath. The woman smiled and pointed at the handle. _It seems to be locked. Can we make it not locked, please?_

Get lost, assholes. "Sorry, we're closed," he said, strained. Couldn't they read? The sign clearly said NOT OPEN, TAKE A HIKE.

Looking dejected, they turned around and went back to their car. Lincoln watched them go with a conflicted frown. He wasn't one to send potential customers packing, but this was more important than money. You can buy lots of neat stuff with that crap, but you can't buy the love, devotion, and friendship of a woman like Ronnie Anne. That's something you luck into by accident.

When Fred was done with the streamers, Lincoln had him help with the drapes, and together, they hung them over the windows, blotting out the tepid winter sunlight. Becky blew her last balloon, tied the end, and dropped it onto the counter. She started to get up, but Lincoln reached into the box, grabbed another pack, and tossed it over; in landed on the countertop in front of her, and she slumped her shoulders. "Thought you were done, huh?" Lincoln asked.

She sighed, tore the pack open, and went back to work.

"Just be glad you aren't locked in a bamboo cage," he said.

"Or hiding under the bodies of your dead friends from the Chinese," Fred added nonchalantly as he jumped down from the step stool and dusted his hands.

Becky look from Fred to Lincoln as though they were both crazy, and Lincoln smirked. Yeah, he _was_ crazy.

For Ronnie Anne.

And also because he was tortured for eight months straight.

But mainly for Ronnie Anne.

* * *

Ronnie Anne Loud was late to work...again. She rushed through the main doors, frantically digging in her purse (oh, God, do I have my office keys?) at 6:45, just over half an hour before the first bell. Stray students already dotted the halls and the faculty parking lot was nearly half full, telling her that almost everyone was here.

Except her.

A near thirty year veteran of the Royal County public school system, Ronnie Anne prided herself on many things, her coolness under pressure and her exacting punctuality chiefly among them. She was _always_ early; if she had to be at a meeting at 5:30, she arrived at 5:20. That, she always thought, was the hallmark of responsibility. Since she joined AOL, however, she'd been arriving later and later everyday. At this rate, she'd be calling in sick and taking personal days to stay home on the computer by the time 2000 rolled around. She couldn't help herself, though, talking to people from other countries and learning about their lives - especially if they were educators like her - was really cool. Last night she spoke to a teacher from Uganda who presided over a one room, straw hut schoolhouse in a jungle village fifty miles from the nearest highway. How she had internet out there, Ronnie Anne would never know, but that was beside the point. The night before last, she talked to three teachers from Russia who'd been teaching since before the Cold War ended; one of them started just before Josef Stalin died, and told her that when the news broke, all of the kids were marched outside into the snow to publicly mourn. _All the tears were fake,_ the teacher said. _Mine were. I was glad he died._

Sometimes, she'd log on for just a few minutes then come up for air to find that hours had passed. Up until last week, she only did it in the evening, but now she was too excited to wait, and checked in before going to work too, hence her tardiness.

Presently, she went through the outer office and greeted the secretaries, then went to her door and unlocked the handle. Bumping the door open with her hip, she reached in, snapped the light on, and dropped her purse onto the desk. December was always a busy month as it marked the end of the year - there was so much to be done that sometimes she could barely break away to go home, and when she did, she brought enough paperwork with her to sink an aircraft carrier. Today, she had to meet with the president of the school board, complete no fewer than five employee evaluations, categorize and file financial statements for the superintendent's annual audit, and...she couldn't remember. She'd have to get a to-do list from Barbara, the head secretary. A tall, thin woman with bushy blonde hair beginning to gray and cat eye glasses, Barbara was her de facto Chief of Staff and knew seemingly _everything_ Ronnie Anne needed her to know.

First, however, she needed to walk the halls and make a presence - thus letting the students and faculty know the sheriff was in town - and get something to eat from the cafeteria. She kind of rushed out the door without having breakfast.

She blamed AOL. Those damn chat rooms were worse than Johnny Carson.

At her computer, she leaned over, powered it up, then waited for the load screen. Using her ultra secret password (AlexJessy6970), she logged on, then left. The first buses idled at the curb and kids streamed in through the double doors. She scanned the crowd for infractions and spotted two immediately: A white boy with his jeans sagging down his butt to expose his boxer shorts and a black girl in a tank top that bared her midriff. She wore a plaid shirt over it, unbuttoned, and Ronnie Anne fixed her with a stern glower. The girl's step faltered, and Ronnie Anne mimed buttoning the front of her dress. The girl hurriedly did her buttons and rushed off.

Now for the boy. He started to pass by, and she grabbed the back of his white T-shirt, stopping him dead in his tracks. In addition to the pants, he wore sunglasses and a backwards baseball cap, both of which were against the rules. She didn't notice them at first and wouldn't even mention them; shades and a hat were one thing, but hanging you barely clad ass over the seat of your pants like Big E Smalls is _quite_ another. "Excuse me," she said.

The boy looked dumbly over his shoulder. Brown peach fuzz crept across his upper lip and a tiny patch stood out on his chin like a food stain. "Why are you showing me your underwear?"

For a second, he made no sign that he heard or understood, then he pulled his pants up. Ronnie Anne flicked her eyes down and studied them; they hung slackly from his frame, three sizes too big, and rippled with every movement like Old Glory at full mast. She whipped a pencil from her pocket and used it to lift the hem of his shirt.

No belt.

"If you want to wear pants ten sizes too big for you, be my guest," she said as patiently as she could, "but if I see your panties again, I'm suspending you."

The boy nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Now get to class."

He scurried off, and Ronnie Anne followed at a stroll, her arms swinging stiffly back and forth and her heels clicking on the tile floor. "Hi, Mrs. Loud!" someone called, and she glanced over her shoulder. A freshman girl with blonde hair and big glasses waved at her from in front of the office. She wore a floral print dress and white Keds, her book bag slung over one shoulder. Ronnie Anne quickly flipped through her mental rolodex and found her name: Megan Summers, the ninth grade's resident nerd slash teacher's pet. Ronnie Anne smiled and waved, then turned and continued on her way.

There are three types of students, she had learned in her twenty-eight years of teaching: The ones who hated authority, the ones who cozied up to authority, and everyone else. You had the kids who talked back, argued, and disrespected staff, and the ones who brown nosed. Ronnie Anne, like any administrator, preferred the latter to the former, but some of those kids laid it on a little thick. Meagan wasn't bad, but years ago there was a boy named Lucas who chased down every teacher he could corner and sucked their butts until they finally found a way to beg off. It didn't help that his compliments came across as phony and insincere. _Oh, Mr. Bilko, have you lost_ weight? No, Mr. Bilko has _not_ lost weight and you know it, you little bastard. _I like your dress, Mrs. Loud, it's very stylish._ *Grin*

Despite the dubiety of his honesty, she'd take him over Kevin Jenner any day.

Heh. Her least favorite student. The last she heard, he was in solitary confinement at Pine Creek State Prison after stabbing a guard in the arm with a shiv fashioned from a piece of metal he somehow worked loose from his bedframe. Because his lawyer changed his absurd not guilty plea to guilty, the case never went to trial and Ronnie Anne didn't have to testify...he also escaped the death penalty. Over the past eight years, she'd come to forgive and even pity him. She never wished for him to die, but others did, and she couldn't blame them. What he did hung over Royal Woods like a black pall even today - small towns like this never forget misdeeds, even if they sweep them under the rug and pretend they never happened. The tension would always be there, lingering just beneath the surface like an ominous shape under water, so close you could reach in and touch it if you strained.

She was at the cafeteria now. Kids sat at long tables and ate from yellow trays; others talked or listened to portable CD players, heads nodding to music only they could hear. Mr. Jans, the history teacher, and Mrs. Dempsey, the guidance counselor, stood watch over the herd like bored shepherds tending their flock. She went up to the counter, grabbed a tray, and scanned the metal dishes on the other side of the glass. Scrambled eggs, burnt bacon, cold, rubbery toast, and sausage patties hard enough to double as hockey pucks. Two fat, mannish women with aprons and hairnets stood on the other side, spatulas at the ready. "How's it going, Donna?" Ronnie Anne asked one of them. "What's for lunch?"

Today, the menu was marked LUNCH LADY SURPRISE, which meant that the head of the kitchen - Donna - got to choose what was served.

"Chili," Donna said, "like always."

Oh. Right. Donna loved making chili because it was easy and stretched. There were always leftovers for her and the kitchen staff to take home.

"Sounds good," Ronnie Anne said. She allowed Donna to slop eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast onto her tray, then took it to the staff lunch room flanking the gym doors. A few teachers sat at circular tables, and another stood by the coffee pot with her head lolling, trying, it seemed, to find the strength to carry on. Ronnie Anne sat by herself and ate quickly, stopping only to return greetings and, once, to pour a cup from the ancient coffee pot next to the equally infirm microwave. There was a dent on the right side of the latter, roughly the size of a quarter dollar. Every once in a while, she'd uneasily wonder if it was caused by one of Kevin Jenner's bullets.

When she was done, she walked back out into the cafeteria, sat her tray in a little window looking into the kitchen, and returned to her office, taking the long way.

Alright, first order of business was filing that financial paperwork. She closed the door, slipped out of her blazer, and draped it over the back of her chair, then sat. Last year, Congress voted to increase educational spending and so far, Royal County had received 1,500 dollars more than it did in 1995. Stretched between four schools, it wasn't much, but it was a step in the right direction. Ronnie Anne shared her husband's disdain for all politicians and parties, but it had become clear to her by now that in terms of education, Democrats were the lesser of two evils. Republicans were always trying to cut school funding and give it to the Pentagon, and having been on the ground as a public educator for nearly thirty years, Ronnie Anne was intimately familiar with what that lack of funding did to schools. Teachers didn't have the supplies and materials they needed, and kids didn't get the standard of education they needed to compete in the global marketplace. Some of the people she talked to on AOL were from Europe, and she was shocked at the amount of money their government spends on education; ashamed, as well, that America, the greatest nation on the face of the earth, put so little value on its own educational system.

She worked through the morning, finishing with the files around eleven. After that, she did two employee evaluations, one for Mr. Tmmons, the art teacher, and one for Miss Symon, the new ninth grade biology teacher. Miss Symon, twenty-four and fresh from college, was a student at RCHS from 1988 to 1992. On the day Kevin Jenner shot the place up, she hid in the janitor closet until the police arrived and didn't come back to school until January; during the interim, she was diagnosed with PTSD and underwent counselling and therapy. She was okay now, and Ronnie Anne was impressed by how well she'd been doing in her new position.

At noon, she broke from lunch and ate in the dayroom while going over forms. The chilli was spicy today, and the inside of her mouth tingled unpleasantly. When she was younger, spicy foods didn't bother her, though she didn't particularly enjoy them for their own sake (surprising, given her Hispanicness), but now they did. Living too long as a white woman, perhaps? Hanging onto your heritage when you have very little actual connection to it is difficult, as she'd discovered. Beyond making Mexican food once or twice a month and occasionally watching Univision just because, she was about as functionally Latina as Alex. Alex's disinterest in her Spanish ancestry used to worry Ronnie Anne, as it's important to know and celebrate where you come from, but over time, she came to understand her daughter's views. America is, and always has been, a melting pot of races and ethnicities. One motto of the US is _E. pluribus unum -_ out of many, one. This nation was built by peoples from all over the world who came here with the dream of creating a better life for themselves and their children. The point is to become something new, not to carry the burden of the past with you, to melt and assimilate, to add your own ingredients to the pot and then to eat unreservedly from it like everyone else.

Too many immigrants today insist on clinging to the Old World and downright refuse to assimilate. They chant, protest, and wave the flags of the banana republics they fled from all in the name of ethnic diversity. Diversity is a good thing...but not when it clots the lifeblood of the union. America is not a land of tribes but a land of unity, each man and woman working together to establish and maintain a better way.

Her being Spanish meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. She could speak her native tongue and eat cuisine that reminded her of her family all she wanted, but this was her home and these people - the blacks, the whites, the Irish and the Asian - were her kinsmen.

Alex felt no need to learn Spanish and when you got right down to it, there really _was_ no reason. Holding onto tradition, maybe, like the Minnesotans who dress in Scandinavian garb at yearly festivals despite their family not having been to Scandinavia in twenty generations.

Still, deep down, she wished Alex would show a little more respect to her ancestry. Every time she waved it off, Ronnie Anne felt just a little pinch of hurt.

After lunch, she met with Martin Boorman, the President of the school board, to discuss the implementation of more progressive teaching tactics in the new year. Ronnie Anne was an old fashioned educator and believed that while building a rapport with the students is crucial, teachers are absolutely _not_ supposed to be their friends and under no circumstances should pupils be lead to believe that they are on equal footing with the staff. They are not. They are hormonal teenagers. Boorman favored a more liberal approach, and though Ronnie Anne hated it, he was going to get his way no matter how much she fought it.

Following the meeting, she did a third and fourth eval. It was 2:30 and dismissal began in fifteen minutes. From the look of things, she would have to stay until at least 6:30, maybe as late as 7:30. Sigh. What a way to spend your fortieth anniversary, huh? She started to get up for a bathroom break when the intercom on her desk buzzed and Barbara's voice issued from the speaker. " _Mrs, Loud, your husband's on the phone."_

Good timing, lame-o, just when I have to pee. "Put him through."

A light blinked on the phone and she picked up the handset. "Hey, lame-o."

"Hey," Lincoln replied. He sounded out of breath.

Worry clutched her chest. "You okay?" she asked.

Silence. "Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

She relaxed. "You're winded."

"Oh, well... _I_ don't sit behind a desk all day."

Ronnie Anne rolled her eyes. "No, you sit behind a register."

"Screw you."

"Geek."

"Dweeb," he shot back.

"Loser."

"Bitch."

"What do you want?" she asked. "I have things to do. Unlike Flip's, this place isn't empty."

He didn't respond for a second. "Now, that was _low_."

He was playing, but the moment those words left her lips, she regretted them. Flip's' lack of patronage and profitability was a sore topic for him. He told her that it made him feel like a failure. _I can't even support my family with that goddamn place anymore._ The fact that they were financially well enough off was irrelevant to him. He prided himself on being a provider and finding himself in a position where he couldn't do it stung.

She wouldn't apologize, though, that would only embarrass him more. Best to keep on going and pretend it didn't happen. "What's up?" she asked.

"When are you getting off?" he asked, rolling right along.

She sighed."I dunno. Probably about seven."

"Okay," he said, "when you get off, come to Flip's. I have something planned."

Forty years ago today, Lincoln asked her out. They weren't officially together until July 1958, but December 11, 1957, to them, marked the beginning of their relationship, and they always celebrated it in addition to their wedding anniversary, usually with a romantic dinner out then passionate sex. When he called, she expected it was to make plans for tonight, and while she wasn't an expensive date, or picky, this _was_ an important anniversary to her, and...Flip's? It would be a lie to say she wasn't a little disappointed, but eh, the point of the matter was to spend time with the man she loved, wasn't it?

"Alright." Her voice was grudging, as though she were acquiescing to a disagreeable fate. "I'll call when I'm on my way."

"Great," he said, "I love you."

There was _nothing_ grudging about her reply. "I love you too."

He hung up, and she sat the phone back into its cradle. She hoped there was prime rib, at least, or lobster.

Getting up, she went to the bathroom, then made a circuit of the school. When the bell rang, she went back to the main doors and watched a deluge of students spill out and into the world, some filing onto buses and others walking, and others still climbing into their parents' cars. In the old days, parents _rarely_ picked their kids up, but now it happened more and more. The school district was the same size as it had always been and the bus routes were unchanged, but for some reason the number of parental pick ups and drop offs had been steadily growing over the past seven years. She personally didn't like it; having a bunch of cars in the way complicated the dismissal process. Last month, a bus clipped an SUV, and in September, a pick up side-swiped a minivan in the parking lot. It was chaos, and If she had her way, she'd clamp down, but she didn't - part of Boorman's new liberal policy was throwing your hands up and letting parents turn the parking lot into _The Road Warrior._

With all the students gone except for the various clubs that met after hours, she completed her final eval of the day, then passed the rest of the evening working on her end of year report, which she would submit at the next school board meeting on December 19. She shut down her computer at 6:45 and blew a weary puff of air. Her eyes went to the stack of paperwork on the desk, and she ticked her head from side to side as she debated whether or not to take it home. She finally decided it could wait - it was her fortieth anniversary, and RCHS could buzz off for the night.

She called Lincoln, told him she was leaving, then grabbed her purse. Casting one last look around to make sure everything was as it should be, she slung it over her shoulder, then turned out the light and left. In the outer office, Barbara played solitaire on her computer, pixelated cards against a blinding green background. Though she was neither forced nor expected to stay until Ronnie Anne left, she always did, saying it didn't feel _right_ to leave while the boss was still working. "Alright," Ronnie Anne said, "I'm off."

"Have a good night," Barbara said, "happy anniversary."

Ronnie Anne chuckled. Leave it to Barbara to know what today was. "Thank you, I will."

Digging in her purse for her car keys, she crossed the dimly lit lobby and went out the doors. Purple twilight colored the western sky and filtered through the barren boughs of the trees, and a cold breeze washed over her face, making her shiver. Her breath misted before her as she hurried to the employee parking lot.

She unlocked the driver side door and slid in behind the wheel, absently tossing her purse onto the passenger seat. She started the engine and fiddled with the heater until a blast of freezing air burst from the vents. Ahhhh! She gritted her teeth and shuddered, her nipples hardening and her skin tingling. Ugh. Stupid damn winter. Hopefully it didn't snow much this year, she could _just_ handle the cold, but when you start talking about the white stuff, forget about it. She only liked one white thing that could be measured in inches and that...well, nevermind what that was. *Blush*

She threw the car into reverse, backed out of the spot, and navigated to the exit, where she waited for a car to pass before turning right. The lamps along the street winked on one by one, casting murky pools of light on the wind swept sidewalks, and the icy face of the moon shone high in the darkening heavens like a celestial eye.

At Main, she hung a left and fell in behind a white box truck with FEDEX across the flanks in red and blue. The storefronts were all dark and shuttered against the coming night save for 7-11; its facade shimmered with soft electric haze like a beacon to the hungry, the weary, and the low on gas. A strong and sudden urge to have a cigarette slammed into her from nowhere, and she looked away. 7-11 was where she and Lincoln bought their darts when they started smoking again, and every time she saw it, the back of her throat pinched and saliva flooded her mouth. Cravings were few and far between, thank God, but they were _strong._ Her fingers tightened on the wheel, and in the rearview mirror, her face, bathed in the green dash glow, was drawn and wan.

 _Go back,_ the devil on her shoulder said.

Hell no. Quitting the last time was the hardest thing she'd ever done...and that included giving birth to Alex and being shot in the shoulder. She'd rather preside over a whole high school of Kevin Jenners than go through _that_ again.

She slowed as she approached Flip's.

Something wasn't right.

For one, the pink neon sign on the roof, which hadn't worked since 1974, flickered rhythmically on and off, one letter at a time. F L I P' S. For another, the windows were dark.

Frowning, she put on the turn signal and pulled in, the headlights washing over the front. She guided the car into a slot facing the door and squinted. Thin slivers of light edged the windows like cresting dawn, which suggested they were covered with something.

Hm.

Now she was curious.

Cutting the engine, she unbuckled her seatbelt, snatched her purse, and got out. Frosty air blew through her hair, but she made no move to go in yet; instead, she stared up at the sign, a tiny, wistful smile on her face. She recalled warm summer nights sitting inside and drinking milk shakes with Lincoln while Frankie Valli and The Big Bopper played on the jukebox. Flip was alive, one forearm bent on the countertop and shooting the breeze with one of the customers.

Bugs danced in the neon like jazzed up kids at a sock hop, and if you stood close enough, you could hear it humming the way it did now. She took a deep, nostalgic breath through her nose and let it out slowly. If she closed her eyes, she'd be transported back to 1960, when things might not have been perfect, but they made sense, and where life wasn't easy, but perfect nevertheless. She saw Lincoln across the table from her, tall and lanky in his plaid shirt (with butterfly collar) tucked into his slacks, a goofy smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. When he looked at her, she never had to guess - she was the only girl in the world, and one day she was going to marry him. They'd have kids, a house with a white picket fence, and nothing bad would ever happen to them. Their future was bright and would always look like their present: Young, in love, cars big as boats sailing round and round, Elvis on the radio, Ed McMahon on Sunday nights.

That was later, though. They had all the time in the world to get there and no reason to rush. They'd arrive, but for now, it was a warm summer night in 1960 and they had everything they could ever want: Malt milkshakes, a basket of fries, good music, and each other.

A longing ache clinched her chest and she forced her eyes away. It was so close, those sepia toned days of old, that she could almost touch them, like a rippling reflection on still waters. It wasn't so much the cars she missed, or the clothes they wore, or any of that stuff. It was the _feeling_. There's nothing like the zeitgeist of fifteen, nothing, and the older she got, the better she remembered it being. Her only worry was when she would get to see Lincoln next, and even though the Russians had a thousand nukes pointed at her, she was bursting with the keen and excited happiness of a child. The purest happiness there is, and the most beautiful.

She imagined a lot of things for herself at fifteen, and all of them had come to pass. She married Lincoln, bought a house, raised a family, and established herself in a career she loved. Things didn't go exactly as she thought they would, but what she saw at fifteen was more or less what she lived at fifty. She envisioned a good life...then went out and lead one.

If that's not the definition of success, she didn't know what was.

The light edging the windows pulsed and throbbed like fire. Slamming the door closed behind her, she followed it, her heels clicking on the rough pavement. Ice leftover from last week's storm crunched underfoot and the sign hummed on, low, steady, monotonous. At the door, she leaned left and right to see through the cracks but could catch only faint flashes of dusky light. It looked like the place was on fire. _Hey, honey, for our fortieth anniversary, how about I burn down my place of business?_

Even more puzzled now, she pushed the door open and went inside.

What she saw stopped her dead.

Ambient red light from sources unseen bathed the dining room in low, shimmering afterglow. Balloons covered the floor, quivering like dancers at ball waltzing slow; streamers and tensile dangled from the ceiling; a glass punch bowl and metal trays crowded the counter; paper crepe hung in wide, upside down arches from the countertop; and a giant banner over the order window read WINTER DANCE 1957.

Ronnie Anne looked around in slack jawed wonder, and jumped with a start when loud music started.

 _Come, let's stroll  
Stroll across the floor  
Come, let's stro-oh-oh-oll  
Stroll across the floor_

A vintage Payola, its glass face pulsing with pink and green light, stood where the old one had, gone twenty-five years or more. Something moved in her phiphery, and she whipped her head around. Lincoln stood by the end of the counter, dressed in tan slacks and a white button up cardigan, a boyish simper on his aged face. Their eyes met, and a coquettish beam spread across Ronnie Anne's lips.

 _Feel so good  
Take me by my hand  
I feel so goo-ooh-ooh-ood  
Take me by my hand _

He came forward, his lopsided grin widening, and she met him in the middle, balloons stirring around their feet like the dust of memories. The years fell away with every step like shedding clothes, and when they stopped and faced each other, ghosts of a twilight past, they were fourteen again. The wrinkles were gone, the grays magically restored (for her, at least), and every bad thing that had ever happened - every good thing too, for that matter - far ahead, feeble, suggestive glimmers in the fog. The twinkle in Lincoln's eye had never departed, but it had grown soft, like a sun bleached gem fading in the desert sun, but now it was stronger, sharper, returned to its youthful glory. Her heartbeat picked up and pangs rippled through her stomach; she felt like a girl again, a girl who had never given raised a child, never given birth, who had yet to even gather the courage to give herself to a boy.

 _And let's go strolling  
In wonderland_

Nervous and dumbstruck in a way she hadn't been since Dwight Eisenhower was president, she flicked her eyes shyly to her feet and giggled unashamedly. Her cheeks blazed and when she spoke, her voice was timid and shaky. "I forgot how good you look in a cardigan."

"I feel like the biggest goddamn square ever," he coughed.

A lump formed in her throat, and her heart gently pounded. She looked up at him and opened her mouth, then closed it again. "Y-You look handsome," she said, as though this were the first time she'd ever hazarded such a bold compliment.

 _Strollin', oh yeah, strollin' ah  
Rock and ro-uh-oh-oh-oh-oh-llin'  
Strollin'_

"And you're really beautiful," he replied. He put his hand on her hip, and her stomach lurched into her throat. His other hand crept into hers, and their fingers caressed before twinning. She slipped her arm around his waist, and slowly they began to dance.

 _Well rock my so-oul  
How I love to stroll _

He dipped her deeply, and her heart rocketed into her mouth. "Stop," she laughed, "you're gonna drop me."

"I won't drop you," he promised. He pulled her back up, and their bodies came flush. She looked up into his sparkling eyes, and she felt the familiar sensation of falling.

They say you fall in love with someone like it's a one time deal. You tumble head over heels, hit rock bottom, and there you stay, twitching and moaning. That was not the case...at least it wasn't for her. More times than she could count, her bottom gave out and she fell even deeper for him; just when she thought she couldn't possibly, she did. The day he came home from Vietnam, the day she gave birth to his daughter, the day he resolved to love and care for Jessy as though she were his own, the day their grandson was born, now. She didn't know what they compared love to, but she likened it to quicksand. You sink and sink and sink, and never, ever reach the end, for true love _has_ no end. It is everlasting.

 _There's my love  
Strolling in the door _

Lincoln spun her around and leaned in; his face filled her world, and his sweet breath intoxicated her senses. Their eyes searched each other, then with adolescent reticence, their lips touched.

 _There's my lo-o-o-ove  
Strolling in the door _

Their tongues moved in clumsy unison, and Ronnie Anne clutched his hand tighter, her knees trembling weakly. When he pulled away, she saw him not as he was now, but as he was then; not as he was on the outside, but as he was on the inside. Young, happy, carefree, and as in love with her as she was with him. From the look in his eyes, he saw her the same way. "I love you," he whispered, and though she'd heard those three words from his a million times in their life, her stomach knotted.

 _Baby, let's go strolling  
By the candy store_

"I love you too, Lincoln," she said, the words coming as a sacred vow. Like a Christian baptized in placid waters, her life only began when she accepted him into her heart. Nothing else before mattered, nothing else before even happened. She had always loved Lincoln Loud.

And she always would.


	198. July 1998: Part 1

**THXXX11138: No, I've never seen that but it sounds like it'd be right up my alley.**

 **Guest: No, the 1957 opening doesn't have anything to do with It. I just see 1957 as kind of the first year of the rock and roll era even though you could argue that 1956 or 1955 was. Idk, I'm a weirdo and '57 felt right to me. I have seen the original It and I have read the novel, so its depiction of the fifties did influence me, albeit indirectly.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _You Get What You Give_ by The New Radicals (1998)**

Jessica Danielle Loud (DuChamp since 1994) had always been tiny. Standing at 5'5 and weighing 110 pounds at her heaviest, she was small, compact, and cute - per Alex, who was only three inches taller, by the way. It stood to reason, therefore, that when she became pregnant, she would be _all_ baby.

And she was.

Uncle Lincoln said she looked like an Ethiopian who'd swallowed a Milk Dud and the analogy wasn't far off. Compared to Alex's baby belly with Blake, hers wasn't especially big, but on her petite frame, it looked (and felt) downright massive. Trying to get out of bed in the morning, she resembled a turtle on its back, and just walking across the house left her panting for air. Steps were all but out of the question and simply sitting up for too long lead to sore muscles and fatigue. She loved sitting in her armchair by the window and reading, but hadn't been able to do so in nearly two months because she was just too darn big.

Even so, she had never been happier. Lying in bed at night, she stroked her stomach and cooed to it in a high, tender voice, and during the day, she sat on the couch against a heap of pillows and prodded it with her finger, enticing the child within to come out and play. She felt flutters more often than kicks, but every once in a while, the baby _really_ let her have it. Occasionally, its foot would press against her stomach and make imprints in her maternity dress like questing fingers beneath silken sheets. It was so strange yet so exhilarating, and every time it happened, she giggled like a little girl.

Every week for the past three months, she and Mark attended birthing classes at Overlake Medical Center, a low, stylish glass and brick building in Southeast Redmond. She sat in a circle with ten other women, Mark kneeling behind her with his hands resting on her stomach, and learned all about the birthing process, then practiced by sitting on a medicine ball and taking deep, evenly spaced breaths. She asked more questions than any other woman, and, she suspected, agonized over her birth plan more. Labor and delivery aren't things you can reduce to a neatly timed and organized science - nature, no matter what anyone says, is beyond control - but there were certain things under her jurisdiction.

She wanted the lights dimmed; Mark there, holding her hand and offering encouragement and moral support; to stay hydrated on water and ice chips (hydration is vital, after all); soft music played; as few vaginal exams as possible; massage, breathing techniques, and, as a last resort, an epidural for pain; Mark to cut the umbilical cord; a C-section only if all other options had been exhausted and the baby was in acute distress; to hold the baby as soon as possible; to breastfeed (with formula given only if for some reason she couldn't feed); and...well, lots of stuff, each just as important to her as the last in its own way. She spent much of the afternoon of July 4th compiling a mix tape of hers and Mark's favorite classical pieces. She read in _The Journal of Fetal Research_ (to which she began subscribing when she found out she was pregnant) that playing classical music for your unborn baby could potentially aid in its mental and intellectual development. Starting in the second trimester, when the fetus begins developing its sense of hearing, she played Beethoven, Bach, Debussy, and, most importantly, Mozart as often as she could. She also read children's stories while lovingly caressing her bump.

On July 5, she repacked her "go" bag for the sixth time since putting it together in April; it contained toiletries, a coming home outfit, three nursing bras, nursing pads, two night dresses, lotion, massage oil, backless slip-on slippers, lip balm, a book of word searches to help pass the time, headbands to keep her hair out of her face during delivery, extra socks, a copy of her birthing plan, soy Similac formula and bottles just in case she wasn't able to breastfeed, diapers, wipes, baby powder, a coming home outfit for the baby, and lots of other things. The bag bulged and she had to shove the contents down - grunting and straining the whole time - just to zip it closed. When she tried to pick it up, she nearly toppled. Mark said she _may_ have overdone it, and he was probably right, but she wanted to be 100 percent prepared for _anything._

Two days later, she woke to the alarm at ten-fifteen. Bright summer sunshine fell through the blands and lay across her stomach in warm, heavenly shafts. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, methodically tying his shoes, and Jessy squinted in tired surprise. He usually left for work at -

Then she remembered. It was Saturday.

 _And_ her family was flying into town.

Not all of them, of course. Fred, Auntie Lori and Uncle Bobby stayed behind, Bobby Jr. and Lola both had things to work, and Uncle Lynn and Lynn III couldn't make it, but Mom, Uncle Lincoln, Auntie Ronnie Anne, Alex, Blake, and Zoe were coming. The (I'm so sorry for saying this) most important ones. She loved the others, but they weren't Uncle Lincoln or Alex. She invited her father, but he predictably declined, saying he was "busy". She wasn't hurt by that, since she figured he wouldn't want to run into Mom. Her parents both had only nice things to say about each other, all gripes settled by years of separation, but neither, she suspected, was in any hurry to meet the other again. Too many painful memories.

Jessy brushed her hair out of her eyes and studied the clock. 10:16. Okay. The plane would be here at noon. She wanted to go to the airport with Mark, but the car was _really_ uncomfortable now.

Mark got up and stretched. He turned, saw her awake, and came around the foot of the bed. "Hey," he said and knelt, his hand going to her stomach. Mark was not an emotionless man by any means, but expressively, he wasn't very animated. Every time he looked at her stomach, or touched it, however, his face glowed beautifully, and Jessy couldn't suppress a rush of giddy satisfaction at how happy she, and their baby, made him.

"Hey," she replied and shifted to her side. Her stomach, hard and distended like the protective shell it was, poked out from under the hem of her tank top, and Mark rubbed a slow, fleeting circle, his fingertips worshipping her as a creator of life and his faint smile making _her_ smile. "How'd you sleep?"

Like most Friday nights, they stayed up late, Jessy reading to the baby and Mark dividing his time between touching her stomach and poring over paperwork. In February, Bill Gates put him in charge of a nine member team dedicated to developing Microsoft's first video game console. Their first design ran on a Pentium II processor, which comes standard on many personal computers, and a prototype was hastily built from a repurposed Dell computer. It was a simple and streamlined machine based primarily on Sony's Playstation and required the use of external memory cards on which to save data.

Bill Gates didn't like it.

Sony had been working on a successor to the Playstation since 1994 or '5. Someone close to the development team (or maybe even _on_ the development team) leaked details to the press; not only would it feature backwards compatibility with the first Playstation (meaning you could play original Playstation games on it), it was also slated to include internet connectivity and a built in DVD player, allowing players to conveniently watch their favorite movie discs right on the console. Bill Gates wanted his gaming system to match and then exceed Sony's. Mark and his crew went back to the drawing board and had been there for several months, drafting designs and tinkering with installing different processors and even a hard disk drive. A number of setbacks over the past two months ensured that they would probably still be there come 2000.

"Well," Mark said. "You?"

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and scrunched her lips in thought. Taking a meticulous inventory of herself (aches, pains, and all), she said, "Good. I was up a lot, though."

Because the baby pressed almost non stop against her bladder, she peed a _lot_. Every fifteen minutes to half an hour, in fact, and every ten if she made the mistake of drinking a lot of water, which she'd been doing a lot of lately - Seattle was currently in the grip of a mini heatwave, and just walking to the driveway was a grueling desert death march on par with Baatan. Mark said she should save herself the trouble and just wear a diaper. She crinkled her nose and shook her head so vehemently that her ponytail lashed her cheek like a whip, but last night, bladder pinching literally _three minutes_ after getting comfy following her most recent bathroom trip, she almost kinda sorta considered it.

"You woke me up once," he said and petted her stomach. "I think. I vaguely remember being slapped."

Jessy smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I was frustrated and when I threw the blanket off I accidentally hit you. Sorry."

"That's okay," he said, "I'm used to nocturnal assaults by now. I prefer the rapes, however."

She laughed. "I don't _rape_ you." Her smile faltered. "Do I?"

In addition to being extra thirsty and having to incessantly use the bathroom, Jessy was also far more easily (and frequently) aroused than normal. Some nights she'd wake in the middle of the night smoldering with need, and while she tried _really_ hard to leave Mark alone because he worked twelve hour days, she had a way of _not_ leaving him alone. It started small, her hand going to his bare chest...then trailing down...and before long, she was on top of him with her knees on either side of her hips and her core pressed to his crotch, kissing him awake and raking her nails over his warm skin. Half the time, he was barely awake during these encounters and she felt just a touch of guilt.

He brushed his fingers through her hair and skimmed his thumb over her cheek. "Yes," he said evenly, "but I've come to appreciate femdom. Maybe we can introduce whips and chains soon. Or at least handcuffs."

Jessy laughed. "You're weird, I don't dominate you." She jammed her elbows into the mattress and pushed to a sitting position.

"Yes you do," Mark said and got to his feet. "But as previously stated, I'm fond of being molested."

While he went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, Jessy got up and lumbered to the bathroom; her feet throbbed with each step and the muscles in her upper back burned so badly she winced and bared her teeth. Of all the physical pain she suffered, that fiery sting between her shoulder blades was the worst. She could handle sore feet and even lower back spasms, but not that - sometimes it made her want to cry, and if she was feeling particularly hormonal at the time, she did.

That was another thing - her constantly fluctuating emotions. One minute she was happy-go-lucky, then next she was a gloomy gus sad sack. A few times, she lost her temper over something incredibly minor and yelled at Mark, then felt horrible afterwards. Typically, she was very patient and forbearing - a natural born trait she honed dealing with classrooms full of children - but on more occasions than she liked recently, a rush of anger and frustration would shoot up from her depths and spread through her like wildfire. On the 4th, while Mark was outside grilling hamburgers and hotdogs, she stayed in the kitchen and made macaroni salad and potato salad. Her recipe, borrowed from Auntie Ronnie Anne, called for paprika. She grabbed it from the cabinet, sprinkled a liberal amount on both, then put it back. When she tried the macaroni salad, her mouth burst into flames and her nostrils tingled unpleasantly.

It wasn't paprika...she grabbed chili powder by mistake.

The food was ruined.

Something _else_ burst into flames then.

Her.

 _GODDAMN IT,_ she cried. She swept the bowl off the counter and it slammed into the wall, splattering chili and mayo coated noodles all over the wall and floor. Seeing the mess, and knowing she destroyed dinner, she broke down in tears and sobbed until Mark came in. He came over and worriedly put his arm around her. _What's wrong?_ he asked.

 _I ruined the salads._

 _Oh...well...I'm not particularly fond of those anyway._

She blinked her shimmering eyes. _You mean you don't like my cooking?_

That made her cry even harder.

Heh, pregnancy hormones, amirite?

Done in the bathroom, she shuffled through the bedroom and into the kitchen; the warm smell of coffee and the comforting rattle of the pot filled the air, putting her in mind of childhood Saturday mornings. Mark stood stiffly before the counter with his back to her, arms crossed and eyes pointed at the coffee pot as though it'd jump up and make a dash for the door if he looked away. She padded over and slipped her arms affectionately around his waist. He laid his hands on the backs of hers and brushed her knuckles. "Do you want some?" he asked.

As soon as Jessy found out she was pregnant, she completely gave up greasy foods, sugar, and coffee in favor of healthier options like chicken, fish, water, and low fat snacks. She was only human, unfortunately, and every so often, she slipped and had a piece of yummy chocolate cake or a cup of joe with lots of cream and sugar.

She didn't make a habit of it. When was the last time she cheated? She thought it was when she had two slices of cheesecake last week, but she seemed to recall having a cup of coffee at some point since.

Oh well. "Sure," she said. She hugged him tightly, then let go and made her way into the living room. Sunlight filtered through the wavering green foilage outside the window, and shadows danced across the carpet. Hopefully it'd rain soon. She was getting _really_ sick of all the sunny days.

Sitting on the couch, she twisted around, grabbed a pillow, and shoved it behind her back. She took a deep breath, lifted one leg, and laid it on the coffee table, then the other. Mark came in with her coffee and she took it. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he said and glanced at his watch. "I better get going. Are you staying here?"

Jessy hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "Yeah."

"Okay. Do you need anything before I leave?"

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Nope. Just a kiss."

"Well, that's a given," Mark stated. He bent down and Jessy met his lips. She flicked her tongue out and smiled when he flicked it back. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He caressed her cheek and she reveled in his touch like a satisfied cat, a look of bliss upon her face. She loved the feeling of Mark's strong hand on her delicate body, and if he didn't have to leave, she'd suggest he touch her more. "Drive safe," she said.

"I will," he promised. He patted her stomach in farewell to their unborn child, then turned and left, the front door closing and locking behind him. She craned her neck to see out the window, and caught a flash of him crossing to the driveway.

She waited until the car backed up and drove away, then turned forward and put her hands on her stomach. "Just you and me now, little girl," she said.

* * *

Lincoln Loud leaned against the car rental counter at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport and scanned the open folder before him: Rows and rows of cars, each with a descriptive paragraph beneath it, stared up at him like hopeful puppies in a pound. _Please pick me, mister, they're gonna put me to sleep if you don't._ Ronnie Anne stood next to her, her purse slung over her shoulder and a sour scowl on her face. Like a child, RA got grumpy when she was tired or hungry, and right now, she was both; they flew out of Detroit at midnight on a red eye because it was the cheapest option, and owing to the late hour, no in-flight meal was provided. By sunrise, she was starved and shoving peanuts down her face hole like they were going out of style. _I'm ravenous, lame-o,_ she said when he cocked a curious brow in her direction.

 _How's your blood sugar?_ he asked.

She shrugged. _Little on the lower side. I'll just have a Coke._

Late last year, Ronnie Anne was diagnosed with type two diabetes and was compelled to keep track of what she ate and drank. She could _have_ sugar, but not too much. With diabetes, Lincoln had learned, you can't let your blood sugar get too high _or_ too low; if you do, bad things happen...like diabetic comas and possibly even death.

She was good at managing it, but hated having to test her blood glucose levels. He didn't blame her: In order to do it, you have to prick your finger and bleed on a test strip twice a day, sometimes more. Screw _that._ Lincoln wasn't afraid of needles, but stabbing himself every twelve hours wasn't something he was keen on doing.

Diabetes is often passed through genetics, and thus Alex and or Blake stood a good chance of developing it later in life. Given Alex's love of candy, cakes, and junk food, it'd most likely be her. She was already overweight - since having Zoe, she packed on a good forty pounds and weighed close to 170, most of it being in her stomach and thighs. Her face was fuller now too, but he stopped short of calling it chubby. Ronnie Anne stayed on her ass about losing weight and cutting down on hers and Blake's sugar intake ( _so you don't wind up like me_ ) and so far, she'd lost five pounds. Lincoln was extremely proud of her.

He was also extremely fatigued. He gazed blankly at the pictures, so frazzled he could barely think, and struggled to keep his eyelids from drooping closed. Thirty years ago, or even fifteen, he could stay up all night and be no worse for the wear. Now, he felt like he was going to -

"Just pick one, will you?" Ronnie Anne snapped.

The rental agent, a middle aged woman with curly red hair and an even redder smile, looked uncomfortable between them, the corners of her mouth straining. Lincoln scanned the selection again. They all looked the same to him. Too goddamn expensive.

"I'm looking for cheap and none of these are cheap," he said. He adjusted his reading glasses and flipped the page. Ronnie Anne blew an irritated puff of air that stirred her bangs.

"Might I suggest the Aries K?" the agent offered. She tapped a picture of an off-brown sedan. "It came in rather beat up and there's a long scratch on one side, but it's the most inexpensive vehicle we have in stock."

Lincoln loomed over and looked down at it. A/C, tape deck...ohh, power windows. Hot damn. "I'll take it," he said.

"Great," the agent said. She produced a stack of forms, and while Lincoln signed them and swiped his American Express card, Ronnie Anne went over to the waiting area to the left. Blake and Tim stood at the big plate glass window overlooking the tarmac watching planes land and take off, and Alex sat next to Mark and Luan with Zoe sitting on her lap and facing out. The nine month old wore a pink dress with straps and little white slip on shoes. She whipped her attention between her mother and Luan, the latter of whom smiled and ruffled her short, wispy black hair. Zoe beamed and excitedly kicked her legs. Ronnie Anne sat next to Alex and said something Lincoln couldn't hear over the noise of the terminal. It was worse than goddamn Vietnam in here; talking, laughing, beeping, a voice on the loudspeaker _(Flight 105 is now ready to board)_. It was giving Lincoln a headache.

He finished the forms, took the keys with a muttered thanks, and went over to the waiting room. A Learjet set down and rolled along the runway, and Blake let out a breathless "Whoa!" He tugged on his father's T-shirt and pointed. "Look at that!"

Lincoln bypassed Ronnie Anne and stood next to his grandson, his hand going to the boy's shoulder. This was Blake's first cross country trip and he'd been excited for it ever since May, when Ronnie Anne mentioned to Alex that they were going out for the birth and wanted her to come too. He stayed awake most of the night, savoring the simple act of air travel as though it were a profound and mystical experience. He eventually conked out and slept until the jolt of the plane landing woke him.

"See anything cool?" Lincoln asked.

"That jet!" Blake said. He pressed his face to the glass and watched it taxi across the runway. "I want a jet."

Lincoln chuckled and looked at Tim. "You hear that? Kid wants a jet for Christmas."

"That sounds like a grandparents' gift."

"Like hell it does." Lincoln squeezed Blake's shoulder and went over to Ronnie Anne. "Ready?" he asked.

Zoe looked up at him and grinned, and he patted her head. "I've _been_ ready," Ronnie Anne said and got to her feet. Luan stood and so did Alex. Mark, however, remained seated, his face hidden behind a four month old issue of _Time_ with a nervous looking Bill Clinton the front. _DOUBLE TROUBLE_ blared the headline. Clinton was currently in hot water over his alleged affair with an intern named Monica Lewinsky. Well, not so much that - he lied about it under oath, which, for those of you keeping score at home, is perjury. A crime. He was also accused of coaching his underlings to lie for him. In January, he gave a televised address that include this little gem: _But I want to say one thing to the American people. I want you to listen to me. I'm going to say this again: I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky. I never told anybody to lie. Not a single time. Never. These allegations are false._

No they weren't. There was a mountain of evidence (including a semen splattered dress from one of the many times Lewinsky sucked him under the desk in the Oval Office), and every day it looked more and more like he was lying through his teeth. They were talking about impeaching his ass, and Lincoln was excited for it the way Blake was for the plane ride; he got gypped out of seeing Nixon impeached, maybe this time around those dumbasses in Congress would come through for him.

Probably not.

"Hey," he said.

Mark flipped the page.

"Computer geek."

That got his attention. He looked up and favored Lincoln with an expression as blank as a sheet of loose leaf paper. The overhead fluorescents gleamed on the lenses of his glasses like moonlight skimming the surface of the sea and a cool draught of air stirred his dirty blonde hair.

"Ready?" Lincoln asked.

"Yes," Mark replied. He closed the magazine and sat it neatly on the end table with the others (a _Teen People_ from May with Leonardo DiCaprio on the cover, a _National Enquierer_ boasting a photo of Frank Sinatra with the caption _1915-1998, Farewell to an American Legend_ beneath). He got up and nodded toward the escalator leading to the first floor. "Follow me."

Lincoln, Alex, Ronnie Anne, Luan, Tim, and Blake trailed behind Mark, Tim holding Zoe's car seat, Luan her diaper bag, and Lincoln looking curiously around. This was one of the bigger airports he'd been to...maybe even the biggest, he wasn't sure. Edwards Air Force Base in California, where he landed after coming home from Vietnam, was pretty damn big, but he didn't count it because it was a military installation and not a commercial airport.

On the first floor, Mark lead them toward the main doors. People rushed back and forth on their way to and from their flights, many of them businessmen in suits and carrying briefcases. A few talked into cell phones and one stopped to check his pager, then dashed off as if late for an important meeting. Zoe stared at Lincoln over Alex's shoulder, her head swaying back and forth with the rhythm of her mother's pace. Lincoln made a funny face, and she responded by laughing and slapping her mother's back. Alex turned her head. "What are you doing?" she asked playfully. She saw Lincoln in her periphery. "Is grandpa being a doofus?"

Zoe issued a high, grunting, _Uuuuhhhhh,_ and Alex laughed. "I agree," Alex said, "leave us alone, grandpa."

"She started it," Lincoln said.

Alex looked over her shoulder and furrowed her brows. "Now I'm ending it."

Lincoln almost whipped his belt off and did with it what he should have done twenty years ago, but he stayed his hand.

Not in public.

Too many witnesses.

Outside, the afternoon was hot and dry, the air rubbing Lincoln's face like sandpaper. A narrow lane ran before the termnal, and on the other side, a vast parking lot crammed with cars of every description spread out into forever. Mark stopped, put his hands on his hips, and scanned it like he couldn't remember where he parked. "Who's riding with me?" he asked. "Anyone?"

Lincoln did a quick head count and checked the flier the rental agent gave him. The Aries K could seat five, even, he assumed, with Zoe's car seat. Tim, Alex, Blake, Zoe, Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and Luan made seven.

"I will," Luan volunteered.

"Can I ride with you?" Blake piped up.

"If your parents say it's okay, I guess."

Blake turned to his father. "Can I, Dad?"

"Sure," he said, then cracked a devilish grin, "just be warned, Mark drives like a 90 year old woman."

"I follow the law," Mark stated.

And from what Lincoln seen, he did. If the posted speed limit was fifty, he drove exactly fifty, not one mile over or under.

"Like a 90 year old woman," Tim said and clapped his cousin on the shoulder.

Blake and Luan followed Mark to his car and everyone else made their way to the side lot where Avis kept its rental cars behind a rusted chain-link fence. The runway lie beyond, and the roar of a jet taking off filled the day. An old man in gray overalls with GARY stitched across the breast lead them to the Aries K, which sat at the very end of a row cast in shadows by the terminal, its nose pointing dutifully out. "There's a long scratch on one side," he explained in mountful tones, "goddamn kid who brought it in musta took it for a joyride."

"That's fine, I don't care," Lincoln said.

Tim strapped Zoe's carseat in while Lincoln watched another jet land, the swelling shriek of its approach and the squeal of its tires against the tarmac jamming deep into the center of his head. Ground control techs, or what the hell ever politically correct term they called themselves, scurried around like worker ants, and Lincoln absently wondered what kind of money those guys made. You'd have to give him a hell of a lot to listen to planes all day.

Momentarily, Ronnie Anne came over and stood next to him, her lips arranged in an exaggerated frown and her eyebrows sloped down in a V of displeasure. "They make too much noise," she grumbled.

"So do you," he said and slipped his arm around her waist.

She glanced at him, and if looks could kill, he'd be dead on the ground."Shut the hell up, cowlick."

Ooooh. Vicious. He liked. "I haven't had a cowlick in years, Debbie Diabetes."

She pulled away from him with a sound of disgust. "I'm tired, let's go."

See what I mean about grumpy?"

She climbed into the passenger seat and Lincoln slid in behind the wheel. In the back, Tim and Alex flanked Zoe on either side. She whipped her head back and forth between them, delighted to have their company (usually she had to settle for Blake and Jordan during car trips) and showed her appreciation by kicking one of her shoes off. "Uh-oh," Alex cooed, "now your shoe's gone."

Zoe grunted curiously. _Huh? Well, what happens next?_

Ronnie Anne savagely pulled the seatbelt over her chest and buckled it. Lincoln jammed the key into the ignition and jerked it; the engine coughed and turned over with labored whine. Great, it's a clunker. Assholes talked up the scratch to distract them from the fact it was a goddamn lemon on wheels. He turned the AC on, and warm, stale air rushed out of the vents. His nose crinkled at the scent, and Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Smells like dirty feet," she said.

"Smells like I shoulda forked over more money," Lincoln said. He turned the radio on and cycled through the stations, looking fruitlessly for an oldies station and finally settling for a channel playing a commercial for a local steam cleaning company. He fiddled with the seat until it was to his liking, then threw the car into drive and pulled out of the spot. The old man stood by a booth and wiped his hands on an oily rag. He waved, and Lincoln offered a curt nod in return.

Mark's maroon 1998 Bentley Amage idled at the curb, and when Lincoln pulled out onto the street, it took off at a crawl. The commercial ended and music started. Lincoln started to change it, but Alex cried out. "No, Zoe likes this song."

Oh, I doubt _that,_ he thought. It's probably you. He turned to look over his shoulder, and indeed, Zoe kicked her legs and swayed back and forth in her seat like a Baptist at a tent revival. Great, she had shit taste in music too.

She was awfully cute, though, and while Lincoln could blow a man away at point blank range, he could _not_ deny his granddaughter her awful song.

"Alright," he sighed and turned back around and turned up the volume...but not too much.

 _Wake up kids  
We've got the dreamers disease  
Age 14 we got you down on your knees  
So polite, you're busy still saying please_

The lane, flanked on either side by ten foot tall cyclone fences, wound through the airport grounds past hangers and out buildings then filtered out onto a busy service road running parallel to a raised interstate. Mark came to a stop at the traffic light, then turned right.

 _Frienemies, who when you're down ain't your friend  
Every night we smash their Mercedes-Benz  
First we run, and then we laugh 'til we cry _

Alex rocked from side to side and sang along for Zoe's amusement. The baby laughed, studied her mother intently, and mimicked her movements. Tim grimaced, Ronnie Anne pressed a long suffering hand to her, and Lincoln tightened his grip on the wheel. Alex had many, many strong suits, but her voice was definitely _not_ one of them. She could cook fairly well, keep a tidy house, was intelligent, loving, kind, silly (though to a fault) and was currently waiting to hear back from Mennonite Hospital in Elk Park about a nursing position...but for all those great qualities, she sang like a cat being strangled. Jessy too, for that matter. It would seem that Luna got all the musical talent the Loud line had to spare, but if Lincoln was honest, he wasn't really a fan of her singing either. If she released her first album ten years earlier or later, she would have bombed, but she had the good fortune (bad, considering she coke'd herself to death) to come along in the late sixties, when everyone was high too high on drugs to care _what_ you sounded like.

 _But when the night is falling  
You cannot find the light  
You feel your dreams are dying  
Hold tight  
You've got the music in you_

"Muuuuusic in you!" Alex shrieked and dug her hand into Zoe's midsection; the baby squealed laughter and threw herself against her restraints. Ahead, Mark turned right onto a slanted interstate on-ramp, and Lincoln followed.

 _Don't let go  
You've got the music in you  
One dance left  
This world is gonna pull through  
Don't give up  
You've got a reason to live_

Alex added her strained vocals, and Lincoln honestly wondered if he did or not.

Ronnie Anne twisted around in her seat and glared at the girl. "Can you shut up, please? I'm exhausted, my head aches, my eyes hurt, I don't need you making my ears bleed."

Alex's face darkened and Tim looked pointedly out the window, metaphorically hiding behind a wooden barrel like a frightened extra at high noon in a Clint Eastwood movie. Ronnie Anne lowered her brow, and for a second it looked like mother and daughter were going to square up, AWA style. "You need a nap," Alex said. "You're worse than Zoe."

Ronnie Anne opened her mouth, and you could tell from the flash in her eyes that she had a wickedly barbed zinger loaded and ready to go. Perhaps remembering that Alex was her beloved daughter, however, she choked it off and faced forward again. Zoe looked between her mother and grandmother, then let out a screech that set Lincoln's nerves on edge. "I do need a nap," Ronnie Anne admitted bitterly. "And food."

"Me too," Lincoln said.

They lapsed into silence, the only sound today's Top 40 Hits (sHits was more like it). The Seattle skyline opened up in the north: Tall steel and glass buildings, that damn space needle or whatever they called it, and waaaay in the background, a snow capped mountain keeping watch like a white haired grandmother over rambunctious toddlers. The surface streets were shaded by tall, leafy trees, and the storefronts all looked high end. The people themselves wore light, summery clothes and the cars moving along the thoroughfares were, almost to a one, sleek and expensive looking. Ronnie Anne stared absently out the window, her hands folded in her lap and her lids drooping heavily. Lincoln watched her worriedly from the corner of his eye. Her head nodded, then snapped back as she caught herself. "You alright?" he asked.

The southeast corner of Lake Washington peeked through tall, majestic pine trees growing up on the shoulder, its crystalline blue surface sparkling in the light of the sun.

"I'm just tired," she muttered, "and hungry." She ran her fingers shakily through her hair and Lincoln studied her face closely. Was it his imagination, or did she look pale?

She did, he decided. "Your blood sugar's low," he said and changed lanes. A green exit sign flashed by on the right. FOOD & LODGINGS in white over little symbols. Motel 6. Best Western. Burger King.

"I'm fine," she protested.

"No you're not," he said in a tone that closed the matter. He flashed his headlights to signal Mark, and the Bently slowed a little. Lincoln put on the turn signal on, and Mark slowed enough to let him pass. He took the next exit and followed it around a steep, forested hill.

Alex leaned forward and pressed her hand to her mother's forehead, and her lips creased in a frown. "Yeah, you're really clammy," she fussed.

Ronnie Anne drew a deep sigh but didn't argue. The road formed a wide U before terminating at a four lane highway laden with fast food restaurants, motels, gas stations, and strip malls with evocative names like Twin Pines Mall and Mountainview Centre. Lincoln glanced in the rearview mirror, confirmed that Mark was right behind them, then cut across the road and into a Burger King parking lot. A line of cars sat in the drive-thru but beyond the windows, the dining room looked fairly empty. He cut into a slot facing a strip of grass separating the parking lot from a 7-11 and killed the engine. "What do you want?" he asked and unbuckled his belt.

"Just a Whopper Jr." she said at length.

Nodding, he opened the door and got out just as Mark pulled into the next spot over. The passenger side window buzzed down, and he and Luan leaned forward to see. "Ronnie's sugar's low," he explained.

"Is she alright?" Luan asked.

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. Her elbow was propped on the door and her hand was pressed to her face as if shielding out the glare of the sun. She looked like she was going to pass out. "She's fine," he said. He slammed the door and hurried to the side door. The inside was dim and cool, like a cave, order counter to the right, dining room on the left, typical burger joint set up. How were shitty places like this beating out Flip's? Look at the tables, tiny! He got into line behind a fat man in glasses and scanned the menu over the register. Did he want anything? No, screw this place, he wasn't giving them any more money than he absolutely had to.

When his turn came, he ordered a Whopper Jr. with cheese meal to go, then took the cup over to the soda fountain while he waited for the food. Outside, Tim leaned over the back of Mark's car, presumably talking to Blake through the window, then started over. He came in, looked around, and got in line. A woman in a Burger King uniform sat a bag on the counter and called the number on Lincoln's receipt. He grabbed it with a thanks and took it outside. The back door opened and Alex's bare legs swung out; she planted a bottle between her thighs and filled it with water and formula, then returned the cap and shook it. She looked up at Lincoln as he passed and squinted one eye. "Where's mine?" she asked.

"Your husband's getting it," he said.

"Nah, that's for Blake," she said and patted her jiggly stomach, "I gotta watch my gut. I would like a fry, though."

Lincoln reached into the bag, grabbed a fry, and tossed it at her. She jumped in surprise and scrambled to catch it before it hit the ground. "I wasn't ready!" she cried.

"I was."

He opened the driver side door and got in. Ronnie Anne massaged her temples with her thumbs and took slow, shallow breaths. He handed her the cup and she brought the straw to her quivering lips. Lincoln watched her with tender concern, then handed her the fries. She took them with a grateful nod, plucked one out, and shoved it into her mouth. Next, he took the burger out and pulled the wrapped down until one end of it was exposed. He handed that to her as well and she took a bite.

A few minutes later, Tim came out, passed a bag through the window to Blake, and got in. Some of the color had returned to Ronnie Anne's face and her movements weren't as stiff. "Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah," she said, spraying bits of wet food on the dashboard.

He waited a few seconds to see if she would change her mind, and when she didn't, he pulled the door closed and put his seatbelt on. He started the engine, backed up, and waited for Mark to take the lead. "Alright," he said when they were back on the interstate, "now if Wilford Brimley here can keep her dia-beetus in check, we'll be good."

Ronnie Anne glared at him, but one corner of her mouth twitched upward, betraying her. That half-smile was the most beautiful he'd ever seen on her, because it meant she really was okay. He reached out and squeezed her knee. She looked at his hand then up at his face, her brow arched ( _how dare you touch me after calling me Wilford Brimley?_ ). He gave another squeeze, and she decided to forgive him; she laid her hand on top of his and shook her head. "You're an asshole."

"I know," he said, "love you."

"Love you too."

Half an hour after leaving the Burger King, Mark took an off ramp on the outskirts of Redmond, then turned right onto a hilly street lined with shops, boutiques, and sidewalk cafes where people ate under jaunty umbrellas. Seattle rose up in the west, its buildings clustered closely together and obscured by July haze, lending it the appearance of a theatrical backdrop. Mark and Jessy's house sat on side street dotted with tall trees and wrought iron lamps, a one story stone affair with a gray slate roof and detached garage. "It's even nicer in person," Alex marveled as they pulled into the driveway behind Mark. "Makes our house look like a dump."

"Maybe if you'd clean it every once in a while..." Tim said.

"I do clean it, jerk," Alex shot back.

Lincoln killed the engine and shoved the keys into his pocket. He threw open the door and got out, followed by Ronnie Anne and the others, Alex stopping to take Zoe out of her seat. Mark slipped out of the Bently, and Blake and Luan followed.

"Nice place," Lincoln commented.

"Thank you," Mark said, "the inside's even nicer."

Leaving the bags for later, they went inside. Jessy waited by the door, and when Lincoln saw her, he did a double take. Always a small girl, right now, in the ninth month of her pregnancy, she was _huge_. "Hi," she said and Lincoln hugged her, being careful not to bump her stomach.

"Hi," he said, "you look...different."

"I _feel_ different," she said and hugged Ronnie Anne. "Fat and tired."

"Someone say my name?" Alex called. She shouldered her way past Tim and knocked Lincoln aside. She saw Jessy, and her jaw fell open. "You're as big as a house," she said breathlessly, and Jessu blushed, "no, _two_ houses."

"Uhh...thank you," Jessy said haltingly. They hugged and Alex rubbed an affectionate circle between her shoulder blades. "How was the flight?"

Ronnie Anne sighed. "Long."

Lincoln nodded, "Tiring."

"Really cool," Blake said, "I stayed awake all night and ate peanuts. It was awesome."

Lincoln patted his grandson's head.

Oh to be an easily amused kid again.


	199. July 1998: Part 2

**THXXX11138: I'll never tell. Until I do and everyone finds out.**

 **Looneytyne22: Luna's death did have a big impact on Lincoln...but at this stage in the story, it happened twenty-seven years ago. What I wanted to convey in that passage was that Lincoln has moved on and come to terms with what happened to Luna. When someone dies, we tend to look at them and their memory through a distorted, rose-colored prism. We look at their best qualities and remember the good times we had with them; we downplay their negative aspects and don't place as much focus on the bad times. Nearly three decades later, that idealistic tint has worn off for Lincoln. He loves her, but he doesn't put her beyond reproach. He can say "I don't like her style of music, and if you do, you must be too wasted to care about musical quality" and still love her. He can separate the good from the bad with her because it's been so long that the pain has dulled and he can look at her more soberly than he could when the grief was fresh.**

 **TheOneTrueTwistedParadox: Unlikely, to be honest, unless I go back and change Jessy's child's hair to white, as this is it, RITY's last birth.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **My Heart Will Go**_ **by Celine Dion (1997);** _ **One Week**_ **by Barenaked Ladies (1998)**

There were few things in this life that Bobby Santiago Jr. could not stand. Traffic, sixteen hour filming schedules, and Lola being away on tour.

Oh.

And _Titanic._

Bobby was a piss poor student in school so maybe he missed it, but apparently there was a ship once called the Titanic that hit an iceberg and sank. He didn't understand how that was possible - can ice _really_ rip a hole in steel? - but okay, fine, stranger things have happened. Did they really have to make a three hour movie about it? And did they have to cast some pretty in the lead role who was specially designed by God to make every twelve year old girl in the country swoon?

No, probably not, but they did, and Stephanie ate it _up._

Every week, between filming, table readings, magazine interviews, product endorsements (which didn't come along as often as they used to), and all of the other crap that went along with being a famous daytime TV actor, Bobby made time to do something special with each one of his children. He took Val to boxing matches, soccer games, and the aquarium (the kid seriously loved his sea creatures), and Stephanie to the zoo, Griffith Park Observatory, and concerts...lots of concerts. Over the past year, he'd seen every boy band in the world up close and live. Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, 98 Degrees. Hanson. They sang, they danced, they pouted, and every teenage girl in the venue - sometimes as many as 60,000 - bounced and screamed at the top of their lungs. And of all the voices, Stephy's was the loudest.

In May, she came home from school talking about a romance movie one of her friends saw called _Titanic._ She practically got down on her knees and begged him to take her to see it. He didn't mind bringing her to a theater, but, come on, this was Stephanie Nicole Santiago, she could barely sit still through dinner much less a whole movie. He reluctantly agreed, and on May 15, he took her to The Complex on Sunset Blvd for an evening screening that started at 7pm. In the lobby, posters of all the movies currently playing lined the hall, each framed by blinking lights. GODZILLA. DEEP IMPACT. BULLWORTH. And finally, TITANIC, featuring a man and woman's faces superimposed over the pointed prow of a ship. Stephanie whipped her head back and forth like a tourist in a strange and exciting city and gaped at all the sights: The bathrooms, the snack counter, a six foot tall cardboard cutout of Godzilla.

They loaded up on snacks, popcorn, and drinks, and went into Theater 1, sitting in the middle most section ( _Best seat in the house,_ he told her, _not too close and not too far away)._ Shortly, the lights dimmed, the previews played, and the movie started.

180 minutes later, it was still going. Bobby stopped paying attention half way through; boy meets girl, love story, blah blah blah. When the woman took off her clothes and let Leonardo DiCaprio draw her naked, he started and clamped his hand over Stephanie's eyes. Jesus, really? Don't they put warning labels on movies like this? _Daddy, knock it off,_ Stephy said and swatted his hand away.

From there, nothing much of note happened. The part where the ship broke in half was pretty cool, and Bobby couldn't help wondering how the hell they pulled it off. It didn't look like CGI. He doubted they really split a fifty thousand ton ship down the center, though. Hell, maybe they did.

By the time the credits rolled, it was 10pm and Bobby's head hurt. Thank God _that's_ over.

Heh.

Stephanie was enchanted by the tragic tale of love and loss the way some kids are touched by Spiderman and Star Wars. She thought Leonardo DiCaprio was the most beautiful boy to ever live; she clipped his picture from magazines and taped them to her wall and wrote his name in hearts on all of her things, even the palm of her hand once. She had Bobby buy the soundtrack on CD, and she listened to it on an endless loop: In her room, in the car, on her CD player, woodwind instruments and Celine Dion again and again and _again_ until Bobby wanted to pull his hair out.

July 7th marked the fifth time - fifth! - that Bobby had to sit through Jack and Rose's ill-fated tryst on the even more ill-fated ship of dreams. Every line was burned into his memory, and when he closed his eyes at night, he could _see_ that goddamn iceberg on the backs of his eyelids. _Hey, Bobby, howzit goin? Hope you don't mind if I...SINK YOU._ The first time, he was disinterested in Jack's death - white faced and frozen, sinking slowly into the depths and out of view - but by the fourth time, he enjoyed it. _Take_ that, _DiCaprio._ This time around, Stephanie wasn't alone: Five of her closest friends from Page Academy tagged along, and on the car ride over, they giggled, gossiped, and talked about how _super cute_ Leonardo was. _I wanna marry him one day,_ a black girl named Violet said.

 _No,_ I _am,_ a white girl named Candy retorted.

 _Guys,_ a girl named Britney said, _we can just share him._

Ashley, the oldest at fourteen, rolled her eyes. _Harems only work in fiction, honey._

At the theater, each girl gathered her weight in candy and carried it into one of the screening rooms while Bobby paid. "Back again, huh?" the boy behind the counter asked.

"Yes," Bobby nodded regretfully, "I am."

When he had his change, Bobby went in and followed the giggles to the middle row. He sat on the end, crossed his legs, and settled in for another three hour chunk of his life that he would never get back.

Every cloud has a silver lining, they say, and the silver lining here was that Stephy was able to sit still through each showing...more or less. She twitched, fidgeted, and occasionally stood to stretch her legs, but she wasn't the stir crazy climbing-over-the-seats monkey he feared she'd be. Last November, she fell into a depressive episode that lasted nearly a month before Bobby and Lola took her to see a psychiatrist in Beverly Hills. He confirmed that she did have bipolar disorder and asserted that the Ritalin was exacerbating it. Ritalin, like cocaine (he pointed out) is a stimulant and affects the brain chemistry much like any other amphetamine-like substance. With Stephanie, it worsened her pre existing symptoms, make each high a madcap, manic frenzy and each low a crippling fit of melancholia. He prescribed her a host of other drugs including Seroquel in an attempt to find the right combination for her personal brain make-up. She was currently on four drugs and doing well, for which Bobby was eternally grateful. She still stuffered mood swings, depression, and euphoric highs, but they were manageable with lots of love, patience, and Aspirin.

Aspirin because when she was up, man, she was _up,_ and it gave him a headache. She reminded him of the discos he used to go to as a teenager. Imagine all the coked up energy of every dancer distilled and shaped into the form of a preteen girl with a sideways ponytail, and you had Stephy. She bounced off every wall, jumped on every suitable surface, and dashed through every day like she a cross country runner zooming on a perpetual caffeine buzz. Bobby preferred those to the days she sat in bed with her arms crossed and sadness in her eyes...he preferred them by a long shot.

Onscreen, Titanic sailed toward the coast of France against a liquid orange sunset, smoke billowing from its funnels, and Bobby threw his head back with a groan. He was so sick of seeing that ship he could scream.

Sitting through _Titanic_ once a week wasn't his idea of a good time, but it beat taking Val's to Gudio's Gym in North Hollywood. Val, being a lover of pugilism, wanted to learn how to box. He wasn't sure if he wanted to do it for a living or not (it was between that and marine biology), but he wanted to do it, and did he ever. Bobby paid for private lessons from Clay Tipton, an old black man who reigned as the National Boxing Association heavyweight champion from 1957 to 1960. A squat, bullish man with gray hair and wrinkles on top of wrinkles, Bobby was skeptical of his in ring prowess when he brought Val in for his first lesson, but when he entered the squared circle, the years seemed to shed away, and his movements were those of a much younger athlete. Perhaps not one in his prime, but one still capable of holding his own.

Every week, Val excitedly lured Bobby into the ring for a round of sparring, and what could Bobby do? Say no? Nope, so into the ring he went.

And got his ass kicked.

In his defense, he held back - c'mon, I'm not gonna punch my ten-year-old son in the face - but Val did not. He launched himself at Bobby like a small, pissed off mammal and battered him with a flurry of punches that, given Val's height, always included at least one nut shot. The last time it happened, Bobby reflexively hit him in the shoulder and drove him to his knees...then felt so awful he almost puked. Val loved it, though. _Not bad,_ the boy said and got shakily to his feet, _your form's a little off, though._ Bobby came home from these weekly sessions sore and covered in bruises. Lola laughed at his complaints. _Quit being such a baby. \_

 _Yeah?_ You _get in the ring with him._

That always shut her up.

Last year, she embarked on a world tour with stops in London, Rome, Berlin, Moscow, and Tokyo. Bobby and the kids accompanied her for most of the North American leg (June 15 to August 12) but stayed in Hollywood for the rest so the kids could go to school; Lola decided that would be better than dragging them around the world and having to hire a tutor, and Bobby agreed. She came home in January, road weary and homesick, and wasn't sure she wanted to it again. _I have other talents to fall back on,_ she said one night in bed, _I should explore those more fully._ Lately, she was talking about wanting to produce records, and was in the middle of recording a song for an animated Disney movie. _Maybe I should try my hand at acting,_ she said, and Bobby secretly hoped she did. That way she didn't have to go traipsing across the globe anymore.

He really missed her when she was gone.

The girls erupted into giggles, and Bobby glanced at them; they conferred in a tight little huddle like football players formulating a play, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. On the screen, Jack and Rose were getting to know each other better in the back of a car in the ship's hold, and Bobby blushed. Aw, man, I hate this part. He looked uncomfortably away and crossed his arms over his chest as if to deflect the image. There is _nothing_ more awkward than watching a sex scene with one of your children in the room, nothing. He'd rather walk down the middle of the 405 ass naked than sit through one of _those_.

"It's so romantic," Britney drew hazily.

"I bet he's really big," Ashley said.

Alright, that's it. He jumped to his feet and nearly fell over the seat in front of him. "I'll be in the lobby if you need me," he said and hurried out. Alright, next time, Lola was bringing her to see _Titanic._

Owing to the movie's incredible run time, Bobby was cast and adrift in the theater for well over an hour. He walked back and forth, tried and failed to take a dump, bought a tub of popcorn and ate it while reading a discarded newspaper, and talked at length with the teenager behind the counter.

"You look like someone famous," the boy said. He leaned one elbow against the counter and visibly wracked his brain. "You in movies?"

"TV," Bobby said. " _The Brash and the Bountiful._ "

The boy furrowed his brow and tapped his chin. "Maybe. My grandma watches that stuff. She likes that one guy. The asshole."

"Richard Parker?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, I think that's his name."

"That's me," Bobby said with a rush of pride.

"My name's Dex. Nice to meet you, Richard."

Bobby missed a beat. Did he think his real name was Richard?

Eh, who cares?

"You too, Dex. Say, do you know when _Titanic's_ gonna be over?"

Dex checked his watch. "About ten minutes."

Thank God. "Beautiful." He laughed. "It's driving me crazy. I hear _Iceberg, right ahead, sir_ in my sleep." He did his best British accent, and Dex snickered. Something occurred to Bobby, and he leaned close as if to share a great secret. "You think they really broke that ship in two?"

Dex scrunched his lips to the side. "I mean," Bobby hastened to add, "I know it's not a _real_ ship, just like a platform, you know? Wonder if they did that or if they used computer graphics."

"I dunno," Dex drew at length. "It looked pretty realistic." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "What I wanna know is...the movie's the old lady telling her story, right?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah."

"There's a lot of stuff in there that happened when she wasn't around. How the hell did she know about it?"

Bobby snapped his fingers. "You're right. And that door after the ship sank...come on, there was for was room for Jack on it."

"No, that wasn't the problem," Dex said, "when he tried to climb on, it almost tipped over, so he stayed in the water so Rose could stay on the door."

"He still could have got on."

"Another thing," Dex said, "okay...she assumes a new identity and her old one 'died' on Titanic. You mean, she never got in contact with her mother after that? No letters? Nothing? That's stone cold."

Bobby waved him off. "Her mom was a bitch. She tried to make her marry that douchebag Cal."

"Not _that_ big of a bitch. She spent the rest of her life thinking her daughter was dead. Rose couldn't send one letter? _Hey, mom, I'm okay."_

"She shed her past life and became someone else," Bobby said and rolled his hand in a circle as he grasped for a better way to put it. "Like a whole new beginning."

Dex blew a raspberry leaned back from the counter. "That's still some shit. How could she sleep at night knowing her mother was out there crying into her pillow? You know what Jack taught her? How to be a selfish bitch."

Alright, that was over the line. "He taught her how to be free and live the life she wanted, not the life someone decided for her."

"Didn't Jack basically decide her life, though?" Dex asked. "Come on, he was talking horseback riding and going to the Santa Monica Pier, and what did Rose do after Titanic? Went horseback riding and to the pier. She went from being controlled by her mother to being controlled by a ghost. That's a step down in my book."

Bobby was getting annoyed. Did this guy even watch the movie? "He didn't control her. She wanted that kind of stuff all along, she was just repressed until he came along and showed her a better life."

"Drowning?"

Deep breath. "He didn't drown," Bobby said tightly, "he froze to death. He sacrificed his life for her. Like Jesus."

Dex rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. You're really saying Jack is Jesus? You've been hanging out with your daughter and her friends too much."

"I didn't say he _was_ Jesus," Bobby said. He was starting to get angry now. "I said he gave up his life so she could -"

Dex grinned evilly. "Steal it. She stole his life. I bet she got off on drawing naked women too."

"He was an artist," Bobby grated.

Dex sniffed. "Yeah, okay, you fell for that, too? _Take off your clothes, honey, I'm an artist_. I'm surprised he didn't give her VD. You know he slung his dick to every woman he met. Tell me he wasn't banging that little Cora girl."

"She's, like, six!" Heat spread across the back of Bobby's neck and his heart slammed against his ribs like a war drum. "Jack wouldn't do some shit like that. You're sick."

"He probably porked Molly Brown too," Dex pressed.

Bobby opened his mouth to tell him to go pork himself, but stopped as, behind him, the theater doors were thrown open and people started streaming out. Dex crossed his arms and grinned cockily; oooh, Bobby wanted to hit him so bad he _ached_.

Instead, he slapped the counter and jabbed his finger at the boy. "We're done here."

"Alright," Dex said smugly. He looked like a man who had won and knew it. Bobby almost let him have it, but Stephy and the others mobbed him, and Dex was spared.

The teenager grinned maliciously as the girls ushered Bobby out into the cool, breezy evening. His voice followed, a mocking hilt to it that made Bobby seeth. "Oh, Jack," he said, "I'll never let go."

Dumb bastard. How could he say that stuff about Jack?

Fuming, he saw the girls into the minivan, then climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. He oughta complain and get the little weasel fired.

Taking a deep breath, he put the van in reverse and backed up. "Daddy!" Stephy cried, "can we listen to the _Titanic_ song?"

Sigh.

He reached over, hit the PLAY button, and Celine Dion filtered through the speakers. The girls all began to sing along, and Bobby winced.

 _Near, far, wherever you are  
I believe that the heart does go on  
Once more you open the door  
And you're here in my heart  
And my heart will go on and on_

You know, come to think of it...it wasn't _that_ bad of a song.

It was kind of...sweet.

All hope was lost.

Bobby began to sing too.

* * *

In her twenty-nine years as the coolest person on earth, Alex Loud had been inside some pretty swanky places, but Mark and Jessy's house took the cake. It wasn't very big, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in class. All of the appliances in the kitchen were new and stainless steel; the counter was formica (or something like it); the floors, hardwood; the carpet, soft; the fireplace, reminiscent of rustic ski lodges; the guest room, comfortable (though I gotta deduct points for how cramped it is, sorry, Jess). She didn't know what the pullout couch was like, but Mom said it didn't _kill my back_ so that was a plus. It looked alright. Kind of small, though, which is why she, Tim, and the kids wound up in the guest room. Auntie Luan slept on the living room floor, and the next morning, she didn't seem stiff or sore, but she was used to sleeping on hard surfaces. You know...after her time at Club Fed.

Their first night in town, Alex stayed up late talking to Jessy in the kitchen. She hadn't seen Jessy since Christmas and there was a lot to catch up on. In December, three days before she was scheduled to go back to work after maternity leave, she quit her job at Marshall Manor. Her plan was to wait a few months until Zoe was a little older then look for a hospital job, preferably on the maternity ward.

In May, she applied for a position at Mennonite Hospital in Chippewa Falls; despite its named, it wasn't really run by Mennonites, though it was founded by one. Alex only had a passing knowledge of their customs, but they, as far as she understood, were like the Amish and didn't believe in power, running water, and MTV. She could understand the former (MTV barely played music anymore, unless you count _TRL_ with Carson Daily), but...uh, how can you have a hospital with no electricity? For the record, the hospital _did_ have power and modern amenities, so its name was rendered even more contradictory.

Anyway, she got cold feet at the last minute and put it for the emergency room instead of the maternity ward. Like any potential nurse, her head was filled with visions of cute little newborns all pink and healthy, but when it came time to pull the trigger, she came crashing back to earth and realized she'd probably see just as many _not_ so pink and healthy babies. Maybe she could have dealt with sick and injured infants before becoming a mother, but afterwards? Nope, sorry. She didn't even like horror movies where babies were involved. A few months ago, she and Tim rented _The Hills Have Eyes,_ and the moment she saw a little bundle of joy in one of the characters' laps, she turned it off. No _thank you._ I like my babies happy and safe, _not i_ n peril. Seriously, though, imagining all the horrible things she was apt to come across in the maternity ward turned her stomach. She knew, in the back of her mind, that it wouldn't _always_ be smooth sailing over there, but having her own baby at home gave her pause. Maybe when Zoe was a little older, she could detach herself enough to get the job done, but until such time, every baby she saw would be her little girl, and anything wrong with them would eviscerate her.

Let's see, what else? Oh, Tim's dad was talking about retiring next year and giving him the shop. He and Connie bought a house in Ormond Beach, Florida, a town that abuts Daytona Beach, and wanted to fix it up and eventually move in. She wasn't sure how much they had in the bank, but Tim said it wasn't really enough to retire on. The house was theirs, free and clear, and from what he was saying, his Dad didn't mind finding work - he just wanted to be out of Michigan. _The cold, boo hoo, the snow, wah wah._ Her father was the same way. Last winter it was _Goddamn, I'd rather be back in Vietnam; at least it was_ warm _there._ Okay, buddy, whatever you say. If she wasn't absolutely certain he was full of it, she'd buy him and Mom a plane ticket there. Apparently it's really popular with tourists these days. You had to be really careful if you went off the beaten path, though, or else you might step on a landmine left over from the war. The greatest irony of all would be Dad going to take a leak in the woods and tripping a bomb he himself planted years before. _Damn you, Sixties Lincoln!_

Blake was doing well in school and he best friend in the world was still Jordan; nothing changed there. Zoe was almost nine months old and walking. She was kind of wobbly on her feet, but that's to be expected. She said her first word in June. Alex was sitting on the couch with Zoe on her lap one evening when Tim came through the door from work. Zoe looked up at him, smiled, and held her arms out with a long, breathy _daaaadaaaa!_ Then she almost flopped out of Alex's lap trying to get to him. It was seriously one of the most adorable things ever.

Oh, she and Tim had been saving up for years to buy a house, each putting away a little bit here and there and then most if not all of the quarterly payments from Auntie Luna's estate. They now had enough for any place in Royal County their little hearts desired.

There was just one problem.

Jordan.

Alex didn't want to move Blake away from his best friend, but on the flip side, she didn't want to live in a trailer forever. She was thinking _maybe_ they could either buy the trailer they currently lived in, or another in Marsh Run, then move into a house later and rent the trailer out. For the time being, she resolved to keep her eyes open for a house close by. There was a subdivision, like, two miles away. That wasn't far. She or Tim could drive Blake over every day, or pick Jordan up and bring her over. Easy peasy.

Other than that, there was nothing new on the ol' homefront. Dad had a new jukebox at Flip's crammed to the gills with old people music. The TV was gone, but the metal moorings were still there, sad, empty, and alone. Fred was talking about hanging up his spatula but she figured Jessy's mom already told her about that.

 _How's the pregnancy coming?_ Alex asked and nodded to Jessy's enormous stomach.

Jessy took a deep breath. _Draining._

Like every pregnant woman to ever live, Jessy suffered from sore feet, knees, and back, yucky vaginal discharge (hey, it happens, natural part of the process, bub), and leaky boobs, not to mention emotional instability, loss of energy, and the dreaded Pregnancy Brain. That's where you act dumb becase the baby's siphoning off the juices keeping your head meat wet.

Uh, that sounded really weird. It was, indeed, a real thing though. The leaky boobs was her body's way of preparing to breastfeed, and the discharge was her body's way of preparing to push out a baby. _Did you lose your mucus plug yet?_ Alex asked. It was starting to get late and everyone else was settled down; Mark in bed, Zoe asleep, and Mom, Dad, Luan, Blake, and Tim watching a video. Get this, Jessy and Mark were so fancy now they had a VHS rewinder. You slip your tape in and it rewinds it for you, just like a VCR. Pretty useless, huh?

 _I'm not sure,_ Jessy said. Bugs tapped against the window over the sink, trying to capture the big, beautiful light. _I'm kind of new to this._

The mucus plug is a wad of mucus that accumulates at the cervix and forms a nifty little plug to keep out yuck like bacteria. As the big day approaches and your cervix widens in expectation of delivery, the plug comes out. Looks kind of like snot. Or a load of...well...you know. Once it's out, you usually have about a week until something _else_ comes out. If ya know what I mean.

Your baby. The baby is what I mean.

 _I mean, I've been discharging,_ Jessy said, _but whether it's the plug or not..._ she shrugged.

Alex hummed and tapped her chin. _I give it a week,_ she said at a guess. _Probably less._

And, boy, was she right.

On the morning of July 8, Alex was up with Zoe well before dawn. Little girl was still on Royal Woods time, which was a full two hours ahead of Seattle time. It was seven at home, normal getting-up time, but here, it was just past five and dark. Alex was snoozing right along as pretty as you please when something slapped her nose and almost broke it; felt like Hulk Hogan after a particularly fruitful work out. She cringed, moaned, and rolled onto her side, probably gushing blood and dying too.

" _Uhhh!"_

Alex peeled a lid back from one grainy orb, and Zoe, lying on her side in a pink sleep sack, smiled and kicked her feet.

Oh. It was just the baby.

Heh.

Swiping the back of her hand across her nose and confirming to herself that she wasn't bleeding, Alex glanced at the clock on the nightstand, its red numbers a blurry smeer. 5:01am. She groaned and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "It is _waaay_ too early for this."

" _Uh."_

Alex sat up, folded her legs, and leaned back against the headboard. Tim lay on his side, facing away, and snores drifted from the foot of the bed; Blake lay on a cot on the floor, probably all curled up in the blankets since he was a side sleeper just like his father. Alex stretching out on her back; nothing like spreading out at the end of a looong day. Blake and Tim were weirdos, all bunched up. Pfft. She needed freedom.

She picked Zoe up and cradled her in her arms. The baby smiled, reached up, and grabbed a handful of Alex's hair with a high laugh. Tears filled Alex's eyes and she gritted her teeth. "Ow, ow, ow, that hurts." She pulled away and stared down at her daughter with a faux stern expression. "You're gonna make mommy bald one day."

Zoe laughed.

"I'm glad _you_ find it funny," Alex said. A line of baby bottles filled with water marched across the bedside table, each one paired with a smaller bottle containing yellowish powder. If the FBI chose that moment to burst through the bedroom door with a battering ram, they _might_ mistake it for cocaine...if they were really dumb. Alex grabbed one of the water bottles, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the powder in, then returned the lid and shook it up. Boom, instant baby breakfast, just like grandma used to make.

No, really, Mom taught her this trick. _That way you don't have to get out of bed to make a bottle._ Mom might be a total dork, but she was a _smart_ dork.

"You want this?" Alex whispered.

Zoe's eyes locked onto the bottle and her squirming _ceased_. Her mouth opened and a soft, hitching _uhh-uhh_ escaped like air from a balloon. Alex slowly brought the nipple to her lips, and the baby's eyes crossed. Giggling, Alex stuck it in, and Zoe instantly began to drink with great, greedy sips. "Take it easy," Alex said and stroked the little girl's hair. "You're gonna give yourself an upset tummy."

Outside the window, the sky was dark blue, heralding the coming of dawn. Jessy said it rained almost non stop in Seattle, so Alex was surprised when she got off the plane and it was sunny. _Uh, where's the gloom?_

When Zoe was done feeding, Alex burped her, then carried her into the hall, stepping over Blake _really_ careful-like so as not to wake him. Light fell out of the kitchen, and the coffee pot rattled. Hm. Someone's up. "Wonder who it is," she said to Zoe.

It was Mark. He stood at the counter in a pale yellow Izod tucked into tan slacks and brown loafers. He wore a cell phone clipped to one side of his belt and a pager clipped to the other. Mr. Bigshot Businessman over here. Alex remembered when he was a dweeb in an admittedly cool Slayer T and ripped jeans. Sigh. The good old days. "It's your uncle Mark," Alex said, "and he looks as lame as your grandfather."

Mark glanced over his shoulder as she sat at the table, then back to the coffee pot. "I have to dress like this. Everyone else does."

"If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" Alex asked playfully.

"Most likely," he deadpanned, "I've been following their cues my entire life. If I didn't, I probably wouldn't know how to act."

Oh.

He poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'm joking. I'm not that bad."

Alex waved her hand. "I knew that."

Zoe thrashed in her lap, and she sat her on the floor. The little girl crawled to the end of the table, settled on her butt, and looked up at Mark, head cocking curiously to one side. _What's he doing, Mom?_ "Do you want some coffee?" Mark asked.

"Yes, please."

Mark got a forest green mug down from the cabinet, filled it, and set it in front of her. What, no cream and sugar? Actually, cream and sugar were bad. She hadn't lost the baby weight from Zoe yet and had to really watch what she ate.

She thanked him and took a sip. "What's it like working for Bill Gates?" she asked.

Leaning back against the counter, Mark took a drink himself then shrugged. "Like working for anyone else. He gets grumpy sometimes."

"So does my mom."

"Mr. Gates isn't a diabetic," Mark pointed out. "He doesn't have a medical excuse." Alex started to agree, but he cut her off. "That I know of. I'm not his physician."

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Bill Gates being a grump was irrelevant; Mark working for him was pretty cool. He was the richest man in the world _and_ basically created personal computers. She almost kind of wanted to ask Mark for his autograph, but that might not be a good idea if he _was_ a sourpuss. _You want my autograph, DuChamp? Here, I'll write it on your pink slip._ She'd loused a lot of stuff up for Jessy in the past, she was _not_ about to lose Mark his super cool Microsoft job. "I guess," she said, "what are you working on?"

"A video game console."

A Chesire grin burst across Alex's lips. "Now you're speaking my language. What's it called?"

"I don't know," Mark said, "we haven't even gotten started on it yet. Design phase still."

Zoe pulled herself laboriously up on a chair, bounced, and slapped it like it just got fresh. She let out a yell and slapped it again. That was her way of making music. During the day, while Blake was at school and Tim at work, she and Zoe listened to the radio nonstop. Zoe really liked _We Will Rock You_ by Queen, which wasn't AC/DC, but close enough that Alex was satisfied. "What's it look like?"

Mark thought for a moment. "Considering the amount of internal hardware required to operate this machine to Mr. Gate's specifications, the finished product will most likely resemble a computer modem."

Hmmm...which part was that again? Alex crinkled her nose and called up a mental image of the computer set up at home. She didn't use it very much except to play Minesweeper (at which she was really, really bad) and to talk to Jessy, Lynn, and Lola on AOL Instant Messenger; every once in a while, she'd get an email from Auntie Lori, its arrival announced by the _you've got mail_ voice _._ Oh, I do, do I? "So...like a box?"

"More or less," Mark said.

Hm. Video game console that looks like a box. Well, they all kind of looked like boxes when you got right down to it. "Game Station?" she asked.

"No," Mark said flatly.

Darn. "Joy Station?"

Mark regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup with something like pity. _Wow, Alejandra, you are intellectually deficient._ I'm trying my best here, buddy, I don't hear _you_ making any suggestions. You want me to build the darn thing too? "Game Square?"

"I don't think one will work either."

Sigh. Okay, he said box. Let's incorporate that into the name. "Game Box?"

"No."

Zoe turned away from the chair and toddled over, steps slow and uncertain. She slapped her hands on Alex's leg and bounced for joy. Alex stoked her head and searched her brain muscle for the perfect name.

"Play Box?"

He pushed away from the counter and started into the living room. She saw her chances crashing in flames and grasped the first thing that came to mind. "XBox?"

Mark's step slowed. Ha, got'cha. "The X stands for Alex."

Tilting his head back, he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then hummed. "We'll put that in the maybe pile."

Suh-WEET.

After Mark left for work, Alex took Zoe into the living room, dropped onto the couch, and turned on the TV. Shortly, Dad came down the hall from the den at the back of the house, followed by Mom; he wore blue gym shorts and a white T-shirt, and she a pink robe that was so old it collected social security. Dad came over and sat next to her; Zoe smiled and clapped her hands as if applauding him for getting out of bed. "Good morning, Grandpa," Alex said.

"Good morning," Dad yawned. "I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. I usually sleep until eight on off days. Not...what time is it anyway?"

Alex squinted at the clock on the VCR. "6:10. 8:10 in Royal Woods."

Dad's brow knitted in confusion. "8:10 in Royal Woods?"

"Time difference, lame-o," Mom called from the kitchen. She emerged with a cup of coffee in each hand and passed one to day, then sat beside him. "We're in Seattle, remember?"

"You don't say," Dad said sarcastically.

Blake was next, closely followed by Jessy and Auntie Luan; Auntie Luan hovered over Jessy like she'd shatter into a million pieces if she made one wrong move, and Jessy waddled from side to side like an overgrown penguin with a ponytail. She wore a pale pink maternity dress and held her hand to the small of her back like an old man on his way to the bathroom. Alex knew that gestre well, she did it _lots_ of times with Zoe. Did Jessy get so frustrated with the constant muscle aches that she balled her fist and slammed it into her lower back? _Stop hurting, darn you! Leave me alone! Okay, I'll give you a reason to hurt. Ow! Ow! OUCH!_ Alex herself _may_ have done that from time to time. Hey, she was even-tempered most of the time, but steeped in pregnancy hormones, she kind of acted like a spaz from time to time.

"Morning," Jessy said in general.

"Morning, Jess," Alex said, "you're looking pregnant today."

Mom rolled her eyes. "Because she is."

"Is she?" Dad asked. "I had no idea."

Because Jess was big and sore, Mom and Auntie Luan handled breakfast; Blake weaved excitedly between them like an energetic dog, and Mom played with Zoe while Dad read the morning paper with a scowl. "There's no _Dear Abby,"_ he said bitterly and threw it aside in disgust. For whatever reason, he _loved_ that dumb column. Mom joked that he was going to leave her for Abby, and Alex couldn't say she wasn't looking forward to having a famous stepmother.

Just past seven, everyone gathered in the kitchen for a yummy morning meal. Alex's stomach was rumbling by the time she sat down, and she swiped her tongue across her bottom lip in anticipation. Zoe, sitting on Dad's lap, tried to imitate her by opening her mouth in a perfect O and sticking her tongue all the way out. "It looks really good," Mom said as Auntie Luan made her plate. When Alex's turn came, she tucked a napkin into her shirt and rubbed her hands crisply together. Alright, let's ea -

Wait a minute. What's wrong with my breakfast?

The plate Auntie Luan sat before her boasted eggs, sausage, and toast. Normal fare, right? Wrong. The eggs were completely white...like, no yoke at all...and the sausage links looked sick. Pale. Anemic. Like they needed to check their blood sugar and eat something. The toast was weird too; brown instead of white. She knew the reason for _that_ one, though.

Wheat.

Wheat toast.

She'd seen it before, of course - they served it at Oak Springs and Marshall Manor - but she didn't think people actually _ate_ it. Except for prisoners and maybe hippies.

Hm.

Everyone else fell heedlessly in, the only sound forks scraping and teeth masticating. "Uh..Jess?" she asked.

Across the table, Jessy looked up mid-chew. "What's up with the eggs? And the sausage? They look..off."

Nodding ( _oh, right, I forgot to tell you_ ), Jessy hurriedly swallowed her food and said, "Egg whites and turkey sausage. They're both really healthy."

One of Alex's favorite movies was _The Lost Boys._ In it, Cory Feldman splashed holy water in a vampire's face, and the vampire, being a vampire, starts to sizzle and scream. That's how Alex felt right now. Ew. Healthy? That's slang for _it sucks._ "So...it's just the white part of the egg?" she asked doubtfully.

"Yep," Jessy confirmed.

"Nothing else?"

"Nope. The white part is low fat, cholesterol free, and rich in nutrients."

Sheesh. She sounded like Alex's doctor.

Alex looked down at her stomach rolls and sighed. She kidded around, but she knew she had to eat healthier, and for the most part did. The vacation atmosphere of going across the country and seeing her sister after so long kind of put her in the mood to cheat, though.

Fine. The egg whites weren't _bad,_ but she did like the yoke. Ummm. Yum. The sausage, on the other hand, worried her. She didn't like turkey very much in its natural form, so it stood to reason that she _really_ wouldn't like it pretending to be something else. "What does...what does the sausage taste like?" she asked. "Is it...turkey-ish?"

"Try it," Mom said around a mouthful of food, "it's really good."

"Actually not bad," Dad agreed, and that was high praise coming from him since he wasn't really a turkey kinda guy either.

Well...okay. Alex picked up her fork, carved a piece off, and stuck it into her mouth. She bit down, and the taste of fowl burst across her tongue like a bomb. She crinkled her nose but swallowed anyway. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either; she probably wouldn't be running to the store to stock up on it any time soon.

After breakfast, Alex helped Dad do the dishes while Mom and Tim took Blake and Zoe into the backyard; in anticipation of their visit, Mark ordered a playground set from K-Mart and spent three long, hot afternoons putting it together. It wasn't much, just swings and a slide, but the kids liked it: Blake swung back and forth, going higher and higher on every pass, and Mom held Zoe's hand while the little girl went down the slide. "The kids are having fun," she commented and sat a plate in the drying rack.

"That's a really chintzy swing set," Dad said. "Look at it bowing. It's gonna break."

Alex squinted. The metal frame _was_ bowing; Blake was driving it harder than the Pony Express. Mom saw and yelled at him to take it easy, and he did, a sullen and disappointed look crossing his face.

When the dishes were done, Dad went outside to join the fun and Alex made her way into the living room, where Jessy and Auntie Luan sat together on the couch, Jessy with a whole mess of pillows heaped behind her back. The TV played: On _Good Morning, America_ , a male lame-o in a suit and a female lame-o in a skirt and blazer stood in a studio surrounded by drums, microphones, and guys with guitars. She could never remember the hosts' names. " _...Well, in the next hour we're going to have the answer to the question we've been asking all morning: How did five guys from suburban Toronto end up with the name_ Barenaked Ladies. _We will ask them that but first we want them to play us a song from their new CD. It's called_ One Week. _Ladies and gentlemen,_ Barenaked Ladies."

Alex dropped into the armchair and glanced at the screen. Huh, so _that's_ Barenaked Ladies, huh? She always wondered about that name. Kind of a strange thing to call yourself. The music started and she scrunched her lips to the side, thoroughly disappointed in how _normal_ they were. The singer was on the chubbier side and wore glasses, the drummer was balding, and the other singer wore a short-sleeved button up and denim shorts. She was pretty sure Tim had the same outfit back home. They looked like they ran a video store on their free time.

Rock stars aren't supposed to look like workaday schlubs, they're supposed to dress with a little flare, like Brett Michaels or Axl Rose.

 _It's been one week since you looked at me_

 _Cocked your head to the side_

 _and said I'm angry_

 _Five days since you laughed at me saying_

 _Get that together come back and see me_

Jessy flopped her head back with a groan and shifted in place. "My back hurts," she complained and turned to her mother. "Did I hurt your back like this?"

Auntie Luan thought for a moment then shook her head. "No, my back didn't really hurt."

 _Hold it now and watch the hoodwink_

 _As I make you stop, think_

 _You'll think you're looking at Aquaman_

 _I summon fish to the dish,_

 _Although I like the Chalet Swiss_

"Zoe _killed_ my back," Alex said, "it felt like there were four babies in there." She hooked her leg over the arm of the chair, settled in, and crossed her arms.

"She wasn't very big, though," Auntie Luan pointed out.

Alex sighed. "I know. She was an itty bitty thing but she felt like _this._ " She held her hands up, palms facing, like a fisherman lying about his big catch. _I swear, guys, it was fifty feet long, you gotta believe me._

 _Hot like wasabi when I bust rhymes_

 _Big like Leann Rimes_

 _Because I'm all about value_

"It was her personality," Jessy said and scratched the top of her head, "she has _lots_ of it." She planted her hands on either side of her and started to draw herself up, but froze, her forehead crinkling. "Uh-oh."

"What?" Auntie Luan asked, a hint of worry in her voice. She put her hand on Jessy's shoulder and leaned close.

Jessy flushed. "I think I just peed on myself...or my water just broke."

 _Chickity China the Chinese chicken_

 _You have a drumstick and your brain stops tickin'_

 _Watchin XFiles with no lights on,_

 _We're dans la maison_

 _I hope the Smoking Man's in this one_

Alex sat forward, her chest clutching with anticipation. Was it go time?

Jessy reached between her legs and ran her index finger across her thigh. It came back slick. She brought it to her nose and sniffed. "That's not pee," she said.

"It's baby juice!" Alex cried and jumped to her feet.

Jessy paled and started to breathe heavy like she was going to launch into a panic attack. Poor girl, going into labor is _always_ intimidating. Luckily, she had a full-fledged expert in her corner. She held up her hand to stay Jessy's anxiety and said, "Don't worry. I've done this twice. Auntie Luan, go round everyone up."

Surprisingly, Auntie Luan nodded and rushed off.

"Jess, is your go bag packed?"

Jessy gave a jerky nod.

"What's Mark's cell number?"

"It's on the fridge."

Alex started into the kitchen, but spun, bent over her sister, and pressed their foreheads together instead. "You can do this," she said. In that moment, the years melted away and they were kids again, Jessy small, frail, and in need of support, and Alex determined to give that support because that's what big sisters do. "Take deep breaths and relax. You won't go into active labor for a while. There's no need to rush...or panic...or anything like that, okay?"

Their gazes met, and in Jessy's eyes, Alex saw worry and trepidation. The younger woman nodded. "Okay," she said, putting her full trust into her sister just as she had a million times before.

Alex smiled, patted Jessy's shoulder, and went off to call Mark.


	200. July 1998: Part 3

**Joni C69: They might.**

 **Looneytyne22: No, you didn't seem rude, sorry if I made you feel I thought you were. You had a valid point, I could see where Lincoln's thoughts on Luna could seem callous.**

"Now making his way to the ring," the little girl intoned, "the most baddest man in the whole world, and the most ugliest one too. Hulk "The Loser" Hogan." She walked the Hulk Hogan action figure across the carpet to the official WWF ring playset; it looked just like the real thing but smaller. Much, much smaller.

Halfway there, she slammed Hogan against the floor with a contemptuous grimace. "He's also a big fat klutz," she said distastefully. She rocked forward on her knees and glared at the toy. "Watch your step, doofus." Picking him up, she leaned him against one of the turnbuckles, twisted around, and grabbed his opponent from a pile of action figures heaped on the floor like bodies in a mass grave. "Now, the good guy, the best and most awesome wrestler there is, Mankind!" She let out a deep, breathy _ahhh_ to simulate cheering noises, and sat the Mankind figure in the ring.

Mankind was Maddie's all time favorite wrestler _ever_ because he did lots of cool and interesting stuff...like hitting people with folding chairs. He wore a leather mask that made him look tough and did things in the ring that _proved_ he was tough. His best match was the one where he fought Undertaker in a Heck in a Cell (it was actually called H-E-double hockey sticks in a cell, but her mom wouldn't let her say the H word, so she had to say _heck_ ). Undertaker chokeslammed him through the top and he fell, like, a million feet to the ring below. It was the coolest bump Maddie ever saw and if he wasn't her favorite before, he sure was after.

"Alright, Hulk Hogan," she said in a deep voice, "I want a good, clean fight." She looked at Mankind. "Mankind, you can cheat. You're allowed."

Normally, Maddie didn't like cheating. Cheating, like her mom said, is what dirtbags do, and since he was a good guy, Mankind wouldn't cheat. In this case, however, it was okay because his opponent was Hulk "The Loser" Hogan, and Maddie didn't care if people cheated against him. A really long time ago, she loved Hulk, but then he stabbed WCW in the back by joining with The Outsiders and forming NWO. Maddie watched Nitro every week for a year hoping to see him get beat up, then switched to WWF when she got sick of looking at his dumb face. Raw was better anyway. It had The Rock and Stone Cold. And Mankind. Those three guys alone were enough to make WWF better than dumb old WCW. Her mom said WCW stood for _Where Cowards Wrestle_ and Maddie agreed because that's where Hulk Hogan was, and he was the biggest, oldest, more stupid coward ever.

She held Mankind and Hogan inches apart. "Ding, ding, ding," she said, replicating the opening bell. She slammed them together with a click of plastic and dropped Hogan to the mat. "Oh my gawd!" she said in her best Jim Ross - he was the color commentator on _Raw_ \- "he knocked him down like a government mule!" She held Mankind over her head, and brought him down as hard as she could; his boots connected with Hogan's midsection, and she made an explosion noise with her mouth. She pressed Mankind to Hogan and counted. "One, two, three! Ding, ding, ding! Mankind wins! Yaaaaay!" She made him jump up and down in excitement, then slammed him down onto Hogan again and again. Hogan deserved a really bad beatdown. She reached behind her with her free hand and grabbed the first action figure her fingers touched. "It's The Rock!" she cried. She made him stomp on Hogan too. "Can you smell what The Rock is cooking?"

Her stomach rumbled.

Speaking of cooking, she was kind of hungry. She looked up at the clock on her nightstand. 7:15am. It was late enough.

Getting to her feet, she started toward the door and stepped on a toy. Pain shot up her leg and she let out a strangled cry. "Ow!" She grabbed her foot and hopped up and down on one leg, air hissing through her teeth. Scott Hall smiled up at her from the floor like the scumbag he was. Flashing, she kicked him across the room; he hit the far wall, turned over, and came to rest in front of the closet. "Good riddance," she said. She started toward the door again, and again, a sharp piece of plastic dug into her bare sole. "Ouch!" She kicked that one away too then looked around for any other challengers. Toys, clothes, and books were strewn carelessly across the floor like wreckage, and a line of action figures littered the way ahead. _Clean up this mess,_ her mom said yesterday evening, _your room's a disaster._

 _Okay,_ she replied, then went back to playing. She'd do it later before bed. Then bedtime came, daddy read her a bedtime story, and that was that.

She should probably do that now.

Her stomach rumbled.

After breakfast.

Stepping between fallen wrestlers like a ballerina making her way across a dance floor, Maddie went to the door and opened it. Feeble orange sunlight streamed in through the window at the end of the hall and the soft sound of Daddy snoring drifted from his and Mom's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar because if they didn't leave it open, Maddie got kind of scared. She never said that, she just begged them not to close it. They understood implicitly, and that was embarrassing enough without coming out right and admitting she was afraid. She was almost eight and eight-year-olds are supposed to be brave and grown up, not little baby sissies hiding under their covers because there _might_ be a monster in the closet.

A monster that looked like Hollywood Hogan.

Shudder.

The worst monster of all.

She imagined him crouching in her closet even now, hiding under a pile of dirty clothes and watching her through sunglasses, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The back of her neck prickled and her heartbeat sped up. _You think you're so tough, brotherrrr, let's see how tough you are._ Hulk Hogan might be a coward, but let's face it, he was a lot bigger and stronger than Maddie was, and if she had to fight him, she'd lose.

Big time.

Something creaked, and her stomach dropped. Imagining the closet door slowly swinging open, she shot out into the hall and ran to her parents' room. Inside, they lay under the covers, Daddy flat on his back and Mom curled up on her side. She imagined Hogan in the hall now, creeping flamboyantly toward her, dressed all in black and wearing a big, feathery white boa, and her heart came to a crashing halt.

 _Here I come, brotherrrrr._

Panic gripped her and, throwing caution to the wind, she ran over to the bed, jumped on, and scrambled up between her parents. Daddy sat bolt upright, the blanket falling down his bare chest, and Mom rolled onto her back, her tired eyelids fluttering open. "What's going on?" she mumbled tiredly.

Maddie sat back against the headboard and breathed a sigh of relief. If Hulk Hogan really _was_ after her (which he wasn't), he wouldn't dare come in here, because her Daddy was way stronger than him. Hulk Hogan wouldn't mess with people who were stronger than him; that's why he picked on little girls like her.

"What's wrong?" Daddy asked, an edge of concern in his voice. He and Mom were both sitting up and facing her now, both shirtless. She took no notice of their nakedness because why would she? There was nothing wrong with not wearing a shirt in your own house. She didn't wear shirts sometimes either; if the air conditioning was busted (which happened kind of a lot), she wore just her underwear.

She took a deep, calming breath through her nose and let it out in an even rush. She couldn't tell them that she got scared because even _she_ knew how dumb it was. There were no such things as monsters. Hulk Hogan might be real, but there was no way in heck he'd be hanging out in her closet even if he _did_ know how much smack she talked about him. He was too busy wrestling and being a turncoat to worry about some kid in Arizona dissing him.

Mom and Dad were watching her expectantly. Thinking fast, she said, "I'm hungry." She grinned self-consciously and patted her stomach. "Really hungry."

Daddy lifted one incredulous brow and Mom lifted both. Maddie's smile widened and she really hoped they wouldn't push her to talk about -

 _Hulk Hogan_

\- what was really bothering her.

"Alright," Mom finally said, and Maddie breathed a sigh of relief.

While Mom and Daddy got out of bed and dressed, Maddie into the hall, her step quickening just in case. In the living room, faint tendrils of sun writhed across the carpet like vines. She dropped onto the sofa, picked the remote up from the coffee table, and turned the TV on. Since it was so early, Nick Jr. was on in place of regular Nick: A big purple face with black eyes smiled giddily. " _Hi, Face here, and I have a_ big _introduction to make!"_ Blue from _Blue's Clues_ poked her head up from the bottom of the screen and Face trembled with excitement.

Groan. Maddie hated _Blue's Clues_. It was a baby show.

One of Face's eyes got _really_ big and the other got _really_ small. " _Here it comes,"_ he said in a silly voice, " _the one, the only, the very blue -"_

Maddie changed the channel.

Maybe wrestling was on somewhere.

* * *

2:00pm, Saturday afternoon, Luan Loud sat impatiently in the waiting room of Overlake Medical Center's maternity ward. Her arms and legs were crossed and one foot jittered a restlessly tempo. On her left, Lincoln leafed through a magazine and to her left, Zoe was snuggled up and fast asleep against Alex's ample bosom; the infant's mouth hung open and her butt thrust into the air, her posture and pink onesie conspiring to lend her the appearance of a flamingo with its head buried in the sand. Alex spoke in hushed tones to Tim, who sat on her other side. Ten minutes before, Ronnie Anne took Blake to the hospital cafeteria for lunch. No one else wanted anything save for Luan, but she wasn't going anywhere until she'd held her granddaughter.

She shifted in her seat, then uncrossed and recrossed her legs like a woman in a Preparation H commercial. Her eyes went to the clock on the wall then to the door at the end of the tiled hall. Two rectangular windows stared back at her like slitted eyes. Somewhere beyond, down a maze of corridors, her little girl was bringing a new life into the world, and Luan's head spun at the surreality of it all. She remembered holding newborn Jessy like it was only yesterday. She was tired but happier than she'd ever been in her life. That happiness, however, was tempered with sadness, because she knew that at any moment, someone would come take her baby away from her, and they did. Sitting alone in the bed, her empty arms tingling with the memory of Jessy's warmth, she felt gutted, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget it. She had known no greater pain in the ensuing twenty-eight years and if she never knew it again, she would consider it a blessing.

That didn't mean the fifteen years she spent away from Jessy were easier. They weren't. Human beings need certain things to flourish. Water. Sunlight. Freedom. And, for mothers (and perhaps fathers too) their children. Being apart from your child is like being apart from a vital piece of yourself. Every day, you carry a bottomless pit of emptiness in your chest, and your soul never stops crying out for them. She'd never gotten over that awful feeling, and she'd never come to terms that she missed most of her daughter's life. She pretended to everyone, herself included, that she had, but it bothered her just as much today as it did the day she walked out of that prison. This represented a second chance for her, a chance to finally get it right. She could never make up for her failure with Jessy, but she could be better for her granddaughter.

Lincoln's voice broke the tense silence. "Nervous?" he asked.

"A little," she replied. "I'm more excited, though."

"Me too," Alex said and grinned, "I can't wait to teach her how to push her mother's buttons." She rolled her eyes nostalgically to the ceiling and stroked Zoe's back like Dr. Evil petting his cat. "It'll be a really intensive course. Might take a while."

Lincoln hummed. "She'll be learning from the best."

"Thank you," Alex smiled.

Shortly, Blake and Ronnie Anne returned, Blake carrying a pink balloon with IT'S A GIRL across the face and Ronnie Anne carrying a bouquet of pink carnations. "We got stuff for Aunt Jessy," Blake told his parents as he dropped into the seat beside his father. "I picked out the flowers. They're really girly."

"They're really nice," Alex said. "Up top." Pressing one hand to Zoe's back to keep her in place, she leaned forward and held up the other, palm facing out. Blake slapped it, and Tim ruffled his hair.

Ronnie Anne sat next to Lincoln and set the flowers between her feet. "Got some flowers for the baby, lame-o," she said.

"I see that," Lincoln said, "what did you get for Jessy?"

Ronnie Anne favored him with a blank stare. "The balloon."

"Ah. Okay. She'll love it."

Luan sighed and looked at the clock again. Only a few minutes had passed but it felt more like hours. She shifted again and raked her fingers through her hair. Hopefully everything was alright. The pregnancy had been normal and healthy, but anything could go wrong at any time. At Jessy's last ultrasound, the baby weight six pounds, five ounces. That wasn't overly big, but Jessy was a small girl; maybe it got stuck and they had to cut her open, or maybe it was breech and -

She closed that thought out before it could fully form.

Jessy was fine, she told herself.

In the hall, a nurse wearing pink scrubs pushed an old man in a wheelchair and a Dr. Van Arten was paged over the loudspeaker. Luan shifted uncomfortably and drew a deep breath. Something moved in the corner of her eye, and she turned. Zoe stared up at her from Alex's chest, her big, dark eyes still hazy with sleep. Luan forced a smile, and the little girl burrowed deeper into her mother as if to get away. She was always grumpy when she woke up from a nap, and Luan couldn't help but wonder if Jessy was the same way when she was a baby.

She didn't even know what her own daughter was like when she was one. Isn't that sad?

Yes, it was, but dwelling on it was useless. She'd beaten herself up about it a million times over the years, and it never achieved anything. That didn't mean she didn't do it from time to time, nor did it mean that she wouldn't do it again in the future. Losing fifteen years of your child's life - coming into their world when they were practically grown - is, she imagined, something that you never really move on from. Her gaze flicked instinctively to her little brother, his profile sharp and his reading glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He never moved on from what happened to him in Vietnam, at least not fully, and their sister Luna never moved on from the disease of her addiction.

She remembered something she read once about the atomic bombing of Hiroshima during WWII. The explosion was so hot, so sudden, that it burned people's shadows into the ground like a macabre snapshot, their outline etched forever in stone. Each life, she reckoned, had a moment like that, a bright, super heated flash that froze the present for eternity. For Luna, that moment was the second of her death. For Luan, it was the second of Harold Manning's death. And for Lincoln, it was the second that bullet slammed into his shoulder and drove him to the ground. Trying to change for either one of them was pointless. They could cope and live happy, fruitful lives, but they would never be able to truly change their form.

She didn't realize she had company until a whiff of blue filled her vision. She looked up, and her heart skipped a beat. A doctor in scrubs, a white face mask hanging around his neck, stood over her. His expression was inscrutable - he could be the bearer of bad news, or the bringer of good tidings, and she would never know which.

"Who's ready to meet the baby?" he asked.

Five minutes later, Luan stepped into a room catercorner to the nurse's station and came to a shuffling halt. Jessy sat up in bed with a pink bundle in her arms, and the moment Luan saw it, tears filled her eyes. Her hand fluttered to her mouth and it took everything she had to keep from breaking down. She went to her daughter's bedside on shaky legs and stopped at the rail. Jessy looked up and offered her a radiant smile. Luan wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm and laid her hand on the cool metal. The baby's face peeked out from the blanket, her eyes closed and a look of tranquility upon her features.

"It's your grandma," Jessy whispered to the newborn. "That's _my_ mommy." She giggled girlishly to herself. "Do you want to hold her?"

Luan nodded. "Yes," she said barely above a whisper.

Jessy held the baby out and Luan carefully and reverently took her, unaware that Lincoln, Ronnie Anne, and the others surrounded her now. She cradled her granddaughter and smiled lovingly down at her perfect face. Alex sat on the edge of the bed and rested her elbow on Jessy's shoulder. "What are you naming her?" she asked.

"Allison Rita," Jessy said, "after Grandma."

"So...that's one name? Like Mary-Beth?"

"No," Jessy said. "Rita's her middle name."

Luan rocked her granddaughter gently from side to side and leaned in to kiss her button nose. "I'll always be there for you," she vowed.

" _Always."_


	201. August 1998: Part 1

**Valtek: I've known people by some of these names at one point or another, but I didn't name any of the characters after them. With Bobby Jr., I was lazy, same with Lynn III. For Alex, I wanted a name that could be shortened to a masculine form (like Ronnie). With Stephaine, I wanted a name that was popular in the late eighties / early nineties, so she was destined to be a Stephaine or an Ashley or something like that.**

Change happens. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Nothing is eternal, not even the mountains or the sea. The former crumble, the latter drains. Lincoln Loud had weathered many changes in his life - as all people do - from leaving home to welcoming a daughter into the world to suffering mild back pain every time he got out of bed. On Saturday, August 29, 1998, in a very small way, it changed again.

It was a hot and breezy late summer afternoon, the kind that seems to last forever, and if you squinted, you could almost make out the cool shape of September on the horizon. He woke at nine to the distant sounds of Ronnie Anne rattling around in the kitchen, and the faint smells of cooking. Bacon. Eggs. *Sniff* Sex. His brow creased as his tired mind tried to make sense of what his nose was telling him, then smoothed out. Just the sheets. The lingering odor of their thrice weekly coupling clung to them like a pleasant memory, one that, like nostalgia itself, grows stronger and more pungent if you let it fester. When was laundry day again? Oh, right, today.

Rubbing his grainy eyes, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, his old muscles popping and a look of discomfort running across his face. If it was like this now, he wondered, what the hell would it be like when he was seventy? He thought for a moment, then came, not for the first time, to an awful realization.

Seventy was close.

Too close.

Last month, he turned fifty-two, which left him eighteen years before the big seven zero. 2016. Zoe would be graduating high school, Blake would probably just be coming home from college (if he went), and Lori...Jesus, Lori would probably be dead. Her greaser dirtbag husband, too.

Looking to the past made it worse. Eighteen years ago was 1980, practically yesterday in Lincoln Years. He still had unread magazines from 1980 hanging around. Hell, half of his wardrobe predated 1980. Eighteen years might be a lot to a young man, but not to him.

That was terrifying because if it was no time at all from there to here, it would be no time at all from here to _there_ : Walking with a cane, shitting in a diaper, dreading every bend and corner because he might round it and come face to face with the Reaper himself. _Hey-ya, Linc, ready to die?_ The average life expectancy for a man in the US was seventy-four...roundabout. If you asked him, the moment you hit 70, all bets were off and death could strike at any moment. Paper cut? Dead. Sniffles? Dead. Just sitting in your chair and reading _Dear Abby?_ Dead.

In other words, he was in the home stretch, running inexorably to home plate, and you know what home plate looked like? A fucking headstone. HERE LIES LINCOLN LOUD, it said, AMERICAN HERO.

Hey, actually, that took some of the sting out of it. Did he qualify for burial at Arlington National Cemetery? If so, maybe he'd wind up next to Douglas MacArthur or George Patton. They could regale each other with tales of their wartime exploits and play poker,

He bunched his lips to one side in consideration. Nah, knowing his luck, they'd stick him next to Kennedy. _Hey, Linc, wanna hear about all the times I cheated on my wife?_

Fuck you, no.

Pushing up to his feet, Lincoln went to the bathroom. He wore a pair of white boxer shorts with a slot in the front, and only realized that his penis was hanging out when he got to the toilet. What's the point of the goddamn hole anyway? Underwear are supposed to keep it _in_.

Aeration, maybe?

He used the commode, went to the sink, and brushed his teeth, then made his way to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to pull a white T-shirt on. Ronnie Anne stood at the stove, dressed for the day in a sleeveless pink dress that, along with her perky ponytail, made her look twenty years younger. Until she turned around, then she looked like an old crone.

Not really.

He came up behind her, put his hands on her hips, and kissed the side of her neck. "Ummm, good morning," she said.

"Morning," he replied and kissed her again, her skin salty and sweet on his lips. He slipped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. "What'cha making?"

"Breakfast," she said.

Long strips of bacon sizzled in one pan, and eggs fried in another, the hiss and pop of grease like hungry voices. "Want a job?" he asked.

"No," she said emphatically.

"Oh, come on, I'll pay you well."

She turned her head and favored him with a crooked smile. "The day you become my boss is the day hell freezes over, lame-o."

Lincoln nodded. Knew _that_ was coming. Ronnie Anne was a fiery, headstrong Latina (God, don't call her a Latin- _o_ ) and those, as best Lincoln could tell, were like wild mustangs. You can't break them, you can't saddle them,, the only thing you can do is let them run majestic and free...or blow them away with a high powered rifle. That works too. "Fine," he sighed. He squeezed her butt and she jumped.

"Knock it off, lame-o, I'm cooking with hot grease here."

"Grease is good for the skin."

While she laughed at him, he crossed through the living room, opened the front door, and grabbed the paper from the step. There was a new paperboy on their route, little black kid, and he threw them _perfect_. Every one landed dead center on the WELCOME mat. Lincoln thought he was running over and dropping them until he saw him wing one over. Kid was the next goddamn Barry Bonds.

Back inside, Lincoln returned to the kitchen and sat at the table. He slipped the paper from its bag, sat aside the copious inserts, and went off in search of _Dear Abby._ You know, another tough, no-nonsense woman he liked was Judge Judy. He watched her on Fox every afternoon and couldn't help a nasty chuckle when she blew up on some disrespectful little punk. She didn't take shit, but she was fair, and Lincoln loved that about her. Too much unfairness as it is; every instance of someone being the opposite was like a breath of fresh air.

"What time are we going to Luan's?" Ronnie Anne asked over her shoulder.

Lincoln thought for a moment. What time did Luan tell him again? "Eleven."

She brought his plate over and sat it in front of him along with a mug of coffee. "Alright," she said, "I hope there isn't much. The last thing I wanna do today is hard physical labor."

"They're not taking everything," Lincoln said.

Ronnie Anne made her own plate and sat across from him. She crossed her legs, picked up her fork, and took a bite of egg. "That's more for us to worry about."

"Not really," Lincoln said and drank from his mug. "We'll sell it with the house."

Last month, Luan called him and Ronnie Anne over to Mom's. Sitting around the kitchen table, which seemed to be the focal point of every domestic meeting ever - social and otherwise - she took Fred's hand, drew a deep, fortifying breath, and said, _We're moving to Seattle._ He wasn't surprised by the news - she'd been talking about wanting to be closer to Jessy and the baby ever since they came home - and he completely understood her reasoning. She was madly in love with Allison and wanted to be a part of her life; if he were in her shoes, he'd move the hell out of here too.

Her plan was to sign 1216 Franklin Avenue over to him and leave as soon as they found a place. They flew out in August and stayed with Jessy and Mark for nearly two weeks while house hunting. Just before they left, they found an apartment ten miles from Jessy's place. It was a little pricey, but Luan was certain they could afford it. On August 24, she signed the deed of the house over to him, rented a U-Haul, and she and Fred began to slowly pack their things. Given the apartment's lack of space, they were forced to leave most of the furniture behind. They were taking their bed, the sofa, and a few other things, but the vast majority was staying right where it was...in some cases where it had for fifty years or more.

At first, Lincoln was conflicted: Part of him wanted to sell the house, but another part, a deep, seething, sentimental part, rebelled at the idea. It was his childhood home and, with the death of his parents, had become the only constant in his life. Everything changed - his mind, his body, even his family - except for that house; it remained as it always was, like the sun or the stars, comforting in its unwavering sameness. There were tiny alterations here and there - a fresh coat of paint, new wallpaper - but it stood much as it had since Lincoln's earliest memories. He hadn't lived there in nearly thirty years, yet somehow, in a way, it was still home.

He didn't want to live in it, though. It was far too big for him and Ronnie Anne, and though he cherished the memories he made in that house, he didn't relish the thought of steeping himself in them. He also wasn't entirely ready to let go. His first idea was to give it to Tim and Alex, but when he bought it up, she winced. _Oh...that's a little too much house for us._

 _No it's not,_ he argued desperately, _you and Tim are gonna have more kids anyway._

Her eyes widened like a deer in the headlights and she shook her head. _No, no we're not. Two's enough. Boy and girl, perfect balance._

Their talks fell through when he threatened to ground her and she laughed in his face. Hey, it was worth a shot.

Next, he talked to Lori and Bobby. They didn't want it either. _It's too big,_ Lori said, _plus, we've been living here forever. This is our home now._

Those five words resonated with him, though at first he couldn't say why. Later, in bed with Ronnie Anne asleep next to him, he came to the realization that the past, as great (or terrible) as it may be, doesn't matter. Only the here and now does. Hanging onto the house out of sentimentality might be fine and well, but things change and people either change with them, or turn into a metaphorical blood clots clogging the arteries of time. Nostalgia is a cancer that rots away the heart and spirit - a cancer with which he was afflicted and had long battled against.

Much scarier than growing old was _not_ growing old in mind. There was no real reason for him to keep the house. In fact, he had every reason to sell it.

Along with Flip's.

Resolved to not be an old fuddy duddy clinging to the past like a security blanket though he may have been, he was still only human, and human beings intrinsically fear the unknown. Getting rid of the house, and the restaurant, would not be easy. They were both major components of who he was. Shoving them off would start a new chapter in his life, one filled with content he could not even begin to guess at.

It was for the best. For the now. The house's market value, per a 1993 appraisal, was just under 95,000 and Flip's was close to seventy. That was a lot of money, money he and Ronnie Anne could really use. She would be fifty-two next month. In ten years, twelve at the most, she'd retire and that would be that, game, set, match. In a way, life up until retirement is _preparation_ for retirement, everyone saving and squirrelling away so that when it came, they would have enough to live on. Money wasn't the most important thing in the world, but to pretend that it was not important was to ignorantly deny reality. You need money to survive, and sooner rather than later, they would have no income but social security and his army checks.

For that reason, he would sell both the Franklin Avenue house _and_ Flip's.

Presently, Ronnie Anne cut a piece of bacon in half with her fork and shoved it into her mouth. "You think anyone's really gonna buy a bunch of seventy year old highboys and moth eaten drapes?"

Lincoln swallowed a piece of egg and nodded. "Yeah, I do," he said. "People love antiques."

He didn't know if that was true or not (some people certainly liked antiques), but he hoped someone bought all that stuff...that way he could raise the price a little. He hadn't had the chance to really inspect it yet, but he was sure he would have to do a little work on it before putting it on the market. The wiring in the basement was shoddy, a few of the doors stuck, and the last time he checked, there was mold in the attic. If he did a few extras like painting, repapering some of the walls, and replacing the linoleum in the kitchen, he could bump the price up even more.

Hey, nothing wrong with getting as much out of a sale as possible.

"If you say so," she said. She finished her breakfast and downed it with coffee, then got stiffly to her feet. "Hurry up and get ready, lame-o. I wanna get this over with as quickly as possible."

Yeah, so did he.

Draining his coffee, he got up and made his way to the bedroom while Ronnie Anne did the dishes. He stood indecisively before the dresser for a long moment before selecting a pair of tan slacks and a green polo shirt. He put them on, followed by socks, then finally his shoes. Back in the kitchen, Ronnie Anne leaned against the counter with another mug of coffee and her head thrown back to reveal her long, graceful throat. The hem of her dress stopped above her knees, and his eyes were drawn to her bare legs: Despite the faint, blue varicose veins beginning to crisscross her flesh, they were beautiful, and his palms tingled with the urge to run themselves slowly up and down their length. "Ready?" he asked.

She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out evenly. "As I'll ever be." She lifted the mug to her lips, finished off the coffee, and sat it in the sink. She pushed away from the counter and brushed past him; Lincoln craned his neck and stared after, his eyes resting firmly on the outline of her butt.

Three times was their weekly average, but he had a feeling that this week, it was going to be four.

* * *

The White House was smaller in person, and not as majestic.

Like many famous American landmarks, The White House looms so large in the national psyche that it simply can't live up to expectations. Its every board and beam may be drenched in history, but it is just a building like any other.

Even so, when Carol McBride first glimpsed it from the passenger seat of a white panel van with FOX NEWS CHANNEL on the sides, her stomach knotted. It stood in the distance, framed behind wrought iron fencing like a stately manor home on an English moor, its marble columns, well manicured lawn, and flower rimmed fountain lending it a decidedly Georgian air.

She had met many notable people in her line of work, and each one of them exuded a certain _presence_ : She felt that same magnetic power now, as the van paused at the front gate, like an insistent pull at the lapels of her blazer.

Greatness.

It was the sensation of being next to greatness.

The White House was witness to the lives, trials, and tribulations of some of America's greatest men; its passageways had been trod by presidents, generals, and foregin leaders; its walls had soaked in the most important words ever spoken and presided over most momentous decisions ever made; the spirits of Lincoln, Roosevelt, Eisenhower, and Kennedy resounded through its rooms (metaphorically speaking). Washington, D.C., was the hub of American governance, and The White House was the hub of Washington, even more so than Capitol Hill. She recalled a story she read in a book once. During the American Revolution, Benjamin Franklin and John Adams were in Paris attempting to secure French support. Adams, a straightlaced man, worked diligently in their shared office, arriving early and leaving late. Franklin, on the other hand, would saunter in at nine or ten, hungover, then beg off after only a few hours. That was because he spent most nights at parties hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, endearing himself to them and bringing them slowly over to his side. It is said that he did more good for the American cause in Parisian parlors and drawing rooms at night than Adams did in the office during the day. Surely more feats of diplomacy had been accomplished here, over meals, drinks, and cigars, than anywhere else in the city...perhaps even the world.

Staring up at the Grecian facade, she was humbled.

And honored.

When she joined Fox News Channel as a correspondent for its evening news and commentary program _Special Report With Brit Hume_ in March, the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal was just beginning to break and she knew there was a chance she would wind up being sent to Washington to cover it, a proposition she was at first against; she had two young children at home and was loathe to leave them for extended periods. Clyde, however, persuaded her to go if she had to. _This is what you've been working your whole life for,_ he said, _you'd be stupid_ not _to do it._ He was right, journalism had been her passion since she was a little girl, but things were different now, she was a mother to young twins, and leaving them behind while she went off to chase her dream struck her as selfish and _wrong_.

Yet here she was, and though she missed Christopher and Collette dearly, she was not sorry she took the assignment.

Presently, a guard leaned out of the booth and checked the driver's press badge. He nodded and directed him the press area on the South Lawn, where network correspondents often reported with the rose garden, Oval Office, and West Wing as a backdrop. Carol watched the storied executive mansion draw closer like a ship at sea, her fingers beginning to tap restively on her lap. Secret service agents in black suits and sunglasses, some carrying automatic weapons, wandered about in a seemingly aimless circuit, and other news vans (ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN) were parked in a line along the service road bordering the South Lawn. Camera crews set up their gear while bored looking reporters drank coffee from Styrofoam cups and smoked cigarettes. Carol recognized a few of them from TV, and couldn't suppress a rush of wonder.

Was that Connie Chung over there?

She sat forward and squinted her eyes, but couldn't tell. She swallowed thickly and inhaled deeply. Here, at the White House and surrounded by some of the biggest names in modern American journalism, Carol suddenly felt both exhilarated...and intimidated. She was no stranger to being on national television, she'd done a fair amount of on location work for _Special Report,_ but all at once, she was so nervous she shook; this might as well have been her very first time.

The driver pulled to the edge of the road and parked behind a white sedan with THE NEW YORK TIMES stenciled on the doors in rich cursive. A fat man in a tan vest over a green plaid shirt and a backwards baseball cap, his name was Doug and he'd been an on-scene camera tech for over fifteen years, starting at CNN in the early eighties before moving to ABC and then, finally, Fox News when it went on-air in '96. He was thus jaded and blasse to it all, and she drew strength from his reassuring demeanor. He was like a rock, and as long as she had him and the other members of her team - all of whom were equally experienced - she would be okay. Everything would go off without a hitch, and by this time tomorrow, or maybe the next day, she would be back in New York with her husband and children.

And if what came across the teletype was true and not just a rumor, she would likely be famous.

Doug killed the engine and threw the door open, its hinges creaking rustily. "We'll set up over there," he said vaguely. She didn't know where he meant but she didn't have to. He knew how to get the best shot possible and she had the utmost faith in him.

She got out into the dry August afternoon and looked up toward the White House. There were no outward signs of the scandal currently rocking the nation's capital, but it still somehow reminded her of a beleaguered fortress hunkered against the battering assault of untold armies anyway. The first floor windows were unguarded and filled with soft lamplight, but they might as well have been shuttered; the main doors stood open to receive the President, who was testifying before Congress about his alleged affair with Monica Lewinsky, but they _felt_ closed and uninviting, like a house haunted by the specter of executive misconduct. The structure, usually so grand and elegant, seemed dark now, foreboding, a craggy and inhospitable island amidst a bleak, crashing sea. Tension hung thick in the heated summer air, and Carol was put uncomfortably in mind of funerals she had been to. There was always a cheerless sense of loss and finality, a grim note of resignation and surrender.

Just like there was here.

Turning away from the shunned house, she grabbed a bag from the footwell, unzipped it, and removed her state-of-the-art Dell Inspiron laptop, a slim, black device with a direct satellite uplink to Fox News HQ in New York. She checked her email account and found three messages. The first came from the _Special Report_ news desk via an unnamed source on Capitol Hill confirming the contents of the other two missives.

Her heartbeat quickened.

So it was true.

At the bottom of the horseshoe drive, a black limousine with a tiny flag on either front corner turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, flanked on all sides by motorcycle police and black SUVs.

The President's motorcade.

A slimy ball of nerves formed in the pit of Carol's stomach and she slammed the laptop closed. The convoy paused at the gate, which momentarily slid open with an audible clang. It continued on, passing Carol's position, then came to a stop at the bottom of the front steps. A warm breeze rustled Carol's hair, and she brushed it out of her face; an aide came down the steps and opened the back door as, around her, cameramen filmed and reporters watched with leering interest. President Clinton, clad in a dark suit that starkly contrasted with his steely gray hair, got out and started up the stairs, his broad shoulders hunched and his gaze pointed castigatedly at his feet. He resembled the house itself: Somber and bleak, his youthful vigor sapped and replaced by cold dread. Carol half expected him to turn and offer the press an affable wave as was his custom, but he disappeared inside without so much as a glance.

Disappointment coursed through her, and she sighed. She couldn't say she was overly enamored of Clinton, though she didn't hold him in the same disdain as Clyde did, but he _was_ the president, and his office commanded a respect and admiration that transcended ideology and party affiliation. She was as giddy and excited here as a young girl might be at a Backstreet Boys concert - even if she didn't particularly like them, oh my God, THE BACKSTREET BOYS!

Turning away from the van, she spotted her crew setting up their equipment in a clear spot apart from everyone else. In the distance, the rose bushes lining the West Wing ruffled in the dry wind. She returned her laptop to its bag and walked over, grass whispering under her heels. Doug propped a metal light stand up and stepped back to inspect it. "Did you get that?" she asked and nodded toward the White House.

"Sure did," he said.

Carol scanned the building and let out a contemplative hum. "It's strange being here," she remarked, "this close."

"That's the Oval Office right there," Doug said and jerked his chin toward a window framed by shubbary. The muted glow of a lamp bathed the panes in gentle, golden hues. From her vantage point, she could not tell if anyone was inside.

She checked her watch. 5:54.

It was almost time to go on.

While the crew finished putting its gear in place, she hurried back to the van. She opened the passenger door, leaned in, and grabbed a bottle of water from the center console. It was warm but she didn't mind. She twisted off the cap and took a long, thirsty drink. She was just setting it back down when her cellphone rang.

Only six people in the world had this number, and five of them worked at Fox.

Reaching into her blazer pocket, she took it out, opened it, and held it to her ear, her body tensing Being so close to air time, it could very well be the Washington Bureau's managing editor, or even Brit Hume himself wanting to hurriedly go over talking points, something he did often. "Carol Pingrey, Fox News," she said in her best formal tone.

When Clyde spoke, she relaxed. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she smiled. She checked her watch. 5:57. _Special Report_ began at six. Brit most likely wouldn't cut to her immediately, but she liked being in front of the camera as soon as the show started; the thought of not being there when the camera went live struck sickly terror into her guts. "I can't talk long, I'm about to go on."

"I know," Clyde said, "I just wanted to wish you good luck and tell you I love you."

Carol's smile widened. "I love you too," she said, "how are the kids?"

"Napping," he said, "they were cranky."

Chris and Collette were as close as two twins can possibly be. They played together, watched television together, and even slept together sometimes; she would come into their room in the morning and find them cuddled up for comfort, one either having had a nightmare or simply wanting company in the dark. That didn't preclude them from fighting, however; they did. Their tiffs usually started when they both wanted the same toy. They shared famously for two year olds, but that was only saying so much.

"I really miss them," Carol said earnestly, "and you too."

Doug unfolded a black tripod and sat the camera on top, then snapped it in place to keep the lens steady.

"We miss you," Clyde said, "but you're doing good work down there. Don't let up on the bastard."

Carol chuckled and shifted the phone to her other hand. "There's a break you're going to absolutely _love_. It's probably already being reported."

"I'm waiting for _Special Report,"_ he assured her.

She glanced at her watch. 5:59 and frowned. "I don't want to go," she said, "but I must. The news waits for no woman."

"Alright," he said, "I love you."

"Love you too."

She clicked the END button and slipped the phone back into her pocket as she crossed to the camera. Without looking away from the viewfinder, Doug held out her mic like a relay running passing the baton to his partner, and she took it. In front of the camera, she smoothed her blazer, stood up straight, and cleared her throat. She flashed a practice smile that felt phony and cumbersome on her face, but that was okay, her on air smiles always felt that way.

A couple secret service agents, one of them with an assault rifle slung across his chest, kept watch from afar. Another pressed his fingers to his earpiece and listened, then wheeled around in a crisp, military precise about face and marched off. She checked her own earpiece, made sure it was snug and as hidden as possible, then squared her shoulders.

The breeze fell away, and for a long moment, it was as though the world were holding its breath. The black, all-seeing eye of the camera stared straight at her, expectant, and anxious sweat began to trickle down the back of her neck.

When Brit Hume's monotonous voice filtered from the speaker and the red light on camera turned green, she stiffened and inhaled through her nose. " _We now go 5o Fox News correspondent Carol Pingrey at the White House. Carol."_

She was now live in front of millions of Americans eager for news on Clinton's testimony. Her heart began to race and for the first time, she realized just how hot it was. "Good evening, Brit," she said with a curt nod.

" _What's the situation there on the ground?"_ Brit asked.

Carol fought back the urge to quake. Was the camera picking up all the sweat on her brow? Could everyone see how flustered she was? When she spoke, it took great effort to keep from stuttering. "President Clinton returned from testifying before the special grand jury just moments ago and went directly into the White House. He did not speak or even look in our direction, and seemed to be somewhat nonplussed. White House Press Secretary Joe Lockhart has indicated that the President will address the nation at some point this evening on the contents of his testimony."

She imagined footage of Clinton being ushered into the White House rolling as she spoke.

" _Is there any word on what President Clinton may have said in that testimony?"_

Carol nodded. "Sources close to the proceedings, which were held in private, say that the President admitted to having a quote "improper physical relationship' with Ms. Lewinsky. That, of course, contradicts his sworn disposition of January 17, where he denied the allegations."

" _Has there been any word from Mr. Starr or anyone else involved who can definitely confirm that President Clinton did, indeed, admit to wrongdoing?"_

Kenneth Starr was chief prosecutor and head of the independent counsel investigating Clinton for the Lewinsky affair among other things, including the Whitewater controversy and the sexual assault allegations made by Paula Jones in 1994. Earlier in the year, Lewinsky provided a blue dress to the counsel that bore dried semen stains eventually determined to be Clinton's.

"Not at this time, no."

Brit hummed. " _I guess we'll just have to see what he says tonight. Thank you, Carol."_

Carol nodded. "Thank _you,_ Brit."

A moment later, the light changed back to red, indicating they were off-air. Carol let out a pent up breath and sagged a little.

"Aaaand that's a wrap," Doug said.

Carol felt a rush of pride, like she always did after a successful shoot, but it was tinged with regret. She loved being at the frontlines, but she really, really missed her babies.

Later, after the guys packed the van up, Carol cast one final look over her shoulder before climbing in.

Through gathering purple twilight, a shadowy figure stood at the Oval Office window, an air of dejection about it. She could not see who it was, but she would always imagine it was Bill Clinton, reflective and contemplating as his empire, and his world, crashed down around him, embattled and slipping just like Richard Nixon twenty-five years before.

She shoved that thought aside, as the van followed the lane back to the Pennsylvania Avenue, she focused on happier things.

Like calling home.

Journalism may have been Carol Pingrey's passion, but her family was, and would always be, her true love.

* * *

A moving truck was parked at an angle in the driveway of 1216 Franklin, its ass end facing the porch and the big roll top door standing open. Cardboard boxes, pieces of furniture, and plastic totes with colorful lids dotted the front lawn, and Bobby leaned against the trunk's bumper with his arms crossed, talking to Fred. A few feet away, Lori and Luan knelt in the grass and rummaged through a box marked BEDROOM, Lori in a blue dress and Luan in slacks and a green blouse.

Lincoln parked at the curb and killed the engine, cutting _Sweet City Woman_ off mid-verse. His taste for modern pop atrophied in the year 1966 and everything recorded after that was instantly crap, but lately, he'd come to appreciate music from the early seventies as well; it reminded him of when Alex and Jessy were little and he still had a whole heap of years ahead of him until he could be considered old. Songs he once hated now brought a smile to his face because they recalled a time when he was young and his girls were babies; if he closed his eyes and strained hard enough, he could see them sitting across from each other on the living room floor and playing together, Alex's cowlick bobbing with every move she made and Jessy's hair in tiny pigtail nubs. Ronnie Anne sat on the couch (plaid with a knit afghan thrown over the back) in a sleeveless pink dress with white trim and watched them with dark, sparkling eyes, no older than twenty-six and so achingly beautiful that looking upon her made Lincoln's chest clinch.

He did his best not to entertain those memories too much - no more living in the past or else you'll miss the present, young man - but sometimes it was hard. How can a man live a good life filled with good people and good times and _not_ want to occasionally look back on it? He had a habit of dwelling too much on his time in-country, but aside from that hellish year, he'd lead a charmed life, a fact that didn't hit him until recently. He always knew he had it good in every way a man could, but he never realized just how good: He never wanted for money, was handed a successful business when he was twenty-five, married his best friend, had two wonderful daughters, his own home. If he believed in God, he would say that he was blessed. Since he did not, he'd call it luck. He stumbled ass backwards into a good thing and managed, by some fluke of fate, to not fuck it up.

Yeah, he liked admiring it in the rearview, but the here and now was pretty great too. He had two grandkids in easy reach, one kind-of-granddaughter who was not (he and Ronnie Anne were flying out for a visit before school started and that was final), and was still married to his best friend.

Those thoughts stirred like dust in the back of his mind as he and Ronnie Anne crossed the front yard. Warm wind washed over them and rustled the trees. He looked up at the house, and it looked back. The gutters were new (installed by him and Fred in 1993), the paint was less than ten years old, and the shudders were a different color than they were in his childhood, but otherwise it had not changed, and he felt a sudden and inexplicable rush of affection.

Luan rocked back on her knees and slumped her shoulders in defeat. "I don't see it," she said and brushed her hair out of her face.

"Maybe it's in the other one," Lori offered.

"Lose something?" Lincoln asked as he and Ronnie Anne walked up.

Luan glanced at him, then to the box, a puzzled frown crossing her lips. "My reading glasses," she said, "I thought I left them out, but when I went to get them, they were gone."

"Did you ask Fred?" Ronnie Anne asked. "If I can't find something, chances are lame-o here did something with it."

"Chances are you forgot what you did with it then blame me," Lincoln shot back.

She rolled her eyes long-sufferingly and shook her head. _No, I never do that._ Only she did, constantly. Last time it was the remote: She spent almost an hour ripping the living room apart looking for it and asking him where he put it before realizing it was in her dress pocket. Before that, it was her checkbook. _I left it on the nightstand, lame-o, what did you do with it?_ She downright refused to believe he was innocent until she found it in her purse. _Whoops,_ she said, _sorry_.

"He didn't touch them," Luan said. She got to her feet, then held her hand out and helped Lori up; Lori winced and bared her teeth in pain, then bent and rubbed her right knee. Like Ronnie Anne, her legs were threaded with varicose veins, hers much darker and more prominent. Last winter, she was diagnosed with arthritis and suffered flare ups every couple weeks that made her joints swell and throb. She was lucky in that it was far milder than Mom's and that it didn't develop sooner; Mom was much younger than Lori's fifty-eight years when she was stricken. That both of them wound up with it suggested Lincoln might be at an increased risk, and he was not looking forward to the day he couldn't even flex his goddamn fingers.

How can I use my gun then?

Putting her hands on her hips, Luan looked around the yard as though she'd spot her glasses hiding in the grass. _Found me, hahahahaha, now_ you _hide._ Fred propped his leg on the tailgate, rested his forearm on his knee, and leaned closer to Bobby, who hooked a thumb vaguely in Lincoln's direction and laughed. "Talking about me, asshole?" Lincoln asked.

Bobby looked at him then waved him off. Ronnie Anne followed Lori and Luan into the house, probably to look for Luan's missing glasses, and Lincoln went over to the truck. "Here comes _this_ guy," Bobby said, "I ever tell you I got him his job at Flip's? He'd be digging ditches right now if it wasn't for me."

"And you wouldn't be married to Lori if weren't for _me,_ " Lincoln said. "You'd also be speaking North Vietnamese."

"He's got you there," Fred pointed out.

Bobby waved him off too. "You both can get bent. We putting this crap in or what?" He nodded to a wardrobe flanked by boxes.

"You boys are younger than me," Fred said and stepped away from the tailgate.

"Not by much," Bobby said, "what are you, anyway?"

"Sixty-five," Fred said.

"Young enough to grab those boxes," Lincoln said, "Fonz and me'll get the dresser." He swatted Bobby's chest with the back of his hand. "Come on, grease."

While Fred stood aside and waited, Lincoln and Bobby stood on either side of the wardrobe. Lincoln couldn't be sure, but he thought it was the one from his and Lynn's room. Why Luan was taking it - why she was taking any of them - he didn't know. It looked solid (and heavy), but when he tested it, it swayd easily back and forth. Thank God for small favors; he might be younger than Fred, but he wasn't sure his back could handle a thousand pound cabinet made of dense oak.

Bending, he got a grip and waited for Bobby. "Alright," he said, "on three. One...two...three."

Together, they lifted, and the muscles in Lincoln's lower back strained. Bobby's face crinkled and his arms quivered. "Walk back," Lincoln grunted. Bobby shuffled backwards, his arms quivering, and Lincoln held fast to his end. When they reached the tailgate, Bobby laid it on, climbed up, and pulled while Lincoln pushed. It lay on its back like a coffin awaiting burial, Bobby standing over it and panting. Lincoln grabbed the handhold and pulled himself into the cargo hold. Boxes lined one wall, and a mattress, box spring, and disassembled metal bed frame the other. Lincoln looked around and spied a spot toward the front that looked just big enough to fit it. "Help me with this, will you?" he asked.

Bobby bent, and working in unison, they dragged the wardrobe over and pushed it between a tall, thin box and a floor lamp. "There," Lincoln said and dusted his hands. "That's it for the big stuff, right, Sarge?"

At the tailgate, Fred thought for a second. "Yeah," he called, "we're leaving everything else."

"Sofa?" Lincoln asked with a rush of trepidation. The couch was heavier than a goddamn battleship. He knew - the last time Luan wanted to vacuum under it, he had to come over and help Fred move the goddamn thing.

Fred shook his head. "Nah. Won't fit."

Whether he meant in the truck or the apartment, Lincoln couldn't say. There was ample room in the cargo compartment, but he wasn't saying shit; if he did, he might have to carry the sofa out after all.

He and Bobby jumped down and sat on the tailgate. Fred fetched another box and handed it to Lincoln; Lincoln twisted around, sat it on the floor, and shoved it toward the front. "Excited for your new assignment?" Lincoln asked archly.

Fred put his hand on his hips and shrugged one non-committal shoulder. "Eh, I don't mind it. Doesn't snow very much there."

"No?" Bobby asked incredulously, then glanced at Lincoln, as though Lincoln would know. "It's further north than here, right? How doesn't it snow?"

A cloud passed in front of the sun and cast the day momentarily in darkness, then sailed away on the wind. "I don't know," Fred admitted, "Mark says it has something to do with it being on the sound or some damn thing. I tuned him out. Kid's like talking to a college professor."

"He works for that Jobs guy, right?" Bobby asked. He leaned over and opened a hitherto unseen cooler sitting next to the tailgate.

"The other guy," Fred corrected.

Bobby pulled out a beer and handed it to Fred, then another to Lincoln. Finally, he took one for himself. "Um...oh, what's his name?"

"Bill Gates," Lincoln said.

Across the yard, Ronnie Anne, Lori, and Luan came out of the house. They stood in the cool gloom nesting in the covered confines of the porch, and Lincoln's eyes went to Luan as she threw her head back and laughed at something Ronnie Anne said. He was used to living apart from his siblings and not seeing them for long periods of time, but in that moment, he realized with a sickening twist of the stomach that he was really going to miss Luan. Over the past thirteen years, he'd become closer to her than any of his other siblings. They weren't the type to kiss and cry on each other's shoulders, but he saw her at Flip's almost every day for eight years (sometimes for eight hours at a stretch) and, come to think of it, he came over here more often than he went over to Lori's house.

There was also Jessy. She was Luan's daughter and, in a way, she was his as well. Christ, that sounds bad - _I_ _gots me a daughter wit mah sister -_ but fundamentally true. Jessy was his daughter as much as she was Luan's, and Luan, he suspected, realized that. He raised her and she looked at him like a father - that bound him and Luan inextricably together in a way that he was bound to no one else, save for Ronnie Anne. No, he and his sister weren't gal pals chatting over coffee, but he was closer to her than he was to Lynn or Lori, and not having her around would probably sting once she was gone.

"...understand that shit," Bobby was saying. He took a swig of beer and sighed. "Lori uses the computer sometimes, I don't touch it. Goddamn thing's way outta my league. Wouldn't even know where to start. How do you even turn it on?"

A nasty barb popped into Lincoln's head and he smirked to himself, but he held back. Maybe it was the prospect or losing his older sister (and her jackass husband) to the city of brotherly love (that's what they call Seattle, right?), but he was feeling warm and fuzzy. Instead of snapping Bobby's head off with a blistering insult, he gave his leg a tender (but manly!) pat. This asshole right here had been hanging around so long that as far as Lincoln was concerned, he was family, his marriage to Lori notwithstanding. Fred too. They could both leave his sisters and while he might shit talk them for being a couple losers, they'd still have a place in his heart. "The on button," he said in answer to Bobby's question. "Come on, even I can turn one of those things on."

To Lincoln's peturbment, Bobby came out with a variation of the very same insult he himself just cooked up. "Yeah, bet you can't turn Ronnie on, though."

He and Fred laughed like lunatics, and Lincoln just sighed. Here he was, feeling all mushy gushy for his family, and this son of a bitch goes for his throat. How do you like that? Bobby looked at him and flashed a condescending smirk. "Could you ever or didja stop after the limp dick set in?"

Lincoln looked at him.

He looked at Lincoln.

Before he knew what he was doing, Lincoln wrapped his arm around the old greaser's neck and dragged him to his chest. Bobby cried out in alarm and started to thrash like an exceptionally smart sheep on realizing it was being lead to slaughter. Lincoln balled his hand into a fist, and, smiling savagely, he dug his knuckles into Bobby's scalp. "Ahhh, Christ, get offa me! Get off!" Bobby screamed. Fred snickered, and on the porch, Lori rolled her eyes, Ronnie Anne shook her head, and Luan furrowed her brows in confusion.

Since he was a Vietnam vet and therefore one of the strongest creatures on the face of the earth, Lincoln spared his brother-in-law further harm lest he forget his strength and accidentally popped his head off. Bobby shoved him away and shot him a dirty look...but couldn't hide the slight, playful upward curl of his lips. "You know, there's something really wrong with you, kid. See a doctor."

That made Lincoln laugh. Little did Bobby know, he did see a doctor for a little while in the eighties. "That's what you get for talking jive."

"Yeah, you're gonna see jiive in a minute."

Lincoln took a drink of his beer. "I saw you screaming like a woman. That's what I saw."

"I wasn't ready, okay?"

There was a defensive edge in his voice, and Fred and Lincoln exchanged a knowing look. Fred cleared his throat, no doubt gearing up for a haymaker of an insult, but Lori's voice cut him off. "You boys done roughhousing?" she called from the porch. "We could use some help."

Help? God, with what? "Is there crap inside, Sarge?" Lincoln asked.

Fred nodded. "Yeah, not much, though."

"Not much" turned out to be a stack of boxes in the middle of the living room, the television set, and Mom's recliner. The latter was fairly new - Lincoln bought it for her in '89 or '90 - and in good condition, though when Luan pointed to it and said _this too,_ he missed a beat. It had been sitting in the same spot since Mom last copped a squat in it in 1993, and in that time, more people sat in it than he could remember. It was a chair, after all, and that's what they're there for. Even so, it was always _Mom's_ chair, as though she would come through the door any minute and take a load off in it. He kind of assumed Luan would leave it behind with the other stuff; that she was taking it shouldn't have struck him as strange, but it still did.

He didn't say anything, though, except for a weary, "Oh, God," because it was another heavy ass sum bitch. He and Bobby took up position on either side, lifted, and carried it over the threshold, their steps shuffling. Getting it down the stairs was a superhuman feat that nearly ended in Bobby dropping it; Lori walked behind him and provided directions ( _what your step, loose stone_ ) and Ronnie Anne followed Lincoln, cheering him on in her own special way. "Come on, lame-o, put some back into it." She slapped his butt and he jumped in surprise; his grip slipped and he almost dropped it on his feet. He glared over his shoulder, and she flashed a devious smile that never failed to send his heart into overdrive.

That smile meant he was getting some later.

Score.

After fighting the chair into the back of the moving truck, Lincoln grabbed the handhold and jumped down from the tailgate. Sweat lightly coated his body and his lungs burst for air. He reached into the cooler, got another beer, and cracked it open, then took a long, cold swallow. Fred came over with a box, set it on the edge, and let out a deep breath.

Back inside, Luan stood in the living room with her hands on her hips and slowly surveyed it like a construction foreman weeding out code violations. Lincoln walked over and stood next to her, following her gaze and having no clue what they were supposed to be looking for. "That's it," she sighed. There was a trace of mourning in her voice, as though she almost didn't want to leave. "I'm going to miss this house." She blinked rapidly as if against tears and wiped her eyes with her middle finger.

For Lincoln, this place was home many years ago; for her, it had been home since she moved back to Royal Woods in 1985. Leaving, he imagined, was hard for her, but not being with her daughter and granddaughter was harder.

He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. This was it. She and Fred were leaving just as Jessy and Mark had before them, and from here on out, they would be distant voices on the other end of the line and an email in Ronnie Anne's inbox _(YOU GOT MAIL!)._ That thought saddened him, but he was happy as well, because this was her chance to build with Allison what she could not with Jessy. He sincerely hoped she and the little girl became close.

"This isn't home anymore," Lincoln said and rubbed her arm. 1216 Franklin Avenue had been home for many, many years, but home is a misty concept that shifts and changes over time. Home, he had decided, was not a place, it was people. For him, home was with Ronnie Anne, Alex, and the kids. For Luan, it was with Jessy and her daughter. Where they _made_ their home was irrelevant. Seattle, Royal Woods, Kathmandu, geographical locations might hold precious memories, but a house is always just a house, and a town is but a town. They aren't important.

Family is.

Lincoln had already lost both of his parents, two sisters, and his niece, the former four to death and the latter to the tide of life. Now he was losing another one, the sibling he was closest with.

"I know," Luan said flatly. "But it's where we grew up, Linc."

"Yeah," he said, "but, hey, we're done growing up."

She chuckled humorlessly. "I guess." She took one last look around, committing every detail to memory, then drew away from him and turned. He followed her out onto the porch, and for the final time, she shut the door and locked it.

Then she handed the key to Lincoln.

Like passing the torch.

On the front lawn, Luan and Lori hugged, and Bobby shook Fred's hand. "Enjoy the rain," Bobby said.

Next, Luan and Lincoln hugged. "I'll miss you," he said honestly and rocked her from side to side.

She patted his back. "I'll miss you too."

He released her, and she hugged Ronnie Anne. "Be safe out there," Ronnie Anne said, "and give Ally lots of kisses for us."

"I will," Luan promised.

Lincoln turned to Fred and regarded him for a moment. Wrinkled face, faded blue eyes, white hair in a crisp, military grade crewcut that Lincoln couldn't help admire. Lincoln remembered interviewing him for the cook's job at Flip's way back in the spring of 1980. It was April (or maybe May) and sunny, the air in the dining room still and stagnant. He was sitting behind the register with the paper when Fred came in, dressed in a polo shirt tucked into tan Chinos. From his ramrod straight posture, forceful and deliberate stride, and haircut, Lincoln instantly knew he was a military man.

He walked up to the counter, arms at his sides, and said...well, Lincoln didn't remember his exact words, but he asked about the HELP WANTED sign in the window. Ray, the cook, kept taking personal days because he was a fat, lazy slob, and Lincoln finally canned his ass. _I'll just do it my damn self,_ he said in disgust and gestured to the door. _Get lost, fatty._

 _You ever cook?_ Lincoln asked Fred.

 _At home,_ Fred stated.

Oh, great, someone I have to train.

Flip's was busier back then and Lincoln needed a cook, so he said screw it and hired him. He expected him to be out the door in a year or two, five tops, but somehow he wound up sticking around for almost twenty...and marrying his sister too.

Don't tell the old cook this, but Lincoln had grown fond of him over the years, and the thought of not having him around Flip's was strange and disconcerting. Might as well take his cash register away, or his favorite stool.

He stuck out his hand, and Fred took it. His grip was firm and steely, the muscles in his forearms still toned and wiry despite his age, twin heirloom rifles over the mantle, polished, loaded, and ready to fire. "I'm gonna miss you, Sarge," Lincoln said, and was taken aback to find emotion welling in his throat.

Fred grinned. "I'm gonna miss you too, Linc."

"Flip's won't be the same without you."

"You can hire Bobby."

Bobby blew a dismissive raspberry.

"I'd rather just close the place."

Shortly, Fred climbed in behind the wheel, and Luan slipped into their car, a white '93 Neon with a CLINTON/GORE '96 bumper sticker on the rear end. Lincoln, Bobby, Ronnie Anne, and Lori lined up next to the driveway, and Fred started the engine; it knocked and wheezed, then purred as it warmed. He threw it into drive, and it rolled forward. He stopped at the street, then turned right, clipping the curb and making the frame rock. Luan put her seatbelt on and rolled the window down. "I'll call you guys when I get there," she said.

"Drive safe," Lori replied.

"I will."

Fred paused at the end of the street to wait for her. She turned the key into the ignition, waved one last time, then followed. Fred turned right, toward the interstate and Luan kept pace. In a moment, they were gone, and that night, for the first time in over fifty years, the house on Franklin Avenue slept alone.


	202. August 1998: Part 2

**Guest: I think I referenced** _ **Ed, Edd, and Eddy**_ **in '99, but I added a special reference in 2001 just for you.**

 **Everyone: I am probably two thousand or so words away from beginning the final chapter. By the time I post the next update, RITY will be done. After** _ **Obsession**_ **wraps, I'll take to posting an update every day or so until it's over. Thank you for sticking with me this long. We're almost there...**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Baby One More Time**_ **by Britney Spears (1998)**

"It's hot in here," Jordan complained around the end of her Freeze Pop. Sticky green flavoring stained her lips and chin. She bit down on the plastic wrapper and slurped a slushy chunk into her mouth.

Blake swiped the back of his hand across his slick forehead. "Yeah," he said simply, the heat so great that even the simple act of speaking was too much.

He and Jordan lay side by side on the floor in front of the sofa, their legs hooked over the edge. She wore a yellow T-shirt, yellow shorts, and socks; he was dressed in black shorts and a T-shirt. Burning sunlight pressed against the lacy white curtains over the window and stung his exposed skin. He didn't have the energy to move, though, and neither did Jordan. Her cheeks were flushed and her French braided blonde hair damp with perspiration, and he felt like he was going to catch on fire at any minute. This happened every summer and he was getting _really_ sick of it. Dad fixed the A/C, but it never worked right and everyone sweated to death. Why didn't he just buy a new one? He and Mom had money, it wasn't all that hard to go to K-Mart and just pick one up. It might be heavy but he could help carry it; he didn't want to, but he wanted to be hot and miserable even less.

Jordan finished off her Ice Pop, swung her legs off the couch, and sat up. Blake did likewise, spun on his butt, and leaned back against the couch. A Backstreet Boys video played on _TRL_ and Blake gagged. He hated The Backstreet Boys. Jordan liked them and he didn't know why. She was usually pretty cool and in that one regard she was almost as lame as his mom.

Speaking of his mom, where was she? The last he knew, she took Zoe and went outside to talk to Linda, the only lady from next door; she and Mom talked all the time, probably about dumb stuff. That was a long time ago, though. At least he thought it was. Maybe it wasn't.

Jordan sat her Ice Pop wrapper on the coffee table and pressed her back to the couch. "I almost want to go home. It's cool there."

Her older sister Veronica was having a sleepover tonight with a bunch of her friends from school; ten teenage girls crammed up in a double wide trailer and giggling, being dumb, and hogging the only TV. Jordan wisely chose to stay over here as long as she could. _They're buttweeds,_ she declared earlier. _They make fun of me too._ Blake didn't like Veronica or any of her friends he'd met. They weren't buttweeds, they were _mega_ buttweeds. If she was talking about wanting to go home, she must be _really_ hot.

Oh well, she could go alone. He hated roasting to death but he hated her sister and her dumb friends even more. Funny that there's always something worse out there. If you compared Veronica to a vampire, he'd take Veronica, and a vampire to school on the weekends, well, guess my blood's getting drunk.

Jordan blew a puff of air. She grabbed the hem of her shirt and peeled it off her tacky flesh, then over her head. She whipped it away and sighed. "That's kind of better."

Blake glanced at her and blinked in surprise.

Uhh...something wasn't right.

"What's wrong with your body?" he asked, a hint of horror creeping into his voice.

Jordan's eyes widened with alarm and she whipped her gaze to her chest. Normally flat, it was kind of...jiggly, tiny globes of flesh forming beneath her pink nipples and pushing them slightly out. It looked kind of like his chest, but he was fat, Jordan wasn't. "Oh," Jordan said, "those are my breasts. They're growing."

Blake stared at them, mouth agape. Okay, that made sense because girls do have boobs, but...Jordan? Sometimes he forgot she even _was_ a girl. The other girls he knew were all pink and prissy and stuff, but she wasn't; she was more like a boy, which made her cool because girls were no fun to hang out with.

A strange sensation clawed at the pit of his stomach and his face blushed even redder than it already was. His mom said boobs were a private area just like your weiner and some deep, primal part of him knew he shouldn't be looking at them. It was different the other times she took her shirt off because she didn't have boobs, but now, he guessed, she did.

She favored him with a sidelong glance, and her brow creased worriedly. "You're making me feel weird, knock it off."

Blake flashed back to the girl he saw at the lake last summer. She had boobs just like Jordan's, only much bigger. Hers were really small. Barely even boobs. He guessed it was okay to look at them since they weren't _real_ boobs. Plus, it was Jordan, he'd seen them before, just not like this. "They're funny looking," he said earnestly.

"No they're not," she said defensively, "they're…" here she grasped… "normal looking." Her features wrinkled uncertainly and she bit her bottom lip. "Are they?"

Squinting, Blake leaned closer, and she puffed her chest out to give him a better view. "It looks like you half golf balls in your skin," he said. He prodded one with his finger, then yanked his hand back with a hiss. "What?" she asked fearfully.

"It felt funny," he said.

"How so?" she asked.

He thought for a long time. It felt somehow firm but squishy at the same time, not like his own chest at all. His was kind of...flabby. Hers wasn't. "I don't know," he said, "weird, that's all."

She bunched her lips thoughtfully to the side and squeezed one of her breasts with her hand. He did the same to one of his. "What does yours feel like?" she asked.

"Normal," he said instantly.

On TV, Carson Daily stood among a crowd of screaming girls holding signs and introduced the next video. " _At number eight this week, Britney Spears!"_

The girls all screamed and bounced in excited unison.

"Let me see," Jordan said.

Britney, dressed in a skimpy skirt and button up knotted at her stomach, danced through the halls of a high school in highly choreographed unison with a bunch of other girls.

 _Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know_

 _That something wasn't right here_

 _Oh baby, baby, I shouldn't have let you go_

Blake stared down at his own chest. Jordan had touched him a million times before when they played, but for some reason, this felt different. She watched him expectantly, and he shrugged one shoulder indecisively. "Alright. I guess." He lifted his shirt and bared his chubby torso. Jordan scooted closer, reached out, and laid her hand on one of his boy boobs, the warm sensation of touch making him jump. She squeezed and issued a thoughtful hum like a wine snob trying to place the year and vintage she was tasting.

 _My loneliness is killing me (and I)_

 _I must confess I still believe (still believe)_

 _When I'm not with you I lose my mind_

 _Give me a sign_

 _Hit me baby one more time_

Jordan squeezed her own breast with her free hand, then his with the other. "Kind of different, I guess," she said haltingly. "Here, you feel." Without taking her hand away from his chest, she arched her back. Blake's heartbeat sped inexplicably up - this was wrong, he didn't know how but it was and they really shouldn't be doing it.

His arm lifted of its own accord, however, like the appendage of a puppet pulled by a leering cosmic master, and his shaky palm pressed lightly to Jordan's chest.

 _Oh baby, baby_

 _The reason I breathe is you_

 _Boy you got me blinded_

 _Oh pretty baby_

 _There's nothing that I wouldn't do_

 _It's not the way I planned it_

 _Show me how you want it to be_

The first time he poked her breast and didn't really feel it, but now his hand lingered, and it wasn't strange or funny at all; she was soft, warm, and her flesh quivered under his touch with the ragged beating of her heart. Their eyes met, and the air between them crackled with electricity. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly and a blush burst across his cheeks. Blake's stomach tangled and his lungs burst for air.

 _My loneliness is killing me (and I)_

 _I must confess I still believe (still believe)_

 _When I'm not with you I lose my mind_

 _Give me a sign_

 _Hit me baby one more time_

"I-I think that's enough," Jordan said. She resembled a deer in onrushing headlights, which was how Blake felt. They pulled apart, and Jordan turned away, grabbed her shirt, and hurriedly put it back on. Blake stared blankly at the screen, his hand tingling where he touched Jordan and his heart throbbing like he just ran up a set of stairs. Beside him, Jordan's hands twisted in her lap and her eyes swirled with awkward shame. For the first time in their whole friendship, he felt really uncomfortable...and kind of wished she would leave. For her part, she regarded her lap with a look of confused reproach like she did something wrong but couldn't figure out exactly what. "I-I better go," she said.

She got up, grabbed her shoes from the floor, and pulled them on. Blake watched her with a mixture of relief and trepidation - the former because he kind of wanted her to go, and the latter because he didn't want her to be mad at him. He searched his mind for something to say, but she was gone before he could speak, the storm door falling closed behind her with a click.

Alone, he turned back to the TV and drew a deep breath just as Carson Daily appeared and clapped hands with a skinny white boy with a shaved head named M&M, like the candy. He really hoped she wasn't angry at him and didn't want to stop being his friend. He complained about her and stuff, but he really liked her, and thinking about her not being around made his stomach clench.

He thought about her for the rest of the day, and every time he did, he remembered the look of drawing disquiet in her eyes when their gazes locked; the moment she came to understand what they were doing wasn't right and started to panic.

Yeah, it wasn't right, but the more he entertained the memory, the more he realized something.

He kind of liked it.

* * *

Lincoln Loud dropped into his chair with a grunt, picked his reading glasses up from the end table, and slipped them onto his face. They were prescription and supposed to fit perfectly, but they pinched the bridge of his nose and left little indents in his flesh that lingered for hours afterwards. If he wore the damn things for too long without taking them off, they'd probably become permanent.

It was just after seven and the day was beginning to gradually cool as dusk crept over the world. He spent the last three hours mowing the lawn at the Franklin Avenue house, then weed eating here; grab grass grew up along the foundation and if he let it go, it'd take over his whole yard. Homeownership isn't all it's cracked up to be, kids; there's always something to do. Christ, houses are worse than kids: The moment you turn your back on either, things go horribly wrong and you're left cleaning up the mess. At least when a kid breaks something it's a quick fix. _Ah, crap, there goes the lamp, better grab the vacuum._ When a house does it, God help you. _Looks like the pipes in the ceiling burst...now we have a skylight in our bedroom. Yay._

He slipped a magazine at random from the rack next to the chair. He was expecting _Guns and Ammo_ or _Minuteman Weekly._ Instead, a familiar gap toothed cartoon visage grinned up at him. Alfred E. Newman, the long time mascot of _MAD_ pointed a flashlight at the stone wall of a cave. Clad in tan shorts, a tan button up, and an expeditionary hat, he looked like that Indiana Jones loser from _The Last Crusade_ (Sean Connery was the _real_ hero in that shitfest). Pink text in the bottom left corner promised JERRY SPRINGER, PAMALA LEE, TITANIC RIPOFF. Jerry Springer was that guy who put rednecks on TV and let them fight each other while the audience pumped their firsts and cried bloodthirsty chants of _Jer-ry! Jer-ry!_ He hated that son of a bitch. Pamela Lee was...he had no idea and he didn't want one. Titanic was that movie everyone was talking about. It's a pretty sick world when the big summer blockbuster is about a ship sinking and taking a bunch of people with it.

Where the hell did this thing come from, anyway? Alex must have left it. Or Blake. He liked reading _MAD._ Lincoln did too once upon a time, but back then he actually cared about the people and culture it satirized. You know, come to think of it, there was a Titanic movie out when he was a kid. He remembered it being on at the Palace when he and Ronnie Anne went once. Had _Night_ in the title, he thought. There was also a Jerry hanging around: Jerry Lee Lewis. He actually did something with his life, unlike that Springer creep. They called him The Killer because boy howdy, he killed it on the stage. He was on _The Steve Allen Show,_ Lincoln recalled, and he banged that piano like a man possessed. Was he still around? Last Lincoln heard, the whole world disowned him when he married his thirteen year old cousin in '58 or '9.

Yeah, he was The Killer, but also a real weirdo.

The front door opened and Ronnie Anne came in, a straw sun hat pulled low over her forehead and casting her face in shadows. The hem of her sleeveless pink dress was stained green and brown and heavy gardening gloves covered her hands. She peeled them off, removed her hat, and dropped both onto the coffee table. "My back can't handle that anymore," she commented as she crossed to the kitchen.

"You're not even fifty-two," Lincoln said and dropped the _Mad_ back into the rack. He grabbed another magazine and checked the cover. _Burt Gummer's Military Surplus._ Ah, there we go.

The sink cut on. "Yeah," Ronnie Anne called, "but being married to you is like living in dog years. I'm actually ninety-two."

"Time for a nursing home," Lincoln remarked.

She came to the threshold and leaned one shoulder against the frame, a glass of water clutched in one hand. "You're older than me," she pointed out and took a loud, obnoxious sip.

"Only by two months," he said.

She threw back her head and let out a long, mocking _Ha!_ "You've been lording that two months over me since I met you, and _now_ it's no big deal?"

"Never was," Lincoln said, fighting hard not to smile because she was right; he'd been boasting for decades about being two whole months older than her. _How does it feel to still be stuck in your twenties, RA? Need a nap? Want me to change your di-di? Oh, you're thirty-nine? Too bad you're still a little girl and not a forty-year-old adult like me._

He only did it when it was beneficial to him, though. Oldest gets to choose dinner; oldest gets to pick the movie; oldest gets to use the bathroom first. Birthright, you know. Oldest has to take out the trash? Oh, come on, Ronnie, it's only two months…

"Yeah, right," she said, "let me put my boots on, it's getting _deep_ in here."

Deep with bullshit, she meant.

She drained her water, walked to the couch, and sat next to the arm closest to him. She set the glass down on a coaster, picked up the remote, and clicked the TV on. "You wanna order something?" she asked. "I don't feel like cooking."

Dan Rather sat behind the _CBS Evening News_ desk in a dark suit and a blood red tie and spoke to a correspondent in Washington about President Clinton's _upcoming address._ Philandering bastard had something to say for himself. Lincoln perked up when it occurred to him that twenty-four years ago, in this very month, another scandal wracked president made an evening address to the nation...and resigned. Hot damn, President Gore, here we come! Rather have him. He was a Democrat, sure, and so wooden he pissed splinters, but at least he didn't cheat on his wife (that Lincoln knew of).

He sat his magazine down and crossed his arms. This oughta be good. "Sure," he said absently and focused on the screen. "How about, uh...I dunno, Chinese?"

Ronnie Anne considered for a moment. "Alright," she said, "sounds good." She got up and passed in front of the television just as the camera cut to Clinton. Wearing a black suit and a blue tie, he sat not behind a desk but on a chair in a dimly lit corner of probably the Oval Office, visible only from the waist up (what's going down below, asshole? Monica paying you another visit?). His expression was somber and pained with a hint of anxious, and Lincoln grinned. Gonna pull a Nixon there, Bubba? He kind of hoped he didn't - he wanted to see a real live impeachment.

The Commander-in-Cheat stared dumbly at the camera like a car waiting at a green traffic light (what shade of green do you want, mack?), then nodded solemnly. " _Good evening…."_

It's about to be a good evening. Gore '98.

" _...testified before the Office of Independent Counsel and the grand jury. I answered their questions truthfully, including questions about my private life, questions no American citizen would ever want to answer."_

Boo hoo they grilled me about my crime. How unfair. America, cry for me.

Ronnie Anne called out from the kitchen. "What do you want?"

"I dunno, lo mein," he answered quickly just to shut her up. He didn't particularly like lo mein.

On TV, Clinton continued. " _Indeed, I did have a relationship with Miss Lewinsky that was not appropriate. In fact, it was wrong. It constituted a critical lapse in judgment and a personal failure on my part for which I am solely and completely responsible."_

Ha. Knew it. Now resign in disgrace like Richard Nixon.

" _But I told the grand jury today and I say to you now that at no time did I ask anyone to lie, to hide or destroy evidence or to take any other unlawful action."_

Oh, bullshit.

Ronnie Anne came into the room room with the phone pressed to her ear and the cord hooked around the doorframe. She spoke lowly and Lincoln leaned forward to hear over her.

" _I know that my public comments and my silence about this matter gave a false impression. I misled people, including even my wife. I deeply regret that. I can only tell you I was motivated by many factors. First, by a desire to protect myself from the embarrassment of my own conduct. I was also very concerned about protecting my family. The fact that these questions were being asked in a politically inspired lawsuit, which has since been dismissed, was a consideration, too."_

If you're so concerned with your family, why do you keep cheating on Hilary? She was kind of an asshole, he'd give Clinton that, but she was still his _wife._ He stole a quick glance at Ronnie Anne and tried to imagine the deep hurt his having an affair would cause her, and his stomach turned. Maybe he was a lame-o, but he loved her and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. He'd rather go back into that bamboo cage for the rest of his life and eat maggot pizza every night than break her heart.

The Democrats rallying around Clinton claimed _oh, it's just sex,_ no, you unprincipled bastards, it's not, it's the sickest betrayl one could possibly commit, and it spoke _volumes_ about his character. If he can fuck around on his own wife, the mother of his daughter, and lie to her face about it, he can (and absolutely does) do the same thing to the American people. Hilary obviously couldn't trust him, can we?

Deeply regret my ass. Every time a politician gets caught doing something wrong, they're always _deeply sorry_ and make a show of _taking responsibility._ One of the earliest life lessons Lincoln learned and assumed everyone else learned too was _think before you act._ Clinton didn't think...and if he did, he didn't care. He didn't care about hurting his wife and daughter, didn't care about lying right to America's face, didn't care about any of it. Now he was sorry? No the hell he wasn't, and anyone who bought this crap was an idiot.

" _This has gone on too long, cost too much and hurt too many innocent people. Now, this matter is between me, the two people I love most - my wife and our daughter - and our God. I must put it right, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes to do so. Nothing is more important to me personally. But it is private, and I intend to reclaim my family life for my family. It's nobody's business but ours. Even presidents have private lives. It is time to stop the pursuit of personal destruction and the prying into private lives and get on with our national life."_

In other words "Wah wah, leave me alone and stop worrying about my lies and crimes" Sorry, Bill, but the President's life _is_ national life. If the President is a cannibal, a communist, or cheating bastard in private, that makes him a piece of shit even _out_ of private. Everything he did _in private_ , from cheating and lying to telling his underlings to lie and destroy evidence, was of national concern. You think Richard Nixon announced his intentions to tap people's phones and break into buildings on television? No, he did it in private. In the dark.

Where secrets and misdeeds _fester._

Ronnie Anne went back into the kitchen and hung the phone up. "Food's on the way, lame-o," she said as she returned, then nodded to the TV. "What's going on?"

"Clinton's resigning."

She gaped. "He is?"

"I hope," Lincoln shrugged. "He finally admitted to screwing that intern."

Ronnie Anne sat on the couch. "Doesn't surprise me. Why do you think they keep them around in the first place?"

" _And so tonight, I ask you to turn away from the spectacle of the past seven months, to repair the fabric of our national discourse, and to return our attention to all the challenges and all the promise of the next American century._

 _Thank you for watching. And good night."_

The screen went dark, and Lincoln's heart skipped a beat. "Hey, asshole," he spat, "you forgot to resign."

"Don't think he's going to," Ronnie Anne said.

Dan Rather's face popped up, and Lincoln sagged back in his chair. "Fine," he said, "guess I get to see that impeachment after all."

She leaned over, gave an encouraging smile, and patted his knee. "There you go. Look on the bright side."

"I missed out with Nixon," he said and laid his hand on top of hers. Its delicate shape felt as right now as it did forty years ago, and if given a choice between holding it and banging the most attractive interns in Washington, he'd pick this every time.

"Second time's the charm," she said.

He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed. "Speaking of times," he said, "wanna make it four times this week instead of three?"

A devilish smirk touched her lips, and her eyes lit up with girlish delight. "Can you finish before dinner gets here?"

Lincoln snorted. "I'm fifty-two, I take more time getting my pants off."

That wasn't true, by the way.

She got to her feet and tugged him toward the bedroom.

As it turned out, he did _not_ finish before dinner, and both of them became so wrapped up in each other (both literally and metaphorically) that they didn't even hear the delivery boy knocking. When they emerged, sweaty and pleasantly weary, it was almost nine. "Oh, shit, our food," Ronnie Anne said and stomped her foot.

"Too late now," Lincoln said.

And it was.

So they ordered a pizza instead.

* * *

There was a single juice box in the fridge. It sat between a half empty gallon of milk and a plateful of pizza covered in Saran wrap, a picture of apples adorning one narrow flank. Jordan picked it up, closed the door, and ripped the cellophane off the straw. She jabbed the pointy end through the hole and took a sip; it was cold, bitter, and tasted good on her parched throat. She intended to take it back to her room and sip it sparingly throughout the rest of the evening so she wouldn't have to come back out, but she kinda lost track of what she was doing and drank it all as she stood at the counter. When she was finished, she frowned and shook it.

Empty.

Oh well.

She crossed to the trashcan and dropped it in, then went through the living room, where her older sister Veronica and her friends were strewn across the floor on sleeping bags, each one clad in their pajamas. The gag inducing stench of nail polish hung heavy in the air and _Scream_ played on the TV set, horrified screams telling Jordan someone was being killed. She held her hand up to the side of her face to block out scary visions and hurried down the hall to her bedroom, the arcane giggles and incomprehensibly mature gossip of the older girls following her like whispered secrets in a language she could almost, but not quite, understand.

Her room was at the very end of the trailer, its thin, grimy windows overlooking the street and the other trailers beyond. The walls were faux wood paneled, the matted carpet a faded shade of brown, and the lacy curtains a hue of pink that she hated. Her bed was shoved against one wall, the sheets tangled, and a dresser against another, clothes poking from its not fully closed drawers. Mom made her and her siblings do their own laundry and Jordan hated folding, so she just shoved her stuff in and hoped for the best.

She made her way across the toy-and-dirty plate littered floor and sank onto the edge of the bed. Looking around at the mess, she blew a puff of air and sagged her shoulders. Mom would be real mad if she didn't clean this place up but she didn't feel like it. She sighed and cast a longing gaze at the window. Maybe she would just go back to -

What happened earlier came back to her, and that thought died.

She told herself she was being dumb, Blake had touched her a million times; they wrestled and played and did all kinds of stuff and it was never weird before, why was it weird now? All he did was touch her boob. And she touched his...whatever you wanna call it. She was curious how it felt compared to her own and who better to experiment on than your best friend?

Only when he touched her, it felt...strange. That's all she could come up with. Strange. Like, her stomach got all tingly and her heart slammed really fast like it was going to explode. For probably the first time ever, she was very conscious that he was...well...a boy.

But he was her best friend too and she never got shy or awkward around him. Looking back, though, her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She didn't get how or why it was wrong, but she knew deep in the pit of her stomach that it was, and also that she sort of liked it.

Confusion filled her and she pursed her lips tightly together. Staring down at her lap, she furrowed her brow and turned it over and over in her mind, trying to make sense out of it the way a girl might try to find order and meaning in Chinese chicken scratch. She liked it but didn't, and it made her feel really uncomfortable, but kind of good. Why? All he did was touch her chest! They did more than that before; every once in a while when he talked about girls having cooties, she kissed his cheek just to mess with him and it was fine, no different from kissing her brother or father. Her brother or father never touched her chest, but Blake did when they wrestled sometimes; in that situation, you push and grab whatever you can on the other guy to get an upper hand. That's just how it goes. This was different than that and…

...and…

...and she didn't know. She felt strange and bad and all kinds of other stuff she couldn't identify; it was all balled up in her middle in an inseparable mess, and she couldn't tell where one emotion ended and another began.

Getting to her feet, she went about cleaning her room to distract herself, kicking dolls, Barbie cars, and clothes under the bed, stacking plates on the dresser, and jamming dirty clothes into the dresser on top of clean ones. She hoped Blake wasn't weirded out by her from now on. It was kind of her fault and he might think she was a creep. Blake could be annoying, selfish, lazy, and impatient, but he was still her best friend and she was afraid she might have done something really wrong and made him not like her anymore.

She paused and looked up at the window. Darkness pressed against the pane and the lamps up and down the street threw muddled cones of harsh orange light on the sidewalks. It was too late to go over to Blake's house and apologize. She'd have to wait until tomorrow.

That made her more sadder than it should have.

Now she didn't feel like cleaning anymore. Hanging her head, she sat on the bed and inhaled through her nose. It wouldn't be so bad if she could play a video game or watch cartoons to get her mind off of it, but Veronica and her butthead friends took over the TV as soon as they came through the door and getting it away from them was impossible. If they weren't watching a scary movie she might try to go hang out with them until they started picking on her...which always happened, by the way. Maybe they'd just ignore her and pretend she didn't exist. That happened _sometimes_ , but not often.

She kicked off her shoes, flopped back on the bed, and propped her legs up in an M. She slipped one arm under her head and gazed up at the water splotched ceiling, her mind troubled and pangs tearing through her stomach every time her thoughts returned to what happened at Blake's house. If she kept her dumb shirt on this wouldn't be happening, but she was used to taking it off around Blake. Like...before it didn't seem weird, but now it did and that was really dumb.

Tomorrow, she decided, she would go over to his house first thing and make sure he wasn't mad at her or anything.

And tomorrow had never been farther away.

* * *

You know it's going to be a good day when the very first thing that happens is you _finally_ get the job you've been waiting forever for. That's how Sunday, August 30 started for Alex Underwood. She came awake just past seven and couldn't get back to sleep no matter how hard she tried; she was still on Zoe time (up every few hours, etc) but Zoe was not. Little girl was growing up and sleeping later. Pretty soon, she'd sleep the whole night through and Alex wouldn't have anyone to feed, burp, or change at 3am.

Unless she had another baby, but she wasn't sure if she wanted a late night sidekick _that_ badly. Like her mom and dad, she was _kiiind_ of getting up there in years. Thirty was so close she could see the grays in its hair and that was when you gotta knuckle down and be a grown woman. Work on your career and make something of yourself. Your twenties is when you create babies, your thirties is when you create success.

To be fair, she probably should have done that the other way around like Jessy did, but you work with what you got. She and Tim weren't really rich but they made enough between his job and the payments from Auntie Luna's estate that she didn't _have_ to work. She just wanted to. She _loved_ being a stay at home mom, but the more time she spent away from the medical field, the more she missed it. The lights, the smell of disinfectant in the morning (smells like victory!), the sense of doing good in the world and making sick people's day a little brighter. She missed the clang of bed pans, the crackle of the PA system, breaking for those quick cups of coffee in the dayroom (all the more special since they didn't happen often), the feeling of purpose.

Let's face it, kids, for most of her life, Alex Loudwood (hey, that sounds pretty nice) _had_ no purpose. Jessy knew very early on what she wanted to be...then there was her, waiting tables and writing stories in notebooks that she knew no one was ever going to publish. Most people in their late teens and early twenties have grand dreams and big plans, but she just drifted along like a cloud. Aimless. No goals. No reason. No motivation. Nothing but her wits, charm, intelligence, good looks, charisma, winning personality, compassion, coolness, and upbeat, can do attitude.

All of that stuff, while great, wasn't enough. She needed a passion she could turn into profit. And that passion wound up being nursing. She loved her job and the deep satisfaction that came with it, and being away from the game was really starting to make her restless. Zoe was still little, though, and you know what they say, a child's first year of development is the most important, you can't just shove them in a daycare and skip merrily to work like one of those lame-o elves (heigh-ho, it's off to clean bedpans I go). The first year is where all the most important bonding takes place, all those awesome milestones too, like first words, first steps, and, first accidental somersaults (yes, Zoe found a way to fall down and accidentally do a somersault). She missed a lot of those things with Blake because he was in daycare. She _had_ work then, though. She didn't have to work now.

But...she kind of wanted to.

Then enter Mommy-Anne.

 _Oh, you're coddling her, Alex; stop being so overprotective, Alex; you can't keep her tied to your apron strings forever, Alex._

Like wow, okay, chill. She's not even _one_ yet. I do _not_ coddle her. I just want to bond with her; this is the most crucial period for that and I wanna take full advantage of it. Does that make me a Mommy Dearest? Does it _really?_

 _She's fine, Alex, stop clinging._

I am not clinging! *Stomps foot*

Was she? Zoe was her little girl and she wouldn't be little for long. Alex knew full well from Blake that kids grow up fast; before you know it, all that cute baby stuff like toddling around and curling up on your chest for naptime is gone...and no matter how badly you miss it, you can never get it back. There were times she looked at Blake, remembered him being six months or a year old, and found herself wanting to go back in time so she could hold him, stare lovingly down into his eyes, and tickle his little feet until he shrieked with laughter. Big Kid Blake was awesome and she loved him to pieces, but Itty Bitty Blake was too and you know what? Sometimes, it felt like she didn't get enough of him. He was grown up in the twinkling of an eye and she was was left standing there. _B-But I wasn't done._

She did not want that with Zoe. She wanted to store up every ounce of time with her that she could, like a plant storing sunlight.

 _It'll never be enough,_ Mom told her. They were sitting at the kitchen table of the Cleveland Street house over coffee. Dad was in the attic patching a hole in the roof with Tim and Bobby and Zoe crawled around like a cute little bug, her hands slapping the linoleum. Blake and Jordan sat on the couch in front of _Arthur_. Alex liked that show, it was cute...even if Arthur looked nothing like a real aardvark. _No matter how much time you spend with either of the kids, you're going to have a little bit of an empty feeling when they grow up._ _I miss you and Jessy being young all the time and so does your father. It's called nostalgia, and you feel it when you start getting old._

Old?

Alex walked away from that conversation traumatized, and over the course of several days, came to the stark realization that she was turning into her parents. She listened to old music, had grays in her hair, and found herself getting sentimental over things that happened twenty years ago. _Remember that time I got Jess kicked out of White Elephant? Ahhh, good times._ One time, she and Blake were in the car on their way _somewhere_ when the song _Boogie Fever_ came on the radio. It wasn't her usual musical fare, to be sure, but it reminded her of roller skating with Jessy on Friday and Saturday nights back in the good ol' seventies, so she turned it up. Blake winced and slapped his hands to his ears. _This sucks,_ he said.

Well then.

Only later did it occur to her that she did the same thing to Dad when put on the oldies station.

She always feared this day would come. She was officially an adult.

Mom was right, she decided, watching your kids grow up will be hard no matter what, and she would always miss them being two...and ten...and fifteen. That's part and parcel of life. You just have to accept it and move on.

And that is what she would do. She applied at Mennonite Hospital and waited to hear back.

And waited.

And waited.

By that Sunday morning, she was beginning to think she'd never get a response. Jeez, fine, don't hire me, but can you at least let me know? You said _we'll call you._ Not _we'll call you if you get the job and ignore you if you don't_.

Oh well. There are plenty of fish in the sea.

Presently, she sat up and rolled her neck; she slept wrong or something, and now it was stiff. Oh, God, or was it a sign of aging? Mom and Dad were both stiff in the morning too. Though she joked about not wanting to get old because _hur hur hur old people are lame,_ she didn't really believe that. The idea of aging, however, did kind of maybe unnerve her a little bit. Mom and Dad both talked about how fast time went by, and she noticed it too; once she hit her early twenties, it was like God pressed the fast forward button. Days didn't last as long as they used to, and they piled up _quick_. Every time she turned around, another month had passed. Mom told her it only got worse. Life is a fleeting thing and as she hurtled toward the big 3-0, she imagined she could feel it slipping through her fingers.

Next to her, Tim lay flat on his back, one hand resting on his bare chest and the other extended straight out; he looked like Al Jolson belting out his big finale _(Maaaammmmmy!)_. Zoe's crib was wedged between the wall and the bed on Alex's right, and making as little noise as possible, she leaned over to check on her. Like her father, she lay on her back, her arms above her head in a V and her lips moving slightly as though she were talking in her sleep. Alex's heart melted into a pile of warm goo and the urge to pick the little girl up and hold her close swept through her like a crashing wave.

The only thing that stopped her from plucking Zoe out of slumber was another crashing wave.

The one in her bladder.

Don't look at me like that. Everyone has to pee in the morning. It's perfectly normal.

She got up, went to the bathroom, then came out and went into the kitchen. Faint morning light spread across the floor in golden bars and birds chirped happily from outside. A hush hung over the trailer, and if she strained, she could just make out soft snores drifting from Blake's room. She padded to the fridge, opened it, and took out a pitcher of unsweetened tea. Because of her weight, she cut soda and all other sweets out of her diet completely. I know, I've said that before, but I mean it this time. Before, she allowed herself cheat days, but not this go around, oh no. She stuck to her regiment like there was a drill sergeant standing over her shoulder. _Stop being such a pig, Underwood! Put down the pork chop, fatty, it's probably one of your relatives! Drink that Coke and I'll turn you inside out and wear you like a winter coat!_

Sitting the pitcher on the counter, she opened the cabinet over the sink, took down a glass, and filled it to the top. She put the pitcher back in the fridge, bumped the door closed with her hip, and took a sip. The liquid was cold and bitter, and her forehead crinkled with disdain. Yep, nothing like a glass of burned leaf juice to start your day off right. She glanced down at the tea and grimaced at the floaties in the bottom. Literal leaves. Who had the bright idea to boil leaves and drink them anyway? There _had_ to be an interesting backstory in there someone. Like with popcorn. She imagined two Indian tribes fighting in a field of maize when someone started a fire and all the corn started popping. The Indians were beside themselves with wonder, laid down their arms, and ate from the stalks in peace and harmony. Amen.

Of course, that's probably not how it really happened, but, hey, she was imaginative and in the absence of details, she made up her own.

But really, who was the first to boil tea...and why? Tea was closely associated with England, but it originated, she thought, in China. And tobacco...that came from the Americas, if she remembered correctly, because the white man had never had it before and it caused a sensation when they shipped back the first payload. Then again, didn't Turkish people smoke from hookahs? That was tobacco, right? Or was it...ahem...something else? Anyway, yeah, who was the first guy to shove a bunch of plants in a pipe, set it on fire, and say, _Hey, why don't I inhale this smoke for fun?_ Chances are he wasn't the brightest one in the village.

On the flipside, that just goes to show you that even dumbasses can play a vital role in history.

Draining the rest of the tea (and issuing a breathy _ugh_ at the end of it), she rinised the glass out and sat it in the sink. It was just past eight by the microwave clock, and if Zoe kept to her admittedly tentative schedule, she'd sleep until nine. Tim probably wouldn't be up before her, and since Blake was up until midnight playing the Playstation, he most likely wouldn't either; the morning, thus, was hers.

Now what to do with it.

Alex had been a hard working woman since 1987 and a full time mommy since 1990. There were always tables to be served, old people to be helped, and kids to be doted on (or disciplined) and free time came about as often as a leap year. When it did, she had no idea how to spend it. Oh, she could think of things to do, but she could never really unwind, and after an hour or so, she'd start to tweak like a crackhead feening for her next hit. The moment Blake walked in, she snatched him by the front of his shirt and dragged him over. _Hey, buddy, wanna play a video game? Uno? Talk about stuff? Remember that time you...oh, wait, nevermind, you were, like, one, you wouldn't remember._

Well, like the man said, when it doubt, watch TV.

In the living room, she dropped onto the couch and kicked her legs up on the coffee table. She realized she was in only her panties and a white T-shirt and sighed. Walking around in your underwear is one of those God given rights enshrined in the Constitution and is perfectly natural. She had an eight-year-old son, however, and call her weird, but it seemed just a _little_ inappropriate. Like...can you imagine if Dad walked around the house in his tighty whities? Hairy legs, bulge _right there_ , his body separated from you by only a thin layer of cotton? Shiver. Talk about awkward.

That meant getting up, buuuut it was for the good of her son's psyche, so she did it and dragged herself into the bedroom. Tim was on his side now, one arm jutting over the side and his hand cupped like a Democrat asking for more taxes. She grabbed a pair of brown shorts from the dresser, pulled them on, then went back into the kitchen, starting with a cry when the telephone rang from its station on the kitchen table.

Sunday morning. It's Sunday morning. Who in their right mind is rude enough to call someone on a Sunday morning?

Gotta be Mom or Dad. They were both old and old people _loved_ waking up early. At Marshall Manor, there was a lady who was 103 named Mrs. Smith who'd be up and wandering the halls promptly at 3am.

Picking up the handset, Alex lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Yes," a cool, professional female voice replied, "is Alejandra Underwood there?"

Who the hell is Aleja - oh wait, that's me. "Speaking."

"This is Elsie Harris with Mennonite Hospital, I was just calling to let you know that if you're still interested in the emergency room position, we can start you this week."

Start me this week? I got the job? Alex's eyes widened in shock because, seriously, she applied for it, like, three months ago. She was convinced she lost out to someone else, but apparently not? Did they really take that long to decide on a candidate?

No, that didn't make any sense. They probably hired someone, but they quit (or did something dumb and were fired) and the administration moved onto the next name on their list. Not being the first choice kind of stung...but SHE GOT THE JOB! Excitement flowed through her like 50,000 volts through a condemned man and a giddy tremble wracked her body. Who's officially a nurse now? I'm officially a nurse now. "Yeah," she said and shifted the phone to her other hand, "I can come in whenever you're ready."

"Great," Elsie said, "I'll talk to Sharon, our scheduler, today, and call you back this afternoon or tomorrow morning. Are there any shifts that you absolutely cannot work?"

Alex hesitated. Her only concern was the kids, but Blake was old enough to be home by himself for a while, and if she put Zoe in daycare, Tim could pick her up on his way home. If he had to work late or something and couldn't, Mom or Dad probably wouldn't mind helping out. "No, I should be able to work whatever."

"Alright. Is there one you'd prefer?"

"7 to 3," Alex said. Those were the most conventional hours you could get in the medical field, and if possible, she wanted a normal shift, that way she could be home in the evening, cook dinner, and spend time with her kids.

The line was silent for a moment. "You mean 7 to 7?"

Uh, no, I meant 7 to 3.

"Our shifts are twelve hours here," Elise explained.

Wait, what?

Deep in the back of Alex's mind, a memory stirred. The form she filled out came with a boat load of paperwork and pamphlets explaining how things worked at Mennenite, what was expected of employees, that sort of thing. Somewhere, she recalled, it stated that each shift was twelve hours long. 7am to 7pm and 7pm to 7am.

Apparently that must not have been a dealbreaker at the time. She couldn't remember, it was months ago.

Damn.

"Mrs. Underwood?"

Alright. She could either accept the job or turn it down. She didn't want to be away from her children for _that_ long, but she also really wanted the position.

"Uhhh…"

Well...if she worked the overnight shift, she could be home by 7am. The problem there was Zoe. Alex might be the most awesome creature on the face of the earth, but she was only mortal and needed to sleep just like everyone else. She'd come through the door just as Zoe was waking up. Hm. She supposed she could still put Zoe in daycare so she could get some shut eye. She usually slept about seven hours a night. She'd need about an hour to wind down after getting home, so let's say she was in bed by eight. Seven hours from then was three.

That worked out kind of perfectly. She could meet Blake when he came in from school, grab Zoe, come home, make dinner, and leave well after Tim got off work.

"I-I'll do 7pm to 7am."

"Okay, great," Elsie said, "I'll call you back when I can."

Alex switched the phone to her other hand. "Alright, thank you."

The line clicked, and Alex hung up.

While working overnight wasn't optimal, she got the job, and that made her happy.

Look out, sick and wounded of Royal County, here comes Nurse Underwood.


	203. August 1998: Part 3

Waffle House, a tiny, perfectly square building with wraparound windows, sat on US29 across from Second Hand Heaven, a junk shop that was once a bar, then a gun shop, then a bar again before taking its current form.

The restaurant was smaller inside than out, the tile floors dirty, the tables sticky, and the counter lined with fat truckers drinking coffee, eating plates of greasy eggs and burned bacon, and flirting with the waitresses, the youngest of whom was forty and frumpy. The smell of unwashed fryers, unwashed bodies, maple syrup, and overcook sausage choked the air, and Lincoln's stomach turned like a French army on encountering the enemy. _We, we! Retreat!_ Across the table, Ronnie Anne sipped coffee from a cracked ceramic mug and gazed out at the parking lot. Cars whizzed by on the highway, four lanes separated by a grassy median, two north and two south. When he was a kid, it was two lanes.

When they left the house half an hour ago, the sky was clear and streaked with poetic shades of fiery orange, but now it was layered a light, dusty gray. There was rain in the forecast, but not until later.

Every Sunday, Lincoln took Ronnie Anne out to breakfast at Faye's, a cafe in town that had been open (and owned by the same family) since the forties. A small place with wood paneled walls, wood floors, and a kitschy Americana motiff that Lincoln found alternately charming and off putting, it seated roughly fifty people comfortably. Most mornings, it boasted fewer than twenty diners at any given time, but today, when they pulled up, they were greeted by two white buses with CALVARY BAPTIST CHURCH on the flanks in black and a line out the door and down the block. There must have been some kind of God convention somewhere; guess the Lord didn't have any fish or loaves of bread on hand to multiply.

 _Damn it,_ Ronnie Anne hissed from the passenger seat as they passed. Teenage boys in white shirts and black slacks and teenage girls in denim dresses waited patiently to be admitted. There were so many they probably had to eat in shifts. Lincoln pictured eight heads to a table, kids sitting Indian style on the floor with plates in their laps, youth pastors eating their breakfast from toilets like pigs at a trough, and said _To hell with that, we're going somewhere else._ That somewhere else was either IHOP or Waffle House, and Waffle House was closer. As he sat there scanning the dining room, he became convinced that he and Ronnie Anne ate here once back in the eighties and didn't like it. From the general shabbiness of the place - broken tiles, torn vinyl booths, general dirtiness - he wasn't surprised.

A waitress with crooked yellow teeth and frizzy blonde hair came over and sat their plates in front of them: Ham, eggs, and hashbrowns for Ronnie Anne, and eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast for Lincoln. They nodded their thanks, and the waitress left without asking if they wanted their cups refilled, which Lincoln did even though the coffee tasted like ten day old sludge. Ronnie Anne glared after her (guess she wanted coffee too), then turned to her plate with a disgruntled head shake. "The service here is terrible," she groused.

"The food doesn't look too good either," Lincoln said.

Sausage is supposed to be brown - a little black if you liked it burned the way he did - but the links before him were a sickly shade of gray, and he was inexplicably reminded of swollen corpse fingers, mottled skin stretched tight by expanding gases. The toast was damp in the middle and rock hard along the edges, and the bacon shattered under his fork. The eggs looked decent, but when he took a bite, a bit of shell crunched between his teeth. He spat it out and picked tiny white shards from his tongue like a baboon plucking tasty bugs from its mate. Ronnie Anne turned her eggs tentatively over with her fork and crinkled her nose as the copious amount of grease that oozed out. She moved onto the hash browns; from what Lincoln could tell, half were so badly burned you'd need dental records to identify it, and the other half looked frozen.

Ronnie Anne glanced up at him, and matching looks of disgust crossed their faces. "Wanna hit McDonald's?" she asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln said and got up, "fuck this." He took a ten out to cover the meal and tossed it onto the table. It was more than two plates and two cups of coffee were worth, but he didn't care about getting his change back.

Outside, the humid day wrapped around him like a wet blanket and his underarms dampened. He held the door for Ronnie Anne, then, together, they went to the car, Lincoln slipping in behind the wheel and Ronnie Anne sliding into the passenger seat. Lincoln started the engine and watched a family of five walk into the restaurant, a little girl about five jumping in an excited circle like Waffle House was just the most amazing thing to ever happen to her. This fucking slophouse was packed to the rafters, and meanwhile Flip's sat empty except for the occasional tumbleweed, and even those didn't come around as often as they used to. Why? Why did a dirty, rat's nest hole in the wall that served shit food get more customers than him?

He didn't know, but it didn't matter. He was selling it, so why worry?

Last night, as he and Ronnie Anne ate slices of pizza and drank too much Tab, Lincoln paged through the phone book and jotted down the number of every commercial and residential real estate agent in the area with the intention of calling each one starting Monday. His plan was to list Flip's first and sell as is - he kept up on repairs over the years, and it was in good enough shape that he was comfortable not working on it. The house, however, was another story. It was built in 1935, per the deed, and while not decrepit, wasn't in the best of health. There were electrical issues, plumbing problems, weak spots in the roof, mold in the attic and basement, dings, scratches, and holes in the wall, and God knows what else. Today, he and Ronnie Anne were heading over to take an inventory of all the damages. He wanted to sell it the way it was, but he also wanted the most money out of the deal as possible, so it might be best to put a little work into it, especially if he could save money and do it himself.

Starting the engine, he backed out of the space, swung around, and guided the car to the exit. Ronnie Anne turned the A/C on, then the radio; a jingle for Ace Hardware filtered through the speakers and Lincoln hummed. He'd need materials if he wanted to fix the house up, and there was one of those new Home Depot stores further down 29, across from a strip mall anchored by a Food-Lion. He'd never been there but he heard it was a contractor's wet dream: Paint, tools, nails, bathroom fittings, everything you could possibly think of.

That was a thought for later, though.

In town, Lincoln went through the McDonald's drive thru and got an Egg McMuffin and hash browns for both of them. They ate on the way, and pulled into the driveway ten minutes later. The house stood alone where it always had, seeming to cling to what little dignity it could muster. Lincoln's eyes went to the uncovered windows, and the uncanniness of seeing them bare, without curtains, made his head spin.

"Alright, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said. She reached into the glovebox and pulled out a notepad. She took a pen from her purse, clicked it, and cocked her brow gamely. "Let's do this."

They got out and went inside. The living room was largely the same, save for Mom's chair not being where it should be and a bare spot along one wall where a highboy stood sentry for five decades, its absence marked by a white outline. "You start in the basement, and I'll start in the attic," Lincoln said.

He went upstairs, and Ronnie Anne down. In the dimly lit second floor hall, watched by black and white photos of family members, many of them dead, he pulled down the folding door to the attic and a puff of dust filled the air. Christ, when was the last time someone dusted up there? Probably the last time he did it.

Too long ago.

Climbing the ladder, he went into the attic and started his inventory, moving carefully and methodically over every square inch, recording all the visible flaws, imperfections, and damages. A few of the beams were beginning to rot, and one was damp to the touch, as though it had recently been rained on. The roof had been leaking for years and every time he patched the problem spot, another one sprang up. Tufts of pink insulation littered the floor in spots and mouse shit lined the seam where the wall met the floor.

Since hear rises, the stagnant air was two steps from scalding, and when he descended the ladder after a half an hour, he was covered in sweat and grit. At the bottom, a memory flashed across his mind: Hunkering in a bamboo cage in the sweltering Vietnamese heat, his damp clothes clinging to his dirt coated body like a second skin and his flesh hot with fever. His heart began to race and his lungs burst for air. His grip on the ladder tightened, and for a moment he was back there in that camp by the river, his chest seething with pain, terror, and hatred. His throat went dry and he closed his eyes as if to block out the world. He took a series of deep, evenly spaced breaths, and gradually, the episode subsided, leaving him shaky and light headed. He swallowed thickly and waited for it to come roaring back. When it didn't, he went about his work as though nothing had happened. Deep in his heart, however, a tiny seed of fear throbbed like an ember. He hadn't had an episode like that in five years or more, and he was certain he never would again.

Yet he did, and why? Because he was sweaty? Jesus, is that all it takes, Bugs? Drop and give me fifty.

No, that wasn't all it took. Between Luan moving and worrying about Flip's and the house, he was under a lot of stress, and stress has a way of weakening you and making it easier for you to have 'Nam flashbacks. All it takes is one tiny little trigger, like a faint whiff of a familiar scent or a loud, sudden sound, and you're off to the races. He was scared the house wouldn't go for much, scared he wouldn't make a decent profit from selling Flip's, scared, perhaps irrationally, that he'd retire and wind up living another forty years, flat broke and wishing he worked longer.

Change happens, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and his life was about to change _radically._ He'd owned Flip's for almost three decades, and in the twinkling of an eye, twenty-eight years of his life was coming to an end and he was coming to a new beginning. If that doesn't stress you out, what will?

He just hoped it didn't happen again.

Done, he went downstairs and found Ronnie Anne on her hands and knees closely examining the living room baseboard. "It's rotting," she said without looking up.

"Great," he said. "Any other major issues?"

"You mean aside from the rusting pipes and shoddy electrical work in the basement?"

I did the best I could, okay? I'm not Harry Handyman. "Yes, aside from those."

"Not really," she said. She rocked back on her knees and got to her feet with a pained grunt, "just small stuff. What'd you find?"

He rattled off everything he came across, and she scrunched her lips to one side in careful deliberation. "That's kind of a lot," she said, "none of it's _that_ bad, though."

"No," he said and crossed his arms, "the roof is what worries me. We might have to replace it."

By unspoken consent, they made their way to the couch and sat. For the first time, Lincoln noticed the dirt smudged across Ronnie Anne's face like Catholic ash. The knees of her dress were stained with dust and strands of limp, sweaty hair were plastered to her forehead. She reminded Lincoln of a little English chimney sweep fresh from cleaning the guv'na's pipes. "Is that worth it, though?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," he said in a tone he usually reserved for idiots, "the roof is one of the most important parts of a house. If it leaks, we'll have to factor that into the price. Who's gonna buy a house with a roof like a piece of Swiss cheese?"

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "For a decent price," he clarified.

"Well...if we have the roof done, that'll cost money. If it's, I don't know, ten thousand dollars, are we going to add that to the price or are we going to charge extra? We'll probably wind up breaking even. You have to remember, there's a fair market value and we can realistically only ask for much."

Lincoln considered her words. "But if the place has a new roof, new plumbing, and new wiring, the value will go up. If we sink fifteen grand into it, we can charge eighteen or nineteen."

She rolled her eyes. "So you're talking a profit of three or four thousand. Is that really worth all the time and effort?"

"Yes," he said, "every penny counts, Ronnie. I'm selling my business too, you know. Retirement. We need to every every dollar we can from these sales so we don't wind up eating dog food at ninety because we don't have any money."

A hint of passion crept into his voice, and Ronnie Anne's brow shot quizzically up. "Dog food at ninety?" she asked. "Lame-o, we have almost a million in the bank -"

"That's not a lot of money these days," Lincoln worried, "especially if we live thirty or forty years after retiring."

She ignored him. "We're going to get at least fifty k from the house and fifty from Flip's. That's another hundred thousand. I'm still working, you have your government checks, and in ten years we'll start collecting social security." She laid her hand on his knee and squeezed, her voice softening. "We're fine, Lincoln."

Lincoln chewed his bottom lip and ran her words through his head. Yeah, they were well enough off now, but what about the future? They'd been saving up for retirement for years, and they'd always (he hoped) have his army check and social security, but would that be enough to get them through the winter of old age? Old people break bones and get sick left and right, and medical care doesn't come cheap, especially if it's for something long term like Alzheimer's or cancer. He pictured him and Ronnie Anne in their eighties, both sick and so poor from medical bills that they could barely afford to keep the lights on, and his stomach twisted. When he married her, he promised to love her in sickness and in health, until death do them part. To him, _support_ was implicit in _love_. He vowed to protect her and provide for her, and in their last years, she would need those more than ever.

So yes, he was going to put in a shit load of work for four or five thousand dollars. It wasn't much, but it could make all the difference down the road.

He said as much, and Ronnie Anne nodded understandingly. He did not have to chart, categorize, and lay out his every belief, and all of the tributaries of thought that ran into them, because she already knew. Actions speak louder than words, and he never had to tell her...he simply showed her. "I know, retirement is scary, but we'll be fine. The house is paid for, the cars are paid for, we really don't have any major expenses. Plus, we have another ten years _at least_ before I retire. That's eighty thousand annually. By the time I'm finished, we'll have more than enough."

Lincoln mediated for a long time before sighing. "I guess you're right," he admitted, "I just want us to always be okay."

"We will," she said and smiled reassuringly.

"Alright," he said. She had never once steered him wrong in forty-one years, and though letting go is hard, he put his full faith in her judgement. "We'll be fine."

She smiled and patted his leg. "That's the spirit." She got to her feet and stretched. "Wanna grab some lunch? I'm starving."

* * *

Blake spent most of Sunday sequestered in his room playing N64 and trying to forget the nauseous dread slithering through his belly. He started with _Super Mario 64,_ but switched to _GoldenEye 007_ when he kept dying. He fared even worse in the second game: He could barely make it through the first level - the one with the dam - without being killed. Every time the screen went red with pixelated blood, he sighed and glanced at the window. Muted gray light fell through the blinds, and after a while, rain sluiced down the pane. Dang it. Guess he couldn't go over to Jordan's today.

Not that he was going to anyway. He told himself he would _soon,_ but the closer he got, the farther away soon drew, like a mirage in the distance. After yesterday, things would be weird between them, and he really didn't want that...so he decided to just stay here. Out of sight out of mind, like all the toys and dirty clothes under his bed.

Only those dirty clothes were beginning to smell, and every time he was in here, it pinched the back of his nose and he was keenly aware of their presence.

Just like he was keenly aware of the awkwardness between him and Jordan. He tried his best to put it out of his mind, but he couldn't. It wasn't touching her that bothered him, or even her touching him, it was, like...the strangeness it caused. He felt weird, she felt weird, then she jumped up and left like she was mad at him. At the time, he wanted her to go, but now, he regretted it; he should have asked her to stay, or at least talked to her or something.

He was always messing stuff up.

At one point, Zoe crawled through the open door and sat up at his feet, her eyes glued to the TV and her hands resting in her lap. She wore a little floral print dress and one pink sock. A bad guy jumped out from behind a wall and Blake furiously tapped the shoot button, but died anyway, and let out a frustrated, "Darn it!"

Zoe glanced at him. " _Uh?"_

"That stupid henchman got me," he explained. "This game's dumb."

She stared at him with unwavering curiosity. " _Uh?"_

Rocking forward, she held out one chubby hand, then opened and closed it like she was saying _bye-bye._ On a normal day, he wouldn't let her "play" because she might break the controller, but right now he didn't really care, so he handed it to her without protest. Her eyes lit up at his unexpected generosity and she flashed a big, gummy smile; the tips of her front teeth were just visible and she put him in mind of a baby bunny rabbit. She could be kind of annoying sometimes, but she was sorta cute, and warm affection flooded Blake's chest like cotton just out of the dryer.

She held the controller in both hands and went cross-eyed looking at it...then brought it to her mouth and started sucking on it. "No, you're supposed to _play_ it," Blake said. Her forehead wrinkled with confusion. It fell from her hands and landed on her lap; she looked at it, cooed, and slapped it. Onscreen, the game started again, and James Bond stood in an interrogation room across a table from two guards, a gun lying on the scuffed surface before him. Kind of dumb to put someone in jail then leave a loaded gun _right there_. Zoe gaped at the TV, as if stunned that she actually managed to do something with her random button mashing, then whipped her head around to Blake for guidance.

He wasn't very good at teaching things - he found that out real quick in his role as Big Brother - and had no idea what to tell her. "Do it again," he offered. It was all he had.

Gazing at the TV, enrapt, she hit the controller again, and James Bond jumped. She did it a third time, and, by some miraculous stroke of fate, he reached out and picked up the gun.

"Good job. Now -"

The guards whipped out AK-47s and opened fire. Cartoon blood dripped down the screen, and GAME OVER flashed. Zoe's brow pinched and she issued a questioning grunt. "You died," he said. She looked at him with big, innocent eyes and grunted again. "You were too slow and the bad guys got you. Now you're worm food."

For a moment she favored him with infantile lack of comprehension, then lifted the controller to her mouth and went back to chewing on it. "You're pretty good for a baby," he remarked, "if you work really hard you might be as good as me one day." He smiled and pressed his hand against his chest. Zoe's eyes shimmered with what he took to be adoration, and she laughed.

"It's really hard since you have to do strategy and have nerves of steel, but I think you can do it. You just need to work on your hand-eye coordination."

Zoe glanced between him and the controller, then threw it down and crawled out again, her knees scuttling across the carpet. When she was gone, Blake heaved a deep breath and turned to the window again. Rain hissed in the street and made big, muddy puddles on the patch of lawn bordering the pavement. A battered blue Pinto passed, dense black fumes puffing from its exhaust pipe, and Blake returned his attention to the screen. He didn't feel like playing games anymore, but he didn't feel like doing anything else either. He was trapped in a state of restless suspense and had no idea what to do. Going and seeing Jordan might make things better, but it also might make them worse.

That decision was out of his hands because rain.

He'd have to wait until tomorrow.

Part of him was glad for the reprieve, but another part wanted to get it over as soon as possible so that it no longer hung over him. He frowned at his lap; he should have gone over when he had the chance, now it was probably going to rain all day.

Getting up, he shuffled dejectedly over to the television, bent down, turned the N64 off, and went out into the living room. Mom sat Indian style on the floor watching Zoe, who stood at the coffee table and bounced, one hand rhythmically slapping the surface, and Dad lay on the couch snoring. "You gonna walk to Mommy?" Mom asked. She held out her arms and Zoe laughed over her shoulder. "She's gonna walk to Mommy," Mom explained as he passed.

He twisted around, and Zoe went back to slapping the table. "I don't think she is."

"Come on," Mom moaned, "walk to Mommy. You can do it."

Leaving them to it, Blake went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and reached for a Coke.

There _were_ none.

He frowned and scanned the shelves, then moved the milk and the tea.

Nothing.

"Mom? We're out of Coke."

"I know," Mom replied, "we don't drink Coke anymore."

Blake sputtered. We don't? "Why?" he demanded. Coke was the best drink ever; it was like liquid candy and each sip was a journey into nirvana.

"Because," Mom said, "we need to get serious about being healthy. Coke is not healthy. It's loaded with sugar."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Mom drank nothing _but_ Coke. H-His head was literally spinning right now. He stared at her over the counter, and she furrowed her brow challengingly. "Don't look at me like that," she said, "Coke is bad for you. Have some tea instead."

Tea? Tea? Tea was gross! Grandma loved the peach kind and made him drink it when he was at her house; he gagged with every sip, and his throat somehow got parched no matter how much he had. If he went too long between Cokes, his head started hurting and he felt funny. The only cure? Coke. Or Pepsi. Either one would work in a pinch, though he preferred Coke. "I can't drink that," he argued, "it's disgusting."

"Oh, no it's not," Mom said and waved him off, "it tastes really good. Have some."

Blake huffed and threw his head back. Great, it looked like no Coke for him. He had to drink stupid tea or thirst to death. He opened the fridge, took out the pitcher, and sat it on the counter; it was really heavy and he almost dropped it.

Coke isn't this heavy.

He grabbed a plastic cup from the drain tray, sat it next to the pitcher, then picked the pitcher back up. His arms strained, his back bowed, and beads of sweat sprang to his forehead. It was too much and he almost dropped it again. "Can you pour it for me?" he asked.

"Why?" Mom asked.

"It's heavy," he whined.

Struggling to her feet, Mom came into the kitchen and took the pitcher from him. "You're really lazy, Blakezilla. You take after your dad."

"Dad works all day and you just sit home."

Mom snorted as if you say _haha, you got me there._ "Well, as it just so happens, I got a job today."

Really? She didn't even leave the house today. How could she get a job?

She was messing with him, he decided. "Where?" he asked.

"Mennonite Hospital," Mom said, and poured the tea into his cup. She carried the pitcher over to the fridge, opened the door, and shoved it onto the top shelf.

"How? You didn't go anywhere today."

She shut the door, padded over, and laid her hand on top of his head. "They called me."

"Oh."

In the living room, Zoe stood at the couch and slapped Dad's chest. He stirred but didn't wake, and leaning in, she let out a long, high pitched screech. _Wake up!_ Dad's eyelids fluttered open and he squinted tiredly at her. "What do you want?" he slurred.

She slapped him and screamed.

"She wants to play," Mom said. She went around the end of the counter, into the living room, and plopped down between the couch and the coffee table. "Don't you, Zono Ono?"

Blake picked up his cup and stared into it like Buffalo Bill into his torture well, and his reflection grimaced up at him. He lifted it to his lips and took a tentative sip, his face wrinkling at the bitter, unsweetened taste. Ugh. Metaphorically pinching his nose, he finished it off, tossed the glass into the sink, and went back to his room.

Now what?

With nothing else to do, he turned the N64 back on and stuck Mario in. He grabbed the controller, sank onto the edge of the bed, and waited for the game to start. Even though there were lots of newer and cooler games,this was still Jordan's favorite and just looking at it reminded him of her...and of the strange things he felt yesterday afternoon.

Yeah, how about a different game? He got up, went over to the console, and yanked the cartridge out. He scanned the others on the shelf and settled for _Duke Nukem 64._ He put it in, sat down, and lost himself in mindless cartoon violence, thoughts of Jordan and fears of their friendship being ruin fleeing as alien hoards commanded his full and undivided attention. He was so wrapped up in it that he didn't realize he wasn't alone until something moved in his periphery. He looked up, and a chunk of ice dropped into his stomach. Jordan stood in the doorway with her hands clenched at her sides and an anxious expression on her face. Their eyes locked and they both froze. The previous afternoon flashed across Blake's mind, and a hot, shameful blush spread across his face. They both looked at their feet, and Jordan's hand went to the side of her head, fingers scratching for the sake of having something to do. "Hey," she said haltingly.

"H-Hey," he floundered. "Uh…" his mind blanked and he grasped for something to say but came up empty handed.

Jordan crossed her arms shyly over her chest and rubbed her elbow. "What's, uh...what's up?" She asked, her voice breaking.

"Not much, just...just playing video games." He trailed off, then: "D-Do you wanna play?"

He forced himself to look up at her, and she shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. Okay."

She came over and sat next to him, the mattress dipping under her weight. She rested her hands uncomfortably in her lap and pressed her knees as tightly together as she could, as though she were afraid of brushing his leg and catching cooties. The urge to scoot away from her gripped him, but he fought it because that might look bad. Onscreen, the game started over (guess I died and didn't notice) and he held the controller out. "Here. You can play."

Without looking at him, she took it and stared at the TV with a slight frown, as though she'd never played a video game before. She opened her mouth like she had something to say, then snapped it closed again and started to play. Aliens jumped out from either side and she handled them with ease.

The air between them grew more and more tense as time went on, the only sounds the screams, gunfire, and explosions coming from the TV. Several times, he started to bring up yesterday, but chickened out and swallowed his words. Jordan stole furtive glances at him from the corner of her eye and Blake pretended not to notice.

Finally, Duke died, and she sat the controller in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I-I'm sorry I acted weird yesterday. I just, like.." she shrugged her shoulders defensively.

So...she _wasn't_ mad at him? Whew. "I'm sorry too," he said quickly.

"I kind of...you know...it was weird."

"Yeah," Blake agreed, "really weird."

"A-And wrong." She spoke hesitantly, as though she wasn't sure whether it really was or not.

"So wrong. Let's never do it again."

"Deal."

She stuck her hand out, and Blake regarded it the way one might a live power line. Up until yesterday, touching Jordan was the most normal thing in the world. They played, pushed each other, and wrestled, and his hands had been on almost every square inch of her body, including her butt a few times - totally on accident. Yeah, it was gross because ew, a butt, but it didn't awaken strange and powerful sensations in him the way yesterday did, and now he was kind of afraid that even shaking her hand would bring them back.

That was different, though. That was her boob and this was her hand.

He clutched it and his blush deepened. Jordan's did too, and after a quick pump, they released each other. "Here," she said and handed him the controller, "it's your turn."

His eyes darted from it to her face and back again. That same feeling from yesterday was indeed back, though very faint, like claws lightly trailing down the inside of his stomach. He took the controller and turned to the TV.

The feeling went away after a while, but there was something new inside of him, something of which he was only vaguely aware, an oddly shaped sensation weighing down his middle like a pile of rocks.

It would be a long time before he learned what it was, and on that late summer day, it didn't really matter. His and Jordan's friendship had weathered another storm, and he was happy.

She was his best friend, and she meant a lot to him.

A whole, whole lot.


	204. September 1999: Part 1

**Joni C69: It might reach two thousand comments. We still have a ways to go. I tallied up the wordcount and from this chapter to the last one (not counting a brief epilogue I intend to write) is 234,387 words. I didn't want to post that figure for fear of scaring people off, but that's what we're looking at. I don't know how many chapters. Probably fifty. Ish.**

* * *

 _ **I was lying on the grass of Sunday morning of last week**_

 _ **Indulging in my self-defeat**_

 _ **My mind was thugged, all laced and bugged, all twisted, wrong and beat**_

 _ **A comfortable three feet deep**_

 **Len (Steal My Sunshine, 1999)**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **All the Small Things**_ **by Blink 182 (1999)**

Always on the cutting edge was a phrase that described Alex Loud to a T. For one, she was a trendsetter: She was the first girl to wear one earring (and one earring only) in her school, and while everyone laughed at her in 1984, by the next year, they were _all_ doing it. Maybe not literally every single person, but you get the idea. She listened to the coolest, newest music, and had all the latest technology - she owned an Atari at a time when most of the other kids didn't even know they existed, and if they did, they were too lame to have one of their own.

In other words, she was as hip and modern as she was beautiful, intelligent, and wise. Lately, however, something had changed and it wasn't hard to define, Jessie's got himself a girl and I wanna make her mine.

Ugh, now that song was stuck in her head...and didn't even _like_ it.

The real change was her going from forward thinker to basically her dad pining for 1863.

It started at the beginning of the summer. She took the kids over to Mom and Dad's house one day while Tim was at work, and during one of hers and Ronalda's famous mother-daughter powwows in the kitchen, the topic of Alex's _old junk_ came up. Okay, wow, thank you for calling my cherished and personal property - which you gave me express permission to store in your attic - junk. She waved her hand _(pfft, it's fine)_ , but Mom wouldn't let her put it off. _It's been up there for almost fifteen years. You need to do something with it._

Oh, stop being dramatic, it has _not_ been up there...wait. She counted on her fingers and toes and arrived at the number ten. Ten years. Actually...that _was_ kind of a long time. A lot had changed in that decade: She had a baby who was now a big kid, got married, worked at Oak Springs and Marshall Manor (and now at Mennonite Hospital), had another baby who was going to be two next month, and...lots of other stuff.

She agreed to sort her stuff because she was kind of excited to see what was even up there, since she forgot.

The attic was a dark and dusty space where the air was so hot your skin blistered on contact. Boxes, extra furniture, and trunks, and other stuff lined the walls, and..gee, look at all this crap. And you're worried about my couples boxes?

Her stuff was in an out of the way corner, three rotting cardboard boxes each marked ALEX. She got down on her knees, dragged one close, and unfolded the flaps.

Thus began her trip down memory lane. Her old Walkman was in there, and a bunch of her tapes; a Rubik's Cube Jessy gave her (she solved it, but only because she peeled the stickers off and put them back on); loose photos of her and Jessy from '85 and '6. Basically, when she opened that first box, a tide of memories shot out and hit her in the face like a fist ( _surprise, Bunny!)._ She loaded them into the car and, at home, sifted through them more thoroughly. Man, she forgot some of this stuff even existed. Like _The Blitz_ by Krokus. For, like, a whole summer, she played it on repeat, then, come September, she got sick of it and started listening to something else. Sitting at her kitchen table with the cassette in her hand, she could remember being fifteen so clearly she could almost _taste_ it. The world was brighter then, the air sweeter, every single moment brimming with possibilities. One thought lead to another, and by the end of the day, she was filled with sentimental longing. She missed the TV shows of her youth, the music, the fashion, the _feeling_ of being young, carefree, and on the cusp of life, each experience new and exciting, not just another day at the ol' office. Oooh, it was some awesome.

She popped her tape into the radio and turned it so loud the walls shook; blaring guitar exploded from the speaker, and though she liked today's stuff...man, I missed these kinda tunes.

Sigh. '84 _ruled_. She was a freshman in high school, she was in the early stages of falling in love (those are the strongest stages, you know), and she and Jessy still lived at home with Mom and Dad. That was the year Lola broke down in front of their house and spent a couple days being stuck up and snobby before Bobby swept her off her feet. For some reason, she flashed back to the day before Lola left - Lana and Chunk trying to eat more pizza than the other. Everyone sitting around the table, laughing, joking, sharing and reveling in togetherness…

Good times, good times.

Times were good now too, don't get her wrong, but even though she wouldn't trade Shake-and-Blake and the Zoester for anything, she'd give her left ovary to take a day trip back to '84 or '5. _Everything_ was cooler back then. Everything. She recalled a turntable she had with two tape decks, two 8-track slots, and a record player. It was sleak, silvery with a black, see through plastic lid, and knobs, levers, and readouts across its face. The radio she had now was black and generic looking. That old one...now that bad boy had _style_. Whatever happened to it anyway? Probably wound up in the trash. Sigh. What a loss. Now she really wished she held onto it.

Over the course of the summer, she found herself thinking more and more about the eighties and missing them with stomach gnashing intensity. They were a simpler time, especially the early part. In 1980 and '81, she and Jessy were still going to the roller rink on Friday nights and eating hot dogs from the concession stand, hanging out, and skating...or, in Jessy's case, wobbling, waving their arms, and crashing into other people. That place closed down a few years later and for the first time she could remember, Alex missed it.

One evening in August, she was sitting in the living room with Zoe and listening to 97.2 - which played eighties music on Saturday nights - when it hit her.

She was turning into Dad. For years, she made fun of him for being stuck in the past, now she was doing the exact same thing. Look, everyone thinks the era they grew up in is the best because it is inextricably linked with fond childhood memories. The hindsight zeitgeist of youth is often entwined with the period in which said youth occurred, like two strands of DNA, and you cannot separate them. She realized that on an intellectual level, but she had never felt the call of the past before - at least not this urgently - and was totally unprepared for just how alluring it could be. Dad felt the same way about 1960 that she felt about 1980. You could argue that one was objectively _better_ than the other, or worse, but both sides would be wrong. In 1980, we were in the midst of a recession and in 1960, they were in the midst of waiting for a nuclear holocaust; both years faced their own unique set of problems and circumstances, and when you take a step back, both were good and both were bad.

Still, she felt this territorial affection that lead her to say 1980 was _faaar_ better. That stubborn insistence was what really drove it all home: Once on the cutting edge, she was now a backwards thinking eighties holdover.

And officially old.

Oh, not in body - she was only thirty - but she was in _mind_. She figured this would happen one day, and she imagined that the revelation, when it came, would be sad, somber, and cutting. Instead, she metaphorically shrugged her shoulders. Meh. It's not like she was going through a full blown midlife crisis or anything. Now _that_ would be sad. A thirty year old woman walking about in a denim jacket, hoop earrings, and gel bands like she's fifteen again. Gag with me a spoon.

Plus, it wasn't a _real_ problem until Blake started making fun of her. Up to then, she could sweep this under the rug like an alcoholic in denial. If no one staged an intervention by teasing her, was there really an issue? Was there _really?_

On September 12, Alex clocked out at 7am and walked through the emergency room while digging through her purse for a breath mint (weird how you can get morning breath without even falling asleep first). The rubber soles of her shoes squeaked on the tile floor and her ponytail swished with every step, ticking the back of her neck like a troublesome fly. A nurse in blue scrubs named Vikki sat at the registration desk typing on the computer, and to the right, the waiting room stood largely empty save for an old man and a fat woman, both of whom had been there all night.

When Alex first took this job, she pictured the emergency room as a hotbed of activity even overnight, but she was wrong. It got busy here and there, but mostly, her job consisted of putting information into the computer, shooting the breeze with the other nurses, and trying not to fall asleep at the nurse's station. There was a little more to it than that, but not by much. Last night, she spent a good portion of her shift taking inventory of medical supplies. Which were housed in the creepy, dimly lit basement...next to the morgue. Tall shelves loomed over you like hungry monsters, leaving a narrow walkway, and shadows festered in dusty corners, concealing any horrifying thing your mind could conjure up. As practical and agonistic as she was, every time she ventured down there, she turned into a believer of the supernatural _real_ quick, and her brain worked tirelessly to remind her of every horror movie she had ever seen...which was kind of a lot.

 _Remember Zelda from Pet Sematary? She's probably crouching behind that shelf, and when you walk by, she'll spring out and grab you._

 _Hey, Bunny, you know what's scary? That zombie from_ ZOMBIE, _the one with the worms wiggling in its eye sockets? Yeah, I hear he hangs out here._

She got spooked in there, but never like the time she had to go into the morgue to ask about a patient. The floors were puke green and tiled, as were the walls, and a bank of built in drawers on one side promised corpses if you opened them. A body lay on a stainless steel table, and Alex's gaze was drawn to it like magnets. Man. About her age. Naked but for a white sheet covering his privates. His skin was pale and his lips tinged with blue. She tried to pull her eyes away, but they were stuck.

Then the body _groaned_.

Alex's heart shot into her throat and she let out a high pitched, throat rending scream that, legend has it, still reverberates through the hospital to this day. The mortician came in from an adjoining office, his white lab coat rumpled and splattered with dried blood, and looked fearfully around. _What? What is it?_

She balled her hands protectively to her chest and pointed. _That body...it groaned._ Did it say _braaaaains?_ It sounded like it said _braaaaains._

 _Oh,_ the mortician said and waved his hand, _that's just air escaping the lungs. Nothing to worry about._

He was the expert so she took his word, but for the rest of the night, she was tensed in anticipation of a zombie invasion.

Presently, she found the mints, stopped, and popped one into her mouth, then went out through the automatic doors. Outside, amber light filled the world, and faint orange colored the eastern sky. It was early but already hot; in the time it took her to walk to her car and get in, Alex soaked through the armpits of her shirt _and_ suffered the yuckitude of having a bead of sweat drip into the cleft of her front. Ugh, I hate when that happens.

In the car, she rolled the windows down, shoved the key into the ignition, and started the engine. The radio came on in the middle of _She's So High_.

Sniff. Eighties music was better.

She stole a glance in the rearview mirror, and for some reason, she expected to see busted teeth, white hair, and a cowlick.

Instead, she saw only Alex, as fetching as ever.

Whew.

She threw the car into reverse, backed up, and drove to the exit just as an ambulance pulled in with its sirens on. So the action starts as soon as I leave, huh? Humph. Where were you three hours ago when I was stuck in the basement, buddy? I really could have used you then.

Turning left, she followed the highway to Route 29. For a while, open farmland flanked the blacktop, distant trees, tumbledown barns, and grain silos hazy with late summer humidity. After an ABC newscast (they raised the Liberty Bell from the ocean...thought that was in Philadelphia), new age rock came on and she turned it up just because hey, look, kids, I'm still "with it."

 _All the small things_

 _True care truth brings_

 _I'll take one lift_

 _Your ride best trip_

 _Always I know_

 _You'll be at my show_

 _Watching, waiting, commiserating_

She drummed her fingers on the wheel and bobbed her head from side to side as if to prove to an unseen audience that she was most certainly _not_ an old fuddy duddy like her father. This is good stuff. Not as good as M and M, though.

 _Say it ain't so, I will not go_

 _Turn the lights off, carry me home_

Speaking of home, there it was now, Marsh Run opening up on the left. A dense stand of pine trees separated its northeastern edge from the highway, and a white clapboard house loomed out of the grove like the grinning face of a chainsaw wielding serial killer. All the kids said a man named Little Lee (or maybe it was Little E) lived there and would drag you away to his torture dungeon if you set foot on his property. A little boy Blake hung out with named Claud claimed to have escaped Little E. Lee's clutches last spring after sneaking into his house; he said there was a pile of skeletons a hundred feet high in the kitchen and _dead people pieces_ in the living room.

For some strange reason she couldn't place, she had the niggling suspicion that maaaaybe he was exaggerating. Just a little.

Putting on her blinker, she turned into the entrance and passed the MARSH RUN sign sitting between the lanes, gold lettering on a forest green background. The paint was brand new; in June, someone tagged with graffiti and the manager said it was gang signs. Two weeks later, Alex spotted a pair of shoes knotted together and hanging from a power line - a symbol of gang presence, if TV is to be believed. Needless to say, she was a _little_ worried that the trailer park was turning into _Boyz in the Hood._

She followed the main road to her street and turned left. At the top of the lane, she turned into her driveway and parked. Since she worked so late, Tim saw Blake off to school in the morning and took Zoe to daycare on his way to work. To do this, he had to leave way later than he used to, but since his dad retired at the beginning of the summer and turned the shop over to him, he could make his own rules, so it was good. He stayed later sometimes to make up for it, but being younger and in better shape than his father, he worked quick.

Killing the engine, she grabbed her purse, got out, and went inside. Last winter, Tim finally got around to completely replacing the central heating and cooling system since the landlord wouldn't do it, and the air that greeted her was blessedly chilly. She shut the door, tossed her purse onto the coffee table, and went into hers and Tim's bedroom, dodging and side-stepping toys on the way. Looks like _someone_ had a pretty gnarly playdate and didn't clean up after themselves.

Eh, I'll get too it.

She dropped face first onto the bed.

Oof.

Eventually.

* * *

There was one good way to get on Maddie Haveman's bad side, and that was by trash talking Mankind. Mankind was the best wrestler to ever live and if anyone disagreed, they were so hopelessly wrong they were, like, in tangles. If you were blind and only listened to his matches, _maybe_ she could understand, or if you needed glasses, but a normal person with normal eyes had no excuse for gazing upon the hardcore glory of Mankind and not falling down in worship.

Unfortunately for her, her best friend Curtis was one of those philip stines. His favorite wrestler was The Rock and Maddie hated The Rock.

Last year, when Curtis moved to Tucson from Baltimore with his family, The Rock and Mankind were tag team partners, so she liked The Rock; he was like a friend of a friend and any friend of Mankind's was a friend of hers. His first day at school, Curtis wore a black T-shirt with The Rock's smirking face on it, and she instantly liked him. Wrestling fans weren't easy to come by in her grade and the only ones she knew liked WCW, so they were basically human garbage. WCW and WWF had been at war for, like, ever, and she considered WCW fans the enemy. If she met one in a dark alley…

The moment she saw Curtis, however, a tall black boy with close cut black people hair, that all changed. Here, at last, was someone who wasn't dumb. She sought him out at lunch and dropped into the seat across from him, startling him. She crossed her arms on the edge of the table and leaned forward, brimming with excitement because finally, there was a cool person in her class. _The Rock really kicked Undertaker's butt on SmackDown, huh?_ she asked.

Curtis's guarded expression melted and he grinned. _Yeah, he did. I thought he killed him._

That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship...that almost died when The Rock turned on Mankind and joined Vince McMahon, the WWF's evil owner (Maddie hated him almost as much as she hated the WCW). She expected Curtis, a man of taste and dignity, to be appalled by his hero's gleeful plunge into villainy, and was shocked when he took Rock's side. _Are you serious?_ she demanded that day in the hall. She was doubled over with her hands thrown strickenly up. She was panting and flushed with anger, so close to giving him a reserve DDT her muscles quivered. Curtis simply crossed his arms and looked down his nose like she was a common WCW fan. _The Rock is never wrong._

She let out a wavering _grrr_ and walked away before she lost her patience and piledrived him into the floor. They didn't speak to each other for almost a week, but then they gravitated reluctantly back to each other like planetary bodies. They liked most of the same things and got along really good, so *swallows pride* they'd just have to work things out...somehow.

And that somehow was finding common ground by only discussing wrestlers they _both_ liked. That was Mom's suggestion and it worked like a charm, but that went without saying: Her mother was the smartest woman in the world and the toughest too. _Sometimes you have to compromise,_ she said.

 _What's that?_ Maddie asked. As far as she could remember, it had never been one of her vocabulary words at school and that's where all her knowledge of big words came from.

 _That means you meet in the middle_ , Mom said.

Compromise means that you don't get everything you want, but neither does the other guy. You both budge just enough to make the other kinda sorta happy. The next day, she sat with Curtis for the first time in a week and told him what Mom said. He listened intently, then nodded. _Okay, I guess that works._

From that point on, they never talked about The Rock or Mankind ever again.

Except when they slipped and did.

Today, a golden September afternoon, they were making their way home along the sidewalk bordering Palmetto Drive, a strip boasting middle class stucco homes with red terra cotta roofs. It was just past three and the air was dry and hot, and Maddie's face was lightly coated in sweat and grit. Curtis, in a pair of cargo shorts and a red and white plaid short sleeve over a white T-shirt, stared straight ahead, his thumbs thrust through the straps of his new backpack.

The one with The Rock on it.

*Eye twitch*

That was okay, though. He wasn't talking about The Rock, so it's not like he broke their deal or anything. He had a backpack, so what? It didn't matter that since his legs were longer, he walked faster...and thus she had to look at _him;_ it didn't matter that she didn't wear Mankind shirts when she knew she was going to be around him; it didn't even matter that she hadn't used her own new backpack - the one featuring Mankind in all his glory - because she wasn't a rude, inconsiderate pig like -

Nope, none of that mattered. He had a cool new backpack and he was rightly proud of it. No big deal.

Then, when she pulled alongside him, he glanced at her and furrowed his brow bemusedly. "What's that?" he asked.

"What?" she asked.

They stopped. "There's something hanging out of your backpack."

There was? She unshouldered it and swung it around. When she saw what it was, she grinned. A pink sock with Sharpie eyes and lipstick around what passed for its mouth. Pulling it out, she slipped it onto her hand and held it up. "It's Sockette," she said. She opened and closed her hand to make it talk. " _I'm just like Mankind's sock, only I'm a girl._ "

Mankind's new thing was wearing a sock puppet on his hand called Socko that he shoved into people's faces - it was gross but somehow awesome at the same time.

Her sock was clean, though.

Just for the record.

Heaving a deep sigh, Curtis rolled his eyes, and Maddie tensed. "What?" she demanded.

"Socko is the stupidest thing ever," he said.

A fiery band closed around Maddie's chest and a GET MAD light flashed red in the center of her brain. "Excuse me?"

"Socko's retarded," Curtis said with a whatddya want shrug. "Dumbest thing ever."

Maddie didn't think people's blood literally boiled - that was just a saying - but then she learned she was wrong because in that moment, standing in a spill of burning desert sun and caressed by a faint breath of sandpaper wind, her blood started to Boil with a capital B. It started in her toe tips then spread through her whole body until she was hotter than the day around her. Her hands closed into fists and her vision blurred; she was flush, shaking, and grinding her teeth from side to side like the blades of a saw. "Socko is _not_ the dumbest thing ever," she growled. Then, just because he and his dork backpack were just begging for it, "The people's eyebrow is."

Curtis flinched. "Is not," he shot back, "Mankind's mask is. It doesn't even cover his whole face."

"It covers enough," Maddie rejoined. She didn't have anything else because she never thought she would need it, like never expecting you would have to explain why the sky is blue and the grass is green. "It looks cool and so does he. The Rock looks like a big, fat dummy."

Curtis's jaw clenched. "Take that back."

Looming forward like a hand ready to drop on an unsuspecting bug, Maddie bared her teeth. "Big. Fat. Dummy."

Curtis trembled with rage and clenched his fists. Oh, did he want to fight? She watched Raw on TNN and SmackDown on UPN every single week, she knew all the moves there were. If he wanted to go, it would be over before he knew he lost.

Turning her head to one side, she tapped her jaw. "Free shot. Make it count...cuz I sure will."

For a moment, she thought he was going to take her up on that offer and almost kind of wished she didn't make it ( _it_ being _a ginormous mistake_ ), but instead, he spun on his heels and marched away.

She would have let him go and maybe apologized tomorrow at school, but The Rock smirked at her from his backpack, and that made her mad all over again. "Come back here," she said and stomped after him, "I'm not done with you, Rock lover."

"Mankind butt kisser," he grumbled.

"I bet you like Mr. McMahon too. You root for him when he fights Stone Cold."

Curtis stopped and twisted around, his eyes hard. "Now _that_ was low. Go away. I hear _Thunder'_ s on tonight. You should watch it 'cause it sucks just like you."

 _Thunder_ was WCW's Thursday night show, subpar even by _their_ standards, and Maddie was so offended that he implied she would watch that over _SmackDown_ she sucked a scandalized gasp.

"Well...how do you know it's on tonight?" she asked quickly. "You probably tape it so you can watch it during _Raw_."

They were almost to the end of the street now, Curtis's stride long and hard and Maddie's fleet and light as she hurried to keep pace. "Get away from me," he snapped, "I don't hang out with WCW fans."

"Because you're too dumb even for them."

He started to come back, but a loud intone cut him off, and they both stopped. " _Now making his way to the ring, the nastiest nigga in the TXWF, Nasty P!"_

Maddie's ears pricked. Ring? Did something say ring? Like wrestling ring?

Music drifted from behind a house to their right, and a bottle rocket shot into the sky; it burst with a _hiss,_ and Maddie's jaw dropped. It sounded like something really cool was happening.

Brushing past Curtis, she started across the parched front lawn, drawn to the narrow strip of yard between the house and a chain link fence separating it from the neighbor's driveway. "Hey!" Curtis called, "where are you going?"

She ignored him and rounded the corner. In the side yard, a garden hose lay coiled on a cement slab and metal trash can stood next to a boxy central heating system. Curtis hesitated, looked left and right, then followed.

When Maddie reached the backyard, she froze. A makeshift ring made from sheets of wood on stilts and covered in blue tarp dominated the space, its turnbuckles slanted like old trees and the ropes made from a mishmash of literal ropes, extension cords, and long strands of ripped sheets. Folding tables, ladders, metal trash cans, and piles of 2X4s surrounded it like a raucous crowd. A walkway composed of more wood sheets and flanked by orange traffic cones lead from from a sloppily erected platform. The black curtains parted, and a short, husky boy about fourteen strutted out. He wore cargo shorts with oversized cuffs, a white and red Cardinals jersey, and black and white face paint. His short blonde hair was gelled and spiked, and he carried a championship belt slung over one shoulder. Another boy stood by the ring watching. He was taller and thinner than his friend, dressed in jeans and a black shirt. His sandy blonde hair almost reached his shoulders and his face, too, was painted: White with elaborate black outlines around his mouth and eyes. They looked like those clown rappers you occasionally saw on _M2_. Inane Clown Police? Inane was one of her vocabulary words last year. It meant dumb and stupid. Just like Curtis.

Speaking of, he stopped beside her and drew a sharp intake of air, his eyes widening to take in the wondrous sight before them. "What's _this?"_ he asked.

"Backyard wrestling," she said, as though the answer should be painfully obvious, "I saw it on the news. They said it's really dangerous." Her lips peeled away from her teeth in a big, giddy smile. Backyard wrestling was the coolest thing since regular wrestling. It was where people made their own rings at home and fought each other in illegal bouts that routinely sent people to the hospital with major injuries. It was darker, grittier, and waaaaay more violent that even the ECW, which had a really brutal reputation in the biz.

Curtis sucked his bottom lip in and glanced at her. She stared at the ring with metaphorically heart shaped pupils. She heard the phrase _love at first sight_ before, but she never felt it until this very moment.

"I wanna wrestle in there," she muttered to herself.

Next to her, Curtis's face drained of color and horror filled his eyes. He jerked his head from side to side in a sniff negatory. "No," he said, "no, no."

"Yes," she breathed. She started toward the ring, but Curtis grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.

"Are you crazy?" he asked. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

She yanked away from him and balled her fists. "I know how to wrestle," she spat, "I watch WWF, not…" she searched her brain for a good insult, "Big Baby Wrestling Federation."

"Whoa," he said, "it's one thing watching wrestling but those guys have years of training. You can't do what they do. Even _I_ can't do what they do."

Maddie bristled. "What does _that_ mean?" she asked. "You think you're better than me just because you're a boy? Well -"

The words died on her lips when voice spoke behind her. "Yo!" She turned, and the two boys were coming over, the fat one holding up his shorts and the other one with his brows angled sternly down; the sun glinted on the stud in his lower lip, and his knobby Adams apple bobbed indignantly up and down.

Maddie darted her eyes back and forth between them and squared her shoulders in case they wanted to fight. She spotted a steel folding chair leaning against the ring. She wasn't very big, but she was quick; she could get to it no problem.

The boys stopped a couple feet away and glared at her and Curtis. They were much taller and scarier up close, and Maddie's little heart sped up. The fat one jutted his chin toward her and asked, "What do _you_ want?"

In his spot beside her, Curtis trembled. The skinny boy was taller than him by at least six inches, and the fat one...well, he didn't look so fat after all. More like stocky.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Her gaze was drawn to the ring as if by magnetism and she unconsciously licked her lips like a dog peering through a butcher shop window. No, it _wasn't_ a mistake, it was fate. She was lead here by the God of Wrestling to begin her career as a the first woman wrestler to not be a trashy ho. She casually toyed with the idea of being a wrestler when she grew up, but gazing upon that ring - heart palpitating, stomach twisting, palms sweating - she knew for certain now that that was what she wanted to do.

Curtis opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water as he grasped for a response. He looked like he wanted someone to come save him, and Maddie rolled her eyes. It was just like a Rock fan to be a big baby. She was kind of scared too, but the allure of the ring mere feet away overpowered her trepidation. Stepping confidently forward, Maddie threw back her shoulders and said, "I wanna wrestle."

Both boys regarded her with dull blankness, then the fat one laughed. "But you're a girl." The mocking inflection in his voice grated Maddie and kind of really stung too. She knew she was a girl, and she knew some people were dumb and thought girls couldn't do things like wrestle; her mom told her how boys were mean to her a lot and wouldn't let her play with them, and she also told her to always believe in herself and to never let people get her down. _You can do whatever you put your mind to,_ Mom said, and right now, Maddie was putting her mind to getting in that ring and fighting a hardcore match.

"So?" she asked. "Chyna'a a girl too."

The fat boy's smirk fell a little. Chyna was one of the best WWF wrestlers after Mankind - she was big, muscular, and really strong, she even fought _men_.

The other boy looked her up and down, and she flashed toothy smile. Should she flex? She didn't have very much muscles so that might not help her case. Turning to his chubby friend, he said, "I dunno, man, we could use a women's division."

Maddie nodded. "You really could."

Twisting around, the fat boy looked up at his friend in disbelief. He lifted his hands, palms up, in a stricken gesture. "With who? Your little sister? We can't have a women's division with just one woman."

If Maddie didn't act fast, her chance to wrestle would slip through her fingers. "I can wrestle boys," she declared. Curtis bumped into her, and for the first time in minutes, she remembered he was there. Eureka! "I can wrestle him," she said and swatted his arm.

"Oh, no you can't," Curtis said quickly, "I don't wrestle girls."

The boys looked at him, then at each other, a malevolent grin passing between them. "What's wrong, bro?" the fat one asked, "afraid of losing...to a girl?"

"I bet he would too," the tall one said, "look at his arms. They're smaller than hers."

Curtis stiffened and Maddie smiled at the compliment.

"He looks clumsy," the fat one said, "I bet he'll get tangled in the ropes and choke himself out."

"I am not," Curtis said tightly, "I just wasn't raised to hit girls."

Both boys broke out in hysterical, though contrived, laughter; the fat one doubled over and staggered back like a shooting victim and the skinny one threw his head back. Curtis's nostrils flared and his brown cheeks turned a very light shade of red; Maddie had known him long enough to know that only happened when he got really, really, _really_ mad.

That was a good thing, because if she was honest with herself, she didn't think she could take either of the clown boys, so if Curtis said no, she would have to slink away with her tail between her legs. That meant she had to get him mad enough to fight her. But how?

Oh, I know. "Hey, guys," she said, and the older boys looked at her. She opened her mouth, hesitated because maybe this was going too far, then threw caution (and her friend's feelings) to the wind and said, "He still sleeps with a teddy bear."

Curtis whipped around, hurt, betrayal, and rage pinching his features "I do not!" he screamed, his cracking voice and high pitched tone all but confirming Maddie's charge.

"Yes you do," Maddie said, "you kiss it every night before bed." She balled her hands to the side of her face and tauntingly batted her eyelashes. "Goodnight, Mr. Fuzzy."

The two older boys threw their arms around each other and shrieked hateful laughter, and Curtis trembled violently. His eyes flashed with murder, and faint remorse pinched Maddie's chest.

Yep, she went too far.

Curtis shot out his arm and smashed his palm into her shoulder, driving her back. He glared at her, then pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and turned to the ring.

"Alright," the skinny boy said appreciatively. "I'm Jizzum J, by the way, this is Nasty P, and this is the Tucson Xtreme Wrestling Federation."

"It's so extreme we spell it with an X," Nasty P. said.

Maddiie furrowed her brow in confusion. "What's jizzum?"

Jizzum J shrugged. "I dunno, but ICP talks about it a lot so it _has_ to be cool."

Curtis slid under the bottom rope and jumped to his feet, his neck rolling in a circle. Maddie stared up at him and bit her lower lip in indecision. A few minutes ago, she was bound and determined, but now she was kind of torn. She really hurt his feelings, and the more she thought about it, the worse she felt for telling Jizzum J and Nasty P. about Mr. Fuzzy. That was really personal and kind of embarrassing.

Why did she say that?

She could have kicked herself. What kind of friend was she? He didn't deserve -

Curtis's voice brought her out of her fugue. "Mankind's gay and he belongs in the WCW."

Maddie froze.

Okay, nevermind, he _did_ deserve it...just like he deserved the beatdown he was going to get.

Shoving past Jizzum J, she stalked to the ring, pulled herself up on the apron, and climbed through the ropes. The tarp crinkled under her feet and the platform beneath creaked sickeningly, as though one wrong move would collapse it. Curtis leapt up and down and rolled his neck again, and Maddie crouched like a small, vicious mammal preparing to spring at a larger foe.

Outside the ring, Jizzum J said, "Alright, y'all, this is a hardcore, falls count anywhere, no disqualification match. Winner gets the brand new TXWF women's championship title." He snickered mean-spiritedly at Curtis, then turned to Nasty P. "Go get my sister's fairy princess crown."

Nasty P. nodded and rushed off.

Curtis bent over, clasped his hands to his knees, and gave Maddie the nastiest look she'd ever gotten; it hurt and infuriated her at the same time.

Hunched, shoulders squared, she came forward, and he leapt to one side like a big, dumb, Rock loving frog. They circled each other warily, their eyes locked and matching sneers on their faces, then Maddie moved in. Curtis ducked to one side and Maddie spun with him, not wanting him behind her. He lunged at her and she reflexively lowered her head and rammed her shoulder into his stomach. A breathless _oof_ escaped his lips, and before Maddie could get away, he wrapped his arms around her. She tried to break away, but he was stronger than he looked. Drawing back her foot, she kicked him in the shin, and his grip released. He rushed her and she danced away. She hit the ropes and realized in a flash that she was trapped. He snatched the front of her shirt and tried to lift her off her feet, but she countered with a quick jab to his stomach. He staggered back, and she threw herself at him, but he jumped aside.

Adrenaline pumped through Maddie's veins and all rational thought fled away from her. The world was reduced to this ring, her opponent, and winning. She was vaguely aware of Jizzum J and Nasty P cheering from the sidelines, and of the hot Arizona sun, but none of those things mattered. Like a flash of qucksilver, Curtis grabbed her from behind, laced his hands over her stomach, and heaved. Her feet went out from under her and for a moment she was airborne, then she came down on her back. The air exploded from her lungs and pain shot through her like a jolt of electricity. She arched her back and let out a moan like a dead frog being shocked by a car battery, and next to her, Curtis lay on his stomach, arms above his head in a V and his back rapidly rising and falling. He hurt himself too.

Just like a Rock fan to botch a move.

Maddie stumbled to her feet and nearly went down again. Her back panged with agony and one of her knees locked up. She grimaced and limped over to Curtis. She swung one leg over him, squatted, and threaded her arms through his in a sloppy full nelson. She leaned back, stretching his muscles, and he moaned. Rolling to one side, he bucked her off and she landed on her butt. She shot back up to a standing position; he was on his hands and knees, panting for breath and struggling to get up.

Perfect posture for an old favorite.

Backing up until she bumped into the ropes, she ran forward and hit an atomic leg drop, but Curtis rolled aside and she came down on the mat. He grabbed the middle rope, pulled himself up, then slapped his elbow.

Maddie's heart stopped.

The People's Elbow!

He trotted forward, held his fist to the side of his face, and dropped; his bony elbow connected with her shoulder and searing pain streaked into the center of her skull. She howled and rolled from side to side like a turtle on its shell. Curtis lay on his side and shook, telling her he somehow botched that move too.

On her stomach, Maddie pushed up just as something landed in front of her. "Use that! Use that!" Nasty P called excitedly. She looked down at it: A long rake handle, a jagged tip where the rake part should have been.

She stooped, snatched it up, and turned on Curtis. He was on his knees now, facing away from her with his head hung. She gripped the rake in both hands and brought it up, but stopped. Deep beneath the fog, it occurred to her that this might be going too far again. Hitting her friend with a piece of wood was kind of messed up, even in a wrestling match.

Then again, it _was_ a hardcore match.

Compromising with herself, she brought it down in an arch across his back instead of directly down on his head. He cried out and flopped forward, limp and prone like a dead man.

"Oooooh, snap!" Nasty P yelled.

"Finish him!" Jizzum J cried and pounded the mat, "finish him!"

Curtis already looked finished. He wasn't moving and his breathing was really shallow. She should cover him for the pin.

Her eyes went to the nearest turnbuckle.

It wouldn't be a hardcore match without at least one high-flying jump off the top rope. Turning, she went over and started to climb. The bottom rope snapped under her foot and her face whacked the turnbuckle, which wobbled unsteadily. Red pain filled her head and tears welled in her eyes. A little voice in the back of her head wailed for her to stop, but she couldn't finish the match without proving to Jizzum J, Nasty P, and, yes, even herself, that she had what it took to be a real wrestler.

Grinding her teeth and holding the shaky turnbuckle for dear life, she lifted her foot and sat it on the middle rope, which held but jittered crazily, threatening to send her plummeting to the ground below. Heart blasting, stomach turning, Maddie scurried onto the top rope, feet planted far apart, and slowly turned, her arms out on either side for balance. The rope thrummed like a high tension wire and the turnbuckle wobbled even more. She started to lose her footing, and her heart rocketed into her throat. She flapped her arms like a bird and swiveled her hips, overbalanced, and almost fell forward.

Okay, Curtis was right, this was dumb and really dangerous.

She should climb down, pin him, and be done with it.

"Diving elbow drop!" Nasty P cried, "diving elbow drop!"

"Finish him! Finish him!"

Maddie gulped. The stakes and the pressure were high. If she crumbled now, it would basically be like admitting defeat. A real wrestler isn't afraid of falling down, a real wrestler falls down, like, every night of the week for his whole life. Her mind went to Owen Hart, a wrestler who died a couple months ago when the tether lowering him to the ring snapped. Dread flooded her stomach and dizziness overcame her.

She didn't want to die.

But that was different, right? He was higher off the ground. Much, much higher.

She looked at Curtis, who lay still and dead. She did her best to judge distance and trajectory and figured that if she jumped with minimal effort, she could reach him easy.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm the coiling nerves in the pit of her stomach. She darted her eyes to Jizzum J and Nasty P; they jumped up and down, slammed the mat, and cheered like madmen in an insane asylum. She couldn't look like a scaredy loser in front of them; the shame as she trudged away with her head hung would be too much to bear. It would become one of those moments, of which she already had too many, that she would look back on just before falling asleep and cringe at.

No, she was Maddie Haveman, and her parents raised her to be anything _but_ a little doody diaper baby.

With another breath, she tensed like a spring, then lunged forward, her feet leaving the rope and her body sailing through the air. The world slowed to a sluggish crawl and the only sound was the blood crashing in her ears. Wind blew through her hair and the feeling of total freedom, of being weightless and as unencumbered as a bird washed over her. It was beautiful, liberating, _thrilling,_ unlike anything she had ever known and probably unlike anything she ever _would_ know, even if she did this a million times.

Her shadow tracked across the tarp like a phantom skimming the surface of the sea. She lifted her elbow and started to come down.

With a start, she realized she was well short of Curtis and was going to hit the mat.

Like a record scratching, the world sped up again and Maddie landed on her arm with a wet, sickening snap.

The pain took a moment to register, and when it did, she screamed…

...and started to cry.


	205. September 1999: Part 2

_**You say that I've changed**_

 _ **Well maybe I did**_

 _ **But even if I changed**_

 _ **What's wrong with it?**_

 **I'll Never Let You Go (by Third Eye Blind)**

There was a song when Lincoln was a kid called _Walk Right In_ , and every time he gave a tour of 1216 Franklin Avenue to prospective buyers, it popped into his head.

After deciding to sell last year, Lincoln brought Tim, Dave, Bobby, and a friend of Bobby's named Conner in to help with renovations. They started in December by pulling up the old carpet in the living room - it was a tapestry of spills, stains, and loose threads woven over the span of fifty years and looked like shit if you weren't used to it the way he was. They did the same to the stairs, and ran into their first major problem: Five of the treads were either cracked, rotted, or bowed. Working in the afternoons and on the weekends, they replaced the treads, laid new carpet on the steps, patched every hole, ding, and dent in every wall, and painted. In March, they ripped out the old countertops and put in new ones, then got rid of the old toilet from the master bath and stuck a new one in its place. The tub in there was new, installed shortly after Mom got sick, but the one in the hall bathroom was original, right down to its claw feet. Lincoln hemmed and hawed on whether to chuck it, but decided to leave it where it was. Gotta keep some of the old fixtures; it lent the place charm and personality.

At the beginning of April, they ran into their second major problem: The wiring. It was even worse than Lincoln thought, and the electrician he brought out told him the house was one stiff breeze away from going up in a ball of flames, which necessitated cutting the power. He did _not_ want to spend money he didn't have to, but after a week of shuffling his feet, he broke down and hired a professional. Here, take my money, do your thing, and get out.

Around April 10, they hit their _third_ major problem: The pipes. The pipes were so rusted in spots that the only thing keeping the water in was the fear of what Lincoln would do to them if they broke. So, they cut the water and hired _another_ contractor. Fifteen grand later, Lincoln threw in the towel; fuck it, the house was good enough, _someone_ would buy it.

He listed it with Century 21 at the end of May; his real estate agent was a middle aged woman named Lari; her smile was just as red as her blazer and faint strands of gray seasoned her thick chestnut hair. She had a way of braying like a horse when she laughed, and brother, she laughed a _lot_. Loud. Phony. _Oh, Mr. Loud, you're so funny._

Bitch, I just tripped down the stairs and broke my neck.

Look, Lincoln got it, a little brown nosing never hurt anyone, but you're laying it on a little thick there, Lari.

She annoyed the piss out of him and he hoped to God someone snapped the house up quick so he wouldn't have to deal with her for very long...but that didn't happen. The first ones to see the house was a black man and his wife with five children, and Lincoln rejected them out of hand because he refused to let niggers move into his childhood home. No, he didn't really do that, Jesus, don't you know me by now? They were a lovely family...except for their golden retriever; he'd probably piss and shit the place up. _Hey, Linc, this is the spot where you first touched your wife's bare breast fifty years ago? Be a shame if someone...crapped on it._

They eventually passed, and the search continued. She and Lincoln entertained at least a dozen prospective buyers over the next three months, and all of them either put in lowball offers he'd never accept, had complains about the decomposing timbers in the basement, or simply found something else.

After each failed showing, Lari would nudge him in the arm and say, _Don't worry, Mr. Loud, we'll reel the next one in._ Then she'd throw her head back and laugh like a lunatic, grating Lincoln's nerves so badly it took all the discipline Sgt. Hellman taught him to keep from grabbing her by the neck.

In late August, Lincoln drove over on a Saturday morning for a noon viewing, parked in the driveway, and went inside,

What he saw made him freeze.

Someone, kids probably, turned the living room into a goddamn party den. Empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and used condoms littered the floor, and someone so thoughtful sprayed graffiti on the wall. Lincoln's face turned bright red, steam shot out of his ears, and he crushed the doorknob in his hand. Little bastards better not have broken a window.

They didn't.

They just kicked the back door open. The frame was splintered, the door itself was cracked, and one of the panes was shattered. Flashing, he snatched the damn thing and went to slam it as hard as he could, but stopped, took a deep breath, and walked away. In the living room, he put his hands on his hips and glared at a pair of blue panties bunched up on the floor. I hope the condom broke and you got pregnant, you little shit; I hope your boyfriend was disappointingly small too.

Lari poked her head through the door and beamed at him like a crazed serial killer, all red lips and white teeth.

Aw, Christ, I forgot all about _this_ clown. _Sorry I'm late,_ she said and slipped in. She saw the mess, and her smile fell. _What happened?_

 _Someone didn't spank their kids hard enough,_ he grumbled.

Together, they did their best to clean up before the viewer arrived, and as soon as they left, Lincoln fixed the door and put an extra lock on it. He expected the kids to return, but they never did, thank God.

Today, he sat on the front porch swing next to Lari and stared down at the plankboard deck. It was a warm and breezy early September afternoon and golden light filtered through wavering treetops and dappled the weathered wood. An ant scurried past Lincoln's shoe with a crumb on its back, and he vaguely wondered what it was...and where he got it. Looked like a bit of cheese cracker. Guys in 'Nam used to eat ants; they'd pop the head off, toss them in their mouths, and pucker their lips because they supposedly tasted like lemons. Lincoln never tried one himself; he was strictly a maggots and potatoes kind of guy. Ants were for girly men who enjoyed Shirley Temples and sucking prick.

His eyes went to Lari's feet. She wore black heels that pinched her toes. They looked painful. "I guess I can go for it," he said.

The most recent viewer, a young couple with three kids, a cat, and a silver minivan, had just left after a second viewing. The woman loved it and gushed over every minute detail...especially the 'antique clawfoot bathtub.' Lincoln didn't know if that was the deciding factor for her (realistically, probably not), but he was proud of himself for having the genius and foresight to keep it. They seemed like nice people but they placed an offer that was almost ten grand under the asking price. That didn't sit well with him. Look, he knew the house wasn't perfect, but he was getting rid of Flip's at some point next year and the money from this sale was supposed to help him and Ronnie Anne enjoy their golden years. He wasn't a greedy man and if this was twenty years ago, he wouldn't care as much about a ten thousand dollar price difference, but this _wasn't_ twenty years ago. He and Ronnie Anne were closing in on retirement and ten thousand dollars was a lot of money.

He told this to Ronnie Anne back in July when he rejected someone's offer, and she rolled her eyes. _We've had this discussion,_ she said, _we'll be fine financially. You're just making excuses because you don't want to let go of that house._

That was so far from the truth it might as well be on the other side of the universe.

Only it wasn't. Not really. A small, clingy part of him _didn't_ want to let it go. That house was where he grew up and was always home, in a way, even long after he bought a place of his own. The thought of driving past it and seeing strange curtains in the windows, and strange people sitting on the porch, struck him as inconceivably _wrong._ That it would no longer be home was unthinkable.

The realization that he was holding on made him all the more eager to get rid of it, because if he waited, he might one day discover that he _couldn't_ let go. He and Ronnie Anne needed the money and he would be damned if he'd let this house sit here and deprive them of that. He was sentimental, but he was also practical, and for longer than he cared to admit, those two traits had waged a war of attrition in his breast. He didn't want to give the house up but it was worth far more to him gone than it was shoved in his back pocket.

You know what? Ten thousand dollars isn't really all _that_ much money. If he and Ronnie Anne fell on hard times in their seventies or eighties, he was sure Jessy or Alex would help. The prospect of taking handouts from anyone, much less his kids, disturbed him, but you can't eat pride or pay your property taxes with it. He wouldn't like it, but if push came to shove, he'd thrust his wrinkled hand in Alex's face so fast it'd break the sound barrier. _Remember that Atari I bought you in 1979? I do._

"Are you sure?" Lari asked. "We can always wait."

Lincoln looked up and a shaft of sunlight fell across his face. Was he sure? Waiting for a better deal was smart, but hanging on wasn't. "Yeah," he nodded, "yeah, I'm sure. Ten grand isn't all much."

"Alright," said and got up, "I'll call the Harpers and start the paperwork."

Later, he drove home through the sun drenched streets of Royal Woods with the windows down and the wind blowing in his hair. People in light, summary clothes moved along the sidewalks past the storefronts lining Main, and the trees shook in the breeze. A group of teenagers in backwards baseball caps rode skateboards through town square while a girl with black lipstick sat on the fountain and watched; she wore a plaid shirt, ripped jeans, and blue Chuck Taylors. Probably a lesbian. Lincoln came to a stop at a traffic light and fiddled with the radio before finally leaving it on a station playing _The Long Run_. Lincoln never liked The Eagles but this song reminded him of a time when things were good.

Did he make the right decision settling for the Harpers' deal? Should he have waited?

A pang of foreboding rippled through his stomach, and he unconsciously licked his lips. No, he told himself, he shouldn't have; ten thousand wasn't that much. He and Ronnie Anne would be fine.

Shortly, Flip's appeared on the left like a mausoleum and he focused on that instead of the Franklin Ave house. He closed down at noon because he wasn't comfortable leaving the new cook, a kid named Benny, in charge. He was twenty-six, fresh out of college, and had that puffy middle class softness to his face that a good drill sergeant could cure you of in two weeks, three if he took it easy on you. Sarge could run that place any day of the week, but Lincoln trusted Benny almost as little as he trusted Congress, so if he had shit to do during the day, that meant shutting Flip's down and losing tens of dollars. Ouch, right?

At home, he parked in the driveway and killed the engine, his eyes drifting inevitably to the house next door. Chandler's car wasn't there, and you know what _else_ wasn't there? Chandler himself. He moved out at the beginning of the year. Lincoln was so happy he threw a party and it got a little wild - he and Ronnie Anne each had _two_ diet sodas and stayed up until 9:30. Talk about a bash. He had no clue where the kid went (and didn't care) until Alex said she saw him and a _really scummy looking_ blonde girl walking through the trailer park. Damn, Lincoln was hoping he moved to the other side of the country. Or better yet, to hell.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he climbed out and winced at the pain in his lower back. Once upon a time, the only thing that snapped, crackled, and popped was his cereal, now it was his joints. He was arthritis free for now, but with every passing year, the certainty that he would wind up with a case grew. Lori had it in her fingers; it was manageable, but when it rained, snowed, or got too cold, she could barely use her hands. Perhaps inspired by Luan jumping ship, she and Bobby were talking about moving to California to be closer to Bobby Jr. and the kids. For some inexplicable reason, that offended Lincoln, and when she brought it up, he said: _Fine, take your ass out to California. Enjoy all the wildfires, earthquakes, and liberals._ He was a fifty-three year old man with a wife and a grown daughter just down the road, but the specter of Lori leaving still made him feel abandoned. Two sisters dead, a brother he rarely ever saw, and one sister living in Seattle...now the last sister standing was talking about leaving.

Why did that disquiet him?

Because he was an old, sentimental idiot, that's why. He needed another go around with Sgt. Hellman to toughen him back up.

Slamming the door, he went inside; muted afterglow filled the living room, and he opened the curtains to dispel it before sitting in his chair. It was 3:10 by the clock on the VCR and Ronnie Anne wouldn't be home for another three hours, which left him the master of his own domain until she returned and took control again.

No matter how many times he did it, being home alone after over thirty years of marriage, and raising two daughters, was uncomfortable and alien. He never knew what to do with himself. Watching TV didn't feel right, neither did reading. Maybe he'd make dinner and have it on the table when Ronnie Anne got home. That way she wouldn't beat him like she usually did.

He yawned, tilted his head back, and laced his hands over his chest. A nap sounded nice, but who takes a nap at three in the afternoon? An old person, that's who, and even though he was north of fifty, he was _not_ old.

Another yawn escaped his throat. He'd just rest his eyes.

Within minutes, he was snoring.

* * *

Hickam Park sat on the extreme northwest corner of Chippewa Falls, a parcel of land roughly the size of a triangle and boasting walking trails, a playground, and a wide, grassy space that often hosted little league sporting events. Today, two soccer goals, black mesh on metal frames, faced each other across a distance of eight yards. White chalk lines denoted the parameters of the field, and inside were other markings that Blake didn't understand even though Jordan had told him everything there was to know about soccer at least twice. A group of spectators had set up on the west side of the field with umbrellas, lawn chairs, and portable coolers, and a bunch of girls in baby blue jerseys kicked a ball back and forth between them. The opposing team, dressed in red, huddled on the opposite end, plotting world domination or something similarly evil. Blake wasn't big on sports, but he couldn't help seeing every club Jordan played against as the enemy. They came from somewhere else, and there was always a hardness in their faces that told him their intent was evil.

Not like Jordan and her team. They were just girls who liked soccer.

Jordan's love of the game began earlier in the year, or maybe it was last year, Blake couldn't really remember. She went from a normal person, playing _Call of Honor 2: Dusseldorf_ on the Playstation, to being a soccer nut. Every time they hung out, which was a lot of the time, she brought her ball and spent the entire day bouncing it on her head and knees. At first she stank and fell down a lot, but gradually she improved, and now she was one of the best on her team.

To be fair, though, her team wasn't all that good. Organized by the Boys and Girls Club of Chippewa Falls, they played June through September, mostly here at Hickam Park, but sometimes other places, too. Since Jordan started, they had, like, two dozen matches, and they won maybe three or four. Every time Blake came to one, it was with the grim resignation of a man who has seen the future and found it bleak; if you looked into the faces of all the others clustered on the sidelines - parents, friends, older and younger siblings - you'd see that same shadow of fatalism in every single one of them.

That was okay, though, because Jordan said the point of soccer is to have fun, not to win. His mom agreed, but when he was telling Grandpa about Jordan's latest trouncing, he arched his brows. _Of course the point is to win,_ Grandpa said, _that's literally the goal of every game ever._ Maybe Grandpa was right, but as long as Jordan was having fun, did it really matter?

Currently, he stood next to his mom's car in a dusty gravel lot flanking the field and waited as she leaned into the back to unstrap Zoe from her carseat. Clad in a little floral sundress and flip flops, her black hair held up in pigtails, Zoe drank red juice from a baby bottle and stared intently up at Mom, then smiled around the nipple. "We're gonna watch Jordan get her butt kicked," Mom cooed. "Yes we are."

Blake's features fell into a dour frown. It was probably true, but that still kind of offended him anyway. "She's not gonna get her butt kicked," he stated stridently.

Mom held Zoe's hand and helped her out of the car, then reached in and grabbed the diaper bag. "Of course she is," Mom said, "but we love her regardless."

They were crossing the lot now, Zoe on one side and holding Mom's hand and Blake on the other. Cars circled like sharks looking for a place to park, and other families, each with a girl in red or blue in tow, made their way toward the field. Blake looked around for Jordan, and spotted her mom's minivan in a slot facing the nearest goalpost. Jordan, in a light shorts and a jersey with white lettering across the chest, bounced a ball from one knee to the other, her legs lifting boisterously and lending her the appearance of a girl in a marching band. The back hatch stood open and her mom bent into the cargo compartment to get something, then handed it to Steven, who stood dutifully by like a butler in an old movie. Tall and lanky with black hair, Steven, at eleven, was only two years older than Jordan but looked older owing to one of those mythical over-the-summer growth spurts that Blake had heard so much about but never experienced for himself.

Jordan looked up, saw him, and grinned. She bounced the ball high, ducked her head, and jumped to meet it with the top of her skull. It soared into the air, then started to come down. She looked up, tracked it with her eyes, then caught it and tucked it up her arm.

"Impressive," Mom said as they walked up. "Does that ever give you a headache?"

Jordan shrugged nonchalantly. "Sometimes. If I do it really hard."

"I keep children's Tylenol in my purse at all times," Jordan's mom called. She slammed the hatch and came around the side of the van. "Aloe too."

Jordan's face and arms were deeply tanned, and whitish flecks of dead skin peeled from her cheeks. She had practice three afternoons a week (which really cut into the time Blake got to hang out with her) and got sunburned no matter how much sunscreen she put on.

Behind them, Jordan's coach, a mannish woman in a red polo shirt, white shorts, and a white sun visor, blew a whistle, signifying she wanted all her players on the field, and Blake's shoulders slumped. He was hoping he and Jordan could spend time together before the game.

"Gotta go," Jordan said quickly. She thrust her ball out to Blake. "Here, guard this with your _life_." Her eyes widened to convey the gravity of her command.

Blake took the ball. "I will," he said earnestly. A long time ago, she entrusted him to babysit her Tamagotchi and he let it die. He would _not_ make the same mistake again, especially now that he got to see so little of her. Grandma said something once about absence making the heart grow fonder, and it that meant what he thought it meant, it was true. Letting Jordan down wasn't that big a deal way back, but now it was.

Or maybe he was just weird.

Who knows?

Jordan bounded off and joined a gang of girls clustered around the coach, and he and Mom made their way to the sidelines; Mom and Jordan's mom chatted about lame grown-up stuff, Zoe upended her bottle with one hand and guzzeled, and Steven trailed behind, head down over his GameBoy. "Over there," Mom said and pointed to an empty spot. Blake went over and dropped onto the grass, and Mom sank next to him with a pained grunt. She pulled Zoe onto her lap, and the little girl allowed herself to be cuddled from behind, her bottle never leaving her lips. Jordan's mom and Steven went over to where Veronica, Jordan's sister, and Jordan's dad sat in canvas chairs.

"We should get some of those," Mom commented, and Blake rolled his eyes. She said that every time, but she always forgot and they wound up sitting on the ground again.

She could be kind of an airhead sometimes.

While they waited for the game to start, Blake propped his elbows on his knees, rested his face in his hands, and watched Jordan and two other girls kicking a ball between them. It was bright and hot, and within moments, their faces were flushed with heat and their foreheads glistened with sweat. They didn't seem to mind; they giggled and talked like old friends, and Blake's stomach knotted with jealousy. Look at how much fun she was having without him...how much fun she'd _been_ having without him. She spent so much time with her new dumb soccer friend but barely any with him.

Were they even really friends anymore?

His chest clutched because he really didn't know. She had new friends now and they had lots of fun together...maybe even more fun than she had with him.

He took a deep, shivery sigh and let it out in a dejected rush. She didn't act any different with him. She still came over to his house whenever she could and they spent all the time they could together, so he really had no reason to think she wasn't his friend anymore, but he did regardless, and it bothered him.

Something landed in his lap and he jumped. Zoe's bottle leaked red juice on his sock, and with a cry of revulsion, he uncrossed his legs. Zoe grinned at him. " _Baba!"_ she cried breathily.

"Zoe Sophia," Mom admonished, "you do _not_ throw your bubby."

Zoe twisted around and stared up at Mom with a cheesy smile. Mom's stern features melted and she leaned in to brush the tip of her nose across Zoe's. "Blake doesn't like bubbies. He drinks from a big boy cup. Don't you, Blake 'n' Shake?"

"Yeah," he said and picked the bottle up, "but maybe just this once."

He lifted it to his lips with a taunting flourish, and Zoe jerked in alarm. " _Baba!"_ She shot out her arms and reached for it, her hands opening and closing insistently. Blake smirked and touched the nipple to his lips. Zoe yelled and threw herself against Mom's forearm in an attempt to get to him. " _Babaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"_

"Give it back," Mom laughed.

"But I'm thirsty."

"I have juice boxes in my bag."

Oh, in that case.

He held the bottle out, and Zoe snatched it away with a glower. Mom opened her bag, took out a juice box, and gave it to him. He ripped the celeopane off the straw, unbent it, and jabbed it into the hole. Taking a long sip, he went back to watching Jordan. Shortly, the game started, and Jordan was stuck defending the goal, her least favorite position. She wanted to run and kick and jump and stuff, not stand still until someone tried to score.

One of the girls on the other team got the ball and kicked it toward the goal. Jordan's face lit up, but fell again when one of her teammates intercepted and kicked it away. The action moved down field as Jordan's team took the lead, and Jordan crossed her arms impatiently. One of her teammates kicked the ball at the opposing goal, and to literally everyone's surprise, it made it in. Everybody on the sidelines clapped and cheered; Mom forced Zoe's hands together and apart, and Zoe kicked her legs in outrage.

Hopefully he could hang out with Jordan after the game. She'd probably want to stay with her new friends though.

He finished the juice box and sat it on the ground next to him.

In the first half, Jordan's team made three goals and the other team made one, but that's only because Jordan dove to knock it away just a fraction too soon and it went between her legs. At halftime, the teams dispersed, and Jordan trudged to where her family sat and dropped onto the grass, then laid back with her skinned knees propped up in an M. Seeing his chance, Blake jumped up and hurried over and sat next to her before one of her dumb team friends could interrupt. Jordan rested one hand on her heaving chest and stared up into the lightening sky; streaks of orange shot through the heavens like spills of ink and, in the west, cool purple twilight waited to overtake the day. "Hey," Blake said, surprised at the awkward timbre of his voice.

"Hey," she panted.

"Uh...good game."

"It's not over yet," she said. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she sounded miserable.

"Well...you're doing good either way."

She swiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead and sat up in a rustle of grass and fabric. "I guess," she said. She reached into the cooler and took out a Capri Sun pouch. She jabbed the straw in and took a drink, and Blake watched her from the corner of his eye, waiting for her to offer him one and deflating when she didn't. It's not that he wanted one, he didn't, but in his state, her not evening thinking to offer one struck him as a bad omen...a sign, perhaps, that she didn't care about him the way she used to.

Done, she crumpled it up and threw it aside. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, and when it became too unbearable, Blake grasped for something to say. "So...how are you doing?"

Jordan looked at him funny. "Tired," she said patronizingly, "and sore."

"Oh. Sorry."

They lapsed into silence again, and was it his imagination, or was the air between them tense? It felt kind of like she was mad at him, but he didn't do anything.

Except come over.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe she didn't want him to come over.

Because she didn't like him anymore.

Cold, sludge-like dread flooded the pit of his stomach and his chest was suddenly really heavy, like a hand was pressing down on it. The silence became too great again, too deep, like a chasm rapidly opening, him on one side and Jordan on the other. He cast about for something to break it and plucked the first thing from the ether he laid his hand on. "Wanna hang out later?"

Jordan stared woefully at her lap, and Blake watched her with hopeful expectation. When she spoke, his spirits crashed. "No, I'm pretty tired."

Oh.

Well.

He could understand that. "Tomorrow?"

She started to speak, then closed her mouth again. "I don't know," she said, "our last game is next week and I need to practice extra hard."

Blake felt inexplicably gutted, but nodded like he didn't. "Okay," he said.

Jordan didn't reply, and for the third time, they fell into an uneasy silence. They had known each other forever, and he never felt edgy or self-conscious around her like he did now. Except for that time they touched each other's chests, but that was different. Their friendship recovered from that; maybe he was being a big baby, but right now, it felt kind of like they didn't even have a friendship _to_ recover.

The coach blew her whistle, and Jordan got stiffly to her feet. "I gotta go," she said, "see you." Before he could reply, she ran off, and to Blake Underwood, it was like she was fleeing.

From his life.

* * *

Lynn Haveman flew into the emergency room of St. Anthony's at half past four in a state of near hysteria. Her stride was rushed and her face drawn; her dark eyes seethed with worry and unshed tears stood in them like the gray surface of a rain dappled pond. Her lips, pressed tightly together, trembled slightly, and her hand clutched the strap of her purse in a white knuckled death grip.

The lobby was largely empty at this hour, the stone floor bathed in shafts of weakening sun falling through an overhead skylight, and the sedate oak paneled walls gleaming with lamplit suffusion. A woman in a smart business suit much like the one Lynn wore to the dealership sat behind the reception desk, When she reached it, the woman looked up and Lynn spoke, deaf to the tremble in her voice, "My daughter's here. S-She came in by ambulance."

The image that conjured - her little girl on a stretcher, scared and alone - pushed her dangerously close to breaking down.

"Alright, ma'am," the receptionist said with cool efficiency, "what's her name?"

"Maddie Haveman," Lynn said.

The receptionist's fingers flew across the keyboard, and as Lynn waited, she shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Her heart throbbed in her throat and her stomach twisted. The terrible certainty that Maddie was dead came over her like a shadow, and a single tear tracked down her face. "Okay, ma'am," the receptionist said, "she's in the triage center, room 3C." She turned, leaned over, and pointed down a hall that terminated at a set of double doors. "Just go right -"

Lynn was already gone, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a sprint. Horrible visions flickered through her overwrought mind like a slideshow in hell: Maddie hooked up to an array of machines, her back broken; Maddie lying in bed with her head loling to one side, neck snapped and shattered; Maddie under a sheet and a doctor promising Lynn _we did everything we could._ A sudden sob welled in her throat and she choked it back. When the hospital called the dealership, the nurse said Maddie broke her arm but was _doing okay._ Had she been capable of rational thought (which she was not), she would have taken comfort in that. A hospital wouldn't tell you someone was doing okay if they weren't. They might not outright tell you they were dying, but they would surely use words like _grave,_ or _serious,_ or even _life-threatening._ They wouldn't intentionally mislead you. In her flustered panic, she derived no comfort or encouragement from that or even the fact that she was being allowed to see Maddie. If her daughter were really bad off, they wouldn't let her, would they?

She pushed through the double doors and entered the triage center. A long nurses' station sat to her left and doorways, many of them open but covered by pale pink curtains, lined the right. A nurse in pink scrubs walked toward her, a clipboard in her hand, and Lynn practically grabbed her. "My daughter's here, her name's Madison and she's - "

The nurse flashed a disarming smile. "Oh, you must be Maddie's mom, She's right over here." She turned, and Lynn followed her to a room catercorner from the nurse's station. Lynn's chest tightened as they approached, and even though every sign pointed to Maddie being alright, she was so scared of what she might find that it made her stomach roll.

"She's a trooper," the nurse said over her shoulder, "she cried less than I did when I broke _my_ arm."

That struck Lynn like a fist. Crying? She was _crying?_ She pictured Maddie crying for her - and her not being there - and tears spilled down her cheeks.

The nurse drew the curtain back, and when she saw Maddie, her hand fluttered to her mouth. The little girl sat in the middle of a thin hospital bed surrounded by a bevy of unused machines, some Lynn recognized, many she didn't. Maddie, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt with glittery writing across the front, looked up, her eyes red and puffy and an ugly purple bruise on her cheek. A pink cast coated her right arm and her left fiercely clutched a teddy bear to her chest for comfort. She looked small, hurt, and Lynn wept as she went to her, with relief as well as sorrow. She bent, pressed Maddie's head to her breast, and ran her trembling fingers through her daughter's hair, feeling unconsciously for hidden bumps and bruises. She opened her mouth to ask if she was okay, but her words came out in a broken sob.

Lynn was not under any delusions, she had led a charmed life from her childhood until now. She had it better than most people and had no right to complain about anything. Like everyone, however, she had tasted defeat, adversity, and fear. Never, though, had she been as afraid as she was just now, and it came out in a bitter rush that she was powerless to contain. She held Maddie tight and smothered her forehead in urgent kisses, as if by doing so she could heal Maddie's wounds. "Are you alright?" Lynn asked through her tears.

"Yeah," Maddie said weakly, "I'm okay."

Holding her at arm;s lenght, Lynn looked her up and down, searching her eyes for traces of deception. They were wet, glassy, and pink rimmed, but lacked decit. "What happened?" Lynn asked and brushed Maddie's hair from her face to get a better look at the bruise.

"I was wrestling," Maddie admitted and flicked her eyes to her lap.

Wrestling? "W-Where?" Lynn asked. "With who?"

Maddie drew a deep breath and told her. Lynn listened with drawing horror as she recounted her misadventures. Backyard wrestling was an unsafe and foolhardy fad that had been in the news recently; kids were building their own wrestling rings and holding knockdown, drag out matches that often resulted in serious injuries and, in a few cases, even death. _The Ricki Lake Show_ aired a special on it three months ago and ran shocking footage of kids, some as young as thirteen and fourteen, fighting in shoddily built rings, beating the crap out of each other with bats and trash cans, and performing high risk jumps from roofs and ladders. One of the boys Rikki talked to broke his neck after jumping from his roof and landing wrong, and another lost his eye when his friend hit him with a 2X4 wrapped in barbed wire. Lynn had been a wrestling fan for almost twenty years and loved the sport, but as a mother, she was appalled by these matches. Never, though, did she once think that Maddie would _ever_ do something so reckless. She was a smart girl and knew better.

"What were you thinking?" Lynn demanded.

Maddie shrugged.

"Do you have any idea how stupid that was?" Lynn spat, "you could have been killed."

Maddie clutched the teddy bear tighter as if to ward away her mother's growing anger. The urge to grab her and shake her until she understood how dangerous what she did was, how much she meant to her and how petrified she was, came over Lynn, but she forced a deep, unsteady breath instead. "Never do anything like that again," she said, "don't _ever_."

"I won't," Maddie said solemnly.

"I mean it," Lynn said.

The rings holding the curtain to the rod tinkled, and a short, overweight man in glasses and a white lab coat came in holding a clipboard. "Mrs. Haveman?" he asked with a trace of an accent, "I'm Dr. Romanski." He offered his hand and Lynn took it; his grip was weak and warm, like a dead fish. "As you can probably tell, your daughter's arm was broken. In two places, no less. We reset it and put it in a cast, and it should be back to normal in six to twelve weeks." He turned in a confused semi circle like he was looking for something. "I will get you instructions on how to care for it at home."

His briskness surprised and disconcerted Lynn.

He came over and examined Maddie's cast with a thoughtful hum, then nodded to himself. "How do you feel, Madison?" he asked.

"I hurt," Maddie replied plaintively, and Lynn's heart broke.. She stroked her hand up and down Maddie's back, offering all her strength, and her love too.

"I'll write you a prescription for children's pain reliever, which should take care of the worst of it." He unhooked a stethoscope from around his neck, placed the buds in his ears, and pressed the chest piece to Maddie's back. He listened, told her to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then listened again.

Done, he replaced the stethoscope. "I'm also going to prescribe no more wrestling related activities in the future."

"Don't worry about that," Lynn said, "she's done with wrestling."

Maddie's eyes widened and a sharp exhalation burst from her chest. "Mom…"

"No," Lynn said firmly, "no more wrestling for a long, long time."

Maddie's shoulders slumped, and Dr. Romanski patted her back. "I'll get your discharge paperwork."

When he was gone, Maddie pouted at her lap, and Lynn frowned. Every parent, at one point or another, finds themselves torn between doing what is right and doing what their child _wants_ to be right. Maddie loved wrestling the way Lynn herself once loved baseball; Lynn keenly remembered the intensity of her passion for the sport and how happy it made her to play it. Naturally she wanted Maddie to have her own beloved pastime - whether it was sports, playing music, or reading - but once that pursuit inspired her to engage in foolish, risk taking behavior, it became a problem.

The look of disappointment on her face cut Lynn deeply, but the cast on her arm cut even deeper.

Something moved in her periphery and she turned to the door. A thin, severe looking middle aged woman with black hair stood in between two boys in black and white clown make-up, one tall and gangly and the other short and pudgy. They both stared ashamedly at their feet.

Uh...what's going on here?

Sensing her confusion, Maddie said, "That's Jizzum J and Nasty P."

Oh.

 _Oh._

Lynn's eyes narrowed and her hand closed in a fist. It was because of them that her daughter was in a cast and nearly died.

The woman's features softened just a bit, and she and the boys came into the room. "I'm Wanda Gillman," she said, then favored the tall boy with a displeased sidelong glance, "and it was my son Joseph's wrestling ring your daughter hurt herself on." She looked at Lynn. "How is she?"

"She's fine," Lynn said, a slight defensive edge creeping into her voice. She unconsciously scooted closer to Maddie as if to protect her from further harm. A shadow of hesitation flickered across Wanda's face, and Lynn relaxed her tone. "Her arm's broken but she'll be okay."

"I am so sorry," Wanda said sincerely and shot her son a dirty look, "I was at work when it happened a-and I had _no_ idea he and Paul were doing this sort of thing. He is grounded indefinitely, and he will _never_ watch wrestling in my home _ever_ again."

The fat boy scuffed his shoe petulantly on the floor.

Wanda looked from her son to his friend, and reluctantly, they shuffled forward, neither one mustering the courage to lift their gazes. From what Maddie told her, Jizzum J (what the hell does Jizzum even mean?) and Nasty P didn't intentionally hurt her, nor did they force her into the ring - _she_ approached _them_. Regardless, they were partly to blame for this and, to Lynn, represented a threat to her daughter. She put her arm around Maddie's shoulder and drew her close like a mama bear guarding its cub.

Joseph was the first to speak. "Uh...I'm really sorry you, uh, you got hurt."

"Yeah," Paul said, "we feel really bad."

"That was a good match, though," Joseph added, "and, uh, I have something for you." He reached under his shirt, and Lynn tensed, half expecting him to bring out a gun. Instead, he came back with a plastic tiara painted silver and inlaid with fake, pinkish colored jewels. Maddie zeroed in on it and knitted her brows in bemusement. She wasn't very girly, and really had no interest in crowns as far as Lynn knew. "I bought this off my sister. It's your women's championship. Here. You're really hardcore, you earned it."

He held it out, and Maddie's face lit up. She took it with her good hand and slipped the little arms through her hair. She twisted around and looked up at Lynn with a giddy smile. "I won the _TXWF_ women's championship," she piped. Her face glowed with happy brilliance, and Lynn's chest swelled with a mixture of love, pride, and stomach churning anguish. Life was a fragile thing, she knew that, but that stark realization had never been clearer to her than it was right now. One wrong move, and it could have been Maddie's neck instead of her arm.

Things may have worked out for the best, but that didn't change the fact that she came close to losing her daughter today.

Later, as they drove home through the late evening dusk, Lynn stared grimly over the wheel and stole glances at Maddie, who sat tall and proud in the passenger seat like a queen. Every so often, she took the tiara off and studied it with a hazy smile like a champion still agog over their big win. Lynn didn't realize she was speaking until she heard her own voice. "You know that wrestling isn't real, right?" There was a dark poignancy in her voice, as though she were imparting a terrible but immutable truth.

Maddie looked at her and frowned. "What?"

"It's not real," Lynn said and kept her eyes straight ahead, afraid of what she might see in her daughter's face. Telling Maddie that professional wrestling isn't real was tantamount to telling any other child that Santa Claus didn't exist. Mankind was her hero, like Diamond Dallas Page and Hulk Hogan before him, and she came to every episode of _Raw is War_ and _SmackDown_ like a girl to a magical event. To say that wrestling was her world might strike an outside observer as melodramatic, but it was and there are few things as devastating as finding out that your world is a lie. "They don't really hit each other with steel chairs, they don't really fall through tables, they're not really fighting. They're like acrobats. They put on a show. They're very good at what they do and they deserve all the respect in the world, but they're not actually hurting each other. Unless it's by accident."

Maddie's face fell and she darted her eyes despondently to her lap. "Oh."

Reaching over, Lynn laid a consoling hand on the little girl's leg. "That doesn't make it any less fun to watch and that doesn't mean Mankind isn't hardcore. You just have to understand that it's pretend, like a movie. You can't do what they do without having a lot training and an opponent working with you, not against you."

Maddie considered her words very carefully, then gave a desolate nod. "Okay," she said.

Telling her this was for the best, Lynn knew, but that was cold comfort, and no matter how hard she tried to shake the feeling that she had gutted her daughter, she couldn't.

She thought back to what that security guard told her the night she attacked Hulk Hogan. _You can't coddle your daughter forever._ And he was right. You may not want them to, but sooner or later, your babies will have to face the facts of life, and unfortunately, many of those facts are unpleasant. Maddie would have to learn them sooner or later, and Lynn had a choice: Be the one to teach them to her, with love, patience, and selflessness, or to turn a blind eye, like too many parents, and let her uncover them on her own. A child, all the books say, needs guidance, and if they don't have it, they bumble blindly through life. In one instance, they have a loving hand to lead them, and in the other, they're little more than wretches lost in the dark. One option was easier for them..and the other was easier for you. One was objectively right...and the other was wrong.

It might be hard, but Lynn resolved, in that moment, to always lead, and never to allow.

"Do you want to stop for ice cream?" she asked.

Maddie didn't reply for a moment, then she nodded.

"Yeah," she said, and the smile in her voice was the most beautiful thing Lynn had ever heard.


	206. September 1999: Part 3

**Guest: That won't happen. To be brief: I don't think the people who take the time to sit down and create those pages like my work. Maybe it's political (ew, Flagg's a loudcest author, gross) or maybe it just doesn't resonate with them, I don't know. If any story of mine was going to get a page it would be Thicker Than Blood, a story that even people who normally hate loudcest (and me) seem to like. I do know some people who frequent that site and they're cliquish. Just look at the site itself. The same group of authors being recommended over and over again, authors recommending their friends. I knew one guy who hung out with a couple of the Tropes Bros. He was writing his first story and I said to myself "Watch him wind up recommended." Sure enough, within hours of his very first fan fic being posted, he was recommended, it was recommended, and it had a tropes page. It, like a lot of things in life, is all about who you know and which butts you suck.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _All-Star_ by Smash Mouth (1999)**

Every day since she moved to Seattle, Jessy's mother arrived at her doorstep promptly at seven and didn't leave again until Mark came home. She passed the time playing with Allison, feeding Allison, changing Allison, holding Allison while she napped, and reading to Allison. Jessy really enjoyed having Mom over, but when she hogged Allison from morning to night...which was almost everyday...she couldn't help thinking of it as an imposition.

That made her feel awful because she completely understood why Mom did it - making up for what she lost out on with Jessy - but there were times Mom's constant smothering got on her nerves. Jessy had wanted a baby for a very long time, and now that she had one, she barely ever got to have one-on-one time with her.

She endured it with patience and forbearing. Occasionally, she would seriously consider bringing her concerns up to Mom ( _maybe you can come over every_ other _day?_ ), but the prospect of hurting her stayed Jessy's hand. She was a mother now, and as such, she could grasp Mom's feelings a lot better than she could before. Ally was the most precious thing in Jessy's world, and when she tried to imagine being separated from her the way her own mother was from her, a fist of anxiety closed around her chest. If she tried to envision her mother in 1970, sitting in a cell with a hole in her heart where her baby should have been, she teared up and felt exactly what Mom must have.

There is no greater hell, Jessy imagined, than being parted from your child. You might as well take someone away from fresh air and sunshine. No, you might as well take them away from air _period._ Mom suffered fifteen long years of suffocation, then when she came out, where was she?

In the exact same place Jessy herself was now: Watching disappointedly from afar as someone else held and loved her child, longing for time with her and never having enough, even if they spent the whole day together.

That revelation jammed into her stomach like an icepick and the regret she always carried for not being a better daughter intensified to the point that she could hardly breathe. In her life, she had learned one thing: You can never truly comprehend something until it has happened to you. A blind man may hear of trees, he may even draw an elaborate mental picture of them, but unless he has seen them for himself, he will never really _know_ them. Jessy was aware of her mother's feelings, but she did not fully understand them until she had Allison.

Her empathy, thus, lead her to bite her tongue and let Mom have as much time with Allison as she wanted. It really wasn't all bad, she and Mom had done a lot of bonding of their own. They cooked dinner together almost every night, laughing and chatting like old friends, and each afternoon they went out with Allison, sometimes shopping, other times to lunch in one of the fashionable cafes overlooking Lake Washington. At first, Mom was stiff and uncomfortable among Belleveu's wealth, like a soldier on enemy territory, but over time, she came to appreciate it, especially _La Nostra,_ the Italian bistro. She _loved_ that place. She also liked browsing the boutiques along Lake Washington Blvd, but rarely bought anything.

When Allison napped, they sat together on the couch and talked. Mom told her once that she wished she could be a better mother and give her advice, but that this was as new to her as it was to Jessy. She said it in an even tone, but the woe was obvious to Jessy. On some level, she wished for that too. As it stood, whenever she had a question or worries (is it normal for her poop to be that color? She sneezed, oh, God, what should I do?) she called Auntie Ronnie Anne, and it always almost like a betrayal.

She and Mom were learning together, though, and that made for an ever strengthening bond.

On Saturdays, she, Mark, Allison, Mom, and Fred went to parks, mesusums, zoos, and the Seattle Aquarium, and on most Sundays, they had breakfast at a place called Hillingsdale Farms, a restaurant on the grounds of an actual working farm. The food was fresher than you could get anywhere else - the meat never taking more than twelve hours to go from slaughter to plate - and the kitschy Americana decor charmed Jessy to no end.

Today, September 15, Jessy saw Mark off to work like she always did: With a kiss and, "Have a good day." Allison squirmed in her arms and offered her father a big smile. Mark leaned over and kissed her forehead, then kissed Jessy's lips.

"I'll try to be home early tonight," he said.

For the past week, he'd been staying until almost midnight working on the as-yet unnamed Microsoft video game console. They were making progress on it, but encountered a number of setbacks with the hardware. _It's too powerful,_ Mark told her once, _and keeps short circuiting and frying the motherboard._ That's all he would say on the matter, and Jessy didn't push; he was compelled to secrecy and she respected that. At first, he'd hardly talk about work at all, but he gradually relaxed and told her more and more. _If you can't trust your wife and the mother of your daughter,_ he said, _who can you trust?_

That was exactly how she felt. She trusted Mark with every fiber of her being; she committed herself to him the day she married him and again when she gave birth to their little girl, and with that commitment, she placed every ounce of faith she had in him and him alone.

When he was gone, Jessy carried Allison over to the couch and turned on the TV. Face, Nickelodeon's boisterous mascot, filled the screen. Allison clapped her hands together, and Jessy smiled. "Yay," she said, "Face is on."

Allison liked Face. Jessy, for her part, thought he was kind of creepy. He was literally nothing but a huge face. If they had him when she was a little girl, she probably never would have watched cartoons.

 _Little Bear_ , Allison's favorite show, started, and she swayed from side to side with the theme music. Jessy slipped her arm around her shoulder and drew her close; Allison melted into her and stared transfixed at the screen. Jessy liked this show a lot too, it was really cute and educational too. She made sure that most of Allison's programming was educational, and had already bought the complete Hooked on Phonics set for when she started learning to read. A solid academic foundation is one of the best gifts you can give your child, and Jessy was determined to give one to her daughter. Lately, she and Mom had been working with her on shapes and colors; she was able to pick out _boo, reh, ello, and een_ , and recognized most of the basic patterns - circles, squares, and rectangles. They introduced numbers a few months ago, and so far Allison was excelling: If you asked her _what's one?_ she would grin syly and hold up one finger, ditto two, three, and five; she had trouble tucking her thumb against her palm to make four, so she held up all of her fingers.

Like everything else Allison did, it was _so_ adorable, and Jessy's heart melted into a warm puddle of goo every time.

When a knock came at the door, Jessy picked Allison up and stood. The little girl grunted and reached for the TV as they went to answer it. _My show…_

"We have to open the door for Grandma," Jessy said, "she wants to see you and play with you."

Allison's resistance _stopped_ and a sunny smile spread across her face. Allison _loved_ her grandma and on those rare days when she didn't come over at her normal time or had to leave early for a doctor appointment or something, she got _very_ cranky. Jessy smiled to herself; maybe Mom could be kind of a baby hog, but she was happy that she and Allison were so close. She just wished Allison could be as close with Uncle Lincoln, Auntie Ronnie Anne, and Alex.

At the door, Jessy shifted Allison to her hip, unlocked the knob, and turned it. Mom stood on the doorstep in a dark peacoat accented by a red plaid scarf. Her shoulders and graying hair glistened with rainwater and her cheeks were raw and wind burned. The average daytime temperature in Seattle for September was sixty-seven degrees, but a Canadian cold front had stalled over the region, bringing cooler than normal weather.

"Hey," Jessy greeted. Allison excitedly kicked her legs and caught Jessy in the stomach with her heel, knocking a breathy _umph_ from her mouth.

"Hey," Mom said and stripped her gloves off. She stepped forward, bent slightly at the waist, and smiled at Allison. Allison grinned, then whipped her head away and buried it shyly in Jessy's chest. "How's my baby girl this morning?" Mom cooed. She hooked her fingers and grazed them across Allison's flanks; the baby chuffed and squirmed in an attempt to burrow deeper into her mother. Mom laughed merrily. "We do this every morning, why are you so shy-shy?"

"She's like me," Jessy said, "poor thing."

Mom chuckled and stroked Allison's wispy hair. "That's a positive," she said, "your mommy's really great." She leaned into Allison's ear and whispered, "I want to be just like her too."

That made Jessy proud...in a strange sort of way.

Inside, Mom peeled her coat off and hung it from the rack by the door while Jessy carried Allison into the living room and sat her on the floor. "All this rain," Mom groaned, "it drives me crazy sometimes."

"Complaints, complaints," Jessy teased as she went into the kitchen.

"I need sunlight," Mom called after her, "and dryness."

Mom hadn't adjusted to the Washington climate quite as well as Jessy had, though she did enjoy the milder winters. Seattle's coldest month, if Jessy recalled, was January, and even then overnight temps bottomed out at about thirty-five degrees. In Michigan, it was much, much, _much_ lower. The cold never bothered Jessy until she, Mark, Allison, and Mom and Fred flew out to Royal Woods last Christmas. When she stepped out of the terminal, the air instantly sapped all of the heat from her body, and a stiff, bitter wind finished the job. _I f-f-f-forgot w-w-w-what this f-f-f-felt like,_ she chattered. Uncle Lincoln shook his head sadly and said Seattle was turning her into a wimp.

Well...she'd rather be a wimp than a Jessycicle.

At the counter, she started a pot of coffee, then went to the pantry. She scanned the shelves, her lips bunching thoughtfully from side to side, then pushed up on her tippy toes and felt along the highest one. Her fingers brushed a plastic container and she grabbed it. Aha, _there_ you are. A picture of a baby stared back at her with an almost bemused expression as though shocked Jessy found it. _B-but hide and seek is my thing._ Yep, and you just got seeked. Don't mess with the Jess, kid.

Back in the living room, Mom crawled across the floor behind Allison. Allison went under the coffee table and Mom stopped. "I don't think I can fit under there," she said doubtfully.

Allison emerged on the other side and sat up, her chubby little legs splayed before her. She looked up at Jessy expectantly, and Jessy laughed. "You have our routine down pat," she said. She removed the lid and carefully tapped out a pile of veggie puffs. Allison closed her fist around one, brought it to her mouth, and gnawed on it like a tiny monkey with a bone.

Mom shifted onto her butt and sat across the table from her. "Can I have one?" she asked.

Allison picked one up and held it out "Thank you," Mom said and took it. Jessy plucked one from the pile for herself. Shaped like a cheese doodle, veggie puffs didn't have much going for them in the taste department, but they were power packed with lots of good stuff like calcium for strong bones and potassium to promote healthy muscle growth. Granted, they were made for very young children and probably didn't have the same nutritional effect on the body of an adult, but one or two couldn't hurt. "Would you believe I bought a container of this for myself?" Mom asked.

"Did you?" Jessy asked, amused. Mom said she liked them, but enough to go out and get her own?

"I did," Mom admitted. She tossed the puff into her mouth and chewed. "The blueberry kind."

Jessy hummed curiously. There was a fairly large variety of flavors at the grocery store, but she hadn't tried blueberry yet. Allison loved fresh blueberries. And strawberries. And bananas. In fact, she hadn't met a fruit yet that she didn't like. "How were they?"

"Really good. Fred likes them too."

"What's he up to today?" Jessy asked.

"Probably playing poker at the VFW again," Mom said, then frowned. "Or maybe it's bingo today."

After moving to Seattle, Mom and Fred both decided to officially retire. He was already collecting social security and between that and the money they had saved up, they didn't have to work anymore if they didn't want to. To keep himself occupied, he joined a bunch of clubs, including the local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

"Did he win that thirty dollars back yet?" Jessy asked. Allison shoved another puff into her mouth and stared up at the TV, where Face went from yellow to green to blue as he introduced _Blue's Clues_.

Mom waved her hand. "Oh, he won that back a while ago. And then some. He came home the other day with two hundred dollars."

Jessy whistled. When she still lived at home, Uncle Lincoln would occasionally invite Fred over for dinner, and afterwards they'd play cards at the kitchen table. Neither was very good, but Fred was the better of the two; Uncle Lincoln accused him of cheating by _hiding cards up your ass_ , though of course he would...he was kind of a sore loser. "That's not bad," she said of her stepfather's winnings. "What did you do with it?"

"Went to _La Nostra,"_ Mom grinned.

Jessy hung her head and drew an exaggerated sigh. "You're going to turn into Italian food if you aren't careful,"

"I hope not," Mom said, "I'd wind up eating myself."

When the coffee was ready, Jessy poured two cups and took them into the living room. Mom and Allison sat facing each other in front of the TV, Allison clutching a stuffed puppy dog with big, floppy ears to her chest. Jessy went over, sat between them, and handed Mom her cup. She took it with a thank you and blew away a curl of steam. Jessy took a tentative sip, the boiling liquid scalding her lips, and glanced at the screen. _Franklin_ was on now, the title character, a turtle, sitting down to breakfast with his parents. Every time she saw it, she was reminded of Franklin Avenue. "Did Uncle Lincoln tell you he sold the house?" she asked.

Mom nodded. "Yeah." She paused, like she had something more to say, then lifted the cup to her lips instead. When she gave it to him, she anticipated him selling, but hoped he wouldn't. It was her childhood home and it stung to know that it would no longer be in the family.

Allison turned away from the TV, smiled at Mom, and held her puppy out as though she could sense her grandmother's inner turmoil and wanted to make it all better. Mom returned her smile and took it. "Thank you," she said, "I've always wanted a puppy dog."

Jessy took another sip and sat her cup on the table, pushing it back so that Allison couldn't get ahold of it. Not that she was likely to; she was too busy crawling to Mom, being picked up, and sat on her knee to worry about coffee. Mom laced her hands over the baby's stomach, rested her chin atop her head, and rocked her back and forth. Jessy watched them with a wistful smile.

Yeah, Mom could be a little annoying sometimes, but that was okay.

Moms are _supposed_ to be annoying sometimes.

And after everything Luan Loud had been through - all the wasted years, sleepless nights, and regrets - she deserved this.

She deserved to be happy.

* * *

Jordan dropped the ball onto the ground and squinted across the field. Two trees stood side-by-side twenty feet off, forming the perfect goal.

It was late afternoon and she was in the grassy meadow between the Marsh Run clubhouse and the playground, dressed in blue shorts and a blue jersey, her white socks pulled resolutely up her calves and her blonde hair held back in a French braid. The big game was this weekend and her team was counting on her to carry them to victory; she'd been practicing everyday for almost a week, and she was starting to get soccered out. She loved the game, but it was beginning to not be fun anymore: The constant pressure to win, the constant fear that she'd mess up and her teammates would be mad at her, the endless practice, practice, practice. She was so sore and tired most days that she could barely drag herself from the bathroom to her bedroom. _I'll just sleep in the tub tonight, guys, don't mind me._ She used to look forward to games, but now she kind of dreaded them.

Soccer had taken over her life and she was starting to get sick of it.

Something she heard somewhere came back to her. Never turn your passion into a career. At one time, she thought that was dumb advice. Why _wouldn't_ you turn what you love into a job? Making money doing your favorite thing is, like, a total no-brainer. What, are you supposed to do something you hate?

Then she decided to turn her love of soccer into a career and saw _why_ they said that: Because if you do, you'll slowly stop loving it. Soccer was great on her terms, but she wasn't on her terms anymore, she was on other people's terms. She didn't get to choose when she played, or how much she played, or even _how_ she played. If she didn't feel like playing on a practice day? Tough titty. If she wanted to goof off, try new things, or improvise, she'd incur the wrath of the coach, the other girls, and probably the fans too.

Now that she thought about it, she hadn't enjoyed playing soccer in a long, long time.

On the bright side, this was the last game of the season; she just had to get through it and she would be done. Forever. She would still play, but never on a real team again. Too much pressure and too many expectations.

Just one more game.

She took a deep breath and let it out evenly. She could do this.

Despite her feet hurting.

And her knees.

And her everything else.

And despite being so tired she could barely stand up.

She wasn't lying when she said she'd been practicing a lot lately, and that non stop training was taking a huge toll on her body. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and winced at the deep ache in her feet. Her legs were crisscrossed with cuts, bruises, and faded green grass stains that she couldn't get rid of no matter how hard she scrubbed. The sunburn across the bridge of her nose throbbed, albeit dully, and when she walked, it was with the stiff, awkward gait of an old woman on her way to the doctor's. Playing soccer in such cruddy shape wasn't the easiest thing ever...or even _easy..._ but, again, home stretch. A few more days of this, then the game, then sweet, sweet freedom.

Her features settled determinedly and she rolled her neck like a declaration of resolution.

Let's do that.

She drew back her right leg and kicked the ball as hard as she could, aiming dead center between the trees.

It soared through the air and struck one of the trunks.

Then shot back and hit her in the face.

 _Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me_

 _I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed_

Ignoring the pain in her rapidly blackening eyes, Jordan sat the ball on the ground in front of her and kicked it gently, pretending she was surrounded by the other team. She ran after, staying on top of it, kicking back and forth, side to side, inexorably making her way to an imaginary goal. She went to kick it and missed; her other ankle twinged, her feet tangled, and she sprawled face first to the ground with a breathless _oof_.

 _She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb_

 _In the shape of an "L" on her forehead_

 _One...two...three...four…_

Jordan bounced the ball off her head in a steady, rhythmic beat, her eyes rolled up to observe and her lips silently moving as she counted. In soccer, you're not allowed to use your hands, but you can use your feet and head. That's what it's called football everywhere else in the world. Here it's called soccer because of regular football, which is in turn called American football in other countries. Funnily enough, even though it's called football, you rarely ever use your feet.

That errant thought was enough to spoil her concentration; the ball came down wrong, hit her shoulder, then fell to the ground and rolled away, coming to stop in a bush. Jordan sighed and went after it. Dumb thing. She was just starting to kneel when the bush gave a violent shake. Her heat leapt into her throat and she recoiled. Uh, why is -?

With a high pitched shriek, a squirrel flew out, all teeth and claws and mammalian fury. Jordan screamed, fell back, and started to run. The squirrel bounded after, chattering angrily, and Jordan wailed in terror.

 _Well the years start coming and they don't stop coming_

 _Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running_

 _Didn't make sense not to live for fun_

 _Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb_

The ball stared up at her, and she down at it. "Don't do anything stupid, okay?" she asked sharply, "I just wanna get this over with."

It didn't reply, not that she expected it to. It's one thing to talk to inanimate objects, but when they start answering you, there _might_ be a problem.

She looked up into the distance. About fifty yards ahead, a split rail fence ran the length of Marsh Drive. Beyond that, ranks of haphazardly placed trailers marched up the hill, narrow streets winding between them. Big groups of kids rode bikes, played tag in empty lots, and generally had a blast...while she was stuck getting hurt and running from small, vicious animals.

Suddenly, the unfairness of it all weighed down on her like a ton of bricks, and she blew a sigh. You know what she really missed? Hanging out with Blake. She missed him a lot.

It's this dumb soccer's fault.

Anger swept her, and she lashed out, kicking the ball high into the air. It came down near the clubhouse just as a man in jeans and a T-shirt walked out. He saw it, looked at her, then flashed a friendly smile. He took a step back and gave it a kick of his own. Jordan had seen balls go _pretty_ high before, but this one almost broke into outer space. She gaped up at it, a tiny speck in the sky, then tracked it with her eyes. It hurtled over the playground in a wide arch, then landed.

In the middle of a lily dotted duck pond.

Jordan slumped her shoulders.

"Sorry!" the man called sheepishly.

Jordan held up her thumb.

A-okay.

I wanted to get wet and possibly drown anyway.

 _So much to do, so much to see_

 _So what's wrong with taking the back streets?_

 _You'll never know if you don't go_

 _You'll never shine if you don't glow_

The water was murky and greenish with scum, algie, and God only knows what else. Jordan stood on the bank, shoes sinking into the mud, and glared at the ball, willing it to float closer. Instead, it stayed where it was.

She looked around, spotted a long branch lying on the grass, and grinned. Ha, and I thought I was gonna have to get wet. She picked it up, got as close to the water's edge as she could, and leaned over, the tip of the stick slapping the water. Just a few more inches and -

Her foot slipped in the mud and she lost her balance. Her heart blasted and the scummy, nasty, dirty surface rushed up to meet her.

 _Splash!_

That water was colder than it looked.

And tasted even worse.

 _Hey now, you're an all-star, get your game on, go play_

 _Hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid_

 _And all that glitters is gold_

 _Only shooting stars break the mold_

Dripping wet, sodden hair in her face, and seething with rage, Jordan dropped the ball on the ground and heaved great gulps of air. She was _this_ close to losing it, and when she did, she'd tear the world apart. Literally. She was so mad she could break concrete. She should just call it a day and go home.

Only she couldn't.

That would be admitting defeat, and she would not let the universe win. It might be National Pick On Jordan Day, but she refused to back down. She would finish her practice session with as much grace and dignity as she could muster and -

A high pitched chattering found her ears, and her stomach clutched. She stiffly turned her head, and the squirrel was there, loping across the grass with giant fangs and burning red eyes. She jumped, let out a strangled cry, and started to run. "I'm sorry!" she yelled. "I didn't mean to kick the ball at your house, please forgive me!"

The squirrel kept coming.

 _It's a cool place and they say it gets colder_

 _You're bundled up now, wait till you get older_

 _But the meteor men beg to differ_

 _Judging by the hole in the satellite picture_

 _The ice we skate is getting pretty thin_

 _The water's getting warm so you might as well swim_

 _My world's on fire, how about yours?_

 _That's the way I like it and I never get bored_

Jordan slapped her hands on the top rail of the fence and doubled over. A hot stitch flared in her side and her dry lungs sucked for air. She looked worriedly over her shoulder and sighed in relief: Whew, the squirrel was gone.

She swallowed against a sandpaper throat and licked her chapped lips.

This was starting to get really dumb. She'd had her fair share of bad days, but nothing like this: She fell in the pond, got a black eye, and almost got eaten by a woodland creature 20,000 times smaller than she was. Why was the world against her today?

Flashing, she balled her hand into a fist and brought it down as hard as she could on the rail. Red agony exploded up her arm and her eyes widened with regret...so much regret.

"OW!"

She danced and shook her throbbing hand as fast as she could like it was a burn and cool air would help.

But it didn't.

She shook faster, jumping from one foot to the other like a girl who _really_ needed to pee, then, when all the fight ran out of her, she sank to her knees and held the wounded appendage to her chest. She sucked hissing intakes of breath through her teeth and let them out in trembling _ahhh_ s. _Hiss. Ahhh. Hiss. Ahhh._ Her hand pulsed in time with her heart, every jagged beat making it palpitate with misery.

Baring her teeth, she threw back her head. "STUPID SOCCER!"

 _Hey now, you're an all-star, get your game on, go play_

 _Hey now, you're a rock star, get the show on, get paid_

 _All that glitters is gold_

 _Only shooting stars break the mold_

Limping, hand curled to her breast, damp (but no longer wet), sneering and boasting an ugly purple bruise around her right eye, Jordan found her ball: It was sitting on a patch of dirt near the clubhouse. "You," she snarled, "you are the cause of all my problems. Everything bad to ever happen to me is _your_ fault."

Once, long ago, when she was young and naive (like, three whole months ago), she loved soccer. Now, just looking at the dumb, black and white checkered ball made her sick. She wished she never joined that stupid team, wished she wasn't marginally better than everyone else and thus expected to carry their weight, wished she didn't care about letting everyone down.

Rage gripped her chest and she ground her teeth back and forth with an audible sound. She started to tremble like a powder keg getting ready to blow and her skin burned with fever; stupid ball, stupid soccer, stupid team, stupid coach, stupid EVERYTHING.

Someone spoke behind her, and she whipped around with a growl. Blake's affable smile fell and worry crept into his eyes.

He was her best friend in the world, but even that wasn't enough to stop the wrath bubbling up in her chest. She tried to plug the dam, but it burst and a tide of molten rancor crashed over her. "WHAT?"

Blake cringed and his face screwed up like he was going to cry. That penetrated the fog of her anger, and she got even madder - at herself. "I-I just wanted to see if -"

"NO!"

He stumbled back a step, then turned and rushed quickly away, sparing a tearful glance over his shoulder. Jordan's heart clutched and her stomach knotted. She started to call out to him, but he was already crossing Marsh Drive, already fleeing up Thomas Street.

She hurt his feelings.

And now _her_ feelings hurt too.

She drew a watery breath...then growled. "Your fault!"

Spinning, she pulled back her leg and kicked the stupid, ugly ball harder than she had ever kicked it before, all of her rage, sadness, and pent-up frustration coming out in one savage display of brutality and hatred. It arched off the ground and tore through the air like a cannonball...a cannonball aimed directly at the clubhouse. Her heart plummeted into her roiling stomach.

No, no, move, move, move.

It didn't move.

Instead, it crashed into a second story window with a tinkle of breaking glass.

OH NO!

For a moment, Jordan was paralyzed...then, with a jolt, she broke, turned, and hobbled away as quickly as she could.

* * *

Friday morning, Lincoln met with a commercial real estate agent in Chippewa Falls named Dave Fields. A big, rotund man with a bad combover and rosy cheeks, Fields would have reminded Lincoln of Santa Claus if he was fifteen years older and had facial hair.

It was pushing nine when Lincoln was ushered into his spacious corner office, and he could literally feel the day slipping through his fingers; every minute that Flip's wasn't open was a minute he felt alien and out of sorts. He'd been opening at 7am sharp for almost twenty years, and at this point, rearranging his routine left him restless and jittery.

Sitting before Field's big oaken desk, Lincoln looked appraisingly around the room. Light blue walls, thick green carpeting, filing cabinet, framed photos of what Lincoln took to be his family - a woman, two boys, and a girl - and more certificates and commendations than he could count. Fields was one of the most highly rated commercial real estate agents in the region and came highly recommended by _Real Estate Monthly,_ the most prestigious real estate periodical on the market. No, Lincoln had never heard of it before he happened across a copy in one of those FREE bins outside the grocery store, but it sounded important, so its word automatically carried weight with him.

Fields shifted and the chair groaned beneath him. "How long have you been in ownership of the property, Mr. Loud?"

Lincoln consulted the folder in his lap. "Tuesday, December 7, 1971," he said and frowned. That was indeed the day Flip's was officially transferred, but he became de facto owner the day Flip died, and subconsciously counted from there - November 28 - rather than the day he signed the paperwork.

The fat man whistled. "That's a long time. What kind of shape is it in?"

"Pretty good," Lincoln said at length. "There are some little things I plan to take care of myself. Cracked floor tiles, stuff like that. Nothing major."

"When was the roof last done?"

Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, then trailed off when he realized he didn't know. He furrowed his brow and scoured his memory. He could have sworn he had the roof reshingled sometime recently. He strained and it came to him. Ha. It was December. He remembered because Flip was bitching about -

Oh. Wait. Flip was still alive?

Heh. Guess it _wasn't_ so recently.

And guess it wasn't technically me who did it.

"It's been a while," he admitted, then hastened to add, "there's nothing wrong with it, though. It doesn't leak or anything."

Fields nodded. "About how long would you say?"

Shame crept across the back of Lincoln's neck and he suddenly felt like a small boy making a humiliating confession to the most unsympathetic person he could find. Fields' goal was to make money, and every flaw, every imperfection, drove down the place's value. Too much, and Fields might walk away, which Lincoln didn't want; he was good, and that, to Lincoln, meant he could get it sold fast _and_ negotiate the best price possible.

"Uh...well…" Lincoln ticked his head from side to side, then shrugged one shoulder. "It's been awhile. Maybe...thirty years."

He expected Fields to stand, thrust his finger at the door, and tell him to beat it, but he simply nodded. "Alright, well, a new law enacted last year states that all commercial property sold in the state of Michigan must have had a total roof replacement within the past twenty years."

Lincoln sagged. "Total roof replacement?"

Fields nodded. "The whole kit and kaboodle." He lifted a solicitous hand. "I know that's a tall order and between you and me, the roof is probably fine - hell, they built things to last back then. That _is_ the law, though. I can take Flip's on, but I can't put it on the market until it has a new roof."

Goddamn it. Lincoln considered redoing the roof and even had a contractor out in July to give him a quote. The price? High enough that Lincoln told the guy to kick rocks, then laughed at him later on when he told Ronnie Anne about it. _Can you believe he wanted_ that _much?_ What a loser.

Now it looked like he was going to get it after all...unless he went with a different contractor, and as he recalled, that guy was the cheapest one around.

"You have pictures?" Fields asked.

Lincoln handed him the folder, and he flipped through it with a thoughtful hum, like a judge considering whether to give the defendant the chair, or let him off easy with life in prison. Lincoln took great pains to make sure each one of those photos cast Flip's in the best light possible: He made Becky and Dustin clean the place from top to bottom, used a stack of cups to hide a dent in the wall, and scrubbed the plaster until it glowed. He'd forgotten that the wall was white and not dull brown.

When the fat man was done, he moved onto the accompanying paperwork and moved his lips silently as he read. Lincoln spent even longer on compiling those documents than he did the pictures...with help from Lori. They measured the dining room, the kitchen, and the bathrooms; estimated the property value and compared it against what Flip paid when he bought the place in 1937; itemized all of the assets; and gathered copies of the lease, financial statements (going back ten years), license, and health inspection records dating back to 1985. Lincoln was worried that the financials would deter prospective buyers - since they were so rotten - but Lori refused to help him fudge them. _Oh, no Linc, we can't do that, the big, bad IRS will get us. We'll go to prison._

I did eight months in the Mekong Delta, I _think_ I can survive a cushy little stay at Club Fed. Hell, three hots and a cot, no taxes, free medical care...sounds more like a vacation than a punishment to me.

"Alrighty then," Fields said and sat the folder down, bringing Lincoln back from fantasies of incarceration, "with a little work, I think we can sell for top dollar. The main issue right now is the roof...and the electrical wiring. We have to make sure that's up to code."

"It is," Lincoln said honestly, "I had a guy out in April."

He may not have kept up on the Franklin Avenue house, but he did Flip's. The wiring was completely redone in '88 and the pipes, piecemeal, between '92 and '95. He said as much, and Fields glanced at the paperwork again with a curious sound. What, can't you read, fatty? "Okay," he said, "then our main concern right now -"

Here he propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers.

"- Is that roof."

Stupid roof, Lincoln grumbled to himself as he walked to his car. The office was on the corner of a busy street in downtown Chippewa Falls. Gas stations, fast food restaurants, and cheap motels lined the other side, and cars whizzed past in either direction. The sky, clear when he went inside, was leaden, promising rain. He slipped in behind the wheel, pulled his seatbelt on, and started the engine. His asshole was already aching from the coming pounding it would take at the hands of whatever contractor he hired, and his wallet quaked in holy terror; _No, Linc, please, reconsider._ Sorry, fella, wish I could, he thought, but I'm selling that place even if I have to pay out the nose to do it.

Backing up, he swung right and guided the car to the street, then turned left.

The whole goddamn roof. What kind of law was _that?_ Like Fields said, they made shit to last back in the sixties, none of this plastic disposable breaks-before-you-get-it-home bullshit. Oh, it made him sound old and grumpy to say so, but it was the truth. Modern craftsmanship was lousy. Why? Easy: Greed. Companies used cheap materials, cheap sweatshop labor, and peddled cheap products that were made to fail so you'd have to buy a replacement. They didn't used to be like that. What gives?

Eh, they didn't have plastic and all that other crap back then, that's what. If they did, everything in the fifties and sixties would have been junk too.

The buildings flanking the street gave way to forest, and Lincoln slowed when the road curved sharply down and to the right. It was just after 10 by the dashboard clock. He told Benny, Dustin, and Becky he'd call them when he was ready to open, but was it even worth it?

Probably not. Still...what was he supposed to do, _not_ open? Go home and watch The Weather Channel in his underwear until Ronnie Anne got home? Sounded lame. In fact, it sounded like torture. He pictured himself sitting in his chair with his hands in his lap and his eyes pointed at the wall, doing nothing, saying nothing, _being_ nothing. The thought alone made him want to fidget.

Then it hit him.

That's exactly what he was going to be doing _every day_ after he sold Flip's.

A clump of ice formed in his chest and dropped into his stomach. He'd always known, in a roundabout way, that once the restaurant was gone, he'd have a lot of nothing to do and all the time in the world to do it, but in that moment, having just come from taking the first step in selling Flip's, it collected and became _real._ In a year, two tops, his entire life would radically change...and call him what you will, but that prospect was terrifying. He'd been working nonstop since he was fourteen years old, always somewhere to be, always a regimen to keep; he was so used to it that the idea of having no schedule and just putzing around the house in his bathrobe made his head spin.

Maybe he shouldn't sell after all. Maybe he should hang onto the place...for a little while longer.

No, he couldn't do that. He needed to get while the getting was good, and it was as good now as it was ever going to be. Having the money he and Ronnie Anne needed to live out the rest of their lives in comfort was more important than him having something to do during the day.

He sighed. Getting old was a pain in the ass. He'd rather be back in the army. At least in the army you always knew where you were going and what you were doing.

The road twisted to the left and graded down as it approached Royal Woods. Glimpses of town flashed through the trees like wisps of smoke and the old green trestle bridge carrying Route 26 over the Royal River loomed ahead. Trees crowded either bank, and kids splashed in the water just as they had been since time out of mind. When he and Ronnie Anne were young, they'd come down to the shore with bottles of Coca-Cola and a transistor radio, lay a blanket out in the grass, and neck until they were both overheated (in more ways than one) then go for a long, cooling dip that usually ended with them splashing each other, horseplaying, and necking some more.

He drew a wistful sigh. Yeah, yeah, yeah, old man Loud thinking about the good old days again, what a lame-o. Being young and in love is a beautiful feeling, though. Fifties, seventies, nineties...it didn't matter, the things around us change, but we don't. Childhood is just as sweet and bright and warm now was it was then - human beings are the same no matter what music is on the radio, or what kind of clothes they wear. Sure he just _happened_ to be young during the greatest period in human history, but everyone experiences the same joys and pleasures of youth. Bobby Jr. did, Alex did, and Jessy did, and if you asked them what it was like to be twelve or thirteen, chances are, they'd give you the exact same answer Lincoln would.

Only they had lousy music.

Especially Alex. Poor girl. All her teen idols dressed up like women and sang about the devil, _his_ were Cool with a capital 'C'. Like Little Richard. Now _that_ was a cat who could rock...and he didn't have to wear his sister's clothes to do it.

Now he was in the mood for oldies. He leaned over, turned on the radio, and hit the preset button marked 3. _Ma Belle Amie_ was on, and while the late sixties wasn't exactly his cup of tea, it was close enough.

At Park Drive, he turned right and slowed to let a group of teenagers in backwards baseball caps and baggy jeans pass. One of them, a girl with short black hair, wore a ring in her nose that made her look like a barnyard bull and a number of rings in her ear. Lincoln lifted a judgemental brow and shook his head sadly. Why? It wasn't attractive, it wasn't cool, it looked stupid.

But don't all teen fads? He thought back to Bobby in his leather jacket, leaning against his 1948 Coup and smoking a filterless Camel with practiced and contrived coolness that looked natural then, but painfully forced now. Jeez, did I really look up to that kid? I was an idiot!

Perhaps his memory was being unkind to his brother-in-law, but in hindsight, he looked like a goddamn hoodlum. No wonder people treated the greasers like shit back then, if Lincoln was an adult in '58, he'd have done the same thing. Fuck them.

At home, he parked in the driveway and killed the engine, but didn't get out. Should he open? It was kind of late and, truth be told, he didn't feel like going in just to close in defeat at two after a failed lunch rush. He _did_ have things to do around the house. Like organize the garage...and the attic. There was crap up there they hadn't used or even seen in twenty years. Ronnie Anne wanted to have a yard sale, and Lincoln was all for it until he realized that meant going through nearly three decades worth of accumulated junk.

Better than sitting in front of _Jerry Springer_ in his undies like trailer trash, though - no offense, Alex.

Yeah, screw it, he'd play hooky today. Haven't done _that_ in a while.

Come to think of it, the last time he played a rousing game of take-the-day-off, he lost his virginity to Ronnie Anne Santiago.

A lopsided grin touched his lips; it was the proud beam of a young boy who has accomplished something worth bragging about. They say you never forget your first time, and boy, are they right. He'd "been with" Ronnie Anne more times than he could count and most of their encounters kind of blurred together like days in a vacuum. Not the first one, though, it stood out crystal clear in his mind. If he thought hard enough, he could smell the perfume she wore, and the look of lidded rapture on her face when he penetrated her…

Downstairs, Lincoln Jr. stirred in his sleep, and Lincoln Sr. frowned. Did it make him a pedophile to get turned on by mental pictures of his wife at fifteen? Because if it did...uh-oh, better hide your kids, Bugs is back in town. _Ehh, what's up, doc?_

My dick, now bend over, little girl.

A shiver tore through him and he cringed so hard he gave himself whiplash. Okay, he definitely wasn't a pedophile, but if fifteen-year-old Ronnie Anne magically stumbled out of the hall closet later on _(where the hell am I and how did I get here?_ ) he...wouldn't do anything, actually, because that would basically be cheating.

Right?

He imagined walking in on Ronnie Anne having sex with his past self, and the gnashing in the pit of his stomach told him that yep, it was cheating alright.

Getting out, he slammed the door and went inside. Screw 1962 Ronnie Anne anyway. She was a dumb kid. Her 1999 version was _far_ superior.

After hitting the bathroom and making himself a sandwich, he went into the living room, sat in his chair, and grabbed a copy of _Guns and Ammo_ from the magazine rack next to his chair. He turned the TV on for background noise ( _There are some things money can't buy, for everything else there's MasterCard_ ), slipped his reading glasses on, and looked at the cover. _Y2K SALE_ blazed across the top in bold white letters. Y2K was the coming digital apocalypse where all the computers on the face of the earth would go haywire at midnight on January 1, 2000 and life as we know it would come to an end. Lincoln didn't pay any attention to it, but Ronnie Anne - who did - called Mark in Seattle and he told her: _Nothing of substance is likely to happen. No, the power grid won't fail, planes won't drop from the sky, and the world economy won't come crashing to a halt. At worst, your computer will display the date as 1900 instead of 2000._

Mark was a computer genius, so Lincoln took him at his word. The media, of course (bunch of jackals they are) were whipping people into a frenzy, and people were stockpiling supplies just in case.

Losers.

 _Oh, no, our computers won't show the right date, it's Armageddon._ You kids wouldn't have lasted a minute in '62. We _had_ a reason to worry.

Russians.

He opened the magazine but the desire to read it fled away and he closed it again with a sigh. He stared at the TV and frowned. Two black men sat in a snowbound car chattering and rubbing their hands together. _Try thinking about something hot,_ one told the other. The other rolled his eyes to the ceiling and smiled as a chicken sandwich appeared above his head like a thought bubble in a newspaper comic. _Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich is seasoned with a blend of pepper and spices,_ a voice intoned, _so you'll feel warm all over._ The second black guy stripped off his coat, hat, and gloves and started fanning himself, sweat sheening his face. His friend looked at him like he was crazy. _Come on, man, what are you thinking about?_

 _You mind if I open a window?_

Lincoln laughed. That sandwich looked pretty good. Too bad he already ate.

Taking his glasses off, he sat them aside and drew a deep breath. It wasn't even noon and he was already starting to get restless and bored. Maybe he'd open up after -

That's it!

Why didn't he think of it sooner? He had the perfect thing to help him pass the time and he didn't even think of it until just now.

That thing?

A granddaughter.

Getting up, Lincoln went to get Zoey from daycare.

And on the way...he stopped at Wendy's.


	207. September 1999: Part 4

**Guest: The FBI would have caught up to her sooner or later. They knew her name and were in the process of investigating her when they interrogated Ted. Had he kept silent, they would have found her address and arrested her anyway.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **My Name Is**_ **by Eminem (1999)**

Alex Underwood rolled out of bed at 3:00 that afternoon.

Literally.

She came groggily awake in a hot shaft of September sunlight and, in her disoriented state, didn't realize she was on the edge. She went to roll onto her back and went over the side instead. She'd fallen down a lot in her life, but there's nothing as terrifying as doing it while still half-asleep; when she started to go, her heart blasted into her throat, her eyes widened, and her hand clawed desperately at the sheet. Had her mind not been fogged with the lingering vestiges of sleep, she would have realized she was in for a gentle three foot drop and not a fatal plummet from a million feet up, but it was, and as she tipped, she let out a petrified scream. She landed face first in a tangle of blankets and limbs, and for a long time, she simply lay there, breathing heavy and taking inventory of her body. I-I'm alive?

The mist gradually drained from her skull and understanding dawned on her. Oh, right, I _wasn't_ sleeping on a precarious perch. Heh. Guess I forgot.

Kicking out of the bedclothes, she pushed to her feet, stretched with a yawn, and shuffled into the kitchen, scratching her butt and smacking her lips as she went. Her feet were still sore from her last shift and every step sent a pang up her leg. Ow. Ow. Ow. At the fridge, she opened the door, took out a pitcher of tea, and poured some into a glass. Leaning against the counter, she took a drink and looked at the clock on the VCR. 3:05. As soon as Blake got home, she'd go to K-Mart and then get Zoe on the way back home: They needed diapers, wipes, uhhh...and other stuff she couldn't remember.

Thankfully, she anticipated forgetting and wrote everything down so wouldn't wander aimlessly through the store with slack-jawed vacancy. _Wat wuz I apposed to buy again?_ She finished her tea, sat the glass in the sink, and turned to the fridge; a magnet shaped like fruit held the list in place. Umm...fresh fruit sounded good. She took the list down, scanned it, and shoved it into her pocket just as the front door opened. Blake, dressed in black basketball shorts and a white T-shirt, came in and tossed his backpack onto the couch. His cheeks were flushed with heat and his hair glistened with sweat. "Hey, honey," Alex said. Blake started to sit but she stopped him. "Don't get too comfortable, we're going to K-Mart."

Blake let out a frustrated _uhhh_ and dropped onto the sofa anyway. Whatever, he could sit for a few minutes; Alex still needed to get dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, they were following Route 29 to the Mart of K, Blake gazing absently out the passenger window and Alex tapping the steering wheel along to _Hungry Like the Wolf_. You know, something funny had happened to Alex over the years: She started liking music that she once hated. Like Duran Duran. God, they were such lame-os and back in 1982, she thought they were the second worst band in the world after Culture Club. In 1999, they actually weren't all that bad. In fact, this song was _good_. How did she hear it for almost twenty years and never realize that?

Blake sighed and Alex glanced at him, a perturbed frown creasing her lips. He rested his chin in his upturned palm and stared at the passing countryside like a boy who just watched his entire world collapse. Alex turned down the radio and patted his leg. "You alright?" she asked worriedly, "you look kind of down."

She waited with bated breath with his response, terribly certain he was being bullied or some other awful thing. Instead, he sighed again. "It's nothing, just…" he trailed off as though grasping for a reply. "Can we listen to something other than old person music?"

Alex's jaw dropped.

Old person music.

Old person.

Old.

Her son officially thought she was old.

That's all, folks, it's over, Bunny Underwood has become her father. The hunter is now the hunted, the predator the prey, the cycle of life has gone and left her in the past and her childhood is now the lame-o past just like Dad's was when _she_ was a kid.

Taking her hand away from Blake's leg, she gripped the wheel and faced grimly forward, every taunt she'd ever thrown at her father coming back to her, only her mind edited them to be about _her_.

 _Ugh, the eighties sucked._

 _Ew, do we_ have _to listen to Bon Jovi?_

 _You guys didn't have N64? I pity you._

 _Young Guns is the dumbest movie ever._

 _Wow, look at this old pic I found. Mom, why was your hair so big? Was it because that's where you carried all your dorkiness?_

She always knew this day would come, and something told her it would be sooner rather than later.

His words followed her as she pushed her cart through the aisles of K-Mart, battering her like fists to the head and gut. B-But I'm Alex Loud, the coolest person ever, always on the cutting edge. I like new music and stuff and my fashion sense is…

She looked down at herself. She wore brown shorts, flip flops, and an orange tank top.

Lame.

My fashion sense is lame.

After hitting up the produce section, she found herself in the record department, only it wasn't called that because they stopped selling records, like, ten years ago. Now it was compact discs, basically the same thing as records but smaller. CDs were advertised to not skip, but they did anyway. You know what _didn't_ skip? Cassette things kept on trucking no matter _how_ hard you shook your boombox. To be fair, though...you couldn't skip songs (if you wanted to hear the last one on any given side, you better pack a lunch, cuz you're gonna be fast forwarding for a while) and sometimes the player ate the tape. Ugh, nothing worse than opening the deck and finding a confusion of tape coils where your favorite album should be. _Ahhhh, oh no, not One Vice at a Time!_ Then you'd have to insert a pencil into one of the holes and wind the tape back up, being really careful not to damage it or get it all bunched up.

Other than that, though, they were pretty hardy. You could take one out of the radio, throw it aside, and as long as it didn't land in water or direct sunlight (for a prolonged period of time), they were fine. CDs, like records, got scratched and didn't play right if you handled them with anything but the utmost caution. _Whoops, my finger accidentally brushed my CD, better throw it out._

Since she was in the neighborhood, she went over to a display to see what the kids were listening to these days. She was an old woman, you know; out of touch. Her eyes went to a CD with a bluish cover depicting a dock, a giant moon, and a car with the trunk open. Is that a dead body in the back? Cool. She picked it up and scanned the title. _The Slim Shady LP._ The big black and white PARENTAL ADVISORY sticker in the upper right corner screamed YOUNG, HIP, and DANGEROUS.

I'm young, hip, and dangerous.

Okay, maybe not _young,_ but older people can be cool, too. It wasn't _really_ Dad's age that made him a lame-o...it wasn't even him liking old music...it was his stubborn disdain of new things. He was stuck in a perpetual time warp, and anything that came after 1920 automatically sucked in his eyes. Not her, though. She loved the eighties, but new stuff was cool too, and it was that appreciation of modern music, fashion, and movies that made her a cool old person.

She didn't know anything about _The Slim Shady LP_ save that putting it back would be a mark against her. This is what the rad dudes are listening to, so it's what _she_ would listen to.

Dropping the CD into the cart, she went to the frozen food section, then to the checkout line. She found Blake in the little arcade flanking the front door; he stood in front of a cabinet and pointed a blue gun at the screen. HOUSE OF THE DEAD was written across the top of the machine in bloody letters. Oooh, that looks cool. She'd play a round for herself but they kind of needed to get the Zoester.

Alex waited for him, and when he was done, she called his name. "Come on, buddy, we gotta go get your sister."

Blake hung his head and trudged behind her across the parking lot. He climbed into the passenger seat while she loaded the groceries into the trunk. The corner of her CD poked out from one of the bags, and she scrunched her lips. The car _did_ have a CD player, but the record had cussing on it, so maybe she should wait until she wasn't all Blaked up.

But, I mean, how bad can it really be?

She grabbed the CD, slammed the trunk, and got in. She picked at the shrink wrap with her nails, bent one, and winced. Ow, damn it. These things were so hard to open! She peeled off the label in the hope it would rip the plastic, but nope, it just left a sticky patch behind. She rolled her eyes, then gritted her teeth and clawed at the packaging like an angry dog tearing through a screen door. Blake watched her with bemusement, and she could hear his thoughts. _Look how old, lame, and white-haired she is. She can't even open a CD! Need some help, Grandma?_

Finally, a long strip peeled off, and she pulled the wrap off. A strand of hair fell across her face in the midst of battle and she blew it aside. She opened the jewel case, removed the disc, and slipped it into the CD player. "There," she said windedly, "no more old person music."

"Oh," Blake said disinterestedly, "that's good." He propped his elbow on the sill, rested his chin in his hand, and heaved a deep, despondent breath. Almost like old music was the last thing he cared about.

Something was wrong and Alex went into Mom Mode. "Blake, what's wrong?" she asked and twisted around in her seat to face him. "Did something happen today at school?"

He shook his head. His reflection in the window was a watery mask of sadness, and Alex's heart broke. She reached out and stroked her hand lovingly over the top of his head. "What is it?" she asked softly. "You can tell me anything. Except that my music sucks, that kind of hurt my feelings." She winked to show that she was playing, and Blake flashed a polite smile with no warmth to it.

"Really," she said more soberly, "what's up?"

Blake chewed his bottom lip as he mulled over whether or not to open up. "It's Jordan," he finally admitted.

"Jordan?" Alex asked. "What about Jordan?"

Blake and Jordan were the best of friends, and like any best friend pairing (Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Bill and Hilary Clinton), they fought from time to time. Not all that often, but enough that Blake being bummed out over an argument wasn't rare.

"I don't think she's my friend anymore," he said, a slight tremor in his voice.

"Why not?" Alex asked.

"She's always playing dumb soccer now," he said in a bitter rush, "and hanging out with her dumb soccer friends. The other day I saw her practicing and she yelled at me." He cut himself off and cast his eyes sadly to his lap. When he spoke again, his voice was thick, and it sounded like he was going to cry. "I lost my best friend."

Misery pinched Alex's chest and she brushed her thumb over the ridge of his forehead. Nothing hurt quite as much as seeing one of your children in pain - it was like being punched in the stomach, followed up by a quick jab to the heart and lung area. The sadness in Blake's eyes and the way his lips trembled almost made her cry, but she got control of herself. This was no time to go to pieces, Blake needed her, and she would do no good to him crying because _my poor widdle baby iz sad._

What should she say? It was an unfortunate fact of life that people drifted apart sometimes, especially as they got older. She herself had a number of friends when she was eleven that turned into faces-in-the-crowd by fifteen.

She doubted that was what was happening here. At the beginning of the summer, Jordan joined a soccer team organized by the Boys and Girls Club, and it took up most of her time. "Well," Alex said, picking her way cautiously along lest she slip and say the wrong thing, "Jordan's really busy with soccer...but you still see her all the time. If she wasn't your friend, she wouldn't come over."

"She hasn't," Blake pointed out, "not since before her last game, and she acted really weird there too."

"Like I said, soccer takes a lot of time and energy, and since her last game is this week, she has to focus on that. She can't always be up your butt."

As hoped, that made Blake chuckle.

"Just give her some space and let her get this game out of the way, then see how things are between you,"

Blake exhaled disaffectedly through his nose. "I just don't think she wants to be my friend," he said, perturbed. "You should have seen her, Mom, she was really mad."

"She's probably under a lot of stress," Alex said. "Being on a team will do that to you, especially when you're the best player there. She most likely feels like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, so she's libel to be grumpy."

Blake nodded that he understood. "Yeah, I guess."

"Just give her some time," Alex said and started the car, "I'm sure things will be fine. You're Blake and Jordan, you're like peanut butter and jelly."

She started to back up, but stopped when she remembered her CD. "Almost forgot," she said. She pressed the PLAY button, and loud, skull cracking hip hop music blasted from the speakers.

 _Hi kids! Do you like violence?_

 _Wanna see me stick Nine inch Nails, through each one of my eyelids?_

 _Wanna copy me and do exactly like I did?_

 _Try 'cid and get fucked up worse that my life is?_

Ah, wait, no way, you're kidding, he didn't just say what I think he did, did he?

Alex blushed because he totally did. The F bomb. For some reason, even though she was familiar with rap, she kind of expected softcore cussing, like _damn_ and _bitch,_ not F-U-C-K one stanza in.

She went to press the stop button, but somehow fast forwarded it instead.

 _Walked in the strip club, had my jacket zipped up_

 _Flashed the bartender, then stuck my dick in the tip cup_

AHHHHHHH, it's so much worse than I thought it would be! She panicked and jabbed the eject button, and the CD popped out. Okay, wow, that was definitely something Blake shouldn't hear. She glanced at him, sure he would be wide-eyed and traumatized, but he was back to staring out the window like nothing. Uh, hello? Slim Shady just said he put his dick in a cup. If _I_ heard something like that when _I_ was nine - especially with one of my parents _right there -_ the embarrassment would have killed me.

Of course, she didn't have _Beavis and Butt-Head, The Simpsons, King of the Hill,_ and _South Park_ the way Blake did. Those shows were kiiiind of raunchy. _South Park_ especially...to the point that she banned him from watching it. She could tolerate a lot, but the overt and constant sexual humor, cussing, and violence (usually in the form of Kenny dying) was waaaaaay too much.

Backing out of the spot, she turned left and guided the car to the exit. After a line of cars passed, she turned right and set a course for Busy Bees. _You used to go there,_ she told Blake one time, _that's where you met Jordan, remember?_

 _Not really,_ Blake replied after a long, thoughtful pause. That made sense, he was really little during his stint at Busy Bees, but it still took her aback that something so recent to her - basically a few years ago - was ancient history to him. Thus is the nature of human recall, though. She couldn't remember being one or two, and what disjointed memories she did have seemed impossibly distant and mystical, likes glimpses of another world, one where time held no meaning, shadows held sway, and truth was fluid. For her, it was a holy remnant of a bygone time...for Dad, it was another Tuesday afternoon, mundane, unremarkable, and aw, crap, Ronnie, really, tuna casserole _again?_ I ate better in the army.

The daycare center appeared ahead on the left, looking as it always had: A low cinderblock building with a pitched roof and a mural along the front wall depicting happy children holding hands. She put on the turn signal, turned into the parking lot, and slid into a slot facing the main door. "Be right back," she said.

Leaving the car running, she got out and ran inside, stopping to hold the door for a little black boy and his father. " _Thank you!"_ the boy piped.

Inside, the receptionist, a fat woman named Deborah (like the wife on _Everybody Loves Raymond_ ) read from a trashy paperback romance with a shirtless Fabio on the cover, his blonde hair blowing behind him and a smug look on his face. _I am hot and I know it,_ he seemed to say in that thick Italian accent, _take picture, it last longer._ Uh, sorry, bub, but I like my men a little more Tim-like. Actually, I like them a little more exactly-Tim.

She walked up to the desk and Deborah sat her book aside. "I'm here for Zoe."

"Alright," Deborah said. She grabbed the log, opened it, and picked up a pencil. She started to write, then stopped. "Oh. Looks like someone already picked her up."

Uh, they did? "Who?"

"Lincoln Loud," Deborah recited.

*Fist clench* Dad.

Perhaps sensing Alex's surprise, Deborah hastened to add, "He's on the list…"

"Yeah, no, it's fine," Alex said, "he's my dad. Just wish he would have called me or something."

Actually, depending on what time he picked her up, Alex would have been asleep, so she was glad he _didn't_ call her. She needed her beauty sleep, after all, and nothing disturbs a good snooze like ringing telephones and rasping old man voices telling you they picked Zoe up, so don't bother.

"Okay," Deborah laughed and pressed her hand to her chest as if to still her beating heart, "for a second there, I thought Marla made a boo boo."

Alex forced a humoring laugh even though that wasn't funny. At all. You don't make "boo boos" with people's kids, lady.

With no Zoe in hand, Alex left. She was halfway to the car when muffled music found her ears...and slugged her in the stomach.

 _I smoke a fat pound of grass and fall on my ass faster than a fat bitch_

 _Who sat down too fast_

 _C'mere slut! (Shady, wait a minute, that's my girl, dog!)_

 _I don't give a fuck, God sent me to piss the world off!_

GASP.

Blake sat in the passenger seat staring at the radio with the wide-eyed wonder of a boy in the middle of a religious experience, and Alex's eyes narrowed. So, he liked Slim Shady, did he? What idiot exposed her son to that kind of -

Oh, wait, it was her.

Darn.

Back in Mom Mode, she crossed to the car and opened the driver side door, Slim Shady's ill raps rushing over her like a blistering tapestry of youthful frustration.

 _My English teacher wanted to have sex in junior high_

 _The only problem was, my English teacher was a guy_

 _I smacked him in his face with an eraser_

 _Chased him with a stapler_

 _Stapled his nuts to a stack of papers_

"Blake Steven Underwood!"

Blake jumped and let out a cry of alarm.

Alex reached in, hit the EJECT button, and glared at him. "There was a reason I turned this off after one verse. It's not appropriate."

"It went in on its own," he stammered, "and I was trying to figure out how to stop it. I swear."

The lie was obvious in his face, and Alex had to strain really hard to keep from laughing at the ingenuity of it. "Nice try, buster," she said and slid behind the wheel. "If you really want to hear it, you can wait until you're older."

Blake sighed his disappointment.

Sorry, kid, but talk about stapling people's testicles to stacks of paperwork is _not_ for little ears.

Actually, it's not even for _big_ ears.

* * *

 _Slurp._

 _Slurp._

 _Slurp._

Lincoln, sitting with his back against the couch and his legs spread out under the coffee table, knitted his brow and glanced at his granddaughter. She sat beside him with her bottle thrust into the air and noisily sucking juice like an alcoholic procrastinator hurrying to make up for lost time. She stared at the TV screen, where a cartoon called _Dexter's Laboratory_ played; the little boy was a genius and had an impossibly vast and complex lab hidden under his house. He also spoke with a German accent, which made Lincoln instantly suspicious of him. What kind of German are you, kid? East or West? West Germans were alright, but East Germans were communists, and Lincoln hated nothing more than a goddamn commie.

Well...passing kidney stones. He'd rather sit in the middle of Red Square during a saber rattling Soviet military parade than piss out another one of those things.

His first bout with the little bastards came in 1992; it felt like his dick was being shredded from the inside out, and he cried like a baby, not caring who saw. Then it happened again in '95, and again two years later. Kidney stones are, per Doctor Faraday, " _hard deposits of minerals and acid salts that stick together in concentrated urine."_ The only thing Lincoln could do about them was drink lots of water to help them pass. Yeah, well, he did that and it didn't help much.

And he thought the Cong gave it to him bad. At least they had the decency to leave his pecker out of it.

Zoe went on sucking her bottle, slurping and breathing heavily through her nose. Lincoln waited for her to turn to him, and when she didn't, he nudged her arm with his elbow. She whipped her head around and gazed up at him with big, brown, doe-like eyes. _What, Grandpa, I watchin' TV._ "You're louder than Chandler with his clunker."

She gave him a blank stare. _What's a clunker and what's a Chandler?_

"One's a junky, broken down car and the other's a junky, broken down person."

Chandler might not be technically _broken down,_ but he sure would be once he got a little older: He was a fat slob and a bumbling loser, those types always wind up miserable and prostrate sooner or later. He'd work a job hated for shit pay, drive a piece of junk with a bum engine, his wife would cheat on him, and his kids would never respect him...because what was there to respect? That kid was in for a long, hard life, and Lincoln only wished he could be there to see every stomach-jiggling, breast-blasting blow. Maybe if he was lucky, Chandler would snap one day, walk into the post office with a gun, and promptly get shot by the police.

A dark laugh escaped Lincoln's throat, more at his own morbidity than at the thought of Chandler being gunned down. Did he have a ghoulish streak before Vietnam? He didn't think so, but he probably did and was just blaming 'Nam to avoid confronting the fact he was naturally sick in the head. He did that a lot, or so Ronnie Anne said. _The Vietcong didn't screw up your taxes, you did; Oh,_ Charlie _burned dinner? Likely story, lame-o._ What could he say? Taking responsibility for your actions is hard sometimes, so it helps having a handy scapegoat. It _was_ Alex but she moved out, and Jessy was too trustworthy to do anything wrong, so he couldn't shift the blame to her; it had to be somebody, so why not the Cong? _You shoulda seen it, RA, that VC came in here, spilled my drink, then got crumbs all over the floor. I tried to stop him but he put me in a cage and made me eat gummy worms since we don't have any maggots._

For some reason, she never bought it.

Maybe he should blame another group next time, one she didn't like, that way she'd be more inclined to believe him.

Hippies?

No, no, he'd blame troublemaking teenagers like the ones who vandalized the school last April. Ronnie Anne got to work one morning only to find cooking oil from the cafeteria coating the floors in the hallway and a giant confederate flag flapping on the pole out front. She was _livid_.

 _How_ dare _they attack RCHS?_ she demanded indignantly. That's the word she used, too, _attack,_ as though the vandals were ideology driven terrorists and not teenage boys being dumbasses. She was so worked up that when Lincoln jokingly took the fall ( _I did it so you could get a few days off and we could spend time together_ ), she shot him a dirty look and told him to drop dead twice.

Fine, then, see if I ever try to help _you_ out again.

Ungrateful bitch.

 _Slurp._

Zoe was still drinking and Lincoln lifted a quizzical brow. Jeez, kid, you really like that juice, huh? It was cherry flavored store brand something-of-other that came in powder form like Tang. He picked it up the other day on a whim because the happy cartoon lion on the label was cute, eyes wide and tongue plastered lustily to his upper lip like the glass of sugar water in front of him was the best thing ever. _I lost my house, my family, and my life savings over this stuff, and I don't care...it's THAT damn good. Hit me again._

 _Sir, I think you've had enough._

 _I'LL NEVER HAVE ENOUGH, NOW HIT ME AGAIN OR I'M GONNA TORCH THIS PLACE._

A wry smile played at the corners of Lincoln's mouth. See what I mean about having a morbid sense of humor? I turned a cartoon into an alcoholic whose drinking ruined his life and the lives of his children, what's wrong with me?

Well, you see, the Vietcong…

And there he went again, blaming the North Vietnamese for his twisted jokes. Did Lt. McCain do this? Did he sit in Congress while Newt Gingrich was speaking and crack jokes to himself about being tortured? Probably not, but then again, who knows? The shrink he used to see at the VA said it was a coping mechanism and that _lots of people have one, Corporal Loud. For you, it's being a fucking ghoul._

He didn't _really_ say that last part. He used some technical term that, Lincoln thought, sounded Latin, but it was a long time ago and he couldn't remember. Once the guy pronounced him healthy, he stopped paying attention. His primary concern, when he went in, was that he was a ticking time bomb and would one day gruesomely murder his family while in the grip of a manic episode. When it became apparent that that wasn't going to happen, nothing else mattered. He could deal with being grumpy, making sick jokes, and getting triggered here and there, but he couldn't handle potentially hurting his loved ones. If the doctor told him _Linc, you're a menace, you're gonna blow any day now and it won't be pretty,_ he would have stuck his .45 into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Or maybe he would have shoved it against his temple. That's the most effective way to top one's self, he thought, or perhaps it wasn't. He couldn't say for sure. He was morbid, but not so morbid that he researched suicide methods.

Something flopped onto his arm and he looked down to see Zoe leaning sleepily against him, her eyelids starting to droop. He smiled, put his arm around her, and held her close, taking great pains to ensure her head rested on the fleshiest part of his side, and not on his bony old hip. _Dexter's Laboratory_ went off, and after a bumper, _Ed, Edd, and Eddy_ took its place. Of all the cartoons on these days (discounting the old ones on perpetual rerun), he liked this one the best, mainly because the nervous one with the hat reminded him of Jessy and the money-grubbing one reminded him of Alex. Watching it, it's almost like they never left.

Ronnie Anne said the money grubbing one reminded her of him. _He's always in a bad mood and bossing everyone around. Just like you, lame-o._ Um-hm, she could dish it out but she couldn't take it; when he said the stupid one reminded him of her, she shot him a dirty look and called him a nasty name in Spanish.

Zoe's eyes had just fluttered closed when the door opened and, speak of the Devil, Ronnie Anne came in. Zoe opened her eyes, saw her, and lit up. Ronnie Anne smiled at her. "Hi," she cooed, "what are _you_ doing here?"

"I got lonely," Lincoln said.

Ronnie Anne shut the door, came over, and sat on the edge of the couch. Zoe twisted around and grinned around her bottle. "No work?" Ronnie Anne asked and picked her up.

"Nah," Lincoln said, "I figured to hell with it."

"You met with the real estate agent, right?" she asked. She sat Zoe on her knee and gave her a big, silly smile.

"Yep," Lincoln said, "and get this...I have to redo the roof after all."

Ronnie Anne plucked the bottle from Zoe's mouth and attacked her face with kisses. The baby laughed and thrashed. "I told you," she babbled, "I said you're gonna need a new roof but no one ever listens to Grandma."

Oh, God, here we go. She was worse than Rodney Dangerfield with this _I don't get no respect_ shit.

"The point is to make money, Ronnie," Lincoln said, "not to piss it all away on nonsense like a new roof."

"You gotta spend money to make money," she cooed to Zoe, then buried her face her neck. Zoe went rigid and let out a high pitched squeal. "Gimme that neck meat," Ronnie Anne said, "I want that neck meat. I'm hunnnngry."

With his playmate stolen away, Lincoln got up with a crackle and shuffled to the bathroom. Done, he made his way back in the living room only to find two more guests in attendance: Alex sat next to her mother with Zoe in her lap, and Blake sat in Lincoln's Lazy-Boy, rocking boisterously back and forth and making the springs creak.

"...so here we are," Alex was saying, then laughed. "For a second there, I thought my daughter was abducted by international baby nappers, but it turned out to be Hank Hill, so we're good."

Hank Hill was another cartoon character that reminded people of him. He was a small town gas station owner or something with a stick up his ass. _Just like you, Dad,_ Alex once so helpfully pointed out.

"I was lonely," Lincoln said defensively. He laid his hand on Blake's head, and the boy looked up at him, his rocking slowly tapering off. "You break it, you buy it. I already have to shell out for a new roof, I don't need to pick up a new chair while I'm at it."

Alex's brow wrinkled. "What's wrong with the roof?" She looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, I see, water spots."

"Not here," Lincoln said and sat next to her, "the one at Flip's. I talked to a real estate agent today. I'm selling."

Alex's eyes widened in shock. "Really?" she drew incredulously.

"Yep," Lincoln said, "really."

"I never thought I'd see the day," Alex said.

"Me either," Ronnie Anne added. "Your father spends -" she cut herself off before she could finish her thought...as though she forgot herself and started to say something dirty. Which she probably was: She often joked that _you spend more time in that restaurant than you do in me._ Well, no shit, I love having sex with you, but I can't do it for eight hours straight...and neither can you. _No, lame-o, no more, I can't go again._ "He spends so much time there," Ronnie Anne amended and flashed a nervous smile.

"Now I'm going to be spending a lot of time here," Lincoln said.

"There's a list of things that need to be done," Ronnie Anne said and gave his knee a patronizing pat. "You can finally get to it."

Yeah, there _were_ a lot of tasks that needed carrying out and if he played his cards right he could stretch it for six months, _maybe_ a year if he didn't work every single day. He was almost afraid to start - he might find serious issues and have to spend more money.

Eh, he didn't have to worry about that for a while yet. With this roof thing, Flip's wouldn't be on the market for another year at least, and once it was, he doubted it would go quickly. Maybe he was wrong, but knowing the area it was in - middle of not-so-great area in a small town no one cared about - it would take a while for it to sell.

If it sold at all.

A pang of dread sliced through his stomach. God, he hoped it sold. What if it didn't, though? What if no one wanted the smelly old place and he was stuck holding the bag? His plans to retire would be shot and all the money he was counting on would be lost, sunk into a shit hole he couldn't get rid of and no one ate at.

 _My plan exactly,_ Flip said from heaven, _hahaha, got'cha, Loud._

If that was the case, he really _would_ burn the place down. Maybe have Tim fiddle with the wiring and leave a bunch of flammable crap in the way. It couldn't be too hard to fake an electrical fire. They can prove how it started, but not whether or not someone helped things along. Right? You know, the ovens were still run by gas. He could break one of the lines and...he'd need an ignition source. Someone sparking a match or something. Who would willingly blow themselves up for his gain, though? He doubted Lori would. Bobby? No, no...he'd probably have to do it himself. He _did_ have a life insurance policy on himself; the payout from that and the policy on the restaurant would ensure Ronnie Anne was set for life. It would also ensure that that "life" was a lonely one spent deprived of the man she loved and cherished.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

After Alex and the kids left, Ronnie Anne sat on the couch, kicked off her shoes, and drew her legs under her. Lincoln sank into his chair, grabbed the remote, and flipped to NBC just in time for the nightly news. What's going on in the world, Dan? Was Bill Clinton impeached? Oh, wait, those assholes in Congress acquitted him back in February, nevermind.

"What do you want for dinner?" Ronnie Anne asked.

"I don't know," Lincoln said. "I'll cook. You worked today, I didn't."

She snorted, and he regarded her with a sidelong glance. Here he was being nice and she laughed at him? "You're just itching to get back in the kitchen," she teased.

"No I'm not," he retorted, "but I'm fair. You worked, you're tired, so I'll cook. What do _you_ want?"

Ronnie Anne tilted her head back and made a show of thinking, then looked at him with a devilish grin. When she spoke, there was a challenge in her voice. "I want meatloaf with mashed potatoes, corn, and home made bread."

She said it like he wouldn't do it.

Ha. Watch this.

"Okay," he said.

Then he got up and did it.

* * *

Dusk lay over the trailer park in deep purple hues and the screams and laughter of children scented the warm September air. The streetlamps up and down Thomas shone murky pools on the pavement and somewhere, a dog barked excitedly. If you listened closely, you could hear the faint strands of rap music being blasted four or five streets over, the soundtrack to either a family reunion or a lazy, late summer bull session between friends. A bug hit the window pane with a _click_ and Blake glanced at it with the detached indifference of a boy who had bigger things to worry about.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed with a flat gray Playstation controller gripped loosely in his hands and _Driver_ forgotten onscreen: A taxi cab sat forlorn in the middle of a city street, cars passing it on either side or stopping behind and honking their horns. He was on a mission but eventually stopped caring and tried to run down pedestrians, but they always managed to duck out of the way in time, which was really dumb. In real life, they'd get sucked under the tires or something, not always make a clean getaway.

 _Driver_ was his favorite video game ever, but right now he was in a bad mood and _hated_ everything about it, from the pedestrian thing to the cops always chasing him for speeding; he even hated that you couldn't get out of your car - if you wrecked the one you were driving, the game ended. Lame.

The thing he hated most of all was how the buildings and stuff didn't fully resolve until you got closer to them. From far away, all you saw was blank space and you didn't know what direction a street was taking or if a bank or something was in your way until it was too late. That was really dumb because it was unrealistic and broke the spell the game cast on you. Super Mario 64 didn't do that and neither did GoldenEye. You could see everything from a distance, just like in real life.

Stupid Playstation. N64 was better.

Letting the controller drop, he slumped his shoulders and sighed. It was Friday so he didn't have to go to bed early, and for that he was thankful. Tomorrow was Jordan's big game and he wanted to put it off as long as possible. Mom said to talk to Jordan afterwards because she was stressed or something, but he was afraid that when he did, she'd say she didn't want to be his friend anymore regardless. If she did that, he didn't know _what_ he'd do.

Be sad, probably.

The door, hitherto ajar, swung open, and Zoe toddled in drinking her bottle. She wore a simple white onesie with no sleeves, her little arms and legs exposed to the world. Shaky and swaying unsteadily on bare feet, she came over and dropped onto her butt at Blake's feet like a weary traveller who just couldn't go on. She looked up at him over the rim of her bottle with big, inquisitive eyes.

"Bad," Blake sighed in response to the question in her gaze, "my day's been really bad."

Zoe watched him impassively.

The one thing Blake really liked about his little sister was that she never talked over him, or judged him, or gave him advice that may or may not apply - she just listened, and sometimes that's all a boy needs, someone to listen to him. "My whole week's been bad. I don't think Jordan wants to be friends anymore, 'cause now she has soccer friends and she spends more time with them than with me."

Zoe lowered her bottle as if to impart a pearl of wisdom.

She burped instead.

"I know she kind of has to," Blake mused, "but the more time she hangs out with them, the more they, like, bond. Every minute she's getting closer to them, she's getting farther from me."

Mom meant well, but she didn't understand, the damage had probably already been done. Jordan had been hanging out with those girls, sharing her love of soccer with them, and meanwhile, here was ratty old Blake who _didn't_ like soccer. Stuff like really, really liking the same thing draws people together, and Jordan really, really liked soccer, so it only stood to reason that her teammates meant more to her than he did. Even when he did see her, it was almost like there was a distance between them, as though they were two islands drifting farther and farther apart. She was really into sports and stuff, and he stank at sports - he got really hot and winded if he ran too much. He liked to draw and Jordan thought drawing was boring. When she was over and he tried to draw with her, she bugged him to do something else.

Activities aren't what make a friendship, though.

Are they?

Friendship seemed deeper than that to him. He didn't like Jordan because she played video games or anything like that, he liked her because she was funny, cool, and lots of fun to be around. They had a good time together and she made him happy. It didn't matter to him if she liked soccer or not, but then again, if you don't have things in common with someone, how can you be friends with them?

You can't, and if you were friends with them before, you stop, go your separate ways, and miss them for the rest of your life.

On the floor, Zoe lifted her bottle to her lips again, realized it was empty, and threw it aside. She rocked back and forth on her butt, which meant she wanted to stand up, and Blake held out this hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet; she smiled her thanks and slapped his leg with both hands while bouncing enthusiastically on her heels. Blake pressed his palm to her face, and she slapped it away; her eyes narrowed and she issued a long, admonishing _uuuuh._ He usually loved picking on Zoe - in a tender, brotherly way, of course - but right now his heart just wasn't in it. He turned to the TV, where the taxi still blocked traffic; its back end was dented and caved in from a police pursuit and white smoke wafted from the crumpled hood. That car reminded him of himself but he didn't know how exactly.

Zoe threw her head back and slapped his leg like a rider snapping the reins of a horse. He turned back to her and she offered a big, cheesy smile. "Do you want - ?"

The words died on his lips when Jordan hobbled into the room on a pair of crutches. Her left foot was wrapped in an Ace bandage and hovered inches off the floor. She wore a yellow T shirt, blue gym shorts, and a sheepishly expression, as though she'd done something wrong. Zoe followed Blake's gaze and laughed, whether at Jordan's presence or her infirmity, Blake couldn't tell.

"Hey," Jordan said.

"What happened?" Blake asked worriedly.

Jordan lumbered to the edge of the bed, turned ponderously around, and sat. She held the crutches upright between her legs and looked at him with a flicker of hesitation. "I hurt myself," she stated.

"No duh," he said, "what happened?" Then it hit him. "Soccer." He spoke the word with enough venom to kill a whole soccer team and part of another soccer team.

Jordan shook her head. "Nope, I, uh…" she darted her eyes to the floor and forced the rest out in a rush, like she wanted it out as quickly and painlessly as possible. 'I fell getting out of the bathtub."

"Oh," Blake said and looked down at her foot; it was curled off the floor like the leg of a dead bug. He was not expecting it to be something so...not sports related. "Are you okay? Is it broken?"

She shook her head. "No, just sprained."

"Well, that's -"

He was going to say _good_ until something occurred to him. "What about your game?"

Zoe turned away from Blake and laid her hands on Jordan's knee with a sunny smile. Jordan leaned over and returned it, ten times bigger and ten times more beautiful. "Hi, baby Zoe," she breathed, "how are _you_ today?" She dug her fingers into Zoe's squishy stomach, and Zoe doubled over with laughter.

"What about your game?" Blake asked again.

"Yeah," Jordan said without meeting his eyes, "I can't play."

Zoe tucked her chin protectively against her chest and tried to tickle Jordan back but wound up grazing the fabric of the older girl's shirt instead. Jordan laughed, and Zoe took a fumbling step forward, knocking hard into Jordan's bad foot. Blake winced, expecting Jordan to cry out, but she showed no signs that she even felt it. Wow, it must be really numb.

"That sucks," Blake said, even though it really didn't. At least for him.

Shrugging one shoulder, Jordan said, "Eh."

Her nonchalance caught him off guard. "Eh?" he asked.

"Yep," she said, "eh."

"Why eh?"

Zoe, still trying to tickle Jordan, spun around and started to fall, but Jordan caught her under the arms and dragged her onto her lap with a strained grunt. "I was getting sick of it anyway."

Sick of it? Now Blake's head spun, Jordan _loved_ soccer and when she made the team last spring, she was so happy she almost piddled on herself. No, literally, she said, _I'm so happy I could pee._ That confused him (he'd been outright overjoyed in his life, and never once did it send him running for the nearest bathroom) but that was beside the point. Playing on the team meant everything to her, now she just didn't seem to care. "Why were you getting sick of it?" he asked.

Zoe twisted around to look up at Jordan as though she, too, wanted answers. "Just was," Jordan said noncommittally, "it was a lot of work and pressure and...I don't know...soccer wasn't fun anymore. Plus...I really missed hanging out with you."

She did?

"Really?" he asked. "I kind of thought…" he trailed off, not wanting to say so now and upset her, but it was too late.

"Thought what?" she asked.

He shrugged one shoulder.

"Come on," she induced, "what did you think?"

Zoe whipped her head around and favored him with a sly, self-satisfied smile, as if to taunt him. _I got Jordan and you don't. Nana booboo._ Jordan watched him with simple curiosity, not accusation. It was the same look his mother gave him the other day in the car. _You can tell me anything,_ it seemed to say, _I care about you._

"I kind of thought you didn't wanna be friends anymore."

Jordan looked hurt, and she started to speak, but contritely bit her lower lip instead. "Yeah, I, uh, I'm sorry about the other day," she told his lap...unable to look him in the eyes. "I just had a really bad day. A squirrel chased me." Her voice lifted on the second to last word and she karate chopped the air for emphasis.

Blake blinked. "A squirrel...chased you?" he asked doubtfully.

Jordan nodded. Her eyes widened with sincerity and he had no choice but to believe her. "I kicked my ball into its bush and it got mad, then I gave myself a black eye, or maybe I did that first, I can't remember, then I go all wet trying to get my ball out of the pond, then I hurt my hand and..." she was panting now as she relived her terrible, awful, no good soccer practice. Getting hold of herself, she continued. "I was just really ticked off, so I acted like a buttface." She offered a halting, toothy smile. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Blake said, "just...I figured you were friends with your team now and -"

"They're okay," Jordan cut him off, "but they're not you." She gave his leg a friendly pat, and he was powerless to stop a happy beam from spreading across his face.

Jordan smiled back, then sat Zoe down when she began to squirm. "You're my best friend ever and no one can replace you."

Hearing those words made Blake feel a strange and strong mixture of emotions, chief among them happiness.

At the door, Zoe tripped over her feet and fell to the floor with a thud. Jordan's brow crinkled with concern and she got up. "You okay?" she asked and hurried to the felled toddler's side. Blake watched them, warm and fuzzy inside from Jordan's reaffirmation of their friendship, and -

Wait a minute.

Jordan was walking and putting weight...on her bad foot.

She helped Zoe to her feet, patted her diapered butt, and took her spot next to Blake. Blake twisted around, his knee bending on the edge of the mattress, and fixed her with a demanding stare. She drew back a little and looked him up and down. "What?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Your foot," Blake said and nodded to the appendage in question.

Jordan followed his gaze, then winced. If I-could-kick-myself-in-the-butt had a look, it would be the one on Jordan's face right now.

Sighing, she nodded to herself, "I didn't really hurt my foot."

"Why did you lie?" Blake asked, suddenly hurt.

She didn't reply for a moment, and when she did, she turned her big, clear eyes to him, and something about them...their depths and sparkle...made him feel funny in his stomach. "Because I didn't want to be on that dumb team anymore, and I wanted to spend tomorrow hanging out with you."

He swallowed around a lump in his throat and searched her eyes for traces of deception, but found none. As far as he could tell, she was being honest.

For a moment neither one of them spoke, and Jordan looked like she was preparing for the worst, then Blake leaned over and picked the controller up from the floor. "Alright," he said simply, and that was that. "It's still my go…"


	208. December 1999: Part 1

When he sold the house on Franklin Avenue, Lincoln Loud overlooked one minor detail, one that didn't occur to him until the first week of December.

Where in the hell would he hold family gatherings now?

It wasn't often that the far-flung members of the Loud clan got together, but it did happen, and on those infrequent occasions, Mom's house acted as a combination hotel slash community center. It was spacious enough to lodge the out-of-towners _and_ to host afternoon and evening congregations. Every major event in living Loudstory had taken place there, from Alex's first birthday to Jessy's wedding, and every Christmas, birthday party, and Thanksgiving in between. Mom's house was the natural center of the Loudverse (Jesus, Alex, now you got _me_ prefixing everything with Loud). All of the aunts, uncles, cousins, sons, and daughters from California to Michigan could trace their lineage back to 1216; it was the flower in which the Loud spor was germinated, the primordial goo from which they emerged - indeed, the very cradle of their entire civilization.

And Lincoln fucking sold it.

Nice one, asshole.

Eh. I needed the money.

Yeah, well, he had it, but you know what he didn't have? A venue for the 1999 Loudverse General Christmas Reunion Edition. If you didn't count Santa Claus, nineteen people were coming to town this year, add that to the eight already in Royal Woods and the four or five possible attendees (Tim's parents and Mark's), you had thirty-one souls (thirty, really, since Lori didn't have one, ha!).

They were, in no particular order: Lynn, Kathy, Lynn III, Maddie, Ritchie; Jessy, Mark, Allison, Luan, Fred; Bobby Jr, Lola, Stephy, Val; Lana, Jed, Justin, Josh, and Joy.

Playing for the home team were: Linc, RA, Alex, Tim, Blake, Zoe, Lori, and Bobby. That's a lot of goddamn people even _if_ Tim and Mark's parents didn't show up.

First, where were the nineteen from Elsewhere going to stay? Hotels? That looked like the best and most realistic option since his and Lori's houses were both smaller than Clinton's brain, but making family bunk at a rent-a-room flophouse struck Lincoln as wrong. Mom would be appalled at the idea, simply fucking appalled. _You will absolutely not stay in a hotel,_ he could hear her saying, _if worse comes to worst, you can sleep on the dining room table._ He might as well drive out to Heaven's Gate Cemetery, go to her grave, whip out his average dad Johnson, and piss on it, then on Dad's, Luna's, and Leni's while he was at it. He sure as hell couldn't fit them all at his house: There were three bedrooms, one of which he converted into an office where he did the taxes, kept important paperwork, worried over Flip's, and stored boxes of junk he was too lazy to carry up to the attic. The second was his and Ronnie's private domain, where they made love, snored, drooled, and farted in front of one another because they'd been together over forty years and neither one cared anymore. The third and last was Jessy and Alex's old room. It, too, had become an oversized catch-all drawer, but that could be easily remedied. It's size dimensions, however, could not. Say Ritchie and Lynn III shoved up in one bed and Kathy and Fat Lynn crammed into the other. You could _maybe_ fit three or four people on the floor, then another on the couch, and...well, between his place and Lori's they _could_ house everyone, but it wouldn't be very comfortable.

Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure he and Lori could do it, though they'd have to stack family like cordwood.

If they did that, however, that still left the question of where they would meet during the day. The point of having distant relatives in town is to spend time with them. In the olden days, that bonding happened at Mom's because it was big enough to fit them all. They had dinner, hung out in the living room, milled around with drinks and snacks, the works. You couldn't do that at his or Lori's house. Imagine shoving thirty people into his living room. It'd be shoulder to shoulder standing room only and there would _still_ be overspill. Same with Lori's place. How can you have Christmas - tree, presents, gift exchange, excited kids - when you're so densely packed you can't even move? You can't.

 _Let's rent the community center,_ Lori suggested. She and Lincoln were sitting at her kitchen table on the snowy afternoon of December 8. Bobby was at work and Flip's was closed for renovations. He hired a contractor in late November to replace the roof with the understanding that he and his people wouldn't start until spring, but he and an army of Mexicans showed up in trucks and vans promptly at 7am on December 1. Hey, guy, really? You're gonna do this in the winter? _It's no problem, we'll be done before the snow starts, promise._ Ha. Yeah. He and his guys weren't working today, and spent most of the previous day battening down the hatches so none of the white stuff got inside. Lincoln made damn sure he knew up front that if it snowed in his place, he was holding them financially responsible.

 _A community center?_ he asked sourly. Community centers were fine for big, one off events like weddings and birthday parties, but most of the family was staying in town for at least a week. They _could,_ theoretically, have Christmas morning there, but what about the rest of the time? Family reunions meant breakfasts, dinners, game nights, shit like that spread out over multiple days.

He said as much, and Lori shrugged. _Maybe we can rent it for the whole week,_ she said over the rim of her mug.

Not goddamn likely. For one thing, that would put both of them in the poorhouse, and for another, he doubted they'd let someone have it that long. He promised to look into it, though, and that afternoon, he stopped in and spoke to the activities director, a man with a face like cracked leather, teeth resembling chiclets, and a Joel Osteen hairdo that looked just as fake as his smile. _Why, sure,_ he said in a high pitched by-gosh tone, _we can rent you a space for a week._ The space turned out to be a surprisingly large banquet hall used primarily, the director said, by the Methodist church for its monthly bingo night. Heh, sounded kind of like a line Lynn would use on a prospective car buyer. _Only driven to by a little old lady to church. Swear to Glory._ There were two rows of tables, ten apiece, and a wide spot up front big enough for a Christmas tree and a thousand presents. Joel (that wasn't his name when Lincoln walked in, but it fit him, so it was now) put his hands on his hips and looked around. _Yep, you can fit a whole boatland of family members in here._

 _How much? For a week?_

 _2,500._

Lincoln decked him in the face and walked out.

Not really. Instead, he hung his head, produced his MasterCard, and paid a 200 dollar retainer fee. In return, the community center would hold it and not rent it out to anyone else between December 19 and December 27. If he didn't come back with the full payment by December 19, all bets were off and they'd probably give it to a bunch of Vietnamese people out of spite. How demeaning would that be? They'd be eating maggot dim pho and maggot curry, and he'd be on the outside looking in. _C-Can I have some, guys?_

On his way home, he stopped at Lori's and told her how much it was going to cost. _You're going to cover half, right?_

She shrugged one shoulder. _Sure, that's no big deal._

Her nonchalance was both insulting and infuriating. _It's no big deal, Linc, I don't worry over money the way your pathetic ass does. It doesn't bother_ me.

He doubted she meant it like that, but he still left wounded. It was, he figured on the way home, his own guilty conscious finally getting to him. He sold his childhood home for a quick buck, he was selling the restaurant Flip gave him for the same, and yet he was still troubled by the idea of him and Ronnie Anne not having enough money to live on. So much so that it was turning him into a real tight wad. He could pay the damn 2k and be fine, but the simple thought of doing so made his heart clench regardless.

In all fairness to him, though, it was only right that Lori pony up some dough. Why should he have to foot the whole bill? He was already paying through the nose for a new roof at Flip's, the least she could do was help him rent this hall.

You know what? He was overthinking this. He had a bad goddamn habit of that and it only got worse as he aged. Once upon a time, he had real worries, like whether or not Charlie was going to pop out of the bush and hack his head off with a meat clever, now, in the absence of that, he picked tiny, inconsequential shit to fret over. If he kept it up, he'd turn into one of those assholes who launches into hysterics every time they open the fridge and their favorite food isn't there. _Who ate my goddamn maggot casserole?_

Funny how people are, isn't it? Give a man, or a society, a carefree life and he will find something to bitch about anyway. No famine or pestilence? Clear skies and sunny days? My feet hurt, my back aches, that guy over there said an offensive word, wah wah wah. Lincoln was guilty of that himself, but he was only human.

 _So, where's everyone going to stay?_ he asked. He told Lori about his idea - splitting everyone up between his house and hers - and she stared down into her coffee as she considered it. The older she got, he reflected, the more she looked like Mom, only thinner. She would be sixty in a couple months, and her hair, once long and blonde, was gray and stylishly short, barely reaching her shoulders. Deep wrinkles creased the flesh around her eyes and mouth and her neck skin was beginning to resemble a tukey's gibbet; his eyes were drawn to it, and the obscene urge to grab it and pull came over him like a tidal wave. _Honk, honk, Lori!_

 _I guess that might work,_ she said doubtfully.

 _Alex will probably want Jessy to stay at the trailer,_ Lincoln said, _so that'll take three people out of the mix, five if she can't get Luan out of her ass._

Forty years ago, a comment like that would have made her gasp with shock like a scandalized eighteenth century Dutchess, but now it didn't even register. Was that sad? In this world, no one can stay pure forever; time and outside forces besmirch even the most innocent of souls.

Unless you live in a literal glass box like the Pope.

 _I just don't know how many people I can fit. One on the couch, three or four on the floor, four in Bobby's old room..._ she trailed off, a shadow of uncertainty crossing her wizened features. _Is that enough? I really don't know where else I can put anyone, unless I set up sleeping bags in the garage._

Using all of his fingers and toes, Lincoln counted. If Lori took in nine, Alex took Jessy, Mark, and Allison, that would leave him with seven houseguests. Since Lori would take Bobby Jr., Lola, Stephy, and Val, he would take the Lynn family (buncha losers _they_ were). Fat Lynn and his wife and Lynn III and her wife (cuz that's what Ritchie was, hahaha) could have Alex and Jessy's old beds, Maddie could bunk on the floor, and two could take the living room.

There. Problem solved. He laid it all out for Lori, and she nodded. _Okay, that works._

Of course it worked; he was in the army and logistics come naturally to army folk. Throw any conundrum at us and we'll fix it in no time...and if we can't, we'll pass it off to the Marines.

That night, he called everyone in the family, from Lynn _(hiya, fatass, it's me_ ) all the way down to Lana _(your accent gets thicker every time I talk to you. Pretty soon it won't even be English anymore)_. He told them about his and Lori's plan and had each one pick between his place or hers, except for Jessy - _you're staying with your sister whether she likes it or not...and she probably will._ He called Alex last just to confirm, and she lit up. _Of course I'll take Jess in, duh. I wouldn't turn my sister away like that. Who do you think I am, you?_

He hung up on her.

The first ones to arrive were Lynn Jr. and Kathy on December 18. The day dawned icy and gray, and for a long time after the alarm sounded, Lincoln lay in bed taking stock of his life. Did he _really_ want to get up and brave the blistering cold just to open that toilet of a restaurant? No, he realized, he didn't, but he forced himself up anyway because he didn't trust the contractor not to fuck something up. The roof itself was done, but it still needed to be sealed, tiled, and sealed again, a job that wouldn't be complete until early January. Not many people ate at Flip's these days, but the ones who did were serenaded by the sounds of pounding hammers, whirring drills, and hard rock blasting from a stereo. A giant metal dumpster filled with remnants of the old roof sat at the end of the parking lot, and every time Lincoln went over there, he found trash on the ground. Plastic Coke bottles, empty cigarette packs, bags from McDonald's. What, you need me to put some hair around the top so you can actually get it in?

A blue porta-potty with a white roof stood against one exterior wall, and the goddamn stench made it all the way inside. A few days ago, a regular named Joe, big fat guy with a mustache, sniffed the air and crinkled his nose. _Hey, Linc, what's that smell?_

 _It's that thing on your upper lip,_ Lincoln replied surily, _shave it off._

The odor was nothing, though. On the sixteenth, a delivery truck backed into the porta-potty and knocked it over, sending a tide of brown sludge across the parking lot. _Don't worry, Mr. Loud,_ the contractor said, _we'll have it cleaned it up in jif._

Only they didn't, and the next morning, when Lincoln came in, it was frozen solid. He and Benny stood over it, matching looks of disdain on their faces. _You wanna go ice skating?_ Lincoln asked, then laughed when Benny paled. It sat there all day long before a tanker truck pulled in and three guys in hard hats and neon yellow vests jumped out. They spent three hours hacking at it with shovels, and Lincoln couldn't help but watch every single minute of it like a man gazing on a slow motion train wreck.

If he didn't go in today, there was no telling what that dumbass and his merry band of morons would do.

Sitting up in the dark, he stretched, yawned, and got to his feet. A crack of line shone under the bathroom door, and from beyond, the faint hiss of the shower found his ears, He turned the knob, slipped in, and went to the commode; steam choked the air, condensation coated the tiles, and Ronnie Anne's night dress lay pooled on the floor. Lincoln looked from it to the wicker hamper wedged between the toilet and the wall. It's right there, RA. "You're worse than those damn roofers," he said as he stooped to pick it up.

"What?" she called over the spray.

"Leaving your crap everywhere," he said and dropped it in. "Just like the contractor does." He lifted the toilet seat, reached into his underwear, and pulled out his johnson. This is my rifle, this is my gun, this is for fighting, and this is for fun.

And for passing kidney stones.

The curtain drew back and Ronnie Anne's face appeared in the gap. Lincoln stream slackened in surprise, then picked back up again. "Don't you ever get tired of nagging me, lame-o? You're worse than a woman."

Lincoln tucked his gun back into his underwear and flushed. "Yes I do," he said, "which is why I wish you'd stop making me do it."

He went to the tub and though her mouth didn't smile, her eyes did. He leaned in to kiss her, and she pressed her lips tightly together, denying him ingress. She turned her head slightly to the side like a haughty Latin queen, and Lincoln considered his options a second before cupping her breast in his hand and squeezing. A reflexive smile crossed her lips, and he closed in for the kill. Resigned, she gave in and kissed him, their tongues slowly circling one another and her fingernails gently raking his scalp. Lincoln pinched and rolled her stiffening nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she nipped his lower lip. "That's enough," she said, face aglow, "anymore and I'll wind up being late for work."

That suited him just fine. He loved sex with his wife, but if they did it too early in the morning, he got really dizzy. God alone knows why, probably something to do with age. Fifty-three isn't all that old no matter _what_ Alex says, but he'd never been fifty-three before, so he wasn't sure what went along with it, thus he blamed every new infirmity on it. "Alright," he said and kissed her one final time, "but only because I have to get going too. If I didn't, I'd make you late and not care one bit."

She rolled her eyes and closed the curtain.

In the bedroom, he took a pair of slacks from the dresser and pulled them on, stumbling a little as he slipped his left leg in. Dirty, ashen light seeped through the window and painted the room a bleak shade of bloodless gray, and Lincoln stopped to snap on the bedside lamp to dispel it. He went back to the dresser and opened the third drawer down; stacks of white T-shirts, many of them stained and splattered despite being washed a thousand times, met him, and he selected one at random. Dressed, he dropped onto the edge of the bed and put his shoes on, moving slow because his back was already starting to twinge. He scooted closer to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and dug through it until he found the paper he wrote Lynn and Kathy's flight information on. NOON was written in big, bold letters and heavily underlined. Guess their plane lands at noon. Or it's _supposed_ to land at noon, but planes, like buses, trains, and dishwashers, are always late; it'll probably show up three hours behind if it showed up at all. _Sorry for the delay, everyone, we crashed a few times on the way._

They say you're more likely to be involved in a car crash than a plane crash. Lincoln didn't know if that was true or not...but you're also more likely to survive a car crash. You have a chance to walk away from an auto accident, but once a plane starts going down, you're pretty well fucked.

Before he left, he went back into the bathroom. Ronnie Anne stood at the mirror with a towel wrapped around her and gingerly applied eyeliner; there was a staff Christmas party that afternoon and she wanted to look her very best...probably so she could seduce the gym teacher, cheating bitch. "Love you," he said and kissed the side of her neck.

"Love you too," she said.

Since Fatboy needed a ride from the airport, Lincoln couldn't go to the party, which cut him deeply; thanks a lot, Lynn, now I can't hang out with a bunch of teachers dressed in ugly sweaters and Santa hats and drinking 7-11 eggnog in the break room.

That was okay, though; he, Becky, Dustin, and Benny would have their own Christmas party...and he had just the record to play; he needed to grab it from the garage. Heh, almost forgot.

"Next time I see you, I'll have Jabba the Lynn the with me," he said and squeezed her butt.

"Oh yay," she said sarcastically. Don't let her tone fool you, though, she and Lynn got along well. Not surprising, since they were both full of hot air and liked to tease people who couldn't defend themselves. Long ago, Lincoln was a prime target for both, but now that he had a set, they left him alone...until they were together. He could fight one powerful enemy, but not two.

Affectionately patting his wife's bum, Lincoln went outside and started toward the Jeep, but remembered his record halfway there and turned around. The garage, once a confused jumble of junk, was now neatly organized, with a place for everything and everything in its place. Over the summer, he had Tim and Alex come over and help him out; you wouldn't believe the crap they found - clothes, books, and baby toys Lincoln hadn't seen in thirty years and completely forgot existed. In one particularly remote corner, shoved under a work bench he installed and never used, he found a box wrapped in brittle, dust covered yellow paper and sporting a bow.

There was a nametag on it.

LAME-O, it said.

Kneeling there on the concrete floor, he opened it, and inside was a plaid shirt, a sales slip sitting on top - some people took the tags off of their purchases, but Ronnie Anne always left them on to _show how much I love you._ The writing was faded but legible. Fifty bucks...wow, steep for a shirt. When he saw the date, his jaw fell open. DECEMBER 11, 1978. When he showed it to Ronnie Anne, she smacked her forehead. _I_ thought _forgot one of your gifts that year._

Anyway, where was he? Oh, right, his album. What records he couldn't fit on the shelf in the living room went into a cardboard box marked OLD PEOPLE MUSIC (take a guess who wrote _that_ ). It sat under the workbench next to a plastic tote full of summer clothes; Lincoln got down on one knee, pulled it out with a scrape, and flipped through until he found the disc he was looking for. Red text declared it _A Christmas Gift to You From Philles Records_ , and happy black soul singers stood inside giant cardboard boxes coated in wrapping paper. From everything Lincoln had heard, Phil Spector was a goddamn nutcase, but gun waving and possible homicidal maniac or not, the man could produce a record. He couldn't _wait_ to share this with Benny and Becky...the looks of annoyance and suffering on their faces would be the only gift he'd need this year.

In the Jeep, he tossed the record onto the passenger seat, pulled the belt across his lap, and started the engine. 91.9 _The Solid Sounds of Yesteryear_ was on with Elvis singing _Blue Christmas,_ and Lincoln left it because The Grease Man would be on soon, and he liked The Grease Man.

Oh, no, wait, they stopped running his show because he said something racist.

Damn it.

He turned the radio off and drove through the streets of Royal Woods in sullen silence. If he couldn't listen to The Grease Man, he didn't want to listen to anything. He oughta boycott them until they brought him back. _Sir, there's a guy in Royal Woods who won't listen to us until we bring back Grease._

 _Fuck him._

And that's where it would end.

At Flips, a group of guys in hard hats and yellow vests over their hoodies stood around a utility truck and drank coffee from styrofoam cups while others worked on the roof. The contractor, a beefy man named Barry who looked like Al from _Home Improvement_ only stupider, stood by the front door with a blueprint in his hand and talked to one of his men. Lincoln parked well away from the building so no one dropped anything on his Jeep, killed the engine, and got out. He grabbed the record, tucked it under his arm, and crossed the parking lot. Barry looked up, nodded to Lincoln, and sent his man away with an impatient gesture, probably to dig a hole then fill it back in...on Lincoln's dime, no less.

"Mornin', Mr. Loud," Barry said, "we should be done with the seal by the end of the day." There was a proud inflection in his voice that put Lincoln in mind of a not especially bright dog wanting praise for doing something painfully simple. _Pant, pant, pet me, master, pant, pant, I crossed the lawn without falling over._

Lincoln whipped out his keys and cycled through them. "Good," he said.

"Think of it as an early Christmas present," Barry grinned.

Or...I can think of it as you doing the job I paid you for.

"I will," Lincoln said. He found the key, shoved it into the lock, and turned it. Barry lingered like he had something more to say, then hurried off. He probably wanted a Christmas bonus or something. Well, it just so happened that he was in the mood for a little good cheer on earth. Not in the form of money, but food.

Snapping on the overhead lights, he rounded the end of the counter, shrugged out of his jacket, and hung it from the rack. In the kitchen, he dragged a giant stock pot out from the shelf beneath the flat top, lugged it over to the stove, and sat it on one of the burners. He fetched a two pound roll of hamburger meat from the fridge, dropped it onto the prep table, then grabbed one bag each of onions and green peppers from the pantry. He unpackaged the beef, plopped it into the pot, then went about chopping the onions and peppers. He was almost done when Benny came through the batwing doors clad in jeans and a brown pull over sweater. Tall and thin with messy brown hair and a beak-like nose, Benny was twenty-three and one of the most obviously Jewish people Lincoln had ever seen. The only thing that could make him look even more Jewish was a yarmulke...or a set of striped pajamas. Ironically, he was an atheist whose family lost touch with their roots generations ago. When Lincoln interviewed him, he asked him, curiously, what Jewish people ate, since they, like Muslims, were picky little shits, and the boy shrugged. _I dunno, I don't like Jewish food._

"Grab me a couple cans of kidney beans outta the pantry, will you?" Lincoln asked.

Benny dutifully went to the pantry and came back with four cans, then, without being asked, opened each one with the electric can opener. The bell over the door dinged, and Lincoln looked up, hoping for a customer, but it was just Becky. Benny lifted up on his tippy toes and craned his neck to watch her as she shuffled to the time clock. He had a thing for Becky, though he played it off like he didn't. Lincoln confronted him once and he denied it until he was blue in the face. Yeah, well, if you don't like her, why do you keep gawking at her ass, going out of your way to talk to her when she puts an order in, and smiling when she walks by? You can't lie to me, kid, I've seen this type of thing more times than I can count. You might fool your little friends who don't know shit about life, but you don't fool me.

Sighing dreamily, Benny brought the cans over one by one and sat them on the counter. "Special?" he asked.

"Kind of," Lincoln said and dumped one of the cans in, "I figured I'm too much of a Scrooge, so I'd do something nice for those assholes working on the roof. Free chili."

Benny hummed appreciatively. "Can I have some?"

"No, fuck you."

The boy nodded.

"I'm just playing, of course you can. I gotta give you a Christmas bonus some way, and it's not gonna be in dollars."

Benny ticked his head to one side as if to say _makes sense...cuz you're a bigger Jew than I am._

While Benny got the grill started and stole not-so-surreptitious glances at Becky through the order window, Lincoln combined all of the ingredients in the pot, along with a can of stewed, whole tomatoes, then turned the burner on. He checked the clock: 7:45. It'd be done before noon, but just; he'd have to leave before it was served.

Maybe he could leave Benny in charge. He was reluctant, but he was a good enough kid, and as long as he didn't totally destroy the place, what did it matter?

Pushing away from the stove, Lincoln went out into the dining room, slid behind the counter, and parked his ass on the stool beside the register. The paper sat before him and he picked it up; every morning when she came it, Becky put it here for him, and though he rarely thanked her, he appreciated it. Maybe he was sentimental today, but a rush of affection came over him and the urge to sweep Becky into a hug and squeeze her until her spine snapped swelled in his chest. Hell, Benny too. This place was a goddamn cemetery, and he a crotchety old bastard, but they came in everyday and did their absolute best regardless.

Maybe he _should_ give them a little something extra for Christmas. Stop being such a tight wad and slip them a couple twenties as a thank you for putting up with him. Hey, most of it was just him joking around, but there were times he looked in the mirror and the reflection staring back at him was so much like Flip's it was uncanny. Flip was a good man with a heart of gold, but he rarely ever showed it. It was something you had to simply understand, and a lot of people just couldn't. Did Benny and, especially, Becky, know how much he appreciated them? If they were the types who couldn't understand his personality, they probably didn't. That meant, gulp, he had to show them in a tangible manner.

With money.

Eh...maybe he didn't appreciate them _that_ much.

Oh, screw it, yes he did.

Later, though.

After he picked up Fatass.

The morning rush came and went before nine. In the old days, it consisted of five or six dozen people ordering eggs, bacon, and toast, but in the last month of the year 1999, it was comprised of maybe a dozen old timers, some of whom wanted lunch foods. See, old people - people older than Lincoln - liked rising early, probably because they went to bed so early. When you're ninety, you're tuckered out by 7pm and even if you get a full eight hours, you're up at 3am watching infomercials and waiting for the paperboy to deliver the _Republican._ By the time 8am rolled around, it was practically dinner time.

After the last of the oldsters paid his bill and shuffled off, Lincoln went into the kitchen and checked the chili. "How's it coming?" he asked Benny as he lifted the lid.

"It's coming," Benny said.

Dipping the spoon in, Lincoln caught a hunk of meat, lifted it to his lips, and sucked it into his mouth.

The wild tang of raw middle told him it wasn't done.

Undercooked or not, it was pretty good. He was tempted to add a little more spice and a couple healthy splashes of hot sauce, but he didn't want to make it too hot; he liked his chili spicy, but not everyone did.

He replaced the lid and sat the spoon on the stove. "Keep an eye on it," he said.

"I will," Benny promised.

Back in the dining room, Lincoln sat by the register and reached for the paper, but stopped when his eyes fell on the record. Oh, right, A Christmas Gift to You from Lincoln Loud. He got up, grabbed it, and took it over to the jukebox. The guy who serviced it went against company policy and showed him how to remove and replace discs, which had honestly never come in handy until this very moment. Using a special key, he opened the face, plucked out a record at random, and carefully sat the new one in the groove. He closed the face, locked it, and pressed the cycle button until he came to the proper selection. He dropped a dime in and chose _I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus_ by The Ronettes. The music struck up and a slow, nostalgic grin spread across his lips. That wall of sound! Has there ever been anything like it? He didn't know how Phil Spector accomplished it, but it gave all of his recordings a unique and full-bodied flavor profile that transported Lincoln back to the early sixties every time he heard it. He looked around, spotted Becky wiping a table, and zeroed in on her. How do you like it, kid? How do you like it?

She made no sign that she felt anything; she focused on her work with glazed eyes and the expressionless indifference of someone too wise to be bothered by life's trivialities...or too stupid. Come on, roll your eyes and show me you're suffering. Please?

Instead, she moved onto another table, face neutral, if not placid. How old was Becky, anyway? About Alex's age, right? If so, she most likely grew up around this type of music, so she may very well have developed a tolerance for it. He was basing her on Alex and, he realized, he really shouldn't, since Alex wasn't the norm - God, she was anything _but_ normal - and had some kind of sick grudge against his music even as a baby. He flashed back to driving with Alex in the passenger seat, buckled into one of those unpadded, metal, god awful unsafe seventies car seats (Jesus, did we really put our kids in those things?). Little Richard drifted from the speakers like a warm, sepia toned memory, and Alex's face crinkled. She looked at him, brow furrowed, and said, _Jesus, pops, what is this? I've heard better noises in the bathroom at Taco Bell._

That clearly never happened, but her sentiment was virtually the same.

Eh, maybe he'd have better luck with Benny.

Giving the juke a tender pat, he went into the kitchen fully expecting to find Benny on his knees, pulling at his hair and gushing blood from his ears. _Make it stop...MAKE IT STOP!_

Nope.

The little bastard was _humming._

Lincoln didn't know whether to be disappointed or impressed.

Or confused. Jews don't listen to Christmas music.

Do they?

"You like this song?" Lincoln asked.

Benny grabbed a gray oven cleaning brick and scrubbed the grill. "Sure do," he said.

"This version, or the song in general?"

His movements slackened as he tried to decide. "Uh, both. My parents like this kind of thing so I heard a lot of it growing and...I like some of it. Frankie Valli's pretty cool and that guy...uh, the black one."

"Little Richard?" Lincoln asked hopefully.

"No, not him."

"Fats Domino?"

"No, he, uh, he did that song...Ride, Sally Ride?"

"Wilson Pickett."

Benny nodded. "Yeah, him, he's good."

Well, hell, looks like Benny's pretty cool after all. I should give him a raise. _Thanks for liking good music, Ben, here's an extra penny an hour. Don't spend it all in one place, asshole._

Ehh, he said he _kind_ of likes it, right? That lack of dedication doesn't warrant a bump in pay. "I like him too," Lincoln said, "Fats and Little Richard are better, though."

"What about Jerry Lee Lewis?" Benny asked. "My old man _loves_ him."

Lincoln leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "I liked him up until he married his cousin," he said, "then I stopped. Incest is gross and so is Jerry Lee."

"Was she his first cousin?" Benny asked. "I thought she was, like, second or third."

Lincoln wracked his brain. He couldn't remember what she was. "I think she was his first cousin," he said, "yeah, she had to be, with the way everyone went crazy over it." He chuckled fondly. "He went from the biggest rock and roll singer in the world to nothing in less time than it takes to make a phone call."

"Kind of messed up," Benny said, "you know, the way everyone did him."

"It was messed up the way he did his cousin," Lincoln shot back. "He fucked her, so the music industry fucked him." He laughed so hard his chest clutched and he launched into a coughing fit, the ghost of every dart he ever smoked tickling his lungs in revenge for the way _he_ did _them._ Sorry for smoking you guys, okay? Sheesh. Didn't know using you for your intended purpose would cause such a problem. Sorry to have offended you.

When he recovered, he checked the chili again; it bubbled, spat, and hissed like a vat of nuclear waste, and when he spooned a piece of meat into his mouth, it reduced the tip of his tongue to an itty, bitty pillar of ash. Ow, goddamn it. "Needs salt." He turned in a confused semi circle, spotted the salt on the prep table, and grabbed it. He sprinkled some in, stirred, then more. He tasted it again and it was better, though he would have added a little more if he were cooking for just himself. Reducing the heat, he went back into the dining room and sat down. The Ronnetts were on with _Frosty the Snowman_ and Becky swept under one of the tables with an apathetic expression that told him he wouldn't get what he wanted out of her. Maybe if he put one of the songs on repeat…

Later, right now the paper was calling his name. He picked it up, dividing the sections, then started with the national section. **Y2K,** blared one headline, and beneath: **Widespread computer failures not likely, but possible, tech experts say.** On the last page, a black and white photo of a crowded store stared back at him from underneath text reading: **Y2K APOCALYPSE: FEAR OR FACT?** People were stockpiling food, weapons, medical supplies, and ammunition in case of _complete societal collapse,_ the article said, with some going so far as to withdraw all of their savings from the bank. An unnamed _government computer technician_ called it _mass hysteria_ and said that at worst, sporadic outages would occur, then be quickly fixed.

Mark said Y2K was bullshit and Lincoln believed him, but with the constant barrage of doomsaying in the media, he couldn't help but wonder. The cover of the latest edition of _The Weekly World News_ was captioned: _**JANUARY 1, 2000**_ _**The Day The Earth Will Stand Still!**_ It promised:

 **All banks will fail!**

 **Food supplies will be depleted!**

 **Electricity will be cut off!**

 **The stock market will crash!**

 **Vehicles using computer chips will stop dead!**

 **Telephones will cease to function!**

 **Domino effect will cause a worldwide depression!**

Jesus Christ.

 _The Weekly World News_ was notoriously full of shit, but standing in line at the grocery store and reading that, Lincoln's stomach knotted anyway. He prided himself on being level-headed and ignoring media scaremongering, but even so, he made sure to pick up a few extra things just in case.

Like lots of bullets, water, and freeze dried food.

The fear surrounding the possible upcoming digital doomsday was palpable, but not as oppressive as the terror of that one week in October 1962 when the world stood on the brink of war. Now _that_ was scary.

Putting thoughts of Y2K out of his mind, Lincoln flipped to _Dear, Abby._

The rest of the morning passed at a sluggish crawl. Two Michigan state troopers came in at 10 and sat at the counter, which meant Lincoln had to make small talk with them. _Hey, buddy, I carry a gun too, wanna see?_ After they left (without tipping), a group of teenagers came in, set up shop at one of the corner booths, and were still there when over an hour later, laughing, sipping soda, and talking louder than they had any right to. One of them, a boy in baggy jeans, reminded him of Bobby as a teen: Cocky, full of himself, and a dork who didn't know he was a dork (which is the worst _kind_ of dork). He was a dork himself as a teenager, but he had Ronnie Anne and Lynn there to constantly remind him of that fact, so he was painfully aware of what a geek he was. Guys like Bobby and Baggy Jeans are surrounded by simpering yes men lower on the geek totem, so they never have the foggiest idea until much, much later. _Man, look at this old photo of me. Leather jacket? Calculated smile? Enough grease in my hair to fry a hamburger...God, I was so lame._

At 11:30, Benny poked his head through the window. "Hey, Linc, I think the chili's ready."

Laying aside his current read (an issue of _Time_ with a wacko on the cover in a sandwich bored - _The End of the World?!_ ) he got up, went into the kitchen, and, using a pot holder, removed the lid. He dipped the spoon in, brought it to his lips, and slurped a little off, rolling it over his tongue like a wine critic. "Yep, it's done. Start filling up bowls."

He sat the lid on the stove, crossed through the dining room, and went outside. The sky was the color of dirty dish water and a biting wind sliced into him; goosebumps raced up and down his arms and his nipples stiffened painfully.

Barry stood by the open passenger door of a green 1998 Chevy Silverado and talked animatedly into a cell phone. Another man dressed in jeans, work boots, and vest leaned against the front end and sipped coffee from a cup with 7-11 on it. Why he was drinking swill water when there was fresh and reasonably priced coffee inside, Lincoln couldn't say, but construction workers weren't the brightest, so what are you gonna do? Barry held the phone up to his face, pressed a button, and tossed it onto the seat as Lincoln walked up. "How's it coming?" Lincoln asked.

"It's coming," Barry said. He put his hands on his hips and looked up toward the roof, his eyes squinting against the glare of the hidden winter sun. Men walked around in a seemingly aimless pattern while others knelt and applied sealant to the tiles with paint brushes. The law required two coats, with a county building inspector checking each one to make sure it was done up to code. Since the government offices were closed for Christmas, he wouldn't be out until the 28th and he most likely wouldn't approve it until after the first; then the second coat could go on and the process would start all over again.

Bureaucrats. Can't live with them, can't stand them up against a stone wall and shoot them.

Lincoln followed the contractor's line of sight and scanned the roof with an appraising gaze, as though he knew what he was looking at. "Good. I made lunch for you and you boys if you want it. Chili."

"Yeah?" Barry asked, interested, "sure, that'd be great, thank you."

"No problem," Lincoln replied. "It's done now, so whenever you're ready, come and get it."

"Thank you, Mr. Loud, I really appreciate it."

Nodding, Lincoln crossed the parking lot and went back inside, his eyes going to the clock. 11:45. He was already going to be late.

At the window, he peeked in; a fleet of bowls sat on the prep table, Benny ladling chili into each one. "I gotta get my brother at the airport, can you hold down the fort while I'm gone?" _This is a big task,_ his tone said, _and I'm putting my trust in you to carry it out. Can you handle it?_

"Sure," Benny said nonchalantly.

"Alright," Lincoln replied with a twist of foreboding. He was nervous the first time he left Fred in charge too, he told himself, and Fred exceeding expectations.

Except for that one time he had a mental breakdown and almost killed Bobby Jr.

In all fairness, Bobby Jr. _was_ a slacker and being murdered might have turned him around, but a quick glance confirmed that there was no Bobby Jr. in sight. There _was_ a Becky, and were Benny not so damn shy, Lincoln might have to worry about him trying something with her (like hitting on her and getting his face slapped off).

He didn't have time to waste on fretting, so he threw his jacket on, went out to the Jeep, and got behind the wheel just as isolated flakes of snow began to drift from the sky. The weatherman was calling for "less than a quarter inch" but they were wrong just as much as they were right, so he'd assume the worst until shown otherwise.

Starting the engine, he pulled his seatbelt over his chest, put the Jeep in drive, and swung wide to left to avoid a stack of unused tiles. Ten minutes later, he was soaring due south on the interstate with The Drifters filtering from the speakers. The juxtaposition between the summery sounds of _Under the Boardwalk_ and the snow swept fields falling back from the highway struck him as both strange and somehow grotesque, like a sick, cosmic parody. It went off and _The Candy Man_ by Sammy Davis Jr. followed, bringing a smile to Lincoln's face. They parodied this song in an episode of _The Simpsons_ as "The Garbage Man Can." He only knew that because when Blake and Zoe visited, Blake commandeered the TV and watched it.

He reached Detroit twenty-five minutes after setting out; dark buildings thrust up against the sooty sky and economically depressed neighborhoods grew along the road like weeds. He took the airport off-ramp and pulled up to the terminal at 12:16. In the old days before the interstate went up, getting to Detroit from Royal Woods took nearly an hour, now it took half that. See? Not _all_ modern inventions are bad.

Now where's fatty?

He leaned over the wheel to see the double doors leading into the terminal. A black guy in a baseball cap stood to one side and smoked a cigarette, and an old man in a Members Only jacket sat on a bench to the other. If the flight landed at exactly noon (which was a pretty big if), they would probably just be getting through security and making their way to the lobby.

Guess I'm not late after all.

Putting the Jeep in park, he sat back and drummed his fingers on the wheel. His plan was to duck back into Flip's, send Becky and Benny home, then head over to Lori's; she wanted to see Lynn and Kathy and possibly have them, him, and Ronnie Anne for dinner. Bobby Jr., Lola, and the kids were coming in this evening sometime, renting a car, and driving up on their own. Lori was so excited to see her grandkids that she'd been positively bursting with energy for days, and while she didn't look younger than her fifty-nine years, she put off the aura of a giddy girl far, far south of fifty.

It was 12:27 before Lynn finally came through the automatic doors, dressed in a pair of slacks and a sports coat over a white Izod. He pulled a wheeled suitcase behind him. A few moments later, Kathy followed, wearing a long overcoat and already shivering.

Years ago, Lynn was a fat bastard, then he set out to lose weight...and did. His middle was still soft and squishy, like a baby's, but he was no longer what Lincoln thought of as fat. His thick chestnut hair was lightly streaked with gray, but the last time Lincoln saw him, he, curiously, had no wrinkles. His face was rough and leathery from decades of sunlight and desert heat, but not lined. Kathy's hair, dancing around her shoulders in the December wind, was the color of burnished steel, and all of the wrinkles Lynn seemed to have dodged wound up hitting _her_. She looked older than fifty-seven but Lincoln pretended she didn't; she wasn't vain, but her looks did matter to her. Years ago, Lynn confided in him that she was a _southern belle_ and at first, he had no goddamn idea what that meant. _She's a person, not a bell, fat head_. Southern belles are apparently just your garden variety conceited snobs, except with a lot more usage of the word _y'all._ Kathy struck him as a little priggish but never outright snobbish, though who knows how she acted behind his back. _Lynn, y'all's brother done got me cross again. His hair's whiter than a jackrabbit in a snowstorm and..._ he didn't know anymore southern expressions. Oh, _bless your heart._ Alex said that was a huge insult down there; if someone said it, they were basically calling you stupid. She learned it from one of those gay men she hangs out with; maybe Tom or maybe another one.

Throwing open the door, Lincoln climbed out and came around the front end to meet his brother.

"Why don't you just drive one of your used cars?" Lincoln asked as Lynn walked up.

Lynn stopped and looked him up and down. "Cuz I don't wanna be stuck inside a car for fifty hours. Genius. Now give me a hug."

They embraced, and Lynn squeezed as hard as he could, crushing Lincoln to his flabby man breasts. Lincoln grimaced, planted his feet firmly under him, and squeezed back, drawing a breathless _oof_ from Lynn's chest. "You hug like a woman," Lynn said and rocked him roughly from side to side.

Lincoln felt for one of the pressure points in his brother's back, found it, and jabbed it hard. Lynn's arms released and a shudder went burst through his. "Ow, goddamn it, you little runt." Lynn pulled away and Lincoln danced back, one arm thrown defensively up. "I oughta pulverize you," Lynn said and rolled his neck.

After giving Kathy a hug (making sure to look Lynn in the eye and bite his bottom lip suggestively - _I'm gonna steal your wife, fatass, ya better watch out_ ), Lincoln loaded their bags into the cargo compartment, slammed the door, and jumped behind the wheel. Lynn sat in the passenger seat and fiddled with the radio, a confused expression on his face. "What's a good station these days?"

"The one I had it on," Lincoln said.

"Ah, that one's no good."

Lincoln pulled his seatbelt on and turned the key in the ignition. "Best station in the area. All the other ones have gone to the dogs." He glanced in the rearview mirror, waited for a car with roof lights and SECURITY stencled on the side in blue to pass, then pulled away from the curb.

"That doesn't surprise me," Lynn said, "you should hear the crap in Tucson. Worst radio market in the country, I swear to God. Only good station anymore is 101.5 The Cat."

"What's that play?" Lincoln asked.

"Country."

Lincoln's lips twisted sourly, and he favored his brother with open contempt. Lynn furrowed his brows confusedly. "What?" he asked.

"Country?" Lincoln asked, tasting the word as though it were bitter.

"Yeah, I like country," Lynn said with a dismissive shrug, like enjoying country music was _acceptable_.

It wasn't. Lincoln _hated_ country; the twang, the tear-in-my-beer sob stories, the...he didn't even know what the hell it was, but you heard it in a lot of country songs, this high pitched, wavering _sound_ that drove icepicks into his skull and made his eyes bleed. He put country on the same level as rap, although he'd give the hillbillies their due: At least _they_ didn't sing about shooting people, smacking women, and dealing drugs. _Yo, I sold some crack then the cops came and took me back, doing 20 to life, think I'll beat my wife, drive by yo house with my gat, stick it out the window go tat-tat-tat._ Rappers and country singers all need eight months in a bamboo cage; that'll straighten them out.

Lincoln shook his head.

"What?" Lynn asked, bewildered.

"Country's lousy."

"No it's not," he replied defensively. "Conway Twitty -"

Lincoln's nose crinkled. "Didn't he wear sparkly jackets?"

"Uh...sometimes, I think."

Yuck. "He's as bad as those guys Alex listens to. Does he wear his sister's make-up too?"

They were on the interstate now, the desolate Detroit skyline receding behind them. An eighteen wheeler merged into their lane, and Lincoln tapped the brake.

"No, he never went _that_ far." He went back to searching the dial, then, finding nothing he liked, switched to AM, where he settled for a talk show. "There we go," he said, pleased, "Rush Limbaugh."

Lincoln was vaguely aware of who Rush Limbaugh was - huge Republican shill (huge because he had a large listenership, and huge because he was ten times fatter than Lynn). "You listen to this crap too?" Lincoln asked.

Exasperated, Lynn threw his hands. "There's no pleasing you."

That made Lincoln laugh harder than it should have...because to an outside observer, it was true. Of course he could be pleased, but he wasn't one of those types who eat just any turd off the sidewalk, he had standards. Lynn might be easily amused, but not him. "Not when you're you, there isn't."

Dense pine trees pressed against the highway, and blue road signs advertising motels and gas stations flashed by. A blue Michigan State Police car sat on the gravel shoulder behind a Mazda, the cop leaning over to speak to the driver, and Lincoln briefly wondered if he was one of the guys who came into Flip's that morning. They didn't leave a tip, did they? He oughta jerk the wheel and slam into him. _Sorry, officer, I had my retarded brother in one ear and Rush Limbaugh in the other, I kind of lost control._

Ahead, a green sign with white writing appeared. ROYAL WOODS NEXT EXIT. "Whatever, pipsqueak," Lynn said.

Lincoln changed lanes. The off ramp wound around a low hill then filtered out onto Route 29. Left would take him past Marsh Run and right would bring him into downtown Royal Woods. The light changed and he turned right. "We're gonna stop by Flip's real quick," Lincoln said, "then Lori's."

"Alright," Lynn said and shifted his weight, "don't expect me to order anything, though."

"Your kind's not welcome in my restaurant," Lincoln assured him, "don't worry."

Lynn's brow lifted. "What's my kind?"

"Fat used car salesmen."

"I'd sue you for discrimination if I gave a rat's ass."

Flip's was ahead and on the left, the roof crawling with men like an ant covered dirt mound. A tanker sat next to the port-a-potty, a long blue hose snaking through the door and feeding, presumably, into the toilet. Because of the smell, Lincoln paid extra to have it emptied and cleaned twice a week, once on Monday and again on Thursday. Not only did it cut down on the reek of ass, it also ensured that any future spills wouldn't be as bad as the last one.

He turned into the parking lot and guided the Jeep into a slot facing one of the windows; beyond, the dining room stood empty as a tomb on Resurrection Day (as Lori might say), and Lincoln couldn't suppress a flash. He'd be glad to see this goddamn, stupid place go; everyday that it sat abandoned like this was a spit in face and he was getting sick of the shame of presiding over a failed restaurant, and of probably being the town laughingstock when his back was turned. He oughta gather everyone up, pack them in under the pretense of a huge closing party, then bomb the fucking place.

"I'll just be a minute," he said and unclasped his belt. Lynn nodded and, in the back, Kathy yawned.

Throwing open the door, Lincoln got out, closed it, and went inside. The sound of absolute silence was so loud it made his ears ring, and claustrophobia gripped him. Suddenly, he wanted to turn around and never look back, just forget this damn overgrown outhouse ever existed. It gave him a life and saw him through to retirement, so he couldn't claim that it didn't do its job. It had, well, but now the day was done and it was time to clock the hell out.

Going to the register, he counted the day's haul and frowned. If he gave Becky and Benny a Christmas bonus, he'd walk out of here with nothing. Literally nothing. Might as well turn his pockets inside out and fly his Hoover flags. That's what they call it, you know; Dad said people used to do that during the Depression, and they called them Hoover flags after Herbert Hoover, the president. These days, they have Clinton flags - a condom hanging out of your pocket. _I did not have sexual relations with that woman...unprotected *wink*_

Looking at the cash in his hand, he sighed. Fuck it, they could have it. Merry Christmas.

He shut the register and went into the kitchen.

It was empty.

He looked around the dining room, and it, too, was deserted.

Where are my employees?

Bathroom?

He went to the men's room and pushed the door open. The light and fan were both on, but no one was in. He went to the women's next and respectfully knocked. He owned this sinking ship and was damn well entitled to do anything he wanted...except walk into the ladies' room. No one called out, so he opened the door a crack and stuck his head in, keeping his eyes on the floor; he assumed women used the head just like men, but he wasn't taking any chances of embarrassing a woman...or himself. "Hello?"

His voice echoed.

The reply did not.

Because there was none.

Pulling out, he put his hands on his hips. Huh. Were they necking in the pantry?

The idea of Benny overcoming his shyness and luring Becky (who was a good six or seven years older than him, by the way) into a make out session amused him. It wasn't impossible, though; with a little elbow grease and a bit of grunting, you can get almost any girl provided she doesn't hate you...and even then you could pull it off.

Going into the kitchen, he crossed to the pantry, opened the door...and sputtered.

Benny, his back to the door, pressed Becky against the wall and attacked her throat with hungry kisses, her tilted head and a look of rapute on her face. One of her legs was wrapped around his waist and his hand...Jesus God, his hand was up her dress, flying back and forth with the frantic lust of a man nearing his peak. Becky's flushed face clenched and her closed eyelids twitched spasmodically; she sucked ragged gulps of air through parted lips and undulated her hips smoothly against his touch, her leg pulling him instantly closer. Lincoln hadn't seen many encounters like this, but he'd been involved in a few and knew damn well where it was heading next.

He cleared his throat, and Benny jumped back like a shot, leaving Becky frozen in wide-eyed horror. Benny turned his head away from Lincoln and thrust his fingers into his hair like he had an itch that required his full and vigorous attention. "H-Hey, M-Mr. Lincoln," he said, voice breaking, "I found those...buns."

Becky held her hand up to shield her face and busied herself smoothing out the front of her dress. Lincoln looked indecisively from one to the other, not sure how to proceed. In all his time owning this glorified trash can, he'd never had to deal with something like this. Although he was certain Fred and Luan must have gotten up to something in the building, he never walked in on them and he never asked. "In my pantry, huh?" he asked because he didn't know what else to say.

"I-It just happened," Benny said, "we didn't _mean_ to…"

"Yeah, the captain of the Titanic didn't mean to sail his ship into an iceberg. That didn't make all those people feel better as they were drowning."

Neither one replied; both shook in holy terror like sinners in the majesty of God Himself ( _y'all done fucked up now, hope ya like locust_ ). "I'm closing down for the day," he said, "pick this back up on your own time."

With that, he closed the door and went into the dining room, where he sat by the register. The little bastard actually did it, he thought with a snort. Didn't think he had it in him.

A few minutes later, Becky came out of the kitchen with her gaze downcast and scurried toward the door, the stench of shame clinging to her in a choking cloud.

"Hey," Lincoln said, and she halted, "come here."

She stiffened in fear, then turned and dragged herself to the counter like a misbehaved girl to her punishment. She kept her eyes down as she waited for him to further reprimand or even fire her. When he shifted, she cringed, and he was both amused and annoyed. There's a new word for people like you, Becky. Drama queen.

Reaching into his pocket, Lincoln laid her pay and an extra twenty on the counter in front of her. "There. Merry Christmas."

She darted a hopeful glance at his face, then grabbed the money and shoved it into the pocket of her apron. She turned to leave, but Lincoln stopped her again. She tensed, imagining perhaps that the hammer was going to drop after all. "Don't do that in my restaurant again," he said, then added, "please?"

"I-I won't," she said.

"Thank you."

When he didn't say anything else, she hurried out. A few minutes later, Benny walked out with the somber expression of a man in a funeral procession. He stopped, reached behind his back, and untied his apron, his movements slow and grim. Lincoln had seen more enthusiasm from men going to the gallows. He stripped the apron off, hung it up, and took a deep, steeling breath. He went around the counter and presented himself to Lincoln for punishment. If he shot him, Lincoln figured, and told the police it was self-defense ( _I caught him and one of the waitresses, and when I went to write him up, he went crazy)_ , he could save himself a few bucks.

"Here," he said and slapped Benny's money on the counter, "Merry Christmas. Keep it in your pants when you're here from now on, okay?"

Benny nodded quickly. "I will," he vowed.

Lincoln pushed the money toward him. "Now get outta here, I wanna go home."

Five minutes later, Lincoln turned off the grill, all the lights, and left, locking the door behind him. Becky drove past as he went to the Jeep and turned right onto Main. Benny passed a moment later, also turning right.

He did not live in that direction.

"That took a lot longer than I thought it would," Lynn said as he climbed in.

"Yeah, I had something to deal with," Lincoln said.

"What?" Lynn asked.

Lincoln didn't like his incredulous tone. "None of your damn business."

He started the engine, pulled out onto the street, and set a course for Lori's.


	209. December 1999: Part 2

**MasterCaster: Not a bad idea, but I've already written the ending of this story and it's a little different from your vision.**

 **Guest: I probably won't do any AUs of this story once it's finished. When it's over, it's over.**

You know what sucks? When your favorite (and, okay, _only_ ) sister lives 3,000 miles away. Though she and Jessy IM'd and talked on the phone, Alex still missed her even after all these years. Like a burn healing over time, the sting lessened, but never fully went away. In _Psycho,_ Norman Bates said _A boy's best friend is his mother._ Alex always thought that was the creepiest thing ever. _Your best friend is a family member? What a loser! Did you take your mom to prom too, weirdo?_ Family members, to her way of thinking, were in an entirely different category than friends...like musical genes. Alex liked all types of different tunes, but her heart belonged to AC/DC, Motley Crue, Aerosmith, and The Ramones. Other types of music were friends - they came and went, but...hair metal...hair metal was family.

After Jessy struck off west, however, she came to realize something.

An Alex's best friend is her Jessy.

She never connected with anyone the way she did with Jessy, she never felt as comfortable or at ease with the non-Jessy as she did with the Jessy. Jessy was like a pair of comfy shoes all broken in...everyone else pinched her toes.

Except for Tim, but he didn't count; as her husband and the father of her children, he really _was_ in a different category. What she felt for him was, in a way, similar to what she felt for Jessy, but not identical; both emotions were strong, but not the same. Though she once considered herself one of the best writers alive (she hadn't written anything lately, so her position slipped a little), she couldn't really explain the contents of her heart. The heart is complex and sometimes contradictory, so she couldn't really blame herself for being unable to fully chart and articulate it - not many people ever do. Suffice it to say, Jessy was really important to her and she missed her a lot...which is why she was super stoked to put her, Mark, and Allison up during their time in Royal Woods. As soon as Dad brought up the idea of Jessy staying at the trailer, Alex's mind started working, and when she hung up, she began to plan.

There were only two bedrooms in the trailer, hers and Tim's (and Zoe's) and Blake's, so the family Jessy would have to bunk in the living room. That presented a problem since there was only one couch...a couch that, while cozy, wouldn't fit Jessy and Mark overnight despite both of them being thin. She assumed they'd bring a pack n play for Ally to sleep in, so she was taken care of. Hmmm. What to do, what to do.

Oh, I know.

Buy a new couch.

She approached Tim that night at dinner with the utmost aplomb and diplomacy.

 _Jessy, Mark, and Ally are staying here, so we're buying a pull out couch. Prepare your wallet._

His fork, full of food, paused halfway to his mouth. _We are?_

 _Yep,_ she said. _We need a new couch anyway. Ours is getting kiiiinda funky._

They both looked up at it. A dark forest green color, it was crisscrossed with rips and tears, and splattered years worth of spills, baby pee (and puke), and food stains. They bought it when they moved into the apartment, so they'd had it for a while. You know, they say you should change your pillow every seven years (or was it that long?), so why not your couch? If you have a full and active life like they did, it got lots of use, so it was bound to get a little scummy. Mom and Dad had the same couch they'd had since the seventies (God, probably since they bought the house on Cleveland), but they weren't very lively, if you know what I'm saying. Dad sat in his chair and read, Mom graded papers, then they went to bed. They also didn't let her and Jessy have drinks and food in the living room, so the only thing that got spilled on their couch were butts and limbs.

Tim nodded and shoveled his food into his mouth. _Alright,_ he said, _what kind?_

Ah, therein lies the question. There were lots of couches with beds hidden inside of them (like hard, chalky candy inside of a Wonder Ball - _what's in the Wonder Ball?_ Yuck, that's what). Did they have leather pull-outs? 'Cause she kind of wanted leather this time. Diane, a neighbor down the street, had one and it looked really nice - felt really nice too.

Her preferences would have to take a back seat; this was about Mark and Jessy having a soft, comfy place to sleep. Her favorite sister and her husband deserved only the best, and she would spare no expense in making sure they had it.

A week before Jessy was set to fly out, she and Tim took a whole Saturday to browse furniture stores. They dropped Blake and Zoe off at Mom and Dad's because both of them would be bored out of their minds, then drove up to Elk Park. The first place they checked was the new Super Wal-Mart, a low building with a blue roof overlooking the interstate. Their selection stank, though, and next they hit a family run place called Teagan's, where the atmosphere was one of refined sophistication (the salesmen wore suits, classical music played over the loudspeakers, and low lamplight provided a warm, intimate glow). The showroom was filled with cool couches for as far as the eye could see - so many that Alex was overwhelmed. Like _whoosh._ Imagine being knocked down by a tide of couches, and they just keep coming; pinning you down, filling your mouth, your nose, not letting you breathe, you scream in terror and a futon slips down your throat and your life flashes before your eyes. She was dizzy, disoriented, and needed to sit down, so she dropped into an overstuffed armchair and heaved a deep breath. Tim perched on the edge of a coffee table and faced her, his forehead wrinkling in bemusement. _That's a whole lotta couches,_ she commented.

Tim looked over his shoulder and scanned the room as though he had _no_ clue what she was talking about. _Yeah, it is,_ he agreed. _Kind of intimidating._

See? He got her in a way no one else did save for Jessy. _I know, right? Like, my head's spinning. What color should we get? What style? Modern or traditional? Leather or not? I totally forgot how stressful furniture shopping is._

 _Yeah, it sucks. Let's just grab the first thing we see._

Aaaaaaand now he's _not_ getting me. _We can't do that._ She lifted one butt cheek off the cushion, plastered the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, and dug in her pocket; Tim rolled his eyes and shook his head like she was a massive lame-o, but she didn't care because that was the pot calling the kettle black. She pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, unfolded it, and held it up. _Our new sofa must conform to three standards._

 _Comfort, size, and style,_ Tim recited from memory.

 _Right, and to meet point three, it must blend in with its surroundings. We can't buy just_ any _couch, Tim, c'mon. Use your noodle._

 _Fine, get off your ass and let's find a couch. The longer we sit here, the longer we'll_ be _here._

Good point.

Getting to her feet, she set off in search of the most awesome pull-out couch she could lay her hands on.

She didn't find it. When she said there were a lot of couches, she wasn't lying; aisles and aisles of them, in every color, style, and fabric you can imagine. There were brown couches, white couches, black couches, plaid couches like Mom and Dad's, polka dot couches, couches that turned into beds, couches that turned into smaller couches, couches with built in cup holders (ooh), even couches with vibrating backs for those days when your muscles were extra tense. There were so many options that she was paralyzed. Uhhh...where do I even start? Tim didn't look much better: He glanced from side to side with a stricken expression and sweated profusely like a man in the hot seat on _Who Wants to be a Millionaire?_

When a voice spoke behind her, she jumped with a cry of alarm. A salesman in a red blazer flashed a winning smile, and Alex fluttered her hand to her chest. Jeez, buddy, you almost gave me a heart attack. Do you get your rocks off sneaking up on people like that? _Hi, there,_ he said and looked from her to Tim. His blonde hair was combed to one side and his teeth were so big they pushed out his jaw, putting her in mind of a horse...or H.P. Lovecraft. Either one. _Would you folks like some help?_

 _Sure,_ Alex said. She explained what she was looking for, and he listened with the calculated sincerity of a man whose commission depended on selling a couch.

 _Well, we have lots of great models. This one right here, for instance…_

A half an hour later, she and Tim paid five hundred dollars for a simple green pull out couch. The mattress was so thin you could practically see through it and when she laid on it, a metal bar pressed into her lower back, but unfortunately, them's the breaks, Jess.

Because it was so heavy and she and Tim didn't own a truck, they paid an extra fifty bucks to have it delivered the following day, then another fifty to have the old one hauled away and disposed of. They were probably going to fix it up and resell it, but whatever, that wasn't her business. She had a couch that turned into a bed and that's all the mattered.

The next afternoon, a big box truck pulled up to the curb and two men in coveralls carried the old couch out.

Now, Alex was no slob, she cleaned _religiously,_ but, uh, she may have slacked a little in the moving the sofa to clean under it department. The floor beneath it was absolutely _covered_ in stuff, some of which she hadn't seen in forever, like her purple sock (how did _that_ get under there?)

 _Hey, look, it's Zoe's old bottle,_ Blake said and pointed. A bottle filled with curdled, chunky milk lay against the wall. Zoe hadn't drink from a bottle in close to four months. Her last one went missing and -

Oh.

OH.

Zoe, hitherto standing in front of the TV, glanced over her shoulder, saw it, and widened her eyes in pleasant surprise. _Oh, hey, there it is._ She turned and toddled toward it, but Alex was faster; she snatched it up and took it into the kitchen. _No-no,_ she said, and Zoe's face fell, _ucky._ She started to throw it into the sink, but changed course at the last minute and tossed it in the trash. After her bubby disappeared (wow, was it really back there all this time?), Alex switched her to sippy cups; it was a long, hard transition full of crankiness, crying, and temper tantrums, but they made it, and the last thing Zoe needed right now was a relapse, but Alex feared that being reminded of the bottle would lead to one, like a former smoker catching a whiff of cigarettes.

And she was right.

For the rest of the day, Zoe walked around asking for her bottle. _Baba? Baba?_ She walked up to Blake, who sat Indian style before the TV, laid her hand on his shoulder, and leaned in. _Baba?_

 _I don't have your bottle,_ he said, _it's in the trash._

Next, she found Alex's purse, sat down with it in her lap, and rummaged through. _Baba?_

She only forgot about it that night when her daddy tucked her in and read her a bedtime story; the warm safety of his presence and the soothing sound of his always calmed her down, and she was powerless to do anything but fall asleep.

Two days before the big day, Jessy emailed Alex her flight information: She and Mark were leaving on a red eye and landing in Detroit at 10am, whereupon they would rent a car and drive up. Alex expected them about noon, which was perfect: She could welcome them with a yummy and nutritious lunch and instant coffee made the Alex Underwood way...which was the normal way, but better...because it was made by her.

After getting the email and responding back with _Can't wait to see you! :) :) :),_ Alex shut the computer down and got up. She didn't usually turn it off in the middle of the day like this, but with Y2K, she wasn't taking any chances. Mark said nothing was going to happen, and while he was a certified computer expert, she couldn't help feeling just a _little_ uneasy around it lately, as though it would explode at the stroke of midnight. _You got mail BOOOOOOM_.

Heh, that wasn't gonna happen, though. Like Dad said, it was scaremongering.

And, uh, it was kind of working. Come on, can _you_ listen to doomsday stuff for weeks and months without feeling just a little apprehensive? If so, you're a better man than me.

Best not to think about that, though. Think about, uh...what a lame-o Dad is. Sure, it might be old hat, but it's still a crowd pleaser. Can you believe he's selling Flip's? He'd been talking about it for years, but it looked like this time he was serious. It was sad to see it go like that, since it was basically a member of the family, but, let's be honest here, the place makes Dad miserable. Getting rid of it will do him good. He just needed a hobby...other than thinking about Vietnam and reading gun magazines. God, putting it like that makes him sound like a dangerous nutcase one stiff breeze away from shooting up a McDonald's, but he's not. He's her dad and he's secretly really great 3

On December 18, Uncle Lynn and Aunt Kathy came into town, and on her way to work, Alex stopped at Mom and Dad's to see them; she found Mom and Aunt Kathy chatting on the couch like two gossipy old women (but that's okay, because they _were_ two gossipy old women), and Dad and Uncle Lynn at the kitchen table...arm were both flush, sweaty, straining, and grunting...it wasn't pretty.

Eyeroll, really guys? Come on, this is so immature.

 _Can I go next?_

They both looked up at her, and she gave a toothy smile.

 _No,_ Dad said flatly.

 _Oh, come on, afraid I'll win?_

He and Uncle Lynn exchanged a glance...then broke out laughing. All kidding aside, that kind of stung. No, she wasn't very muscular, and yes, they could both probably decimate her, but still. _Fine,_ she said, _have fun breaking each other's arms like little boys._

 _We will,_ Uncle Lynn assured her.

The next day, Alex got off work at 5am and drove home through a light snow shower - she traded shifts with another nurse so that she could get some shut eye before Jessy came. At the trailer, she parked next to Tim's truck, went inside, and got undressed in the darkened bedroom. Tim lay on his back, one arm thrown out and resting on her pillow; she liked to think he missed her and was cuddling with it earlier, but he was probably enjoying the extra space.

Well...move over, buddy, cuz Alex is back in town and she wants her spot.

In just her underwear and a T-shirt, she crawled in and curled up next to him, head in the crook of his arm, leg thrown over his, hand on his bare chest. She closed her eyes and a tiny smile touched her lips; with their conflicting schedules, they rarely ever got to cuddle in bed or fall asleep together, two things she greatly missed. This was nice, really n -

 _BEEP-BEEP-BEEP._

Alex's eyelids flew open and Tim stirred.

Well... _that's_ over.

Muttering sleepily, Tim rolled onto his side and fumbled for the alarm before finding it and slapping the OFF button. Alex slipped her arms around him and wrapped her legs around his waist. "Nooo _,_ " she drew needily.

Tim rolled over and their eyes met; his were hazy, unfocused, and fighting to fall closed again. He was really cute when he was dying of exhaustion. "I gotta get up," he muttered.

She held him as tight as she could. "You're not going to work today," she said with absolute and unshakable certainty. "You're staying _right_ here."

"I wish I could," he said, "but I can't."

She understood that 100 percent, but she made no move to release him. In fact, she clung even tighter, like a beleaguered monkey hanging on for dear life to a slowly snapping branch. "Yes you can."

He brushed his fingers through her hair and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

She let him go and he stood on shaky legs. She resolved to stay awake until he left, but weariness overcame her and she didn't wake again until something hard and plastic whacked her in the face hours later. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing in the center of her skull and terror gripping her chest, and jerked a bleary look around, expecting a serial killer to be there.

Nope, it was just Zoe. She stood in her crib, hands clasping the top rail, and bounced excitedly when Alex's eyes fell on her. _Yay, Mommy, you're awake!_

Ugh, yes, I am.

"That hurt Mommy," she said thickly and rubbed her forehead. What was it, anyway? She twisted left and right, and spotted Zoe's sippy cup leaking red juice onto Tim's pillow. She picked it up and held it so that Zoe could see. The little girl's smile widened and she bounced even harder. _My sippy cup! You found it!_ "You do _not_ throw things at people," Alex said sternly.

Zoe's smile fell a little as if in doubt, then she jumped and let out an ear piercing cry of " _Ippy!"_

"Throwing your ippy is _bad_."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Zoe's face and she stopped mid-bounce. Like any toddler, Zoe had her fair share of...ahem...social transgressions, the worst of which was biting. For three months she toddled around the house biting everyone and everything. Blake would be sitting in front of the TV, and she'd come over, lean into his shoulder, and chomp down. _Ow, Zoe bit me!_ became the unofficial motto of the Underwood residence. No one was safe; she got Mom, Dad, Aunt Lori, and even Jordan. Alex was sitting on the couch one day when Jordan came up, put her hands behind her back, and politely waited to be acknowledged. _Mrs. Underwood, Zoe bit me._ Alex rolled her eyes. _Zoe Sophia! Stop BITING!_ They finally broke her of the habit, but she replaced it with one that was just as bad: Spitting. The horrified cries of her victims sent her into hysterical giggles and Alex honestly wondered if she was a bad seed like the boy from that movie. Blake didn't help matters; he finally got so sick of being spit on that he started spitting back, which lead Zoe to think it was even cooler than she imagined since her awesome big brother was doing it too.

Now, her thing was throwing stuff. Toys, her sippy, random things she picked up off the floor; the other day she got Alex with a dryer sheet, probably the freshest and most sweet swelling physical assault Alex had ever been a part of. A few hours later, she stripped her pull up off and tossed it at Tim; it hit the back of his leg, fell to the floor with a wet _plop,_ and split, spilling pee soaked pull up innards all over the kitchen floor.

Getting to her feet, Alex hit the bathroom, then picked Zoe up and dropped her on the bed, making her giggle. After dressing her in a festive red and green dress with a little bow on the chest (aww, she looks like a present, Jess will love it), they went into the living room.

To absolutely no one's surprise, Blake and Jordan were parked in front of the TV with a box of cereal between them and _Courage The Cowardly Dog_ on the TV. Blake wore black shorts and a blue and white striped T-shirt with a collar and Jordan wore jeans and a pink sweater with the Powerpuff Girls emblazoned across the front. Their shoes and socks were strewn across the floor like the clothing of lovers who undressed each other on the way to bed.

That imagine brought a frown to Alex's lips. That was really dirty, Bunny, why would you think that?

Because that's what it looks like.

Beside her, Zoe stooped down, picked up a pink sock, and threw it at Blake; it landed well short of him, and he didn't even seem to notice that he just narrowly avoided being Zoe'd. Alex bopped her the top of her head, and she looked up at her. "No. Throwing. Things."

Jordan looked over and smiled. "Hi, Mrs. Underwood, hi, Zoe."

"Hi," Alex said then waited for Blake to greet her. When he didn't, she said, "Hi, Mom, good to see you."

He muttered something that may have been "Mornin'."

Or maybe it was "mournin'."

As in _mournin' cuz my lame-o Mom's here._

I'll have you know I did all of my being cool in the eighties and now I'm allowed to be lame. Just like Dad. He did all his being cool in Vietnam when he broke out of that POW camp and went full Rambo on the Cong, so, all kidding aside, he earned the right to be a dork.

Leaving Zoe, Blake, and Jordan to their own devices (which was a really bad idea, come to think of it), Alex went into the kitchen and glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was just past nine and her eyes ached monstrously. Yawn. On the bright side, she had tomorrow off so she could get a full night's rest then do something fun and cool with Jess tomorrow. She was considering taking the kids to that new Chuck E. Cheese in Chippewa Falls; it had lots of arcade games, and while Mark babysat the kids, they could have a blast killing each other, racing each other, and saving the earth from alien scum.

Ah, just like the old days.

Because she really needed a pick me up, she brewed a pot of coffee, then went into the living room, grabbed the cereal from its spot between Blake and Jordan, and carried it to the counter. She poured a bowl for herself and one for Zoe, then took them to the couch and sat down. Zoe sat in Jordan's lap and stared mezmerized at _2 Stupid Dogs,_ her thumb thrust into her mouth. "Zo-Zo," Alex said, "want some cereal?"

Zoe ignored her.

"Cereal? Zoe? No?"

No reply.

Alright, more for me. Alex ate both bowls, then got up and put them in the sink. In her room, she dressed for the day in jeans and a black T-shirt, then got to cleaning. The trailer wasn't _dirty,_ but Jessy was coming over so she wanted it to look its best. She started in the kitchen, doing the dishes, putting the clean dishes from the drying rack away, wiping the countertops, sweeping the floor, and finally mopping. She wedged two chairs between the end of the island and the wall to keep everyone from entering and slipping, then went to Blake's room, put away his laundry, then cleaned his bathroom. He had a really bad habit of peeing on the floor and then leaving it. She made sure he understood that his aunt and uncle would be using this bathroom too and that he was expected to be extra hygienic until they left. _If you have to sit down to keep from getting it on the floor,_ she told him yesterday, _sit down._

 _But, Mom, that's how girls pee,_ he moaned.

 _That's true, that is how we pee...we also don't get any on the floor._

Next, she sprinkled the floor with carpet cleaner, then vacuumed. The noise drove Blake and Jordan outside to play, and in their absence, Zoe climbed onto the couch and lay there, intently watching Alex work. After a few minutes, she got up again, crossed to her toybox, and dropped onto her butt. She snatched a stuffed rabbit and stared at it like it owed her money.

Finally done and lightly coated in sweat like a turkey basting in the oven, Alex sank onto the couch, threw her head back, and let out a groan. Why didn't anyone tell me how hard keeping house was? You know, aside from all the times she made a mess and Mom lectured her. _I work all day, the last thing I want to do when I come home is pick up your sneakers, coat, and empty chip bags._ She never argued because c'mon, she knew making a mess and expecting someone else to clean it up was immature, but she always thought Mom was being melodramatic. Oh boo hoo, I had to bend over. Nope, she was right.

At 11:30, she laid Zoe down in her crib for a nap then went to the fridge. Jessy and Mark would be here soon and she needed to get their awesome WELCOME BACK lunch started. There was just one teensy, weensy problem: She kinda sorta neglected to buy anything. There was food in the house, but nothing befitting the occasion. A lunch such as this calls for steak, or lobster, or caviar (I say, Jess, doesn't this pair splendidly with chardonnay?). As it stood right now, she had commoner food, like Hot Pockets, frozen pizza, lunch meat, and Campbell's soup. She could always order something (there was this great pizza place just down the road, and a Chinese restaurant that made the _best_ lo mein), but she really wanted to cook something herself, like choosing to make a card from the heart rather than buy one. Hand made stuff is _waaaay_ more personal than store bought crap.

She stepped back from the fridge, crossed her arms, and scrunched her lips. Alrighty then, I'll just have to improvise. That's the hallmark of _real_ intelligence, you know; being able to think on your feet. I'll just -

The door opened and Blake leaned in. "Aunt Jessy's here."

Already?

I mean SHE'S HERE!

A surge of elation swept through her, and trembling with excitement like a chubby, half Hispanic dog, she closed the fridge and crossed to the door. A silver sedan sat at the curb. When Alex walked out onto the porch, Jessy was reaching into the back to get Allison and Mark was standing by the open driver side door and looking around like he'd never seen a mobile home community before. He and Jess-a-less were rich now; she was surprised they were able to get in here - she expected them to burst into flames at the threshold like a couple of geeky vampires.

Jessy hefted Allison out, slipped her forearm under the little girl's butt, and slammed the door. She turned, and a big, dumb smile that Alex couldn't contain broke across her lips. She gave an excited wave, and Jessy returned it. Allison, wispy brown hair fluttering in the breeze, squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun. One and a half, she wore a floral print dress, white buckle shoes, and a little fur lined coat. Eyeroll. It's not _that_ cold, Jess, your blood's just thinning out.

Coming down the stairs, Alex walked over, zeroing in on her niece and crouching slightly forward like a big, half Hispanic cat stalking its little, fully white prey. "I see my baby Ally," she cooed. Allison furrowed her brows and watched Alex come with the haughty curiosity of a queen observing the rabble for the first time. Alex stopped in front of her, grinned slyly...then tickled her belly. She issued a breathy laugh and whipped away, upsetting her mother's balance and almost knocking her over. "She gets bigger and bigger every time I see her," Alex commented.

"Heavier, too," Jessy said.

Allison buried her face bashfully in the crook of her mother's neck as if embarrassed. "Is that true?" Alex asked. "Do you keep getting _sooo_ heavy?"

The baby shook her head, and Alex and Jessy both laughed. "How was the flight?" Alex asked after they hugged.

"Good," Jessy said and looked over at Mark as he walked up. He wore a white polo shirt tucked into tan slacks, reminding Alex so much of her father she almost called him a mean name. "A little tiring, but not too bad."

Mark slipped his arm around Jessy's shoulders, and Alex swatted his chest. "Hey, loser, ready for Y2K?"

"Yes," he stated, "Microsoft has worked out all of the -"

"I mean you specifically."

He favored her with a blank stare. "As ready as I am for any other day," he finally replied.

A cold wind gust blew over them, and Alex shivered. Okay, Jess, I was wrong, it is cold out here. She looked around and spotted Blake across the street with Jordan and a bunch of other kids. Coat? Check. Hat? Check. Scarf?

Nope-a-roony. His neck was bare and unprotected. She narrowed her eyes and started to call out, but stopped herself. Yelling at him in front of his friends to go inside and put his scarf on is _exactly_ the type of humiliating Mom thing she always swore she _wouldn't_ do. It wasn't even that cold anyway. "I hope you're ready for an awesome week," she said, "cuz that's exactly what you're in store for."

They were making their way to the porch now, Alex in the lead. "I could go for awesome," Mark said. "Work's been really tedious lately."

She bet. Computers were fun to use and all (they're at their funnest when you're emailing your sister random emoticons), but she imagined working on them - or their software - was boring as all get out. When she pictured Mark's working conditions, she saw him sitting in a stuffy office in stuffy clothing and staring at spreadsheets, pie charts, and PowerPoints all day. That's most likely not what his workday really looked like, but it represented the overall experience to her...and it was awful. She needed to be up and moving in wide, open spaces; the thought of being closed up in an office and sitting at a desk all day sent a shiver down her spine.

Climbing the stairs, she opened the storm door and let Jessy and Mark go in first. She came in behind, and let the door fall closed behind her. She left the outer one open so she could easily keep an eye on Blake.

"That's the new couch," she said and nodded at it, "it's not the comfiest, but it's something at least. You guys want some coffee?"

Jessy sat down and set Allison on the floor. "Yes, please."

At the coffee pot, Alex poured a cup for each of them, then took them into the living room. She sat Mark's and Jessy's in front of them, then dropped into the couch next to Mark. "Where's Zoe?" Jessy asked.

"Napping," Alex said. "I wasn't expecting you guys so early. I was going to make lunch but, uh, I don't have anything. You wanna order out?" An idea occurred to her, and she snapped her fingers. Why didn't I think of this before? "Actually, we can go somewhere. If you're hungry. I can eat but I'm not starving or anything."

That wasn't entirely the truth...she wasn't starving, but she _was_ famished.

Jessy shrugged noncommittally. "We can go somewhere if you wa -"

Alex was already up. "Let me get my coat."

* * *

It was just past 6pm when Lynn III, Ritchie, and Maddie got into town. Ronnie Anne and Kathy were making dinner (that goddamn tuna casserole again), Lincoln was sitting in his chair and reading the latest issue of _Things You Never Knew Existed_ , and Lynn slouched on the sofa watching _Miracle on 34th Street_ on Turner Classic Movies. Lincoln might not show it in the conventional way, but he was glad his brother was here...he just wished the bastard would shut up and let him read his magazine in peace. "...then _I_ told _him,_ it's not the size, it's the way you use it!" He slapped his knee and laughed uproariously.

Lincoln grated and shifted his eyes suspiciously to him. He had no idea what the hell Lynn was talking about, he'd been ignoring him for the past ten minutes, maybe more. "What?"

"I said -"

"I heard _that,_ " Lincoln said, "size of what?"

Lynn blinked in confusion. "Car."

Oh. Lincoln thought he meant something else. "Small cars need love too," he said.

"You weren't even listening to me," Lynn said, "were you?"

"No, I was not."

Lynn started to reply, but someone knocked on the door. "Get that, will you?" Lincoln asked.

"This is _your_ house."

"Yeah, and it's probably _your_ daughter."

Grunting dismissively, Lynn got to his feet, crossed to the door, and opened it. "Hey, honey!"

"Hey," Lynn III replied.

Told you. Lincoln turned the page and scanned it; cookware stared back at him, a lot of it as-seen-on-TV things he _did_ know existed, like the "atomic juicer" and the toaster with a built in radio. A built in radio, can you believe that? He didn't know if it was the stupidest thing ever or the greatest. It certainly saved space. Once upon a time, your TV was the size of a wardrobe, your radio was three feet tall, and your toaster oven took up half your counter space, now everything was small, compact, and pulling double duty.

A shadow fell over him and he instinctively tensed. Long time, no see, Charlie. He looked up, and Lynn III, dressed in jeans and a red sweater, arched her brows. "I said _Hi, Uncle Lincoln._ "

"HI," he replied. Behind her, Maddie, in jeans and a black T-shirt with a bald man's goatee'd face on the chest, sat down next to her grandfather. Her father sat on her other side and yawned. "How was the drive?"

"Long," Lynn III said, "and boring."

"Just like your father's life," Lincoln said. It was a weak insult, but it was all he had.

"Like your face," Lynn Jr. shot back.

Later, they all crowded around the dining room table for dinner, sx adults and one kid wedged elbow to elbow. Lincoln wound up next to Maddie, and after grace (at Kathy's insistence), he turned to her, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. "Who's that?"

"Who?" she asked, bewildered.

He nodded at her shirt. "Baldy."

She looked down at her shirt, then beamed up at him. "That's Stone Cold."

"Stone Cold?" Lincoln asked sourly. "That's a strange name."

"He's a wrestler," Lynn III said and forked a piece of casserole into her mouth, "that's just his nickname. His real name is Steve Austin."

Lincoln nodded as though he completely understood, even though he didn't. Alex used to watch wrestling now and then, and he thought it was boring. Spectator sports never made sense to him, like porn. He didn't want to watch, he wanted to be involved. What did people get from sitting there and looking at it? Then again, he didn't mind boxing; he didn't seek it out, but if nothing else was on, he'd watch it. Until he got bored. Which never took long. "Whatever happened to that one guy you used to like? The big blonde one?"

A dark shadow crossed Lynn III's face, and Ritchie hung his head. "Oh, now you did it."

"We don't talk about him," Lynn III said ominously.

"Why not?" Lynn Jr. asked. "That's the Hogan guy, right? You used to love him. Said you wanted to be just like him one day." There was a mischievous glint in his eye that suggested he was knowingly teasing her.

Lynn III stabbed a piece of casserole with her fork and pursed her lips in annoyance. "He wasn't what I thought he was."

"He's a loser," Maddie said. Her expression was just as strained as her mother's.

Apparently Lincoln touched a nerve. His first instinct was to keep going - talk about how much he liked the guy (what was his name? Horgan?) and lavish praise on him as a performer and a human being - but he didn't for Maddie's sake. He could make fun of adults until the cows came home, but he drew the line at children.

After dinner, Lincoln and Lynn handled the dishes, Lincoln washing and Lynn drying, while the women adjourned to the living room. Maddie took over the TV and put wrestling on; the sounds of an excited crowd and boisterous color commentating drifted in, followed by Maddie urging someone named Rikishi to _give him the stink face_. "How's the dealership doing?" Lincoln asked as he ran the sponge over a plate.

"It's doing," Lynn said neutrally. Either it was doing poorly and he didn't want to admit it, or it was booming and he didn't want to rub Lincoln's face in it. "Lynn does most of it. I hardly even go in anymore."

Lincoln handed him the plate. "What do you with your free time?" he asked, genuinely curious. Soon, it would be him hardly going in, just replace 'hardly' with 'never.' The only currently living retired person he knew was Lori, and she didn't do much of anything outside of volunteer work. He wasn't against the idea of that for himself, but if he was going to work, he might as well get a job somewhere.

"Moose Lodge, golfing, that kind of thing," Lynn said. "Most days I stay home and enjoy not having to do anything." He laughed and dried the plate, then put it in the rack.

In the living room, Maddie and Lynn III cheered as their guy, presumably, landed a good blow. He remembered Alex doing the same thing when she used to follow that stuff; Jessy, if she was even present, just sat and gaped in shock.

He smiled at the memory. Jessy and Mark got into town earlier that afternoon and were supposed to drop by, but Alex was, predictably, being a greedy sister-hog and holding Jess hostage. Bobby Jr. and Lola were here and Lana and Jed were, last he heard, on their way by car and would be here sometime tomorrow, maybe even before sunup. Unless he was forgetting an aunt, uncle, or distant cousin ( _Ah, Lyle, good to see you again...I think_ ), that was everyone, meaning they could probably get some use out of that rent-a-room at the community center.

"You ever get bored?" he asked and plucked a coffee mug from the water.

Lynn lifted and lowered one shoulder. "Eh, sometimes. Lynn got me a gym membership for my birthday, so I've been doing _that_ twice a week."

Gym? Lincoln stared at him with an appraising sidelong glance. He was slimmer than he was last Christmas, Lincoln would give him that, but he sure wasn't any more muscular. "What do you do there?" he asked. "Sit and watch?"

"No, wise guy," Lynn said, "I go on the treadmill and the stationary bike. They have this big indoor jogging track and sometimes I do that too. They also have a pool."

Lincoln's brow pinched. The only gyms he'd ever seen were far too small to house an indoor running track and a swimming pool "Jesus, how big _is_ this place?"

Taking the mug and wiping it with the rag, Lynn ticked his head thoughtfully from one side to the other. "Pretty big, but everything inside is small. The track's only half a mile long and the pool's maybe, I dunno, twenty feet by twenty feet?"

Interesting. Lincoln tried to remember the last time he was in a pool but couldn't. There was a municipal pool on Pine Street but, off the top of his head, he hadn't been there in twenty years; he and Ronnie Anne used to take Alex and Jessy when they were young, but once they got older, they started taking themselves.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time he went swimming period. He and Ronnie Anne took Blake and Zoe to the lake a few times over the summer, but he was content to sit on a towel and watch the kids play. Swimming wasn't something he was ever over the moon about, but he did enjoy doing it.

Maybe he'd do it this summer.

"That's not bad," he said. He felt around the bottom of the sink, and finding nothing, pulled the drain stop.

In the living room, Lincoln sank into his chair and reached for _Things You Never Knew Existed,_ but it was mysteriously gone. Aw, son of a bitch, and I wasn't done with it either. He glanced around and spied it in Maddie's hands: She sat next to the arm of the sofa and paged lazily through, her brow heavily knitted as though she couldn't decide whether the stuff she was seeing was cool or lame. "You like that magazine?" he asked.

She shrugged without looking up. "It's kind of dumb," she said.

Yeah? Well, give it back then. "You like Halloween?"

 _That_ got her attention. "Yes," she said quickly.

"Ah," he said and reached into the magazine rack next to his chair, "you're in luck." He leaned over, scanned the titles, then plucked one out. "Look at _this_ one."

She took it and held it up to the light. "That's the Halloween issue," he explained, "lots of interesting stuff in there."

Setting it in her lap, she opened it and immediately let out a gasp of surprise. "Oh, cool, I always wanted one of those!"

Yep, that's how that catalog made _him_ feel. The only difference was, he most likely wouldn't buy anything. That as-seen-on-TV crap is usually more cheaply made than the stuff you find at the store, and almost _never_ works as advertised. Or works too damn well. Last year, he and Ronnie Anne bought one of those clapper lamps - all you do it clap your hands, and it turns off and on. One night they were making love and things got a little rough; each time the headboard slapped the wall, their bedside lights clicked on...then off...then on...then off. Before that, she got him a Chia Pet for his birthday, but no matter what they did, the plants wouldn't grow, now it sat on the desk in his office, as barren as his own faith in humanity.

"Can I have mine back, please?" he asked.

Maddie looked at him funny, then understanding dawned in her eyes. She handed him the first one, and he nodded his thanks. He slipped his reading glasses on and opened it.

"There's a lotta cool stuff in here," Maddie said breathlessly.

"There sure is," Lincoln agreed.

"Where did you buy this magazine?"

Lincoln flipped to the last page he remembered reading: Speaking of Chia Pets, there's...aw, Christ, Bill Clinton? Ugh, they're _really_ scraping the bottom of the barrel now. "I have a subscription," he said.

"How did you find it in the first place?"

He opened his mouth, but you know, that was a good question, where _did_ he first encounter _Things You Never Knew Existed?_ It wasn't something you could find at just any newsstand, or at least any of the newsstands _he'd_ be to recently. "I don't remember," he said with a perturbed frown.

"I have a subscription to _WWF Magazine,_ " Maddie stated proudly.

"You really like your wrestling, huh?" he chuckled.

She nodded vigorously. "Wrestling's the best thing ever, even if it _is_ fake. I'm gonna be a wrestler one day. Or maybe I'll even own the place."

The girlish enthusiasm in her voice made him smile. He remembered when Jessy and Alex were young and passionate - Alex about being the "female Johnny Rotten" (whatever _that_ meant) and Jessy teaching. A sudden and inexplicable band of tightness formed around his chest and he exhaled in a rush. Being around little girls always put him in a nostalgic mood, because they reminded him of _his_ girls. Boys didn't, but why would they? He didn't care what any feminist said, boys and girls are as different as night and day, and long ago, when Blake was still little, he realized that fact. He, Lincoln, was well versed in girls, but boys somehow managed to be an alien creature altogether, despite his being one.

He loved his grandson no less, mind you, he just wasn't as accustomed to boys as he was girls. Hell, he grew up with four sisters, then had two daughters, add to that his wife, his mother, all the waitresses he'd had at Flip's over the years, Lynn III, Lola, Lana - Jesus Christ, that's a lot of women. Spending five decades steeped in all that estrogen, you'd think _he'd_ be a woman by now (what would his name be? Lincona? Linka?). Thank God Uncle Sam drafted him and turned him into a man. If he could find Sgt. Hellman, he'd kiss the old bastard.

 _Bugs! Fifty for being a faggot!_

Aw, c'mon, Sarge, it's a figure of -

 _Bugs! One hundred! Right now!_

Alright, shit.

Remembering Maddie, he pulled himself back to reality. "Maybe," he said, "do they let women wrestle now?"

Before Maddie could reply, Lynn Jr. leaned forward and looked around her, his brow lowered incredulously. "Now? Women have _been_ wrestling. Ever hear of Mae Young or The Fabulous Moolah?"

Those names meant absolutely nothing to Lincoln. "No, I haven't."

"They were wrestling when _we_ were kids," Lynn Jr. said.

"They _still_ wrestle sometimes," Lynn III said.

Father looked at daughter. "They _do?"_ he asked disbelievingly.

Lynn III nodded. "Yep. They were on _Raw_ a couple weeks ago. They had a tag team match...and they won."

Next to Lynn Jr., Kathy rolled her eyes long sufferingly and turned to Ronnie Anne, who snorted dismissively. "They won?" Lynn Jr. asked. "That's how you _know_ it's not real. Two ninety year old women winning a match."

That made Lincoln laugh. From the tone of his brother's voice, he was exaggerating their ages, perhaps by a lot, but that didn't stop him from visualizing two old crones with canes and stooped backs fighting in a ring. "It's true!" Lynn Jr. argued. "They're old as dirt by now. They both have white hair. Like you, Linc."

Lincoln's smile fell. "Are either one of them fat like you?"

""I'm not fat anymore, Linc," Lynn said with a pompous inflection.

"The hell you aren't. Your gut sticks out more than your johnson does."

Maddie's eyes narrowed. "What's a johnson?"

"Nothing," Kathy said quickly, "your uncle's being dirty."

Hot shame colored Lincoln's face and he Lynn laughed. "Uncle Lincoln, what's a johnson?" Maddie asked.

"What's a noogie?" Lynn asked. His granddaughter looked up at him, and wrapping his arm around her neck, he ground his knuckles into her scalp. She let out a high, ear-piercing squeal and jumped.

"Stop!" she giggled.

At bedtime, Lincoln carried extra sheets, blankets, and pillows into Alex and Jessy's old room. Kathy sat up in Alex's bed reading a paperback novel, and Lynn stood by the nightstand in a pair of pale blue pajamas. He popped two Alka Seltzers into a glass water, swished it around until the liquid was an ugly pink color, and took a long, begrudging drink. He grimaced and set it on the table with a clunk. "Plop, plop, fizz, fizz," Lincoln said sardonically, quoting the Alka Seltzer commercials from the sixties.

"Indigestion," Lynn explained and pounded his chest as if to dislodge a wad of smoldering embers. "You ever get that?"

Lincoln dropped the blanket and sheets onto the bed. "Sometimes," he said. "I take Pepto."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lynn waved him off. "I can't stand that crap. Tastes like bubblegum." He puckered his lips.

"It works, though." He darted his eyes to the floor. "Maddie's sleeping in here right? I can make her a bed outta comforters."

Lynn swung his legs onto the bed and pulled the covers up. "Eh, Lynn'll make her one."

In his and Ronnie Anne's room, Ronnie Anne sat up in bed much like Kathy, only instead of a novel she was reading over a stack of paperwork from school. "Don't you ever take a break?" Lincoln asked as he stripped down to his underwear.

"Nope," she said.

He got in bed and slipped under the covers. "It's Christmas vacation, though."

"You're right," she said patiently, "and Christmas vacation is the perfect time to catch up on all my work. You know this."

Yawning, he curled up beside her and closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said, "I do."

If Ronnie Anne was one thing, it was stubborn. Once she made up her mind about something, that was that, and once she established a routine that worked for her, you'd need a nuke to get her out of it.

He tried to stay awake so they could cuddle and talk, but soon, he drifted to sleep; the last thing he heard was Ronnie Anne's soft, tender voice.

"G'night, lame-o."

And he smiled.


	210. December 1999: Part 3

**Guest: Thank you, I appreciate that. I don't think I'm anything special, though, I'm just a guy who likes to write.**

 **Guest: If you want to do a gender bent version of this story, you have my permission. I'd love to myself, but I only have one 1.5 million word story in me and it's this one.**

 **Guest: I thought Y2K was dumb too. I remember everyone freaking out and eight year old me waving my hand like Alex at her father. 'Pfft, you're all lame."**

 **Joni C69: Well, I did have an idea for a collection of oneshots that fit into the RITY universe (or stand on their own in some cases). I don't know if I'll actually do it, though.**

Friday morning dawned gray and cold with light snow flurries leftover from the previous night slowly tapering off before eight. Lori, in a blue robe and white slippers, shuffled into the kitchen, bent slightly forward, and let out a deep yawn. Her hair, far more gray than blonde, stuck out at amusing angles and dark bags hung under her bloodshot eyes. As she made her way to the coffee pot, she gingerly flexed her hands, wincing at the dull, throbbing pain in her joints. Halfway there, her knee locked up and she came to a grinding halt, waiting several long seconds for the pain to pass before going on again.

It was always at its worst in the morning, double on damp ones like this. Her doctor said that changes in barometric pressure cause tendons, muscle, bone, and scar tissue to expand and contract, which exacerbates arthritis pain. Low temperatures also increase the thickness of joint fluid, making joints stiffer and more sensitive.

At the counter, she inserted a paper filter into the coffee maker with gnarled, shaky fingers, then filled the carafe with water from the tap. Beyond the window over the sink, snow dusted the backyard and the top of the stockade fence separating her property from the next one over. A squirrel jumped up onto one of the posts, reared up on its hindlegs, and looked strickenly about like a refugee at the rubble of his hometown following a tornado.

Cutting the sink, she carried the carafe to the coffee maker. Fire streaked up her arm and it began to shake; water sloshed over the side and splattered the top of her slipper, and she almost dropped the pot before setting it on the base. She was breathing heavily now and aching in every joint. She turned the maker on, went to the table, and sat down with a grunt. As the day wore on, she would limber up like she always did, but for right now she was a mass of seething agony that was all the more worse because it wasn't sharp, but dull instead.

She blew a puff of air that stirred her bangs and ran her fingers through her hair. Later on, she, Luan, Fred, Bobby Jr., Lola, and the kids were driving over to the community center to meet everyone. Fred and Luan were currently asleep on the pull-out couch, each one on their back and snoring, and Bobby, Lola, and the kids were crammed into Bobby's old room, Bobby and Lola in the bed and the kids on the floor. Bobby Sr. left an hour ago for work and wouldn't be off until three at the earliest. What time did Lincoln want them there again? She couldn't remember if it was eleven or twelve, so she'd call him.

Just as she was starting to get up, Lola came in from the living room, dressed for the day in black slacks and a pink knit sweater. Her hair was down and her make-up done - a hint of eyeshadow and a faint kiss of pink on her lips. Lori had always thought Lola beautiful, and when she and Bobby Jr. married, she told Bobby Sr. _The kids are going to be gorgeous._ "Good morning," Lori said.

"Good morning," Lola said. She sat across from Lori and crossed her arms. "I always forget how cold it is here."

"Should I raise the heat?" Lori worried. "It's at sixty. Were the kids cold last night?"

Lola shook her head. "No, it's fine, we're just not used to Michigan weather."

"I hear it's been really hot out there lately," Lori said and shifted her weight; a red bolt of searing pain shot up her leg and she rubbed her knee.

"A little bit," Lola said, "it hasn't been too bad the past couple weeks, but this summer was _excruciating._ "

They shared a laugh. Lori and Bobby had been to Los Angeles on many occasions, and most of them just so happened to be during the summer, when the average temperature was eighty-four degrees. That was about the same as it was in Royal Woods, but the heat there was drier and harsher; if there was a breeze, it scoured your bare skin like sandpaper. She didn't like it, nor did she like the wet, humid heat in Florida, which is why she never considered moving there. It would be a godsend for her arthritis, but sweltering eleven months out of the year just wasn't worth it to her.

Yet.

Once it started getting worse, she might change her mind.

When the coffee was done, Lori started to get up, but Lola waved her off. "I'll get it," she said. She stood, crossed to the counter, and took two mugs down from the cabinet over the sink. She poured coffee into each one then glanced over her shoulder. "Black, right?"

"Yes, please," Lori said.

Lola added cream and sugar to hers, then brought them both over and sat one in front of Lori, who thanked her. Lola sat and took a sip. "Have you talked to Uncle Lincoln?" she asked. "Lana should be there by now."

"Not yet," Lori said and picked her mug up, "but I have to call him. I forgot when he wanted us to head over." She uttered a nervous laugh. She was _not_ the type of woman to let things like names, dates, and appointments slip her mind, and every time she did, she flashed back to Mom in her final days, her mind gone and her body withered to nearly nothing. The specter of developing Alzhimer's, which is hereditary, loomed constantly over her like a shadow of death, and the possibility that she might one day suffer from it terrified her. She already had Mom's arthritis, why not her dementia too, festering in her brain, growing a little everyday, spreading like black ink across a clean, white sheet of paper…?

She lifted the cup to her lips and blew away the steam. Her chest was tight with anxiety now, and it took great effort to push swirling thoughts of rot and ruin away.

"I think you said noon," Lola said, then furrowed her brows, "or maybe it was one." She laughed. "I can't remember either."

Shortly, the others began to stir. Luan came in first, clad in a long white night dress, then Fred in blue gym shorts and a white T-shirt. He was seven years older than Lori and every time he was around, Lori studied him for signs of things to come. He wasn't a very good barometer, though, because while he was older than her, he was in markedly better shape. Stiffness in the morning (as evidenced by his stooped posture), but once he warmed up, he was as fit as always, walking easily, bending with only the vaguest trace of strain, and carrying heavy things handily.

"Morning," Luan muttered. She poured a cup of coffee, came to the table, and sat. Her hair was just as messy as Lori's, and her eyes only marginally less bleary.

"You look tired," Lori teased.

Luan shrugged one shoulder. "Eh."

"Eh?" Lola asked playfully.

"Eh," Luan confirmed.

Fred poured his own cup, then turned, crossed to the table, and sat. His eyes, unlike his wife's, were clear and shone with an alertness that Lori couldn't help but envy. She'd say the military made him stronger than the average person, but Lincoln was in the army and he was almost as bad as she was. They were like old cars that needed to idle a bit before driving, an analogy that brought a sardonic smile to her lips. "How are you feeling, Fred?" she asked.

"Fine," he said and took a drink, "little sore. That mattress is lumpy."

"That mattress is _thin,_ " Luan corrected.

"It's both," he retorted.

Stephy was the next one to appear, dressed in a pale pink sleeveless dress, her dirty blonde hair elaborately braided around the crown of her head like a queenly tiara. Lola and Lola spent nearly two hours on it last night, and the whole time, Stephy twitched, fidgeted, and trembled like a transformer box thrumming with electricity. "Good morning," she said airily.

"Morning, honey," Lori said and held out her arms. Stephy bounced over and sat on one knee; it hurt like the dickens but Lori grinned and bore it. She didn't get to see her grandchildren very often, so a little pain was of no matter to her. "How did you sleep?"

"Good," Stephy said. She leaned over, picked up Lori's coffee, and took a big drink. Lola shot her a dirty look, and she giggled. "I'm thirsty," she whined.

Thirteen, tall, and thin, Stephy was as energetic and unfocused as she was when she was little, and Lola disallowed her soda, coffee, and most sweets because the sugar content exacerbated her pre existing hyperactivity. "Drink milk."

Stephy crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue. "I don't like milk. Only with my cereal. I only like it if it's chocolate."

"We have orange juice," Lori said and tenderly stroked her granddaughter's hair.

"I like orange juice," Stephy said, "does it have a lot of pulp? I don't like a lot of pulp, it's gross as a roast."

Lori laughed in surprise. Stephy was certainly inventive with language. "No, it doesn't have pulp. Your grandfather doesn't like it either."

"Okay. I'll get it."

She jumped up and skipped to the fridge. Her muscles were tensed like coiled springs, and Lori got the sense, as she usually did, that the little girl was exerting everything ounce of self-control she had to keep from zooming through the house like a dreidel on drugs. She opened the door just a _touch_ harder than she had to and whipped her head side to side looking for the orange juice.

"...Seattle," Luan was saying.

"I couldn't deal with that either," Lola replied nonchalantly. "I'm not used to cold, snow, _or_ rain anymore."

"It's not bad once you get used to it," Fred remarked.

Stephy found the juice with an exaggerated, "Aha!" and took it over to the counter just as Val came in. Shorter and even thinner than his sister, his hair black and lank, he wore cargo shorts and a black T-shirt with a black man's face on the front; below was were the letters B.I.G. "Morning," Lori said and held out her arms. Val, like his sister, came over, only instead of copping a squat, he bent over and hugged her. His arms, though slender, were wiry and strong. He took boxing lessons twice a week and wanted to be a pugilist when he grew up. What one wants out of life at ten is not often the same thing one winds up actually _doing,_ but if any boy was committed to anything, it was Val to boxing. He was so thin though! And Stephy too, but she was taller. You know what they needed? Breakfast and lots of it. "How did you sleep?" Lori asked and held him at arm's length.

"Okay," he said.

"Did you have enough blankets?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hungry?"

"Kind of."

"I'll get breakfast started." She slapped one hand onto the table and drew herself to her feet. Her knee creaked and grated, but not as badly as it did getting out of bed that morning.

Lola got up too. "I'll help."

"You don't have to," Lori said and shuffled to the fridge. "I can do it."

"No, I want to," Lola offered.

Lori opened the fridge and took out a carton of eggs. She firmly believed that the hostess should be responsible for cooking, cleaning, and everything else that went into the upkeep of having guests, but she was grateful for Lola's help anyway. "Can you get the pancake batter out of the pantry, please?"

The younger woman walked to the pantry, opened the door, and scanned the shelves, then reached in and pulled out a box of Aunt Jamimia pancake mix. She brought it to Lori and sat it down, then took a metal mixing bowl from the cabinet.

"I need a shower," Luan said and raked her fingers through her tangled hair. She pushed away from the table, got up, and started into the living room. "Where are your towels?" she asked.

"Linen closet," Lori said. She used a knife to open the bacon, then set it in the sink. As she and Lola worked, Bobby Jr. came in. "Morning, Mom."

"Morning, sweetie."

He leaned over her shoulder and pecked her cheek. "What's for breakfast?"

"You can help us and find out," Lola said.

He grimaced. "Yeah...cooking and me don't get along. You know that."

"No, I don't," Lola said, "you're just lazy."

"Yeah, cuz I don't wanna clean up the disaster I know I'm gonna make of it." He grabbed a mug from the drying rack, filled it with coffee, and took it to the table.

Later, everyone gathered in the dining room. Stephy sat between Val and Lola and carved her food to bits with her fork, and Fred looked over the morning paper as he absently shoved bits of egg into his mouth. Bobby reached across the table, grabbed the syrup, and squeezed a liberal amount onto his pancakes. "I personally think it's a bad idea," he said and cut a piece off. "Who's gonna wanna see a _Brash and the Bountiful_ movie?"

"The people who watch the show," Lori pointed out.

"Well, yeah, them, but you think that's enough? This isn't just any movie where you can walk in and follow along, you have to follow the show to know what's happening."

The producers of _The Brash and the Bountiful_ had been talking about making a film adaptation for several years now, but nothing ever came to fruition. In November, Warner Brothers' expressed interest in the project and hired a team of writers to do a treatment. None of the cast members would know anything until next summer at the very least, but Bobby was worried they would kill his character off. _They have to do something big, ma,_ he told her, _and what's bigger than killing off the main character?_

 _If they do that,_ she said, _who will they replace you with?_

He didn't have an answer for that, which told her he was safe; they wouldn't kill off the villain without having someone to take his place. His was an inborn role that transcended not only the actor playing it, but even the character who held it. Years ago, it was that Susan woman, now it was Bobby, and in ten or twenty years, it might be someone else entirely, his onscreen child, or a neighbor, someone, anyone, just so long as they created drama.

Lori, for her part, didn't know enough about Hollywood to know whether or not making a movie out of a soap opera was a good idea or not, but she would be there on opening day to support her son no matter what.

"I'm sure they'll make it so that anyone can watch it," she said.

"That's what I figure," Lola said. "They'd make it a self-contained story so that you wouldn't need to be familiar with the show to understand it."

Bobby took a bite of his pancakes and shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno, maybe," he said, "it makes sense, but even still, I don't think we're gonna have a bunch of new people coming out of the woodwork to buy tickets."

"What about Batman?" Lola asked. "They turned that into a successful movie, and I guarantee you most of the people who went to see it hadn't seen the original series _or_ read the comic books."

Bobby gave a conciliatory nod. "I'm just not crazy about it."

Stephy took a bite of her food and chewed with a flourish. "Grandma, do you like seafood?"

Across the table, Val started. "Don't answer that! She's going to show you the food in her mouth."

Stephy opened her mouth to reveal a soggy lump of mushy pancake. "See? Food!"

"Stephaine," Lola adominished.

Lori chukled. "No, I don't like seafood. Your grandfather does." She looked down at Stephy's plate and noticed that it was nearly empty. "Would you like some more?"

"Nope, I've had enough," Stephy said, "can I go outside?"

"If you put your coat on," Lori said.

"Okay!"

The girl got up, took her plate into the kitchen, then disappeared down the hallway. A few minutes later, she came back in a pink, fur lined parka that was more suited to the Arctic than to a temperate December morning. "Don't leave the yard," Lola called.

"I won't promise."

Lola's face darkened, and Luan hid her grin behind her hand. "Stephanie…"

"I mean I won't period promise period."

The door opened and closed, and Lola let out a pent up sigh. "She's going to turn me gray," she said.

"She's kind of a smart aleck," Luan allowed.

Bobby snorted. "Kind of?"

"Well," Lori said chairtably, "she _is_ a teenager now. Bobby was a smart aleck at that age too." A fond smile played at the corner of her lips. Sometimes he'd make her so mad she'd chase him to his room with a wooden spoon...or a fly swatter, whichever was closest at hand. She could understand his and Lola's frustration, but she did not share it. Perhaps if she dealt with it on a daily basis, but she did not, therefore all of her grandchildren's bad habits were acceptable if not outright endearing. The sea food thing, for instance. She would have chided Bobby far harder than Lola had Stephanie, but with Stephy, she found it both cute _and_ clever. Ha, seafood. See? Food!

Bobby took a bite and swallowed. "I wasn't all _that_ bad," he said.

"You were bad enough," Lori said. She looked at Val's plate. "Would you like some more, honey?"

He shook his head. "No thanks."

After breakfast, Lori and Luan did the dishes, the former washing and the latter drying. In the backyard, Stephy jumped up, grabbed the low branch of the oak tree overhanging Mr. Grouse's yard (Lori had to remind herself even twenty years later that it was no longer his), and swung back and forth. Val stood close by and observed with his arms folded on his chest. "Don't let me forget to call Lincoln," Lori said suddenly. "I need to do that when we're done."

"Okay," Luan said.

"It keeps slipping my mind," she said, even though it really didn't. "Some days I think I might wind up like Mom." She surprised herself by adding the second part, and instantly regretted it; having it out somehow lent it tangibility, as though speaking it would make it come to pass.

Luan must have sensed the trepidation in her voice. "You probably won't," she said. "I doubt any of us will. Just because she had it doesn't mean any of us is definitely going to."

"There's a chance," Lori said. "A very high chance."

Stephy swung her legs up, wrapped them around the branch, and clung to it like a monkey. Val jumped and tried to grab her, but he was two inches too short. Stephy cackled madly. " _How's the weather down there, little boy?"_

Plucking a fork from Lori's hand, Luan dried it. "Well, if it's any consolation, there's a direct correlation between Alzheimer's and intelligence level, so you're safe."

It took Lori a moment to realize her sister insulted her; her mouth fell open, and Luan grinned widely. Dipping her hand in the water, Lori splashed her, and she let out a tiny cry. "You won't either," Lori said.

"I have a higher likelihood than you," Luan shot back.

"Likelihood for what?" Lola asked, startling both of them.

"Alzheimer's," Luan said.

Lola's face fell a little.

"None of us are going to get it," Luan said. "We're all morons."

For some reason Lori couldn't name, that made her laugh so hard she cried. Luan and Lola watched her bemusedly, and she laughed even harder. When she recovered, she took a deep breath and let it out in an even rush. "I guess you're right," she said, "we're all off the hook." She reached into the sink and closed her fingers around a glass; her swollen knuckles screamed and she winced. "How do your joints feel?" she asked.

"Absolutely fine," Luan said, "I think arthritis skipped me. At least I hope it did."

"Would you like some of mine? I have plenty to go around."

Luan shook her head. "I'll pass."

None of the others had arthritis yet, though Lincoln's back and knees ached a little more than they should. She wouldn't wish her condition on any of them, but she would be a liar if she said she didn't resent them sometimes.

Shortly, she and Luan finished and she started into the living room, but changed course and went to the phone instead.

Not forgetting was a small thing, but it made her happy nevertheless.

Picking up the handset, she dialed her brother.

* * *

"Are _all_ of your cousins gonna be there?" Jordan asked.

"I think so," Blake replied. "I think my whole family's gonna be there."

They were sitting in the back seat of Mom's Neon with Zoe between them. Mom drove and Dad stared out the passenger window at the passing buildings on Main Street. Aunt Jessy and Uncle Mark followed close behind in their car; if Blake twisted around and looked out the back windshield, he could see their faces. Music whispered lowly from the speakers and you had to strain really hard to hear it.

It was just after noon and they were on their way to the Royal Woods community center to see everyone. Mom said it was gonna be like a party and Blake was pretty excited; parties were cool.

Next to him, Zoe drank from a pink sippy cup and looked from him to Jordan and back again with big, dark eyes. She wore a pink jacket over a red and green plaid dress with a bow on the chest and her hair in pigtails held up by festive red and white ribbons that he thought looked really dumb, but that Mom and Jordan thought were cute.

Blake was kind of nervous to see his cousins, like he always was when they were in town; he saw so little of them that it was like meeting them all over again every time. Maddie was cool, but Stephy was a nutcase - there was something seriously wrong with that girl. She couldn't sit still for two minutes and she liked picking on him. Not in a _too_ mean way, but still more than he liked. Val was okay, even though he reminded Blake of this boy at school who made fun of him.

"That's a lot of people," Jordan marveled.

He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and tried to count them all from memory, but kept messing up and stopped. He didn't know how many were going to be there, but Jordan was right - a _lot_. "I have a big family," he said. It didn't always feel very big since they all lived in different places, but when they got together, you realized just how large it really was. He liked all of them, though, except Lynn III and Lola both pinching his cheeks and calling him chubby. Bobby was really cool - he had his own TV show and everything. Blake tried to watch it one time but it sucked so he changed the channel to cartoons instead. Add Tom and Jerry as cast members _then_ talk to me.

His Uncle Lynn was also cool; he told funny jokes and pulled a candy bar out from behind Jordan's ear once. He had it up his sleeve, Blake _obviously_ knew that, but the way he did it was perfect, you could never tell, and Blake was good at telling because he watched The Masked Magician in that special where he showed everyone how all the tricks are done. Magic was really interesting and Blake kind of wanted to be a magician one day, but he sucked; he was clumsy and his timing was too slow. He tried to replicate Uncle Lynn's trick on a little boy in his neighborhood, but the candy bar slid out of his shirt and dropped onto the ground. They looked at each other for an excruciatingly awkward moment, Blake blushing with humiliation...then the kid picked it up and walked away. Blake never felt more like a loser in his whole life, not even when he bent over in the cafeteria and the seat of his pants split. That was an act of God, but botching that trick was _allll_ him.

"My family's little," Jordan said. Blake already knew; neither her mom or dad had any siblings and both of her mother's parents were dead, so the only grandparents Jordan knew were her dad's, and they were so religious that no one liked going to visit them, not even her father; Jordan said they wouldn't let her watch TV, listen to music, dance, or even play video games. When she told them her best friend was a boy, they got really mad and called it "inappropriate." That's a word he learned in school; it meant _wrong._ What was so wrong with them being friends?

Other than them, she only had a great uncle and a few distant cousins she never met.

"At least your family can fit in the house," he said. They were on Railroad Avenue now, which ran along disused train tracks that Grandpa said were abandoned even when he was a kid...so a _really, really, really_ long time. The community center appeared on the left, a low brick building with an overhang and narrow windows. A roadside letter sign out front read HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR 2000 in black followed by a bunch of red exclamation points.

"True," Jordan said, "but still, having cousins would be cool."

Blake honestly couldn't recall when Jordan first met his cousins - probably a couple Christmases or Thanksgivings ago, basically beyond the rim of time - but she took to them like a fish in water. Her favorite was Maddie, and her least favorite was...well, he didn't think she had one, but she said Stephy was crazy, but that's like saying the sky is blue. It's not an insult, it's just a fact.

He felt kind of bad for her since she didn't have any cousins of her own, and her only siblings were older and buttheads to boot, so he kind of shared Zoe with her. Zoe liked Jordan a lot and called her _ordin._ In fact, right this very moment, she was holding Zoe's hand, and one of Zoe's legs kicked happily back and forth.

Mom put on the blinker, slowed, and turned into the entrance. "There's the Jeep," she remarked. Blake craned to see, and spotted his grandfather's Grand Cherokee parked in a slot facing the street. A bunch of old people in nice suits stood in a huge group around the next car over and talked, the wind making ripples in their clothes and whipping their hair. "And that minivan with Tennessee plates _probably_ belongs to Lana."

Turning his head as they passed, Dad nodded. "It's nice. For a minivan."

"Minivans are lame," Mom scoffed and pulled into a space fronting the street. She killed the engine and looked into the rearview mirror. "Right, guys?"

Jordan scrunched her lips contemplatively. "My mom's is pretty cool. It can haul a lot of stuff." Her eyes widened ever so slightly as if in wonder at all the cargo her mother's van could carry.

Mom blew a raspberry. "What do you know? You're just a kid." She unbuckled her seatbelt and threw the door open.

They all got out into the damp December afternoon. Across the parking lot, Aunt Jessy got out of her car, opened the back door, and unstrapped Allison while Uncle Mark talked into a cell phone. Mom brushed past Jordan, leaned into the car, and got Zoe; the little girl's lips were stained red with fruit punch and some dribbled down her chin. Uncle Mark and Aunt Jessy walked over, and together, they went inside, the adults chattering and Zoe staring up at Allison in Aunt Jessy's arms. Zoe was fascinated by her little cousin, almost like she'd never seen a baby before, and spent all of yesterday following her around the trailer. At one point, Aunt Jessy gave Allison a bottle, and she took it into the living room, where she sat on the floor across from Zoe. Zoe's eyes locked on it, and after a few minutes, she leaned in, pulled it from Allison's mouth with a _plop,_ and then shoved it into her own.

A set of double doors opened onto a lobby with brown tiled floors, a desk on one side and a waiting area on the other. Framed black and white photos of old buildings, survey maps of Royal Woods, and paintings dotted the white walls, the high school in the thirties here and the courthouse in the 1880s there. Blake studied them closely as they passed; he liked looking at old pictures. Sometimes when he was over at Grandma and Grandpa's house, he and Grandma sat on the couch and went through photo albums. It was really cool seeing his mom and Aunt Jessy when they were kids - everything in those faded snapshots looked familiar yet indefinitely different. The clothes, the TV, the cars. His favorite was a Plorodid of Grandma, Aunt Jessy, and Mom standing next to a brownish-yellow station wagon, Grandma in the middle in a pink dress and Mom and Aunt Jessy on either side of her. _8/19/73_ was written on the bottom, and Blake always found himself staring at that number and trying to imagine what the world was like back then.

Down a long hallway, they came to a wide doorway that lead into a large room with evenly spaced windows. The first thing Blake noticed was the music, you could hear it clear to the lobby - _Holly Jolly Christmas_ \- and the second was the tree at the head of the room, its boughs festooned with red ribbons and its branches strung with sparkling lights. His eyes went to its base, and he was kind of disappointed to see no presents waiting to be opened. Long folding tables stood on either side laden with trays of snacks, cookies, chips, dips, a big glass punch bowl. Blake's jaw dropped at the dizzying assortment of sweet and salty things, and beside him, Jordan's did the same.

People crowded the room, holding glasses, eating from paper plates, and talking to one another. He saw Grandma and Grandpa chatting with Jed and Lana; Aunt Luan and Aunt Lori in front of the snack table; Bobby Jr. laughing at something Lynn III said; Ritchie conversed with Lola while Maddie, in jeans and a black shirt, and Joy, Lana's daughter, shoved their faces with brownies. Joy, who would be eight in February, wore a mossy oak camo jacket and her blonde hair down around her shoulders. Her brothers, Justin and Josh, stood off to one side with Uncle Lynn. Justin, fourteen, was tall and solidly built, clad in dark blue basketball shorts and a charcoal gray T-shirt. His crossed his thick arms over his chest and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He played on his school's basketball team but looked more to Blake like a defensive lineman for a football squad. Josh, twelve and slight with sandy blonde hair, thrust his hands into the pockets of his olive green cargo pants and stared down at his feet as he waited for Uncle Lynn to reach his current joke's punchline.

At first, he didn't see Stephy, then, all of a sudden, she was in his face with a big grin. "There's my little boy," she said in her best grown up impression. She pinched his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed; pain shot into the center of Blake's head and he pulled away. She knelt down and locked eyes with Zoe. "And there's my little -" She reached out to do the same thing to her that she did to Blake, but Zoe swatted her hand.

" _Noooo."_

Stephy jumped to her feet again. "Okay." She grabbed Jordan's cheek and squeezed. "There's my little boy's bestie."

Jordan slapped her hand away and fell back a step, bumping into Uncle Mark. "Hi, baby Nikki," Mom said.

"Hi, grown up Alex," Stephy replied, "bring me your cheek."

For a moment Mom hesitated, then she bent over, turned her head, and squeezed her eyes closed. "Don't make it hurt, please."

"I won't," Stephy drew not-so-innocently. She pinched Mom's cheek and squeezed as hard as she could. Mom yelped and pulled away, and Stephy laughed like a lunatic. "Oops, I forgot to make it not hurt." She spun around, threw her head back, and smirked at Mom over her shoulder. "Sorry." Mom took a threatening step forward, and Stephy took off at a power walk. "Toodles!"

See why Blake thought she was a nut?

But that wasn't important right now, there were piles and piles of snacks mere feet away, each one looking better than the last. Cookies, candies, cakes, fudge, brownies, and everything else you can imagine. He didn't know where it came from (Aunt Lori? The store?) but who cared, it was good either way.

Mom was curently engaged with Lynn III and Aunt Jessy was talking to Aunt Luan, which made slipping away quick and painless. Jordan followed, and when they got to the table, they both scanned the offerings with wide eyes. "What do you want first?" he asked indecisively. He'd let her lead him since he had no _clue_ where to start. The chocolate balls? The sugar cookies? The frosted pretzels with multi colored sprinkles?

"I don't know," Jordan breathed, "you pick."

"I don't know either."

Something landed on Blake's shoulders, and a jolt shot up his spine. Stephy's cheek grazed against his and her hair tickled the side of his neck. She stared down at the treats with a lopsided grin. "Do what I did...eat them allll at once."

Jordan's forehead crinkled confusedly. "How did you do that?"

"Well," Stephy said in a patronizing tone and sidestepped Blake, "I put pudding on a plate, crushed everything on top, and ate it with a plastic spoon." She grabbed a paper plate from a stack next to a wooden bowl filled with chips, sat in on the edge, and slopped chocolate pudding on from a Tupperware container. Next, she picked up a brownie, a cookie, and a chocolate ball, and, with a sly simper, broke them up over the plate. Blake and Jordan shoved close on both sides to watch like callow students at the feet of the master. Stephy looked around, spotted a spoon, and grabbed it, then mixed the concoction together. She turned to Blake. "There."

It looked really rich.

And really good.

He reached for it, but she whipped away with a scowl. "This is mine. Make your own." She dug the spoon in and took a big bite as she walked away. Blake and Jordan both watched her go, then looked at each other.

"I like her idea," Jordan said.

"Me too."

They each got a paper plate, added pudding, then mashed up brownies, cookies, and a cupcake on top. As they worked, Grandpa came over and filled a glass with punch. "What'cha got there?" he asked and nodded.

"I dunno what it's called," Blake said around a mouthful.

"I call it yummy," Jordan replied and swallowed. Chunky brown coated her lips and chin, lending her the appearance of a woman who had just eaten dinner from the toilet.

Grandpa frowned. "It looks really sweet."

Well, duh. "It is," Blake said. "Want some?"

"No, thanks. You keep it."

When they were done, they wiped their mouths and drifted over to the end of the table, where Joy and Maddie still stood. "Hey, guys," Jordan chirruped.

"Hey," Maddie said.

"Hi," Joy added.

 _Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree_ was on now, barely audible above the chattering din of voices. His Grandma and Grandpa from Dad's side of the family were here, and so were Uncle Mark's parents. Jed sat on a chair with Allison in his lap, and Aunt Luan knelt behind one of the tables, then popped up when Zoe passed. " _Peekaboo!"_ Zoe jumped a foot and let out a cry of alarm, then lowered her brows dangerously and prattled a stream of gibberish that probably would have been profane if it was intelligible. Mom and Grandma stood over Justin and feigned interest as he excitedly showed off his Pokemon deck (" _I have all the most powerful cards, even Charzard"_ ).

By the door, Val balled his fists and ducked his head from side to side while Justin looked down at him with a bemused smirk. The older boy assumed a fighter's stance, and Val struck, swatting him lightly in the stomach. Justin bent his back and took a shuffling step forward; Val danced back and hopped fluidly from one foot to the other. They half circled each other, then Justin charged. Val jumped to the side, hit the edge of a table, and wobbled as though he were going to fall.

"You boys knock it off!" Lana cried, her voice loud and clear over the music. She stood in a group with Jessy, Grandpa (the white haired one), and Fred.

"We're just playing!" Justin called back.

"I don't care! This ain't no playground. You should know better than that."

Justin sighed and hung his head in an exaggerated show of contrition; the moment his mother's back was turned, he shot out his arm and slammed the heel of his palm into Val's shoulder. Val stumbled, then kicked his older cousin in the shin. Justin's leg went out from under him and he almost fell, but doubled over instead. "You little shit," he hissed. Val, realizing he'd gone too far, ran off; Justin grabbed for him but caught a handful of empty. They liked to play too rough, which is why being around them made Blake nervous - they might try that stuff on him, and he might get hurt. Horseplaying with Jordan was more his speed since she was smaller and weaker than him.

With a deep sigh, Joy started to rock on the balls of her feet. "I'm bored," she said.

"You wanna go outside?" Jordan asked. "I think there's a playground."

Maddie's nose crinkled. "No, it's too cold."

"No it's not," Joy said.

"Yes it is."

It was a little chilly but not what Blake would call cold. To him, it wasn't _really_ cold until your teeth chattered and your blood froze. "It's _not_ cold," he said.

Jordan shook her head. "No, it's really not. I play outside in colder weather."

"It's too cold for me," Maddie said in a tone that indicated the matter was settled.

Joy zipped up her jacket. "Stay inside then. I wanna go on the swings." She passed between Jordan and Blake and started for the hallway, then aboutfaced sharply. "After I ask my mom." She went up to Lana and tugged on her dress. "Mom, can I go outside with Blake and Jordan?"

Long story short, five minutes later, all of the kids from Joy to Justin huddled on the tiny playground flanking the community center. A tumbledown chain link fence enclosed it on three sides and a brick wall on the fourth. Mom and Aunt Jessy brought Zoe and Allison out, and the two toddlers lumbered after each other like nutty squirrels playfully chasing one another across a sunlit meadow. Joy sat on one of the swings and kicked her legs to gain momentum, but because it sat so high off the ground, she couldn't get any.

Until help arrived.

"Never fear, Stephanie Nicole is here," Stephy said as she took up position behind her younger cousin.

The color drained from Joy's face and she thrashed in terror. "No! Go away!"

Stephy pulled her back by her jacket, then shoved her forward. "No!" Joy screamed. "You'll make me go too high!"

"I would _never,_ " Stephy said indignantly. Joy swung back, and Stephy shoved her hard. The metal frame creaked and Joy let out a wordless screech. Stephy's lips peeled back from her teeth in a mad, toothy smile and her dark eyes flashed with wicked delight.

Mom looked over and frowned. "Not too high!"

"It's never too high," Stephy grinned.

Her gaze shifted to one side, and she must have picked up something more interesting, because she took off, leaving Joy to slowly come to rest; the little girl clutched the chains in a white knuckled death grip, her face screwed up and eyes squeezed closed as if in expectation of calamity. She peeled one lid tentatively open and darted it around, then sighed in relief. "I'm not dead," she said amazedly.

A gust of wind blew, and Maddie's teeth clacked. "Well, we're here," she said sourly, "now what?"

"I dunno," Jordan said, "I, uh, kinda didn't think that far ahead."

Josh dangled from the monkey bars, and his brother stood against the fence with his arms crossed and looking bored. Stephy climbed up the other side, hooked her legs over one of the metal beams, and hung upside down like a bat, her hair rustling in the breeze. She tried to sit up again, but wound up struggling like a turtle on its back. "I think I'm stuck."

Letting go, Josh dropped to the ground. "Joshua, a little help, please?"

He glanced over his shoulder...then walked away. "Hey! I need help or I'll be here forever!" She looked at Justin next and smiled. "Justin...my favorite cousin...can you do me a favor?"

Pushing away from the fence with an eyeroll, Justin abandoned her too. "Fine then!" she called after him and began to wiggle. "You'd probably mess up and let me fall anyway!"

"We can play tag," Jordan offered, drawing Blake's attention from his older cousin's plight.

Maddie considered her proposal. "Maybe. Orrrr we could wrestle."

Val, walking casually by, stopped. "Boxing's better."

"No it's not," Maddie replied defensively. "All you do in boxing is punch. It's boring."

There was one thing you didn't do in Maddie's presence, and that was insult wrestling...or Mankind, but since he was a wrestler, he fell under the umbrella of the former commandment. She liked wrestling the way Grandpa liked guns, and if you said something bad about it, she'd get mad. Val was just as passionate about boxing, so when they got together, they had a way of arguing.

Jordan opened her mouth to forestall Val's comeback, but he was too quick. "At least boxing's real," he spat.

A flush of red colored Maddie's face, and her hands closed into fists. Blake didn't know a lot about wrestling but apparently it was _not_ real and wrestling fans pretended that it was (or actually believed). There was no way Maddie could refute the truth, so with no recourse, she tended to get even more venomous. "Your face isn't real," she hissed.

Though her jab made no sense at all, it didn't have to, the spite in her voice was enough. Val's face darkened, and after a quick look around to make sure no grown ups were looking, he extended his middle finger.

From the monkey bars, Stephy screamed, startling Blake. She was still hanging, but now Joy pushed her back and forth like a pendulum. Given her position, all she could do was hold fast to the beam with her legs and let it happen. "Help meeee!" she wailed. Joy giggled evilly and jammed her hands into Stephy's back; with a screech, the latter's legs came unwrapped and she plummeted to the ground in a heap. She moaned and rolled onto her back, her chest rising and falling. "Something tells me I deserved that."

"...for dummies," Maddie was saying.

"Wrestling's still fake," Val snapped. "The only championship Mankind ever really won was the championship of lies."

"TAKE THAT BACK!"

Val let his wrist fall limp in a crude imitation of a gay man then jumped from foot to foot, resembling a boy hurriedly walking across hot coals. "Fake, fake, fake, fake, fake.."

A violent shudder tore through Maddie's frame and she clenched her jaw so hard a fat, throbbing vein stood out on the side of her neck. She looked like she was going to literally explode into a million little pieces, and Blake couldn't suppress a cringe. "I bet if we fought and I used wrestling and you used boxing, I'd win."

Val snorted. "I don't hit girls."

"I do," Maddie said and stabbed her finger into his chest.

Jordan's jaw dropped and Blake winced. Did she just call Val a girl? It sounded like she called Val a girl. A shadow flickered across Val's features and he took a deep, savage breath; the air crackled with tension, and Blake looked around for a means of escape. Mom and Aunt Jessy were _waaay_ on the other side of the playground facing away, Zoe and Allison standing side by side at the fence and gazing into the parking lot. "I don't hit girls," Val repeated slowly.

"You're allowed," Maddie said smugly, "since you are one."

Okay, there was no ambiguity about it this time. She might as well have spit into her palm then slapped him with it while calling his mom mean names. She lifted her brows and definitely pursed her lips, and Val regarded her thoughtfully. "Fine," he said. He stepped back and held his fists protectively before his face. "Bring it o -"

So quick Blake almost missed it, Maddie launched herself at him, ducking low to avoid his punch radius. Her shoulder slammed into his stomach, catching him off guard, and they fell back, landing on the mulch in a tangle of limbs. Jordan winced and Blake drew a sharp intake of breath through his teeth; on the ground, they grappled for a moment before Maddie scrambled behind him and slid her arm around his neck in a headlock. Val, in a sitting position now, writhed in her grip, his face turning red and his eyes bulging out. He reached back, grabbed a handful of Maddie's hair, and yanked her head to one side. She grunted and her grasp broke, allowing Val to free himself.

They both stumbled to their feet, and Val assumed an orthedox stance - left foot slightly forward, left arm partly extended, and hands held close to the body. Stephy, Justin, Josh, and Justin all watched, and Blake looked longingly at the fence, where Mom and Aunt Jessy still had their backs to the proceedings. He almost called out to them, but he didn't want Maddie and Val to get mad at him for tattling.

Maddie inched a little to the left, and Val tracked her, turning with her movements, keeping her always in front of him. She sprang toward him, then jumped back in an epic fake out. He started to throw a hook, but pulled it when he realized what she was doing.

This wasn't good. They both looked really mad and vicious, like two junkyard dogs fighting over a scrap of beef, and a fearful pang cut through Blake's stomach. He opened his mouth to urge peace, but Jordan beat him to it. "Uh, guys, how about we...not do this?"

Val slid forward, and Maddie ducked to the side. Val was slow to turn, and she immediately capitalized by pouncing. Val spun, and his fist crashed into her temple in slow motion; she went completely limp and flopped to the ground like a dead fish, and Blake's heart dropped into his stomach. Someone _oooo_ 'd and Val went white as it presumably dawned on him what he did.

"Grown up Alex!" Stephy called mockingly, "Val just punched Maddie in the face!"

Suddenly everyone seemed to swarm the downed girl; a passing elbow hit Blake in the ribs and someone else shoved rudely by. He bumped into Jordan and started to fall, but caught himself at the last second. Maddie lay curled on the ground, bits of mulch stuck in her hair and an ugly purple bruise forming above her left eye. Val stood there with a gape of horror on his face, and Justin shot him a dirty look. "Good job, tough guy," he snarled, "you hit a girl." He shot out his arm and slammed his hand into Val's shoulder, making him stumble.

"I-I didn't mean to," Val stammered. There was a hint of abject pleading in his voice that told Blake he was sorry...so, so sorry. "S-She wanted to fight."

Josh, kneeling next to Maddie, looked over his shoulder and sneered. "You don't fight girls. What's wrong with you?"

Val opened his mouth but no sound came out.

"Mom says girls can do anything boys can," Joy declared, "and that means getting punched too." She glared at Maddie. "Get up and stop being a baby."

"Val doesn't even punch that hard," Stephy said, "it's like getting kissed by my mom, only softer."

Mom and Aunt Jessy pushed their way through the crowd just as Maddie sat woozily up, one hand fluttering to her head. Aunt Jessy dropped to one knee beside her, and Mom looked from face to face, her brow lowered in a stern and serious angle that Blake rarely saw. "Alright, what's going on?" she demanded.

Seven people started talking at once, and Mom held her hand up for silence. "One at a time."

"Val punched Maddie," Justin said disgustedly.

"She knocked him down and choked him," Joy said. "She had it coming."

"I'm so sorry," Val blurted, "we were just messing around."

"It didn't look like messing around," Josh accused, "it looked like you hitting a girl."

Aunt Jessy helped Maddie to her feet, and Maddie shook her head. "I'm fine," she said, "it's not his fault. I wanted to fight him."

"Why?" Mom asked sharply.

"Because he's a punk."

Everyone started talking again. "I agree," Justin said.

"No, he's not, you are," Joy sniffed.

"You're both losers," Stephy grinned.

Mom held up her hand again. "Everyone inside," she said and pointed toward the door.

"Your family's nuts," Jordan whispered as they fell in behind the others. Val dragged himself along with his gaze shamefully downcast, Maddie's steps were woozy and unsure, and Mom, herding all the kids through the door like a prison warden overseeing her charges, shook her head in disappointment. "I take back what I said. I like my little family better."

Yeah?

Some days...Blake did too.


	211. December 1999: Part 4

**Thunderstrike16: I'm not really a fan of endings where the events of the story are revealed to be a dream, simulation, hallucination, etc. I feel that ending something with "Psyche!" kind of cheapens everything that went before it.**

Lincoln Loud talked himself up a lot, but he was painfully aware of just what a bumbling idiot he really was. Case in point, his pissing and moaning because _Wah, wah, I don't have a venue big enough for my entire extended family_ when, actually, yes you do, dumbass.

It's called Flip's.

During the week or so he and Lori spent hashing out the finer details of the December 1999 Loud Family Reunion, the fact that he owned a restaurant with a max occupancy of seventy-five kind of flew south for the winter. Why he never thought to save himself a few dollars and utilize Flip's eluded him, but like he said, he was a goddamn idiot. If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say he didn't want to bring his family into a raging dumpster fire with a crackerjack roof. When it hit him that he was unnecessarily handing out cash hand over fist, he metaphorically smacked himself in the head...then went to see his old pal Joel down at the community center in the hopes that he'd let him wiggle out of their deal.

Nope.

 _You paid for a week, Mr. Loud,_ Joel said through his big, phony smile, _you got a week._

Lincoln was expecting this and came prepared. He reached into his jacket, whipped out his .45, and jammed it against the son of a bitch's forehead. _Give me my money back or I'm gonna blow your brains out, then plead PTSD and get away with it. And while we're here...give me your wallet, too._

Sigh. If only it was that easy. In actuality, he tried to haggle him down. Finally, Joel caved, probably just to get him out of his face. _Alright, Mr. Loud, we'll refund you for_ half _of the week._ That was better than nothing, and Lincoln knew enough to quit while he was ahead. He pocketed four hundred dollars and walked out with the room still his for another three days. He figured they'd get a little more use out of it, then move over to Flip's when the time came ...either that or find someone to rent the room third party so he could make a little extra money, but that most likely wasn't going to happen.

That night at dinner, he, Lynn III, Maddie, Ritchie, Ronnie Anne, Lynn, Kathy, Jed, Lana, Justin, Josh, and Joy shoved up at the table and ate take out pizza and hot wings. Lincoln paid for five pies and two orders of chicken expecting there to be _something_ for leftovers, but that didn't quite pan out: Justin and Josh each ate the equivalent of a whole pizza, and Joy pounded down at least half of one while Lana demolished a good three quarters of one. _They always do this?_ he asked and nodded to the boys, who were currently eating three pieces stacked together like greasy sandwiches.

 _They eat us out of house and home,_ Lana said around a mouthful.

Lincoln had heard that teenage boys consumed more food than three hundred pound truck drivers, but he'd never seen it first hand. Lynn never did, but Mom and Dad wouldn't have let him. They had six mouths to feed and not a lot of money to do it with; you got a single helping just big enough to fill your stomach and that was it. If you were hungry afterwards, too bad, cupcake, go in the backyard and eat grass. They didn't have snacks the way kids did today, and they didn't get special meals if they didn't like what was being served. Ronnie Anne made Blake microwavable pizzas when they had something he wouldn't eat; you think he, Lynn, and their sisters had that? Hell no. You either ate or you went hungry, none of this munching on chips or having your own entree shit.

Times had changed, though; maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, he'd have to wait another twenty years and see how this generation turned out. He didn't have very high hopes, but he was a crabby old man, and they never do.

Shaking his head in disappointment at the prospect of what the future held, he turned his attention to Maddie, who sat next to her mother and picked at her chicken with a subdued reservation that was completely unlike her. A dark, blackish bruise spread across her temple, three knuckle marks standing clearly out, and Lincoln sighed. She and Val were fighting...or play fighting...or some goddamn thing...and she predictably wound up getting the worst of it.

Maybe this was the uncool opinion of an old man whose mind is cluttered with five and a half decades worth of crap, but Lincoln blamed feminism. Think of it this way: Men and women, boys and girls, are biologically different. Nature (or God, if you like) created them to fulfill a specific and distinct set of functions most readily visible in the composition of their bodies. Women are smaller and weaker than men, and men are larger and stronger than women. Our civilization was built around their innate strengths and weaknesses, women being the ones to raise children and keep house and men being the ones to go out and hunt. Each person is suited to a certain task and must be given that task in order to succeed. You wouldn't give a computer geek like Mark an ax and make him become a logger, you put him where he can do the most good.

Society has treated, and continues to treat, women unfairly. Lincoln believed that a woman should have the same rights and opportunities as a man, but he didn't buy into this new age notion that women can do everything men can. No, you can't, not because you aren't as good, but because you weren't _made_ to do the same things they do, just like they weren't made to do the same things _you_ do. Men and women are designed to compliment one another, not to be exactly alike. Feminists didn't realize this, or they did and didn't think it was as foundationally important as it really was. They conflated social and political equality with anatomical equality and set themselves - and little girls across the country - up for failure and frustration.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he was looking at this through the sexist prism of a man who came of age during a time when most women were housewives and things like women's liberation weren't even a twinkle in their daughter's eyes. He was not the type of man to believe himself infallible, but he suspected that this time, he was completely right.

Neither Lola nor Lynn III were happy with their respective child's actions and upbraided them harshly. The two women could very well have gone at each other's throats, both blaming the other's offspring for instigating the fight, but Maddie was honest and adamant that she wanted to fight Val. _He said wrestling was fake, so I was gonna show him fake._ If Lincoln had to pick one of the kids to bear a higher share of the responsibility, he'd choose Maddie as she goaded Val, then drew first blood by tackling him. Val shouldn't have hit her the way he did - Maddie, Joy, Lana, and Lynn III might believe a woman can take a punch like a man, he did not - but he was willing to chalk that up to youth and inexperience. A man like Lincoln could have handled the situation better and probably deflected the attack without a direct slug, but Val was just a kid, and his remorse was painfully obvious. His red, tearful eyes and shell-shocked expression as Bobby Jr. dressed him down reminded Lincoln of guys he'd seen in Vietnam, the ones who came back shaking and staring from the front. He was a good kid and bright, too - he understood where he had trespassed and why it was wrong, so punishment at that point was a necessary formality.

Maddie, on the other hand, was like her mother, too damn headstrong. Oh, she owned up to her part in the fight no problem, but she didn't seem to get why she was wrong. He said wrestling was stupid and that's all there was to it. He didn't know if Lynn had had an in depth discussion with her yet or not, but that was alright…

...because he was going to.

All through dinner, he waited restlessly for his chance to take Maddie aside. He didn't often get to share his life wisdom with someone younger than him, and he was mildly surprised by how excited he was to pass on his insights. There was Alex, but while she usually took his advice to heart, she outwardly dismissed it with a raspberry and a handwave. _What do_ you _know?_ It was her way and he respected that, he just wished she'd give him that satisfying _aha_ expression that you only see in someone learning a great truth for the first time.

After all the pizza was gone save for three slices, everyone drifted off; there were no dishes to do, only greasy boxes and paper plates to throw away, and while Lynn III, Kathy, and Lana were right there to help with cleaning glasses and silverware, no one thought to grab a box and chuck it on their way out. Even Ronnie Anne vanished.

Guess it falls to me.

He grabbed a contractor bag from the garage and shoved all of the boxes in, along with the plates and paper cups. When he was done, he tied it off and went to the archway into the living room. Maddie sat on the couch with Kathy and Lynn Jr., who watched _Wheel of Fortune_ spellbound. _I'll buy a vowel, Pat...then turn around and sell it to someone else, hahahahahaha._ Lincoln said her name, and she looked curiously up. "Can you help me with this bag? It's kind of heavy."

It was _not_ heavy.

Maddie hesitated, almost like she was afraid he would bite her (my teeth might be jagged, but they haven't hurt anyone yet...aside from Ronnie Anne a few times), then her grandfather patted her on the knee. Lincoln liked to think Lynn sensed that he wanted to talk to her, but he was a fat used car salesman, and they aren't the most perceptive lot.

Actually, maybe they were.

"Go help your uncle with the big, bad, heavy trash bag. We wouldn't want him to hurt himself."

Deciding that Lincoln wasn't the dangerous, raving lunatic he so closely resembled, Maddie bent, grabbed her shoes, and pulled them on, then got up. Lincoln turned and lifted the bag several inches off the floor just to test its weight; she should be able to carry it on her own.

He sat it down again just as she came in. He nodded to it and did his best to sound contrite and ashamed. "There. It's too heavy for me."

She walked over, grabbed it by the knot, and pulled with all her might, expecting it to weigh a ton; instead, she stumbled back and nearly tossed it over her shoulder. Lincoln laid a steadying hand on the top of her head and kept her from falling. "This isn't heavy," she said suspiciously.

"It is for me," Lincoln said, "I'm old, remember?"

Maddie looked him up and down, appraising his age, then glanced politely away instead of justifiably agreeing with him. He went to the connecting door to the garage and opened it; a cool draught of stale air washed over him and brought the scent of sawdust, moth balls, and motor oil to his nose. He snapped the light on and went in, Maddie close behind, the bag clutched in one hand and held high off the floor as if to showcase her physical strength. "You're really strong," he commented as he pushed the button operating the roll top door. It shuddered in its frame and began to lift with a whirr of motor and a clack of metal.

"Thanks," Maddie said with a hint of satisfaction. "I don't work out but I play outside a lot."

Beyond wrestling, Maddie was a normal, rough and tumble tomboy who delighted in riding her bike, playing football with her friends, and flaunting every gender stereotype she could think of...sometimes consciously. Lincoln got most of his intel on her second hand from Lynn; when she was three, she wanted a Power Wheel for Christmas, but not a pink, girly one, though, oh no, she wanted one that looked like a pick up truck. For her seventh birthday, Lincoln sent her a fairy princess dress up set as a joke - a week later it came back to him, childish, Crayon scrawl across the front: RETUN 2 SENDOR. He called Lynn III and she put Maddie on the phone. _The post office must have did it,_ she said with a vocal shrug.

"That'll do it," Lincoln said. The door slid into place and he went out into the night. Christmas lights adorned houses across the silent street, all red, blue, yellow, and green. A hushed pall lay over the neighborhood; bitter cold nipped at Lincoln's bare skin and his exhalations puffed out before him in tiny clouds like smoke from the maw of a dragon. A wind gust knocked barren tree branches forlornly together, a skeletal nocturn to which demons, ghosts, and democrats danced 'til dawn.

"The can's over here," he said and lead Maddie around the corner. Three chest high trash barrels stood flush with the wall, one filled with bags and the other two empty. There was no exterior light and the house next door blocked out the moon, rendering the blackness sudden, jarring, and total. "Watch your step," he warned. Behind him, Maddie panted, and he didn't have to turn to know that her arm muscles were starting to quiver; her showing off was taking a toll, but if she was anything like her mother, she was far too proud to admit it...until absolutely forced to.

How the hell did Lynn raise his daughter, anyway? If he didn't know any better, her abhorrence of losing, showing weakness, and obsession with being tough would tell him old fatso was a real hardass on her. That wasn't it because Lynn was a pussy cat; he loved Kathy and Lynn III the way Lincoln himself loved Alex and Ronnie Anne. Lynn III could have been the biggest crybaby on the face of the earth, and Lynn would have accepted her with unending gentleness and patience. It probably wasn't Kathy - she was an old fashioned southern woman who'd been a homemaker, and traditionally feminine, almost her entire life.

Guess she was just born that way, nature over nurture. Most people are born as they are no matter _what_ the liberals say. They'll hold up a serial killer and insist that society is to blame, that unjust laws or abusive parents or violent video games made them into monsters, but the truth is that all evil men are produced, not created. Even if you can point to things in their life as "causes" for their actions, you always get back to what is inside of them...that black, malignant flicker in their heart, like rot in the core of an apple. Many people are treated poorly, beaten, abused, rejected, and hurt, and they don't kill, because they just don't have it in them.

That goes for things like bravery, boldness, and disposition, though admittedly, those things really _were_ influenced by environment and could be learned over time. Case in point, Jessy. As a little girl, she was anxious and uptight; he didn't realize it at the time, but looking back, she never seemed fully _comfortable,_ almost like she had a tiny, metaphorical rock in her figurative shoe. As she grew (and took medication), that awkwardness melted away and she gradually became a well-adjusted wife, teacher, and mother.

Was Jessy really born that way, though, or was it his and Ronnie Anne's fault? When they adopted her, neither one thought it was fair to cut Luan out of her life. Ronnie Anne was not her mother and was not comfortable with the idea of stealing that role from Luan (those were her exact words, stealing it from Luan). They raised Jessy to know that they were her aunt and uncle, but loved her very much, and that her mommy couldn't be here right now. In his reflective moments (where increased in number every year), he wondered if they didn't make a mistake...agonized over whether or not Jessy ever felt truly loved and at home knowing that she wasn't really their daughter.

What could he do, though? Raise Jessy as his own and keep Luan away? The thought crossed his mind...more than once...but he couldn't do that to his sister. He _really_ couldn't do it to Jessy. She deserved to know her mother. Hell, she'd find out eventually anyway, and what would _that_ have done to her? To discover that her entire life was a lie? He might be dramatic, but the eviscerating sense of betrayal he imagined Jessy feeling when she learned the truth was something he wouldn't wish on even the Cong, much less his niece.

But was that the right choice...for Jessy?

A breathless grunt brought him back to reality. Maddie held the bag with both hands and grimaced in pain, her back bent and her knees shaking. Lincoln scrambled to open the trash can's lid, then took the bag and tossed it in. Maddie sucked great gulps of air, swallowed, then returned her head up to him. He could not see her for the shadows, but he could _feel_ her gaze on him. "I thought it was too heavy," she said, accusation in her voice.

"To carry," he said quickly.

"Maybe Grandpa's right and you're just lazy."

Lincoln laughed and patted her on the head. "Maybe I am." An idea struck him and he let his hand fall away. "Come on, I have a special thank you helping me."

"What?" she asked curiously.

"You'll see."

Back in the garage, he pressed the button, and the door began to cumbersomely lower. He turned, went to the chest freezer in the corner, and lifted the lid. Frozen pizzas, hamburger meat, packages of pork and chicken, and stacks of TV dinners greeted him like captives in a torture dungeon. _Oh, God, he's back, guys, don't move and he won't hurt us!_ He bent over and rifled through the contents until he found what he was looking for wedged between a box of shrimp and a bag of brussel sprouts. Ha, there you are, you little bastard. He pulled it out and turned; Maddie stood in the middle of the garage watching him with wary eyes that lit up when she saw what he had. "You like Klondike Bars?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded, "I love Klondike Bars."

"Me too," he said as he ripped open the package and took two out. He tossed one to her, and she caught it with ease. "Nice catch."

"Thanks," she said. She tore the foil away and took a big, chocolaty bite.

Lincoln carefully opened his, and lifted it to his lips. He loved these things, but his teeth weren't what they used to be and he had to eat slowly lest the ice cream get into his cavities; that hurt so damn much he was liable to slam the treat to the floor and stomp it to death. Chewing, he closed the lid, leaned against the freezer, and said, "These are good even if they don't have sugar."

"They don't?" Maddie asked around a mouthful.

"Nope. Ronnie Anne can't have too much sugar because of her diabetes, so it's either this or sneak the real thing in and eat it when she's not around. But that wouldn't be fair."

Maddie took another bite. "I guess."

They lapsed into silence, the only sound the crisp cracking of chocolate shell breaking between teeth. Lincoln studied the bruise on her forehead and gathered his thoughts. He would never tell a little girl that she was inherently and intentionally different from boys even if she needed to hear it. There _was_ something he wanted to address, however. "That's quite the shiner you got there," he said.

Maddie regarded him blankly. He jerked his chin at the bruise, and she darted her eyes sheepishly to her feet. "Yeah," she said, "kinda. It's not bad. I had worse."

Her tone was genuine. She wasn't putting on a false front, she really _had_ been hurt worse, and considered the bruise unimportant.

"What happened?" he asked and crunched down on his rapidly shrinking confection.

For a moment, Maddie didn't reply, and he began to think she wouldn't. "He said wrestling was dumb and not real," she finally grumbled.

Lincoln didn't know jackshit about wrestling. After meeting Lynn III, Alex got into it, casually, and she'd watch it on TV every now and again; like he did with everything he didn't like, Lincoln tuned it out. He read in the paper a few years ago, however, that the owner of the World Wrestling Federation, in a bid to dodge sports taxes in New Jersey or some damn thing, testified that wrestling was a performance, and not a competition. In other words, it really _was_ fake. He opened his mouth to point this out, but stopped himself. Maddie loved wrestling and telling her it was a fraud would be like telling a Christian _Jesus didn't walk on no damn water, shut up._

On the other hand, kids have to learn sometime, don't they?

Clearing his throat, he said, "Well...you do know that it's _not_ real, right?"

To his surprise, Maddie nodded. "Yeah, my mom told me."

"Then...why did you get mad at Val?"

"Because I still like it and he said it was dumb."

Was that all of it, though? He doubted. "It not being real is kind of a touchy subject, huh?"

Not meeting his eyes, Maddie shrugged. "Kind of, I guess."

"Did it hurt your feelings when he said that?"

She paused, then nodded. "A little."

"It made you want to fight him."

"A lot."

Lincoln shoved the last of the Klondike Bar into his mouth, then balled up the wrapper and dropped it on top of the freezer. "You know what makes _me_ want to fight people?"

The little girl looked at him with rapt curiosity. "What?"

"When they don't eat at my restaurant."

She cocked her head, nonplussed. Lincoln confirmed his sentiment with a slow nod. "And when they drive ten miles under the speed limit. And when they cut me off in traffic. And when they bump into me without saying excuse me. And...a lot of things tick me off, but you know what?"

"What?"

He crossed his arms with a flourish. "I don't fight them. What's the point? You can't duke it out with everyone who upsets you in life. If you try, you're in for a hard time. And jail. Lots of jail."

Maddie's eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she had never considered the possibility of being incarcerated.

"You can't take on the world, and that means sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and accept what you're being given. Life is full of things you're not going to like, and if you walk around punching it all in the face, you'll only make it worse."

Maddie stared down at her shoes and visibly meditated on his words. "There's a time to fight and things worth fighting for," he continued, "but someone saying your favorite thing is dumb...and pointing out an actual fact about it...aren't one of those things."

"He was being a jerk, though," Maddie argued.

"The world is full of jerks," Lincoln said, "you just have to ignore them the best you can." He remembered all the times Lynn pushed, shoved, punched, and tripped him growing up, and a fond smile crept across his lips. "Plus Val is your family, and family is the most important thing in the world."

Maddie's chocolate coated lips fell into a frown. "But he's a jerk." She stared down at her ice cream with a thoughtful expression, as though trying to come up with another derogatory term to describe her cousin. "And a butthole."

"He's still your family," Lincoln said. "You know, your grandfather was a real jerk once."

"He was?" Maddie asked disbelievingly. Her obvious doubt in her grandfather's fallibility made Lincoln smile. Is there any person more beyond reproach to a child than their grandparents? He didn't think there was, except maybe for Santa or the Easter Bunny. All of his grandmothers and grandfathers were gone by the time he was small, but from the way Lori and the others talked about them, they were saints who never once, in their entire lives, committed even the slightest misdeed, or engaged in base functions like sex or defecation.

The burden of grandparenthood was a massive one, because your grandchild looks up to you in a way that they don't anyone else, not even their mother and father. One wrong move, one tiny misstep, and you might accidentally reveal that you're not a larger-than-life deity but a regular person.

But hey, the truth's the truth. "Yeah, he was a huge butt hole. He still stuck up for me when I needed him to and under all that buttholeness, he cared about me because family is stronger than anything else."

Maddie furrowed her brows contemplatively and strained to compute his message. Was it too convoluted? He was so unused to giving advice to children that he could hardly tell if he was making sense or not. One of mankind's greatest failings is its inability to always articulate itself. Fights, wars, and divorce proceedings start, more often than not, because somewhere down the line, communications either broke down or became garbled. It's easy to know what is in your heart and mind, but seldom easy to fully express it.

"The point is," he said, "you can't fight everyone, especially over little things like a disagreement over sports."

Maddie gave a tentative nod. "I guess," she said castigatedly.

Lincoln walked over and laid a benevolent hand on her shoulder. "I just wanted you to know that. For your own good.'

"I understand," she said.

"Good," he replied, then, lowering his voice to a furtive whisper, "Don't tell your granddad about the Klondike Bar. He'll eat them up and I won't have any for me."

Maddie grinned. "Okay. I won't."

"Good girl," Lincoln said and patted her shoulder.

* * *

Across town, Val Santiago sat alone in his father's old bedroom, his hands on his knees and his gaze pointed at the floor. The door to the hallway was slightly ajar, and through it drifted TV sounds and his grandmother's halting laughter as something funny happened on screen. He drew a laborobed breath and let it out in a rush.

It was just past sundown and Val had been sitting here on the edge of the bed since after dinner, when his mother banished him to the room. He wasn't allowed to come out for the rest of the night except to use the bathroom, or play his GameBoy or do anything else but think about what he did.

And he'd been thinking about it a lot.

There was one unwritten rule of being a man and that was to not hit a girl. You could hit other men all you wanted, even if they were smaller than you or wore glasses, but you never, under any circumstances, hit a girl, never. Earlier today, however, he did just that.

He was so ashamed he didn't even _want_ to leave the room. It didn't matter that Maddie was the one who started it (kind of), and it didn't matter that she knocked him down. She was still a girl and punching her was wrong. She just made him so mad - she implied he was weak and poked him in the chest. If a boy did that, he wouldn't think twice about beating them up. He did with her, and he _told_ her, but she kept on. Then she tackled him and tried to choke him from behind. What was he supposed to do? Hitting her might be wrong, but it's not like he had a whole lot of options. He couldn't just let her do that stuff.

And it's not like he was _trying_ to hurt her. That's why he aimed for the temple. He _could_ have gone for her nose or mouth, but he didn't want to make her bleed or anything, just to make her shut up and show her that boxing was better.

Whether he was trying to or not, he did hurt her - he was pretty sure she even passed out for a minute or two. When he realized what he'd done, his anger evaporated and cold terror took its place. Terror for her...and terror for him because he just broke the most sacred rule ever. Now everyone was mad at him, even if they didn't show it. Justin's bitter, singing words rang through his mind like a funeral knell. _Good job, tough guy, you hit a girl._

There was _nothing_ tough about hitting a girl.

 _You don't fight girls,_ Josh spat, _what's wrong with you?_

Heat spread across the back of his neck and crept into his cheeks. He took another breath and exhaled evenly through his nose. The door creaked open, and he whipped a startled gaze over his shoulder. "Hey," Grandpa said and flashed a friendly smile. He wore dark work pants and a wife beater that exposed his bare, muscular arms. His fading black hair, white at the temples and the color of steel everywhere else, was neatly combed, not a strand out of place, and his wrinkled face was warm and congenial without a trace of judgement.

"Hey," Val mumbled and returned his eyes to the floor.

Grandpa came over and sat next to him, the bed dipping beneath his weight. The spicy scent of his aftershave found Val's nose like a pleasant memory and he unconsciously inhaled through his nostrils. "Figured we could hang a little bit," Grandpa said. "The living room's full of squares right now." He nudged Val's ribs, and Val gave an anemic smile that felt strange and somber on his lips.

Twisting around, Grandpa dug in his hip pocket and pulled something out. A tiny plastic tube with a yellow salt shaker style lid. Grandpa twisted it, upended the container, and shook a toothpick out, then stuck it between his lips. He offered the vial to Val.

"No, thanks."

"Aw, c'mon," Grandpa said, "you're a cool guy, aren't you?"

He went back to the moment his fist connected with Maddie's head and to the way she sank limply to the ground, and a shiver dropped down his spine. No, he _wasn't_ a cool guy. He was a scumbag. He couldn't say that, so he simply shrugged one shoulder. "I guess."

Grandpa held out the tube. "Cool guys chew toothpicks."

Val darted his eyes from Grandpa's face to the toothpicks and back again. "Okay," he acquiesced and cupped his palm.

"Atta boy," Grandpa said, "who says peer pressure doesn't work?" He pinched one between his thumb and forefinger and laid it in Val's hand. Val studied it for a moment, then copied his grandfather and slid it into his mouth. "I used to chew a lotta these things," Grandpa said, "when I stopped smoking." He creased his brow and looked at Val with sudden severity. "You don't smoke, do you?"

Val shook his head vehemently. "No," he said, "smoking's bad."

Grandpa nodded, satisfied with his honesty. "Don't ever start," he said and jabbed a stern finger. "It's worse than you think it is. It makes you cough and wheeze, and stopping's the hardest thing you'll ever do. You know what it did to me?"

"W-What?" Val asked, morbidly curious.

Leaning in, Grandpa said, "It made me cry."

"Cry?" Val asked, tasting the word as though it were sour. Grandpa was pulling his leg, he was too big, strong, and grown up to cry. Unless someone he loved died, then it was understandable, but over not smoking cigarettes?

Sitting up straight, Grandpa said, "It sure did. Made me bawl like a baby not to have my smokes. They change your brain chemistry or something." He tapped his temple. "Not having them's like not having air, only worse. Made me sick too. Weak, puking, shaking, the works."

They covered drugs - including cigarettes and alcohol - in health class back at Hollywood Middle so Val knew a _little_ bit about nicotine, but he didn't think it was _that_ bad. He assumed the worst part was all the rocket fuel and embalming fluid they put in them. "Really?" he asked.

Grandpa hummed. "If I'm lying, I'm dying." His eyes shone with earnesty; he was telling the truth. "So don't you ever start, or I'll smack you in the head, huh?" He ruffled Val's head, and the boy chuckled.

"I won't," he promised.

For a while, neither one of them spoke. Val swished the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and nibbled the wood with his teeth until splinters dotted his tongue. The atmosphere gradually grew heavy, and Val knew in a roundabout way where the conversation was heading next, and when Grandpa spoke, he flinched. "I heard you had a rough day."

"Yeah," Val admitted, "I kinda did."

Grandpa looked at him. "What happened?"

There was no accusation or outrage in his voice, and for the first time since Mom and Dad shoved him and Stephy into the back of the car and left the community center, he felt something approaching at ease.

He told his grandfather everything, starting with overhearing Maddie talking about wrestling to the gutted horror he felt as he stared upon his handiwork - Maddie on the ground, eyes closed, lips parted. He didn't think of her as looking dead when it happened, but in hindsight, she did, and his stomach turned. Grandpa listened intently, nodding and humming where appropriate, wincing here and snorting softly to himself there. "I didn't mean to," he finished, "she just...made me."

"No," Grandpa said, "no she didn't. You _let_ yourself do it."

Though his tone was one of patient understanding, his words cut Val anyway. "I mean…" he trailed off, not sure how to continue.

"Look, I'm gonna be honest, okay?" Grandpa placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "That whole thing...it's kinda...you know, you started it."

Val opened his mouth to protest, but Grandpa cut him off. "There was no reason you had to walk up and tell her wrestling's dumb."

"But it _is_ dumb."

Grandpa threw his hand up. "Maybe it is, I dunno, I never watched it. That's not the point, though. That's something she likes, and even if you think it's the dumbest thing in the world to you, it isn't to her. I bet it made you mad when she said boxing sucked, right?"

Well...kind of, but not much. He said so, and Grandpa tilted his head to one side as if to say _there you go_. "People aren't always gonna like the same things you do. You wanna know something?"

"What?"

"There are people out there who think boxing is dumb. They think two guys getting in a ring and beating each other up is the stupidest thing in the world. Does that give them the right to pick on you for liking it?"

In the living room, Stephy burst into laughter. "That was really funny!" she cried. "Too bad Val missed it~"

What? What did I miss?

Grandpa arched his brows expectantly, and Val came back to the here and now. "No," he said at length.

"That's right," Grandpa said, "and it's not okay for you to pick on other people for liking something you don't."

Sigh. It _was_ his fault, wasn't it? Like Grandpa said, there was no reason for him to start in on her about wrestling being dumb. Until he came up, she wasn't bothering anyone, just talking about her favorite sport. Instead of leaving her alone, he basically spit in her face. In his defense, wrestling _was_ dumb: All those guys jumping around and pretending to fight because they were too weak and unmanly to do it for real. They hit each other with steel chairs that weren't really steel and everyone in the audience went nuts for it like a bunch of idiots. Uh, you do realize that chair's, like, foam, right? _I_ could take from it and I'm a kid.

Even so, he was in the wrong for being a douchebag to Maddie.

Now he felt bad.

Sensing this, Grandpa slipped his arm around his shoulder and drew him close. "You know what you have to do. Right?"

Val thought for a moment. "Yeah," he finally said, "I have to say I'm sorry." He looked at Grandpa for confirmation, and the old man nodded.

"You have to say you're sorry," he agreed.

That night, he lay awake in his sleeping bag on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, one arm bent behind his hand and the other resting across his chest. Mom and Dad were asleep in bed, tangled and on top of one another since there was so little space, and Stephy was curled up with a teddy bear near the door; if he needed to pee or get a drink, he'd have to step over her, and knowing his sister the way he did, he was certain she was awake and waiting for him to try so she could grab him and scare the whizz out of him. The fight played over and over in his mind, and with every pass, his own culpability became ever clearer. Sure, Maddie was wrong to provoke him like she did, but that was kind of on him too, since, as Grandpa said, he started the whole thing. If it wasn't for him being jerky, nothing would have happened.

"Pssst."

Val furrowed his brow propped himself up on his elbow. Stephy sat Indian style in a pool of pink comforter, leaning slightly forward with her hands in her lap. "Pssssssst, hey," she whispered.

"What?" he asked lowly.

"Are you asleep?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Fast asleep."

"Oh...then wake up."

He tossed his head back and drew a deep breath. His mother used a lot of big words in everyday conversation, so his vocabulary was a little larger than the average ten year old's, whether he wanted to be or not. That, therefore, is how he came to know the word _insufferable,_ which fit his older sister like a boxing glove. She was annoying, irritating, aggravating, vexing, and a whole bunch of other things. She delighted in being utterly intolerable and pushing you to your breaking point. "Okay," he sighed, "I'm up. What?"

She didn't reply for a long moment, and he started to repeat himself. "Uh...how you doing?"

"Fine," he said guardedly. That was an odd and kind of arbitrary question. He expected something a little more pressing; you don't wake someone up in the middle of the night just to make chit chat. Granted, he wasn't actually asleep, but she didn't know that.

In the darkness, she rocked back and forth. "Good." Her tone was stiff and contrived, as though she were trying to find a way to broach an embarrassing topic.

Great. She wants to talk about what happened too. Probably to make fun of me.

"So...when you punched Maddie's lights out…"

Annnnd there it is.

"...you, um, like... " she trailed off, and he could imagine her bunching her lips side to side as she floundered for a way to word her comment. "...she kind of deserved it, so, uh, you shouldn't feel bad."

It took her words a minute to sink in,and when they did, Val's eyes narrowed confusedly. Was she consoling him? That was dizzyingly strange because Stephy was _not_ the type to offer support or encouragement. It's not that she was an awful person - despite picking on him and stuff, she was okay as far as sisters went - it just wasn't her style to worry over him. If he felt down, she laughed; if he was in a bad mood, she poked his cheek and made irritating sounds in his ear. She cared about him - one time she stopped being friends with a girl who said he was ugly, stupid, and gay - but not everyone shows their emotions in the traditional way...or at all.

Like Stephanie.

Maybe it was that...or maybe she was setting him up for some kind of taunt or prank.

What should he do? Give her a serious response? Humor her so she'd leave him alone? He was sure this wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but these moments came so infrequently that he was totally unprepared to deal with them.

Settling for the former option but proceeding with extreme caution, he said, "I do feel bad. I started it."

"True," she said, "you _were_ a huge butt hole...I think...I was stuck upside down so I don't know, but it definitely fits your MO -"

Val frowned."What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"That you're a huge butthole," she stated.

Anger knotted his chest and he bit off a barb.

"But she's the one who wanted to fight over it, which makes her the bigger butthole, so...don't beat yourself up too much."

She wasn't wrong, per se, but that didn't change that fact that he precipitated the confrontation. At best, he would allow that Maddie escalated it, but he was solely to blame for there being something _to_ escalate.

Setting that aside, however, he was touched by Stephy's attempt to assuage his guilt. "I guess."

"Cuz Maddie already did that for you."

She giggled like a girl at a dirty joke, and Vale flopped back against his pillow. Well, it was _almost_ a nice moment.

"Seriously," she said, sobering, "she's just as responsible."

A shaft of light from a passing car zipped across the ceiling like a timid ghost running for cover, and a horn honked in the distance. "If it wasn't for me, it wouldn't have happened at all, so I'm _more_ responsible."

Stephy uncrossed and recrossed her legs with a rustle of fabric. "Okay, yeah, you shouldn't have been a butthole, but she shouldn't have been a butthole either. I don't know why you guys aren't besties, you're both literally the same."

"No we're not," Val blurted loudly, then froze. Dad snorted and stirred, and Mom smacked her lips sleepily together.

Stephy watched them for a moment, and when she was sure they wouldn't wake, she turned back to him. "Yes you are. You're both huge sports dorks, you're both annoying, and...uh...you smell funny."

"Me? You're the annoying one."

She threw back her head and forced a laugh. "My dear Val, my mature and sophisticated nature may _seem_ annoying to an unrefined child such as yourself, but I assure you, _you_ are the annoying Santiago child."

He started to snap back, but stopped himself. They were getting off track. Where were they? Him being the same as Maddie, right. That was false, he was _nothing_ like Maddie. He liked a real, actual sport, she liked a soap opera masquerading as a sport...and not doing a very good job of it.

"You're both very passionate about the dumb thing you love," Stephy said, all trace of humor and gaiety wiped from he voice, "and people who are fanatical about something, even different things, are more alike than they aren't."

Later on, after Stephy was asleep, Val ran her words through his head. _People who are fanatical about something, even different things, are more alike than they aren't._ The more he examined them, the more he came to understand their inherent truth. It doesn't matter if the object is sports, science fiction, or video games, the zeal that we put into it is one-size-fits-all. _I like this thing…I like it enough to paint my face or dress like Captain Kirk and go out in public, I like it enough to spend hard earned money on it, I like it enough to invest time and energy into it...and I like it enough to fight anyone who trash talks it._ People laugh at geeks who collect Star Wars figurines but accept jocks who collect jerseys and expensive baseballs signed by dead guys. Are those pastimes _really_ that different? Is there really that much separating the football fans and the sci-fi fans?

No, he finally figured, there wasn't.

People might have unique modes of expression, but when you strip away the trivialities, we're all the same. We love, hate, want, and need just like everyone else.

He and Maddie _were_ kind of the same, weren't they?

And that thought carried him to sleep.


	212. December 1999: Part 5

**Yeahers Eve: Some people say it is. I just call it my best story.**

Lincoln spent three hours Sunday morning decorating Flip's: Lights, garland, festive ribbons, electric candles in every window, a wreath on the door, and a giant Christmas tree where the jukebox usually stood: It took him twenty minutes and much grunting and straining to get the damn thing into the pantry, and when he was done, he felt worse than he did in Vietnam. Jesus, at least the Cong never broke my back and ripped my arms out of their sockets.

He got there at just past eight with Ronnie Anne in tow, but she begged off after forty-five minutes to finish Christmas shopping. Coincidentally, her exit coincided with him mentioning the jukebox's need of transference.

Or maybe she just left him for dead.

Probably that.

Around nine-thirty, he called Becky and Benny and lured them in to help with promises of holiday pay and letting them hang around for the party if they wanted. When they got there, he put Benny in charge of making the horderves and made Becky trim the tree. Alex, Jessy, Blake, Mark, Tim, Jordan, Allison and Zoe were the first to arrive, Alex swinging a portable radio back and forth like a jaunty elf on her way to work. "Wow," Alex marveled and looked around, "this place looks welcoming for once."

"For once?" Lincoln asked. "What do you mean _for once?_ "

She shrugged. "Usually it's not very inviting. There's a sense of hostility in the air, like it's haunted by a hateful spirit."

Ten bucks said that spirit was him.

"A spirit with white hair," she added.

Yep. It was him. "I'm not hostile," he said defensively, "now shut up or I'll dunk your head in the fryer."

"That sounded pretty hostile," Jessy said as she passed with Allison in her arms.

Alex pointed at her. "See? This is why no one eats here, they feel unsafe around you."

Unsafe? Around _him?_ That was the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. He was a snuggly goddamn teddy. Sure, he was thin and had bones poking out like jagged rocks from a foreboding shoreline, and yeah, maybe he did have bags under his eyes and a perpetual scowl tattooed on his knife blade lips, but like Mom said when he used to whine like a girl because _boo hoo, I have white hair and the other kids pick on me_ : It's what's on the inside that counts. Like with Flip. He was the sourest bastard you ever met on the surface, but underneath he had a heart of gold and everyone who knew him - _really_ knew him - loved the guy. Maybe twenty years ago he would have balked if someone told him he was turning into Flip, but now? Flip was a damn fine man to be.

 _Thanks, Loud,_ Flip said from heaven.

Shut up, you old asshole, I'm trying to think here.

 _Fuck you too, kid._

Love you.

 _Yeah, yeah, yeah._

Great, now he was holding conversations with dead people. All he needed was -

 _Bugs, that's how a girl does push-ups, start over._

\- Sgt. Hellman and the gang was all here. Hi. Sarge.

Alex gave his shoulder an affectionate pat. "It's not you," she assured him in a gentle tone, "it's the food. It's awful."

"Gee, thanks, that makes me feel better."

"You're welcome!"

She went off to set up the radio, and Benny came out of the kitchen with a tray full of meatballs and set it on the counter. Lincoln moseyed over, plucked one up, and tossed it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, assessingly, then nodded. "Tastes good," he said and clapped Benny on the shoulder. That was all the praise he was getting out of Lincoln after that bonus the other day. Oh, and that necking-in-his-pantry shit. He and Becky hadn't had the chance to interact much today, but if the looks they kept giving each other was anything to go by, they did a lot more than neck after he kicked their asses out.

Across the dining room, Blake and Jordan sat at one of the booths overlooking the window, Blake bent over a GameBoy and Jordan drinking from a juice box with a picture of a smiling apple in sunglasses on the front. Its thumb was extended as if congratulating her on being cool enough to drink apple flavored sugar water. _All the kids are doing it, honey. Don't ya wanna fit in?_ Zoe and Allison crawled up to the Christmas tree, its lights sparkling white, and gazed up at it. Allison cooed and gurgled, and as if heeding her cousin's gibberish, Zoe got unsteadily to her feet, took down a plastic ornament, and dropped to her butt. She held it out to Allison, who drew herself into a sitting position, took it, and stared down at it with a big, open mouth smile of wonderment.

Lana and her kin ('cause she's southern) were the next to show, followed closely by Lori and all the others: Lynn, Lynn Part 2, Lynn 3: The Maddie Edition, Ritchie Rich. Soon, the place was fuller than it had been in years, and Lincoln bitterly regretted that he couldn't make any money from it. Hey, Jordan, there's a slurping your juice fee, five bucks; hey, Val, remember knocking your cousin out the other day? I need ten before you can come in, just to cover any damage you might cause my place. You too, Maddie.

But of course he didn't do that. Had it been any other time of year, maybe, but it _wasn't_ any other time of year, it was Christmas and being greedy around Christmastime is a good way to get visited by three pissed off spirits. The Ghost of Christmas Past would take him back to Christmas 1967 (look, Linc, maggots), The Ghost of Christmas Present would show him Maddie and Val crying because Uncle Lincoln took their last ten bucks, and the Ghost of Christmas Future would show them pissing on his grave and laughing (we're communists now, just to piss you offffff).

Instead of taxing his family members for breathing up his air, he went over to the counter and sat in his normal spot by the register and crossed his arms.

Across the room, Val dropped into the booth next to Jordan and stared at Blake for a bemused moment; he was engrossed in his game that he was almost drooling. "What'cha playing?" Val asked.

"Army Men II," Blake muttered.

"That's a cool game," Val said. Then: "Can I play?"

Blake grimaced at the screen moments before a pixelated explosion sounded. He glanced between the screen and his older cousin, stricken and put on the spot, then reluctantly handed it over, as though he really didn't want to but felt obligated to. Val might get mad at him if he said no.

Taking the GameBoy, Val rested his forearms on the edge of the table then looked up as someone shoved in next to him.

Maddie.

Dressed in jeans and gray zip up sweater, the hood flipped back and pooled with brownish blonde hair, she focused her chastized gaze on the table, her lips pressed severely together. His stomach knotted and he looked away, the desire to play Army Men II suddenly gone.

Blake and Jordan both turned from Maddie to Val, then exchanged an uneasy look. The last time they were together, Val and Maddie got in a huge fight and beat each other up. Blake thought Val was wrong for hitting Maddie like that, and Jordan didn't. _We get in fights all the time,_ Jordan said. They _did_ , but not like _that_. While their opinions diverged, they agreed on one thing: They didn't want to see it happen again.

For a while, no one spoke, the air heavy and full with dread anticipation, then Val and Maddie both sighed. "I'm sorry," they said in unison.

They looked at one another, each surprised by the other's apology, then away. Neither one said anything for a long time, then Val broke the silence. "Sorry for being a jerk and saying wrestling sucks."

"Sorry for provoking you into a fistfight," Maddie said. "I should have handled that better."

"I shouldn't have started it," he said.

She opened her mouth to say something more, but closed it again in indecision. "Uh...boxing's pretty cool," she offered.

"Wrestling's not really bad either," Val returned hesitantly. "It's kind of cool when...you know…" he grasped for something he honestly liked about wrestling, and came back with the first thing that occurred to him. "It's cool when they fight in cages."

A smile she couldn't contain spread across Maddie's lips. "Yeah, it is cool." She dimmed a little and looked down at her hands, which twisted nervously on the table. "You're right about it, you know, not being real."

"That doesn't really matter," Val said quickly, "I mean, those guys are still out there doing all those jumps and flips and stuff so...it's...it's still a sport."

A peal of laughter rolled through the room. Lynn Jr. stood in the middle of a large group - Lana, Jed, Luan, Becky, Benny, Jessy, Kathy, Ritchie, and Josh - with a shit eating grin on his face like a comedian amused by his own top shelf joke. Blake flicked his eyes from the gathering to the GameBoy forgotten in Val's hand and licked his chops like a hungry dog. Jordan watched Val and Maddie from the corner of her eye, uncertainty written upon her features; she looked like she was ready to slip under the table and crawl to safety at the first sign of trouble.

"Yeah," Maddie said, then, in a show of diplomatic pandering that would make Bill Clinton blush with pride, "but boxing's a real sport."

Fred and Tim stood by the counter, eating from a tray of snacks and talking to Alex, and Lola bounced Allison on her lap with a big, creepy open mouth smile.

"Wrestling is too," Val assured her.

They lapsed into silence again, and Blake anxiously chewed the inside of his bottom lip. The GameBoy was so close, yet so far. Was he going to play it or what? Every second he had it just sitting there in his hands was another second that Blake had to wait. Should he ask for it back? He should probably ask for it back.

Maddie twiddled her thumbs and looked like she wanted to say something more but didn't know exactly what. "So...who's your favorite boxer?" Maddie asked. "Mike Tyson, right?"

"George Foreman," Val said, "it changes sometimes."

"The grill guy?" Maddie asked dubiously.

He nodded. "Yeah, him. He used to be a boxer. You like Mankind, right? He's...okay." He couldn't bring himself to say _cool_. He didn't know the first thing about Mankind except that he wore a leather mask that didn't cover his whole face and had long, scraggly hair. Oh, and that he was _hardcore_ , which meant his matches were more extreme than everyone else's.

Past the icy window, snow began to drift lazily from the bloodless sky. Blake watched absently as a man passing on the sidewalk crossed the parking lot at random and ducked into the porta-potty, looking quickly around to make sure he was unobserved. "Yeah," Maddie said, "he's my favorite. I like Stone Cold too. He's awesome."

A police cruiser shot by in the street, its roof mounted lights flashing red and blue, and Blake craned his neck to see better. Every time he saw a cop car on its way to a call, engine gunning and sirens blaring, he wondered where it was going and what kind of stuff awaited the officers inside. Not much happens in Royal Woods, but each speeding unit could always signal the start of something BIG and EXCITING, like a bank robbery or a shootout. Jordan leaned over and to get a look, even though it was already gone.

Val and Maddie were talking about boxing and wrestling now, and Blake rolled his eyes. Alright, he was doing it. "Can I have my GameBoy back?" he asked.

The older boy glanced at his hand as though he'd totally forgotten he was holding the GameBoy, then handed it back. Blake took it and started a new game. Jordan slumped her shoulders and slouched in her seat. Great, Blake was back to ignoring her and now she couldn't even get up to mingle because Val and Maddie were in the way. She crossed her arms and glared at her friend, hoping he'd feel her gaze, look up, and pay attention to her, but he was already absorbed. Ugh.

With nothing else to do, she studied Blake's face, his hands, the wall behind him, and the snow, falling faster now and beginning to stick to the asphalt. She spent the most time looking at Blake. Being kind of pudgy, he reminded her of a big, comfy teddy bear, and sometimes, like right now, she wanted to give him a hug. Could you blame her? He looks so soft! She called him teddy bear a few times just because it annoyed him. She liked picking on him; he was kind of cute when he was angry, like a ticked off koala bear. He was threatening, but he didn't look it, so it was hard to take him seriously until it was too late.

Maddie told Val in breathless tones about Undertaker chokeslamming Mankind through the top of a heck in a cell and Val listened intently, his forehead creasing with interest. Jordan was really freaking bored. She considered asking them to move so she could get up, but finally decided on another course of action.

Slipping under the table, she crawled over to Blake's side of the booth and climbed into the spot next to him. She scooted up next to him and leaned in until she could see the screen. There, much better. "Shoot down that helicopter," she said, "it's gonna get you."

"I'm more worried about the tanks," he said through his teeth and frantically mashed buttons with his thumbs. A fleet of choppers sailed over Blake's character and opened up with machine gun fire. He fell down, dead, and GAME OVER scrolled across the screen. He threw his head back and let out a frustrated groan. "Told you," Jordan said.

At the register, Lincoln picked up a chicken wing and took a bite. Benny came out of the kitchen, grabbed his coat from the rack, and shrugged into it. Becky sat on one of the stools with her jacket on and her purse resting in her lap; she stared idly through the window at the swirling snowfall as she waited for Benny. _You like that loser?_ Lincoln asked her earlier.

 _He's not a loser,_ she said, _he's sweet._

 _You can be sweet_ and _a loser,_ he retorted.

 _Like you?_

He snickered. _I'm not sweet. I'm an asshole. People feel "unsafe" around me._ He was hoping for a dismissive hand wave and a "Gee whiz, no, Linc, you're a great guy," but Becky simply nodded her agreement.

Bitch.

Benny came around the edge of the counter and, after Lincoln paid them, they left, Benny holding the door like a gentleman. Aww, how - aaaaand he just grabbed her ass. So much for _that_. Lincoln went back to his chicken, tearing every last shred of meat from the bone because, like Mom used to say, there were starving children in Canada. Benny told him that recently; he came into the kitchen, made himself a sandwich, then threw half of it away. _There're starving kids in China who'd kill for that sandwich, Linc._

 _Yeah? You gonna bring it to 'em?_

When he was done, he dropped the bone onto a paper plate and sucked his fingers clean. The current song - some modern pop trash version of _Frosty the Snowman -_ ended and the Bruce Springsteen version of _Santa Claus Is Coming to Town_ started. Lincoln looked around the room at all the chatting, mingling, laughing, and fraternizing and drew a contented sigh; a warm sense of _togetherness_ permeated the air and wrapped itself around him like a warm woolen blanket.

It was really nice to see everyone in the same room. The Louds saw each other so infrequently these days that he sometimes worried they would all lose that spark of familial connections. No, you can't always be shoved up your sister or cousin's ass, and no, you can't cling to family in an obsessive and unhealthy manner (I'm 46 and just can't _bear_ to leave home), but family, Lincoln had discovered, was the most important thing in the world. It had sustained him in his darkest moments and whenever he was weak or weary, his family was there to see him through.

Things weren't always sunshine and rainbow. Families are comprised of people and people all have their faults and vices. He lost two sisters, one to addiction and the other to disease, and both of his parents, and there were times growing up that he almost hated his older brother. No one is perfect and dealing with people, related to you or not, can often be an exasperating enterprise. It was all worth it in the end, though, because what he shared with his family was an unbreakable bond that would stand any test and always see him though. Life can be a cold, cruel, lonely place, but with your loved ones by your side, it isn't so bad. In fact, it's downright enjoyable. Looking back, Lincoln could confidently say that all of his most precious memories, all of those moments that made him smile upon reflection, included one of his family members, be it Mom, Lynn Jr., Ronnie Anne, or Alex. and never him alone. Some people can lead rich and fulfilling lives on their own, but he could not; if he didn't have Ronnie Anne, Alex, Jessy, and all those other bozos hanging around, his time on this earth would have been a whole lot dimmer.

A lot of young men came home from Vietnam with festering mental wounds; some attempted to self-medicate with drugs and alcohol, and others with bullets, overdoses, and nooses. An estimated 3 in 10 Vietnam vets are homeless, and 4 in 10 suffer from mild to severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. How easily it could have been him out there on the street, huddled in a cardboard box and trying desperately to drink away the memories of war. He didn't know for sure if that would have happened to him without Ronnie Anne and the girls, but he always had the sneaking suspicion that it would have. Take them away, and he'd be just another statistic on the VA website.

Things hadn't always been easy for him, but he lead a good life and if God gave him the chance, he would live it all over again...even the part where commies made him eat bugs, for that was a very small price to pay for everything that came after.

A very small price indeed.

Getting up, Lincoln rolled his neck and went to spend time with his family.


	213. February 2000

**Lyrics to** _ **Smooth**_ **by Santana Ft. Rob Thomas (1999)**

The world didn't end on January 1, 2000, not that Lincoln Loud thought it would. The American media loves a good scare, and God knows if you give them a molehill, they'll turn it into Mount Everest faster than you can say "bullshit." The Y2K frenzy died down after the big day, only to be replaced by another frenzy, an even _worse_ frenzy, the kind that came 'round every four years like a none-too-bright beast slouching to Washington to be born.

Election season.

Through the winter of '99 and '00, a bevy of crooks, liars, and polished buffoons lined up for their chance at the White House: Orrin Hatch, Gary Bauer, Pat Buchannan, Vice President Al Gore, Texas governor George W. Bush...Lincoln had no idea who Hatch, Bauer, and Bush were before the race, and he was only vaguely aware of Buchanan being a televangelist or something.

Then there was John McCain.

Lieutenant McCain.

In 1968, Lincoln spent almost a month in a bamboo cage next door to Lt. McCain's. When Lincoln arrived, he was angry, hateful, and full of venom. The first thing McCain said to him? _You have a bad attitude._ Every time Lincoln recalled that initial conversation, he could see McCain's face as clearly as though it happened just yesterday: Strong, prominent jaw, broad forehead, eyes squinted against the glare of the sun. He couldn't have been more than thirty, but the suffering he'd endured in captivity made him look older: Deep lines creased his rough, weather-beaten skin, and his hair was just as white as Lincoln's, if not more so. _You're letting them in. They want you to be hateful._

Lincoln had been a POW for eight months by that point. He was beaten, starved, mock executed, deprived of sleep, shuffled between jungle internment camps like a pinball, and passed every night alone save for the gnawing certainty in his chest that he would never see his family again. The last thing he felt like hearing was some puffed up, patronizing brass and his faux, half baked movie-of-the-week bullshit wisdom. Letting them in? What the hell was he supposed to do, pretend they _weren't_ torturing him? Lie back and sing the Star-Spangled Banner? He was sick of taking it, he wanted to fight back; maybe they could beat a pussy like Lt. McCain into submission, but not him.

 _You're making this much harder on yourself than it needs to be,_ he told Lincoln that first night. Lincoln sat back against the bars of his cage with his knees drawn to his chest. His hair was shaggy from nearly a year of unchecked growth and tickled his forehead; every so often, he tossed his head to get it out of his eyes. McCain was abstract shadow in the half-light of the winter moon, and though Lincoln couldn't see him, he could feel the older man's eyes on him like a shameful burden. Lincoln hugged his legs tighter, as if for protection against McCain's reproach, and stared pointedly ahead. His body was racked with aches and pains and one of his eyes was swollen shut; his pride was hurt worst of all, as it had been all along.

 _Just leave me alone,_ he muttered without force.

 _You're not helping anything,_ McCain said, his tone softening in sympathy, but only a little. _And giving into this attitude's only going to hurt you in the long run. That's where they get you, Loud. Cuts and broken bones heal easy, but mental wounds...those don't. If you let them into your head, you're done for. You might as well just lie down and die._

For a time, Lincoln hated McCain - hated his weakness, hated his resignation, hated that he'd given up and wanted him to give up as well. But he slowly came to realize that McCain was right. They could punch him, kick him, and spit on him all they wanted it, but they couldn't reach his heart and his mind unless he let them.

And he was letting them.

A few weeks after Lincoln got there, McCain and the others were shipped out, and Lincoln never saw him again. A new crop of recruits took their place, and one of them, Maddox, was filled with piss and vinegar just like Lincoln was at first. Looking at him, Lincoln simply shook his head. He tried to get through to him, but the boy wouldn't listen.

Oh, how history repeats itself.

Eventually, they broke out and made it home. It was only then, with Ronnie Anne in his arms, that he truly understood how far he could have fallen if he let the Cong break his mind. He could have been bitter, resentful, and mean, he could have brought the war home the way Luan and her hippie friends did in '69. He could have walked away from that camp a hollow shell, but he didn't, and he owed it all to Lt. McCain.

He always wanted to track the guy down and thank him for everything he did, but his family and his restaurant took precedence, and every time it bobbed to the surface of his mind, he'd meditate for a while then push it back down. It wasn't like he could just pick up the phone, he had to find him first, and he had no idea where to even start his search. Calling the Department of Defense and politely asking for McCain's address? Writing to the VA and hoping they broke privacy laws by sending back his phone number?

There was little he could do, so aside from a few half-hearted attempts, that's what he did. Then, around 1990, he read a story in the paper about the Senate Select Committee on POW/MIA Affairs, a body charged with investigating claims that American POWs were still being held in Vietnam. Staring up at him in stark black and white, was a photo of four men.

He recognized McCain immediately.

Seeing his face, when he was least expecting it, was like a punch to the guts, and he read the accompanying article with great interest. McCain was elected to the House in 1983 to represent Arizona's 1st District, then to the Senate in 1987. During the early nineties, he worked for normalization of relations with Vietnam, which only served to remind Lincoln of all the times he wanted to sock him. After everything the boys went through over there, after all the lies and broken promises from Hanoi, after all the misery, suffering, war, and death, after over two decades of oppressing their own people to the point that many risked their lives on rickety wooden boats just to escape.

After all of that…

Vietnam could go fuck itself.

One day in 1992, he was sitting in front of the evening news when a story about McCain and another Vietnam vet turned Senator named John Kerry came on. His brow darkened, his arms crossed sullenly over his chest, and he glared at the screen, where footage played of Kerry and McCain shaking hands with Vietnamese officials. Look at them, Lincoln thought, they're probably a couple of fruits.

Out of the blue, McCain's voice sounded from the center of his head, as clearly as if he'd spoken from right beside him. _You got a bad attitude, Loud. You're letting them in._

Revelation came over him then. Here he was, twenty-two years later, chest knotted with anger because two men wanted to build bridges and promote healing. Jesus H, even now he was letting Charlie in. He was just as stupid now as he was in '68.

From that point on, he never complained about America's diplomatic ties with Hanoi, though they never sat entirely well with him.

During the rest of the decade, McCain went on to establish himself as a fierce independent who wasn't afraid to break ranks with his own party. He was mentioned a lot in the press as a possible running mate for Bob Dole in '96 and worked for campaign reform...or something. He wasn't in the spotlight very often, or at least Lincoln didn't see him much. After he was passed over for VP for someone named Kemp, he faded into the shadows.

Every now and again, Lincoln would think of digging up the address of McCain's office and sending him a letter, but it had a way of slipping his mind until the next time he either saw him on TV or read his name in the paper. One time he went so far as to jot a reminder to himself on a sticky note, only for Blake to spill juice on it. When he tried to read it later on, he could barely figure out the word _office._ Office? What about an office?

In early 1999, as the 2000 election cycle began ramping up, McCain threw his hat in the ring and suddenly, he was all over the place. One night in late 1999, the _NBC Nightly News_ played a clip from a speech he gave to the Chamber of Commerce earlier that day, and Lincoln casually remarked to Ronnie Anne that he'd been meaning to try and get in touch with him. _These days, he's probably too goddamn important to talk to the likes of me_ , _anyway,_ he said. He was half joking...but half serious, and was mildly surprised by the rush of bitterness that went through him as he spoke. Vietnam was a long time ago, and while Lincoln had come to admire and respect the man who saved him from himself all those years ago, he doubted that the John McCain of 1999 was the same John McCain of 1968. That was thirty-one years ago...a man can change a lot in that time, and if anyone had, it was him; he was a politician now and running for president. He probably didn't give two shits about him...unless he planned to give him money or a vote.

Though he wanted to see McCain again...very much, actually...it was best to let the past lie. He'd built the lieutenant into a larger than life figure in his head and meeting him would jeopardize the image he had. He was content to remember McCain as he was then: Stoic, wise, and far braver than Lincoln was, because while Lincoln fought, McCain _hoped_ , and hope is the strongest substance on the face of the earth. He didn't want to ruin his vision, so he decided that he wouldn't. He would go on as he always had, and McCain could go on as _he_ always had. No fuss, no muss.

Only there was one teensy weensy thing Lincoln didn't take into account.

His wife.

On a snowy evening in early February, he was sitting in his chair and reading the _TV Guide._ Ronnie Anne sat before the computer, which had been on its desk flanking the television for so long that it no longer looked out of place. She glided the mouse across the pad, clicked, typed, and snorted when someone in one of her chat rooms said something humorous. When they first bought it, Ronnie Anne was on it every night, talking to educators from around the world and bursting with excitement because _golly gee wow, this person's from England. England, lame-o, can you believe that?_ The novelty of it wore off after a while and she didn't use it as much anymore. She tried to get him to, but he turned her down; he had more interest in becoming a communust revolutionary than he did in learning how to computer. Mark called "digitization" (was that even a word?) the wave of the future, and that was all good and well, but Lincoln didn't care for it.

Ronnie Anne finished up what she was doing, shut the computer down, and got up from the swivel chair with a pained hiss. Pressing her hand to her lower back, she shuffled into the kitchen and got a drink of water, then made her way to the couch. "Stiff?" Lincoln asked.

"Oh, yeah," she grimaced and sat. "That chair does _not_ agree with me."

No, the chair didn't seem to agree with her. It was the strangest damn thing. She could sit at the kitchen table for hours on end doing paperwork or clipping coupons, she could sit up in bed and read until the cows came home, she could even handle passing entire days in the chair in her office at school, but five minutes in the computer chair here did to her back what Fat Man did to Nagasaki. They tried three different models but that all hurt her. If you asked him, it was the computer's fault; it was probably bathing her in radiation or something and weakening her bones. Before long she'd start losing hair and growing a second head. He'd call it Anne Ronnie, and it'd give him far better hummers than the original Ronnie Anne.

Crossing her arms and legs, she arched her back, and it popped with an audible crack. Lincoln winced in sympathy and Ronnie Anne let out a relieved sigh. "Ahhh, that's better."

"You're getting old," Lincoln commented and flipped the page. An ad for a movie called _Cabin By The Lake_ greeted him. 7/8 central, only on USA. Looked like horror. Lincoln didn't like horror anymore. Alex would probably enjoy it.

Ronnie Anne threw her hands up in a defensive gesture. "It's literally only _that_ chair. I don't know why. I think it hates me. Our chair hates me, lame-o."

" _Our_ chair?" Lincoln asked. "It's _your_ chair. I don't sit in it."

"No, but you sit your stuff in it."

He couldn't argue there, he _did_ use it as kind of a catch-all drawer. He draped his coat over the back, sat his magazines on it, one time he even dropped his keys on without thinking, then panicked when he went to take them out of his pocket and they weren't there. He tore the entire house apart, and only found them when he kicked the chair in frustration and they fell onto the floor.

"Sometimes," he allowed.

"All the time," Ronnie Anne charged. She snapped her fingers as though she'd just remembered something. "Before I forget. I emailed John McCain a couple months ago and he emailed me back just now."

Lincoln's heart inexplicably jogged. "Emailed him?" he asked incredulously. He was pretty sure McCain had more pressing matters than what was in his email inbox.

She lifted her hand and tilted her head to the side in acquiescence. "Okay, it wasn't really him. It was his campaign manager or someone. Anyway, I told them who I am and who you are and they got back to me just now saying..." here she trailed off, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and recited from memory. "Senator McCain would be thrilled to meet with his old friend Private Loud."

Lincoln's stomach flooded with cold dread. Oh no. Didn't she understand he was trying to let sleeping dogs lie? Stirring up the past can only muddy the water, and Lincoln wanted his water crystal clear. If he met McCain only to discover that the man who once inspired him to be strong and pull through was dead and replaced by a contrived, too smooth political hack, a part of him would die and every positive impact McCain had on him would be null and voided. It would be like looking up to and respecting a pastor or a youth coach who exemplified every quality you aspired to, then finding out they molested a bunch of children. Perhaps the effect wouldn't be quite _that_ dramatic, but it would sting nevertheless.

Yet here he was on a dreary afternoon three days ahead of the Michigan primary, hunched over the wheel and driving to a McCain rally in Ann Arbor. Sleet fell from the leaden sky and turned to slush under the squeaking wiper blades and contemporary pop music with a Latin flair poured lowly from the speakers; he was too wrapped up in his own anxiety to search for something better.

 _And if you said this life ain't good enough_

 _I would give my world to lift you up_

 _I could change my life to better suit your mood_

 _Because you're so smooth_

A ball of pulsating nerves clenched his stomach and he unconsciously chewed his bottom lip between his teeth. His heart throbbed and suspense built inside of him with every passing mile. A voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to turn around and go back, but he couldn't; thirty-two years ago, Lt. John McCain dragged him from the darkness. Without him, Lincoln very well may have become one of the many boys who came home from Vietnam with severe psychological problems and wound up living on the street and quieting the demons in their heads with drugs and alcohol. They were the ones who let the Cong in, they were the ones who gave in.

Because of John McCain, and perhaps John McCain only, Lincoln was not one of them. He didn't escape unscathed, and the intervening years hadn't been exactly easy, but he didn't fall where so many of his fellow soldiers had fallen. He raised a beautiful family, ran a successful restaurant, and succeeded in life as much as a lame-o like him possibly could. Maybe he would have pulled through on his own, but sometimes he seriously doubted it.

He owed it to John McCain to at least say thank you.

So that's what he resolved to do.

The Times Union Convention Center, where the rally was being held, sat on the northernmost corner of Ann Arbor's downtown district, a large, dome-shaped building with a skywalk, parking garage, and narrow slats for windows. The vast parking lot surrounding it was full, and Lincoln circled it for nearly ten minutes looking for a spot. Every other car, it seemed, had McCAIN 2000 stickers, some blue, others white, all boasting an American flag and a website address. People drifted toward the main entrance in dribs and drabs, a few in McCain T-shirts and others holding signs; Lincoln watched them warily as they passed as though they might attack him if given the slightest provocation. Lincoln had always pitied political partisans and, indeed, the religious, because both of those groups are not _free._ They live their lives dictated by someone or something else - the bible, the Koran, liberal or conservative philosophy - and even if they don't realize it, they are restricted. Lincoln was not; he was at liberty to make his own decisions.

Granted, he may have been looking at it wrong, but he always had the sense that people who adhere to dogma - any dogma - exist in prisons of their own making.

Then again...don't we all?

He finally found a spot, parked, and cut the engine. The snow had tapered off and the parking lot was slick under his feet. A cold wind swept over him as he made his way to the double doors and a shiver cut through him. Inside was a wide lobby packed with people going through security. He waited, and when his turn came, he told the guard his name. The guard, a beefy man with a mustache, checked a clipboard, nodded, and handed Lincoln laminated backstage pass suspended from a blue lanyard.

Following the crowd (there had to be a metaphor in there somewhere), he went through another set of doors and came out into a vaulted theater headed by a large stage. A podium stood against a backdrop of blue curtains, flanked to one side by an American flag and to the other by the Michigan state flag.

The hall was packed, standing room only, and Lincoln shouldered his way as close to the front as he could, stopping three rows back when the forest of people became too dense. A fat middle aged woman next to him wore a blue football jersey with white stripes and McCAIN across the back above the letters OO. He studied her from the corner of his eye; excitement was writ across her features and restive giddiness surged through her like electricity. Next to her, an old man held up a hand lettered sign with a picture of McCain's face on it. The air crackled with anticipation, and a few frat boys off to Lincoln's left chanted _Mc-Cain, Mc-Cain_ like impassioned football fans. Jesus, when did politics become a spectator sport?

Shortly, a man in a brown suit came out from the left and walked up to the podium. A hush fell over the audience and Lincoln looked strickenly around; he'd never been to one of these things before and he was starting to feel lost. "Alright," the man said boisterously into the microphone. His amplified voice rolled through the auditorium like thunder on a Kansas prairie. "Can we have everyone's attention, please?"

People clapped, whistled, and waved their signs. The man scanned the assembly with a pleased grin. "This has been a long, hard campaign, a campaign which, when we started about eight, nine months ago, we knew we wouldn't have a lot of money, but we _would_ have a lot of committed volunteers, dedicated workers, people who know John McCain. We appreciate your work and everything you've done."

More clapping, more catcalling. The woman next to Lincoln stared rapt at the stage with near religious zeal. For the first time, Lincoln noticed the TV cameras on the fringe of the crowd, all pointed at the speaker. All of them were marked with the name of the news organization they belonged to. CNN. C-SPAN. FOX NEWS. The back of his neck burned with shame and he sincerely hoped none of them turned in his direction. He had a reputation to uphold, and being seen at a political rally would seriously cramp his style.

The speaker turned the mic over to another man, this one older and wearing glasses, and he lavished enough praise on McCain to grease a battleship five times over. Lincoln tuned him out and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Thank God McCain wasn't a Democrat, at least. It was hard enough being surrounded by a bunch of Republicans, but liberals would be too much: Hippies, blue-haired feminists, Black Panthers...shudder. You know, it's kind of funny. Most people don't know _any_ major politicians, but Lincoln knew two: John McCain and Clyde McBride, both conservatives, coincidentally.

God, Clyde, there's a name Lincoln hadn't thought of in a while. He talked to him on the phone every other blue moon, the last time just after Christopher and Colette were born. There was a certain gulf between the two of them, as though they were standing on two opposite sides of a gaping chasm and shouting across to each other...in different languages. Their conversations were pleasant and enjoyable, but the spark of friendship that bound them as kids was gone. They'd taken two different paths in life and had become two totally different people.

The current speaker finished, and a woman in a pink skirt and blazer took his place. Jeez, this is a McCain rally, right? Where's McCain?

Fifteen minutes later, just when Lincoln was starting to think McCain was abducted by aliens, a murmur ran through the crowd, and, as one, everyone turned to the left. McCain made his way to the stage, shaking hands as he skirted the gathering. People blocked Lincoln's view, but he managed to catch brief flashes of the man between them. His stomach tightened and his heartbeat sped up. He'd seen McCain on TV more times than he could count, but seeing him in the flesh was something else entirely, and somehow made it real.

Emerging from the crowd, McCain climbed a step of steps and shook hands with a gang of people that had formed onstage. He came to the podium, waved, and held his thumbs up. The congregation went wild; the woman in the jersey screamed in Lincoln's ear like a schoolgirl at her first Beatles concert, and he winced. McCain smiled and waved again, and Lincoln scrutinized him closely, looking for the man he knew in 1968 and surprised that he actually found him. McCain's hair, sparse and white, receded back from his broad, wrinkled forehead and deep creases marked the corners of his mouth and eyes like old leather. His square jaw seemed even more prominent now, jutting proudly out as if to bask in the adoration of its supporters. "Well," he said into the mic, and the raucous noise began to slowly taper. Someone whistled, and McCain waved at them with a big smile that didn't strike Lincoln as forced. Perhaps he was biased in favor of McCain, but the old man projected an air of honesty and forthrightness that Lincoln didn't often see in politics. Lincoln couldn't claim to agree with some of McCain's positions, but he inferred that McCain genuinely believed what he was promoted. Too many politicians will say anything they can to get you on their side, even going so far as to champion causes and issues they themselves do not care for. Not McCain. He came across as authentic, and that Lincoln could respect.

When the hall was silent, McCain continued. "Thank you all for coming here tonight," he said, "I know the weather isn't very good and I appreciate you braving it. I'm from Arizona so snowfall is something I'm a little out of touch with. Like rap music."

A smattering of laughter spackled the the crowd.

McCain sobered and cleared his throat. "I'm running for president, my friends, because I believe deeply in the greatness of America's destiny. We are the world's lantern of freedom and opportunity, the bright beacon of hope that our fathers fought to bequeath us and our children were born to inherit. But I know that unless we restore the people's sovereignty over government and their pride in public service, unless we reform our public institutions to meet the demands of a new day and unless we renew our sense of national purpose, we will squander our destiny."

The multitude was silent as it imbued his message.

"Toward that end, I have called for the reform of campaign finance practices that have sacrificed our principles to the demands of big money special interests. I have spoken against forces that have turned politics into a battle of bucks instead of a battle of ideas. And for that, my friends, I have been accused of disloyalty to my party. I am also proud to help build a bigger Republican Party, a party that can claim a governing majority for a generation or more, by attracting new people to our cause with an appeal to the patriotism that unites us and the promise of a government that we can be proud of again. And for that, I have been accused of consorting with the wrong sort of people."

The speech continued in a similar vein for nearly half an hour, and by the end Lincoln was so mind-numbingly bored that he almost wept. When it was over, he filed out with a seething crush of humanity and spoke to the guard again, who directed him down a long hallway. He showed his pass to another guard, who spoke to someone named Bob on a shoulder mounted CB. Ten minutes later, Lincoln sat in a spacious waiting room with leather chairs, framed landscapes on the white walls, and a potted plant next to the closed door. Magazines covered a glass coffee table: A _People_ with Jennifer Lopez on the cover, a special commemorative issue of _Time_ boasting a photo of Times Square on New Year's Eve ( _Welcome to a New Millennium_ ), and others. Lincoln picked one up and idly paged through it, unable to focus but wanting something to take his mind off the upcoming meeting.

He expected to be kept waiting in suspense while McCain took his sweet ass time, but after less than five minutes, the door opened and McCain came in. A pang of unnamable emotion tore through Lincoln's stomach and he missed a beat before standing. His eyes locked with McCain's, and for a minute they simply looked at each other like two Old West gunslingers preparing to draw. The old man seemed smaller than he had in '68, which was ironic since Lincoln could never remember seeing him on his feet, only sitting. Up close, his face was even more lined than it was from afar, and Lincoln's head spun. He knew what McCain looked like, but even so, when he thought of him, he appeared as he had in Vietnam.

Finally, McCain walked over and Lincoln held out his hand. Ignoring it, McCain pulled him into a fierce and friendly embrace. Normally if a man put his arms around him, Lincoln would shove him away and clock him in the jaw _(get offa me, fruit_ ), but just this once, he hugged him back. "You proved me wrong," McCain said and patted his back.

"I told you sitting in that fucking cage wasn't going to get me home," Lincoln replied with a grin.

"You sure did," McCain laughed.

They sat, Lincoln in a chair and McCain on a couch to his left. McCain laced his fingers and leaned forward, the cuffs of his jacket pulling slightly up to reveal his bony wrists. "I was at the Hilton when you did it," McCain said, referring to the Hanoi Hilton, that infamous North Vietnamese prison where so many men were kept. "and we didn't know who it was or how it happened, but we did know some of our boys got out." He shook his head fondly. "We were proud. Very proud. The gooks beat us ten times harder as punishment, but we took it with smiles on our faces."

The escape was major news at the time and ensured Lincoln and the others a place in military history, as it remained the only instance of American POWs escaping from a Vietnamese prison camp. In the course of daily life, it was easy to forget that he was something akin to famous. No one knew his face and nobody ever asked for his autograph, but some people remembered, and every once in a while, he'd get a magazine wanting to do a feature on him, or someone interested in making a documentary. After he invariably sent them away, he'd pass the next week so conscious of his notoriety that he fully expected to be mobbed at any moment by a gaggle of screaming fans. _Linc, sign my gun! Linc, you're the best!_ He didn't know how Lola and Bobby Jr. could stand it.

"I'm sorry about that," he said awkwardly, unsure of what else he _could_ say.

"I'm not," McCain said confidently. "I don't often like being wrong, but that was an exception."

Lincoln smiled. He didn't know why the meeting should be so surreal, but it was. Here they were, thirty-two years later (to the very month), McCain in a suit and running for president and Lincoln in dark slacks and a white polo, selling his restaurant after almost thirty years of operation. Both of them had wandered far from the men they were in the late sixties, yet here they were, together again in the far flung year 2000. The men (and women) who comprised Lincoln's past lived on as sepia toned snapshots in his memory, seen but fading, visible but untouchable. To have one of them in front of him, older but tangible, was almost enough to make him dizzy. "What I want to know," McCain said, "is how you did it."

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. He made a conscious effort to think about his time in Vietnam as little as possible, but occasional thoughts and memories slipped through the cracks anyway, and one of the things he found himself going back to time and again was the girl, the one who tied his hands loose to help him. That's what she said. Helping you. Or was it help you? He couldn't remember, something like that. He never knew her name and when he tried to call up a vision of her face, he saw only generic Asiantic features through a dense fog of years - sometimes she was young and beautiful, other times she was older and more matronly, like a doting mother or grandmother. He got the impression - as tenuous as it may be - that like him, she was forced to partake in a war she didn't particularly want to fight. Her government, not so different from his after all, shoved a gun into her hand and sent her across the country, miles from home, to walk the fields of death.

He often wondered how things turned out for her. Did she live to see the end of the war? Did she go home, marry, and have a family of her own? He hoped she did. He hoped she lived a long, full, and happy life. He prayed (metaphorically, because he didn't believe in God) that she was one of the boat people who got out in the seventies and eighties and came to America.

A very large part of him wanted to find her again so that he could thank her. Whenever a journalist or writer called him or showed up at Flip's - a rare and unwelcome occurrence that had happened far more times than he liked - he considered talking to them just so the story of what she did would get out and, maybe, reach her wherever she was. He never did, however. He told no one, not General Westmoreland, not the men who rescued him, not even Sergeant Henderson, who played a large though spontaneous role in the escape (the last Lincoln heard, Sarge lived in Muncie, Indiana, and worked as a plumber). He took all the credit for what happened, not because he wanted it, but to protect her. If he told, he reckoned, the Cong might figure out who she was and punish her. All these years, he kept quiet, telling only Ronnie Anne because he could tell her anything, just so that that girl, whoever she was, wouldn't suffer.

Talking about her now, even to McCain, felt wrong, but he heard himself saying, "The girl," anyway. "She helped me."

McCain nodded as though he understood completely. "She seemed like good people. How'd it all happen?"

Taking a deep breath, he told McCain everything, starting with the arrival of Maddox, Henderson, and the others, and finishing with their rescue. McCain listened intently, nodding here and there, and as he spoke, Lincoln began to loosen up. McCain, too, relaxed; he sat back, crossed his legs, and draped one arm over the back of the sofa. When Lincoln got to the part where he chased the final guard into the forest while Henderson screamed after him to come back and untie him _(Loud, you crazy son of a bitch!_ ), he and McCain shared a hearty laugh.

"When I heard," McCain said, "I thought _I wonder if if was Loud,_ but I said _nah, it couldn't be. He's just a punk kid._ "

That made Lincoln chuckle. He _was_ just a punk kid, and looking back at it clearly and fixedly for the first time in over thirty years, no...he couldn't have done it. If it weren't for the girl, he never would have gotten out. McCain, he read somewhere, was held POW until 1973. Had he been left on his own, Lincoln probably would have stayed just as long, if not longer.

"How are you now?" McCain asked. There was a note of genuine concern in his voice that touched Lincoln.

Lifting a hand, palm up, Lincoln said, "Alright. I had a little bit of PTSD but it's gone now." He thought for a long time, taking stock of his mind, then nodded. It _was_ gone. What remained were the lingering and indelible imprints, like tracks in the snow. The war changed him, but war has a way of changing everyone, even if they don't know it. "You?"

McCain shrugged one shoulder. "It was a long five years and it took its toll on me. They beat me, starved me, put me in solitary. I can't raise my arms over my head anymore and…" a shadow crossed his face. Darting his eyes ashamedly to his lap, he said, "They got it out of me."

Though it had been three decades, Lincoln instantly knew what _it_ was. Every day, the Cong took McCain from his cage, carried him off, and demanded he make an anti-American statement for propaganda purposes. Each time, McCain refused, and each time, they beat the holy God out of him. He told Lincoln once that they would probably get it out of him eventually...and from the sounds of it, they had. "Every man has his breaking point," McCain defended, "and I reached mine."

"So did I," Lincoln said. He went back to the guard fleeing into the woods. In that moment, nothing mattered - not Henderson, not the others, not escape, not even going home - except for making him pay. That luckless slant bastard was, for one white hot second, Lincoln's torture and misery made flesh. He was every hit, every kick, every tear Lincoln had shed, every rough knuckled interrogator and grinning, slap happy Cong...and Lincoln was pure, righteous _fury_.

He said as much, and McCain nodded. Not patronizingly, but with the full knowledge of a man who had felt exactly what was being described. "We're only human," he said, as though their humanity were a shameful but immutable affliction. "Men like us know that better than almost anyone. A lot of people are never really put to the test. They don't know their own limits, they don't know how many punches they can take or how many nights they can go to bed hungry. We know our limits...we know _ourselves..._ and that makes us better off."

Lincoln contemplated his meaning a moment. He was right, a man who knows himself, who is in tune with his heart, mind, and body, is a learned scholar, the man who is not is a blind, slope-browed caveman fumbling in the dark. At this juncture in his life, Lincoln liked to think he knew himself well. He had his faults - such as overestimating himself sometimes - and he took them into account in his dealings with life. He knew what he could and could not do. A lot of men don't and it leads to pain, heartache, and embarrassment for them and others around them.

"Yeah," he said tentatively, "I guess it does."

"How've you done since?" McCain asked with evident interest. "You were married, right? How's your wife?"

A smile crested across Lincoln's face as it always did when the subject of his wife and daughters came up. "She's good. We'll be celebrating our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary in May."

McCain whistled.

"We have a daughter," Lincoln said, "and we raised our niece while her mother was...away." He paused and expected McCain to ask what _away_ meant.

Instead, the old man nodded. "I have seven children myself. My wife Cindy and I adopted our daughter Bridget from Bangladesh. She's nine and loves being on the road." He laughed wistfully. "She might even run for president herself one day."

"My daughter Alex is a nurse," Lincoln said, chest swelling with pride, "and my niece is a schoolteacher. She's been home with her daughter for a couple years but she's looking to get back to work. Her husband works for Bill Gates."

McCain arched his brows, impressed. "Wow," he said, "so they're both successful."

"Yeah," Lincoln said, "they do well."

"That's good," McCain said, "I'm glad to hear that. I'm sure it has more than a little to do with you."

Lincoln snorted. "Me? I own a failing restaurant. Outside of the army, it's the only thing I've ever done."

"That doesn't matter," McCain said, "you can be the richest man in the world and bungle parenting, or the poorest and excel. It's the values you teach them that are important."

From there, the conversation turned in a thousand different directions - reminiscences of Vietnam, marriage, birth, death, triumphs, and failures. They chatted like old friends, and at one point, Lincoln realized that he genuinely liked John McCain. "...then he puts his hand on my shoulder," the old man was saying, "and says…" here he sat up straight and squared his shoulders. Doing his best George W. Bush: "'Now, John, I swear, I had nothing to do with those ads.' I said, 'Don't give me that shit, and take your hands off me.'"

Lincoln erupted in laughter and slapped his knee. "He's not as dumb as he looks," McCain said, "and don't let anyone tell you he is. He knows damn well what he's doing and he knows how to put on an act. He has one of those stupid faces and, let me tell you, he uses it."

"He sounds like an asshole," Lincoln said. He disliked George W. Bush on sight. He did the same with all politicians, but there was something especially repellant about the Texan. His accent, perhaps, or the cast of his features. Every time he was on TV, a rush of contempt went through Lincoln.

McCain chuckled. "He is. I'm not as good as I used to be, but I can take the likes of George W. Bush. He got a cushy National Guard post during the war. He's basically a civilian."

The meeting broke up just before nine with both men getting to their feet and enthusiastically shaking hands. "It was really good to see you again, Loud," McCain said and clapped Lincoln's arm. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. Producing a pen from another pocket, he jotted something onto the back and gave it to Lincoln. "That's my home number. If you need anything or ever just want to talk, call me."

Lincoln's first instinct was to refuse the senator's kindness, but he took the card anyway. "If I lose, you're welcome to come see me anytime you're out visiting your brother. If, by some miracle, I win, Cindy and I would love to have you guys at the White House."

"That sounds great," Lincoln said, bemused. He remembered he hadn't done the one thing he came her for, and took a deep fortifying breath. "Thank you..for what you did for me. You pulled me back from the brink and I...I really appreciate it."

McCain donned a pleased grin and pumped Lincoln's hand encouragingly. "I didn't do anything, Loud," he said. "In fact, if you listened to me, you'd have been next to me at the Hilton for all five years."

With one final shake, they parted, and Lincoln walked to his car through the drifting snow feeling light and good, as though a weight he had grown so used to he forgot it was even there had been lifted from his shoulders.

Yes, he thought, he did like John McCain.

But he still wasn't going to vote for him.

* * *

It was a normal day in the Hospitalo De Mennoniteo (Espanyol for _Mennonite Hospital_ ) which meant that Alex Loud was stuck on desk duty. Again. Ugh.

When she first joined the emergency room staff nearly two years ago, she expected to always be on the go, rushing back and forth between mangled bodies amidst complete and utter pandemonium (which is a synonym for excitement). That's how it was on _Chicago Hope_ and _ER_ ; never a dull moment, always someone to help, the action never ended until the credits rolled and the eleven'o'clock news started.

Yeah. Reality was a _liiiitle_ different. Oh, they got busy, but not nearly as often as Alex liked; more times than not, she spent her time cleaning out bedpans, wiping down bed rails and doorknobs with disinfectant, and doing paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. Let's be real for a minute. Alex knew full well that a nursing job would come with mounds of charts, graphs, and forms, but she assumed that physical on-the-ground nursing (you know, tending to the sick and wounded) would act as a counterbalance.

It didn't. The scales were weighed in favor of paper and skimpy when it came to patients. On the slower days, the nurse in charge of the triage center, a fat, bullish woman with a severe face and gray hair held up in a tight, pragmatic bun named Nurse Forsythe (the woman was named that, not her bun, hahaha) put Alex on the front desk, where she served as the first step between the good people of Royal County and quality medical care. It wasn't as rewarding as taking vital signs and all that happy crappy, but it was okay. I mean, after all, it was a _really_ important job.

She just got so sick of it sometimes; before her shift was over, her back started hurting, her butt got sweaty and itchy, and a tension headache always formed above her left eye, then moved into the center of her skull where it consumed her brain in dazzling white agony. Ow! I need home and a foot rub, stat!

Today, February 20, the emergency room was deserted when she came in save for a guy in a leather jacket sitting in the waiting area and staring up a rerun of _Three's Company_. He didn't look sick, but Alex instinctively checked him over anyway. She was about twenty feet away and couldn't see very much, but she pegged him as suffering from acute cool-itus. The jacket and his shades were a dead giveaway. If he wasn't pumped full of ten ccs of lame-otosis, he would become so cool he'd turn into her, then the universe would implode because it couldn't handle so much awesome. Just like _Back to the Future 2_.

Right?

She shuffled to a stop and tilted her head back; a thin ray of sunshine falling through the window painted her features in golden hues and warmed her still numb-from-outside cheeks. She couldn't remember, it had been a long time since she saw that movie. A major plot point was Marty absolutely _not_ being allowed to meet his double lest something bad happen; what that _something bad_ was eluded her. Oooh, maybe it was _Back to the Future 3._

Heh, but seriously, that was the weakest installment in the franchise. She liked the first one because it was partially set in 1955 and provided her a glimpse into the time period her parents grew up in. And you know what? It wasn't all that bad. She wouldn't mind visiting the fifties for a day or two.

Another place she wanted to visit was Mexico. She saw this movie about a couple spree killers who kidnap a family in a Winnebago and cross the border into Me-He-Co (that's how Peggy Hill pronounced it, and she won the Heimlich County Substitute Teacher of the Year award, like, five times, so it _had_ to be correct). They stopped at a titty bar to meet with some cartel dudes, then BAM, vampires _everywhere_. It was awesome. Around the same time, she read a book where some guys backpack through central Mexico, and the author's rich description of the rugged terrain, quaint villages, and tradition steeped culture really resonated with her. The mariachi bands, the dusty desert plains, the stark beauty, the sense of history and mystery - a place that was as old as America, if not older, but largely unknown.

To her, at least.

Mommy Anne (that's the new name she made up for her mother just this very second) hounded her for years about getting in touch with her roots, and fool that she was, Alex was uninterested. She lived in the here and now, and the here and now was Royal Woods, Michigan; she was mostly white, her husband was white, her friends were white, her Jessy was white, her kids were white - she honestly didn't see the point in clinging to her ancestors' customs. It's not that she was against Mexican stuff, she just failed to understand why one should stake a claim to a culture that was not really theirs. She didn't grow up in Mexico (or France, for that matter, from which her father's side of the family hailed). She grew up in America in a normal middle class suburban family. Maybe if Mom introduced more Hispanic things earlier on (Day of the Dead was pretty cool, the book she read talked _all_ about it), but she didn't until Alex was older.

In short, Alex was disassociated with her lineage and didn't see that as a problem, but nowadays, she felt a strange and power _pull._ She checked a book on Mexico out from the library and read it spellbound. The words were great, but the pictures were _captivating_ , especially the ones of Mexico City. The antiquated Spanish architecture was unlike anything she had ever seen; its uber modern (and muy stylish) downtown section was similar to those in America, but boasted its own unique flavor; and the barios, where poor people lived, came across as more quaint and romantic and less the crime infested shit holes she knew they were. The Aztec temples were endlessly fascinating as well, and so were the vast expanses of desert in the north.

Yep, Mexico was _pretty_ cool.

Along with her newfound appreciation for Tacostan, she was starting to wonder after her grandparents and their families. She knew very little about her grandmother and even less about her grandfather, save that they both came from a village in the northwestern state of Chihuahua called Los Zapatos, which translated into English as "The Shoes." Hahaha, crazy name, huh? She was a shepherd's daughter who lived on a river and he was in the military. They met at the town market in 1938 and, according to _abuela_ (Spanish for grandmother), who told _madre_ (Spanish for mother) she and _abuelo_ (grandfather...whew, this is getting old) fell in love at first sight. Things get kind of hazy here, but they wound up crossing the border (legally, I might add) in 1939. They lived in East Los Angeles, which has a sizable Hispanic population, when Uncle Bobby was born in 1940 - Gramps as a day laborer and Grammyma as a housekeeper. They had a one bedroom apartment over a bowling alley and didn't own a car, but a lot of people in America didn't in the early forties. Mom was born in 1946, and in 1952, they moved to Royal Woods in search of a better life.

Her grandfather was a huge drinker by that point and spent most of his after work hours either at The Hideout or knocking back beer in his armchair. He and Grandma fought a lot, and one day, he went to the store for a pack of cigarettes and never came back.

Mom had told her that story before, but she didn't pay very much attention to it. Now, she was transfixed by it, and the last time she conned Mom into telling it again (last week), she listened rapt, and did her best to imagine what her grandparents' lives must have been like in Mexico. There were websites were you can trace your family tree and she'd been considering looking into one, but between working, raising two kids, and being a wife, she just didn't have the time.

Guess I'll just have to _make_ the time.

Eventually.

After reporting to the head nurse and predictably being placed on desk assignment, like a cop who did something wrong in the field and couldn't be trusted to handle calls anymore, Alex settled in for a long day of blah doing nah. She logged on to the computer, opened the daily spreadsheet, and folded her hands on the desk. Now to patiently wait for a fly to wander into her parlor.

And wait.

And wait.

An hour went by, and she was still sitting there; the most exciting thing to happen was leather jacket being called into the back by Gwen, one of the night nurses who, apparently, was working a double. A short, fat woman with short gray hair and big Coke bottle glasses, Gwen reminded Alex of her grandmother. Not her Mexican grandmother, her white one. _Abuela blanca,_ if you will. That's right, Alex knew all sorts of Spanish now thanks to Mommy Anne, who was, of course, thrilled that she was _finally starting to take an interest in your roots, Alejandra._ Last Saturday she went over to the Cleveland house for the afternoon, and while Dad took Zoe and Blake outside to play on the swing set, she sat with Mom at the kitchen table and made an effort to learn Taco. She, uh, she didn't do very well, though. Spanish felt weird and clunky in her mouth, and rolling her Rs was so insanely difficult it oughta be locked up somewhere.

Mom thought her daughter's inability to speak her native tongue was the funniest thing ever, and spent most of their lesson laughing behind her hand. _See?_ Alex said. _This is why I didn't wanna learn as a kid._ That was a bald face lie, she didn't want to learn because c'mon, what teenager wants to while away her precious few leisure hours learning something? She wanted to hang with Tim and play video games and go to the river and make out and read Stephen King and Dean Koontz books, not sit in a stuffy kitchen and fumble her way through the elementaries of Spanish phonetics. Especially since it's not like she needed to. If Jessy got hit in the head and started randomly speaking exclusively en esspanyol, then okay, yeah, I kind of need to communicate with my sister. Otherwise? Eh. Rather be beating Pac-Man.

Oh, how times have changed.

It was really easy to lose sight of the years piled up in her rearview mirror. Make no mistake, she never forgot she was a grown, thirty-year-old mother of two, but looking back and realizing that 1985 was now officially fifteen years ago never ceased to amaze her. She couldn't say it felt like only yesterday because it didn't, but it sure didn't feel like it was _that_ long ago.

That decade and a half went _quick_.

Which was actually kind of scary. Before she knew it, she'd be old and gray and staring Death in the face. _Hi, seventy year old Alex, ready to leave behind everything you know and love and follow me into the Unknown?_

Gulp. No.

 _Too bad, Mexibitch, you're coming with me._

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Like Slim Shady said, it was too scary to die. Let's be completely serious for _juuust_ a moment. No one knows what's on the other side. Some say it's God, some say it's Allah, and others say it's nothing at all. Who was right? Who knew? She doubted there was a God, but she was an intellectual ant, so she could most certainly be wrong. Regardless, even the most devout God-fearerer (and no-God-haverer, for that matter) doesn't _really_ know. Death is a veil beyond which lies only mystery, and the biological processes of death were known only to those who'd experienced it, and none of them happen to be available for comment. Crossing over is one of those things that you'll never fully understand until you do it yourself. In fact, it's one of the only things you absolutely _cannot_ go to your mom or dad for help with. If you're really brave (and shameless and yuck) you can ask madre what it's like to be with a man or your padre what it's like to be with a woman, and they can at least give you some kind of idea (if they're just as yuck as you and actually answer your question). Same with lots of things, but not death, oh no. It's a mystical journey...one that you have to make alone. You can spend your whole life with a great guy like Tim, and he can hold your hand right up until you die, but when the moment comes, you're on your own. In the cold….dark...afraid…

Let's think about something else, huh?

Like a gift from God, a tall, emaciated man with sunken cheeks, messy graying blonde hair, and big glasses walked through the automatic doors. His jeans were baggy and his jacket hung slack on his frame, like he'd recently lost a bunch of weight and hadn't been clothes shopping yet. His gaunt face was splotched with ugly purple bruises and he moved with a pronounced limp. Oh wow, that guy looks sick. As he drew closer to the desk, she squinted her eyes. He also looks like…

"Tom?" she gasped.

He looked down at her with tired eyes and lifted his brow with great effort. "You're like a curse," he rasped, "I can't get rid of you."

The long saga of her relationship with Tom began in 1992 when she started at Oak Springs nursing home. Actually, wait, they went to CNA class together, so it was slightly earlier than she was thinking. He was married to a woman named Tess but secretly gay. Not fruity TV gay. You'd never know unless he told you, or you walked in on him with another man. He had the meanest sense of humor ever and delighted in picking on all the women probably, Alex thought, because he either resented that he could never be one, or just hated them. Every year, he came to the Halloween party dressed as a woman, and his list of lovers was surprisingly long - she never imagined that there were so many gay or bisexual men in such a comparatively rural area.

In 1994, she left Oak Springs for a better job at Marshall Manor, and like a stray dog, Tom eventually followed. She retired from the CNA game in 1997, right before Zoe was born, then started working here. She hadn't seen Tom since. The last time she _did_ , he was hale and healthy...and still a snake. God, he could be such a bitch sometimes. And she didn't mean _bitch_ as in pussy or coward (as it's often used to describe men), she meant _bitch_ the way it was applied to women.

Bitch or not, she liked him, and seeing him like...this twisted her heart into a cardiac pretzel. "Oh, my God, are you okay?" she blurted.

Duh, of course he wasn't, he was in the emergency room and looked like death warmed over.

"I'm fine," he panted, "I'm here for an appointment but the doors are locked so I had to walk all the way over here to get in."

Security locked all exterior doors promptly at eleven and didn't unlock them again until 7am. Because the guards at Mennenite Hospital were people and people are fallible, some doors were missed on either go, sometimes left unlocked past midnight and locked past 8am.

That explained his presence (it's not a dire emergency, whew), but it didn't explain his appearance, unless he was jumped by homophobic ninjas on the way over. "You don't look fine," she worried.

"Well, I am," he replied testily, "how do I get to oncology-hematology from here?"

Alex missed a beat. Oncology-hematology was where people went for cancer and blood diseases. AKA really serious stuff.

Her mind blanked. Oh, boy, something was _really_ wrong with him. He might even be dying.

Heh, so much for thinking about other things, huh?

Tom agrily pursed his lips. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

Blinking like a woman waking from a shock induced faint, Alex fumbled. "Uh...j-just down there," she said. She leaned over the desk and pointed down a hallway. "There's an elevator, it'll take you to the second floor, then you take a left."

"Thanks," Tom muttered and pushed away from the counter. Alex watched him go, and when he was gone, she sat heavily back against the chair and heaved a deep sigh. She wasn't a doctor, but had a registered nurse's understanding of disease, and deep in the back of her mind, something stirred, something black, malignant, and frightening.

Revelation.

There was only a relative handful of things that could be wrong with him, and the dark purple patches on his face told her it was one of the worst ones possible.

She didn't touch him, hardly breathed the same air, but she filled her palm with gel sanitizer from a bottle near the computer and rubbed her hands vigorously together anyway.

For the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, she told herself she was wrong, that the bruises were just that, bruises. Maybe she didn't want to face the reality of what Tom was suffering because he was her friend, or maybe she did it because the topic of death bothered her. She wouldn't allow herself to dwell long enough to dredge up an answer. At the end of her shift, she signed out of the computer, grabbed her purse from its place on the desk, and slung it over her shoulder. She said goodbye to Gwen and the other nurse on duty, Kimberly (a tall, mannish blonde with hazel eyes) then left through the sliding doors, the pnuematic _whoosh_ rustling her hair. The day started frigid and gray, but was now bright and cold with a light, chilly wind. In the car, she tossed her purse on the passenger seat, started the engine, and backed out, doing her best not to think of Tom.

It was hard, but the hustle and bustle of life eventually washed away the memory of his withered face. On the last day of February, she was in the frozen foods section of the new Wal-Mart on Route 29 comparing one brand of pizza to another (Freshcetta is good, but so is DiGiorno, hmmm) when someone called her name. She looked up, and a woman with a big nose and dirty blonde hair pushed a cart toward her. She wore maroon colored scrubs and white tennis shoes, and Alex _knew_ she knew her from somewhere, but couldn't place her.

When she was closer, it hit Alex like a steel chair to the dome. Margo. They worked together at Oak Springs and she was Tom's little buddy. She didn't make the jump to Marshall Manor like he did, but Tom mentioned going out with her on occasion.

"Oh, hey, Margo," Alex said. "How's it going?"

Margo shrugged. "It's going. I got married last year." She proudly held up her hand, palm facing away, and wiggled her ring finger. The band was small, silver, and inset with a diamond.

"You did?" Alex asked as though a woman getting married was the oddest and most unexpected thing in the world. She kinda thought Margo was a dyke. "Congratulations. Who's the lucky guy?"

"His name is Rusty and he's a janitor at the high school," she preened. "Now we're trying to have a baby."

People moved back and forth around them, some stopping to dig in the freezers and others walking briskly on their way to somewhere else. "That's great, I'm so happy for you," Alex said. She didn't know Margo all that well, but she _was_ indeed happy for her. Don't tell the rabid feminists, but Alex firmly believed that a husband and children were some of life's greatest blessings.

"Thank you," Margo said, then her face darkened a little. "Did you hear about Tom?"

An image of Tom's sickly face filled Alex's mind, and her heart squeezed with dread. "I saw him the other day at the hospital," she said, "he didn't look too good. What happened?"

"He has AIDS."

Alex's stomach dropped out and her hand fluttered shakily to her mouth. That's exactly what she thought. "Oh, my God, he _does_?"

Margo nodded grimly. "It's pretty bad too," she said, "they don't think he's going to live much longer."

Cold spread through Alex like icy water, and she was barely aware of her jaw falling slack. She and Margo talked for a few minutes more, but later on, Alex couldn't remember a single thing they said. The prospect of her friend dying made her numb with horror and sent her back to the musings she'd been entertaining on the day she saw Tom. Goosebumps raked her arms and her heart throbbed like an infected tooth at the idea of Death passing close.

That night, she lay awake in bed for a long time, Tim flat on his back beside her. Dark thoughts raced through her head, and pretty soon, she wasn't thinking about Tom dying anymore...she was thinking about one of her children dying. That was too much to bear, and before tears could overwhelm her, she got up, went into the living room, and sat in front of the TV.

She didn't sleep until almost dawn, and when she did, her dreams were full of death, rot, and ruin.


	214. November 2000

**61394: Nope, we're going into 2001. Soon, though, very soon. At this point, it looks like around about twenty chapters plus an epilogue.**

Wednesday, November 8, 2000 marked the end of an era. Flip's Drive-In officially passed from Lincoln Loud's life and into the patheos of history. That's how he liked to think of it, anyway; in actuality, it passed into the hands of a corporation from Detroit that wanted to turn it into a chain restaurant. Lincoln didn't know what they would call it, what they would sell, if they would have a gimmick or not, or whether they would be successful, and he really didn't care. Flip's was no longer his, it was someone else's. He signed the paperwork in his lawyer's office on the sixth, then took Election Day off to watch Gore and Lieberman duke it out with Bush and Cheney for the honors of being the next gruesome twosome to stink up the White House. He was supposed to drop the keys off at Flip's, but he was too invested in the electoral back and forth to bother.

Or maybe he was stalling.

Yeah, there was no maybe about it, he _was_ stalling. The moment he put the keys in the little metal box the realtor nailed next to the door, it was over. Lincoln had come to terms with his perchance for sentimentality, and as much as he downtalked Flip's, he loved the place - letting it go wasn't easy, and as long as he felt the comforting weight of those keys in his pocket, and heard their melodic jangle as he walked, it was still his. Giving them up made it real, and sitting in front of the TV and watching the returns (Gore lost Tennessee? His home state? Hahahaha!), he realized that he didn't want it to be real.

Not just yet.

Sentimentality is one of those substances that is best imbued in moderation, like alcohol, for largely has the same effects. Too much of either will cripple a man and dull his faculties, and if he lets himself become addicted, he will one day find himself so lost that not even a fully equipped search and rescue team could lead him back. Lincoln would not allow himself to become a drunkard, so he ignored the little voice nagging in the back of his mind, telling him to wait for the weekend. _You can keep Flip's a little longer...you know you want to, Linc, it's like family_.

It felt that way sometimes, but it wasn't. Family was people, not a place. It wasn't Flip's, it wasn't the house on Cleveland, and it wasn't even 1216 Franklin; it was Ronnie Anne, Alex, Jessy...and God, listen to him, he was _gushing_ sentimentals, more cloying than a Hallmark card. It was true, but saying it out loud makes you sound like a mushy lame-o, and that's the highest order of lame-o behind Lamex. That's a portmanteau of _lame_ and Alex. He called her that the other day when he stopped by the trailer to see her and the kids, and she favored him with the blankest expression he had ever seen. _Dad...go home._ A real man masks his sentimental feelings with scowls, biting humor, and a lemon sour disposition that belies the simpering, girly lame-o within.

His views on what constituted family stood, though. He loved Flip's and seeing it taken over by someone else wouldn't be easy, but he had to suck it up and...how did the rest of Lynn III's mantra go? Power on? Power up? More power to ya? Whatever it was, he had to do that or he'd wind up drunk on nostalgia, and when the time came to part with Flip's, he'd turn into a blubbering mass of pantywaist. Sgt. Hellman would spin in his grave; _Goddamn it, Loud, I taught you better than this!_

Well, obviously, Sarge, you didn't, because here I am crying my eyes out. You should have been harder on me.

Inexplicably, a memory came back to him. Someone (General Westmoreland?) telling him, right after he got home from Vietnam: _When your drill sergeant heard about you breaking out, I bet he popped a goddamn stiffy._ That's to say, Sgt. Hellman probably beamed with pride when he learned one of _his_ boys took it to the VC and masterminded an escape.

Only it _wasn't_ Lincoln's doing.

It was that girl's, the one whose name he never learned and whose involvement in the escape he never mentioned to anyone except for Ronnie Anne.

Oh, and John McCain.

Speaking of his old pal, McCain dropped out of the race shortly after his and Lincoln's reunion. Whether or not that was a good thing, Lincoln didn't know and didn't particularly care to dwell on. Just this once, he'd stay neutral.

At the end of the night, NBC declared the election _too close to call,_ and Lincoln turned off the TV. No matter who won, things would go on as they always had. He liked neither party and thought them all a bunch of crooks, but regardless, his life and the life of the country remained largely unchanged. Bastards though they were, they kept things running smoothly enough that he never worried. There were recessions and new laws he didn't agree with, but none of the assholes from Nixon to Clinton had brought about the end of the world, and neither would Gore or Bush. The liberals might say Bush would knock the world off its axis and the conservatives would swear Gore was another Stalin, but those people - the ones so lost in the folds of their own idealogy that they resemble Jonestown alum more than they do average America citizens - are fucking lunatics who will say and do whatever it takes to see their brand of moral absolutism in the White House.

Don't listen to them. They lie, cheat, and steal.

On second thought, they _are_ more like the Stalins and Hitlers than you might care to think, but our Founders put a system of checks and balances in place to thwart people like them, and thank God, it works. The left and the right might try to change it - by doing away with the electoral college, for example - but they can't because the other side will contest, and so too will the people. There are more hardworking Americans who aren't bound to one party, who vote for whichever side tells the sweetest untruth, than there are dogmatic hacks. An authoritarian regime could take over the country, but it is unlikely to. Gore wouldn't do it and neither would Bush; nor, for that matter, would the man after them or the man after _him._

Snapping off the light, Lincoln went down the hall and into the bedroom. Ronnie Anne lay on her side, the blankets pulled up to her chin and her brow furrowed as though her current dream required close examination. _Why is that purple elephant sitting at my desk._ I'm _the principal here, jerk, get lost._ He undressed, slipped under the covers, and spent nearly an hour trying to drop off but thinking about Flip's instead. He kept it open right up until the very end and closed down for the final time yesterday, and thus today was his first official day of retirement. He spent most of it reading in his chair and rattling aimlessly around the house looking for something to do.

He didn't like it.

The money was already in his account, though, and he liked the idea of giving it back even less than he liked the idea of being a bored, homebound tumbleweed. Tomorrow, first thing, he told himself, he would take the keys to Flip's and be done with it.

Soon he drifted off, and before long, the alarm rang shrilly in his ear, sharply rousing him from a dream that he instantly forgot. Ronnie Anne muttered, shot her arm out from under the comforter, and slapped the OFF button. She rolled onto her back, heaved a long suffering sigh, and brushed her tangled bangs from her eyes. In the gloom, she looked like a woman who did _not_ want to face the day ahead. "Wanna trade places?" she asked and looked at him.

He considered his reply for a moment. "I wouldn't know the first thing about being a principal," he admitted. "I'd just copy Sgt. Hellman and wind up getting fired."

"Some of those kids need a drill sergeant," she said.

At the risk of sounding like an old man again, too many kids these days didn't have respect for authority. They fought, talked back, and ran over their parents like steamrollers. Jesus, if he smarted off to an adult - any adult - when he was young, Mom would have given him a swift kick in the ass. In the fifties, it was understood that there were things you just didn't do, and running your mouth to a grown up was one of them. It was to kids of the fifites what murder is to everyone else: Serious fucking shit. Today's kids did it and worse without a second thought, and why wouldn't they? They were the product of hippie parents and grandparents who didn't believe in discipline. They spared the rod and spoil the child, now society has to deal with a generation of uncivilized and self-centered little punks. Hopefully Gore or Bush started a war; those kids needed the army like the redskins needed Jesus.

With a yawn and a stretch, Ronnie Anne sat up, gamely rolled her neck ( _bring it on, day_ ), and got to her feet. While she showered, Lincoln tried to drift back off, but his lids peeled open every time he closed them, so he finally sighed in surrender and sat up. Just as he feared: His body was programmed to wake up at 6am and that was that; he'd do it every day from now on, forcing himself to spend an extra two or three hours he _could_ be sleeping doing absolutely nothing.

Oh, boy.

Rest of my life, here I come.

Standing, he went to the dresser, took out a pair of tan slacks, and pulled them on, followed by a red and blue plaid short sleeve with snaps in place of buttons. In the kitchen, he snapped the light on, filling the space with crisp white light. He put on a pot of coffee, took down a box of Wheaties from the cabinet, and poured some into a bowl, then added milk from the fridge, grabbed a spoon, and sat down. He was half done when Ronnie Anne came in wearing a black skirt and gray blazer with lumpy shoulder pads over a white blouse. She foraged through her purse like a small woodland animal, found her lipstick, and put some on. The boys and girls of Royal County had off today, but their teachers did not; Ronnie Anne would spend the day shuffling between classes, seminars, and meetings with representatives from the state education board. That's where the make-up came in: She wanted to look her best, and though Lincoln liked her face just the way it came, he couldn't lie, bright red lipstick _did_ look good on her.

She snatched a white mug from the drying rack, filled it with coffee, and leaned against the counter, her head flopping back and a burdened groan escaping her throat. "Who's the president?" she asked tiredly.

The spoon froze halfway to Lincoln's lips, and he lifted his brow. Well, that was a stupid -

Oh, wait, the election.

"I dunno," he said and shoved the spoon into his mouth, "it was neck and neck when I went to bed."

Clasping the mug in both hands, she took a thoughtful sip. "Are you dropping those keys off today?"

Lincoln chewed and swallowed. "Yeah, about noon," he said.

After she left, deafening silence filled the house, and the sense of desolation was so strong Lincoln could swear he was on Mars. Years ago, when Alex and Jessy were young and Flip's was booming, he would have killed for a little peace and quiet every now and then. Now, being totally alone put him on edge. He sat restively in his chair and watched the morning news on Channel 10; took a shower; scanned an issue of _Guns Galore_ ; and had a cup of coffee; all of this just to kill a little time.

Alright, sitting around the house definitely wasn't going to work out. Speaking of guns, it'd been a while since he'd been to the shooting range, maybe he could head out and blast a few paper targets. Alex bought him some from a magazine a few years ago with pictures of serial killers, mass murderers, and dictators on them _that way you can pretend to be doing something worthwhile_.

He could also drop by Lori's. He hadn't seen her in a week or two, and hadn't really sat down and talked to her in a few months. Funny how you can live less than three miles from your sister and rarely ever get to hang out with her. Life, you know; it has a habit of getting in the way.

Now, however, that wasn't a problem - he had tons of free time on his hands and nothing to do with it all. He sat the magazine aside, yawned, and rubbed his grainy eyes. For some inexplicable reason, he was really tired. He looked at the clock, saw that it was pushing 10:30, and sighed. He'd take a nap later...after he turned these keys over.

Thus sealing his fate.

Slick dread sloshed in the pit of his stomach, and an unseen weight pressed down on his chest. He would never claim to be the world's most self-aware man, but he knew Lincoln Loud well enough to understand one fundamental thing about him: He didn't like change. He could psychoanalyze and posit hypotheses for why, but that was beside the point: Change always bothered him, from Alex leaving home to now, and every time the C word reared its ugly head, he worried over it like an old woman. It was one of his worst traits, but try as he might, he just couldn't correct it.

He _could_ mitigate it, and he resolved to do so now by getting it over with. Pushing up from his chair, he went into the bedroom, grabbed his keyring from the dresser, and clipped it to his belt. "No time like the present," he muttered, the sound of his voice unsettling in the quiet. In the living room, he turned off the TV, shrugged into a tan Members Only jacket, and went outside.

A cold wind washed over him as he locked the handle, and by the time he slid behind the wheel of the Jeep, he was shivering. Milky white clouds covered the sky and the barren trees marching along the sidewalk swayed like timid concertgoers too shy to dance but too captivated by the music to stand still. Lincoln started the engine, put the Jeep in reverse, and backed into the street. As he drove toward Flip's for the final time, the significance of what he was doing gripped him, and a profound sense of loss flooded his chest. For all the awful things he'd said about that place over the past thirty plus years, he was going to miss it.

He decided, for no reason at all, to take the long way. He wasn't delaying the inevitable, he just felt like it.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot, doing his best to ignore the letter sign out front - CLOSED, UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. He parked in a slot facing the door and sat there, hands resting loosely on the wheel and his eyes darting across the building's facade, awash in a sudden surge of memories: His first date with Ronnie Anne, coming home from boot camp, Flip rasping laughter following an especially cruel barb, Alex and Jessy jostling for position in front of the Pac-Man cabinet ( _it's my turn, Bunny; no, it's not, Jessys forfeit their turn every second Saturday_ , _didn't you know?_ ). He spent a good portion of his life inside that restaurant, and selling it was like selling part of his past.

Did Flip feel this way when he handed day-to-day operations over to him? Was the old bastard as sentimental about the place as he was?

Calling up a picture of Flip's face, faded and sepia toned like an old photograph, he tried to imagine him wearing the same expression his own face wore in the rearview mirror: Wan, tight, and worried, his lips a white slash and his eyes seething with anxiety.

He couldn't.

Over the past twenty-nine years, Flip had attained an almost mythical quality in Lincoln's mind, like George Washington. The old cuss was a regular joe - he had his bad days, snapped at you when he had a hair across his ass, cried, laughed, and probably pissed himself in terror once or twice (he said he never made it to the front during WWI, but knowing military men the way Lincoln did, he was pretty sure that was a lie...Flip just didn't want to talk or even think about what he saw and did). That didn't stop Lincoln's brain from spinning an idealized vision of him, one that was an exaggerated caricature of the real thing. His version of Flip would laugh in the face of death and whip out a snappy insult (You gonna kill _me_ with that little scythe? I got worse shaving this morning, come back with a gun or don't come back at all). The real Flip wasn't quite that stoic (is any stately historical figure?), but he still couldn't see him being this big a baby about it.

Lincoln Loud didn't like change, but he sure loved being a ninny.

With a deep, fortifying breath, he steeled his resolve and got out of the Jeep, grabbing the keys from the ignition. He turned, and his eyes went to the metal box by the door, the open slot pointed at him like the yawning barrel of a gun. Alright, Loud, all you gotta do is drop the key in and walk away.

He fumbled with the ring, took the key off, and shoved the rest into his coat pocket. He walked to the door, hesitated, then unlocked it.

Right after this.

The interior was dark and cold, like a cave; the power was still on, but before he closed down the other day, he turned the heat off. He snapped the light on, and sterile white brilliance filled the dining room. The jukebox stood in its customary place, as did the game cabinet. The register sat on the counter, and the metal racks between the bat-wing doors and the order window were fully stocked with cups, napkins, and straws, waiting for him to open, completely ignorant of the fact that he never would again.

Letting the door swing closed behind him, he shuffled to the counter, looking around and committing every detail to memory the way he had at Mom's coffin...and Dad's, and Leni's, and Luna's. Phantoms swirled around him, sounds and images of days gone by, and his heart twinged.

On the other side of the counter, he sank onto his chair, crossed his arms on the edge, and leaned forward. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to deliver an eloquent soliloquy like a Shakesperian hero meditating on poignant matters, but stopped and enjoyed the companionable silence instead. He knew Flip's inside and out, and if Flip's were alive, it would know _him_ inside and out. No words were needed, then, just as words were rarely needed between him and Ronnie Anne.

Drawing a deep breath, he leaned back and looked around the room once more, remembering all the good times. There were bad here too, but at a time like this, those didn't matter as much. They were faint, like music beneath static. The happy ones were stronger, clearer.

The mood took him to tour it one last time, and getting to his feet, he went into the kitchen. He walked a slow, meditative circuit, trailing his hand over the smooth chrome fittings and taking in every piece of minutiae he could. If he squinted, he could almost see Ernie standing at the grill, flipping a hamburger patty and cracking a joke. Flip was there too, and literally everyone else who'd ever worked here, even that dumbass Robert. Hey, clean that grill before you leave or I'll clean your clock.

Out in the dining room, he did the same before finally sitting at the register again, as he had more times than he could count. Something caught his eye, and he reached under the counter. His fingers brushed something hard and plastic, and he pulled it out.

His and Ernie's radio, coated in dust and silent these past twenty years. He smiled wistfully and turned it over in his hands. He must have missed this when he cleaned everything else out.

For a long time, he sat where he was like a king in an empty banquet hall, his cabinet and subjects gone, then he got to his feet again.

Change wasn't something he enjoyed, but it was a part of life, and so was letting go. He tucked the radio under his arm, went to the door, and turned the light off. He allowed himself one final look back, then went outside and locked the door. Eyes straight ahead, loath to look at what he was doing, he dropped the key into the slot, then got in the Jeep and left.

After almost thirty years, Flip's was no longer his.

It was someone else's now, and no matter what they did with it...he just hoped they loved the place as much as he did.

As he drove away, he did not look in the rearview mirror, _could_ not, and it would be a long time before he let himself drive past Flip's again.

* * *

Even superheroes have to do laundry, a sad fact of life that Alex Underwood was reminded of every Thursday afternoon. Hospitals are, by their very nature, filled with yuck. People bleed there, people puke there, and sometimes, they even poop on themselves there. Every day, a nurse or orderly went through the wards, collected the soiled bed clothes, and tossed them into a big, rolling cart for transport to the laundry room in the basement. On Thursday, that nurse was Alex. She wasn't a huge fan of doing it, but it had to be done, right? So, donning two pairs of blue nitrile gloves (better add one more just to be safe) and a surgical mask, she left the nurse's station in the emergency room and went downstairs to the basement. Bare pipes lined the walls like bones showing through decayed flesh, and dim overhead lights spaced every six feet provided a low eerie glow that never failed to get the old heart pumping. At the bottom, a door lead to a T shaped junction. The boiler room was ahead, down a long, narrow hall that ended in a door marked DO NOT ENTER; the morgue sat to the left, and the laundry room to the right. She went right, followed the corridor, and pushed through a set of double doors.

A wide, utilitarian space with blindingly white walls, the laundry room was packed to the gills with big industrial washers and dryers. In the center, long tables bore stacks and stacks of folded sheets, blankets, and johnnys. A loud, deafening _whirr_ assaulted her ears, and the wet, sultry air wrapped around her like a damp blanket around the spindle thingie in a washer. A team of women in white scrubs buzzed back and forth like soldier ants, shoving loads into washers, transferring them to dryers, folding them, and doing all sorts of other stuff that Alex ignored; she had eyes only for the cart, which currently sat in a corner, patiently awaiting her arrival.

Without a word - you couldn't hear over the steady roar of the machines anyway - she dragged it out and pushed it through the doors. The front wheel wobbled and she had to fight the whole time to keep it from veering to the left; her arms strained, her back tightened, and sweat sprang to her forehead. Ugh, stupid thing go _straight_. She reached the elevator, hit the UP button, and waited for the doors to open. Somewhere, a door closed softly, and she stiffened a little.

Alex didn't believe in the supernatural, but every time she came down here, she got just a _little_ antsy. Hey, just because she didn't buy into something didn't mean it wasn't real, and she was kind of scared she'd find out the hard way that she was wrong. Like by turning her head and seeing a ghost standing in a dark corner. _Hey, Alex, how's it goin'?_ When she was down here, she kept her gaze dead ahead (gulp, bad choice of words) and her body tense: One wrong sound, and she was _gone_.

She glanced to her right, toward the morgue, but didn't see anything. Of course, in a horror movie, you never do until it's too late.

 _This isn't a horror movie, Bunny, calm your tits._

Right.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open with a thump. She pushed the cart on, turned, and punched the 1 button. The doors closed again, and the elevator lumbered its way up the shaft, creaking and groaning like her father in the morning. _Where's my coffee? I need my Geritol._ She liked the elevators even less than she liked the basement - they were old, slow, and one of these days, the frayed, probably fifty year old cable was going to snap and BOOM, right to the bottom. At least the drop would deposit the victim close to the morgue, that way their mangled remains didn't have far to travel.

The car came to a halting stop and the doors opened. Alex pushed the cart into the hall and started at the closest room, which happened to be unoccupied. She checked the yellow BIOHAZARD bag inside the door, found it empty, and moved on. In the room across the way, and old black man lay in bed with the covers pulled up to his chest and his arms folded over his heart in a very Draculaish X. An IV ran from the back of his hand to a bag hanging from a metal stand, and a heart monitor beeped a soft, soothing melody. His eyelids were closed, suggesting sleep, and Alex took the bag out as quietly as she could. She dumped the contents into the cart, then returned it. The old man did not wake, and Alex nodded to herself. Smooth like butter.

She hit three more rooms before making a quick pit stop in the little nurses' room. Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, she went back into the hall and pushed the cart to an intersection. The emergency room waiting area spread out to her left, and the triage center stood to her left, behind a set of double doors. That, folks, is where the magic happened. It was, in a way, the beating heart of Mennonite Hospital. Once you were called from the waiting room (or came in by ambulance, depending on the severity of your injuries), you went in there and either received treatment, or were admitted and sent elsewhere. A lot of the people who came in were sick, bloody, or otherwise messed up, so that, therefore, was the epicenter of yuck.

At the door, she waved her badge in front of the little black box on the wall, and it automatically unlocked. She opened it and pushed the cart in. A U-shaped nurses' station occupied the middle of the space, and rooms with privacy curtains instead of doors lined either wall. A few nurses and CNAs scurried about, and somewhere, delirious moaning sounded. Alex parked the cart next to the nurse's station, as far out of the way of foot traffic as possible, and went into the nearest room. A doctor in a white lab coat stood over the bed and shone a light in a little boy's eyes. He sat there impassively, legs crossed and hands in his lap. Alex emptied the bag and replaced it, then moved on.

Of all the things she did here in the emergency room, working on children was the hardest. She had two kids of her own, and seeing little ones hurt and suffering was _no es bueno_ \- Spanish for _no good._ One time, a few months ago, a three-year-old boy came in after being hit by a car; he sustained traumatic head injuries, and when Alex first saw him, blood gushed from an open gash above his left ear. The worst part was how he cried and wailed - the high, piercing shrieks of a baby in pain that echo in your head for years after you hear them.

She almost walked out that day - _screw this, I'm going back to the nursing home._ But she didn't...instead, she gave that little boy as much love and comfort as she could, refusing to leave his side until he was transferred. Then, every day until they released him, she went to see him before leaving. She brought him teddy bears, toys, and, a few times, she even snuck him candy. Every time she came into the room, his face lit up and he'd let loose a happy cry of _Awex!_

 _That_ was why she stayed. It was difficult sometimes, but the reward was _sooooo_ worth it.

Two hours later, after much lifting, squatting, and dumping, she was done, and wheeled the overloaded cart back to the basement. Her feet ached, her back throbbed, her knees grated, and bloody poop smeared the top of one shoe. Long story short, she picked a bundle of sheets up from a bed and an adult diaper dropped out...whereupon it _kiiiind_ of splattered.

Leaving the cart where she found it, she went back upstairs and finished out her shift doing paperwork. At 5pm, she pulled on her purse, slung her purse over her shoulder, and bid the other nurses farewell. "See ya, guys."

Outside, the sun sat low on the horizon and spread feeble rays prism-like through the barren tree branches. The parking lot fronting the emergency entrance stood largely empty save for an ambulance; paramedics unloaded someone on a stretcher and hurried them through the automatic doors, their movements were quick and urgent, telling her the patient was in serious condition.

Hopefully they were okay.

Her car faced the street, a yellow, diamond shaped BABY ON BOARD sign stuck to the back window with suction cups. Zoe was three whole years now, no longer a baby, a fact she made very clear if you called her the B word to her face. _I not baby, I_ big!

Well okay then.

She unlocked the door, got in, and dropped her purse on the passenger seat. She jammed the key in the ignition, started the engine, and pulled her seatbelt on. Pop music played as she pulled out of the parking lot and set a course for home, then gave over to a newsbreak. " _The recount in Florida continues today as both the Bush and Gore campaigns gear up for a potential legal battle over the results."_

On Election Night, Gore was set to win in Florida - the news stations were even calling it for him - then, if Alex heard right, a bunch of Republican districts closed and they tipped the balance in favor of Bush, giving him enough electoral college votes to win the presidency. The news stations reversed their call and gave it to Bush, then...I guess they changed their minds again and declared it even? She had never paid attention to politics and had only a working understanding of how the process worked, but Gore wanted all the votes in Florida counted again because he was just that desperate to win.

Dad said they should throw out all the votes and "Just put McCain in."

Whoa, hold on there, buddy, that's not how this works. Not only the election, but you...you're not supposed to like _any_ politician. Her whole life, Dad had nothing nice to say about the president, but this time around, he said, and I quote. _McCain wouldn't be horrible. He's an alright guy._

Was it strange that that made her head spin? It was, like, seeing a big, scary biker playing with a puppy, or a priest shoving dollar bills into a stripper's butt crack. Surreal. Wrong. Downright flabbergasting.

After he told her about his and McCain's, ahem, friendship, she understood. She knew her father was held as a prisoner of war for a while, but he never talked about it and she never asked. Some things are best left alone, and his time in Vietnam was one of them. Anyway, he told her and that's all she needed to know.

Still, it was _muy extraño._

That meant 'very strange.' She used Spanish in her thinking as often as she could, since thinking in a language helps you to better speak it, or so that instructional tape she ordered from TV said. She met with her mother three days a week for Spanish lessons, then listened to her tape and read the little work books that came with it. They were simple, like the kinds kindergarteners use when they learn to read, but she was doing really well: She and Mom could have whole conversations in their mother tongue, and Alex understood every word.

She still had trouble rolling her r's, though. When she tried, she gurgled like she was drowning in phlegm.

You know what rhymes with phlegm? Tim. As in, her husband, to whom she recently broached the idea of a family vacation to Mexico. He was completely onboard, but they needed to set money aside, first, and second, leave the garage in trustworthy hands...which they did not have. Unless Tim's father agreed to come back for a week or two. As it stood now, Tim's employees all fell somewhere on the sliding scale of suck, and if you're on the SSoS, you can't be trusted to run a business while the owner's away.

That was okay, she could wait. If life and motherhood had taught her one thing, it was patience.

Except when she was really hungry and her Celeste pizza was taking forever to cook. Seriously, you put it in the microwave, and ten minutes later, the crust is all char and the middle's frozen solid. Like, ugh, really? Look, it doesn't have to be cooked perfectly, but can it at least be edible, please?

She was passing through downtown Royal Woods now, the brick storefronts, wrought iron lamp posts, and slanted parking spaces abutting the curb just as charming and Rockwellian as they had always been. A group of men in business suits came out of the Union Hotel (must be a lame-o convention nearby) and a couple of old timers sat in straight back chairs in front of the barber shop.

It never ceased to amaze her - when she stopped and really strained the ole noodle about it - just how little Royal Woods had changed since she was a kid. Oh, things closed down and then new things opened up in their place, and there were buildings now where there were only lots before, but otherwise, RW looked much as it had in the eighties. Then again, she was probably used to it. Change happens slowly over time, and you subconsciously adjust to it as it happens. If she jumped in a time machine and went back to 1980, she'd probably be stunned at how wrong she was. _Wow, it_ doesn't _look just like it used to_.

Flip's appeared on the right, and she craned her neck to read the sign out front: CLOSED, UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. The place looked no different than it did a week ago, or even a year, save for the windows: They were dark and cold, lending it an air of desolation. It had been nearly a week since Dad handed the keys over, and on the surface, he was taking it well, but Alex sensed a certain bereavement lurking beneath his sotic facade. She felt it too, a little. Every time she passed it, she turned to look, and the realization that it was no longer part of the Loud family always threw her off balance. She couldn't lie, though, she was really interested in seeing what they replaced it with.

Hopefully something cool.

Like a Chuck E. Cheese. Blake and Zoe would _love_ that. There was one in Chippewa Falls, but it was kind of a dump; the food stank, half the games were broken, and instead of balls, the ball pit was filled with needles and used condoms.

Gag. Not really, but she wouldn't be surprised if there was at least one syringe hiding at the bottom. The last time she took the kids there, she made them stay out of it. Zoe tried to crawl in, and Alex grabbed the back of her shirt. Zoe, being Zoe, clung to the step and refused to let go. _Baaaaaaaasss_ she cried.

 _No balls,_ Alex admonished, _they yucky._

 _No ucky!_

 _Yes, ucky!_

 _NO UCKKKKKKKYYYYY!_

Alex finally got her free and carried her away by the back of her overalls; Zoe dangled like a kitten from its mother's maw, arms crossed and brow stormy. God, she could be so stubborn sometimes.

She got it from Tim.

Outside town, she followed Route 29 to the trailer park. Kids in jackets, scarves, and mittens played in front lawns and trawled the streets on their bikes. A white boy with baggy jeans sagging below his butt moseyed up the sidewalk. He wore a long black T-shirt, clunky brown work boots that looked suspiciously clean, and a black snapback. He looked like a store brand Eminem - the Food-Lion Cola to Shady's Coke. _I'm not the real shady, I'm just imitating, so no, I won't stand up, won't stand up._ She turned into the driveway, parked beside Tim's truck, and cut the engine. The sun sank behind the tops of the trailers lining Andrews Street and swirls of its dying light colored the sky like a melting dreamsicle. She opened the door, got out, and climbed the stairs, shivering against the cold.

She tried the handle, and it was unlocked, just like it shouldn't have been. Marsh Run wasn't a crime infested hellhole, but it still wasn't exactly Mayberry, you can't just leave your doors unlocked. She told Blake (and Tim) this a thousand times in the past, but did they listen? Noo-oooo, why would they do _that?_

Inside, the living room was warm and lit by the soft glow of a table lamp. On TV, Homer Simpson wrapped his hands around Bart's throat ( _why, you little!)_ and the heavenly smell of roast hung heavy in the air. Tim cooked? Awww. My little house husband. Did he iron my scrubs too? He better have...if he knows what's good for him.

Blake and Jordan were on the couch, Jordan with her back to Alex. Alex couldn't see around her, but oh my God, they're making out! I thought this would wait a few - oh, nevermind, they're tickling each other.

"Stop!" Blake cried indignantly. He looked at Alex for help. "Mom, Jordan keeps tickling me!"

Realizing an adult was present (where's Tim, sleeping on the job?), Jordan pulled away and innocently crossed her arms. "He started it. I said I had to pee and he wanted to make me pee on myself."

"Did not!"

"Yes huh, liar."

Zoe sat quietly in a corner, her favorite baby doll in her lap and a toy car in her hands. She examined the latter with knit-browed contemplation, as though trying to figure out how it functioned. She wore overalls over a pale pink T-shirt and her black hair in a sloppy ponytail with TIM written all over it.

Blake and Jordan bickered back and forth, and Alex recused herself to the kitchen. I'm tired, sore, and hungry, I am _not_ dealing with all _that_ right now. Dropping her purse onto the table, she went over to the oven and peeked in. A roast, lightly browned, sat in a glass baking dish. Onions, carrots, and chunks of potatoes stewed in its juices, and Alex's stomach rumbled. She closed the door just as Tim came in from the bedroom clad in a pair of cut off jeans and a faded black T-shirt with a massive hole under the right armpit.

"You cooked," Alex pointed out.

"It happens," he said and slipped his arms around her waist from behind. She melted into him and laid her head back against his shoulder. He kissed her cheek and gave her a loving squeeze. "How was your day?"

"Long," Alex said. "I'm kind of tired."

Something tugged at Alex's pants, and she looked down. Zoe smiled and held her arms over her head in a V. "Hi," Alex cooed. She pulled away from Tim and picked the little girl up with a breathless _oof_. "Oh, you're heavy."

Zoe donned a big, cheesy grin and kicked her legs. Tim opened the oven, peered in, and closed it again. "Ten minutes," he said. He leaned in and kissed Zoe's cheek, and she kicked again like an excited puppy.

When dinner was ready, Alex sat Zoe in her booster seat and set the table. Jordan left a few minutes before, but she could always come back, so Alex sat an extra plate and fork out just in case. She just sat down when the telephone on top of the microwave rang. Tim was busy carving the roast at the counter, so she sighed, got back up (ugh, no rest for the wicked, huh?), and lifted the handset to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hey, Alex?" a vaguely familiar voice asked. She tried to place it but couldn't.

"Yeah, that's me," she said.

"It's Margo...from the nursing home."

Oh, okay, Alex ran into her a few months ago and gave her the house number so they could keep in touch. She never called, though, and hearing from her out of the blue was just a _little_ unexpected.

Alex shifted the phone to her left ear. "Hey," she said, "how's it going?"

"Alright," Margo said, "working a lot of doubles. You?"

"Same old same old," she said. Zoe picked up her sippy cup and took a drink, and Blake fiddled with his GameBoy. The plastic casing was green and translucent, letting you see all its mechanical innards.

"That's good," Margo said, then, doubtfully, "right?"

"It's grrrreat," Alex said in her best Tony Tiger.

Margo laughed, then sobered. "I just wanted to call and let you know that Tom died last night."

Alex's heart dropped. "He did?" she asked, sounding far more shocked than she had any right to. Tom had been sick with AIDS for over a year, and the last time she bumped into him (waiting in line at the Q-Stop on Center Street in Chippewa Falls three or four months ago), he was gaunt, pale, and deathly. She knew from Margo that he was ill but when she asked him directly, he waved her off and said he had a cold. From his appearance, she knew he probably wouldn't make it, but the news caught her off guard anyway.

"Yeah," Margo said glumly, "he was in the hospital for a while."

Tim glanced up and arched his brows quizzically.

"I figured it was coming," Alex said and restively transferred the phone to her other hand, "but...I didn't think so soon."

Ten years ago, AIDS was pretty much an automatic and, in some cases, nearly instantaneous death sentence. Thanks to medical advancements, people were living longer and longer with it, and she assumed that Tom would hang on for at least a little while longer.

When she hung up ten minutes later, she sat heavily in her chair. Tim, Blake, and Zoe were already eating, Zoe shoving handfuls of shredded beef into her mouth and Blake sneering down at his carrots as though they killed his entire family.

Despite his, ahem, abrasive personality (and that was putting it kindly), Alex always liked Tom. They didn't pal around outside of work the way he and Margo did, but she considered him a friend nevertheless, and the realization that she would never see him again began to sink inexorably in, darkening her mood.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked around a mouthful of food.

"Tom died," she said.

"He did?"

She nodded and picked up her fork. She was sad and all, but she was still hungry. "Yep. He caught the flu."

AIDS attacks and greatly weakens the human immune system, making it difficult to fight off infections. Most of the people it kills actually die of other things. In Tom's case, it was Captain Trips.

Which is slang for the flu. It came from...eh, nevermind. The shadow of death was over her and she lost a friend, she didn't feel like being silly or irrelevant right now.

"He died of the flu?" Blake asked, a fearful inflection in his voice.

"He was already sick with something else," she explained, "so he couldn't handle the flu like we can."

Blake considered for a moment. "What was he sick with?"

"Don't worry about it right now," Alex said, "eat your dinner."

She stabbed a piece of roast with her fork and pushed it past her lips. It tasted like mush in her mouth, and she swallowed hard. Tom could be cruel and crass and sometimes she wanted to kick him in his chin like her name was Shawn Michaels, but he was still alright, and even though she could never say she was close to him, she missed him anyway.

And probably would for a long time to come.


	215. March 2001: Part 1

**STR2D3PO: I didn't have the gumption to write very much of 2000. I wanted to hurry up and get to 2001.**

 **MasterCaster: It's possible but not likely, at least for the time being. I'm burned out on shipping Lincoln with anyone and kind of burned out on Loud House fics. I have a bunch saved up but I haven't written anything LH related in nearly a month.**

March 12, 2001, Lincoln Loud dragged himself out of bed at 9:30 and shuffled into the kitchen like a zombie in search of victims. His eyes were red and bleary, his hair stuck out at odd angles, and his features were haggard from too many sleepless nights. His back was tight, his limbs weary, and his head muddled, as though stuffed with cotton. His left arm itched, as it had for several days, and he absently scratched it, jagged nails raking tender, already reddish skin.

Thin gray light trickled through the window over the sink and colored the shadowy space in ashen hues. Old linoleum cracked under his slippered feet like ancient joints and the fridge ceased humming as if in bemusement. _Gee, Linc, what's wrong with_ you?

He brewed a pot of coffee, poured some into a mug, and went into the living room. Sitting in his chair with a grunt, he snatched the remote, turned the TV on, and settled for Fox, where Judge Joe Brown glared at a mouthy defendant over the tops of his glasses. He took a sip, sat the mug on the end table, and threw his head back.

God, he was tired.

For the past few months, Lincoln's energy levels had been steadily decreasing, like liquid draining from a cracked cup. He felt drained, groggy, and perpetually exhausted, but get this: He had trouble sleeping. He passed his days in a state of lassitude, then, as soon as his head hit the pillow, ping - he was wide awake, his mind dredging up every thought, memory, and snatchet of fifty year old music it could lay hands on. _Camptown races sing this - AH, VIETCONG, HIT THE DECK! Speaking of deck, you know what's fun? Cards. Cards are boss. Flip was once your boss, and so was Sgt Hellman. Darn, that reminds me, we need mayonnaise. Don't let us forget, okay?_ Sometimes he sweated even though it was cold, and others he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable and power down, but while he could come right to the rim of sleep, he could never quite fall over. Hours passed like minutes, and when he did drift off, his slumber was light and fitful.

At first, he dismissed it as the kind of natural lethargy that invariably sets in after retirement. During your working life, you keep on the go, he figured, and once you stop, all those decades worth of busting your hump finally catches up with you. He also, admittedly, wasn't very active. Since selling Flip's, he'd settled into a routine of not doing much. He cleaned the house, worked in the yard, and usually made dinner, but overall, that's not a lot. He spent long stretches sitting in front of the TV or reading, so his gears were getting rusty and slow.

Then, when the coughing began, he started to wonder if there was something wrong with him. He would have dismissed it as a cold if it hadn't been for the goddamn fatigue. On the morning he woke with swollen, tender lymph nodes in his neck, he decided to make an appointment with Doc Faraday. _I probably have strep throat,_ he groused to Ronnie Anne. His throat wasn't sore, but it was either that or his allergies, and his allergies had never acted up this badly before.

He lifted his head and rolled his neck. It was almost ten by the clock on the mantle. His appointment was at eleven. That gave him a good forty-five minutes to get ready and out the door; he only needed ten, though.

His throat tickled and he coughed. Goddamn spring played hell on him every year.

At least, ten minutes is what he used to need; he forgot to take into account how sluggish he was nowadays.

While he waited, Lincoln flipped through the latest issue of _Things You Never Knew Existed_. Blake's birthday party was in less than a week and Lincoln ordered his present from these guys two weeks ago: A three band police scanner with a special built-in shortwave frequency. Blake wanted to be a cop when he grew up and loved everything police, so Lincoln reckoned he'd enjoy listening to their radio chatter. 10-15 in progress, send doughnuts. It was supposed to be here last Monday, and Lincoln was starting to get pissed that it wasn't. If it didn't show by tomorrow, he was going to call the bastards and cancel. He could always pick up a cheaper model at Radio Shack, anyway.

He coughed again and scratched his arm.

At 10:25, he pushed himself up and shambled into the bedroom, where he dressed in a pair of black slacks and a plaid short sleeve button up. He sank onto the edge of the bed, pulled his shoes on, and took a moment to muster as much gumption as he could. His breathing was deep and irregular, and he drew great, shivering gulps of air through his nose. The thought of driving all the way to the doctor's office, sitting in an uncomfortable waiting room chair, and...Jesus, just listing it all made him tired. He briefly considered skipping it and taking a nap, but got to his feet instead. Back in the living room, he turned the TV off, slid on his Members Only jacket, and went outside, locking the door behind him.

The sky was steely gray and the trees lining Cleveland as bare as century old skeletons. A needling wind blew from the west, without which it would be tolerable if not warm, and the smell of budding spring found his nose. The past week had been unseasonably hot for March, with daytime temperatures in the low sixties, and Lincoln was hoping summer would start early. He never liked winter, but this last one was particularly hard. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to get warm, and his joints ached almost continuously. He was probably developing arthritis like Mom, which was just another reason to dread aging.

Crossing to the Jeep, he climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled his seatbelt on. Next door, Chandler's piece of shit Honda was parked in the driveway; little bastard was probably begging money off his folks again. He worked at McDonald's now; Lincoln pulled up to the order widow one day, saw his ugly face, and drove off again. Screw this, I'll eat at home.

He threw it in reverse, backed into the street, and swung right. A group of teenagers dressed in baggy jeans, puffy jackets, and blindingly white tennis shoes made their way lazily up the sidewalk in the direction of town, and as he passed, Lincoln narrowed his eyes. I can see your underwear, dipshit.

Yes, he knew that was the style these days, but come on, showing your underwear? He knew he was terminally unhip and had been railing against every single new trend for almost thirty years, but come on. He'd admit to simply "not getting" a lot of things kids thought were cool, like bell bottoms, puffy hair, and how Alex used to cut holes in the knees of her jeans (those cost me 30 dollars and you just mutilated them), but this was stupid. Full stop. Who walks around with their ass hanging out? Who can honestly feel the breeze tickling their butts and say, "Yep, I'm ready to start _my_ day"? Jesus, give it another ten years, and they're gonna wear their pants around their ankles.

That's the natural order of things: You're not supposed to understand the music your kids listen to or the clothes they wear. Lincoln knew that and had come to terms with it long ago...but sagging? Really? Not only did it look dumb, but it _had_ to a pain in the ass. Lincoln _hated_ it when his pants didn't fit, and spending the entire day pulling them back up was more tortuous than being locked in a bamboo cage for eight months.

At the intersection of Main and Oak Street, he slowed, looked both ways, then turned left. Buds covered the branches of trees dotting the sidewalk, and a cool gust of wind kicked up yellow sheets of pollin like drifts of yellow snow (don't eat it). Lincoln's eyes watered just looking at it, and the back of his throat tingled.

Faraday's office was in a renovated building off Main. Low and blocky, it reminded Lincoln of those drab Soviet apartment complexes you see on TV from time to time. A narrow strip of mulch bordered the facade, and tall, skinny trees screened the square windows.

When Faraday took over for Doc Hartfield back in 1975, the office was across town. He moved to this location in 1996 because it was bigger. _I got more patients than I can fit,_ he once told Lincoln with a proud beam. Meanwhile, Flip's sat empty, rotting from the inside out like a gutted carcass in a roadside ditch. Fuck you, Doc, and fuck your patients too. I hope you screw up and get hit with a class action malpractice suit, you bastard.

Now that Lincoln was out of the fry game, however, he didn't care. He _was_ a little mystified, though. Royal Woods' population had grown over the past twenty years, but Doc said most of his people came from out of town. Why, Lincoln had no clue. There were doctors out the ass in Chippewa Falls, many of them the best in their field; you'd expect people to go there, not come here. Faraday was decent, sure, but still only a small town GP.

You'd also expect people coming in from two towns over to stop for lunch at a place like Flip's.

Bitterness bubbled up in Lincoln's chest, but he pushed it back down again. There was only one thing more pathetic than being salty over a current situation, and that was being salty over something that was done and over with. Flip's failed, he failed, end of story, no reason to cry about it six months later.

He guided the Jeep into a parking spot facing the front door and cut the engine. He glanced at the clock in the dash, saw that he was two minutes late, and heaved a dejected sigh.

Getting sloppy, Linc, what would Sgt. Hellman say?

 _LOUD, SUCK IT UP OR I'LL RIP YOUR HEAD OFF AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK!_

Lincoln yawned. Yeah, sure thing, just let me rest first. He coughed and scratched his chest.

For five minutes, he watched as people came and went through the entrance, calling upon all the energy he had. There was a bird nest in the arch over the door, and if he listened carefully, he could hear the tweeting of hatchlings crying out for food. Jessy and Alex used to do that - if you didn't bring them their bottle _right this second_ they acted like you were starving them.

A fond smile touched his lips. He hadn't talked to Jessy in a couple days, maybe he should call her. She usually called him and Ronnie Anne first, every Friday like clockwork, but life got in the way. She had a husband, a baby, and, the last time they spoke, she mentioned going on job interviews for teaching positions.

Finally, ten minutes after he was supposed to be there, he got out and went inside. A waiting area opened on either side of him, thin, gray industrial carpet, beige walls adorned with mediocre landscape paintings, and a TV mounted to metal brackets in a corner. A little boy knelt on the floor amidst a debris field of toys, and his mother sat in one of the chairs with a magazine open on her lap. Lincoln walked to the counter, where a receptionist typed on an IBM computer, and signed in. He sat in the empty section, away from the woman and her son, and idyllic paged through a dog-eared issue of _Time_ dated December 25, 2000. George W. Bush grinned slyly up at him from the cover. _PERSON OF THE YEAR_ screamed bold, white text, then, in smaller letters, President-Elect George W. Bush.

Another issue sat on the end table. Both Bush _and_ Gore graced this one. 537 VOTES: BUSH'S NEW MARGIN. Elsewhere: GORE'S LEGAL CHALLENGES. Lincoln sneered in contempt. That recount shit went on way longer than it should have, Gore scrounging for votes that weren't there and Bush looking stupid like always (did he sag his pants too?). Gore's people claimed the system was rigged and something about roadblocks preventing Democratic voters from getting to the polls in Florida, and Bush, I don't know, just sat there and smiled. Lincoln stopped paying attention after a while because it started giving him a headache. If asked, he'd side with Bush anyway. You lost, Gore, stop being a crybaby and get over it.

Instead, Gore took it all the way to the Supreme Court and they decided against his ass. Hahaha. Lincoln recalled a news crew filming George Sr. and Barbara at the polls. The reporter asked who they voted for, and H.W. waved them off. _I can't tell you that_...or something along those lines. Afterwards, Lincoln was absolutely convinced they voted for Gore.

Which didn't bode well for America. They knew their son better than anyone, and if they didn't have faith in him, well…

A door flanking the counter opened and a nurse in scrubs came out. "Lincoln Loud?"

My time to shine.

Lincoln got up and followed her into the back, where she had him stand on a scale, then escorted him to an exam room. She took his vitals, asked, "What brings you here today, Mr. Loud?", and jotted his answers down on a clipboard. Promising that Doc would be in soon, she left, and Lincoln was alone with only the ticking of the clock and a plastic skeleton in the corner to keep him company. He started off sitting on the table, but the way the paper covering crinkled every time he moved got on his nerves, so he moved to one of the chairs. The quiet whisper of heated air pushing through the overhead vents lulled him, and he started to droop.

The door opened and he snapped up. Doc Faraday came in with a clipboard clutched in one meaty hand. A short, bullish man with a gray walrus mustache and dressed in a rumpled lab coat over a plaid shirt, Faraday looked more like a cop than a doctor. He was a medic in 'Nam and an army reservist until 1992. Uncle Sam called him up to go to the Persian Gulf but he filed for a deferment, for which Lincoln occasionally teased him. _A real man would have gone, Doc. What, you don't love America?_

"Mornin', Linc," Doc said and consulted his paperwork. "What's goin' on?"

Lincoln sat up straight and winced at a twinge in his back. "Well," he said, "I feel like crap, that's what's going on."

The doctor looked up. " _How_ do you feel like crap? Aches? Pains?"

Lincoln explained what was going on, and Faraday listened intently, nodding and humming interestedly where appropriate.

After Lincoln concluded, Faraday said, "Well, that can be any number of things, or nothing at all. You have allergies, right?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, but they've never hit me _this_ hard."

"Well, you're getting older, things might start changing," Faraday said. "Any other symptoms? Fever? Headaches?"

Lincoln thought for a moment. "I get headaches here and there, but it's from not sleeping, I think."

"Yeah," Faraday said with a nod, "that'll do it." He set the clipboard aside and ambled over to the table. "Tilt your head back."

Lincoln did as he was told, and the doctor pressed his fingertips into either side of Lincoln's neck, a searching expression on his face. "When's the last time you had the swelling?"

"Uhhh...two days."

Faraday hummed. "They didn't hurt?"

"Nah," Lincoln said, then corrected, "a little tender."

Letting go, Faraday stepped back and scrunched his lips. "I'm thinking allergies, but you say you've had the fatigue and shortness of breath a while, so I'll take some blood, test it out, and see if _maybe_ there's something up."

Having blood drawn wasn't Lincoln's least favorite thing, but it sure as hell wasn't his favorite, either. Ten minutes later, he sat with his right arm stuck out, palm up, and made a fist. A nurse perched on a wheeled stool like a middle-aged bird of prey tied a band around his bare upper arm, rubbed a patch of skin with an iodine wipe, and jabbed him with a needle hooked to a bell-shaped glass tube. Lincoln watched his blood spurt against the side and fill the vial, then turned away. That damn skeleton grinned from its corner, as if mocking him, and he glowered. At least I _have_ blood. What do you got, bone boy?

 _Why don't you ask your wife what I got?_

Lincoln reached for his gun, but realized he wasn't at Flip's and there was nothing under the counter.

You're lucky.

The nurse pulled the needle out and slapped a Band-Aid on with expert, though absent, precision. "Alright," she said cheerily, "that's it."

At home, he parked in the driveway, and was perturbed to see Chandler's car was still next door. Hopefully the little bastard wasn't moving back in.

Getting out, he shuffled inside and sat in his chair. It was past one and his stomach rumbled. A tomato and mayonnaise sandwich sounded really good right about now.

He picked up the remote, turned the TV on, and snuggled back into the chair. He closed his eyes, and within seconds, he began to snore.

* * *

It wasn't easy, but she did it. She saved up all over money for, like, ever, and now here she was, standing in front of a glass case in the electronics department, a thin pane the only thing separating her from her prize. She pressed one hand to the cool surface and gazed at the stack of boxes beyond with the creased brow intensity of a woman critically comparing diamonds or something. They were all the same, she figured, but even so, she flicked her eyes indecisively from one to another and anxiously chewed her bottom lip. This was serious business, and if she didn't pick carefully, she might wind up with one that was defective. Can you imagine that? Handing Blake his brand new gift and it's broken? She could already see the disappointment in his eyes, and it tied her stomach in a freaking knot.

Nope, not on her watch. She would pick the very best one and Blake would love her for it. The only problem was: Which was the best? She looked between them and thoughtfully flattened her lips. That one looked - oh, wait, the edge was kind of chewed up, like maybe someone dropped it at some point. The one underneath it looked okay, but she could only see one side.

In order to _really_ make up her mind, she needed an associate to come over and unlock the case so she could study it better. She looked around, but aside from a woman with messy blonde hair flipping through the CD display, she was alone, the check out desk empty and desolate like an abandoned outpost on the edge of the world.

Oh well, she'd just keep looking.

Walking up and down the length of the case, she examined each box as best she could, at one point getting on her hands and knees like a baby. The tiles were cold and dirty under her palms, and a discarded lollipop covered in ants lay under one of the shelves, making her cringe. Ewww. Where did _that_ come from? Actually, nevermind, I don't wanna know.

She was closely appraising one of the boxes (face squished against the glass) when a shadow blotted out the cold overhead lighting. She looked up, and a woman with shoulder length brown hair and wearing a blue vest stared bemusedly down at her, as though she couldn't quite process what she was seeing. "Can I help you?" she asked.

Jordan got to her feet and dusted her knees off. It wasn't quite warm enough for pale yellow shorts and a matching T-shirt, but she wore them anyway. Her flip flops, purple with a white flower on top, slapped the floor as she stood. "Can I see the PS2s, please? I want to buy one."

The woman lifted a dubious brow at the idea of a kid buying something so expensive. "You do?" she asked with a patronizing hilt.

"Yep," Jordan said with a deep nod.

"Those cost a lot of money."

"I know," Jordan replied airily. She unzipped the purple fanny pack around her waist and pulled out a thick stack of crumpled bills. She licked her thumb and counted them: 300 dollars in fives, twenties, and tens. A twenty fell from her hand, and she bent to scoop it up. "I have it right here."

The woman's brows raised again, this time in surprise, and she started to speak, but hesitated. For a minute, Jordan thought she was going to ask where her mother was, but instead, "Alright, then."

She produced a key ring from her pocket, unlocked the case, and drew the door to one side. She reached in, but Jordan stopped her. "Wait!"

Turning, the woman regarded her questioningly.

"I have to check it first," Jordan said and stood next to her. Her face was pinched in determination. This was her best friend's tenth birthday - probably the most important one _ever_ \- and she was not going to let anything stand in the way of making it perfect.

The woman issued a long suffering sigh and stepped back. "Alright, then," she said and gestured to the open cabinet with a flourish.

Brushing past her, Jordan sank to her knees, arched her back, and reached in, moving the box with the messed up corner and taking the one underneath. It was heavier than it looked. She sat it in her lap and read the writing. Pictures of happy kids playing games and laughing promised loads of fun, but the tiny scratch on the price tag suggested disaster. She saw some careless delivery man taking a corner too sharply and BAM, the console landed hard on the floor.

She sat this one aside and grabbed another. She held it up to her ears and shook. The contents shifted, and she was _certain_ she heard the sound of breakage.

Next contestant, please.

With slow, methodical care, Jordan worked her way through a dozen games, taking each one out, scanning the box for signs of damage, and shaking it. When she was done, she sat them on the floor and moved onto the next. One had sticky stuff crusted on the top, and another felt a little light, so it was probably missing parts. She picked one up to shake it, and it slipped from her hands and landed on the floor with a thunk. "Whoops," she said with a sheepish smile. "Let's, uh, put that in the maybe pile."

She put it in the NO WAY pile instead...along with all of the others. Hey, she demanded the best, and none of these consoles were the best. It wasn't her fault Wal-Mart stocked a bunch of duds.

The woman cleared her throat and Jordan twisted around to look up; her arms were folded tightly over her chest and her foot tapped an impatient tempo on the floor. "Are you almost done?" she asked bitterly.

Boxes of Playstation 2's were strewn haphazardly about, some lying flat and others standing on end. People coming down the aisle were forced to turn around; one guy, apparently in a hurry, stepped over, stumbled, and nearly fell.

"If not," the woman said, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Jordan's heart sank. If they kicked her out, she would _never_ get Blake's Playstation 2: The only other place that sold them was a store at the mall, and her mom never took her to the mall. Everything there was "too expensive." Her older sister Veronica went to the mall a lot, but she never bought anything, she just walked around with her friends like a dumbass. "I'm done," she said and surveyed the boxes surrounding her. She had to pick one, and quick, okay, uh, eeny, meeny, miney, moe? She pointed to one at random. "Eeeny…"

The woman let out an exasperated sigh.

Okay, she didn't have time for eeny, meeny, miney, moe. She would piiiiiiickkkk...she clamped her lower lip between her teeth and swept her gaze over the boxes. Uh…that one.

She plucked a random box from the heap. She spun it around, checked for damage, then shook it. It looked and sounded okay, but she still wasn't entirely sold. "Is there a money back guarantee?" she asked.

"Thirty days," the woman said.

Hm. That was a long time, but not really. What if Blake didn't find out it was broken until day thirty-one? Most game systems that break, do so in the first forty days. She heard that somewhere...or did she? She knitted her brow in thought and tried to remember. Maybe she just made it up.

"If you want," the woman said, "you can purchase a one year protection plan."

Oooh, okay. "How much does _that_ cost?"

"There's a special on them," the woman said, "they're free, but you have to leave...now."

"Okay," Jordan chirped. She got to her feet, clutched the box to her chest, and followed the woman to the register. Five minutes and 300 dollars later, she lumbered out of Wal-Mart with Blake's PS2 and flush with pride. It took lots of planning, saving, and even doing extra work (like shoveling driveways and mowing lawns), but she did it all on her own, she got Blake the coolest present ever. She could see him now: He picks it up, rips it open, and his face lights up like a beautiful sun or something.

The image made her feel warm and fuzzy inside, and her closed lipped smile gained a few watts.

Now came the fun part.

 _Wrapping_ it.

Jordan loved wrapping presents. She was really good at it, too, and everyone said she did a better job than Santa.

The only problem was: What kind of paper should she use?

That was her _next_ conundrum.

* * *

"GIVE ME BACK MY MARKER!"

Clyde McBride looked up from the sheaf of paperwork fanned out on the desk before him, his brow lowering expectantly.

It was a bright early spring morning in Buffalo. Warm, golden sunshine cascaded through the big segmented window behind him and a faint breeze stirred the bush screening it. Thin shadows danced and zipped across the creme colored carpet and made abstract shapes on the oaken walls. Clyde's study was his santucary, as the garage or the shed is other men's, and as such, it reflected his tastes. Tall book bookcases, scuffed with age, flanked either wall, their shelves crammed with a rainbow of tomes, and bronze busts on pedestals stared out at each other as if in strained tolerance: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Martin Luther King Jr. among them. A Victorian style wingback chair upholstered in green leather sat before the stone hearth, an attendant end table standing by like a faithful manservant, and an ornate clock, handcrafted and trimmed in gold leaf, occupied a place of honor on the mantle.

A reflection of himself, his study was sedate and traditional, a place for meditative ponderings, quiet reading, and completing work he didn't have the time to finish during the week. Every man needs a space unto himself, and this was his. Sometimes, after Carol was asleep, he would get out of bed, come in here, and just sit in front of the fire. Of all the nooks and crannies in his life, he loved this one the best, and fastidiously kept it the way a fussy housewife might her beloved kitchen.

Ordinarily, it was neat and tidy, but today the floor in front of his desk was cluttered with a twisted pile of toys: Cars, Barbie Dolls, action figures, and Legos. Christ, there were so many Legos. Red ones, blue ones, green ones, big ones, small ones. There were a few that didn't look like they even fit with the others.

Tiny footsteps pounded indignantly down the hall, and Clyde sat his pen down. The door, hitherto standing ajar, flung open and Collette stalked in, her hands fisted at her sides and her forehead crinkled stormily.

Tall (for five) and clad in a sleeveless pink dress with a white floral pattern, she wore her black hair in pigtails. Her eyes, a catlike shade of green, seethed with outrage, and her lightly complexioned face burned red. Collette was normally a sweet and placid girl, as still and serene as a mountain lake. There was only one thing on earth that could invoke this level of fury in her.

"Dad-DY," she said and stomped her foot, "Chris took my purple marker!"

Her brother.

Though twins, Christopher and Collette were as different as night and day. She was quiet, already cerebral, and reserved. Chris, on the other hand, crackled with energy like a high tension wire. He ran, never walked; took more falls than a one legged drunk; and never, ever stopped, not even during bathtime - if you weren't careful, he'd flood the bathroom and half the hallway too. His knees were perpetually scraped and covered in Band-Aids, and where Collette was polite, he was anything _but_. He pushed, he shoved, he took things without asking, wouldn't share, and delighted in burping, farting, and picking his nose.

Clyde slipped his thumb and forefinger under his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Chris?" he called.

A few minutes later, the little boy poked his head innocently in the door. The physical resemblance between him and his sister began and ended with their skin tone. Somehow, Collette wound up looking more like Clyde and Chris like Carol...you'd think it would be the other way around. His hair, close cropped, was classic Negro, but his eyes, like Collette's, were Caucasian. In his case, a deep shade of blue like his mother's. He wore a green T-shirt with a big white O1 emblazoned across the chest and navy blue shorts stained with a confused mishmash of food, juice, marker, and a dozen other substances for which Clyde had no name.

"Did you take Collette's marker?" Clyde asked pointedly. He already knew he had. Stealing something from his sister - a toy, a crayon - was to him what cracking lame jokes was to Jay Leno: His entire shtick.

Chris flicked his eyes to the floor in contrition and shrugged his shoulders. Collette's face darkened and she put her hands on her hips. "Yes you did."

"No I didn't," he mumbled, "it was on the floor."

" _I_ was using it."

Chris leaned suddenly forward, his eyes widening. "It wasn't in your hand!" he yelled.

Collette did the same, and for one fleeting moment, the stars aligned and they were identical. "It was next to my foot!"

Sighing, Clyde held up his hand, palm facing out, and both children sneered at each other like two junkyard dogs one wrong bark away from lunging for one another's throat. "Chris, you know better than to take things that aren't yours. If you want to borrow it, ask."

"I would have _let_ you," Collette said and crossed her arms, "but now you're not allowed."

"She wasn't using it," he said, pleading his case like an impassioned defense attorney.

"Yes I was!"

He started to retort, but the phone at Clyde's left hand rang, cutting him off. "No more," Clyde said firmly. "Give her the marker back then ask." His tone did not invite protest, and sighing in defeat, Chris thrust the marker out. Collette took it, and together they went back into the hall.

A tender smile touched Clyde's lips and he shook his head. He flew combat missions in Vietnam and Iraq and served two terms as governor of the fourth most populous state in the country, but neither of those things could prepare him for parenthood. He was well versed in diplomacy, yes, but though you might not think so, dealing with hostile Democrats in both chambers of the state house and two children are _not_ similar experiences. Democrats, for all their flaws, don't draw on the walls, spill juice on the carpet, and scream at each other over the tiniest thing (well, they might do that last one, but it wasn't his problem the way it was with Chris and Collette).

Even for all of that, Clyde loved them both with an intensity that both surprised and unnerved him. He thought he knew what love was when he met Carol Pingrey, but what he felt for his children was stronger, sharper, and more total. He would do anything for them, even if it meant going against everything he believed in - if someone had a gun to one of their heads and told him to vote Democrat, he'd go them one better, run for president as one, win, and be the most liberal son of a bitch this country's ever seen. He'd make George McGovern look like George Wallace, and he would do it with a smile on his face.

The phone cried out again, somehow more shrill and insistent this time, and he picked up the handset. "Hello?"

"Governor, it's Andy Card, how are you?" a familiar voice asked.

Clyde stiffened.

Card was the White House Chief of Staff, a position he'd held since George W. Bush took office in January.

Every time a new president takes office, he appoints a cabinet, often from a list of prospects. In September, Clyde received a phone call from Frank Stevens, the most powerful Republican senator in New York. Stevens, whom Clyde had known for nearly twenty years, was a close friend of the Bush family and, being a staunch nativist, was also a friend of having as many New Yorkers in federal positions as possible. He spoke to Bush on the campaign trail and convinced him to put Clyde in the running for Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. Clyde was ambivalent to the idea of accepting but did so after talking to Carol.

In January, he was notified that a former west coast mayor had been chosen instead. He was equal parts disappointed and relieved. He wasn't keen on relocating his family to Washington, but the more he entertained the idea, the more he realized that, in that role, he could affect real, positive change.

Oh well. Maybe next.

In February, before the obligatory senate confirmation hearings, The New York Times (or, as Clyde called it, The New York Slimes) drudged up a past misdeed on the mayor's part that was serious enough to cause a stir on Capitol Hill. After an especially long and arduous round of hearings, he stepped down. Stevens called him three days ago to say he'd spoken to Bush again and _Put a good word in for you. Hopefully he'll pick you to replace that bozo_. Clyde would be a liar if he said he didn't feel a rush of hope, but he didn't allow himself to indulge in it. They'd probably pick one of the other guys.

Now here he was, on the phone with Andy Card. His throat went dry and his heart began to race.

"Good, you?" Clyde replied smoothly.

"Never a dull moment," Card said with a laugh, "I'm always busy."

Card served in several posts under Reagan and Bush Sr and as a representative from Massachusetts in the seventies. Clyde had met him on numerous occasions over the years, and he seemed amicable enough. In politics, however, you never know what darkness lurks beneath the surface of men.

Clearing his throat, Card continued. "If you have a moment, President Bush would like to speak with you. On the matter of HUD."

Clyde swallowed thickly. In the living room, Chris and Collette erupted in laughter, their tiff already forgotten. "Sure," Clyde said, surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

"Alright, I'll put you through now."

The line clicked, then Bush came on. "Governor, hello," he said in that sleepy drawl of his. People mistook it for a mark of stupidity, but Clyde knew enough about Bush to know that he wasn't dull.

"Mr. President," Clyde said, "it's good to hear from you."

His palm sweated around the handset and his stomach roiled with nerves. The President of the United States aroused a certain awe in Clyde, his party notwithstanding. The President is a mythical, larger-than-life figure and being in his presence, even over 400 miles of telephone wire, was both humbling and nerve-wracking. Though Bush could not see him, he instinctively sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed it down, hoping desperately that the sound did not transmit.

"You too," Bush said, "I trust things are well in Buffalo."

"They are, sir," Clyde said.

"That's good, that's good." A rustling filled the line, and Clyde pictured Bush shifting positions. He sat at his desk in the Oval Office like a wizened sea captain, the room glowing with its own innate light. "I been...going over the list of candidates here this morning and I come to think...that you're the best man for the job."

An indescribable mix of emotions surged through the pit of Clyde's stomach.

"I-I'm certainly interested," he heard himself say.

"That's good," Bush said, "I think with your experience as governor you could come in and get things right in no time."

Clyde shifted. "I would do my best, sir.," he said.

"I know you would," Bush responded, "you're a man who gives it his all, and I feel stupid not going with you in the first place. How soon can you get here?"

He considered for a moment. Chris and Collette both had school and Carol's work schedule was erratic. She hadn't worked in nearly a week and didn't expect to for at least another week. She told him last year that if he got the call to leave, she would _accommodate_ him. _Focus on that, I'll handle everything else._

Despite that, apprehension clutched his chest. "I can leave as soon as possible," he said.

"Alright," Bush said, "well, we won't _really_ need you for a few days, maybe a week, so take some time to see to your affairs, then whenever you're ready, come on down."

"Yes sir."

When he hung up fifteen minutes later, he was trembling with the second most peculiar combination of joy and dread he had ever known; the first came on the day Chris and Collette were born.

He took a deep breath and let it out in an uneven gust.

Then he grinned.

He couldn't _wait_ to tell Carol.


	216. March 2001: Part 2

**Guest: Lincoln probably would have become an alcoholic rolling stone trying to put roots down but flaking out when the pressure of life became too much to handle.**

 **Guest: I might write a story like that.**

On the morning of his tenth birthday party (which was held three days before he actually turned ten), Blake Underwood sat restlessly in history class and tried not to explode. It was really hard, though, because the excitement that had been building up in him for almost a month was at critical mass. It burst against him like a big, beating heart and every minute seemed to last a whole lifetime. The other kids stared straight ahead with dull-eyed disinterest, and Blake pitied them; for them, today was just another boring Tuesday, but for him, it was going to be awesome.

Just as soon as the last bell rang.

Which wouldn't happen until forever.

Sigh.

He hung his head and took a deep breath. It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't stuck in school. School kind of sucked. He liked recess and history, but everything else was dumb, especially math. He was pretty awful at math. He could add well, and subtract okay (until you had to carry numbers and put remainders everywhere), but multiplication were really hard. Jordan was really good at math and offered to tutor him, but even though they worked on multiplying every evening, he never got any better, and by now he was starting to get frustrated.

Math was one of those things that he just couldn't grasp. Everyone has things like that, right? Like, you try hard and give it your best, but your best isn't good enough and you fail, you fail hard. That's what math was for him. English was kind of difficult too because there was a lot of stuff to memorize. Adjectives, nouns, compound fractures, the comma goes here and the semicolon there...he got mixed up a lot, but he did well enough that he never got below a C-. That made him proud because only dumb kids get D's. That's what D stands for, Dumb. And F is for failure. C is Could be Better, Could Be Worse. He was happy with C's. His teacher wrote on his report card once that he was a 'mediocre student'. He didn't know what that meant so he looked it up in the dictionary. Mediocre is another word for average, as in normal, so getting Cs was a good thing. He liked being normal. Not too smart, not too dumb. People say being really smart is a good thing, but all of the smart people Blake knew were giant dorks, like that Sheldon kid who got 100s on all of his math assignments...then ate lunch by himself because no one wanted to sit with him. If that's what being smart is like, count him out. He also didn't want to be dumb, though. There was a dumb kid in his science class who drooled on himself. No one sat with him at lunch either.

He was perfectly fine with being normal because one day, he was going to be a cop, and cops don't have to be super geniuses. They just have to be brave and catch bad guys. He could do that stuff easy...though running was kind of hard, and so was jumping and lifting heavy stuff. That was okay, though, because he was just a kid; things would be different when he was an adult. He'd be strong, fast, and not have a pudgy belly.

It was going to rule.

For now, he just had to deal with being slow and a litttle fat.

The bell rang and he perked up, then deflated when he realized it wasn't time to leave yet. Ugh, why couldn't time go quicker? Didn't it realize he was having a party with cake, ice cream, presents, and other cool stuff after school?

Everyone got up and filed out of the room while the teacher called that night's homework after them. Blah blah blah read chapter six blah blah blah. He already read chapter six on his own because he wanted to know what happened next. Hint: It was called the Civil War and it was really bloody.

He gathered his stuff, got to his feet, and hurried into the hall, pausing to hitch up his shorts. His stuff was always too big on him - Mom said he was an in between size so his clothes had to be either too big or too small. He wore shorts a lot because the pants that fit his waist were too long in the legs and wound up slipping over the backs of his shoes.

Kids flooded the corridor and stood in big groups to talk...and block traffic. A bank of red lockers lined the wall on the right, and to the left, a big glass trophy case stood outside the gym, its dusty shelves crammed with plaques, trophies, ribbons, and awards stretching all the way back to 1948 when the Bobcats first won the state championship. At his locker, he opened it, shoved his history book in, and grabbed his English book. He closed the door and Jordan was there, startling him.

"Hey," she said. Her dirty blonde hair was held up in a tight French braid and her warm brown eyes glowed with a giddy light he knew all too well - she was just as stoked for his party as he was, maybe even more, if that was possible. Her lips, unglossed but pink and moist nevertheless, spread into a sly smile that, for some inexplicable reason. made his heartbeat falter. "Five more hours," she said.

That's when his party was. They were having it in Grandma and Grandpa's backyard like they did every year since Aunt Luan sold her house. Aunt Lori and Uncle Bobby were going to be there, both sets of grandparents, and probably his friends Rocky and Rusty. They were brothers and really cool. Rocky wanted to be a cop too, only he was interested in becoming a detective like the guys on Law & Order. Detectives were cool and Blake had just as much respect for them as he did for beat cops, but, for one thing, they didn't have cool uniforms, so...no, thank you. "I know, I can't wait," he said.

"You're gonna love my gift," she said with a playful hilt.

She'd been saying that for, like, three days, and the suspense was killing him. What was it? It had to be something really great; she was clearly proud of herself for getting it, and you only do that when your present is the awesomest one ever. "What is it?" he asked, even though he knew she wouldn't tell him.

"You have to wait and find out."

Ugh.

Of course.

In English, he sat behind Stella and followed absently along in the book, but kept losing his focus and missing stuff. Near the end of class, the teacher had everyone write a story using that week's vocabulary words (frantic, reduce, competition, vast, and frequent). Blake frowned down at his notebook as he wracked his mind for something to write. Finally, a light bulb appeared over his head. He picked up his pencil and scratched out a spine tingling horror story in under ten minutes. He was exceedingly proud of the fact that he turned two of the words into adverbs.

The little boy frantically waited for his birthday party after school but class wouldn't end. The clock kept going backwards in vast sweeps until the day got reduced to yesterday. He frequently cried because his birthday party got farther and farther away. It was a competition to keep his tears back so he didn't get made fun of. Finally the clock went all the way back to fifty years before he was born and he had to wait a long time for his next party. He was sad. THE END.

Wow, this was actually pretty good. Maybe he could publish it and make money. He could totally see it as an episode of Goosebumps. They could maybe even make it into a movie with that boy from The Sixth Sense.

A shiver went down Blake's spine and he instantly regretted thinking of that movie. He saw it last year at Jordan's house. Veronica and her friends rented it and said he and Jordan were too "babyfied" to handle it. That hurt their pride so they stayed in the living room and watched the whole thing.

Veronica was right.

They were too babyfied to handle it. Jordan buried her face in his chest every time a ghost showed up, and he hugged her tightly because he was irrationally sure that he if didn't, he'd get sucked into the screen and see dead people too...every second of every day.

English ended at noon, and from there, Blake went to the cafeteria. Rows of long tables packed with kids filled the center of the room, and their voices echoed off the cinder block walls like low peals of thunder. Blake waited in line, got his tray, and looked around. He spotted Rusty and Rocky sitting at a table by the hall leading to the gym, and went over and sat down. "Hey," Rocky said.

"Hey," Rusty echoed.

"Hey," Blake replied.

Nearly identical, Rusty and Rocky both had red hair, freckles, and fair skin that almost counted as pale. They looked like a couple of clowns, and sometimes Blake was embarrassed to be seen with them. He said so once, and Rocky got offended. Dude, you're one to talk, you weigh, like, three hundred pounds.

No I don't! Blake cried.

He was not that big.

I'm just husky.

Rusty rolled his eyes. That's what all fat people say.

That hurt Blake's feelings and he didn't hang out with them for a week. He told Jordan and she sighed. Well, you deserved it. What you said was really mean. He got mad at her too, but after a while he realized she was right. He was a little fat, and if being fat was a touchy subject for him, looking like two low-rent birthday clowns was probably a touchy subject for them. Jordan said, Appearances aren't important. If you like them, you like them.

And that was true. He did like them.

"Are you guys still coming to my birthday party?" Blake asked.

"Eh, I don't know," Rocky said, "our grandma's coming over so probably not."

Blake deflated. Well, that sucked.

"You guys got me a present, though, right?"

"We spent all our money on candy," Rusty said, "sorry."

Sigh. Some friends.

Jordan sat her tray on the table and dropped into the seat next to Blake's. "Four hours," she sang.

"Don't remind me," Blake said. He opened his milk and took a drink. Four hours was a long time, and made even longer by the fact he was excited. Have you ever noticed that time slows down when you're anticipating something? An hour goes by like a snail, but if there's something cool on the other side of that hour, it goes by like a snail that's...I don't know...really old and handicapped.

Jordan leaned close and cracked a wicked grin. "Four hours."

"Stop, you're annoying."

"No, you are," Jordan said. She snatched his milk from the table and twisted around.

"Give it back!"

He reached for it, but she hunched her back and giggled. "Keep away!"

"Fine!" He grabbed her tray and pulled it away.

"My food!" she said with a laugh. "I need my lunch!"

"I need my milk!"

Rocky and Rusty exchanged a glance and shook their heads. Blake and Jordan always playing around like this got annoying sometimes.

Jordan turned and sat his milk before him. "There. Can I have my lunch back?"

Blake slid her tray in front of her...then plucked her roll up and shoved it into his mouth. Her jaw dropped and her eyes glinted, then she pursed her lips and smacked his arm. He sucked a gulp of air, but instead of laughing, a wad of mushy bread went down his windpipe. He coughed and gagged, and Jordan's face clenched in fear. She pounded his back, and with another cough, it flew out and landed in Rusty's green beans. "Oh, that's nice," Rusty mumbled.

"You okay?" Jordan asked softly. She bent close to Blake's face and rubbed a tender circle in his back

Blake breathed in, then out, his lungs rattling. "Your dumb roll almost killed me," he said.

Jordan's brow lowered. "My roll? It's your roll now."

He looked down at his hand. When he started to choke, he closed his fist and the roll got squished. He sat it back on her tray. "I don't want it anymore. You can have it."

Jordan glared at it, then at him.

A thought came to Blake's mind, and even though he'd had ones similar a million times in the past, it surprised him.

Perhaps, rather, it was the sharp, accompanying ripple that went through his stomach.

That thought was: She's cute when she's mad.

* * *

Lincoln Loud stepped back and crossed his arms. Ronnie Anne, home early from work, stood next to him and surveyed their work. "Looks good," she commented.

It was almost 3pm and they had just finished setting up for Blake's party. A picnic table sat in the middle of the backyard, red and blue balloons festooned to either end. A yellow vinyl cloth that Lincoln vaguely recalled buying in 1985 covered the gray, weathered wood, and a dozen placemats were laid out in expectation of guests to come. Party hats, plastic cutlery, bags of potato chips, and other snacks were heaped in the center, and the grill stood off to one side, looking somehow impatient. C'mon, Linc, throw some burgers on me. A plastic folding table that Lori brought over for the presents: Some from Jessy and Mark, some from Lola and Bobby, a few from Lana, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne's, Lori and Bobby's - Lincoln counted fifteen. Fifteen! In his day, he'd be lucky if he got an ass beating and a penny candy for his birthday.

He said as much, and Ronnie Anne favored him with a blank, patronizing stare. "You're such a liar," she snorted.

"It's true," he argued, "only thing I ever got for my birthday was a welt on my ass."

She shook her head long-sufferingly. "And a bike. You got a really nice bike one year."

"Well…"

"Oh, and I'm pretty sure your mom got you a state-of-the-art hi-fi system once."

Alright, she had him there. Mom did get him a top-shelf hi-fi the year he turned fifteen, and the bike, and all sorts of other things, but the point remained, he never had fifteen presents. God, does any kid? That goes with having a big family, yeah, but holy jeez. "That's still a lot," he said and jutted his chin toward the pile.

"I think you're just jealous," she retorted.

Across the yard, Bobby and Lori hung a giant banner on the stockade fence. It was tinfoil silver with HAPPY BIRTHDAY in big white letters.

"Of a kid?" Lincoln asked. "Nah. Kids can't own guns. What's there to be jealous of?" His voice cracked on the last two words, and fisting his hand to his mouth, he coughed deeply.

Done, Bobby and Lori made their way over, Lori in a blue dress and Bobby in black work pants and a white wife-beater. The former's hair was streaked with gray and the latter's was the color of ash, save for a little black around the temples. Always thin, Bobby had been steadily gaining weight over the past ten years, and now his gut strained against the fabric of his shirt. Coarse hair grew on his bare, flabby arms and a thick mustache inched along his upper lip like a fat caterpillar. He said he was too lazy to shave anymore and let it come. It itched at first but he eventually got used to it. Lori, on the other hand, was rail thin, thinner than she was in her younger days, and deep wrinkles spread out from the corners of her eyes and mouth.

They were both sixty-one this year, and every time that realization hit Lincoln, his head spun. God, nine more years and they'd be seventy. The big 7-0, as far as Lincoln was concerned, is when old age officially starts.

And he wasn't far behind.

Though today he felt much older than he was. He'd been sleeping fairly well since his visit to Faraday, and the fatigue was persisted. He took over the counter allergy meds for the cough, but it remained. Two days ago, he woke up with swollen lymph nodes under his arms, and yesterday, they went away only to reappear in his neck. The rash on his arm had gotten worse, spreading across his flesh like decomposition, and he was starting to get a little worried. Faraday claimed it was probably allergies, but he was wrong. It was something else.

A pang of unease rippled through his stomach. Fifty-five was uncharted territory for him; who knows what kind of strange maladies lurked in the brush? Not him, and if he allowed himself to dwell on it, questing tendrils of panic would begin to creep in.

It had been nearly a week and he was still waiting on those results. At first, he wasn't concerned, but now he was, and every day that went by without a call from Faraday's office, the suspense got just a little sharper, a little more heavy.

It shouldn't take that long for lab work. Three, four days tops, not six or more.

Maybe they found something.

Or maybe the dumb bastard lost his blood somewhere. They'd find the vial behind a cabinet twenty years from now, all moldy and -

His stomach turned.

Nevermind.

"Looking good," Bobby said and swept the backyard with his gaze. "You shoulda got a clown or something."

Lincoln smirked. "Actually, I did. Not a clown, a puppeteer. Same difference."

In the run up to Blake's birthday, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne searched both the phonebook and the internet for local entertainers. Lincoln was certain there were dozens of them in Royal County, and was downright shocked when he learned there weren't. There was a guy named Pip who operated out of Chippewa Falls, a guy who wore a dinosaur suit like Barney, and a magician. They went for the last one first, but when he called, he got a message that "Randali the Great" was currently on vacation and wouldn't be back until the 21st.

The next guy they called was the puppet man, and he worked cheap, so there you go.

"Sounds real happening, Linc," Bobby said with a hint of sarcasm.

While he and Lori sat at the table and talked about the latest issue of AARP magazine or something, Lincoln followed Ronnie Anne into the sun-washed kitchen. The warm, fragrant smells of baking scented the air, and Lincoln's mouth started to water. He hadn't been particularly hungry over the past week, but a big, chocolatey slice of cake topped with ice cream sure would hit the spot.

Ronnie Anne opened the oven and bent to check the cake. She considered, then closed it and stood up again. "Five more minutes," she said.

"Might as well get the burgers out," Lincoln said. He went to the fridge, pulled the door open, and grabbed a box of hamburger patties. There were twenty inside, and Wal-Mart sold it for five bucks. He didn't like very many new things, and in the beginning, Wal-Mart was no exception. Big box stores had been putting the little guy out of business for years, which put hard working people in a jam and lead to a lack of retail diversity. Then, one day, he actually went inside, and slowly, his views began to change. They had everything and their prices were lower than Jimmy Carter's approval ratings. He'd be a dumbass to not shop there.

Sitting the box on the counter, he opened the lid. Three stacks of burgers greeted him, each patty separated from the one below it by a tiny sheet of wax paper. He took a plate down from the cabinet and sat some on. Ronnie Anne leaned over the sink and peered out the window. "I think that's the puppeteer," she said.

Lincoln glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:54. Lincoln told him to be here at three.

"He's early," he said appreciatively. When a man showed up early, you knew he took his work seriously, and Lincoln respected that.

"Go see him and I'll finish up in here," Ronnie Anne said.

Leaning over, Lincoln pecked her lips, then went out the back door.

The puppeteer stood at the picnic table talking to Lori and Bobby, his back to Lincoln. A long, billowing black cape covered his broad shoulders and fluttered in the breeze. At the sound of the door, he turned, and Lincoln was shocked by his appearance. He didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't a glorified teenage boy. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, the puppeteer's chubby baby face was dotted with pimples and blackheads, some of them so swollen they pulsed. Thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on his pug nose and greasy black hair hung down to his shoulders. Beneath his cape, he wore a black polo shirt tucked into black jeans and black cowboy boots.

Now I see why he's so cheap.

But hey, it's good to see entrepreneurial spirit in our youth. Most kids his age were lazy bastards who sagged their pants. This kid was out here working.

Lincoln crossed the porch, went down the steps, and walked over. "Mr. Loud?" the boy asked in a high, reedy voice.

"That's me," Lincoln said.

He reached out to shake hands, but the puppeteer jumped back. He whipped open his cape to reveal a selection of dummies hanging from the red felt lining. A frog. A bat. A knight whose face was hidden beneath a metal helmet. "I am Pat," he intoned, "the Puppet Master."

Behind his back, Lori lifted her brows and Bobby sniffed.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," Lincoln said. "I was thinking you could set up over there." He gestured toward the oak tree overhanging the shed.

While Pat brought his things from his car, Lori shook her head. "Where'd you find that weirdo?" she asked.

Lincoln watched as the boy erected a booth before the tree. "Phonebook," he said. "I figured he must be on the level if he's in the phonebook."

"Yeah, 'cause they don't let anyone with a few bucks in the phonebook," Bobby said sardonically.

Shortly, the guests started to arrive. Dave and Connie, Tim's parents, were first, closely followed by Jordan and her mother, then Mark's parents. A couple kids Blake's age Lincoln didn't recognize were next, their parents in tow - two boys with red hair, an Asian girl, others. Alex, Blake, Tim, and Zoe were last, Tim carrying an armload of wrapped presents and Blake darting his eyes excitedly around. He came over to the table, and when he saw the presents, his jaw fell open. "Are those all mine?" he asked in breathless wonder.

"Nope," Lincoln said and clapped his grandson's shoulder, "they're all for the other birthday boy."

Blake furrowed his brow and looked up at him. "Who's that?"

"Him," Lincoln said and nodded to Pat. The boy stood next to his booth and practiced with the bat and the frog; he attempted to throw his voice, but Lincoln could see his lips moving.

Putting his hand to his forehead to cut out the glare, Blake tilted forward and squinted. "Who's that?"

"Pat the Puppet Master," Lincoln said as though that should be painfully obvious, "he's your entertainment."

"He looks dumb," Blake said.

That made Lincoln laugh. There's an expression that states kids say the darnedest things, but that's not true. They say the most honest things. People learn, through trial and error, to censor themselves for the sake of diplomacy. You can't always speak the full and unabridged truth - God, if you did that, you'd have to fight through every single day, then fight your way back again at sundown. There was something refreshing in the candor of children. Adults...well, adults are often sneaky, underhanded, two faced, and fake, but with kids, what you see is what you get.

Alex and Tim came over and sat their presents next to the others. "Wow, that's a lot of gifts," Alex mused. Zoe, clad in a white dress and matching flip flops, toddled to Ronnie Anne, and Ronnie Anne picked her up.

"Twenty-five," Lincoln said.

"That many?" Alex asked, shocked.

"Yep."

She turned to Blake and raised her brows. "Wow, you really made out, birthday boy."

Blake flashed a giddy grin.

While Blake and his friends chased each other through the backyard, Lincoln started the grill and laid a phalanx of patties on. He went back to his early days at Flip's, and his chest twinged with loss. He was as used to being retired as he would ever be, but sometimes he found himself suddenly missing the old place with stomach gnashing intensity. It was like the cigarette cravings that still hit him from time to time. Sudden and brief, but strong. He lost himself to the familiar sizzle of meat on metal and the soothing motions of working the spatula. He had intimately known these things for so long that they were like coming home.

Bobby stood to one side with a can of beer in his hand and watched Lincoln cook, his brow creased in contemplation. "You're doing it wrong," he said and took a sip.

"Buzz off," Lincoln said, "I've been doing this my entire life."

"No," Bobby said, "you did it for five years, then spent the next twenty sitting behind the counter looking stupid."

Lincoln flipped one of the burgers, and it popped, splattering his hand with grease. He was so used to burns that he didn't even feel it. "I spent twenty-nine owning my own business while you worked for someone else."

The kids laughed and shouted to one another, and nearby, Alex stood with Ronnie Anne and repeated something her mother said in Spanish. She tried rolling an R and sounded like she was drowning. Dave and Connie talked to Mark's parents, and Lori stood before Pat and watched him stumble through his act, perhaps out of pity or maybe because she was looking to get her claws into a younger man.

"Better watch out," he said, "looks like Pat's putting the moves on your woman."

Bobby narrowed his eyes and glowered at Pat. Lori laughed, and a shadow flicked across the old Mexican's face. "I could take her cheating on me, but with that? That's an insult."

He slammed his beer, crushed the can, and sat it on the table, then swaggered over. He put his hand possessively on Lori's lower back (right this way, ma'am), and Lincoln chuckled.

When the food was ready, Ronnie Anne called everyone over. Blake, Jordan, and the other kids crowded the table with Bobby, Lori, and Dave, and everyone else stood. Ronnie Anne and Alex made the plates and they fell in with gusto; for the first time since everybody showed up, silence reigned in the backyard. Lincoln stood by the girl and ate a quarter of a burger before giving up. He wanted to save room for cake.

Immediately on finishing his food, Blake asked, "Presents now?"

"We have to have cake and ice cream first," Alex said. Zoe sat on her lap and ate shredded pieces of hamburger from a plate, grasping them in her hand and shoving them into her mouth.

Blake heaved a dejected sigh, and Ronnie Anne ruffled his hair. "Since when do not want cake?"

"Since I got a bunch of cool presents," he retorted.

Ronnie Anne fondly rolled her eyes, then went inside and got the cake. Lincoln was starting to feel dizzy and tired. He needed to lay down but forced himself to stay where he was. He was not going to miss his grandson opening his presents.

A few minutes later, Ronnie Anne came out of the house with the cake, ten lit candles jutting from the chocolate frosting. She sat it in the middle of the table and everyone sang Happy Birthday, their shrill, off-key tone hurting Lincoln's head. Blake, a pointed party hat stuck jauntily to his head, stared at the cake with a look of wonderment, and Jordan, sitting beside him, gazed at him with a similar expression. Wouldn't be much longer now until they went from being friends to something more. Lincoln was sure of it.

Blake blew out the candles, and Ronnie Anne cut the cake. Lori put a slice and a scoop of ice cream onto a dozen plates and passed them out. Ronnie Anne came over and held Lincoln's out. "Here's your cake, lame-o," she said, "I know you've been waiting for it."

He took it and smirked. "I have. This cake's the only thing keeping me going."

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Tired," he admitted.

As soon as the cake was eaten and the ice cream devoured, Blake shot his grandmother a cheesy grin. "Presents now?"

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yes, you can have your presents now."

Jordan's face lit up even more than Blake's. "Ooooh, open mine first!"

Before Ronnie Anne could reply, the little girl jumped to her feet, stumbled, and hurried over to the table. She picked up a box sloppily wrapped in red Christmas paper. Scotch tape crisscrossed its face like haphazardly applied Band-Aids (Jesus, I got better medical care from the Cong) and its ragged edges crinkled crisply in her hands. She strode over and thrust it out, a giant beam on her face. "Here."

Blake snatched it and widened his eyes in anticipation, as though he'd been waiting to open this gift and this gift specifically. He sat it in his lap and ripped the paper off. Alex snapped pictures with a disposable camera and Tim held Zoe to his chest; her arms limply circled his neck and her head lulled against his shoulder, her back rising and falling with the even tide of her sleep.

"OH WOW, A PS2!" Blake screamed.

He gaped down at the box in utter, jaw-hanging disbelief. Jordan's smile widened and she pressed her lips together to contain it. PS2? What the hell is a PS2? Lincoln didn't even know there was a PS1.

Alex walked over, brushed her hair behind her ear, and bent over Blake's shoulder to look. Her brows shot up, and she looked at Jordan like she had three heads. "Where did you get the money for that?" she asked incredulously.

That expensive, huh?

Oh yeah, there was no doubt about it: She liked him. Only a boy (or girl) can induce you to spend big money. Pushing away from the grill, Lincoln walked over to see what all the fuss was about. Blake sat the box down on the bench beside him, leapt too his feet, and pulled Jordan into a big, grateful hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"

A look of profound satisfaction settled upon her features, and she preened with the overflowing pride of a cat who got exactly what it wanted. Lincoln stood over the box and regarded it. "Playstation 2," he mused. Blake had a Playstation that he brought over from time to time, but Lincoln had no clue they were making another one. The picture on the packaging depicted a slim black machine with black controllers and retractable tray where game discs went. "Bet that was pricey."

Alex nodded dazedly. "Yeah, like three hundred bucks."

Lincoln whistled. "You know what that means, right?"

"That Jordan's richer than we thought."

He chuckled. "Yeah," he said, "that's exactly what it means."

Behind him, Jordan closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment.

She didn't know why, but being hugged by Blake felt really good.


	217. March 2001: Part 3

**STR2D3PO: No, I've never watched that show.**

 **Joni C69: I actually just got done writing an original novel and now I'm working on a novella. I haven't written any Loud House fiction in at least a month.**

 **Guest: Yeah, I flubbed his age. The funny thing is, I realized it as I was writing that chapter but forgot to do anything about it.**

 **Guest: I like Lincoln with Ronnie Anne or Lynn, but I personally like him to be on equal footing with them. When I write Lynncoln, for example, the version of Lincoln in the story is always a little tougher so that he can keep up with Lynn and not be bowled over.**

"I need you to come down so we can talk about your results," Faraday had said. There was a marked note of uncertainty in his voice that clutched the pit of Lincoln's stomach. Your doctor is one person from whom you _never_ want to hear doubt, and hearing it that Monday morning from Doc was like a brisk slap in the face: The prevalent mist of grogginess swirling through his skull cleared as if blown by a sharp, sudden wind, and his head, hitherto tilted sleepily to one side, snapped up.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee at his right and music drifting from the hi-fi in the living room. He was sitting here, swaddled in the deafening silence of total solitude and struggling to keep from nodding off when the phone rang, startling him so badly he jumped. He got shakily to his feet and picked the handset up. His knees quivered and he felt like he was going to fall limply to the floor like a suit of clothes vacated on the Rapture. He sat back down and sighed in a mixture of weariness and frustration. He was getting really goddamn sick and tired of this.

On the bright side, his body-wide exhaustion didn't last all day. Like an old car in the deep freeze of winter, he needed a while to warm up. By ten, he'd have enough gas in his tank to get up, but until then, he would stay right here.

"Is it serious?" he asked numbly.

"We can discuss that in person," Faraday replied. "How soon can you get here?"

An hour later, Lincoln sat in Faraday's office, a wide space with forest green carpets, white walls adorned by framed certificates, and an ornately carved liquor cabinet filled with bottles of bourbon, scotch, vodka, rum, and mixers. They were for display only. When he came home from Vietnam in 1973, Faraday once told him, he started to drink in an effort to dull the memories of war and "almost became an alcoholic." He realized he was losing control when his wife took their three-year-old daughter and left. He got sober by locking himself in a hotel room for a week, smoking cigarettes, pacing, and sweating. "It was the hardest thing I ever did," he said, "but also the most rewarding." His wife came back and they'd been together ever since

The man himself, wearing his trademark lab coat over a blue button up, sat stiffly behind his big oaken desk, putting Lincoln curiously in mind of a Surgeon General. That would make two Bush cabinet members he knew, the first being Clyde McBride. His old friend, married now to the same girl Bobby Jr. used to date (small world, huh?) had been tapped for Secretary of Housing and Urban Development. The talking heads on CNN expected the Senate to quickly confirm him "Despite allegations of ethical misconduct while he was governor of New York." Lincoln was proud of him and disappointed in him at the same time.

At least he wasn't a Democrat.

"So, your results came back," Faraday said without preamble.

Lincoln's throat went dry and he resisted the urge to squirm in his seat. A chasm opened in his stomach, and he was surprised at what he felt. Deep, churning _fear._ He had never considered the possibility of death or serious illness...not now. He was only fifty-four, which is still young, no matter what _anyone_ says. His body wasn't what it used to be, but inside, he felt half his age, and the thought of something terrible happening, while there, was always remote, always a worry for another day, the horizon always pulling back as he approached it. He could see it, knew that he would have to reach it eventually, but it was far removed from the present.

Only now it wasn't.

"Is it bad?" he asked around a lump of ice.

Faraday opened his mouth, stopped, then tilted his head to the side as if in concession. "I don't know," he said.

Wait, what?

Slipping a sheet of paper from a folder, Faraday consulted it, then looked up at Lincoln. "Your white blood cell count is...is pretty low, which could mean any number of things." He hitched on _is_ , and Lincoln was sure he meant to add another word but stopped himself at the last minute. _Dangerously low; fatally low; shockingly low; so low it's a miracle you're still conscious, frankly, I expect you to die at any minute._ "Personally, I'm thinking it's some sort of viral infection, but I can't be sure. It could be an autoimmune disease, lupus, sudden onset anemia, AIDS, cancer."

Lincoln's heart sank. AIDS? Cancer? Admittedly, he didn't know very much about how either one functioned, but he did know they were serious, life-threatening afflictions that ravaged the body like a biblical pestilence, slowly sucking the life from the sufferer until they were reduced to a bag of bones held together by thin, sallow flesh. Cancer, at least, was beatable; AIDS wasn't. He recalled the news reports he saw on TV and read in the paper during the early eighties, when AIDS was first diagnosed: Gay men withering away in a span of weeks, their fate as inescapeable as death itself. In 1985, the actor Rock Hudson, who Lincoln grew up watching in movies like _Giant, Pillow Talk,_ and _Come September_ , appeared on TV noticeably sick. Once the ideal of masculinity with his muscular physique, he was gaunt, frail, and shaky. He was announced to have AIDS, and died a short time later.

His face, wasted and wan, came back to Lincoln now.

He couldn't have AIDS! Jesus, the last man he had sex with was in '66 when Sgt. Hellman fucked him in the ass to establish dominance on the first day of boot camp. He hadn't had any blood transfusions or...or...or anything like that.

No, whatever he had, it wasn't AIDS.

Doc Faraday must have seen the worry in his face, for he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. "I've seen AIDS before, it's not that, and I'm 99 percent sure it isn't cancer either. You remember that infection you had last fall?"

In October, Lincoln caught the flu and spent nearly two weeks battling fever, chills, and weakness. He got over it and went back to feeling like his old self. "Yeah," he said at length, "you don't think it's that, do you? I was fine for two months afterwards, it should have been over."

Faraday nodded. "It should have been, but you're an old cuss now, Linc, things affect you differently. It very well could have affected your bone marrow enough to cause your white count to drop."

"Bone marrow?" Lincoln asked, tasting the word as though it were new and off putting. "How the hell can the flu affect your bone marrow?"

"Several ways," Faraday replied. "Look, it might not be that either. I'm just not sure. I'm a small town family practitioner, I only know so much and I'm only equipped to deal with so much. I'm going to refer you to a specialist - someone who actually knows his ass from a hole in the ground." As he spoke, he opened the top drawer, reached in, and pulled out a card. He held it across the desk, and Lincoln darted his eyes nervously to it. The moment he took it, he thought irrationally, something would be set in motion that he very well might not _want_ set in motion. If he didn't, he could slink away and hide from the possible illness nesting inside of him. He could exist in a state of suspended animation indefinitely...just so long as he didn't touch that goddamn card.

Realizng how stupid he was being, he took it, nodded his thanks, and went home, trying desperately to ignore the disquiet in his stomach. Faraday was probably right; come to think of it, he _didn't_ go back to being himself after the flu, not entirely. He was a little off even back in November, he just didn't think much of it...hell, didn't even register it.

In a way, that was a more heartening eventuality than cancer, but in another, it wasn't. He didn't know much about cancer, but he knew _something_. With the viral infection theory, he was lost, fumbling like a blind man in the dark. Put next to AIDS and cancer, a viral infection didn't sound all that bad, but maybe it was..maybe it was even deadlier.

At home, he sat in his chair and studied the card. DR. VISHNU PATEL, CENTER OF HEMATOLOGY, ST. MICHAEL'S HOSPITAL. He called and set up an appointment for the 21st, then passed nearly a week in dread suspense.

Not telling Ronnie Anne came not as a conscious decision but as a knee jerk reflex. He didn't want to worry her if he didn't have to. On the surface, they were as different as night and day (okay, maybe night and evening), but they were more alike than they weren't, and she would work herself into knots if she knew, just like he would if _she_ was the one with a mystery diagnosis. It may have been for her own peace of mind, but it made him feel dirty nevertheless. The lie - or lack of forthrightness - weighed heavy on his chest every moment they were together, and though she made no sign that she knew, he couldn't help thinking she could see it in his eyes.

Presently, 10am on the rainy morning of March 21st, 2001, Lincoln sat in the waiting room of Dr. Patel's office with a clipboard on his lap - Patel wanted every facet of his and his family's medical history, and recounting Leni's Renchsler's was harder than he thought it would be. Leni, like Luna and his parents, occupied a permanent place in his heart, but he rarely thought about her disease. When she did cross his mind, she was always happy, healthy, and glowing with life. He never saw her as she was at the end, never saw her sick.

Beads of water sluiced down the window behind him, and manicured trees lining the exterior breezeway shook in the wind. Patel's office was on the grounds of Saint Michael's Hospital in South Detroit, a vast complex of antiquated brick buildings that looked more like an ivy league university than a medical center. Patel's place was more modern than the others, a construct of brick and glass three stories high and with a vaulted overhang above the entrance. The waiting room was decorated with leather upholstered chairs, solid oak furnishings, and pieces of expressionist art on white walls. The one across was Lincoln depicted a can of Campbell's soup. That was it...a can of soup.

Thought-provoking.

Low, ambient lamp light engendered a warm, cozy atmosphere that put Lincoln in mind of grandma's house, even though he'd never been there; both of his grandmothers died before he was born.

A mounted television played CNN and the low drone of voices drifted from the speakers. Several other people sat in the waiting room, many of them, Lincoln noted, in their sixties and seventies. In fact, looking around, he surmised that he was the youngest person here, though that black guy over there looked like he could have been a year or two younger.

He went over the forms again - all seven pages - then, satisfied, got up and walked to the reception window. A pretty secretary took the clipboard and Lincoln returned to his seat. On TV, President Bush walked across the South Lawn to Marine One. Two military men flanked the chopper's doors, and Bush saluted them, then scurried up the steps. During Vietnam, Bush served a cushy stint in the National Guard thanks to his Senator daddy. McCain's father was a Navy admiral, and in a bid to look good for the cameras and communists in America, the NVA offered to let McCain go. He turned them down unless they freed every man taken prisoner before him.

Bush, on the other hand, would have jumped at the chance like the coward he was. Lincoln might not agree with a lot of McCain's jive, but he was a real man and would have been a far better president. Why in the name of hell did Republicans choose Bush over him? Bunch of brain dead idiots. Bush Sr. probably rigged the whole thing. That Florida crap? Maybe Gore was onto something. He didn't deserve the presidency either, mind you, but he probably _was_ robbed.

A nurse in scrubs came out of a door next to the reception window and called his name, and Lincoln's stomach clutched.

Here we go, he thought.

He got up and followed her into the back. Patel's suite looked much like any other doctor's office. The carpets were a drab industrial gray, the walls were lightly colored, and landscape paintings hung like windows on the plaster. At a scale, the nurse had Lincoln remove his shoes, then took his height and weight: He was 152, down two pounds from last week's visit to Faraday. He hadn't been very hungry lately so that was no surprise. The most he'd eaten recently was at Blake's birthday. He could only handle half a burger, but he wound up having two slices of cake and three scoops of ice cream. He was so sick afterwards, hahaha. That would have concerned him if it was unprecedented. Every time he wound up at an event with sweets - birthday, wedding, church bake sale - he gorged himself and regretted it later. Once upon a time he could cram his face with sweets all day long, but once he hit fifty, too much sugar made him nauseous.

Done, the nurse lead him into a room where he sat next to a desk. She sat down before it, and for the next half hour, she asked him a battery of questions pertaining to his health and medical history, then gave him a full work up: She checked his heart rate, his blood pressure, his ears, nose, and throat, she tested his reflexes, shone a light in his eyes, took his temperature, she even gave him a hearing test, which he passed but just barely.

"How am I?" he asked anxiously. Despite the impending appointment, he slept fairly well the night before and only felt moderately meh, but even so, he was sure his vitals would be erratic, alarming...or simply non-existent, as though he were already dead.

The nurse took the buds of her stethoscope from her ears. "Your blood pressure's a little low and your heart rate is slightly elevated, but overall, you're healthy as a horse."

Obviously I'm not if my blood pressure's low and my heart rate's high.

When they were finally finished, she took him to an exam room and left him alone with his thoughts. Laminate charts were plastered to the wall, one depicting the human nervous, another the blood vessels, and another still a cross section of the skeleton. Unlike most exam rooms, Patel's was stocked with a wealth of magazines and newspapers, from _Entertainment_ to _The New Yorker_. The latter, only a month old, boasted NEW FICTION BY STEPHEN KING. That was the weirdo Alex and Lori liked. When Alex was still at home, there was always a Stephen King book lying around, usually as big as a goddamn house. She read other losers, too. Dean Koontz, John Saul, Robin Cook, Anne Rice, and Richard Laymon, but King was the big one. Lincoln, when he committed to a novel (which happened only rarely) enjoyed Tom Clancy and Vince Flynn.

For a while, he sat in silence, arms and legs crossed and foot jittering restlessly. Quiet trepidation sloshed through his middle, and suspense tightened around him like a noose. After a while, he got up and started to pace, a condemned man awaiting midnight, when he would be lead from his cell, strapped into a chair, and sent on a lightning ride all the way to the gates of hell. He wanted this over and done with as quickly as possible so he'd know what was wrong with him. Hell, as long as it wasn't indicative of something major, he didn't care if he felt this way for the rest of his life, he could manage.

He was probably getting all worked up over nothing. Just because Faraday didnt know what he was looking at didn't mean the end of the world. As he said himself, he was a small town GP. He went back to Mom's bout with Alzhimer's ten years ago. The same thing happened - Faraday 'wasn't sure' and referred her to a specialist.

Only in that case...three years later, and she was dead.

That didn't mean the same thing was going to happen to him, but foreboding still flooded his chest, still pulled him down, as if to the grave. He took a deep, shivery breath and forced himself to calm down. He was getting carried away and deep down he knew it. Returning to his seat, he crossed his legs and picked up one of the magazines at random. STEPHEN KING. Alright, then, let's see what you got, STEPHEN KING.

He flipped through the pages until he found it, tight columns of text and a blurry, drunk's eye view picture of a house with a red door. The title above proclaimed: ALL THAT YOU LOVE WILL BE CARRIED AWAY.

Oh.

Comforting.

Suddenly, Lincoln no longer cared what STEPHEN KING had.

He dropped the magazine back onto the table and crossed his arms. You're too much of a pessimist, Linc. You're the kind of guy who stubs his toe, then convinces himself he's going contract some rare infection because _boo hoo hoo, I have such bad luck, everything happens to_ me.

That may have been a slight exaggeration, but it was also fundamentally true. He _was_ something of a pessimist; he almost always assumed the worst, even though he really had no reason to. Aside from an extremely brief detour to a bamboo cage, the road had always been smooth and even. Yes, Luna killed herself with a cocaine addiction, Luan blew someone to Kingdom Come and did fifteen years in prison, and Leni's mind decayed until she was little more than a vegetable, but _his_ life had been as charmed as any. His business dried up and he had to close, but shit happens. He was married to a wonderful woman, owned his own home, had two daughters and a couple grandkids...he was never seriously ill, he never got struck by lightning, he had absolutely no reason to be as cynical as he was.

It wasn't healthy and if he kept up, he'd end up having a heart attack before he was sixty. Maybe perpetual dourness was okay when he was in his thirties or even forties, but not now; he needed to take care of himself. For Ronnie Anne. And Jessy, and Alex, and the kids.

They needed him.

And he needed them.

Ten more minutes passed before the doctor came in. A tall, lanky Indian man with dark skin, pearly white teeth, and short, curly hair, Patel looked far too young to be a doctor, much less a specialist. His boyish face, twinkling eyes, and quick smile lent him the air of a dog who had never been kicked or even shunned in his entire life, and who was a friend to everyone.

Lincoln expected him to be dressed in slacks and a lab coat, instead he wore blue surgical scrubs and white Nike tennis shoes. "Mr. Loud," he greeted in perfect though toneless English, the accent of a man from Anyplace, USA, "I'm Dr. Patel. It's a pleasure to meet you." He thrust out his hand before Lincoln could get to his feet, and after a hesitation, Lincoln took it.

"You too," he said, and the surreality of his comment made his head spin. No, actually, it wasn't a pleasure to meet him. Lincoln found himself instantly liking the man, but a medical specialist is one of the last people you one to meet, right after Nazi and before undertaker. You only met a man like Patel when there was something wrong.

Leaning heavily against the exam table, Patel crossed his arms over his scrawny chest. Thick hair covered his forearms, and a silver watch around his wrist glinted coldly in the light like a knowing eye. "So, what don't you tell me what's been going on?"

Taking a deep breath, Lincoln related the whole story from start to finish, just as he had with Faraday: The fatigue, the shortness of breath, then finally the rash, coughing, and swollen lymph nodes. Patel pursed his lips and listened with a thoughtful expression. "The swelling comes and goes?" he asked and made a circle with his hand.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "It usually starts in the morning and goes down throughout the day."

Patel nodded. "The coughing. Is it persistent?"

"Yeah," Lincoln, "it's not all the time, but it's there."

"Alright," Patel said, "headache? Fever? Chest pains? Chills?"

Lincoln thought for a long time. He hadn't been feverish, but a few times, as he lay awake in bed, mind racing and covered in sweat, he did suffer the occasional chill.

Doc Faraday asked after some of those same symptoms. That told Lincoln he and Patel were driving at something...looking for a specific cause.

Did Faraday know more than he let on? Did he suspect Lincoln had a certain disease? When he called Patel, did he say, _Yeah, Pat,_ _I suspect bone-marrow-AIDS. Guy'll probably die before you get him out the door._

"K-Kind of," Lincoln said, surprised at the stammer in his voice, "sometimes. Not frequently, though."

Patel stood up straight. "Alright, well, here's what we're going to do. It's a bone marrow biopsy. I'm going to extract a little bit marrow from your bone and we're going to test it to see if there's anything the matter. I also want to take some blood and we'll test that too just to have our ducks in a row."

Lincoln's heart dropped. Biopsy? That was for cancer, wasn't it? Did Patel think he had cancer?

"How do you get bone marrow?" Lincoln asked, perplexed. "How long does it take? Do I have to be admitted?"

Patel waved his hand. "No, it only takes a couple of minutes. It works a lot like taking blood."

Oh, well, that was good. The sooner this happened, the sooner he'd know what the hell was wrong with him.

Patel left the room, then came back with a nurse in tow. He carried a segmented plastic tub filled with instruments, and Lincoln's eyes flicked nervously to it. Pulling up a chair, Patel sat the tub on the floor, reached down, and retrieved a pair of blue latex gloves, which he then pulled on. "Roll your sleeve up," he said.

Lincoln rolled his sleeve up and presented his arm.

The procedure required two stages: First, bone marrow aspiration, then the bone marrow biopsy. Patel tied a rubber band around Lincoln's arm then administered a local anesthetic that numbed him, but did not put him under. Using a scalpel, he made a small incision in Lincoln's arm, then sank a hollow needle into the opening. Even under the pleasant tingle of intoxication, Lincoln felt it in the form of a quick, sharp sting, then alien pressure. Patel pulled back the plunger, and amber liquid filled the chamber. Lincoln watched in a mixture of fascination and revulsion. "Is that the marrow?" he asked. He was always under the impression that marrow was firm.

"The liquid portion," Patel muttered from deep in his concentration. Done, he removed the vial and handed it to the nurse, who held it up to the light and turned in a slow circle. She pronounced it suitable and sat it in the basket.

Next, Patel inserted a larger needle into Lincoln's arm and withdrew a solid chunk. A flash of hot pain ripped through Lincoln's medicated fog, and he whistled through his teeth. Patel plucked the needle out and applied a Band-Aid to the incision site. "And that should do it," the doctor said at length as he jotted something down on a clipboard.

Lincoln rolled down his sleeve. "So...a biopsy. That's for cancer, right?"

"Not always," Patel said, and Lincoln relaxed, "it's just the process of removing cells or tissue for examination."

Well, that was a relief.

Inside half an hour, Lincoln was on the interstate heading north toward Royal Woods. Cold rain fell steadily from the churning sky and the cars ahead of him kicked up mists of water like cemetery fog. Patel said he should have the results in less than a week...which meant more waiting.

Something Lincoln was _not_ looking forward to.

* * *

Clyde McBride gazed absently out the rain streaked window as the National Mall passed without, its sprawling grounds as green and wet as Irish hills. To his left, the Washington Monument towered into the low sky, its tapered apex lost in swirling mist and raindrops making ripples in the reflection pool laid out before it. On his right, the Capitol Building loomed over its manicured grounds like a stately manor house, its Grecian facade commanding his attention. He had been to Washington on many occasions during his political career, but its grandeur never failed to humble him. If America was a body, then this was its heart, the point from which the lifeblood of democracy was pumped through the veins of freedom. If America was a proud and majestic ship, this was its bridge, the enclosed control center that steered 3.797 million tons of liberty through oft treacherous straits. The spirit of '76 here abided, and each time he trod this sacred soil, he could feel its presence as surely as a Christian could feel the Holy Ghost in the midst of prayer.

Behind the wheel, the driver stared stoically ahead, his hands at a practiced ten and two. Dressed in a dark suit sans cap, he was a man who exuded rigid professionalism: He did not speak, did not allow himself to look into the rearview mirror. He simply drove, and if Clyde were to address him first, he would happily tell him what he wanted to know...within reason.

A few people hurried along the sidewalks flanking 14th street, some of them with umbrellas and others holding briefcases over their heads to guard against the rain. A Capitol Policeman in a black canvas jacket and peaked cap stood next to his cruiser and observed, positioned, Clyde imagined, to be available if needed.

The Capitol Police, despite what one might infer from the name, was not Washington, DC's regular police force, it was a federal agency primarily responsible for protecting congressmen and enforcing traffic laws within the United States Capitol complex. They were valiant and highly trained, and Clyde respected them immensely.

At the intersection of 14th and Constitution Ave, which defines the Mall's northern border, the driver came to a stop, waited for the light, then continued on. The Department of Commerce building, all windows and marble columns, rose up on the left and the office of the mayor on the right. Buses, taxi cabs, and private vehicles jammed the street, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Clyde checked his watch: It was just past 10am. His meeting with President Bush was tentatively scheduled for 10:30. Would he make it in time? He couldn't say, and that disturbed him. Being stuck in traffic couldn't be helped, but he was loathe to be late for his first visit to the White House.

Clyde had been in Washington for two days, arriving late on the evening nineteenth, just as news of his nomination broke. He checked into a suite at the newly renovated Watergate Hotel, had dinner at the cafe in the lobby, and passed the rest of the night in his room watching Fox News. After _The O'Reilly Factor_ , where Bill O'Reilly briefly mentioned Clyde and praised him as a "stalwart conservative," he phoned Buffalo and talked to Carol and the kids. She'd just given them a bath and they were both sleepy. _Good luck, Daddy,_ Collette said, and Clyde couldn't contain his smile if he tried. No encouraging word had ever been sweeter. Chris's was just as heaterning. _Break your leg, Dad._

On his second day in the city, he met with congressional leaders at the Capitol, including Speaker of the House Dennis Hasert, whom he had worked with in the past, and Strom Thurmond, the 98-year-old Senate President Pro Tem and resident mummy. A fossel from another time, Thurmond had been in politics since the early thirties, first as a Democrat, then as a Republican...switching after the Dems started making overtures to niggers. Clyde could forgive the man his racist views and dismiss him as a product of his time, but he could not accept his continued involvement in the Republican Party.

Trent Lott, Senator from Mississippi, carted Thurmond out in a wheelchair like a grotesque sideshow relic and sat him at the head of the table, a king at his throne. Clyde knew of Thurmond, obviously, but had never met him, and was knocked off balance by the old man's shocking age and decrepitude. His milky blue eyes, faded by decades, stared out from beneath his sloped brow, and his wrinkled, sallow flesh hung loose on his misshapen skull. When they shook, his grip was limp and powerless and his skin was cool and dry like old parchment.

The others treated him with the cringing deference of an elder statesman-cum-demigod, and Clyde would have been slightly offended if the man were thirty years younger. As it stood, doing anything but powdering his ass and telling him he should have been president would probably kill him.

During their meeting, Clyde watched him surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, disgusted not because he was a bigot and segregationist, but because he was barely alive yet still in office. A man that old had no business in government. The people of his district, however, elected him, and their will be done. Personally, Clyde believed in term limits - no man should sit in congress for fifty or sixty years - but that was beside the point. You play the hand you are dealt, and in America, as long as you have the voters, you can stay in power forever.

Also present at the meeting was Dick Cheney, the Vice President, a short, bullish man with glasses, dour jowls, and a massive bald spot in the middle of his head.

Cheney, a once heavy smoker reputed to have gone through three packs of cigarettes a day for twenty years, had suffered a litany of heart attacks over the years, and many both inside and outside of the government questioned his ability to properly execute his functions. Clyde was one of them: He fully expected him to die before Bush's first term was over.

While Clyde liked Cheney enough, his nomination as Vice President concerned him. During Bush Sr.'s presidency, he served as Secretary of Defense, which made his selection as Bush Jr.'s running mate immediately suspect. Politics is full of cronyism, that was a sad fact of life, and Clyde knew as soon as Bush Jr. announced Cheney's addition to the ticket that it played a part in his nomination. Clyde was against cronyism in all its forms, and believed that Cheney should have been passed over for someone else. At the very least, his involvement linked the administrations of father and son in the public's mind, which lead to the perception that Jr. was not his own man; Sr. or Cheney himself, was pulling the strings; or that Jr. was simply playing favorites.

Cheney glowered through much of the meeting, and left as soon as it was over, for which Clyde could not fault him. The President was the busiest man in all the country, and the veep was the second busiest, his day consisting of an endless whirlwind of meetings, briefings, and sessions. Clyde once considered a presidential run for himself, but the more he meditated on the matter, the more grateful he was that he didn't. God in heaven, he might have actually _won_ , and being the Commander-in-Chief, from what he had seen, was not enviable.

The sedan turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and began its approach to the White House. Parts of the street were blocked off with cement barricades and metal crowd control barriers. On a normal day, the road was crowded with protestors, well wishers, or tourists vying for a glimpse of the President, but today, the rainswept thoroughfare was deserted save for a few Capitol Police officers standing watch. Clyde sat forward in his seat like a soldier coming to attention, and anxiety knotted his stomach. Past a wrought iron gate, the executive mansion stood against the gloom, shadows slipping through its big front pillars and soft light glowing in its first floor windows. A large, streaming fountain ringed by rich red flowers dominated the South Lawn and barren trees dotted the grounds.

The driver pulled to a checkpoint at the head of the horseshoe drive and handed something to a Secret Service agent, who then waved them on. The gate drew open with a clang, and the driver pressed on the gas. Clyde watched the storied building pull closer like a ship at sail, unconscious of his breath bating.

Seen from a distance, the White House appeared small, a single building with a marble columned facade and flanked by dense stands of trees. Closer, however, it was a vast complex, the most recognizable portion of which was the residence. The West Wing and the East Wing spread out on either side, each in a rough L shape and connected to the main building by enclosed corridors.

At the rounded South Portico, several Secret Service agents waited on the stairs, and a tall, thin man in a suit whom Clyde recognized as Andy Card hurried down, his head ducked against the rain.

One of the agents opened Clyde's door, and grabbing his briefcase, he climbed out. He wore a black overcoat on top of his suit, but the cold chill of March in Washington set in at once. "Mr. Governor," Card greeted, "it's a pleasure to see you."

"You too," Clyde said, and they shook.

By unspoken consent, Clyde followed Card up the stairs and into the richly appointed Grand Foyer. Two terms in the New York Governor's Mansion was not enough to prepare him for the breathtaking opulence of the White House. Gleaming marble floor in a white and pale red checker pattern; regal columns like noble guardsman at Buckingham; ornate woodwork along the baseboards and finely crafted crown moldings; gilded candelabras and crystal chandelier. A grand piano sat to his left before a portrait of Bill Clinton and a table bearing fine China and vases stood flush to the wall on his right. Ahead, a crimson carpet trimmed gold ran the length of a cross hall, busts of Presidents past on pedestals tucked into tiny alcoves.

Clyde looked wonderingly around, struck speechless with awe. This wasn't a home, it was a museum, a monument to two hundred and twenty five years of power and prestige. He imagined he could feel the air crackling with electricity, that he could see the specters of Washington, Lincoln, and Kennedy keeping eternal watch over the democracy they helped build if only he squinted hard enough.

Card lead him into the hall and to the left, talking as they went. "The President should be finishing up shortly," he said. "Normally, the Vice President would meet with you first, but he's undergoing an operation today."

"Heart?" Clyde asked before he could stop himself.

Card glanced at him with a wry smile. "How did you know?" he asked sardonically.

"Lucky guess," Clyde smirked.

Lavish paintings adorned the walls and pieces of oaken furniture - chairs and tables - that looked as though they had never been touched by human hands lined the way. They were traversing the West Colonnade now, which links the main rooms with the West Wing. If Washington was America's beating heart, the West Wing was the center of that heart. The most powerful and admirable men to ever live had trod these passages, had lived, decided, and agonized in these rooms: Lincoln herein paced the floors as he fought gallantly to hold the Union together; Kennedy gravely faced the Russians steaming through the Carribiean, destination Cuba; his former hero, Richard Nixon, sat slumped in these chairs and watched his empire crumble Clyde was infinitely humbled to walk now where they had, and was so overcome with emotion that a rush of tears filled his eyes.

They entered the West Wing proper, passing the Press Briefing Room, recently renamed for James Brady, Ronald Reagan's press secretary injured and disabled during the '81 assassination attempt. "That's the Cabinet Room," Card explained and nodded to a closed door on their left, "and that's the Roosevelt Room. Interesting story there. When a Democrat's in office, they hang a portrait of FDR over the mantle, when _we're_ in office, it's Teddy."

"Really?" Clyde asked, intrigued. Theodore Roosevelt and Franklin Roosevelt, cousins, both served as President, Teddy from 1901 to 1909 and Franklin from 1933 to 1945. The first was a Republican and the second a Democrat.

Card nodded. "Yep. A piece of trivia to amaze your friends with." He nudged Clyde's ribs."That one's on the house, next one's five bucks."

"Do you take American Express?"

A lock of faux horror crossed Card's face. "What kind of girl do you take me for? Visa or nothing."

"I'll get back to you on that."

Momentarily, they arrived at a closed door. "This," Card said and opened it with a flourish that Clyde couldn't tell was real or imagined, "is the Oval Office."

Clyde's heart clenched in pleasant anticipation and he unconsciously squared his shoulders like a Christian readying himself for a meeting with Christ.

True to its name, the office was indeed ovular shaped. Three large, south facing windows framed by golden drapes stood behind the President's desk, in front of which two cream colored sofas faced each other across a light, sunbeam pattern rug emblazoned with the Seal of the President. A tiny coffee table laid with a floral display sat in the middle, and at either sofa's immediate left, a lamp on an end table cast warm, comfortable light.

A sense of history washed over Clyde, and he travelled his gaze over every square inch, from the built-in shelving to the cabinets bookending the desk, the oil paintings on the wall to the bronze busts overlooking the desk.

They each sat on one of the sofas, Clyde with his knees pressed together and his briefcase balanced on his lap. He was terrified to move, to breathe too heavily, dreadfully certain that he, a mere mortal, would taint the purity of the space around him, or blunder into catastrophe and destroy everything like a bull in a China shop.

"You've never been here before, right?" Card asked.

Clyde shook his head. "No," he said.

"It's overwhelming, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Clyde said with a nervous laugh. Through the window, rain pelted the muddy South Lawn. In the distance, an Atlas Cedar swayed in a wet wind. "It's kind of surreal. I thought the Governor's Mansion was nice."

Card crossed his legs and draped one arm over the back of the sofa, at ease like a man in his own home. His relaxed, casual posture struck Clyde as out of place and he shifted. How could a man be so nonchalant when he was surrounded by literal greatness? Clyde, for his part, was tense and on edge, his muscles rigid and bunched. Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck, and he rolled head in an attempt to dispel it.

"Nothing compares to the White House," Card said. Tilting his head slightly back as if to dislodge a memory, he recited a list of statistics, his quick recall impressing Clyde. "132 rooms, 35 bathrooms, 28 fireplaces, 412 doors, and 147 windows on six levels. It's not a castle, Governor, but it's damn close."

Clyde whistled. "It's something, alright. I can't imagine anyone really living here. It's…" he made circular gesture with his hand and grasped for words. The White House, or what he had seen of it, was so much like a museum: Beautiful, vast, and majestic. _Too_ beautiful, vast, and majestic. To Clyde, home was a place of comfort and intimacy, with lush carpets, noise, and toys on the floor. Ten years ago he might have found the idea of living here exciting, but now, it just made him want to hyperventilate.

"It is," Card admitted with a nod, "but the private quarters are a little more homey." He glanced idly at his watch.

Clyde wasn't so sure about that. He recalled the Governor's Mansion and its arched rooms, wide halls, and cold tile floors. His private quarters were sumptuous and suitable at the time, but he had changed so much since leaving office that he doubted he would enjoy it today.

For a time, he and Card made small talk. Card shared facts, figures, and anecdotes about White House history and the current administration. One of his stories related the time an aide walked in on a naked Ronald Reagan. Like that day, he walked in on the President in his underwear. Reagan is said to have quipped to his wife, "He's already seen me naked once today, we're old friends." Clyde had met Reagan several times during his presidency and always appreciated the old man's sense of humor.

Shortly after 10:45, the door opened and President Bush entered. Clyde sputtered as though he'd seen a ghost, and jumped to his feet, back ramrod straight.

A small, slight man with graying hair and a dopey, lopsided grin that did little to dispel rumors of his stupidity, Bush wore a dark suit accented by a blue tie. He came over with a nod, and he and Clyde shook. "Governor, it's good to meet you," he said in a Texas drawl.

"You too, Mr. President."

"I was just telling the Governor here about the White House," Card said. He stood next to his sofa with his hands behind his back. "He now knows all our dirty little secrets."

"You showed him the laundry room?" Bush asked in jest.

Card chuckled. "He has the launch codes too."

"At least one of us does," Bush said, "I lost the scrap of paper they were on. I sure hope Karl doesn't find'em. He'll take my office away."

Karl was Karl Rove, his deputy Chief of Staff and a political consultant credited with Bush's gubernatorial victories in 1994 and 1998.

After Card left, Clyde and Bush sat across from each other, Bush pulling his pants slightly up at the knee. "I talked to Dick yesterday about you," Bush said, "he said you had some ideas for reform."

"I've been working on it," Clyde assured him. The moment he got off the phone with Card, he immediately set about crafting a comprehensive to-do list to be undertaken as soon as he took office. "I believe that in conjunction with welfare reform, we can get a sizable number of Americans off the doles."

He unsnapped his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He could feel Bush watching him, judging him, and a ball of nerves formed in the center of his stomach. Would the President like his ideas? Would they be in line with his vision for the country? Clyde and his fellows at the Buffalo Policy Institute had crafted much of the GOP platform since 1994, and though Clyde strove for humility, it would be dishonest to say that many of those policy points didn't come from him. The President, however, is his own man, and even though he will follow his party as best he can, he is not a slave to it. Bush could very well hate what he had. He was set to be confirmed this week, so his entrance to the administration was all but assured, but that didn't mean he would be successful, nor did it mean that he wouldn't be asked, pressured, or forced to resign by 2002.

Setting the case aside, he leaned forward and handed the papers to Bush, who took them and scanned them. "The most important issue to me right now," Clyde began, "is eliminating rent increases based on temporary or even permanent pay increases."

People living in HUD housing projects were subject to higher rents when they made more money. On its face, that made sense, but did not take one thing into account. "My goal is to cycle people up and out of the projects," he said, "and that cannot be done if we tax their success. You can't get out of poverty when the government pushes you back a step for every one you take forward. At the rate of HUD is going, it is keeping people where they are. Say I charge you fifty dollars a week for rent and you make just enough to cover it. You work extra hours and make eighty dollars a week, then I come along and jack your rent up to seventy five a week. I've just robbed you of your opportunity to save money and cover your other expenses without resorting to even more government assistance. Welfare is like quicksand, Mr. President, the more you struggle to get out, the deeper you sink. I want to do my best to change that."

Bush considered the text before him, a thoughtful expression flickering across his face. "That's not a bad idea, Governor," he said, "but my concern is that if we do that, people will get too complacent and not want to move on. If we make things too cushy on 'em, what incentive do they have?"

Clyde leaned forward even more and pointed to a specific line. "Now, we can't hold rents down forever. My proposal is to institute a year long grace period following each pay increase, after which we raise rents incrementally. The point isn't to keep people happy with their lot, it's to give them both the impetus and the chance to move upward."

Nodding that he understood, Bush flipped to the next page. "What kind of rate do you see HUD imposing?"

"10 percent," Clyde said instantly, "that number's more of a placeholder. Once I'm in, I'd like to appoint a panel to help establish a rate that is fair to the people and to the government."

They discussed Clyde's ideas, then moved to the private dining room attached to the Oval Office for lunch. A portrait of Abraham Lincoln watched over the proceedings, and Clyde's gaze kept going to it. That man up there, he thought, and all the others who had inhabited these hallowed halls were looking upon him now, and the back of his neck prickled with self-consciousness. Once he took office, he would be responsible for only one narrow purview, but even so, the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. Failure was not an option - he couldn't let the President down...or any of the Presidents, for that matter.

After lunch, Bush gave him a tour of the West Wing, starting in the Roosevelt Room. Lamp light bathed the cream colored walls and a grandfather clock regarded the long table with haughty indifference. From there, they visited the basement, working their way from the Situation Room to the White House Mess, a small dining facility staffed by Navy culinary specialists. They met people along the way, some of whom Clyde recognized and some he did not; they all reacted with respectful deference when Bush passed, and Clyde was reminded of his restless midnight wanderings through the Governor's Mansion during the Carol scandal.

He and Bush chatted as they walked, and over the course of their rambles, Clyde thawed, and by the time they reached the entrance to the North Portico, where a car waited to take Clyde back to the Watergate, they might as well have been old friends.

"It was good meeting you, Governor," Bush said as they shook, "I look forward to working with you."

Clyde nodded. "And I with you, sir."

Holding his briefcase close, Clyde ducked his head against the falling rain and went down the steps. A different driver, this one a black man in a dark suit, stood by the back door, and when Clyde approached, he opened it. Clyde nodded his thanks and slipped in, setting the case in the footwell. The driver closed the door, hurried around the front end, and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine, and the car started down the drive. Clyde twisted around and watched the arched North Portico recede, his chest brimming with emotion, then faced forward again. He Hoped he was confirmed...he _really_ wanted to hold onto this feeling and the dream that came with it.

The next day, following the hearing, he called Carol and greeted her with four simple words.

"We're moving to Washington."

* * *

 **I did so much research on Washington, D.C., the Capitol, and the White House for this chapter that I wound up dreaming of it. I actually had a lot of fun. Maybe I should do one of those Lincoln becomes President fics.**


	218. March 2001: Part 4

**TheLivingMyth: Good to see you again. It's almost done.**

 **MasterCaster: I was in school, fourth grade. The teacher told us something had happened and the president was in hiding. I remember that day, but when I think 9/11, I go back to the weeks and months of paranoia following it. My mom didn't want me going to the mall or other big, public places because someone might blow it up, and some of my classmates were worried we'd get nuked or something.**

 **Celrock: You can go into the main lobby of the White House on Google Maps - I found that out while looking at the streets around it. I described it exactly as I saw it. It is** _ **very**_ **nice.**

 **Sombrage: Thank you, I appreciate that.**

Lincoln Loud passed nearly one week anxiously waiting for his results. The rash on his arm faded, but another appeared under his left arm, and when he saw it in the mirror on the morning of the 23rd, his heart clutched. This wasn't good, _couldn't_ be good. It wasn't particularly nasty, just a patch of reddish skin like you'd have after a mild sunburn, and it didn't itch very much, but it worried him nonetheless. His cough persisted, as infrequent as it was, and the listlessness remained, no better, no worse. During the day, while Ronnie Anne was at work, he sat in his chair, sat in the kitchen, napped in front of the TV, and occasionally forced himself into the garage or out into the backyard for a little light work in the hopes that it would jumpstart his engine.

It never did.

On the first night after his appointment with Patel, Lincoln lay awake into the small hours of the morning, tired but unable to sleep. Immediately on getting home from Detroit, he stretched out on the couch and dropped into a deep slumber that broke shortly before Ronnie Anne came through the door at six-thirty. He knew that he wouldn't be able to drop off later, and sure enough, he couldn't. He tossed and turned, waking Ronnie Anne and incurring a sleepy, half-conscious scolding (sttttt movin', lamea), then stared up at the ceiling. He fell asleep an hour before Ronnie Anne had to leave, and woke just past eight in a spill of burning gold sunshine. He got up, shuffled into the bathroom, and took a long, hot shower that failed to invigorate him the way it may once have. For some reason, he flashed back to Vietnam and how he could fall instantly asleep anywhere he laid his head: On the ground, against a tree, resting his head on the mess hall table. In the military, you learn to catch your Z's where you can. Either that, or you don't catch them at all, then eventually collapse from exhaustion. In hindsight, parenthood teaches you the same thing. When your baby sleeps, _you_ sleep, 'cause, buster, once she's up, you're up.

What he wouldn't give to go back to that. Over the past two weeks, he had come to fucking _despise_ lying awake in bed, seeking sleep but not finding it, watching cold white light move across the wall as the moon sank lower and lower toward dawn, getting more and more frustrated with himself as hours flew by. He'd rather get back in that damn cage than spend another night like that.

He wasn't hungry but he forced himself to eat a piece of toast and a bowl of Cheerios. He studied the cartoon bee on the back and tried not to dwell on his condition - whatever it may be, it was _something,_ of that he had no doubt.

Was it serious?

Those three words echoed down through that long, anguished week, coming around again and again like deja vu. It had to be serious, they wouldn't have stabbed him in the bone and sucked out his marrow if it wasn't. Sure, it could be any number of things, but this wasn't your garden variety set of diseases, whatever was wrong with him, it was major.

Unless Doc Faraday screwed up his blood test, which was possible. He thought back over the entirety of his association with the former medic, and couldn't recall a single instance where he had blood drawn by him. He was an all around good doctor so far, but maybe when it came to that one area, he was a total schlub. _Huh, what's all this red shit? I better send him to Pat._

Or maybe his blood was switched with someone else's. That was a stretch, but stranger things have happened. He just wouldn't know until Patel called him with the results.

Like his grandson waiting for his birthday, Lincoln grew quickly impatient. Time slowed, days lingered longer than they should have, and the slick, greasy dread in his stomach became heavier. He listened for the phone, willing it to ring, and on the afternoon of the 26th, just as he started to drift in his chair, it did. He jerked back from the edge and stood so quickly he nearly tangled his feet and fell. He hurried into the kitchen, picked the handset up, and pressed it to his ear, only realizing he was out of breath when he spoke. "Hello?"

"Hey," Jessy said, and Lincoln sagged. Goddamn it, when are those test results coming back? Patel said a week. It had been nowhere near a week but it felt like longer, much, much longer.

Do they call you as soon as they have them in hand, or do they put it off like jackasses? If he was in their position, he'd do it the moment they hit his desk - this isn't the kind of thing you make someone wait on. Who knows how Patel or any other doctor did, though. He should call just in case they were ready; Patel couldn't delay in that case.

How long _had_ it been?

Only two days?

Really? There was now way they could be back. His wasn't the only blood sample at whatever lab Patel sent it to, there were dozens, maybe even hundreds of others. If he had his way, his would go right to the front of the line, but he didn't, and -

"...there?"

He snapped back to reality. His slick palm tightly gripped the cool plastic handset and faint static hissed over the line, the sound of many miles. He became aware of how dry his lips were, and he wetted them with his tongue. "Hey," he said, "yeah, I'm here, sorry."

Jessy hadn't called in a while, and he meant to call _her_ , but then this whole being potentially sick thing came up and it completely slipped his mind.

"You sound out of breath," she said, "did I interrupt anything?"

It was an innocent question - _were you busy, Uncle Linc? -_ but Lincoln went back to the time, years ago, that she and Mark walked in on him and Ronnie Anne having sex in the living room. His face flushed hotly and for the first time in days, he forgot, if for only a moment, that he might be seriously ill. In his fifty-five years on this earth, he'd tasted the bitter wine of shame more times than he could count, but that remained, even now, one of his lowest moments. Not because he was caught in a compromising position, but because it was by his own daughter. Sex is a natural part of the human life cycle, but Jessy, and Alex, were his children, and even though both were grown women with kids of their own, it bothered him that he exposed her to his and Ronnie Anne's, ahem, activities.

That was beside the point, was he breathing heavy? He didn't feel particularly winded, but his inhalations sounded labored anyway, Christ, all he did was walk in from the living room!

"I was pulling weeds," he heard himself lie. "I heard the phone and rushed in." He felt heavy and limp all over, like a suit of wet clothes. He could stand if he had to, but he didn't want to, so he went to the table and sat, the phone cord pulling tight. Eager to change the subject, he said, "It's been a while. How are you?"

On the other side of the country, Jessy missed a beat, as though temporarily distracted. "Sorry," she said, "I thought I heard Allie. She's taking a nap right now. Anyway, I'm good." Her tone was airy and buoyant, and Lincoln could vividly imagine her walking back and forth on her tippy toes, a bounce in her step and a giddy expression on her face.

He knew at once; she had good news.

It occurred to him that the last he heard, she was interviewing for a teaching position at a private school, and it clicked.

She got the job.

A proud, though tired, smile crossed his lips. Jessy wasn't his daughter in blood, but she was in his heart, and that is all that mattered, for the heart is where family is truly forged. He beamed with pride for her just as he did with Alex, and simmering satisfaction flooded his chest. He knew from the time she was a little girl that she could go far and accomplish much, and seeing it all come to fruition was gratifying.

"So," she drew puckishly, "I have something to tell you."

Lincoln's smile widened. "Oh?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

She hummed in the affirmative. "I was going to do it when Auntie Ronnie Anne was there too, but I just didn't want to wait, I'm really excited."

"You can call back when she gets home," Lincoln said, then hastened to add, "after you tell me, of course. You know how much I hate waiting."

That moment of not thinking about his current situation came to an end. Yeah, he sure did hate waiting for things...like Christmas, his birthday, his blood results to come back. Those six words were true, he did hate having to wait, especially when it was for something this important. The last wait this agonizing was the one for Ronnie Anne to deliver Alex. That was infinitely worse, because the lives of the two people in the world most precious to him hung in the balance. Today, it was only him and his health.

"I know," she said in a girlish singsong, "so I'll tell you, but under one condition."

He envisioned her holding up her pointer finger for emphasis.

"Anything," he vowed.

"Don't tell anyone else. Let me handle that."

The sober resolution in her voice made him chuckle. "Alright, fine, I'll keep my trap shut."

"Okay," she said, then took a deep breath, "I'm pregnant again."

Lincoln was so convinced she called to say she got the job that his brain failed to process what she actually said. He started to congratulate her and ask what the starting pay was, then stopped when the meaning of her words registered. "You are?" he asked incredulously, as though the idea of Jessy carrying a child was far beyond the rim of possibility.

"Yep," she chirped, "i just found out yesterday. I am almost a month along."

The smile in her voice made him smile too. "Congratulations," he said, "I was starting to think Allison would be an only child."

"It's been less than three years," she said with a verbal eyeroll, "give us some time."

"In my day, you had your kids back to back to back."

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "I'm not Grandma, so I don't think I'll be having quite _that_ many. This one will probably be it."

Lincoln's arm was starting to hurt, so shifted the phone to his other hand. "That's nonsense," he dismissed, "if your aunt and I could, we would have had eleven kids. Your grandma and grandpa'd look like amateur hour next to us."

"Okay, wow," Jessy laughed, "that's a lot of kids."

"You know what they say."

"Stop after three?"

"The more the merrier."

"Maybe," she said noncommittally, "I'll think about it."

They talked for a little while longer, then Allison woke up. "Let me talk to her," Lincoln said.

"Alright," Jessy replied, "but she's cranky when she first gets up from her naps." She held the phone from her mouth. "Do you want to talk to Uncle Lincoln?" she cooed.

Allison grunted sourly.

"Don't be like that," Jessy said, "he wants to talk to you. Say hi?"

The line rustled. "You there?" Lincoln asked patiently.

At first, he didn't hear anything. He listened closer, and there it was: The sound of breathing. He pictured Allison (in his mind, she looked exactly like Jessy at that age, even though she favored Mark) standing there with the phone in her hand and looking strickenly up at her mother. _I don't want to talk to him, he's old and weird_.

"How're you doing?" he asked.

No reply.

He couldn't hold her shyness against her. Since she was born, he and Ronnie Anne had only been out to Seattle once; they flew out during the first week of August and spent four days in Mark and Jessy's guest room. Because he didn't see her very often, Allison didn't know him. He was practically a stranger...and that bothered him a little. Sure, you can't always be shoved up your kids' and grandkids' butts, but Jessy living so far away was rough. If she was a little closer - close enough that he and Ronnie Anne could visit every once in a while, it wouldn't be so bad.

"I -"

 _Click._

The dial tone whined in his ear, and he held the phone away. She hung up on me.

Damn kid.

He called Jessy back. "I'm sorry," she said, "I told you, she's a real bear sometimes."

"That's okay," Lincoln said, "I'll let you go, I just want to say congrats again."

"Thank you," she preened.

He opened his mouth to say goodbye, but sudden emotion welled within him. "I'm really proud of you, Jess," he said.

"Thank you," she said, "I'm a little proud of myself too."

She was referring to the new life growing in her womb, no doubt, and to nothing else, aside, maybe, from Allison. "You're an amazing woman," he said, then, to dispel the awkward discomfort of having just say something so mushy, "no matter _what_ Lori says about you."

Jessy laughed. "Thank you. I learned it from you and Auntie Ronnie Anne."

No, she didn't; she was born with greatness and potential locked inside of her. At best, he and Ronnie Anne succeed only in not fucking things up so much that it couldn't come out.

After they hung up, Lincoln pushed himself to his feet and went back into the living room, where he sat in front of _Divorce Court_ and struggled to keep from falling asleep. At five, he forced himself to get up and start dinner: Three cheese Hamburger Helper with a side of green beans. It was quick, simple, and he and Ronnie Anne both liked it. He just wished they didn't shrink everything down. Jesus, a box of this crap used to feed them plus Jessy and Alex, now it was just enough for two. The noodles were so damn small you could fit one on the pad of your index finger with room to spare.

Ronnie Anne got home a few minutes past six, just as he was adding the milk and cheese sauce mixture to the pot; the knob rattled with her key, then opened and closed. Like she had every night for thirty years, she kicked her heels off one at a time (he imagined he could hear them clunking on the floor) and dropped her purse onto the end table by the door with a weary sigh. She came into the kitchen on stockinged feet and went to the fridge, dragging ass like a convict in the summer sun. "You look tired," Lincoln commented. He stirred the contents of the pot; savory, meat scented steam caressed his face and for the first time in days, he was hungry.

"I am," she said. She got a Coke, cracked it, and took a long drink. She set it on the counter, closed the door, and walked over. She slipped his arms around his waist and hugged him tight. "Almost done?"

Lincoln capped the pot with a glass lid, trapping the steam. "Twenty minutes." He turned and took Ronnie Anne into his arms. She was just short enough that his nose buried in her iron gray hair, and he took a deep breath, the clean fragrance of her shampoo filling his head.

"Stop smelling me, weirdo," she laughed. She looked up at him, snaked her hand around his hip, and squeezed his butt cheek. She bit her lower lip and raised her brows in challenge. "Or I'll have to do more of _that_."

Lincoln made a show of thinking...then sniffed again. She squeezed both of his cheeks and they both laughed. "I need to get out of these clothes," she said and tried to pull away.

"Yes you do," Lincoln said. He cupped her butt in his hands and kissed her forehead.

"Not like that," she said. "Maybe later."

There was a time, years ago, that a few stray touches and errant kisses would be enough to stoke the fires of their arousal and send them staggering into the bedroom in a fervent tangle of limbs, lips, and need, but they were both in their mid fifties now, and their bodies weren't as responsive as they used to be. Their nerve endings were duller, their libidos slower. He let her pull away and watched her go down the hall, when even just a decade ago, he would have taken her to bed.

Sex, and the profound intimacy that goes along with it, is vital to a happy and healthy relationship, but as you grow older, you find that you don't need it quite as much. Some people keep trucking dick (or pussy) first well into their sixties, but he and Ronnie Anne cooled sooner, and he was okay with that. Even on the occasions, he was turned on and she wasn't. Sometimes the mood strikes one partner and not the other, and that seemed to happen just a bit more now than it once did; sometimes it was him hot and alone, sometimes it was her. He would make an advance, and she would beg off. _I'm tired, lame-o, not right now_ ; she would snuggle up to him in bed and cup his boys. _I'm barely awake,_ he might mutter, _gimme a rain check._ If she wanted it badly enough, he would give it to her, just as she would give it to him. Neither ever pushed the other, for while sex was vital, trust, respect, and understanding was paramount.

While she was gone, he made a pot of coffee and drank some. He rarely had coffee after noon, but with his recent lethargy, he found himself increasingly relying on it, the way an alcoholic relies on booze to get through the day. It had a way of wiring his brain, but not his body, which probably contributed to his sleeplessness.

After dinner, he went into the living room and dropped into his chair while Ronnie Anne washed the dishes. On CBS, a _48 Hours_ investigative special was in progress; a gray haired former Texas Ranger stared dourly at the camera. _It was the most awful thing I ever saw. They had chairs made of bones, lampshades made outta human skin, body parts everywhere. It...it_ haunts _me to this day._ Grainy footage from the late sixties or early seventies of Rangers carrying body bags out of a house played, and Lincoln knitted his brow, a memory stirring deep in the back of his mind.

It scattered when the phone rang.

His heart leapt into his throat. What if it was Patel and Ronnie Anne answered it? She'd find out he hid the appointment from her. He started to get up, but stopped himself. It was almost eight, the office was closed, they wouldn't call now.

In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne dried her hands on a dish towel and crossed to the phone. Lincoln settled back into his chair and cocked his head. It was probably Jessy.

"Hello?" Ronnie Anne asked, stiff and guarded.

She listened, then relaxed. "Oh, hey," she said brightly, "I was just thinking about you."

Lincoln didn't hear much of their conversation up until Ronnie Anne gasped. "YOU ARE?" She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and leaned around the corner, a big, dumb smile on her face. "Jessy's pregnant," she said.

"Oh?" he asked, as though he didn't already know.

She nodded and went back to talking. She hung up fifteen minutes later, finished the dishes, then turned the light out. The warm, muted glow of the table lamp was the only illumination save for the TV, where _48 Hours_ had been replaced by _Unsolved Mysteries_. She sank onto the couch and drew her legs up under her. "I bet Luan's excited," she said and folded her arms.

"I bet," Lincoln replied, "grandkids are like Lay's. You can't have just one."

Ronnie Anne looked at him, then laughed. "You're a dork."

"Prove me wrong."

"Oh, no, you're absolutely right. Still, you're a dork."

That night, in bed, they made love for the first time in nearly a week, Ronnie Anne on top and Lincoln holding her body flush with his, their skin tacky and their hearts racing into one another. They had done this times innumerable over the past four decades, but Lincoln never grew tired of it; the sensations, as known to him now as his own name, never blunted, and every time together was electric, all the more exciting because it was not simply a celebration of flesh, but one of life and love. She molded to him as perfectly as ever, as though she were made for him and him alone, and perhaps it was his late middle-aged sentimentality, but he could believe that she was.

When they were done, slick with sweat and pleasantly winded, Ronnie Anne curled up against him, his flaccid penis nestled snugly in the cleft of her butt, and he wrapped his arms around her. He held her breast in his hand and relished the strong beat of her heart; and like that, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The rest of the week passed at glacial speeds, and by Thursday, he was starting to get restless. He called Patel's office on Wednesday evening on to check if his results were back, but the receptionist told him they weren't. He heard clicking, and took that to mean she searched on the computer rather than in person. It could still be there, just not updated in the system. He didn't press the matter, though, even if he really wanted to.

On Friday morning, just as he sat down with his coffee, the phone rang. His first instinct was to complain ( _you couldn't have called two seconds ago when I was still standing?_ ), but it was probably Patel, so instead, he got stiffly to his feet. His knees ached, and the bones grated with every step. The rash was back, too, a deep scarlet splotch on his left forearm that spread all the way to his shoulder. The lymph nodes in his neck were swollen when he woke two hours ago, but had already gone down.

He picked the handset up and held it to his ear. 'Hello?"

"Mr. Loud."

Lincoln instantly recognized Patel's voice.

"Your test results came back and I was wondering if you could come down to discuss them."

He wouldn't give him the results over the phone even if they were negative, Lincoln knew that, but his heart clutched anyway. "I can be there in an hour and a half," Lincoln said.

"Alright, I'll make time to fit you in."

Driving along the southbound lane of I-12, hunched anxiously over the wheel, Lincoln turned the conversation over and over again, interrogating every single word Patel used and inflating them with dark meaning. _I'll make time to fit you in._ Why? Why not set an appointment for later? He took him on the spot, almost like he wanted him in as soon as possible.

By the time he reached Patel's office at quarter 'til ten, he was a seething mass of nerves. In the waiting room, a Hispanic woman sat behind the counter and flashed a professional smile when he walked up. He gave her his name, signed in, and sat in one of the chairs. An elderly couple sat slightly down from him, the woman in a floral top and tan slacks and the man wearing a blue cap with gold writing across the front. USS WARRENTON, it said, CV-68. The woman's hands trembled in her lap and the man rubbed a slow, comforting circle in her back, that simple act so pregnant with a devotion that it threatened to affect Lincoln, so he turned away.

Less than ten minutes after he arrived, the door to the back opened and Patel came out. Today he wore a white long sleeve button up accented by a red tie and tucked into coal gray pants. He saw Lincoln and nodded amicably. Was it Lincoln's imagination, or was there something like pity in his eyes?

Stupid, he told himself, he was being stupid.

He got up and crossed to the doctor, feeling strangely self-conscious. "Mr. Loud," Patel greeted with a smile, "I'm glad you could make it." He stuck out his hand and they shook.

"I just wanna get this over with," Lincoln said. He searched the Indian's face for some tick that might betray him, but he offered none.

They went into the back, Patel leading the way, and into a tastefully appointed office off the main hall. The floors were heavily carpeted and the walls laden with the familiar degrees and certificates of a man who knew what he was doing and did it better than anyone. Patel sat behind a large, tidy desk, and Lincoln sat across from him. His heart palpitated in his chest and his body thrummed with nervous energy. Patel laid his forearms on the desk and laced his fingers. "How are you feeling today?"

Like I want my goddamn test results. "About the same," Lincoln said after a minute's thought. He told Patel about the reoccurring rash and the swelling in his lymph nodes, and the doctor listened intently, an inscrutable expression tattooed to his face.

When he was done, Patel took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. "So it's not bothering you too much? Just the fatigue?"

"Yeah, that's the worst part."

"You're still coughing?"

Lincoln nodded. "Every once in a while."

"Have you produced anything from these coughs? Blood? Mucus?"

"No," Lincoln said. He was starting to get impatient, and if Patel didn't cut to the chase, he was going to burst. "What do the results say?"

Patel glanced at a sheet of paper, picked it up, and studied it. Finished, he laid it on the desk and spun it around so that Lincoln could see. Lincoln leaned over a little, but it was covered in a zigzagging graph that he could not understand. "Well, we gave your blood a full work-up," he explained, "and one of the things we found was an elevated presence of calcium along with cell degradation."

Lincoln swallowed. That didn't sound good.

Leaning forward, Patel tapped the sheet with a pen. "Your white blood count is low...not dangerous as of yet, but far lower than we like, and your red blood cells are weaker then they should be. The marrow sample we took contains Myelogenous cell structures which are often present in leukemia."

Lincoln's heart dropped.

"But looking at your blood, it's clear that you don't have leukemia. See this?" He tapped the sheet and Lincoln bent to see. The graph before him was Greek, and he said as much. "These denote your cells and platelets," Patel said. "Some of them look...misshapen. Those are the unhealthy cells in your body. These are similar to leukemia but distinct in their make-up. What you have is called hemoteliosis and it is a fairly rare type of blood cancer -"

At that dreaded word, _cancer,_ Lincoln's blood froze.

" - that works by attacking both the white and red blood cells while also weakening the bone structure. It produces an excess of Vitamin A, which impedes the action of Vitamin D. Vitamin D acts by increasing intestinal absorption of calcium, meaning it increases calcium levels in the blood through more uptake in food. Too much Vitamin A blocks this process and your body begins to break down the nearest source of calcium to support itself. Your bones. We'll have to do more tests to understand the full scope and effect it is having on your body, but that's where we are right now."

Lincoln's head spun.

"I'll level with you, Mr. Loud," Patel said, his tone suddenly grave, "this is a very serious disease, and while it is treatable to an extent, it is incurable."

A steel band gripped Lincoln's chest and all at once, he could barely breathe. "S-So I'll have this the rest of my life?" he asked.

Patel hesitated, as though reluctant to speak.

"To be blunt," he said, "you're dying."


	219. April 2001: Part 1

**Fabbit Zina: Don't worry, I won't leave you guys hanging, there will be a definite ending.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to _Shake Ya Ass_ by ****Mystikal (2000)**

Maddie Haveman, almost eleven and tall for her age, wore jeans, a black T-shirt with Mankind's face on the chest, and her blondish brown hair tucked under a baseball cap, WCW across the front in lightning. She was a WWF girl, but last month, the WWF took the WCW over, and she wore the hat as a way of subtly gloating to any WCW fans she might run into. _Ha ha, we took you over, suck on THAT, loser._ The best part about the whole thing was this: Hulk Hogan was out of a job now. She _hated_ Hulk Hogan, though sometimes she could barely remember why; she'd see his face or hear his voice, and loathing would course through her like acid, and she'd get mad just for, like, the sake of _getting_ mad.

But that was all over with, he was a jobless hack and probably living in a cardboard box somewhere. He didn't even deserve her hate anymore, only her pity.

Anyway, she wore clothes that people might consider boyish and sometimes, kids and grown-ups alike mistook her for a boy, especially with her hat on. That didn't hurt her feelings or anything, but she was well aware of the fact that she wasn't exactly pretty. Maybe if she put makeup on and _tried_ , she would be...she just didn't want to. She didn't go out of her way to look girly, but she also didn't go out of her way to look like a boy, either. She wore pants because dresses felt weird, and all of her favorite shirts were wrestling themed...shirts like that don't usually come with frilly fringes, you know. Plus, her mom wasn't girly, and Maddie looked up to her mom kind of a lot. Mom was smart, strong, cool, and all kinds of other things. Maddie wanted to be just like her, and being like her meant not being a pretty little princess crying because you chipped a nail.

There were lots of girls like that in school, and Maddie pitied them almost as much as she pitied Hulk Hogan. It must really suck being them, trapped in a prison of femininity. Ugh. No thanks. If she had to choose, she'd take being plain and not-pretty anyday.

She was a _little_ surprised, therefore, that a boy liked her.

It started at the end of March; she opened her locker to put her books away, and a folded piece of paper dropped out and landed at her feet. That was normal because she had a bad habit of just shoving things in haphazardly. Seriously, it was a mess and every time she did this, something fell out. One time, she was wearing shorts and flip flops, and she opened the door, and BAM, her science book cracked her toes. She yelped, jumped up and down...then got mad and punched the locker, which hurt even worse.

Anyway, she picked the paper up, assuming it was notes from one of her classes, and started to put it back, then noticed the big, ink shaded heart on the face. Okay, she didn't draw hearts, so...what is this and where did it come from?

Narrowing her eyes to suspicious little slits, she looked left and right; kids made their way up and down the hall, hung out in groups, or hurriedly grabbed things from their own lockers. No one paid any attention to her, no one looked guilty, and no one seemed like they were furtively watching. Cautiously, like a girl defusing a bomb that could blow up at any moment, she unfolded the letter and read it, her eyes widening in surprise. It took three passes before she fully comprehended the text's meaning.

 _Dear Maddie_

 _I really like you your very beautiful and have a cool personalety. Your hair looks soft and your eyes sparkle a lot which is nice. You make my heart do funny things and I really like being with you._

She read it two more times, sure she wasn't understanding it right, and as she did so, a strange warm feeling flooded her stomach and spread out through her like the gentle heat of a low fire. She realized she was smiling to herself, and swallowed it down. She folded the letter and jammed it into her pocket, then went to her next class. It was kind of weird, but afterward, she felt really good. She'd never really thought of boys that way (though some _were_ kind of cute), but knowing one liked her was kinda nice and stoked a sense of pride in her chest. All that day, her mind kept going back to the same line - _your very beautiful and have a cool personalety_ , and every time it did, her heartbeat quickened and a light blush touched the high ridges of her cheekbones.

Did he really think she was beautiful? She didn't think she was ugly but 'beautiful' isn't a word she would ever in a million years think to describe herself with. She wasn't used to being called that, at all (except from her mom and dad), but she realized something: She liked it.

Who was he, anyway? And why didn't he just come up to her and -

Actually, no, being told all that junk face-to-face would be really awkward and probably kill her with embarrassment. She darted her eyes to every boy in the room, but none of them were staring at her with lovesick eyes or wearing a shirt with her name in a heart on it, so that was the end of _that_. If she did find him...what then? She didn't know very much about that kind of thing, hold hands, maybe? That's what the middle school kids do, they also kiss, like, with tongues and stuff, but ugh, that's gross. Kissing on the lips seemed okay, just as long as she didn't get spit in her mouth.

Um...what else do boyfriends and girlfriends do? Hang out? You do that with normal friends, too, so was there even a difference?

Well...yeah, because doing something with a boy you like makes it even more special.

Getting called beautiful was nice and all, but did she really want a boyfriend? She hadn't given the matter much thought at all, and by the end of the day, she was hopelessly confused. What if she didn't feel the same way? A boyfriend, she imagined, is a big responsibility, like a pet. You have to feed him time and attention and stuff...did she really want that? Was it worth it? She didn't know, but she did enjoyed the way the note made her feel, and she sorta wanted to feel that way again.

Every time she imagined her secret admirer coming up to her, though, her stomach tangled up and she felt like she was going to be sick. Her mom taught her to be confident and junk and she normally was, but this was a little different.

She spent the next few days in a state of contradictory dread, hoping another note would appear but kind of hoping one wouldn't. Each time she opened her locker and one didn't fall out, she was both disappointed and relieved. By April 2nd, she was starting to think that her admirer moved on, and couldn't decide whether she was more happy or more sad. Just before lunch, she went to put her history book away, and when she opened the door, a note dropped out, coming to rest in a tent on her shoe. Her heart bounced and her gaze went to it, ware as though it were a potentially dangerous bug instead of a letter. Her muscles locked, her breath caught, and her mouth went dry.

Maybe it wasn't a note, maybe it was…

Nope, look, there's a heart, right there.

Afraid of it...she was almost afraid of it.

Realizing how dumb she was being, she drudged up her mom's favorite motto. Suck it up and power through. Only in this case, she _picked_ it up and powered through. She opened it with shaky fingers and cast a harried look over her shoulder. No one was watching. Good, she'd be humiliated if someone walked over and saw it. _Look, everyone, Maddie has a BOYFRIEND!_

No! I swear! You gotta believe me!

The paper crinkled in her hands as she undid the folds. Its edges were uneven and creased in weird places. Whoever did it wasn't very good. Tight, blocky lines of script greeted her. She scanned them.

A poem.

 _To Maddie_

 _Your hair is blond like gold and your eyes are crystal blue_

 _Your laugh is like music to my ears and I can't stop thinking about you_

 _I want to be your boyfriend really really bad and if you said no I'd be really really sad_

 _Your great and awesome and I'm your biggest fan_

 _And I would be in heaven if you let me hold your hand_

Someone spoke behind her, and letting out a strangled cry, she spun around and clutched the note protectively to her chest.

Curtis, her friend, recoiled. A tall black boy with a shaved head, he wore jeans and a green T-shirt with AMERICAN EAGLE on the chest in faded white writing. They stared at each other for a moment, Maddie panting and him furrowing his brows. "You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said and nodded vigorously. The harder you do something, the more convincing it is, right?

Nodding guardedly, as though he didn't believe her but was prepared to accept her lie at face value, Curtis flicked his eyes to the note pressed to her breasts. "What's that?" he asked and nodded.

"Nothing," Maddie blurted, "it's nothing, don't worry about it."

He arched his brow and regarded her critically, as if trying to make sense of something that _made_ no sense. "Alright. Anyway, we're playing kickball at recess, you want in? We need another player."

 _We_ referred to the other kids she and Curtis hung out with. Dylan, Scott, Marc, Chris, and Darnel. She wasn't really in the mood for kickball and opened her mouth to say so (I got other things on my mind) but stopped.

That's it.

It had to be one of them. The admirer wrote kind of like he already knew her, so it wasn't a random boy, it was one of her friends.

Which, honestly, she didn't know how to feel about.

But she was going to find out who it was.

"Sure," she said with an exaggerated shrug.

Later, on the playground, she hid behind the slide and squinted her eyes against the glare of the pounding Arizona sun. Across the way, Curtis and the others milled on the concrete basketball court, Dylan, tall with black hair, holding a red rubber ball under one arm and Curtis looking impatiently around. She looked from face to sweaty face, trying to detect signs of ILoveMaddieItis, but didn't see anything...probably because she didn't even know what she was looking for. It had to be one of them, though, and the prospect of being around him, whoever he may be, terrified her.

She couldn't chicken out, though; Mom said chickens were the worst thing ever (except for scaredy cats), and Maddie agreed. If she ran away with her tail between her legs now, she'd be no better, and she'd lose a _lot_ of respect for herself.

Taking a deep breath, she ducked around the slide and walked over, uncharacteristically self-conscious of every move she made; of the sweat trickling down the back of her neck; of the way her hair rustled with each step. A leaden balloon swelled in her stomach and her lungs wheezed for air. Did she look okay?

Curtis spotted her and fixed her with an annoyed scowl. "Where were you?" he asked as she walked up.

"I had to...do something," she said. She was going to say _use the bathroom,_ but corrected herself at the last moment. Talking about the can struck her as something to _not_ do in front of someone who likes you.

"Alright, whatever, come on," Curtis said, "we don't have much time."

While she waited her turn at the kicker's mound, Maddie surreptitiously studied her friends. Scott, short and wispy with chestnut brown hair, stood next to a crumpled soda can pressed into service as first base. He wore dark blue cargo pants and a red T-shirt. Marc, tall with unruly carrot colored hair and clad in jeans and a white print T-shirt, stared expectantly at Curtis, who stood at the head of the court waiting for Dylan to roll the ball. Chris and Darnel huddled across from each other at second and third respectively. The former had sandy blonde hair that swept down over his sleepy blue eyes, and the former was tall, gangly, and black with bushy black hair on top of his shaved head and styled straight upward like a pencil eraser.

She'd known each of them for years and never got the feeling any of them liked her. They played together, ate lunch at the same table, and went to the park after school, and in all that time, they treated her normal, as though she were one of the guys. She looked from one to the other and back again, a slight, perturbed frown touching her lips. None of them looked at her, none of them seemed nervous, the way you'd think a boy would be when the girl they liked was around, they were...like they always were.

Maybe she was wrong, maybe it _wasn't_ one of them.

Who could it be, then?

She didn't know very many other boys. There were others around (it was a big school, of course there were boys), but she wasn't friends with them. That meant she'd just have to wait until he decided to reveal himself.

 _If_ he decided to reveal himself.

Part of her wanted him to, and another part didn't.

Is this what love is supposed to be like? Confusing and frustrating and dumb?

If so...why do people do it?

Because they're morons. At least that's what Mom said when someone did something stupid in traffic.

Today, April 6, Maddie walked to school along the sidewalk bordering Eucalyptus Drive, headphones around her neck and her CD player shoved into her hip pocket, where it made a giant, circular bulge in the fabric of her jeans. Rap music blared from the speakers, making them rattle. She borrowed this CD from Curtis because her Mom would only buy her the edited version, and there was something exhilarating about the taboo of forbidden things.

 _Attention all y'all players and pimps_

 _Right now in the place to be_

 _I thought I told y'all niggas before_

 _Y'all niggas can't fuck with me_

It was a bright, oppressively hot morning, and window AC units up and down the street hummed lowly as she passed. The parcel lawns falling back from the sidewalk were brown and crunched under your shoes when you walked on them. A hush lay over the neighborhood, the wet air absorbing every sound like a big, sodden sponge.

The school appeared ahead, one brick corner just visible through a stand of swaying brush, and suspense roiled in the center of her stomach. It had been days since she last got a note, and she really hoped one would turn up today.

Maybe he stopped liking her.

Or maybe he got cold feet and stopped.

She hoped not, she really liked those letters, especially the poem. Every time she thought about it she grinned like a doofus. She hoped the boy who sent it was cute, but even if he wasn't, that was a really sweet thing to do, so sweet she probably wouldn't care if he was ugly.

 _Shake ya ass, but watch yourself_

 _Shake ya ass, show me what you workin with_

 _Shake ya ass, but watch yourself_

 _Shake ya ass, show me what you workin with_

Someone at school made up a joke version of this song that went:

 _Take a bath_

 _Wash yourself_

 _Take a bath_

 _Show me what you're washing with_

When Maddie first heard it in the lunch room, she laughed so hard milk shot out of her nose.

Something moved to her left, and she turned her head. Curtis walked beside her, hunched as if against the wilting heat. His thumbs were thrust through the straps of his backpack and sweat sheened his black face. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," she replied.

They were almost to school now. Big yellow buses idled at the curb and disgorged streams of kids. Maddie looked at Curtis from the corner of her eye and bit her lower lip in thought. She hadn't mentioned the letters to anyone, and keeping it all inside, like a building fart bubble, was starting to get to her. Normally, she could talk to her mom or dad about her problems, but this was kind of embarrassing.

She needed to get it out, though.

"Hey, I have something to tell you," she said.

Curtis glanced at her. "What?"

She took a deep, steeling breath. "So...I keep getting these notes in my locker from...from a boy who likes me...and -"

"Wait, what?"

Curtis looked at her like she'd just told him the moon was made of cheese, and she resisted the temptation to squirm.

"Someone keeps putting notes in my locker," she repeated. She gave him a quick rundown of what had been going on, and he furrowed his brows contemplatively. Their steps slowed, and when she finished, they were standing at the concrete stairs leading up to the main doors. "I'm kind of...like, I don't know what to do."

It hurt to admit that, but it was the truth. She was at a loss for what to do, both now and when the boy revealed himself.

Curtis drew a deep breath through his nostrils and scrunched his lips back and forth as he thought. Maddie could almost hear the _Final Jeopardy!_ music playing. "I don't know," he said at length, and Maddie slumped her shoulders. "I guess, just...leave him a note on your locker so he sees it when walks by."

"What do I say?" she moaned.

"I don't know," he shot back, "do you like him?"

"I don't even know him," she said.

He opened his mouth, then shrugged one shoulder in concession of her point. "Do you want to meet him?" he amended.

Maddie sighed. "I don't know. Kind of. Yeah. But I'm kind of...I dunno...nervous?" Her voice lifted on the last one and she flashed a toothy, self-effacing smile. Feeling this way was alien to her and she was all the more embarrassed.

Thankfully, Curtis didn't roll his eyes or anything. "Well...take some time to think about it and then make up your mind."

"I've _been_ thinking about it," she said.

"Think more."

The bell forestalled her reply. "I gotta go," he said and hurried up the stairs, "good luck."

Maddie sighed.

Yeah.

She was gonna need it.

* * *

Thin morning light fell through the blinds and made tepid orange bars across the carpet. The shadows drained slowly away, receding to nooks and crannies as the sun lifted higher over the world. Airy birdsong filled the new day, a dozen different species tweeting back and forth to one another from high perches like old maids sharing gossip on the party line.

Rumpled bed clothes, soaked with sweat, heap around a half naked form, its hands resting shakily on its evenly falling chest. A crack of light shines under the bathroom door, the muffled hiss of the shower beyond.

The clock on the nightstand glows, red numbers: 6:03. Lincoln creakily turned his neck and stared at it. Ronnie Anne was late, he thought absently, she better pick up the pace.

As if on cue, the shower cut out, and the shower curtain crinkled as she pulled it back. Lincoln swallowed and gazed up at the ceiling. His throat was sore. He didn't know if it was from the cold or something... _else_.

His stomach folded over on itself and his nostrils flared. It had been two weeks since he found out he was dying, fourteen days of shock, numbness, and deep, simmering _fear_ that closed around his throat a little more each day, like a noose. That first afternoon, he stumbled out of Patel's office in a state of disbelief. He drove home, sat in his chair, and stared blankly at the TV, seeing but not understanding. _How long do I have?_ he had stammered. The concept of actually dying still hadn't sank in.

 _We'll have to do a lot more testing to see exactly where you are with the disease._ Patel's voice was low, measured, and toneless, putting Lincoln in mind of an undertaker. _Stage 1 and 2 can be controlled, temporarily, with medication and chemo. Stage 3 and 4 requires dialysis, where your blood is cycled through a filtration system…_

Lincoln didn't hear the rest. He knew what dialysis was. _Well...which do you think I have?_

 _It's hard to tell,_ the doctor said, _but I think, from your bloodwork, that it's Stage 3_.

Lincoln was suddenly cold, as though his bones had been replaced by ice. _How long?_ he asked again. The words felt strange on his lips.

 _With dialysis, I'd say a year, maybe a year and a half. Without...eight months, maybe nine._

That prognosis hit him like a punch of the guts, and his hand fluttered worriedly to his mouth without his brain commanding it. His first thought was for Ronnie Anne.

Jesus God, how was he going to tell her?

No, this couldn't be right. Dying was such a big thing, it didn't just _happen_. Other people went out in the twinkling of an eye, but not him. This was _his_ life, _he_ was the star, and the star…

His thoughts trailed off.

God, how was he going to tell Ronnie Anne?

 _A-Are you absolutely sure?_ he asked. This had to be a mistake. Everyone dies, but not now...later, old and wasted in bed after ninety years of life, not at fifty-five. His grandkids were still small and his daughter was barely thirty; they needed him. Ronnie needed him.

Patel nodded grimly. _I'm sure,_ he said.

Lincoln ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath.

 _I understand this is extremely difficult,_ Patel said, _but I try not to foster illusions or false hope in my patients. This is too important, I feel, for anything less than complete candor. I want to get you back in here as soon as possible so we can get a better idea of what's going on. Obviously, your prognosis_ could _change a bit, but probably not as much as we would like_.

They scheduled an MRI for the following afternoon, and at home, Lincoln grappled with the slimey terror nesting in his stomach. At first, he thought only of Ronnie Anne; the thought of sitting her down and having this conversation...he couldn't fathom it, _wouldn't_ fathom it. He could already see the drawing horror in her eyes, could already imagine her tears.

He couldn't do it. He'd rather eat maggots again. Literally.

Maybe things would be different after the MRI. Maybe Patel would discover that he made a mistake after all. It was possible, wasn't it?

Or maybe...maybe he was in denial. That's the first step of grief, right? Looking around at the living room, so comfortable and familiar after thirty years, he just couldn't comprehend the prospect of dying, he didn't _feel_ it. In Vietnam, death choked the air thick as smoke - it lurked behind every rock, crouched in every bush, perched in every tree. He didn't feel that now. He felt only disquiet.

A nervous laugh burst from his throat and he licked his dry lips. Patel was one of the best hemotologists in the country. He knew what he was doing, and if he said Lincoln was dying...that meant he was dying.

His stomach rolled and he turned stiffly to the TV. It was still early. After tomorrow...he'd know more.

When she came through the door that night, his heart came to a sputtering halt and his fingers unconsciously curled into the arms of his chair. He tried to relax and act natural, but wound up shifting heavily to one butt cheek like a man in a hemorrhoid cream commercial. Ronnie Anne closed the door behind her, kicked her shoes off, and dropped her purse onto the end table. She looked up, and Lincoln smiled. It felt fake and cumbersome on his face, but she didn't notice, for which he was eternally grateful.

 _Hey,_ she said. She looked at the darkened kitchen and frowned. _No dinner?_

He was so preoccupied that he completely forgot to make dinner. _I figured we'd order out_.

She came over, bent, and kissed his cheek. _Alright, sounds good to me. I've been wanting Chinese anyway._ She sat on the couch and threw her head back. All of the memories they made together, all the love and happiness and _family,_ came over him in a rush, and his gord rose. They had been together since 1957, forty-five years, and he knew her as well as he knew himself. The news would hit her as hard as it would hit him if their roles were reversed. He went back to waiting for her to give birth to Alex. He was certain that a doctor would come out, pull down his surgical mask, and tell him, in somber tones, that she was dead. If Alex made it, he would go on. If not, he would have shot himself. Things were different in this case, but it would crush her nevertheless.

That brought a sallow smile to his face, the word _crush._ It wasn't very strong, was it? It didn't even begin to convey the dark mix of emotions she would feel. Nothing he could come up with did, just like nothing could have expressed what he would have felt had she died all those years ago.

The uncanny sense of _wrongness_ descended over him again, stronger than before. This was happening too quick, it was too sudden, like a lightning bolt out of the blue. He wasn't ready for this...any of this. He couldn't hide this from her, _shouldn't_ hide this, but he couldn't tell her. Not now. He needed...he needed time, time to adjust, time to come to grips...time to hope. Things could change. They could always change.

 _How was your day?_ she asked.

 _Good,_ he lied.

 _Still feeling tired?_

 _A little._

She opened her eyes and looked at him. _You need a gym membership._

Because _that'll_ save me from death.

 _Maybe,_ he said, _I don't know. I'll think about it._

The next day, he reported to Mercy General Hospital in Detroit for an MRI. It was a large, drab building overlooking the river. Even in the light of a warm spring morning, it looked forbidding, like a haunted castle in a gothic novel, and Lincoln's footfalls echoed eerily as he navigated the shadowy corridors. The overhead fluorescent lights shone cold and white, and here, in this place, he could feel finally feel the presence of Death.

He laid on a slab like a body in a tomb, naked save for a thin hospital johnny, and was pulled into the tube-like machine as a body being dragged into the maw of a hungry beast. The X-Ray tech, a tall, dour man in a lab coat, operated a number of levers, his expression never changing, never softening. Lincoln shivered as the machine took pictures of his body, and an image flashed across his mind: Him stretched out in a coffin, clad in a dark suit, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest. His heart exploded, and claustrophobia gripped him. The curved walls, so close he could barely move, closed in on him, a celestial clamp tightening 'round a damned soul. His lungs burst for air and his he squeezed his eyes shut.

The machine whirred, then spat him out. He swung his legs over the side and sat up so quickly his head spun. The tech regarded him with the indifference of a man who has seen it all, and Lincoln fought to catch his breath.

He was there for nearly six more hours being poked, prodded, scanned, and tested. When he got home, he was exhausted, and that night, he dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

A week later, Patel called him into his office to discuss the results.

 _As I thought,_ Patel said, _it is in fact Stage 3. It is in 40 percent of your bones and is multiplying at a fairly stable rate. I want to start you on dialysis within a week and also chemo. With those together, I give you a better than average chance of making it to this time next year._

Presently, the bathroom door opened and Ronnie Anne came out in a puff of steam, dressed in only a peach colored bra and underwear. She wore her hair in a bun.

His first dialysis appointment was tomorrow morning. Patel said it was a long, involved process that could take up to six hours. They would insert a tube into his arm, run it into a machine, and literally draw every drop of blood from his body, then cycle it through the machine and replace it. It wouldn't save him - the cancer was bone deep - but it would give him time, and right now, time was the most valuable commodity in the world.

Ronnie Anne went to the closet and opened it, her body lithe and toned. Looking at it, you'd be forgiven for mistaking her for a woman much younger than her fifty-five years. She was still as achingly beautiful now as she was when she was a girl, and when he realized that he would never see her grow old, wouldn't be there to hold her hand and comfort her in her winter years, his heart shattered.

He shoved those thoughts away and sat up. His eyes were grainy and his head ached. He didn't sleep last night, instead he lay away wrestling with himself. He would have to tell her soon. He planned to do it before the first dialysis appointment, but as the day came closer, he chickened out. He was sure he could hide it from her just a little longer, could hold onto what they had just a few days more. Once he told her, things would change, it would become somehow real, and their relationship would never be quite the same, because the reaper, in all his infernal glory, would be forever between them.

He couldn't put it off much longer, though.

Ronnie Anne came over with a suit of clothes in her hands and laid them out on the bed. A gray skirt that reached to the knee, a white blouse, and a gray blazer. Lincoln watched as she pulled the skirt up her shapely legs, and smiled despite himself. She caught him and grinned, a girlish twinkle in her eye. "I'm getting changed here, perv, do you mind?"

"Not at all," he said.

"Well, I do," she said, "I'm a lady."

Lincoln snorted, and her face darkened. "Drop dead twice, jerk."

"And look like you?"

She flipped him off, and he flipped her off too.

While she finished, Lincoln pulled his robe on and shuffled into the kitchen. The surreality of putting on his robe and slippers and making a cup of coffee, as though everything were fine and his world wasn't coming to an end, crept over him like icy fingers, and he swallowed. Why did he feel like he was lying? Not just to Ronnie Anne, but to everything? Here he was going about the motions of life, every movement a falsehood, every breath an untruth.

The pain above his right eye flared and he massaged his forehead with his fingertips. He needed to snap out of it, he didn't have time for this; he only had a couple months left.

His lips puckered sourly, and forcing himself on, he brewed a pot of coffee. Through the window over the sink, amber light bathed the backyard. A squirrel darted across the lawn and raced up a tree, followed closely by another. The coffee pot rattled and the smell of beans reached his nose. He looked away just as Ronnie Anne came in, her heels clicking on the linoleum. The urge to tell her now and get it out of the way swept him and he almost did it, but he couldn't, not now, not like this. The time had to be right and he needed to be prepared.

Well, better prepared, since he would never really be ready.

"I can't wait for this to be over," she said and poured a slug of coffee into a mug.

April and May were two of the district's busiest months. There was prom, SATs, graduation, and paperwork, lots and lots of paperwork. The end of the year was a whirlwind of meetings, late hours, and extra workloads. With her working later in the upcoming weeks, he was sure he could hide his illness from her for a month or more..until it began to show.

"Two months," he said as encouragingly as he could.

She groaned and threw back her coffee like a cowboy slamming sasparilla. "Too long," she said. Finishing it off, she sat the cup in the sink, came over, and kissed his cheek. "I gotta go."

He wanted to take her in his arms and never let go, but he smiled instead. "I love you."

"Love you too."

She rushed into the living room, grabbed her purse, and slung it over her shoulder. Lincoln listened for the click of the closing, and when he heard it, he let out a pent up breath.

Soon...he would tell her soon.

And it would be the hardest thing he'd ever done.

* * *

The boy sat on the edge of his bed, pulled on his work boots, and stood. The room around him was tidy and clean, two twin beds facing a long dresser with a black Sanyo TV on it. Posters stared down from the blue walls. Hank Williams Jr. and Wu Tang Clan on his side, and Insane Clown Posse and Dale Earnhardt on his brother's. Josh loved Dale, and when The Intimidator wrecked and died at the Daytona 500 in February, he was so devastated he cried...literally sat on the couch and bawled into his hands like a little baby. That was one of those rare days - the kind that comes only once every other blue moon - when Justin stopped picking on him and tried to _be_ there for him, in a big brotherly way.

Grabbing his Dick's cap from the nightstand, Justin went to the mirror on the back of the door. It was weird not kicking or stepping over things, but when he got his license in January, Dad made a rule: He could only use the truck if his room was clean and his chores done. It was fair, he guessed, but then again, it _wasn't_ fair that he had to pick up the mess of two people. Josh was a real slob who left stuff on the floor and didn't clean up after himself. Justin could admit he was kinda bad, but his brother was worse - just today, as he hurriedly cleaned the room, he found three dirty plates and four empty glasses under Josh's bed. Mom would flip if she found out, and he seriously considered telling her, but rejected it. He and Josh had an understanding: Neither snitched on the other. Ever.

Standing before the door, Josh checked his reflection. He wore a gray thermal undershirt and a pair of jeans tastefully splattered with white from helping Dad paint the back deck last fall. He pronounced himself ready, then went down the hall and into the living room. Dad sat in his chair reading the paper, dressed in nothing but his tighty whities, and Mom sat on the couch with one bare foot propped on the edge of the coffee table. Her hair was up in pink curlers and she wore a ratty pink robe that looked older than him; she picked at her bunions with a pained sneer, then flicked the dead skin onto the carpet. Josh lay prone in front of the TV, his face propped in his hands. Joy, clad in a pink tank top and lime green underwear, snatched a dirty plate from the coffee table, pushed up from the sofa, and padded into the kitchen on bare feet.

Josh stood beside his father and waited for him to acknowledge him. When he didn't, he said, "Can I borrow the truck?"

Dad looked up and favored him over the tops of his reading glasses. "Your room clean?"

"Yep."

"Chores are done?"

Justin nodded. "All done."

"Where are you going?"

Dang, you want my social security number, too?

Every time he asked to borrow the truck, Dad turned it into a game of twenty questions, made him sign a waiver, and had him put his hand on the Bible. God help him if he ever wrecked it; Dad would probably come down on him like Judgement Day.

"Me and Candy are going to the movies."

Candy was Candice Miller, Justin's girlfriend. She was a freshman with brown hair, long legs, and perky little titties she let him touch from time to time. The other day, they were making out on the bleachers overlooking the football field at school, and he slipped his hand up her shirt...long story short, he got to touch one _bare,_ skin to skin.

It was cool.

Dad started to speak, but Mom butted in, cutting him off. "Why don't you ever bring her over here?" she asked. "You been datin' her six months and I've yet to meet her."

Justin's eyes went to his father, hairy man boobs on fully display, then to her; crescent shaped toenails littered the carpet by her feet, and food stains soiled the front of her robe. In the kitchen, Joy yelped. "Daddy, I burned myself on my Hot Pocket."

"How bad?" Dad asked.

She didn't reply for a moment. "First degreer."

"Run water on it."

A second later: "OW!"

Dad sighed. "Cold water, Joy, cold water."

"Oh...okay."

Mom arched her brow expectantly, and Justin searched for a convincing lie. The truth was, he didn't bring Candy here because his family embarrassed him. If she were to walk through the door right now and see them like this, he'd die. _This is your family?_ "Well," he said, then rubbed the back of his neck. He came up empty handed, so he told her the truth. "Y'all act like a bunch of hillbillies."

Mom's face darkened, and Dad knitted his brows. "We do _not_ act like hillbillies," Mom spat.

"You're the biggest hillbilly in the house, Justin" Josh said, "every time you come in the room I hear a banjo."

"Dad's in his underwear," Justin said and gestured to his father, "Joy is too, and you -" he looked at his mother - "look like the Bride of Frankenstein. Y'all are embarrassing."

Josh rolled onto his butt, arms behind him like a crab, and glared at his brother. "You oughta be embarrassed of Candy. Her teeth look like the fence out back."

Dad snorted. The fence out back was crooked...just like Candy's teeth. "No they don't," Justin shot back.

"Well, if you so embarrassed, go on," Mom said and shooed him away, "get."

"Yeah," Josh echoed.

Fine, he would. He'd rather hang out with Candy anyway. He brushed past his father's chair and went into the kitchen, where all the keys hung on a pegboard by the garage door. "Don't forget your banjo, Cleetus," Josh called after him. He _almost_ retorted with a cuss word, but cut himself off. If he did that, Mom would ground him and he wouldn't get to see Candy.

Joy stood in front of the counter and carved Hot Pocket into little pieces with a fork. Nine with a pert nose and blonde hair past her shoulders, she resembled their cousin Stephanie at the right angle; at other angles, she looked like Mom, Dad, and Aunt Violet. A lot of guys at school talked about how annoying their little sisters were, and Josh pitied them. Joy wasn't like that, she was nice; in fact, and don't tell his friends, he liked hanging out with her.

Justin grabbed the keys off the board and went over to his sister. He reached out to steal a piece of Hot Pocket, but she jabbed her fork at his hand, and he yanked it back. She narrowed her eyes and fixed him with a withering glower that was almost identical to Mom's. "Go away," she said hatefully, "you called me a hillbilly."

He was taken aback by the hard set of her face; her features were sharp, cast in shadows, and her eyes stormy. "I didn't mean you," he scrambled, "I was talking about Mom and Dad."

"You said Joy walks around in her underwear."

Darn, he was hoping she didn't hear that. "Well...it's true. You're doing it right now."

"So? It's comfortable."

"It's embarrassing, though."

"Leave him alone, Joy," Josh called, "he's too good for us now. He has fence face."

Justin sighed. Whatever, let them be mad. He turned around and went through the connecting door to the garage. The truck sat in the gravel driveway leading to the road, a red 1995 Ford F-150. He unlocked the driver door, slid in behind the wheel, and took a deep breath.

Maybe it _was_ kind of mean to say all that. Sure, it was all true, but sometimes you can't tell the truth because it hurts people's feelings.

Now he felt bad.

Shaking his head, he jammed the key into the ignition, backed up, and drove away.

Inside, Lana angrily picked at her toe nails and muttered to herself. "Who does he think he is? Calling me the Bride of Frankenstein." She blew a puff of air through her nostrils and shook her head. Justin's words stung, and that they wounded her so deeply only made her madder. "We're not embarrassing, are we?" she asked with a hint of beseeching.

Jed turned the paper over and scanned it. "Maybe a little," he allowed. He scratched his furry chest and let out a belch. "Everyone's embarrassed by their parents when they're sixteen. I know I was."

Yeah, well, she was too, but Mama was a drunk who'd pass out wherever she fell, usually with her dress hiked up around her hips, with nothing on underneath. She wasn't anywhere near that bad.

But maybe he did have kind of a point.

"I'm not embarrassed by you guys," Josh said, "you're both cool."

"Me either," Joy said from beside Lana.

Lana looked at her feet, covered in corns and bunions, and sighed.

They might not be...but all at once, _she_ was. No wonder he didn't wanna bring his girlfriend over here.

"We do act like hillbillies," she said.

"That's 'cause we are, darlin'," Jed said and snapped the paper with a crisp sound. "We're just the middle class kind."

Lana considered his words for a minute, then shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe we are," she said and went back to picking her feet.

She'd worry about what they were, and whether they needed to fix it, later on. Right now, she had bigger things to worry about.

Like these damn bunions…


	220. April 2001: Part 2

**Lyrics to _Get the Party Started_ by Pink (2001)**

On the day of his first dialysis treatment, Lincoln sat in a waiting room off the hematology department of Mercy General Hospital with an open magazine unread in his lap. CNN played on a wall-mounted TV with the volume turned down, the anchors' mouths moving but producing no sound. Footage rolled of Clyde McBride standing behind a podium and addressing the National Housing Conference. He was taller than Lincoln remembered him, with glasses and a thin mustache, his hair silvery at the temples. Text appeared below him, but Lincoln was too far away to read it. Wouldn't it have been funny if McCain won and appointed Clyde? Two men he personally knew in control of the country. Ha. Make Sgt. Hellman the Secretary of Defense and Ronnie Anne the Secretary of Education and there you go, he had a personal in with everyone. _Sarge, I wanna go back to Vietnam and avenge myself. Can you spare a few thousand troops?_

He glanced at the magazine. Salma Hayek stood on a red carpet in a silvery dress that stopped above her knees, hands on her hips and a big, red smile on her lips. She looked nothing like Ronnie Anne, but she reminded him of her anyway, and guilt sloshed through his stomach like black ice. He was going to have to tell her soon. Very soon. Maybe tonight, or maybe tomorrow. He had chemo in the morning, and from what Patel said, it wouldn't take anywhere near as long as dialysis, which gave him time to get home and pump himself up. He didn't want to, but there are a lot of things you have to do in life whether you like them or not.

Like die.

And dialysis.

At their last appointment, Patel walked him through the process step-by-step. Two thin needles would be inserted into his right arm, one at the point where his wrist met his hand and the other slightly higher. They would be attached to hoses, and his blood would slowly be sucked from his body, filtered through a machine, and replaced. It was, in Patel's words, a long, sometimes grueling procedure, and Lincoln had been dreading it for days. The worst part, he had read, was the sitting; when you're plugged into the machine, you're stuck where you are for the duration, whether it be in a bed or a chair. Lincoln opted for a chair.

He took a deep, shivery breath and let it out through his nose.

The waiting room was empty aside from him. Sunshine fell through a window behind him and spread across the industrial carpet like clinging vines. He sighed, closed the magazine, and dropped it onto the chair next to him. He crossed his legs, propped his elbow on the arm, and rubbed his temples. He imagined he could feel the poisoned blood surging through his veins like acid, more and more filling his body with every dumb, mechanical pump of his heart. A rash covered his right knee, and he scratched it through the fabric of his pants. He woke with a headache that morning, but it went away after breakfast, and aside from a little fatigue, he felt completely fine. So fine, in fact, that he could almost believe he wasn't sick. After all, how can a man be riddled with cancer and not feel it? How can it be deep in his bones, but cause him no pain?

That doubt had been badgering him since the diagnosis, sometimes as an unshakeable conviction and other times as an insistant little niggle in the back of his mind, a proverbial pebble in a shoe. Patel gave him a stack of pamphlets during his last visit, and one of them was titled COPING WITH END OF LIFE. He intended to read it, but he made it two lines in before his heart started racing and his hands trembling, so he threw it away. _There is only so much you can do in anticipation of dying,_ it had said, _but you can prepare yourself by trying to review your relationships and tie up loose ends._ Staring it in the face, all black and white, nearly sent him into a panic attack like the ones he had after coming home from Vietnam.

He'd cope on his own.

And the first step of that was debasing himself of delusions and wishful thinking. Every morning, after Ronnie Anne left for work, he would stare into the bathroom mirror, forcing himself to look into his own eyes, and repeat, mentally, the same five words over and over. _You are going to die._ He tried to do it aloud once, but the breaking croak of his own voice disturbed him. In his heart, he still held out hope for a miraculous last-minute salvation like the ones in the movies, but real life wasn't a movie. You don't wake up to find the cancer eating away your body has disappeared, and no divine intervention will pluck you away from the ravenous death nipping at your heels. Every life, Lincoln had learned, is a story, and every man the protagonist of his story, the center of his universe. They may know, deep in their hearts, that they are but bit players in this ensemble piece called life, but when confronted with the stark reality of their position, their minds rebel. I can't die, they think, I'm the star of the show!

He was like that even now. He tried to imagine life going on without him, Blake and Zoe growing, Ronnie Anne aging, the sun rising and falling as it did before he was born, and was perturbed that he couldn't. Once he closed his eyes...once he ended...it was _all_ over, as though life were a fever dream contained entirely in his mind; when his brain waves stopped flickering, like a fading TV screen, all of it would dissipate.

Only it wouldn't, just like it didn't come into being when he was born. The hills were there before him, the moon too, and the stars as well. Every man, every woman, thinks they're special, but when they're lying awake in bed at night, their body slowly degrading around them, they realize that they aren't. He was special to Alex and Ronnie Anne, to Jessy and Lori and even Lynn III and Stephy, but to the universe? He was just another man, as small and insignificant as an ant.

Yes, he was going to die, just like everyone else will one day die. He was just getting there a little more quickly than others. His wife would miss him and probably never get over it, Alex and Jessy would miss him but _eventually_ come to terms with it, Blake would bounce back quickly, Zoe and Allison wouldn't remember him, and to the other kids in his family, he'd always be, at best, that nice old uncle who died a long time ago. Sad...but so it goes. In two generations, maybe three, everyone he knew would be gone, every life he touched extinguished; his generation would pass away like dead skin being shed from a body, and it would be as though he never lived at all. That thought unsettled him, but the more he investigated it, the more it _didn't_.

What would happen to him, though? Not to his body, but to _him?_ He spent his entire life disbelieving in God, even as loved ones died around him, but now, confronted with his own mortality, he wasn't so sure. Was this really it? Would he close his eyes and simply stop _being?_

Of all the concepts he'd had to tango with lately, that one - the idea of total non existence - was the hardest to tame. He came from darkness, like God calling for there to be light, but now that he had tasted the wine of life, he couldn't imagine not existing. He could liken it to closing his eyes or even sleeping, but the brain is still active during slumber. In death, it's not.

Those thoughts and more assailed him as a nurse in a purple top and pink pants lead him to a room. Voices spoke over the intercom, doctors rushed back and forth, and the astringent smell of disinfectant pinched his nostrils. His chest began to tighten and he forced himself to take a series of deep, evenly spaced breaths.

When he entered the room, the first thing he noticed was the tall, clunky machine in the corner. In size and shape, it put Lincoln in mind of a gas station gas pump. A number of dials, screens, and buttons dotted its face, and coils of clear rubber tubes hung like lassos from either side. Get along, little doggy. A wide chair with wooden arms and upholstered in yellow leather sat next to it. Lincoln sat in it, and the nurse took his vitals, then left. Sitting there alone, Lincoln glanced at the contraption to his left with a twist of apprehension.

Why was he afraid of it? That thing was going to keep him alive a little longer.

Scrounging for time, he thought, that's all he was doing now...because time was running out. He thought inexplicably of Alex then - Alex and Alex alone - and for some reason he suddenly wanted to cry. He drew a trembling breath instead and got a grip on himself. Strangely, he hadn't cried yet, hadn't even felt like crying, but right now, gazing upon the machine whose sole purpose was to grant him a few extra months with his family, his impending death took on a dimension of reality that it didn't possess before.

An Asian woman in a lab coat came into the room and greeted him with a smiling, "Hello," that was almost mocking. She could smile...she wasn't dying. "I'm Dr. Dinh and I'm going to be administering the transfusion," she explained. That's not what it was called, Lincoln thought, if it was a transfusion, they'd replace the sick blood with clean blood and be done with it.

He nodded because he didn't trust himself to speak, then turned his head away; tears welled against the backs of his eyes and he wasn't sure he could hold them at bay. He didn't want this woman he didn't know to see them, didn't want to show his weakness, didn't want to admit that he was afraid...not just for his family, but for himself.

Dinh sat on a stool, rolled up Lincoln's sleeve, and rubbed a patch of skin with an iodine pad. Yellow smeared across his flesh and the acrid odor stung his nose. "Okay," she said in a faux comforting tone, "this might sting."

She sank a needle into his vein, and it did sting. She did it again, then hooked either one to a tube that wound through the machine like reel-to-reel tape. She stood at a screen and typed, then it cut on with a whirring sound. Lincoln watched as his blood flowed through the tube. It was red and rich and looked no different than ever. For some reason, he thought that it would.

"Would you like a magazine?" she asked. "We also have books."

Lincoln considered, then shook his head. He wasn't in the mood to focus on anything right now. He just wanted to think. "No, thanks."

While Dinh attended to the machine, Lincoln stared into space and danced with death one more time. He wanted to be over his own grief when he told Ronnie Anne, because she would need him to be strong for her, but he didn't think he would ever be truly over it, or at least not until much later on, long after the disease was showing. Looking her in the eyes and telling her that he was going to die would be the most difficult task he had ever undertaken, and he wanted to be as together as he could be. That probably wasn't going to happen, though.

On some level, he was still in denial - even sitting here, he couldn't _really_ believe he was going to die - and he was also procrastinating.

He would tell her, he resolved.

Tomorrow afternoon.

Having that out of the way would be liberating.

But he still had to tell everyone else.

Including hs daughters.

His heart squeezed and he sucked a reflexive gasp of air. If telling Ronnie Anne was hard, telling Alex…

He didn't even want to think about that right now.

For a long time, he watched the contraption work. There was a little window where he could see his tainted blood slosh around like a Slushie machine at 7-11. The old went into the filter, was sanitized, then came out new again, cleansed through the blessed miracle of techno baptism. It drained into his arm, whereupon it became dirty again, stained by the sin in his bones.

Eventually, his mind slowed and settled into inertia. His eyelids grew heavy and he let them droop. The strange and unpleasant feeling of his blood being siphoned away prevented him from sleeping, but he dozed, the sounds and smells of hospital worming their way into his subconscious. He did not dream, but he thought deeply, images faded and sepia toned with time flickering before his mind's eye like a slideshow. Christmases, birthdays, Alex and Jessy, Blake and Zoe, Ronnie Anne on their wedding day. When he came awake, his was in an even darker mood than before. Dinh unhooked the machines five hours and fifty-two minutes after the process began, and Lincoln's legs wobbled when he stood. His muscles ached and spasmed and his stomach rolled like a merry-go-round.

Dinh advised him not to drive, but it was late and he was tired, the last thing he wanted to do was wait. Weak afternoon light spread through the trees in the parking lot. It was just past four, if he hurried, he could beat Ronnie Anne home.

The interstate was stop and go out of the city. Lincoln sat in traffic and gazed straight ahead, driving when he could and stopping where he had to. The radio played, news then the golden sounds of yesteryear. Each song, even if he didn't like it, reminded him of a different time, a better time, one where the shadow of death did not lay over him and tomorrow was all but assured. At some point, the concrete divider between the north and sound bound lanes fell away, and the only thing separating them was a white line.

A tractor trailer appeared ahead, emerging from beneath an overpass, heading into the city. The abrupt compulsion to cross into its lane and hit it head on came over Lincoln like a pall, and his hands tightened on the wheel. One jerk and it would be over. No waiting around, no agonizing day after day, just one quick flash of pain and nothing. Ronnie Anne and the girls would grieve, but it would be better than being dragged through a protracted death march. Staying, slowly dying, would only hurt them more. His instinct, everyone's instinct, he imagined, was to hang on as long as he could, but that was selfish, and he was the only one who would benefit from it. Ronnie Anne and everyone else would suffer as he faded, they would see him gradually dying, getting worse, the nightmare going on and on, never ending.

He went back to the tried and true analogy of ripping a Band-Aid off. If you peeled it off, the hurt lasted longer, but if you really fucking yanked, it was over fast. He owed it to them to do this, to spare them the prolonged horror of watching someone they loved wither away. When it was Leni, then Mom years later, he felt powerless, trapped, like a man forced to carry out the motions in a bad dream, locked in a set track even though he knows it will lead to darkness. He pictured Jessy, Alex, and Ronnie Anne standing over his death bed, teary eyed and holding each other for support, only he didn't die - he selfishly hung on for days, weeks, the scene repeating on an endless loop.

The truck was closer now, and Lincoln's heartbeat slowed. Light glinted on its big, chrome grill. He could just make out a human form sitting behind the wheel, blank and indistinct like a shadow of night. Whoever he - or she - was, the accident surely wouldn't kill or even injure him (or her). The big tires would suck him in and crush the car like a tin can, and he would be dead instantly. His girls would cry but it would be so much better than it could have been. Would Ronnie Anne know? Once she found out about the disease, would she understand why he did it? He hoped she would, but she might not.

Lincoln clutched the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white and his bottom lip pulled absently into his mouth. All he had to do was flick his wrists. That was all. Just one little twitch and his family would be spared.

He licked his lips.

The truck was closer.

His heart barely beat. His hands were wet.

He willed himself to do it, the sound of shrieking metal and breaking glass already in his ears. Would it hurt? Would he feel his body being crushed and ripped to ribbons? He pressed the gas, and the car sped up with a low, cat-like _vroom_. He took a deep breath…

And froze.

The truck passed.

Lincoln kept driving.

A pent up breath burst from his lips, and he was forced to pull to the gravel shoulder until the shakes passed. When he was calm, he merged with traffic and went home in defeat.

He had long known he was weak, and this just confirmed it.

Sitting in his chair and holding his face in his hands, Lincoln wept.

* * *

Maddie sat stiffly at the lunch table and looked around the room, her lips scrunched meditatively to one side. Three days ago, she left a note poking out of her locker between second and third period, and when she came back, it was gone, just like milk and cookies when Santa comes. In it, she asked her crush to meet her on the playground after school, and when she saw that he'd taken the letter, her heart twisted. Okay then. I guess this is going to happen.

At the end of the day, she went out to the playground and sat on a wide step leading up to a rope bridge. She waited an hour, elbows on her knees and chin in her hands, before sighing, giving up, and leaving. Walking home in the arid desert heat, she couldn't decide if she was more disappointed or relieved. It was _probably_ equal parts, but her feelings were still kind of hurt that he didn't show. The next day, she left another note sticking out of her locker, and later, when she returned, it was gone again. She told him to leave her a note of his own if he was serious.

He didn't.

Sigh.

Oh well. It wasn't _that_ big a deal. Even so, she was curious. Who was he? Why did he stop? Was it something she did?

"I wanna find out who it is," she heard herself say.

Across from her, Curtis looked up from his tray and swallowed a mouthful of green beans. "Who who is?" he asked.

"My secret admirer," she said with strained patience, "duh."

Curtis threw his arms up in a stricken gesture. "You weren't even talking about him," he said defensively.

No, she wasn't, but still, this was a major thing for her and you'd expect her best friend to get that. It wasn't his fault, she guessed, boys are just dumb, as evidenced by recent events. "Well, I am now," she said. "I wanna know who he is."

"You gonna talk to him if you find out?"

She opened her mouth, then faltered. "Uh...I dunno. Maybe? Probably not, he doesn't wanna talk to me anymore." Her voice wavered on the last word and she quelled a rush of sadness. Maybe she didn't really want a boyfriend right now, but still, it was nice knowing someone liked her, and knowing that they _didn't_ like her now kind of stung. Sucking it up, she said, "I just wanna know who he is, that's all."

Shrugging one shoulder, Curtis said, "I guess that makes sense. How are you gonna find out?"

"That's the thing," Maddie sighed, "I don't know."

Curtis tilted his head back in thought and drew a deep, even breath. "I guess just...leave a note at your locker...then watch it."

"I can't do that," she said, "I have class."

"You can skip," Curtis said.

Well, true, but she couldn't skip a _whole_ class, she'd get in trouble, and even if she did, she couldn't wander the halls without getting caught. It just wouldn't work.

Unless…

A figurative light bulb appeared over her head. "That's it," she said.

"What?" Curtis asked.

"You'll help me."

Curtis's face dropped. "I will?"

"Yep," she chirped proudly. "We'll take turns. I'll watch it a little, then you watch it."

"I dunno know about all that," Curtis said dubiously, "maybe -"

The bell rang, and Maddie jumped to her feet. "We'll do it tomorrow."

She hurried off before Curtis could protest, and spent the rest of the day throbbing with excitement. Her mother always said it's best to be proactive, and Maddie agreed; taking the bull by the horns and acting, instead of reacting, was liberating. At the end of the day, she gathered her things and went out through the main doors. Buses stood at the curb and kids streamed on, putting her in mind of Spongebob, where all the buses showed up at the Krusty Krab and a million anchovies piled off, only in reverse. She waited by a trash can for Curtis, and when he came up, they started walking home.

"You're gonna help me still, right?" she asked.

Curtis sighed. "Yes," he said, "I'll help you. How are we gonna do this, though?"

She'd been thinking of that all day and had a plan. She would leave the note just before her last class of the day, study hall. The teacher, a fat old woman named Ms. Shahan, spent the whole time reading paperback romances and gobbling jellybeans from a glass dish. She didn't care, in other words, and Maddie was pretty sure she could get a bathroom pass and spend half the class at her post. She'd do it at the beginning and stay gone for half an hour, so 1:30 to 2:00. Curtis could cover the 2:00 to 2:30 shift.

She explained this as they walked, and Curtis threw his head back. "You're gonna get me in trouble," he said, "Mr. Jordan doesn't play that. He'll run me down and probably break my neck."

"That's a risk you're just going to have to take," she said. It was kind of callous and selfish, but she really wanted to find out her admierer's identity.

"Fine," Curtis said tightly, "but you owe me. Big time."

"Got it," Maddie said.

At home, she went into her bedroom and tossed her backpack in the corner. Toys, action figures, and stuffed animals lay strewn across the floor, and posters of Mankind, The Rock, and Stone Cold Steve Austin graced the pallid pink walls. She kicked her shoes off and, in her socks, picked her way through the room. She was almost to her bed when she stepped on something hard and plastic. She yelped and jumped up and down. The Undertaker glared up at her, and flashing, she kicked him across the floor.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she swung her legs on and stretched out, her hands lacing on her chest. She was alone in the house, both Mom and Dad at work, and the silence unnerved her. To kill time, she went over her plan again and again to make sure it would actually work. It should, unless her admirer grabbed the note before she could get out of class.

Let's hope that didn't happen.

At dinner that night, she pushed her food around her plate and took an obligatory bite here and there. She was so nervous, excited, and other things that she wasn't even hungry, but Mom and Dad would start asking questions if she didn't eat. "How was your day?" Mom asked and forked a piece of potato into her mouth. She was still in her work clothes - black skirt and blazer - but she had let her hair down, and it spilled around her shoulders like liquid mahogany. If you looked closely, you could see the odd strand of gray. Mom hated them and every couple months she died her hair. _I'm too young for grays_ , she said, but Maddie didn't think she was. Thirty-three wasn't _super_ old, but it was old enough.

"It was okay," Maddie said. She cut a shred of beef in half and stabbed it with the tines of her fork.

"That's all?" Dad pressed. "Just good?

He wore a white button up dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back and his black tie loosened around the throat. His curly, sandy blonde hair was gray free, a fact he used to tease Mom.

"I've had worse," Maddie said, "I've had better too."

Mom took a sip from a glass of tea. "I hear that," she said.

Afterward, Maddie took a bath. She used lots of bubbles and brought a few friends with her: Mankind, The Rock, and some nameless jobber no one cared about. The Rock was Curtis's favorite wrestler and every time she saw him, she thought of her friend. She didn't like The Rock at first, but now she did, so there.

Done, she got out, toweled off, and dressed in a pair of green shorts and a black T-shirt. Mom and Dad came to tuck her in just past 9:30, like they always did, and after they left, she sighed. Hopefully she found out who this bozo was tomorrow. Whether or not she would talk to him or not remained to be seen. She kind of wanted to not, but she also wanted to give him an ear full for stopping the letters. Those made me feel really good and then you took them away. What gives?

It was a long time before she slept, and in her dreams, she followed a faceless boy down the hallway. She didn't know how she knew, but he was her admirer, and though she called out to him, he didn't turn, and eventually, he disappeared into a crowd. Loss wrenched her middle, and even though she wasn't sure she wasn't certain she wanted the trouble of a boyfriend, she felt like crying.

The next morning, she woke bright and early and got ready for school in the ashen glow of dawn. Dad was already gone and Mom bustled around the kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off, making coffee, toasting bread, and looking for her purse. "I gotta find my purse," she worried, "I'm already later."

Maddie cocked her head. "Uh, Mom?"

Ignoring her, Mom squatted and ripped open a cabinet, as though her purse would actually be in there, though maybe it could be; old people do things like that sometimes. It's called Old Timer's Disease and it affects 1 in 2 people over thirty.

Okay, those stats weren't real but whatever.

"Mom," she said again, louder this time.

Mom got to her feet and looked harriedly around. "Maybe it's in the pantry," she said. She crossed to the pantry and opened the door.

"Mom!"

Closing the door, Mom looked over her shoulder.

"You're wearing it."

Mom darted her eyes down to her right; the purse hung from her shoulder and slapped against her hip with every movement. "Oh, there it is."

Before leaving, Mom buttered two slices of toast, sat them on a plate, and grabbed an apple from a wire basket on the counter. She poured a glass of orange juice, and sat it all in front of Maddie. "I love you," she said and pecked Maddie's forehead.

"Love you too."

Maddie ate slowly, not caring if she was a little late, then put the dishes in the sink and left the house. The morning, though early, was already hot, the sky above a clear, cloudless blue and the palms up and down the sidewalk completely still in the airless void. Maddie pulled her backpack over her shoulder, went down the walkway, and took a right. At Curtis's house, she leaned against a lamppost, and while she waited for him to come out, she rummaged through her book bag for her CD player. It always took Curtis forever to get ready and she got bored pretty easily.

She found it, slipped the headphones around her neck, and pressed PLAY, not sure what CD was even in until the music started. She hit the skip button until she got to track four, then shoved it into her pocket.

 _Get this party started on a Saturday night_

 _Everybody's waitin' for me to arrive_

 _Sendin' out the message to all of my friends_

 _We'll be lookin' flashy in my Mercedes Benz_

A tiny white Scootish terrier with a furry face that looked like a mustache trotted by. "Hey, doggy," Maddie said.

It tossed her an irritated glance and growled.

Okay, then, fine.

 _Boulevard is freakin' as I'm comin' up fast_

 _I'll be burnin' rubber, you'll be kissin' my ass_

The front door opened and Maddie perked up. Curtis came out, dressed in jeans and a faded red T-shirt with a white eagle outline on the chest, and crossed the yard, brittle brown grass crunching under his shoes.

"Ready?" she asked.

"For what?" he asked and they started walking.

"What we talked about yesterday," she said.

"I thought we weren't doing that until later," he said.

They stopped at an intersection to let a Caddy pass. "We're not," she said.

"Okay, then no," he said, "I'm not ready. Ask me later."

At school, Maddie put her backpack in her locker, got her things, and went to her first class, where she waited on the edge of her seat for the bell to ring. This process repeated five times, and five times, she wrote a letter, pronounced it done, then balled it up and started over in the next class. It didn't matter what she wrote since it was a bait letter, but she kind of wanted it to be perfect anyway. She kept turning into her personal therapist or something, though.

 _I'm kind of confuzed and dont know if I want to have a boyfrind right now, but the poem you sent me was really sweet and made me feel really good. It sort of hurt my feeling when you didnt come to the playground and stopped sending me notes. Did I do something wrong?_

She ripped that one into tiny little pieces and threw it into the trash, the thought of exposing her emotions so openly to someone she didn't even know making her stomach tangle.

Finally, the appointed time came around. She sat in her normal seat at the back of the room and waited for all the other kids to enter. Ms. Shahan, dressed in a floral dress with short sleeves that revealed her flabby arms, sat behind her desk like a beached whale and read from a book with a bare chested Fabio on the cover. A deep blush touched her doughy cheeks and her chest heaved with every labored breath. Uh, was she going to have a stroke or something?

When everyone was settled down, she raised her hand. When Ms. Shahan predictably didn't acknowledge her, she called her name. The fat woman looked up, her three chins jiggling, and the guilty expression on her face was one of a girl who'd been caught in the cookie jar. "Yes?"

"Can I go to the bathroom?"

"I don't know," Ms. Shahan said archly, " _can_ you?"

Maddie rolled her eyes. When she didn't have her nose buried in a book, Ms. Shahan taught English...and it showed. " _May_ I go to the bathroom?"

"Yes you may."

Maddie got up, went to the front of the room, and took one of the bathroom passes from the desk. In the hall, she pulled the door closed behind her and looked both ways like a girl crossing the street; puddles of sunlight dappled the empty floor. She turned right and power walked to her locker, arms swinging back and forth to give her extra drive. The note she left jutting from one of the little vent slats was still there. Whew. She was afraid it wouldn't be.

Now...where to hide.

She glanced left and right, and spotted a trash can sitting in a little alcove diagonal from her locker. She looked around once more, confirmed that no one was watching, then darted over. There, she dropped to her knees, moved the can just enough to make a Maddie-sized space, then wedged in-between it and the wall. She had a direct line of sight to her locker, and given the angle that which the walls met, no one passing would be able to see her unless they stopped and bent over the can - _peekaboo, Maddie, I see you._

Now to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Maddie was good at lots of things, like knowing every wrestling move ever, but she was _not_ good at patience. Some people can entertain themselves with nothing but their own thoughts, but not her. She needed external stimulus, like a movie, or toys, or music. Sitting there behind the trash can, she had none of those things, and in five minutes, she was bored out of her mind. She shifted restlessly, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, threaded her fingers, twiddled her thumbs, and blew puffs of increasingly frustrated air that stirred her bangs. Every couple seconds, she leaned heavily to the left, but the note was always there and her admirer wasn't. A few people passed during that endless half hour; she drew away, pulled her knees to her chest, and held her breath so they didn't hear.

Her annoyance deepened, and by the time twenty minutes had passed, she was livid. When she found this boy, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Look what you made me door; I had to hide behind a trash can like a complete weirdo because you stopped sending letters. You're rude, thoughtless, and dumb, and I'm breaking up with you in advance.

Footsteps echoed through the hall, and her heart leapt into her throat. She curled up and tucked her chin against her chest. They came closer and closer until they were on top of her. Something hit the rim of the can and splattered the top of her head; it was cold and wet, and Maddie cringed.

The footsteps dwindled, and when she was alone again, she lifted her head, and a tomato dropped into her lap. Oh, gross. She brushed her hand along her hair, and it came back smeared with mayo.

Double gross.

She tilted over to see her locker just as Curtis walked up. He looked around, then leaned against the next locker over and crossed his arms.

Peeling a soggy piece of bread from her hair, Maddie slid out and got stiffly to her feet. Now she smelled like a pastrami on rye and felt like a moron. Hanging her head in defeat, she shuffled over, and Curtis knitted his brows. "What happened to you?"

"Someone threw a sandwich on my head," she said and karate chopped the air for emphasis.

"Well, what did you think was gonna happen? Hiding in a trash can like that."

Maddie's nostrils flared. "I wasn't hiding _in_ the trash can, I was hiding _behind_ the trash can. It's not my fault people can't aim."

Leaving him in charge, she went to the girls' room, wetted a wad of paper towels, and did the best she could to wipe the mayo out of her hair. Man, she really hoped no one smelled it on her.

Back in class, Ms. Shahan was enraptured by her book, and made no sign that she was aware of Maddie entering and taking her seat. She ran her fingers through her sodden hair and sniffed them; she could still smell the mayonaise, and it turned her stomach. She didn't mind being dirty, but this was too much. As soon as she got home, she was taking a bath.

That was a worry for later, though, right now she needed to focus on her admirer. Hopefully Curtis saw him...but something told her he wouldn't. A sharp ripple cut through her midsection and she sighed. She hadn't been interested in boys very long, but she'd already come to a realization about them.

They were more trouble than they were worth.

Let's see. He'd already:

Consumed her almost every waking thought.

Made her feel sick, flush, and fluttery

Hurt her feelings by standing her up

Made her go out of her way to find out who he was

Made her lose a little bit of respect for herself because omg, why did she care so much? She shouldn't care so much.

Got her covered in nasty sandwich stuff.

That was six strikes. In baseball, you get three then you're out. She ought to forget this whole thing. It was dumb anyway.

Dumb or not, though, she really wanted to know who he was. She didn't know where she would go from there, but she didn't care.

At the end of class, the bell rang, and everyone got up and filed out of the room. Maddie tucked her science book under her arm, stood, and went out into the crowded hallway. Kids pushed and shoved for position, dug in their lockers, and made their way to the big double doors. Maddie shouldered past a group of boys to get to her locker, and froze.

The letter was gone.

Someone bumped into her, and she whipped around. Curtis jabbed his finger insistently down the hall, toward the back of the building. "I just saw him," he said, "he had a purple backpack with red writing on it."

Maddie was already moving, her body flooding with adrenaline and her heart knocking on her ribs. All she'd been through over the past few weeks...all the confusion, self-doubt, and strange feelings...came back to her, and she was determined to not let him get away. She would talk to him, she decided vaguely, even if it was just to tell him off for what-she-didn't-know.

Two kindergarteners, a boy and a girl, stood in her way, and she barreled through them like a bullet, knocking both of them back. "Hey!" the girl cried after her. "You're mean!"

A dozen bodies, two dozen, _three_ , were densely packed ahead of her, ambling toward the front. Like a fish swimming upstream, Maddie ducked, pushed, and squeezed, pausing to stand on her tippy toes in a futile effort to see over them. At an intersection, she hesitated and looked around, not knowing which way to go. To her right, she caught a flash of purple through the throng, and her heart jumped. She slipped between a couple of girls, pushed a Mexican boy, and got stuck behind a gang of kids in basketball shorts on their way to the gym, She jumped up and down, and clearly saw a purple backpack.

She had her man.

The basketball players laughed and shuffled their feet. One of them held a ball under his arm, and flashing, Maddie punched it; it took off like a shot and hit a black girl in the back of the head. "My ball!" the boy yelled. He went to get it and made a gap, allowing her to slip by.

Purple Backpack hung a left at the gym, and Maddie followed. The hall here was emptier, and she quickened her step. "Hey!" she called, but he did not turn.

Now she was starting to get mad. Baring her teeth, she pushed a boy out of the way and started to run, catching up with him as he reached the side door. "You have some nerve," she growled and grabbed his book bag. He turned…

...and he wasn't a he at all, but a she. Tall and slender with dark hair and green eyes, a white shirt riding up her stomach to reveal her midriff, her admirer didn't quite, uh, look how she imagined he would.

"Excuse me?" the girl asked testily.

Maddie shook her head. "You took my note."

The girl's face hardened. "No I didn't," she spat.

She had the wrong person.

Of course she did. Just her luck.

"Are you sure?" she asked hopefully. She didn't like girls like _that,_ but in that instant, all she wanted was closure.

"Uh, yeah, I'm sure, now go away."

With that, the girl turned and went out the door. Maddie watched her go, then hung her head and sighed. Well... _that_ didn't work out.

She was walking now, her head down and her shoulders slumped. Somehow she wound up at another door and pushed through without caring where it led.

A warm wind blew over her, and she looked dispassionately up. The playground stood before her, deserted save for the light of the sun. She'd sit down, mope a little, then go home and forget this ever happened.

WIth another dejected sigh, she trudged over and sat on a step leading to the bridge. She propped her legs up, planted her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin in her hands. A strong wind blew her hair around her head and threw a measure of grit into her face, making her wince. Bleh. She never thought she was unlucky before, but with watery eyes, mayo hair, and a possible broken heart, she kind of did now.

It wasn't so bad, though. He took her note and there was still the chance he could write back. I mean, if he didn't like her anymore, he wouldn't keep taking them, would he?

And why did she even care? She thought back to the poem and the warm, tingly feeling it stoked in her chest, and a dreamy little sigh escaped her lips.

Because she did, okay? She wasn't happy about it, but she did and that was final. You can't always control how you feel. Your heart works independently of your brain. Your brain is like...hm...oh, I know. Your brain is like Squidward and your heart is like Spongebob. One is grounded and cynical, the other is endlessly optimistic and even a little naive. Your brain can warn and scold your heart all it wants, but your heart will never listen; it will continue bounding through life with a spring in its step and a dopey smile on its face, happy go lucky and a friend to everyone, because that's what hearts do.

And maybe that's a good thing, because if your heart ever becomes as cold and analytical as your brain, _you_ become cold.

She didn't realize she wasn't alone until Curtis sat next to her. "There you are," he said.

"Here I am," Maddie said glumly.

"You didn't find him, did you?" Curtis asked.

Maddie shook her head. "Nope." A flicker of hope ignited in her chest. "Did you?"

It went out when Curtis replied. "No," he said. He lifted his butt from the step, dug in his pocket, and pulled something out. "I _did_ find this," he said.

He held it out, and Maddie's eyes widened when she saw what it was: A folded note with a heart drawn and shaded on the front. The paper rippled in the wind, and Maddie's hand shot out to take it before cruel fate could blow it away. "Where'd you find this?" she asked.

Curtis looked coyly down at his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, I wrote it."

Maddie missed a beat. What?

She looked at him. She'd known him for, like, years, and had never seen him blush, but his dark cheeks blazed a deep and seemingly impossible shade of crimson. "I-It's you?" she asked disbelievingly.

Slowly, Curtis nodded. "Yeah," he said, barely above a whisper, "it's me."

Maddie gaped. Curtis was the last person she suspected to like her that way. They'd been friends for years and he never once acted like he had a crush on her. To him, she thought, she was no different than Scott or Darnell, a friend and nothing more. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words issued forth. She looked from the letter to him and back again, feeling like a strangling fish flopping on a sandy shore. "Why?" she heard herself ask.

"Just read it," Curtis said.

She stared at him a moment longer, then turned back to the note. She unfolded it and smoothed it against her knees, the edges whipping in the dry wind.

 _Dear Maddie_

 _I'm sorry I stopped sending you notes. I kind of got nervous and scared to go through with telling you. Your really great and I didnt want to ruin our friendship if you didnt like me back but I had to do it. I like you a lot and when I'm with you I feel good and dont want you to leave. Your smile lites up the world and your eyes take my breath away. I love how determined you are. Your not like any girl I know and really hope we can be boyfriend and girlfriend._

After that, he signed his name.

Maddie stared down at the script, her jaw hanging open and her chest tingling. She looked up, and Curtis went on staring at his shoes with a slight grimace, as though in anticipation of a hard and unforgiving blow. Her face was flushed now, too, burning hot like fever, and her heart slammed hard against her ribs. She grasped for words and didn't know what she was going to say until she said it. "Do you mean it?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "every word."

She looked down at the paper, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy, and her face grew hotter, so hot she felt like she was going to burst into flames.

"You're really beautiful," he stammered, "and just...all around great."

A big smile spread across her lips and she covered her face with the letter. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. She couldn't recall ever thinking of him as cute, but he was.

"So...what now?" he asked hesitantly.

That was a good question, what _was_ next? Maddie didn't know, and right now, she didn't care. She feel warm and happy and good, and though her brain strained to assert itself, she let her heart decide her. She reached out and tentatively took Curtis's hand in hers. He looked up at her with soft brown eyes that sent her heart racing, and she smiled stupidly. "Same thing we do everyday," she said.

She got to her feet, and Curtis followed, and hand-in-hand, they started home.


	221. April 2001: Part 3

**Yeah, I wasn't very slick with the Curtis thing. I didn't feel like introducing a new character, though. Basically, I wanted a storyline that could wrap up Maddie's arc in the story, the same thing I'm doing with Lana right now and with other characters later on. We're** _ **that**_ **close to the end.**

Four hours after his first chemotherapy treatment, Lincoln Loud reclined in his armchair, his body limp and tired. It was almost six and the TV droned on unwatched, the news of the day going in one ear and out the other: Former Yugoslav strongman Slobodan Milošević surrendered to the police on charges of crimes against humanity; someone shot up a Burger King in Ann Arbor; The Netherlands legalized gay marriage. The world was turning and turning, stopping for no one, and Lincoln was being left behind. He swallowed thickly and winced at the coppery taste in his mouth. Normal side effect, they said. All food and drink would taste like shit, they said, only they didn't use the word 'shit'.

That afternoon, he reported to Elk Park General and took a shot in the arm. Intravenous chemotherapy, it was called, and apparently it was one of the less invasive methods available. Patel said there was a slim chance it would break down the cancerous cells enough to give him an extra six months. If everything worked out perfectly (and things rarely ever do), he could hang on for almost two years. He had another appointment tomorrow, this one in Detroit, to see whether or not the chemo had any effect. If it did, they would carry on, if not, they'd up the dosage.

In other words, it wasn't a matter of if anymore, but of when. It had been from the beginning, he supposed, but he had hope for a cure. After his near brush with suicide the day before, he no longer did. Admitting that he was going to die was hard, but a lot of things in life are hard, doesn't mean they shouldn't be done. In his heart of hearts, that hope abided, and would perhaps until the moment he drew his final breath, but such is human nature. Our two strongest biological instincts are the will to survive and the will to mate. If they weren't iron-clad, our race wouldn't have gotten very far, because sometimes, living, and finding a partner willing to open her legs for you, are really fucking difficult. So difficult that unless those urges were paramount, the kind that govern your life, a lot of people would just give up.

Lincoln wouldn't say he knew the meaning of life, but he had a theory. It wasn't some lofty philosophical bullshit about loving your neighbor or being fulfilled, no. The meaning of life was to live and reproduce. That might sound cold and utilitarian to the more romantic among us, but it is, he thought, fundamentally true. We're not here to be free or tiptoe through the tulips, we're here to feed wood into the fire and keep it going as long as possible. We do this through having children and protecting them as we protect ourselves.

It's a form of narcissism, when you get down to it; we believe we and our children are the greatest thing ever and act accordingly, because if we did not, we probably wouldn't do very well in life. Love...well, love is pragmatic. You find a woman and dedicate everything you have to her, as she does to you, so that you and your offspring can thrive. Everything, everything, is based around self-preservation, which can lead to an unhealthy amount of selfishness.

That, my friends, is where God comes in. God, in whatever form he takes, exists simply to enforce community over the self. God tells us to be generous and accepting, because if he did not, we would still be animals, banding together enough to ensure the survival of the pride but ultimately self-centered. Lately, God had been replaced by other things, like liberalism. Liberalism extols many of the same principles - brotherhood and generosity - for many of the same reasons. Men need a master because their inherent nature trends toward selfishness.

Lincoln swallowed again and rubbed his achy temples. He always had a little bit of philosopher in him - Linconus Loudicus hath returneth - but he'd been feeling extra reflective lately. Oncoming death will do that, he figured.

The long and short of it was this: He would hope unto the end, but while his heart could deny his fate, his brain could not. He didn't know if he could claim to have "come to terms" with what was happening to him, but he had no choice other than to accept it as a cold, hard fact.

Now he just had to tell Ronnie Anne.

His eyes went to the clock on the mantle. It ticked like a dying heart winding down to darkness. On TV, the local news gave way to Dan Rather. Six months ago, his iron gray hair and wrinkles may have surprised Lincoln - he always pictured Rather as the young correspondent he was in the sixties - but now it didn't. Everyone gets old, everyone dies. Bob Barker, Walter Cronkite, Fats Domino. Jesus, he hadn't heard those last two names in years. Funny how someone can be such a huge part of your life - hell, the life of a nation - then just go away. New generations come, and that guy who was once Big with a capital 'B' is relegated to obscurity. Those generations have their own icons, their own singers and anchors and movies, and to them, it's the same. Human beings, the human experience, does not change from one era to the next. The makes and models of the cars might, the clothes they wear might, even the words they use to express themselves might, but they don't. Kids are the same now as they were in the fifties, and kids in the fifties were the same as the kids of the twenties. Dan Rather was to Alex what Walter Cronkite was to him. One day, Dan Rather wouldn't be in that chair anymore, it would be someone else, and Alex, like her old man, would never fully adjust. There would always be a hint of the alien about him - he'd always be the new guy, even after twenty years worth of nightly newscasts.

He sighed and shifted positions. His back ached. He should really get up and start dinner, but he was spent, and just the thought of getting up drained him.

When he heard Ronnie Anne's key in the lock ten minutes later, he drew a deep breath. He didn't want to do this, but God help him, he wanted it out of the way. He'd chickened out a dozen times over the past few weeks, even convinced himself that he was waiting for himself to be ready, but he wasn't backing out this time.

The door opened and she came in.

She kicked her heels off and dropped her purse onto the end table.

Lincoln's chest throbbed like an abscessed tooth as he sat forward, and his nails dug into the arm of the chair. She looked up and flashed a warm, happy smile, and Lincoln smiled weakly back. The good times were over, he thought, and he would most likely never see that smile again.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied. His resolve wavered, and he felt himself beginning to crumble.

Before he could balk, he threw himself into it.

"We need to talk."

* * *

Lana had been a mother for sixteen years, and even all this time later, she still occasionally felt like a failure. People are like clay - they're shaped and molded by their upbringing then hardened in the kiln of life. She was molded by a mother who didn't care about her and never felt very confident in her dealings with her own children. She loved them immensely but she had no role model for motherhood, so every step was a blind bumble in the dark. Now, at forty, she'd largely overcome her insecurities, but they still reared their ugly heads from time to time, such as now. She knew it was perfectly natural for a teenage boy to be embarrassed by his parents, but she couldn't help taking it personal. The other day, Justin called her the Bride of Frankenstine and acted like she was the most awful thing in the world. Normal, she told herself, but hurtful nevertheless. He did have a point, and even days later, even after he apologized to her and Jed ( _Sorry I called y'all hillbillies_ ), she was still smarting over it.

Growing up, she craved her mother's love the way a baby craves its mother's milk, and she didn't think she'd _ever_ have been embarrassed of Mama. How can you be ashamed of someone you love? She wasn't ashamed of Jed in the least, even when he farted in public and it stank out the entire grocery store, even when he ate like a slob on their date nights and got food all over his shirt. He was a good man and she loved him. She assumed everyone felt that way, so if Justin was ashamed of her, that must mean he didn't love her. And why would he? She was always messing up, like that time they all went camping and she got weepy because _y'all love your father more._

How awful was that? Crying in front of your kids and making them feel like you didn't believe they loved you. Why, that was emotional abuse!

She didn't mean to, though, and telling herself that got her through for a spell, but then she had a revelation.

Mama didn't mean it either. Mama never woke up and said _I think I'll abuse my daughters today_. She did it because she was angry. She was angry Daddy left, she was angry she didn't have no money, she was angry she had two little girls getting in the way of her living her life. Everyone has justifications for their actions; no one ever twirls their mustache and laughs about how evil they are, because even the evilest people to ever live didn't _think_ they were evil. Bless their hearts, they always thought they were right.

Just like her.

No feeling had ever been worse, and though she wasn't proud of it, she went in the master bathroom, locked the door, turned the shower on, and sat on the commode and cried. It wasn't Justin's fault, it wasn't anyone's but her own. She was an insecure mess and probably always would be. The knowledge that Justin's words and actions didn't mean he hated her only made her cry harder. He was a normal boy doing normal things, and here she was, panicking like it was the end of the world.

Because _she_ wasn't normal. No one can come through a childhood like hers and be normal; and if they can, they're a better person than Lana. Even Lola wasn't as screwed up as she was, and she had the exact same life. Maybe there was something wrong with her specifically, maybe she was weak and broken.

Weak and broken or not, she had three children she loved, and for their sake, she would be strong and whole...or die trying. They didn't deserve a mother who went to pieces because she was sick in her head, and she'd be damned if they had one. When she was pregnant with Justin, she told Jed she wanted their kids to have a better life than the one she had, and she meant it. Everything she did, whether she failed or not, was for them.

It was hard, though. When you're wracked with self-doubt, each step feels like a misstep, even when it's not. She went on as usual and pretended that Justin's comment didn't wound her, but she feared the kids could tell she wasn't herself. Normally she was quick to laugh or to break into song, but now she wasn't as light, and her smiles felt forced. She imagined she could see concern in their eyes, and it killed her to do that to them, which only served to depress her more.

Today, she woke in the bluish predawn gloom from a nightmare she couldn't remember, the word _No_ trembling on her lips and her heart slamming so hard it echoed in her ears. Jed lay on his back with one arm jutting over the edge of the bed and his mouth hanging open, loud, gurgling snores rumbling from his slowly expanding chest. The nightstand clock glowed 6:03 in blurry red, and Lana blinked to dispel the grit in her eyes. The alarm was set for 6:10; Jed had work and she needed to get the kids ready and out the door for school. She'd probably mess that up too, somehow.

Getting out from under the covers, she went into the bathroom, hiked her night dress up, and sat on the toilet, the lid cool against her butt. She propped her elbows on her knees, rested her face in her upturned palms, and struggled to keep her eyelids open. She didn't sleep very well the night before; every hour or so she'd come awake like a body from the shallows, then struggle to sink back down again. Snatches of the dream tinged the edges of her consciousness, and she pushed them away. She didn't know what it was about, and a little voice in the back of her head told her that she didn't want to.

Done, she wiped, got up, and went out into the bedroom. The light wasn't enough to see by, but she made her way to the door with the grace and assurance of a woman who knew every step like she knew herself. She and Jed had been living in this house for almost eleven years - which was longer than she'd lived anywhere but with Mama - and she could get around blindfolded.

At the door, she slipped her robe off the hook and pulled it on, then turned the knob. The hall stood dark and silent, the only sound the soft hiss of warm air pushing through the vents. She snapped the kitchen light on and crossed to the sink, linoleum popping under her feet. They needed to replace it, but Lana wasn't in a hurry; it added to the house's quaint, homey feel.

While the coffee brewed, she made breakfast: Eggs, toast, and bacon with a side of grits. She'd been doing this almost every morning since she stopped working (except for Sundays, they usually went out on Sundays). To her, it was a hallmark of wholesome normality. Mama never did this sort of thing, and there were times, even as a little girl, Lana wished she would. She decided early on that she'd do it for her kids. She missed days here and there when she was sick or tired, but those were exceptions.

Like most mornings, Joy was the first to appear, dressed in jeans and a red long sleeve shirt; today she wore her blonde hair back in a slipshod ponytail from which strands stuck at odd angles. She looked like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket, and Lana smirked fondly. When Joy was born, Lana vowed to raise her to be just as rough, tumble, and self-reliant as the boys but to also let her be a girl. Jed taught her to shoot and she taught her to cook and bake. She could work the stove, the microwave, most hand tools, the chainsaw, a rifle, the washing machine, and her brothers' Playstation, but she and Lana hadn't gotten around much to hair and make up yet. She was only ten, after all, and in Lana's opinion, that was far too young for make-up and such.

No matter _what_ Lola said. _Oh, she's just a kid, hun, let her have fun_. Ten-year-old little girls shouldn't wear make-up. Period. That's for when they're older. There's a lot of sickos in the world and dolling your daughter up only makes them worse. Remember that little JonBenet girl a few years ago? Her parents put her up in front of everyone in beauty pageants like she was a full grown woman, and someone killed her. Nope, ten is too young. When she was twelve, though, Lana would teach her everything she knew about lipstick and eyeliner...which, come to think of it, wasn't very much. She only put that stuff on when she and Jed went out, or on the semi rare occasions she went to a PTA meeting.

"Mornin', sweet pea," Lana said.

Joy dropped onto one of the chairs facing the table. "Mornin', Mama," she chirped.

Taking the bacon off the burner, she forked the strips onto a paper towel covered plate, eight limp and two extra crispy, the latter for Jed since he liked cracking his teeth on his food. "How'd you sleep?"

"Okay," Joy replied.

Jed came in just as Lana sat Joy's plate in front of her. Lana tenderly stroked her daughter's cheek with the back of her hand, then brushed her curly bangs from her forehead. "You need a haircut," she said.

"So do I," Jed said. Aside from two unruly tufts of white on either side, he was bald.

"Oh, hush up, you ain't got no hair to begin with," Lana said.

He sat across from Joy with a grunt and hooked his thumb at Lana. "You see how mean she is?"

Joy picked up her fork and shrugged. "It's true. You _don't_ got no hair."

Lana choked back a laugh. She filled a cup with coffee and fixed Jed's plate, then sat them before him. Josh came in, closely followed by Justin, and Lana stiffened just a mite. She wasn't angry with Justin or even particularly hurt over what he said; maybe it was her own guilt for being this way, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he knew - knew she was hurt, knew it was on account of her being insecure, knew that she was weak and screwed up and didn't respect her because of it. She wasn't upset with him...she was upset with herself.

She gamely fixed his and Josh's plates anyway and sat them down. "Mornin', hun," she said to Justin.

"Mornin', Mama," he said. He spoke with casual ease and Lana felt bad about what she'd been thinking. She was getting herself all worked up over nothing - just another sign of her no being right in her head.

She patted Josh's head, then went off to make her own plate. Jed was getting up to go by the time she was done, and he kissed her cheek. "Be careful and have a good day," Lana said, "I love you."

"Love you too, darlin'."

Lana took his chair and laid her plate down. The food was cold, but so it goes; fixing everyone else's plates first, she hadn't had a hot meal in fifteen years.

More or less.

"You got a test today," she said suddenly to Josh, "don't you?"

Josh, cheeks bulging with food, nodded.

"What is it?" Lana asked suspiciously.

He swallowed. "Math."

Oh, good. Everyone has their strong suits, and Josh's was math. He wanted to be a mechanic like his father, and working on cars, you use math more than you might think. He and Justin both excelled in the practical subjects - math, science, even English - while Joy did better at history. Lana didn't care what any of those new age feminists said, there are marked differences between boys and girls, and one of them is boys possessing a higher aptitude toward science, technology, engineering, and math. Not of all of them did, and not all girls didn't, but it was a certainly a trend that even a dumb redneck like her could reconize.

But the feminists would say she was wrong and probably some kind of patriarchal slave or whatnot. She believed a woman should do whatever she wants in this life, but that when she has children, they should always take priority above everything else, including herself. Only a selfish woman, a woman like Mama, puts her own wants and needs ahead of her kids. Lana was a fiercely independent woman who enjoyed working and once fretted over the idea of not making her own money, but she left work for the good of her children and didn't regret it one single bit. Sure, there were times being a homemaker got on her nerves, but you have to make sacrifices for your family, and that's where the feminists went wrong. They don't believe in sacrifices. Or compromise. With her and Jed, she took care of the house because he worked to support them. It was only a fair division of work in her eyes. She reckoned he'd do the same, and if he wouldn't, well, he would, because there was no way in hell she was gonna kill herself at the garage then come home and do the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and everything else, just like she wouldn't expect him too.

"Did you study?" she asked and forked a piece of egg into her mouth.

"Yep," Josh said. "I'm gonna get an A. Watch."

Justin rolled his eyes and Josh shot him a dirty look. "What?"

"B," Justin said, picking on him, "you're gonna get a B."

"No I won't," Josh challenged.

"Yes you will."

"No he won't," Joy piped up, "he'll get a C for 'Coulda Done Better.'"

She and Justin laughed, and Josh heaved a long suffering sigh. The boys just loved picking on each other, and as soon as she could talk, they got Joy to join in. Now she and Josh would gang up on Justin or she and Justin would gang up on Josh. The boys boys didn't gang up on her much because while she could dish it out, she couldn't really take it, and if they teamed up against her, she'd get mad and start yelling and crying.

Her kids were nuts but she loved them.

Loved them so much, in fact, that she sometimes wished they weren't hers. They deserved a better mother, one who wasn't a goddamn wound up basket case.

After breakfast, she kissed each one of them goodbye, then, standing alone in the middle of the kitchen, she drew a deep breath. She tried her best as a mother and if she was honest, she did a fair job of it. She just got like this from time to time, almost like having reoccuring episodes of something. She thought back to Justin at the table and tried to persuade herself that he was tense and on edge - _Mom's a real psychopath, I don't want nothing to do with her_ \- but it wasn't there. Still, she planned to talk to him later on, just to ease her own mind.

She gathered all the cups, plates, and silverware littering the table, carried them to the sink, and piled them in, then drew hot water and added soap. While waiting for it to fill, she wiped off the table and swept the floor. Josh and Justin were slobs when it came to messing up their room, but they rarely ever spilled things. Joy, on the other hand, always seemed to end up with half her food at her feet.

Fifteen minutes later, the dishes were done and in the drying rack. She wiped out the sink with a cloth, then the counters. Satisfied, she went into the living room and sat on the couch, where she debated with herself on whether to clean the kids' bathroom or not. That was one of their chores (this week was Joy's turn), but there wasn't much to do, and she didn't feel like sitting in front of the TV all day like an old woman.

Now that the kids were older and more independent, she was starting to think of going back to work. She hadn't done more than glance over the classified ads, but the seed was germinating. Maybe later on she'd take a drive through town, get out of the house and see if she could find any HELP WANTED signs. Working at the garage again was always a possibility, but chances are she'd have to leave early in order to be home for the kids when they got back from school, which would hurt Jed. She'd rather he have someone who could stay as long as they had to instead of dashing off at 3 everyday, and she sure wasn't going to let her kids come home to an empty house. They could take care of themselves and each other, but she didn't like it regardless.

A rerun of _Touched by an Angel_ came on Pax, and she settled in to watch it. Later, after it was over, she checked the kids' bathroom and deemed it clean enough. In her bedroom, she dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark blue Budweiser T-shirt, then left the house. She'd look for a help wanted sign, she decided, and have lunch at the cafe.

And maybe, she thought all once, she'd stop to see Mama too.


	222. April 2001: Part 4

**Guest: I might write sequels, I'm not sure, though.**

 **Guest: I was considering an IT crossover at one point. I might do it in the future.**

 **TheOneTrueTwistedParadox: No, it won't make it that long. It might make it to the two year anniversary of when I started writing, though. October 15.**

 **Joni C69: He might.**

 **STR2D3PO: Pretty much. She appears again, briefly, later on, but for all intents and purposes, each character's story arch from here on out is kind of a send off.**

 **MasterCaster: Maybe.**

"We need to talk."

Ronnie Anne bent, scooped up her heels, and crossed the living room. "Hold that thought," she said, "I wanna get out of these clothes."

She disappeared down the hallway, and Lincoln drew a shivery breath. The clock ticked on and Dan Rather droned apace, his low, steady voice patiently guiding America through yet another news cycle. By himself now, in the relative silence, Lincoln began to waver. Surely he could put it off one more day. 24 hours doesn't make all _that_ much of a difference...unless your name is Jack Bauer.

Only he couldn't put it off any longer. If he did, he might lose his nerve and never do it, even as the sickness ravaged his body and he wasted gradually away. _Sick? Nah, I'm fine, it's perfectly normal for a fifty-five-year-old man's penis to fall off. Just grab me some duct tape, huh?_ The desire to have it out, to get through the storm that he knew would come,welled inside of him, and he swallowed around a lump.

It would be a lie to say that he didn't need support right now, for he did. He would shoulder the burden himself if it would spare his family, but this kind of thing didn't work that way. Dying is a simple matter on paper - just close your eyes and stop breathing - but most things are simple in theory, then messy when you tried to actually apply them. Every action in life causes a ripple effect, and dying was no different. Ronnie Anne would suffer anyway; it would be best for her to know now so she could work through her grief.

If he waited much longer, though, he might chicken out again.

Now or never, he thought.

Lincoln pushed weakly to his feet, swayed, and put his arms out to steady himself. His muscles twinged with weariness and his head swam; abruptly, the idea of bed sounded really good.

Being careful not to fall, Lincoln wobbled down the hall. Golden light spilled through the open bedroom door and pooled on the carpet. He came to a halt just short of the threshold and took another deep breath. It wasn't fair that Ronnie Anne had to go through his. He already put her through eight months of hell and misery in the sixties; that was more than enough for one lifetime, maybe even two. God knows the prospect killed him, but a small part of him always hoped she would die first, that way she wouldn't have to mourn.

Steeling his resolve, he went into the room.

Ronnie Anne stood in front of the closet in nothing but a pair of pale purple panties that came up around her hips, a fashion long since relegated to the ashbin of history. Her shoulder blades undulated beneath her bronze skin as she combed through the selection of nightgowns. Age spots, like constellations, swirled across her back, and her ponytail swished lovingly over the nape of her neck. Seeing her from behind, Lincoln could almost believe that she was somehow twenty again, magically returned to the glory of her youth while the world around her - him included - remained unchanged. The illusion was so achingly real that for one brief moment, he honestly expected her to turn and be as she was the day he married her: Smooth, sun-kissed skin, limpid brown eyes twinkling with a girlish simper, nary a gray in her midnight hair.

A tight, inexplicable sense of loss gripped his chest and his lips twisted into a melancholy frown.

She sensed his presence and tossed a quick glance over her shoulder. "Guess who I had in my office _again_ today."

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but his voice broke. Such an innocuous question, idle evening chatter between a long married couple, the most normal thing in the world, but morbid under the circumstances. She had no reason to assume the truth, no inkling that her world was in the process of crashing down around her; she existed in a vacuum of blissful ignorance, which was soon to be shattered like a brittle pane of glass. This was one of those placid interludes before a life altering event;; the split second before Lee Oswald opened fire on Kennedy's motorcade; the moment between Neil Armstrong's foot leaving the step of the Lunar Eagle and setting down on the moon's crust; the minute before Ronnie Anne Loud learned that her husband was dying.

"Who?" he asked.

"Veronica," Ronnie Anne said. She took out a silk nightdress and slipped it over her head. Veronica was Jordan's older sister and one of those all too common kids who spend more time in the principal's office than the principal herself. Ronnie Anne described her as _a disrespectful little twit_ who never missed a chance to talk back to her teachers. _I hope Blake and Jordan never get married,_ she remarked once, _I'd hate being related to Veronica_.

Dizziness overcame Lincoln and sludge splashed in the pit of his stomach like black, slushy water in the bottom of a bottle. Hot, metallic bile rose in the back of his throat and he battled the urge to throw up. His knees buckled, and he barely made it to the foot of the bed, half sitting and half falling. The mattress springs creaked beneath his weight and a stinging lightning bolt of pain zig-zagged up his right side. He grimaced and let a hiss out through his teeth. Patel said he would be weak and worn out from the chemo, but the pain was -

A long, low fart slipped out of his ass.

\- just gas, apparently.

He smiled nervously. He was on edge and for a second there, he thought something awful was going to happen, like a heart attack.

Reaching behind her back, Ronnie Anne undid her ponytail and went on talking, completely oblivious. "...so I put her in ISS and told her next time, I'd send her to the alternative school." She uttered a soft _haha_ as though threatening to banish someone to the dreaded alternative school were one of her favorite bargaining chips...which it was. She loved breaking that one out - she called it _my ace in the hole,_ and it usually worked. The alternative school was the stuff of legends, talked about only in hushed tones like some great and terrible beast that swallowed kids whole and spat out convicted felons. From what she'd said over the years, it was more of a prison than a place of learning, and you were more likely to get hit with a book than you were to _hit_ the books.

She turned and raked her fingers through her hair. It spilled messily around her face and had things been different, Lincoln would have slipped his hands into it and kissed her. She must have seen something in his eyes, or sensed something in his aura, for a slight crease touched her forehead. "You okay?"

No, he wasn't okay.

"We just need to talk."

Her brows knitted even more. "What about?" She padded over on bare feet and sat next to him, concern writ across her features. The hem of her dress rested just above her knees, and Lincoln gazed at her toned legs, trying and largely failing to muster the strength to do what had to be done. She touched her fingertips questioningly to his knee, and he closed his hand around hers; it was small, delicate, and made his heart skip despite the gravity of the situation.

"What's wrong?" she asked, a note of worry in her voice.

Lincoln took a deep breath and met her gaze. "When I went to see Doc Faraday, he...he took blood and there was something in it he couldn't f-figure out, so he sent me to a specialist."

Ronnie Anne's perplexity deepened. "W-What?" she asked, her head shaking back and forth in confusion, "you said it was fine."

He told her that the results came back clean.

Her body tensed, perhaps in anticipation of bad news, and Lincoln sighed. "It wasn't. I didn't want to worry you if I didn't have to, so I lied. I went there and they took tests and they found something called hemoteliosis. It's a kind of blood cancer."

The color drained from Ronnie Anne's face.

Lincoln gave her hand a squeeze that he intended to be reassuring but felt more desperate. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I'm dying."

She blinked as if slapped and tried to speak, but no words formed. Her throat bobbed as she attempted to say something, and raw, animal panic filled her eyes. She shook her head slightly from side to side. "W-What?" Her voice was breathy and small, a kneading inflection sticking in Lincoln's guts like a knife. The phrase "she looked like a deer in the headlights" was cliched, but he would be damned if it didn't describe her right now: Frozen, shaking, and pale, her eyes wide and her chest starting to heave.

Not looking away from the horror even now drawing in the eyes of the woman he loved, the eyes into which he had tenderly stared for the past forty-five years, took every ounce of self-control he had. "They say I have about a year, maybe a little more."

"T-T-T-That can't be right," she said. Her tone was dazed, shell-shocked, and when she shook her head again, it was more of a broken twitch. "No. No, no, no." Water brimmed in her eyes. "Who said that?" It was a wounded demand.

"The doctor," Lincoln said, keeping his voice low, calm, and steady. "I have all of my paperwork and I've already been to chemo and dialysis. It's...it's going to happen."

Ronnie Anne's mind worked, her entire world, her being, thrown into sudden turmoil and her brain desperately attempting to compute what he was saying. "T-That doesn't make any sense, you look fine, you can't be sick." She fumbled her words, her voice thick with denial.

News like this, Lincoln had always thought, was like being thrown into icy water; it shocks the system and scatters rational thought as instinct takes over.

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and assumed a patient tone that he had only ever used on Alex and Jessy. "I'm going to die," he said at length.

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" Her eyes, standing with liquid like seething whirlpools, narrowed and her jaw clenched. "St-Stop saying that." Passion filled her voice and her hand balled into a fist. "P-People don't just die like that. Who said you were dying? When did they even say that?"

Lincoln nodded firmly. "Yes, they do, Ronnie, you know that. The doctor -"

"That doctors a quack," she spat. "He's full of shit and so are you. Y-Y-You don't just d-die like that. T-They can do something else if you're sick. They can always do something else. I-It's 2001. 2 fucking 001, you're not gonna d-die."

She stumbled over the D word, and more water filled her eyes, trickling down her flushed cheek like drops of ice.

"Yes I am," he said pointedly, "I'm dying right now."

Her lips quivered and more tears fell down her cheeks. Her chest angrily expanded and contracted. "Don't say that." She no doubt meant it as a thundering, God-like command, but it slipped out as a whisper. "D-Don't say that."

She broke down then, her lithe frame shaking with the force of her sobs. The high, kneading sound of her misery twisted in Lincoln's heart and a clump of raw emotion formed in his throat. He pulled her to him, but in her overwrought state, she tried to pull away, as if by doing so she could deny, and perhaps even halt, what was happening. "Don't say that," she moaned, "don't say that." The rage, so recently and vividly present in her wet eyes, was gone now, replaced by shimmering, childish hurt, lending her the appearance of a little girl betrayed by someone who was supposed to love and protect her. He thought randomly of Lola and Lana - he bet they looked like that a lot as children, and that nearly broke him.

He took Ronnie Anne into his arms and pulled her body flush to his. She stiffened, trembled like a small, frightened animal, then went limp against him. Her tears soaked into his shirt, dampening the fabric, and even now she tried to wrench away, to flee the horrible revelation that her husband and the father of her daughter, the man to whom she had dedicated her heart and her life, was soon going to die Lincoln could do nothing to console her but stroke his fingers through her hair and place unsteady kisses on her forehead. He was dimly aware of shedding his own tears, but those didn't matter right now, nothing mattered but Ronnie Anne.

It seemed like hours before her tears tapered off into pitiful whimpers. She was curled like an overgrown child, and Lincoln gently rocked her back and forth with a low, calming sush.

" _Por favor no me dejes,"_ she muttered and clutched her front of his shirt in her hands. A fresh batch of tears exploded her eyes and she went back to sobbing. " _Por favor no me dejes. Lincoln...please don't go."_

* * *

Lana sat the last dish in the drying rack and wiped out the sink with a sponge. Outside, gloom pooled in the side yard and the first early lightning bugs of the seasons danced between the trees like departed souls rejoicing in one last night on earth. A shiver went down her spine and she shook her head as if to dispel the morbid image.

Spirits and haints had been on her mind a lot since that afternoon. After searching for HELP WANTED signs and having lunch at Faye's Cafe in town, she stopped at Resurrection Cemetery.

Since Mama died in 1992, Lana had been come out here once or twice a year. Mama was a mean old hussy and probably didn't deserve it, but the prospect of her all alone out here, with no one caring or coming to visit, disturbed Lana. Usually, she came once around Mama's birthday, then again at Christmas, though there were times she was busy and put it off. The living come first, especially when the dead in question was someone like Mama.

The cemetery sat on a series of rolling hills on the southern outskirts of Bristol, surrounded on three sides by dense forest and on the fourth by a sweeping view of the valley, the streets and houses below tiny and shrouded in haze during the summer and mist in the winter. On a clear day, you could see clear into Virginia. When she was little, Lana used to hike to a hillside nearby, sit down, and stare at the low mountains across the state line, wondering if and how her life would be changed if she were born on the other side.

She did a lot of daydreaming when she was a girl. At first, she fantasized about her life being better - Mama not hitting her and passing out drunk, having more money and nice things - then, as she grew older, they changed, and she fantasized about having a different life altogether. She spun grand visions of herself bathed in the bright lights of a big city or living on a ranch somewhere, surrounded by animals of every sort that she could love, pet, and play with as much as she wanted. In these, adversity did not exist; she had everything she could ever need or want and the sun was always shining, the skies always clear and blue.

Today, she had no thoughts of being anyplace but where she was. Thirty years ago, she was unhappy, but not now. Troubled some, maybe, but not unhappy.

From the main gate, wrought iron with a humped archway over the entrance, a narrow road wound through the grounds, overhung here and there by oaks, cherry blossom dogwoods, and wilted weeping willows that seemed always stooped in mourning for the dead around them. Lana navigated the car, a forest green 1998 Camry station wagon, up a gentle slope, past headstones, statues, and above ground crypts. She parked in the shadow of a marble angel on a pedestal, its head hung in sorrow, and cut the engine. Mama's grave was in a quiet corner near a low stone wall defining the cemetery's western edge; it was a peaceful lot, and Lana vaguely thought she'd like to be buried in a place like it.

She walked through rows of markers, the green, manicured grass whispering softly beneath her soles, and stopped in front of her mother's final resting place. The headstone, almost as wide as a sedan, was white granite, her name and dates on either side and a gold framed picture inlaid between them: Mama in a short sleeve floral dress, her hair gray and her glasses thick, a constipated smile on her lips, as though displaying the faintest hint of joy caused her physical pain. Sometimes, when she visited, Lana stared at that photo and tried to feel something, anything, but all of her hated, grief, loss, and resentment was gone.

Standing there in the cool March afternoon, she allowed her gaze to linger on Mama's face, and her mind to dredge up every bad memory it could find, but even that was not enough to stir emotion inside of her.

"Justin's embarrassed of me 'n' Jed," she said. "Says he doesn't wanna bring his girlfriend to the house." She surprised herself with a wistful chuckle. "Typical boy. He thinks we're old fuddy duddies or somethin'."

Mama went on pretending to smile.

Flicking her eyes to her shoes, Lana said, "That kind of thing's liable to sting, but...I took it really personal, just like I took the boys preferrin'' to hang out with their daddy personal." A cool gust of wind rustled her hair. "Of course boys wanna be with their father, male bondin' and all, but it hurt me. It hurt me a lot. Just like this did." Her voice welled and her vision blurred. "And both times I got to thinkin'...they don't love me. They didn't even do nothin' wrong and I flew off the handle like...like a crazy woman." She swallowed and blinked back seering tears. "You gotta be sick to do that, and I did it. I _keep_ doin' it. I keep doin' it, and it's your fault."

She didn't mean for that to come out, didn't know it was inside of her until she heard it with her own ears, but it was true. The picture stared back at her, as cold and unfeeling as the subject it depicted, and a burning, gaseous ball of anger took shape in Lana's chest, growing and intensifying until it consumed her. She didn't know much about the human psyche, so she couldn't say just _how_ Mama's abuse and neglect affected her...couldn't rightly name and define the scars on her heart...but she knew it as sure as she knew anything. Perhaps she feared becoming her mother, feared causing her own children the same pain Mama caused her. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was a combination of things.

"I'm a grown woman," she said, "and I'm still dealin' with all you did. I don't think you meant it...I think you were stupid and selfish, You didn't set out to hurt me and Lola, but you did, and you didn't care. You went on doin' it and doin' it. Didn't you ever feel shame? Didn't you ever feel sorry?"

The picture did not answer, nor would it. Mama was gone, beyond Lana's anger. In hell. Or heaven. Or nowhere. All that remained was a slab and a box of bones that still exerted a strong and malignant power over her, like an ancient and demonic relic. Mama might be dead, but she lived on in Lana's head, an evil spirit haunting the chambers of her mind. No matter where she went, no matter what she did, the specter of Mama would follow, for it was forever indwelled in her.

That might explain the way she was, but it didn't excuse it. Only a weak woman like Mama makes excuses, and Lana was not weak. Mama wouldn't sacrifice for her children, but Lana had, and would until her dying breath. They meant more to her than anything, and she would do whatever it took to give them the love and happiness Mama never gave her.

"You hurt me," she said soberly, "but you're not hurtin' my kids. I'm not comin' back. As far as I'm concerned, you never existed."

She turned and walked away, making every effort to leave Mama's wraith behind. It followed her home, nested even now in the shadows of her head, but she ignored it. Despite the things it whispered into her ear, she _was_ a good mother, and her children _did_ love her. What she felt was only paranoia...paranoia of doing to them what Mama did to her. An outside observer might roll their eyes and tell her she was getting all worked up over nothing, but they didn't know the abiding agony she carried with her through childhood, didn't know how heartbroken she was as a little girl. The thought of her kids feeling even a fraction of what she did was intolerable. She didn't do or say anything out of the way to Justin, but she was paranoid nonetheless.

Putting the sponge aside, she went to the archway into the living room and snapped out the light, plunging the kitchen into darkness. Jed sat in his armchair, a thick automotive manual in his lap, and Joy lay prone on the floor with her elbows planted in the carpet and her face resting in her upturned palms, staring up at the TV, where Jerry Stiller ranted and wildly waved his hands on _The King of Queens,_ much to the delight of the canned audience. Low lamplight cast the living room in a comfortable, subdued glow. Lana lingered for a moment, taking it in with a fierce love and pride, then turned right and went down the hall. Justin and Josh's door stood closed, a light shining through the crack beneath and the muffled sounds of explosions and screaming beyond.

She knocked and waited, then turned the knob and stuck her head in when she didn't receive an answer. Justin and Josh sat on the foot of Justin's bed, Justin with a video game controller in his hands and Josh leaning excitedly toward the TV. Onscreen, a cartoon man stood in the middle of a cartoon city street with police police cars all around. Sirens blared, gunshots rang out, and a helicopter circled overhead. _This is the LCPD, you are risking your life!_

Lana waited for them to acknowledge her, but neither had any idea she was there. The cartoon man hunched over and ran down the middle of the street, a rifle in his hands, and a fleet of police cars converged on him. "Run! Run!" Josh cried. Justin bent over and tapped one of the buttons to make the character go faster. Lana cleared her throat, and they both started. A black and white cop car slammed into Justin's character and he died, the word WASTED flashing across the screen.

"Turn the game off," she said, "I wanna talk to y'all."

"What's wrong?" Josh asked cautiously.

"Nothin', I just wanna talk."

He didn't move for a moment, as though he didn't fully trust her, then got up, crouched over the console, and pressed the OFF button. Lana sat next to Justin and Josh sat on her other side. Both boys seemed to brace themselves for a scolding, and Lana missed a beat. They were obviously afraid they were in trouble for something, but that sick little part of her mind, the place where Mama dwelt, told her they were afraid of _her_.

She put her hands on her knees and rubbed nervously up and down. She kind of knew what she wanted to say, but not the exact right way to say it. Lola was good at articulating herself, but Lana wasn't, and sometimes it frustrated her to no end. She wasn't a stupid woman, but she lacked the know how to properly express her thoughts and emotions in a delicate and diplomatic way. Lola could come up with a thousand ways to say "I love you" but she, Lana, was stuck with the same old three words she'd always been using. Likewise, Lola could say "Boys, my Mama was abusive to me and screwed me up a little, please don't mind my eccentricities" without actually saying it.

"Did we do something wrong?" Josh asked.

Lana took a deep breath. She'd just have to work with what she had. She wasn't good at speaking, but she was sure good at _that_. "No," she said, "I just wanted to t-tell y'all somethin'." She looked at her oldest. Hands clasped to his knees in a posture similar to her own, Justin flashed her a quick, timid, yet hopeful, glance ( _you mean we're_ not _in deep shit?_ ). "Especially you. About the other day when you said you were embarrassed by us."

Justin drew a guilt-ridden sigh. "Mama, I said I was sorry. I didn't mean it, just…"

Lana gave his knee an affectionate pat. "I know you didn't, hun, I just...I can get a little sensitive sometimes. I'm sure you two have noticed."

She looked between her sons. Justin went on staring at the floor like a chastized dog waiting for its master to finish upbraiding it, and Josh shook his head with the vehemence of a boy who loved his mother and wouldn't admit to her flaws. "No," he said. A little flicker of recognition in his eyes betrayed him, however. He _had_ noticed. It wasn't much and it probably didn't bother him none, but now that it was pointed out to him, he saw it, the way you might find something new crouching in a hidden corner of a favorite painting.

"Well, I can," she said. "Remember a couple years ago when we went on that hike and I started cryin' like a little baby 'cause I thought y'all didn't wanna spend time with me?"

Josh hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "That was our fault," he said quickly, "we were actin' like jackasses that day."

"No," Lana said, "no you weren't. I'm…" she trailed off and searched her brain for a graceful way to continue, then sighed because there was none, at least for her. "When you said that, Justin, it kind of hurt my feelin's, but then I kept thinkin' and…" she stopped herself, unsure if she should be as blunt and candid as she was planning. Justin was sixteen and Josh fourteen; they weren't babies, but they were still only kids. She didn't didn't think she'd done or said anything to worry them, and she was terrified of saying the wrong thing and planting a withered, malignant little seed of doubt in their hearts.

"Sometimes I worry that I'm gonna do somethin' wrong and make y'all stop lovin' me or make you think I don't love you. My Mama wasn't...she wasn't a very nice woman and I felt really bad about myself growin' up." Inexplicable tears filled her eyes and her lips puckered sourly. She sucked them into her mouth and bore down on them with her teeth to keep from crying and held on as tightly as she could. She didn't want her boys to see her falling to pieces over nothing, not again, and she forced herself away from the precipice.

For them.

"I never felt like she loved me 'cause…'cause she didn't, and I guess I'm just scared that I'll make y'all feel like that. And...I guess...I'm kinda paranoid that...I loved her but she didn't love me, and deep down, I'm afraid y'all won't love me either. I know that's a terrible thing to think and it makes me feel guilty and like I'm puttin' stress and worry on y'all, and I don't wanna do that 'cause that's what my mama did to me."

She thought she had something more to say, but if she did, the will to say it drained swiftly away, leaving her empty and tired. She cast a tentative glance at Josh, then Justin; both stared solmely down as they assessed her words. "Basically, I'm kinda weird and I don't mean nothin' by it. I love you boys with all my heart and the last thing I ever wanna do is hurt you or make you feel bad or scared or somethin'. Just ignore me if I get like this."

Justin rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced at his lap, looking for all the world like he was going to pass gas. "We know you love us," he said haltingly, his cheeks flushing with boyish embarrassment.

'Yeah," Josh affirmed, then: "But we'd really know if you raised our allowance."

That made Lana genuinely laugh for the first time in days. "Oh, hush," she said and mussed his hair.

"I really didn't mean anything by what I said," Justin continued.

"I know you didn't," Lana said and rubbed a reassuring circle on his knee, "it's me. I got a little hurt then I started thinkin' you knew I was hurt and thought I was crazy or somethin' and...I dunno, it doesn't make much sense when you say it out loud, I guess." She chuckled because it didn't. Vocalizing her fears, throwing open the curtain and letting in the bright, clensing light of day, she felt a little stupid for entertaining them in the first place. Our minds and our hearts are like little bitty houses; if you don't open them up and air them out from time to time, they get dark, stale, and mildewy; your troubles fester and fester until they gobble up everything in their path like spreading mold, and every horrible thought you have comes back as an echo you can too easily mistake for the truth.

"Look, I don't mind bringin' Candy over to the house," Justin said, "just...take the curlers out of your hair and make Dad put his pants on."

Lana rolled her eyes. "Well, of course we would do that," she said, then cracked a lopsided grin and nudged him. "Even hillbillies dress up for company."

He smirked, and Lana's heart filled with love. He was a handsome boy, and her first instinct was to tell him that...while pinching his cheek off. She stayed her hand, however, and settled for kissing him and his brother both on their foreheads, then getting to her feet. "Y'all got 'bout an hour before bed, so you best best start gettin' ready."

"We will," Josh said.

In the hall, Lana pulled the door closed behind her and inhaled. She felt much better now that she opened the windows of her heart, but the knowledge lingered in the back of her mind that this would happen again. Something would happen, a cross word or an errant eyeroll, and she'd start to doubt herself. That's just how she was crafted. She could change - hell, anyone can - but it wouldn't happen overnight; it'd take time and effort, and she'd stumble here and there, like most people do. Change isn't a single, one time thing, it's a process, one that requires commitment, and if Lana was anything, it was committed.

She wasn't her mother. She loved her kids, was married to a good man, and despite her moments of doubt, she was happy.

And that last one is what really set her apart from Mama.

* * *

 _This can't be happening._

Ronnie Anne Loud had been telling herself that for hours, again and again like a single, desperate prayer.

It was well past midnight and she lay on her side, Lincoln's arms wrapped protectively around her and his lips resting on the bare slope of her throat. Darkness, deeper than any she had ever known, shrouded the bedroom, so dense that even the red numerals of the bedside clock seemed dimmer. Warm spring moonlight slipped through the part in the curtains and cleaved across the wall like a jagged slash in dead flesh, and the clock on the VCR pulsed rhythmically; in her state of mind, it resembled a mocking eye mockingly winking. Lincoln's breathing, strong and regular, broke against her skin. It sounded like he was asleep.

They'd been here the whole evening, Lincoln holding her close and letting her sob into his chest with only a comforting _sush,_ his nails lightly grazing her scalp. Normally that soothed her, but tonight, it only made her cry harder. Now, hours later (or was it years?) the tears had petered out, leaving her cold, hollow, and spent.

 _This can't be happening._

She replayed the conversation through her frozen mind, Lincoln holding her hands and telling her that he was going to die. Twelve years ago, a crazed student shot her in the shoulder with a hunting rifle, missing only because the gym teacher tackled him at the last minute. She didn't dwell on what happened to her, but every so often, she would wonder what it would have felt like if that bullet punched not into her arm, but into her chest instead.

Now she knew. When what Lincoln was saying sank in, it was like someone wrenched her heart out. It couldn't be true, _wasn't_ true, but looking into his eyes, wet with pain and fear, she knew that it was.

Her stomach clutched and a quiver cut through her frame. Lincoln tightened his grasp and kissed her neck. New tears, ones she didn't think she had, welled in her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. Bursts and whorls of light danced across the backs of her lids, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from falling apart again. A bolt of torment plunged into her middle, and she grimaced, a tiny, breathless sound escaping her lips.

 _This couldn't be happening._

Only it was.

Lincoln was dying.

Earlier, after she calmed, he told her as much about the disease as he could. She listened blankly and tried to call up everything she knew about cancer and sickness, certain that if she thought hard enough she would find a loophole or spot a misdiagnosis, something, anything to quash the notion of losing him. _There has to be something they can do,_ she had mumbled through numb lips. He was sick. Okay. Quote unquote dying. That didn't mean he was actually going to die. He _couldn't_ die.

She needed him.

As she lay there staring vacantly into the darkness, she convinced herself that there must be something out there...a treatment, surgery, something that could cure him or at least prolong his life. They were giving him dialysis and chemo already...so it's not like they were lost. They had methods of staving it off. Please, God, let them have some way to hold it back.

A whimper dislodged from her throat and the tears started to fall again. Lincoln pulled her closer, and she melted into him like a little girl into her mother's bosom. She sucked a shivery breath and sniffled deeply. "You remember that time the toilet got stopped up and you have to unclog it?" Lincoln asked in an obvious attempt to distract her from her mourning. "Then it blew up in your face and you got covered in shit?"

She opened her mouth but didn't trust herself to speak. She vaguely recalled that. Did Alex flush a toy? She did that a few times when she was small; she'd drop something in, flush, then bend over and wave to it. _Bye bye._ One time Lincoln had to crawl under the house and take apart half the pipework to get a stuffed animal out; he came out again covered in muck, dirt, filth, and scum, the offending teddy bear clutched in one hand, soggy and dripping brown water. She and Alex were standing by the back porch, and when he emerged, drenched in the fetid reek of sewage, Alex's nose crinkled. She was four then, or maybe three, her black hair up in white ribbons and a white dress fluttering around her knees in the summery breeze. Lincoln marched right up to her, glared down into her upturned face, and said, _You're bad_.

Alex's features darkened. _I not bad!_

 _Yes you are._

 _INOTBAAAD!_

A weak smile touched Ronnie Anne's lips, like the sun cresting in the middle of a rain storm, and she wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Kind of," she said, "I remember the time Alex flushed her teddy bear better."

Lincoln chuckled. To her, it sounded stiff, forced. "So do I. I had the taste of ass hole in my mouth for a week."

A laugh was shocked from her breast. "Ew, lame-o, you're gross."

"Better than that time baby Jessy puked in my mouth."

She didn't remember that one, but Jessy _did_ spit up a lot as a baby. Ronnie Anne couldn't count the times she picked her up, only to have her dress splattered by white, projectile vomit. At the time, it was vile, frustrating, and made her want to pull her hair out ( _aw, kid, this was my last clean dress!)_ , but looking back, those memories never failed to make her happy. Hers and Lincoln's life together was filled with smiles, love, and laughter, and…

That thought broke off as she started to cry again.

Lincoln held her and kissed the back of her neck. He didn't speak for a long time, and when he finally did, his voice was flat, as though he were saying not what he felt, but what he had to. "We'll get through this, Ronnie. I promise."

Yes, she thought, they would.

Together, they would find a way to save him, and they would go on making memories for years to come.

That was _her_ promise.


	223. May 2001: Part 1

**Guest: I bench 600 pounds everyday, bro.**

 **Nuuo: I do touch on September 11 in this story.**

 **Thunderstrike16: I have a couple ideas in the back of my mind, not sure if I will do them or not, though.**

 **Looneytyne22: In the very beginning of this story, I thought they would have two or three kids, but I didn't feel like writing a bunch of birth scenes, so I restricted Lincoln and most of the other main characters to having one.**

"Howdy, y'all, welcome to Big Bill's."

Lynn Haveman cringed and hooked her fingers. _I'm gonna strangle him._

She was sitting behind the main desk in the showroom and waiting for IT to call her back. The computer stared back at her, screen blue and frozen like a hunk of ice. This was the third time this month that the system crashed, and she was getting _this_ close to pulling her hair out. Might as well, it was turning gray anyway. Funny thing: Lynn never thought aging would bother her, but the moment she saw that first silvery strand, her heart plummeted into her stomach and it hit her - oh my God, I'm getting OLD! Sure, she didn't _feel_ old, but those colorless hairs represented the passage of her youth just as clearly as a flashing neon sign. Her best days were behind her and going forward, it was all downhill, folks. Soon the wrinkles would start creeping in, followed by moles, liver spots, monthly hip breakage, and going to bed at 6pm every night.

And the scariest part was how fast it happened. Sixteen years ago, she and Ritchie were dating (and still so new at it that they hadn't even slept together) and every moment of everyday belonged entirely to her...except for those that belonged to Tucson High. She wasn't a little girl exactly, but she was still a kid. Now, she was a grown woman with a husband, daughter, and a full time career that sucked up time like Dracula at a blood bank. Sixteen years looked like a long time on paper, but it goes by quick. In another sixteen, she'd be forty-eight. Forty-eight! That's almost as old as her parents were now, and they were getting up there in years. The big 5-0 was right around the corner, and she was hurtling toward it like a curveball to a Louisville Slugger.

The grays weren't the only signs of aging Lynn had noticed, she was also getting really sentimental. The other night, she and Ritchie spent the whole evening going through photo albums and looking at pictures from when they were kids, most taken at the park; six, ten, twelve kids all grinning and covered in dust, their arms thrown around each other and baseball mitts clipped to their belts. Gazing down at them transported Lynn two decades back, when she and her friends would spend entire days playing baseball and eating ice cream from the truck that always seemed to circle the block - the driver _knew_ they were there, and boy, did he make a killing. If she squinted hard enough, she could feel the grit coating the back of her neck, hear the crack of the bat, and smell the alkaline on the air.

Ahh, those were the days.

And now, just like that, they were gone. Kaufman moved to Flagstaff, Slater sold insurance from a cubicle across town (Lynn rarely saw him, but when she did, he was fatter than the last time...balder too), Ben, always chunky, lost two hundred pounds and lived in Phoenix. His weight was healthy and all, but seeing him without rolls spilling out from under his shirt threw her off balance, and her maternal instincts, honed to a fine edge by nine years of Maddie, kicked into overdrive. _Dude, are you getting enough to eat? You're so thin! Jesus, here, have a Twinkie._

The others - a good fifteen who came and went over the years - were all scattered to the wind. She and Ritchie had all their numbers in an address book, but they never used them. Childhood friends are like childhood itself: Warm, fleeting, then one day gone, as irretrievable as spring days past.

She always kind of missed them, but over the past year, it had developed into a deep, wistful ache. She mentioned getting everyone back together again, even if for only an afternoon, and Ritchie was all for it...but doubtful. _Everyone has their own things going on_ , _it might not work out._

Yeah, probably not. Oh well. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, anyway. The past was the past and stirring it up would only shatter the perfect illusion she'd built. People grow up and change; the guy you were best friends with at fifteen might be a belligerent drunk and piece of shit at thirty-five. Childhood memories are fragile things, like filaments of silk; it's better to leave them alone than to meddle and risk tarnishing them. All of her friends and the good times they made lived on in her heart, a reunion would be little more than a half-hearted attempt at recreating them with a bunch of middle aged adults in place of the kids they once were.

Nope, just let it go. It's over, Lynny-girl, just cherish the memories and be glad they happened.

While that might be the smart thing to do, she still wanted to see them again.

Loud, braying laughter shattered the silence, and her shoulders tensed. _I swear to God, I'm gonna drop him._

She sat back and took a big, calming breath, then let it slowly out through her nose. This computer shit had her on edge...then enter Dad, dressed in his blazer, bolo tie, and cowboy hat, the heels of his snakeskin boots clicking on the tiles like the lazy clop of an oncoming horse. Just looking at him made her eyes roll, then...then _he opened his mouth._

Dad was born in Michigan, which is about as far north as you can get without cramming up into the bottleneck of New England. He'd lived in Tucson for almost forty years, granted, but he never had an accent.

Until now.

When he spoke, it was with a thick, fake Southern drawl that worked her nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

She had no one to blame but herself, though.

Last fall, in an effort to drive up business...which had been kind of slacking lately...Lynn had the bright idea to do a commercial. She hired a production company out of Phoenix and met with the director over lunch at _La Casa Mexicano_. A tall, willowy man with a goatee and Buddy Holly glasses who looked like he couldn't bust a gape in a fruit fight, he asked her one question that she honestly couldn't answer: _What's your draw?_

Every business, he said, has to have a mascot. Kentucky Fried Chicken had Col. Sanders, McDonald's had Ronald McDonald, Wal-Mart had the bouncing smiley face, and Microsoft Word had that paperclip with the googly eyes that popped up on your screen every time you tried to use it ( _Looks like you're writing a letter. Great, let's get started_ ). Ugh, leave me alone, Clippy, I'm a thirty-two year old woman, I know how to write a freaking letter. At first, Lynn waved him off. Not _every_ business had a mascot. Look at Sears. Then she started thinking: Mascots reminded her of the baseball games her father took her to when she was little. Her past was filled with happy memories, but those were the happiest of all.

Alright, she decided, we'll create a mascot...and since 'mascot' was kind of linked to 'dad' in her mind, it would be him.

The catch: Dad was a great guy, but kind of boring. His jokes occasionally elevated from _corny_ to _almost made me laugh_ , but she couldn't stick him in front of a camera and have him yuk it up for sixty seconds; that'd be lame. Maybe put him in a suit of some kind? Yeah, yeah, that might work, have him dress up like a dinosaur.

By pure happenstance, she, Ritchie, and Maddie went over to his and Mama's house for dinner one night. Mama baked a sweet potato pie, and Dad mentioned how Grandpa Bill loved sweet potato pie. He drew himself up in his chair, puffed out his chest, and did his best Big Bill. " _Boy howdy, I think I'm gon' have me another piece."_ Maddie giggled, Ritchie chuckled, and Lynn...Lynn gaped.

That's it! The place was called Big Bill's Used Car Emporium, and with a name like that, people expected there to be a Big Bill hanging around...ya know, some warm, congenial aw shucks type in a ten gallon hat. Sadly, Grandpa died in 1974...but she had the next best thing.

Big Lynn.

 _I don't know about that,_ he said nervously, _I'd look like a dumbass._

 _Nah, you'll do fine,_ she said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

And she was right.

Oh happy day.

 _So_ right.

The first commercial was an overnight success and brought in sixteen percent more business than expected (there's that number again, guess I miss being sixteen heh). Everyone who came in wanted to meet Big Lynn (some, understandably, thought _he_ was Big Bill...especially one old timer who kept calling him Bill even after Dad corrected him). Dad, who hadn't set foot in the dealership in nearly two years, became a regular fixture, laughing, shaking hands, and kissing babies like he was running for Congress. They did a second commercial, and a third, then took out ads on city buses, bilboards along I-10, and in the _Tuscon Times,_ each one boasting Dad's dumb, smiling face. _Boy, howdy, have I got a deal for you!_

In the span of three months, Dad became a local celebrity, and his catchphrase ( _Yeehaw, now_ that's _a deal_ ) was everywhere; even the guy who hosted the morning zoo program she listened to on the way to work was doing it. No lie, she heard people saying it in everyday situations. Two weeks ago, she was at the grocery store and came across an old couple picking through a stand of watermelon. _Two bucks for one of these big'uns,_ the woman marveled.

 _Yeehaw, now that's a deal,_ her husband said wryly.

That was fine, it honestly didn't bother Lynn, what _did_ bother her was Dad. All that fame - people calling out to him as he walked down the street, asking for his autograph, saying _oh, wow, it's Big Lynn, from the TV!_ \- went _right_ to his head. He swaggered around like God's gift to second hand auto retail and, bam, out of nowhere, he took a renewed interest in the business, which put him constantly under Lynn's feet. She loved her father and once upon a time, she loved working with him, but she'd been running this place on her own for nearly a decade and she was used to doing things her way. She had a balance...and Dad absolutely _decimated_ it. Before, he was hands off - he'd step back and give her space. Now his favorite place in the world was standing over her shoulder. _What'cha doin' now, honey? Are them numbers right? That invoice looks wrong to me, scoot over and let me see._

Even _that,_ she could live with...if only he'd drop the Big Lynn act every now and then.

 _This is what everyone wants,_ he told her once. He spread his arms as if to indicate throngs of screaming fans (the showroom was empty). He wore a dark gray wool blazer with tassels hanging from the arms, a western style shirt, a bolo tie, boots, his hat, and a massive belt buckle with a big Confederate flag on it. He always dressed this way now, and he used that damn accent for every...single...word, even at home. _I gotta keep up my character, hun,_ he said, sounding so much like Lana it almost made Lynn laugh...but she stopped herself, because laughing would only encourage him. _I'm sellin' a dream here._

No, he was selling Advil, because after spending all day listening to him play Boss Hog, her head throbbed _sumthin' fierce._

Oh, God, now she was using Southern euphemisms.

*Flops face on desk*

He laughed again and brushed an imaginary tear from his eye. He stood off to Lynn's right with a young couple who looked mildly uncomfortable, and why wouldn't they? An asshole with tassles on his jacket was cackling like a madman, probably over one of his own dumb jokes, she'd be uncomfortable too if she didn't know he was a dork.

His laughter made her temples throb, and she rubbed them with her thumb and forefinger. He kept going and going and going. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "Dad!"

Sobering, he looked up at her. "What's that, hun?"

" _Come here,_ " she hissed through her teeth.

Dad turned to the couple and tipped his hat like a cowboy departing into the sunset, then moseyed on over, a metallic _click_ denoting each step. Oh, God, what is _that?_ She leaned over...then blew a puff of air that rustled her bangs.

Spurs.

The man was wearing spurs.

She slipped her fingers into her hair and held tight. I'm gonna do it, every last strand. He stopped beside her bent forward, one hand slapping on the desk with an intentionally loud _thwack_. "What's goin' on, suge? Need some help on that there computer?"

Lynn's eyes widened with madness. " _Stop talking like that."_

"Like what?" Dad asked innocently.

Almost like he had no clue what she was talking about.

"Like you're southern," Lynn said over her teeth.

"Well, this is how I talk now, hun, you just gotta get use to it."

She balled her fists and sucked great gulps of air through her nose. She was gonna hit him, so help her God, she was gonna hit him. "You're driving me crazy," she said and threw her hands up, a harried edge in her voice, "go home."

Dad's brow lowered, then he made an indignant little _humph_ sound in the back of his throat. "You're just mad it's _my_ face people wanna see, not yours."

The computer screen went dark, then deep blue, white text raced from left to right. Lynn's heart burst. Ahhhhh, that meant BAD THINGS! She leaned over and pressed the power button on the tower. For a moment, nothing happened, then the CPU shut down with a series of clicks. "They're not gonna recognize your face 'cause I'm gonna rearrange it for you if you don't go home."

"Fine, then," Dad said tightly, "bring them invoices to the house when you're done."

With that, Big Lynn mercifully took his leave, climbing behind the wheel of his big white Cadillac...with cow horns mounted on the grill because _of course_ there were cow horns mounted on the grill. It wouldn't be Big Lynn's Wheels without 'em. Yeehaw.

Sighing, Lynn slumped back in her chair and glared at the computer screen. Three times this week...three fricking times. And why hadn't IT called her back yet? She'd been sitting here for, like, two hours, chained to this damn phone because _it ain't professional takin' calls on your cell phone, sweetie._ Yeah, Dad, you should be the one doing this.

Too bad she didn't drink. She could _really_ use a little relaxation.

Or a deep tissue massage.

* * *

The Royal County School District's main office was housed in a quaint brick building with a slate roof on the western edge of Chippewa Falls. A state mandated wheelchair ramp flanked the steps in a sharp zigzag, weather stained wood, and soft lamplight shone in one of the wide front windows. Green foliage, budding with life, screened the facade and butterflies danced in the adjoining meadow. A warm breeze redolent of flowers rustled the trees separating the parking lot from Madeline Avenue and golden sunshine filtered through the wavering boughs like shafts of divine brilliance.

Ronnie Anne parked in a slot facing the street and put the car in park. Music drifted from the speakers, background noise to dull the senses. _Poor Little Fool_ by Ricky Nelson, one of those solid gold hits of yesteryear that came attached to a memory; her and Lincoln sitting in tall summer grass by the river, the transistor radio her gave her propped against a rock. They necked, smoked cigarettes, then necked some more, the hours rolling by until it was late and they had to hurry home like the kids in that Everly Brothers song. Summer days seemed to last forever then...until she and Lincoln were together, then they went by like a puff of wind, here and gone so quickly they seemed to be over before she even had the chance to enjoy them.

Peering back into the past, she realized something: Before she was even fourteen, she knew on some level that she was going to marry Lincoln. She spent almost every moment she wasn't with him thinking about him, and whenever she saw his face after being away from him, her heart blasted like a drum. She was only happy, truly happy, when they were together, and that's why you marry someone, isn't it? Because you want to be with them always? At that age, she didn't quite think in such lofty terms...she just knew she felt good when he was around, and that she never wanted those feelings to end.

The song ended, and the disc jockey took a request. _Please, Mr. Postman_ by the Marvelettes, the high, needy vocal harmonies taking her back to 1961, long before war, sickness, and death entered their lives. The early sixties were the end of the good times, the last stretch of calm before the storm. The music was better than the later stuff...the latter stuff reminded her of those eight horrible months she thought Lincoln was dead. The pain in her chest then was almost as bad then as now.

Tears threatened to well in her eyes, and she got a hold of herself. She found herself doing that a lot lately; she'd get lost in thought and wander too close to the edge, and either pull herself back or break down and cry.

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of alternating emotions, sleepless nights, and gnashing worry. Lincoln went to dialysis three times a week and chemo twice, and it was starting to take a toll on him. He was always exhausted, his hair was beginning to thin, and he dropped fifteen pounds, which alarmed the doctors. Ronnie Anne's knowledge of cancer was limited, but every cancer patient she'd ever seen on TV or in the movies was gaunt, which lead her to believe weight loss was a natural part of the process.

It's not, you're supposed to maintain your present body mass index, and losing weight is cause for concern. Lincoln was rarely ever hungry, and when he was, he didn't eat much because the chemo made everything taste off-puttingly metallic. Two weeks ago, they stopped chemo so he could gain a little back, and Ronnie Anne was right there to force feed him. He'd be sitting in his chair and she'd come in with a plate of food. _I don't want that shit,_ he'd say and wave his hand.

 _Yes you do,_ she'd retort and thrust it out. _Take it._

Maybe it was the fact that she knew he was sick, but he was beginning to look it: Features sharp, eyes cloudy, thick veins crisscrossing the backs of his sallow hands. Knowing something is there makes it easier to spot, that had to be it; no one else had noticed, and they saw Alex every couple days.

Wait, she _did_ point out the hair loss. _Looks like the snow on the old roof is starting to melt,_ she said the other day. She, Tim, Blake, and Zoe were over for dinner, and Lincoln did his best to act well, sitting at the head of the table, smiling, chatting with fluid ease, and steadily eating. After a while, Ronnie Anne could see the signs of strain: Tight lips, shaky hands, flushed face. He eventually begged off and went to sit in his chair, where he was comfortable. Alex was none the wiser, which surprised Ronnie Anne. Couldn't she _feel_ the dark heaviness in the air? Couldn't she smell the sickness?

 _When do we tell the girls?_ Ronnie Anne asked one night. They lay in bed, Lincoln cradling her as though _she_ were the sick one. Their roles should have been reversed, with her consoling _him_ , but God help her, she needed to be held.

Lincoln stiffened, and she could sense his aversion to the idea. _I don't know,_ he finally said. _I want to tell them even less than I wanted to tell you._

 _They need to know you're sick,_ she stated. She didn't say 'dying'. She _never_ said 'dying' because he wasn't going to. Something would happen, some breakthrough, some miracle, and he would be okay, at least for a little while longer.

He let out a sigh. _I know,_ he said.

They hadn't talked about it since, but they couldn't wait much longer. The cancer was beginning to show and in a few weeks, surely no more than a month, they wouldn't be able to hide it anymore. She was in favor of doing it soon, before Lincoln was so sick that the stress of having to tell his daughters he was -

She clutched the wheel and squeezed her eyes closed against a rush of tears. She turned her head to one side and waited for the storm to pass. When it did, she took a deep breath and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

\- ill would be too much for him. She couldn't do it alone...God, she couldn't.

She darted her eyes to the building, then ashamedly away again. She cut the engine, plucked the keys from the ignition, and got out. Leaning back in, she grabbed the folder from the passenger seat, then shut the door.

The breeze played in her hair and sunshine fell over her bare arms, but she was cold anyway, as she had been since Lincoln told her he was sick. The chill came from within, but she'd been thinking of Florida a lot lately. When Lincoln was well again, even if it wasn't permanent, she might bring up the idea of moving there. She would hate being so far from Blake, Alex, and Zoe, but the tropical climes and white, sandy beaches had grown more alluring than ever over the past few weeks. Florida had always represented freedom to her. She occasionally allowed herself to daydream about it, and she always saw her and Lincoln walking hand-in-hand along the beach, both retired...no meetings, no late afternoons, nowhere to be but with one another. There were no troubles in Florida, no worries, only blue skies, leafy palms, and the soothing sound of the surf eternally lapping the shore.

Florida was peace and happiness...and she needed both of those things right now.

She crossed the parking lot, hurried up the steps, and went inside. A long counter flanked the wall to her right and a lamplit waiting area with overstuffed chairs and cherrywood end tables opened up on her left. A secretary in a gray blazer sat behind a computer, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She looked up and flashed a too red smile that Ronnie Anne could almost believe was mocking. "Hello, Mrs. Loud. Here to see Superintendent Bryant?"

If Ronnie Anne remembered correctly, the secretary had been here for almost ten years, but she still couldn't remember her name. Was it Sharon? Sharil? "Yes," Ronnie Anne said, "is he here?"

Sharon or Sharil glanced at the screen and frowned at what she saw. "Yeah, he's in. Let me page him."

While she waited, Ronnie Anne went through what she was going to say one final time. She'd been preparing for this for over a week, but she still didn't feel ready. Does one ever in circumstances like these? Today marked a life changing transition, for better or worse, and change, she had long ago discovered, was not something she was very fond of. Call her what you will, but she'd craved a happy little niche for herself in life and wasn't comfortable straying from it. She was, in many regards, a creature of habit, just like Lincoln, and she felt the exact same things he must have felt last winter.

"You can go on in," Sharon or Sharil said.

Nodding her thanks, Ronnie Anne went down the hall and stopped at a closed door bearing a gold plate: C BRYANT, SUPERINTENDENT. A very large part of her wanted to turn around and walk away, to forget this and go on as she had for the past thirty-two years - if she ignored Lincoln's illness long enough, maybe it would go away and things could stay the same.

Only things didn't work that way. She could deny that Lincoln was dying, but she couldn't deny that he was sick and that their lives were going to change exponentially because of it.

Might as well get it over with. She turned the knob and went inside.

The offices of Big, Important People, no matter their profession, have a generic sameness about them. Bryant's was no different. Framed photos and certificates dotted the baby blue walls and an ornate wood cabinet with glass doors stood to one side. With white crown molding and richly carved woodwork along the baseboards, it was nice, but ultimately similar to almost every other one she'd ever been in.

Bryant, a short, chubby man with gray hair wrapping around a bald head, sat behind his desk, wiping his mouth with a napkin. From the open styrofoam container before him, he was in the middle of lunch when Sharon or Sharil paged him. "Ronalda," he greeted and dropped the napkin into his trash can, "I can't say I expected to see you."

They shook over the desk and Ronnie Anne sat down.

Two weeks ago, she put in for three weeks of time off, consisting mainly of unused personal time she had accumulated over the years. In three decades of teaching, and then administering, at Royal County High, she had called in only three times. Every year, she was required to take at least three or her allotted absences and typically did it in February or March. After so long, her remaining days were rounded off to three months.

"I didn't expect to come here," Ronnie Anne said honestly.

"It's always nice to see you either way," Bryant said. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Ronnie Anne opened the folder, slid out a sheet of computer paper, and handed it to him. He took it with a nonplussed expression, slipped on his reading glasses, and scanned it. His brow pinched and he looked dazedly up at her. "What's this?" he asked.

"My resignation," she said.

He flicked his eyes from her face to the page and back again, his confusion deepening. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish gulping for water, then shook his head. "W-Why?" he asked. Under better circumstances, his bafflement would have been amusing.

"Well," Ronnie Anne started, "my husband is...is sick and I need to be there for him."

Bryant's face softened. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is...is it serious?"

She nodded. Her reply, "Yes," came out as a broken whisper.

"Well...if you're sure this is what you want to do. I have to admit, I'm a little blindsided. You've been working for the district almost as long as I have and I always thought you'd take my job one day." He uttered a humorless laugh. "You _can_ take an extended leave under the The Family Medical Act." He looked around his desk as if for something. "I think it's twelve weeks. I have to find the paperwork, but I'm more than willing to hold your position as long as I can. I, uh, I don't know what the school board will say, though I think they'd be okay with it. You're one of the district's best, and I would hate to see you leave when you don't have to."

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "I'd need a lot more than twelve weeks," she said, "and, after thinking about it, I've decided that now is as good a time as any to retire."

Her life was changing drastically whether she wanted it to or not...whether Lincoln lived another two years or twenty...and her future was uncertain. She didn't know where she would be in a year and didn't even want to think about it, for even though she said Lincoln wouldn't die, deep down, she knew damn well that he might. She wasn't sure what lie on the other side of this, but it didn't include RCHS.

Bryant's lips settled into a sad frown, but he nodded resignedly. "Alright, well, I thank you for your service and...you're always welcome in the Royal County school system."

"Thank you," she said, "I appreciate that."

And thus, after three decades, Ronnie Anne Loud's tenure at Royal County High came to a close.

* * *

On the evening of May 15, Lincoln Loud lay in bed and stared groggily up at the ceiling, his hands laced over his chest. Soft purple twilight flooded the room and the distant sound of children's laughter drifted through the open window. A wasp, yellow on black, threw itself repeatedly against the screen like a none-too-bright burglar, its monotone buzz growing louder as its anger rose. Wasps were one of the few creatures on earth who seemed to have no purpose, they ony existed because fuck you, that's why. Bees pollinate flowers, spiders eat insects, and Democrats make good target practice, butt wasps' sole reason for being was to sting you.

It was just past 6:30 and Lincoln had been stretched out here since coming home from his latest chemotherapy at 3. When he got home, he was woozy, tired, and weak, and almost couldn't make it from the car to the house on his own. For a time he dozed, riding the thin line between sleep and consciousness, then, shortly after six, he came fully awake, his mind working at what passed for max power these days before he was even up.

 _We need to tell Alex that you're sick,_ Ronnie Anne said on the way to chemo that morning. She stared grimly over the wheel, her face strained. She was in denial...she thought he was going to get better. During his first appointment with Patel after he told her, she insisted that there had to be 'something you can do.' Patel sadly shook his head. _I'm sorry, Mrs. Loud, but your husband's condition is terminal. We hope to prolong his life as much as we can, but that's all_. She wouldn't believe him, and in the rare moments that she did allow the possibility of him dying, she imagined 'as long as we can' to mean 'indefinitely.'

Denial was the first step of grief, he read, and she was there even now, almost a month later.

 _I know,_ he replied. He wanted to correct her - tell Alex that I'm _dying_ \- but he didn't have the energy for what would happen afterwards...the tears, the adamant refusal to accept what was going to happen, the look of hurt and confusion in her tearful eyes.

 _When?_

Lincoln gazed out the window, not wanting to answer the question but having no choice. Like Ronnie Anne had pointed out, it was becoming obvious that he was sick. He'd lost weight, his skin was pale, and his eyes roiled with that moist, hazy sheen you only see in the gravely ill. Patel said the cancer was moving at a steady pace and could, at any moment, metastasize, or spread. The chemo shrank the tumors in his marrow, but they were still there, and if they proliferated too much, his body wouldn't be able to handle it even with chemo and dialysis. Once it got to a certain point, Patel said, they would stop treatment...no point in trying to bail a foundering ship out with a single plastic bucket, right? Might as well tuck your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye. It wasn't a question of if, but of when, and then, of how long he'd last after his final blast of radiation. Patel said three months, tops.

And that it was probably going to happen sooner rather than later.

Alex needed to know _now_ \- so did Jessy and everyone else - but he wanted to tell her even less than he wanted to tell Ronnie Anne. Call him selfish, but he couldn't stand to see the same pain in her eyes that he saw in her mother's, couldn't bear the thought of her tears.

Being sick and largely immobile had given Lincoln a lot of time for introspective self-reflection, and he had reached a conclusion about himself: He was full of shit. He came home from Vietnam with this tough guy attitude and slung his dick around like Big Billy Badass for forty years, but it was all a lie. He wasn't strong, he wasn't hard boiled, he was putting up a false front...not to fool everyone else, but to fool himself. Inside, he was a weak, wounded little man trying his damnedest to forget. He was always this way, but life had taught him to mask it - a man isn't supposed to be fragile, he's supposed to be stoic and unaffected. A man laughs in the face of painful memories. A man carries on even when he's gushing blood and leaving a trail of mangled limbs behind him.

He'd been convincing himself that he was a hardcase for over thirty years, but he wasn't; he was a pansy, and his inability to entertain the idea of telling his daughter that he was going to die proved it. He could tell her he was sick...that would be hard but manageable...but he couldn't tell her that he was going to die.

The clang of something metal hitting the kitchen floor reverberated through the house, followed by Ronnie Anne's muttered curse. She was making dinner...another meal he'd choke down then fight to keep from puking back up. Once, in another lifetime, he loved her cooking, but now, between the constant, non-stop nausea and the coppery taste forever lingering in his mouth, he couldn't stand it. He could barely even drink water.

Pushing himself up on shaky arms, Lincoln swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, a wave of dizziness breaking over him. When he trusted himself to stand, he got to his feet and shuffled into the bathroom, where he snapped the light on. He pissed then brushed his teeth in a futile effort to get the taste of metal out of his mouth. In the mirror, he was haggard and wan, dark bags beneath his eyes denoting sleepless nights. Even with the persistent exhaustion, he had trouble dropping off at night. At least now he wasn't alone - Ronnie Anne slept just as poorly. Partly, he thought, because of him, and partly because she was still adjusting to not working.

Leaving RCHS was her decision and hers alone. She wanted to be there when he needed her and he appreciated it, but that left her in a financial bind. The medical bills were steep, even with their insurance, and by the time he was dead and in the ground, she could very well be bankrupt.

A quiver went through his center at the prospect of her losing everything because of this.

If he were a man, he would take his .45, press it to the roof of his mouth, and spare his family the burden, but he wasn't, so he washed off his toothbrush and went into the kitchen instead.

Ronnie Anne stood at the stove in a purple dress, her back to him. She got out of bed at the same time every morning that she did when she worked, and always dressed as though she would decide on a whim to go back. In a few months, Lincoln imagined he would need her help extensively, but for now, he could do everything on his own (just slower), which left her twiddling her thumbs...in the form of cleaning and recleaning the house, working in the yard, and cooking. When she brought up resigning, he could clearly see the iron-clad resolve in her eyes, and didn't try very hard to dissuade her, but he did try to get her to wait out the rest of the year. There was only a month of school left before summer vacation; come what may, he wouldn't be _that_ bad off by then.

She was adamant, however. It wasn't just taking care of him to her, it was being with him, for despite her outward denial, she knew in her heart that time was short, and she wanted to wring every minute out of what was left that she could.

The smell of stew seasoned the warm air, and Lincoln's stomach turned. She made light dinners at his request; those were easier to get - and keep - down than heavier fare. She stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, wisps of steam caressing her face, and long strands of her graying hair had worked free of her ponytail throughout the day, lending her the kind of hassled appearance that he always found strangely beautiful.

He crossed the linoleum and slipped his arms around her hips. She went rigid, then relaxed when he kissed her neck. "I'd know those lips anywhere," she said.

"Didn't you hear me?" he asked.

"Nope," she said, "you snuck up on me."

Normally, Ronnie Anne was as aware of her surroundings as a highly attuned soldier in the field and sneaking up behind her was impossible - she heard every scrape of shoe, every rustle of fabric, and even the softest of exhalations. Lately, however, she'd been absent and preoccupied…

He laced his hands over her stomach and pecked the side of her throat. "That smells good," he lied, "what is it?"

"Beef stew," she said. She dipped the spoon in, held her hand underneath, palm facing up, and twisted around.

Lincoln dutifully tried it, hoping it would taste good and spark his appetite, but the only flavor he could discern was metal. "Even better than it smells."

She slurped the rest off and turned back to the stove. "It'll be ready in a minute. How do you feel?"

"Better," he said honestly. His arms and legs were rubbery, but the exhaustion and vertigo were gone. "I think I need to sit down, though."

"Go ahead."

He kissed her one last time, then ambled into the living room and sank wearily onto the couch. Dan Rather sat behind the _CBS Evening News_ anchor desk, droning about someone named Berlusconi winning the general election in Italy. Lincoln didn't care about Italy - the last good leader they had was Mussolini, and it was all downhill from there.

Not really, but a man cracks jokes instead of worrying himself sick over his fading faculties and soon-dwindling bank account.

Just before Rather signed off, Ronnie Anne came in with a steaming bowl of liquid metal, set it on an end table, and pulled one of the folding TV trays from the gap between the couch and the wall. She set it up in front of him, then hurried back into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. She sat that and the bowl on the table before him and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Eat up, lame-o," she said.

Getting the other tray, she sat it up next to his and went into the kitchen to make her own food. Lincoln favored the stew with unease, then picked up his spoon. Funny how something so vital to sustaining life - food and drink - had become so loathsome. He despised meals and didn't look forward to liquids either, though the latter was more palpable than the former. He ate to please her...and, to a far lesser extent, Patel; he lost too much weight over the last month and the doctor wasn't happy. _You need to maintain your pre-diagnosis weight,_ he told Lincoln in scolding tones, _I know eating is unpleasant but you have to do it._

So do it he did.

Didn't mean he had to like it.

Heh, wouldn't be the first time he had to choke down something awful, though, in all honesty, he preferred maggots to _this_.

Ronnie Anne came in, sat her food on her tray, and plopped down next to him. On TV, _The King of Queens_ started. Lincoln didn't like that show: They made the husband a fat dumbass and the wife a virtual supermodel with a genius IQ.

It reminded him too much of himself, hahaha.

Ronnie Anne took a bite and chewed. "The celery's a little underdone," she remarked.

He dipped his spoon in and brought it gingerly to his lips. "I like it that way."

For a time, they ate in silence, the atmosphere between them heavy with dread. Every evening, they engaged in an unspoken game of make believe, ignoring the proverbial 900 pound gorilla in the room and pretending that everything was okay. It was a ritual they undertook by silent consent, and Lincoln played along more for her benefit than his.

After a while, she sat her spoon aside and gazed into her bowl like a gypsy into a crystal ball and perturbed by what she saw. Ronnie Anne was strong...far stronger than he ever was...but it wasn't uncommon for her to start crying at random now. The illusion she created for herself, he figured, slipped from time to time, and she caught sight of what lie beyond: Him in a casket...likely before Christmas.

Instead of breaking down, she spoke in the strained tone of a woman saying something incredibly painful. "We need to tell Alex."

Lincoln let out a pent-up breath. "I know," he said.

"Soon."

He started to protest, but cut himself off. He couldn't delay this forever. Sooner or later, he had to tell her...and later, in this case, was far closer than he liked. Claustrophobia clutched his chest and he reflexively swallowed. He was an animal backed into a corner, and there were only two options when you found yourself playing that part - you either curled up and died or you came out swinging. This was a _little_ different, yes, but fundamentally the same.

"Soon," he confirmed.

Ronnie Anne nodded grimly, her reluctance matching his. "And Jessy?"

"Her too," Lincoln said.

 _The King of Queens_ gave over to _Yes, Dear._ Ronnie Anne collected the dishes and brought them into the kitchen. On screen, Jimmy and Greg stood next to a boat parked in the yard, Jimmy looking self-satisfied and Greg looking another kind of -fied, mortified. Lincoln didn't mind this show as much. Jimmy, the dumbass brother-in-law, reminded him of Lynn, and Greg, the successful (though not very handsome) hotshot reminded him of himself. Call him a fat slob, Greg, make him move his rusted hunk of shit with your _fists._

He chuckled, then launched into a coughing fit.

"You alright?" Ronnie Anne called.

Lincoln waved his hand even though she couldn't see it. "I'm fine."

Shortly, Ronnie Anne came back and curled up next to him on the sofa; he put his arm around her shoulders, and she rested her head and hand on his chest. When _Everybody Loves Raymond_ ended and _Becker_ began, she snorted softly. "There's your show, lame-o," she said.

Lincoln grinned. Dr. John Becker, a divorced general practitioner living in a rundown apartment in New York City was mean, surly, and hated everything under the sun.

"I love that guy," Lincoln said genuinely.

Ronnie Anne patted his chest. "I love you," she said, then, more urgently, "so much."

"I love you too," he replied.

He wanted to say more, to try, perhaps, and get through her denial, but he was loathe to ruin this perfect moment.

After all, they didn't have very many left.

* * *

Every morning, Luan left home at 9am for the fifteen minute drive to Jessy's house, a route that took her through downtown Bellevue and along the east bank of Lake Washington. Sometimes, she took the long way, going south toward Mercer Island and Newport Shores then looping around the southern edge of Mercer Slough Park. In the three years she'd lived here, she had come to love the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest, and Mercer Park, with its towering pines, rushing streams, and dense underbrush was her favorite spot in all the state. Once or twice a week, she took Allison there for a nature walk so Jessy could have time to herself, a tradition that Luan had come to cherish the way she once did Christmas and her birthday. At almost three, Allison was a bright and inquisitive toddler who ceaselessly explored the world around her with her eyes, hands, and mouth, so to make those trips a little more educational, Luan brought along a field guide on local flora and fauna, then pointed out everything she could name. _That's a Douglas Fir. Those make really good Christmas trees. That's poison sumac. We don't touch that, it gives us owies._

Today, she followed Bellevue Way, which skirts the western border of the park, and nodded her head along to Joan Baez on WKRT. A cold, steady rain fell from the leaden sky and the windshield wipers squeaked across the slick glass. A steep hillside covered in dense tangles of vegetation loomed over the highway to her right, and to her left, the land sloped down, the very tops of the pines crowding Mercer level with the blacktop. Ahead of her, a pick up truck gradually braked, its taillights glowing red in the ashen gloom. Luan slowed, then accelerated when the truck turned right.

A few miles later, she turned left, then north onto 118th Avenue, a scenic route surrounded by tall trees. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 9:25. Jessy had a 10:15 doctor's appointment for an ultrasound, and Luan was giddy with excitement for her first glimpse of her new grandchild. It was far too early to determine gender, but she was hoping for a boy, that way, as Alex once put it, she could have the best of both worlds. Then again, twins would be nice. Or even triplets. Quadruplets were unlikely, but a girl can dream, can't she? A few days ago, she told Jessy she hoped she had at least three, and the girl's eyes widened in alarm. _I don't know if we're ready to handle_ that _many,_ she said.

 _Of course you are,_ Luan said confidently. _You can handle anything._

She was (partially) kidding about wanting multiple babies, but she was serious about her faith in Jessy. She really _could_ handle anything...especially since Luan was around. Not many parents have the luxury of a willing and able family member ready - nay, lobbying - to help shoulder the burden. Conversely, not every grandmother wanted to have their grandchildren every second of every day. Why, Luan honestly didn't know; Allison was the most precious thing ever, and she couldn't get enough of her.

In the beginning, she sensed that Jessy didn't like her being constantly around, and though it bothered her, she couldn't blame the girl. She was a grown woman and wanted space to raise her daughter on her own. Now, nearly three years on, she wasn't as antipathetic to it. In fact, she welcomed the occasional respite. Taking care of a child, even one as retiring and even tempered as Allison, is an intensive proposition that leaves little time left over for you. Jessy enjoyed reading and going to yoga, two pursuits she couldn't indulge with Allison in tow.

That's where Luan came in.

Presently, she turned onto Jessy's street. Rain beat down on sodden front lawns and water flowed swiftly through the gutters like mountain rapids, the sporadic leaf or bit of newspaper standing in for hapless canoes. She pulled into the driveway, tires splashing in a wide puddle, and cut the engine, killing Jefferson Airplane in the middle of _Somebody to Love_. Her birthday was last week and one of the presents Jessy got her was a CD set called _Greatest Hits of the Sixties_. Every song stirred fond memories in her heart except for one. _Come Back to Me_ by Blues Station...Luna's band.

Luna was one of four painful things in Luan's past that she preferred not to think about. She had many happy moments with her older sister, but they were tinged with sadness and loss, and if she let Luna into her mind, she would begin to wonder what could have been. She did the same with Leni, only that hurt more because Leni was innocent. Luna, like Luan herself, made her own decisions, but Leni did not, she was stricken by a cruel stroke of fate and destined to deteriorate and die from the moment she was born. She could have been anything, done anything, had a family of her own and a career; instead she died at the age of forty. Luna was twenty-eight. So young, still a girl in ways. Where would she be now if she never tried that first taste of coke? Where would she be if she never left home in the first place? Married to that boyfriend of hers most likely (what was his name again?). They fit well together and seemed happy.

Where would _she_ be if she hadn't killed Harold Manning? Would she and Ted have worked out? Would they be married?

She was starting to dwell, which was precisely the reason she didn't entertain certain subjects; one thought lead to another, and before long, she was lost in the hazy shadow land of what-if.

Blowing a puff of air, she looked up at the house. Nestled in its grove with ivy coated brick and European windows, it reminded her - as it did Jessy - of something from Tolkin, a tiny inn on the road to an enchanted forest, maybe, or a place where Hobbits dwelt in-between adventures. She could have had a house like this, she could have been a teacher…

She could have raised her daughter.

None of those things happened, though. Like Luna and Leni, she died young, only her death was temporary; like Christ, she arose once more, but unlike Christ, she was not whole and new. Her heart and her mind bore the scars of her past, and no matter what she did or where she went, she would never be able to change what happened, nor could she ever truly atone for it.

She was fortunate, however, in that she _did_ come back. Harold Manning did not. He lay, even now, in a grave somewhere down the coast, dead these last thirty-one years. He had three children, if she remembered, all grown now and probably with kids of their own. She could reach out and touch her daughter, she could hold and snuggle her granddaughter, he could not; she robbed him of that...worse, she robbed his children of that.

In a dark mood now, she pulled the keys from the ignition and got out. Rain hissed in the soupy yard and pelted her shoulders, dampening her graying hair. She pulled her coat closed at the throat, ducked her head, and hurried up the walk, the heels of her fashionable boots - another gift from Jessy - clicking hollowly on the flagstones. She went up the steps, shook herself off like a wet dog, and knocked on the door. Lamplight shone in the front window, lending the house the air of a cozy country cottage, and leaning to the left, Luan could just make out the blue flicker of the TV set.

Footsteps approached, and the knob rattled. Jessy pulled it open and smiled. "Hey," she said and stepped aside.

"Hi, sorry I'm late," Luan said and crossed the threshold. "I took the long way."

A hall lead to the kitchen at the back of the house. The living room was through an archway on the left, a tiny space filled with photos, knick-knacks, and doilies. An oil on canvas depicting an autumnal forest scene hung above the mantle and the ornamental pendulum clock beneath ticked back and forth. Luan teased Jessy about having the design palate of an eighty-year-old woman, but she absolutely adored this place.

Allison lay on the sofa with a knitted Aftghan pulled to her chest and drank from a pink sippy cup, her big, brown eyes glued to the screen, where Maisy the mouse frollicked through a spring meadow with her friends, a chick and squirrel whose names escaped Luan. Her auburn hair was held up in tighty braided pigtails that reminded Luan of Pippi Longstocking.

"It's kind of nasty for that," Jessy said and leaned out the door. She took stock of the weather, then closed and locked the door.

Luan shrugged out of her coat and hung it from the rack. "I like the rain," she said.

"I do too," Jessy said as they made their way to the kitchen, "but not showers. Driving in them makes me a _little_ nervous."

"You're a Michigan girl," Luan scoffed playfully, "you can drive in anything."

"I _can_ ," Jessy agreed, "I just don't like to."

The kitchen was a wide and modern enclave boasting chrome appliances, wood floors, and high end fixtures. At the counter, Jessy poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Luan. "I need to get ready," Jessy said over the rim of her mug.

While she showered and dressed, Luan finished her coffee and went into the living room, where she sat next to Allison. The little girl went on staring at the TV, transfixed by the bright colors. "Hi," Luan drew happily and danced her fingers over Allison's belly, making her squirm and giggle, "good morning."

Allison drew herself to a sitting position, the blanket pooling around her waist, and swayed drunkenly. "You're still sleepy, huh?" Luan cooed. "You woke up too early, didn't you?"

The little girl grinned slyly. Luan took that as a yes. Allison, like her mother, was an early riser. On those semi-frequent occasions that Luan took her granddaughter home for the weekend, Allison woke before dawn and usually occupied herself with her toys, though sometimes Luan came awake to find her standing next to the bed, patiently waiting for her to get up.

Luan held her arms out and smiled. "Come here."

Allison crawled over and Luan pulled her into her lap. She wore pink footie pajamas that may have come from Luan...she couldn't tell, Allison had so many of them. "Oof, you're getting heavy," she said. "You have lots of food in your belly?"

Allison shook her head no.

"Are you sure?"

Nod.

"I think you're fibbing."

Allison shook her head again.

"How about we get dressed? We have to go bye-bye soon."

Without question or complaint, Allison slipped off of Luan's lap and waited for her grandmother to get up. Taking her hand, Luan lead her into her bedroom. A pink canopy bed befitting a princess sat in the middle, neatly made and laden with more stuffed animals than Luan could count. A wooden toy chest stood flush with the footboard and a little table and chair set laid with plastic china, fake food, and random toys stood beneath the window. An overfull bookcase crouched in the corner, its top shelf stacked with excess tomes. Mark and Jessy doted on Allison, especially Mark; he was different from most men in almost every way, but the same in that his daughter was his princess, and he spoiled her as such.

Allison crossed to the bed and climbed on while Luan rooted through the closet, finally settling on a green plaid overall dress with yellow pinstripes and a white shirt. It was a little too chilly for it, but she would look adorable in it.

She carried the clothes over and dropped them onto the mattress. Allison laid back and allowed Luan to change her. They were just finishing up when Jessy came in wearing jeans and a sweater. "Oh, good, you got her dressed," she said.

"Yep," Luan said and slipped Allison's shoes on, "we're ready."

Luan carried Allison out to Jessy's car and put her in her seat. The rain had let up and the wind slackened. Jessy slid in behind the wheel and Luan climbed into the passenger seat. "You sure you don't want me to drive?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Jessy said.

On the drive across town, Luan stole furtive glances at Jessy from the corner of her eye, paying special attention to her stomach, where even now, a precious child was taking shape. It was too early for her to show, but Luan imagined she could make out the first, slight swell of pregnancy anyway.

A memory came unbidden, and the warmth in her breast turned to cold: Her and Ted driving through a drizzle much like this on their way to an abortionist. She was about as far along as Jessy was now, only she lacked the glow of happiness so evident in Jessy's face. She was scared, she was sick...and she was selfish; a baby was an inconvenience that she didn't want. The revolution came first. Ha, how stupid. If she could go back in time, she'd grab her younger self by the throat and shake her until she understood just how much she would regret trying to kill her baby. _You're a stupid, ugly bitch, snap out of it!_

There were a lot of things she'd do if she could alter the past, but she couldn't. So there was no point in even thinking about it. Her life had not been perfect and she had her regrets, but so does everyone. Right now, she had a wonderful daughter, a beautiful granddaughter, and a new baby to meet and shower with love. If she focused on her past, she would miss what was right in front of her, and she'd already missed enough for one lifetime.

No, she didn't have it perfect, but what she did have _was_ perfect, and she cherished every moment of it. The past would always be a part of her and would never cease to whisper hatefully into her ear, but the choice to ignore or indulge it was hers, and sitting in her daughter's car on a dim, rain swept Seattle morning, she made a solemn vow to turn her back on those painful things, to deny them the power to take anything else away from her.

She might not deserve the blessings she'd been granted, but she fully intended to enjoy them.

Jessy navigated the car into a slot facing the doctor's office and cut the engine. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes," Luan said with a resolute nod, "I am."


	224. May 2001: Part 2

**STR2D3PO: No, she never told her and I doubt she ever will.**

You know what's really lame? Being called into work on a Sunday. Alex loved having a positive impact on the sick and wounded - usually through the art of spreading laughter, which really _is_ the best medicine - but she also liked parking her butt in front of the TV and relaxing. You might not know it from the few extra pounds in her hips and belly, but she worked hard. She lifted, bent, squatted, hefted, carried, and walked...so much of the latter that she ate through a pair of shoes every two months. Her back always hurt, her knees ached, and her feet...ohmigod, as the Valley Girl Jessy types used to say.

It was only fair that she get at least _one_ day of sloth, right? Wrong! She was lying in bed, drifting between sleep and not sleep, when the phone on the nightstand rang, startling her. She shot out her hand, knocked the handset off the cradle, cursed, then leaned over and snatched it up. It was barely dawn and already she cracked a sweat. Ugh. _Hello?_

 _Hi, Alex, it's Barbara._

Barbara was the head weekend nurse in the emergency department, and as soon as Alex heard her voice, she knew.

 _Blah blah blah, no call, no show...blah blah blah, short staffed, can you forego your sole day of rest to come in and bust your hump?_

Obviously she couldn't say no. She liked her R&R (as more than a friend), but she had this crazy little affliction called consciousitis. It's where you have a conscious and care about others. I know, I know, it sounds horrible, because it kind of is. Someone who doesn't suffer from it can kick back and not give one good damn about the short-staffed emergency room they turned their backs on. Not enough nurses? No problem. Increased wait times? Pfft. Babies and old people dying because they weren't getting the care they needed? LOL. (That stands for _laugh out loud,_ if you don't have a computer, you wouldn't understand). Not her. She'd spend the whole day worrying that her refusal to come in would lead to calamity, so, really, she wouldn't even be able to chill out anyway.

Sigh. Curse of being a good person.

 _Alright,_ she muttered, _give me an hour._

 _Great. Thank you_ so _much, Alex. I knew I could count on you._

Oh, stop, you're making me blush.

Hanging up, she swung her legs over the side and stood. Dusky purple light filled the room and her eyes weren't fully adjusted, so she stepped _real_ careful-like to avoid tripping and falling on her face. Tim, oblivious to her absence, slept on, sounding like that Jackyl song _The Lumberjack._ You know...the one with a real, live freaking chainsaw in it. Who would have thought power tools could make such awesome instruments? For that matter, she never thought bagpipes could be cool until she heard _It's A Long Way To The Top_ by AC/DC. Then again, AC/DC can make anything cool.

In the bathroom, she stripped naked, peed, then got into the shower. She turned the water as hot as she could stand (which wasn't very hot since she was a secret wimp) and stuck her head under the spray.

Suddenly, she remembered something. Last night, Mom called and said she wanted her to come over today. _Your father and I have something important to tell you._ While that didn't worry Alex, it did catch her off guard. She passed the previous evening trying to figure out what it could be. For her money, they were finally moving to Florida. Mom had been talking about it off and on for years, but she and Dad were both full of hot air, so Alex kind of thought it would never happen. They must have changed their minds.

Alright, well...that majorly sucked. First, Jessy moves clear across the country, now she was losing her folks to a state shaped like a flaccid penis. Rockin'. Admittedly, though, Florida was nice. Maybe she should pack up the ol' family and follow suit. There were lots of old people down in F-L-A, so finding work in her field would be as easy as showing up. _I came to wipe butts and chew bubblegum...and I'm all outta gum._

She told Mom she'd swing by around noon, but now that wasn't going to happen, so she'd have to call her from work and let her know she'd be late.

When she was done, she cut the water, grabbed a towel, and dried off. Wrapping it around herself, she went out into the room and dressed in a pair of seafoam green scrubs. By now, brilliant May sunshine streamed through the window and a chorus of birds chirped to each other from treetop perches. Tim was on his side, one arm jutting over the edge, palm up and fingers curled like the legs of a dead spider. She briefly considered going back into the bathroom, getting the shaving cream, filling his palm, then tickling his nose. _Wakey-wakey, Timmeh._

That was the mentally hanicapped kid from South Park; he uses a wheelchair and knows only one word, his own name, kind of like how Tom Cullen from _The Stand_ could only spell _moon_. _M-O-O-N, that spells Coach_. Hahahaha. Ten points if you get that.

Instead of pranking Tim, Alex knelt next to the bed, leaned in, and kissed his nose. His eyelids fluttered open and he stirred. "Hey," she said, "I got called into work."

His bleary eyes muddled with confusion and his brow wrinkled cutely. "But it's Saturday," he mumbled.

"Actually," she said and kissed his forehead, since it was too cute to pass up, "it's Sunday, and injury and illness wait for no woman."

Tim's eyes drooped closed and he snuggled into a more comfortable position. "Okay."

"You're in charge while I'm gone."

He hummed tiredly. "Alright. Love you."

"Love you too."

She pecked his lips, then got up and went into the kitchen, where she got a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge. She cracked it, took a long drink, and sighed her contentment. A while back, she swore off soda entirely, but that didn't pan out so well; she'd been drinking the stuff for years, and going cold turkey left her tired, headachy, and really, really irritable. After two days of abject torment, she broke down and made a deal with herself: She'd buy some yummy soda but only if it was diet. She tried several different brands, including Coke and Pepsi, but Dr. Pepper was the only diet pop that tasted halfway decent.

Cutting out regular soda had done wonders for her figure: Now, instead of _daaaaaayum_ on the fatty-fat scale, she was just _damn,_ which was way lower. But really, thanks to that and eating healthier, she lost a respectable amount of weight in her hips and stomach, which is where she carried it all. A _little_ bit in her butt, but not much. And none in her face, thank goodness.

Downing the rest of her cola, she grabbed her purse from the living room and left. Outside, the air was chilly but the warmth of the sun promised an increase in temperature as the day wore on. She locked the door, descended the steps, and ducked around the front end of Tim's new truck, a white 2000 Ford F250 Super Duty. It sat three feet off the ground (if not more) on big, honking ties and took up most of the driveway.

Whoa, there, buddy, compensating for something?

Heh. No.

Her car, a '99 Toyota Tercel, was parked half on the grass, the dawn's early light glinting off its windshield. She slid in behind the wheel, tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, and pulled the door closed. She jammed the key into the ignition, threw the car into reverse, and backed into the street. The trailer park stood largely empty as she navigated through the winding avenues; she passed a jogger, an old woman walking a dog, and a stray cat with no tail, but otherwise, the place might as well have been deserted.

That's because it was Sunday, and all the normal people were still in bed. Only lame-os with consciousitis were up, and there seemed to be even fewer of those than she thought. At the exit, she pulled abreast of the MARSH RUN sign dividing the lanes and came to a rolling stop. Nary a car moved on the highway, and directly ahead, a group of deer walked across the field bordering the gravel shoulder. They were too far away for Alex to see clearly, but they looked big, like bucks or something.

She watched them for a moment, then fiddled with the radio. Sunday was, let's face it, folks, the most boring day of the week for TV; the same held true for radio. None of the three morning drivetime shows she listened to were on, which blew - a shot of zaniness was just what she needed to get her day started right. She turned the dial back and forth, sweeping through the band before leaving it on a station playing Destiny's Child. She didn't really like them, but she had to get her butt in gear, those sick and wounded cramming into Mennonite Hospital's waiting room wouldn't take care of themselves.

Spinning the wheel to the right, she turned onto the highway. Destiny's Child ended and a commercial for Sheetz took its place. They just built one of those in Chippewa Falls, and while the name was dumb, it was still the biggest, coolest gas station Alex had ever seen. It had _everything_ , even sandwiches and stuff made to order. She went in there a few days after it opened, and her socks were literally blown off her feet...she eventually found them in them in front of the MTO counter, and since she was in the neighborhood, she ordered a hotdog to go. It was alright, better than the ones at 7-11 but not by all that much.

There was an accident on the main drag in Elk Park. A pick up truck T-boned a minivan, and their fused frames completely blocked the road. A fleet of cop cars, ambulances, and fire engines surrounded them, their lights flashing silently against the buildings lining the pavement, and groups of people watched from the sidewalk, none looking overly concerned, which told Alex there were no casualties. She craned left and right to get a better look anyway, her stomach doing flips because minivans usually carry kids, and hurt children was one of the surprisingly many things she hated. She didn't see any, so whew, dodged a bullet _there_.

While she waited, five cars back and at least a dozen cars up (smack dab in the middle of the jam), she searched the radio for something interesting. Staind, _It's Been A While,_ eh; JLO, _Love Don't Cost a Thing,_ uhh; Train, _Drops of Jupiter_ , gross; Leo Sayer, _You Make Me Feel Like Dancing._ Eww, Leo Sayer, he's...actually, this song's not as bad as I remembered. She left it and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Jessy liked Leo Sayer when they were kids and Alex thought he was the lamest thing ever, behind Donny Osmond and Leif Garret. They were all pretty boys who made cookie cutter pop music for mindless girls who wanted eye candy over good music.

As she aged, however, they sounded better and better. They weren't technically _cool_ like Aerosmith, Kiss, and Bob Segar, but they also weren't the scourge she once took them for.

" _That was Leo Sayer with_ You Make Me Feel Like Dancing, _on 96.9 Solid Gold Superhits."_

Yep, they were -

Wait a minute. Solid gold? This is the station Mom and Dad listen to!

T-That doesn't make sense, though. This isn't oldies, it's Leo Sayer! Oldies was fifties stuff, not stuff from her childhood. There's _nothing_ oldies about the seventies. They had bell bottoms and roller skate rinks. You call that oldies?

" _...playing all your favorites from the good old days."_

Okay, Alex was a thirty-two year old woman, but she had to draw the line _somewhere_. She leaned forward to change the station, but Fleetwood Mac came on with _The Chain_ and she balled her fist. Drats, foiled, this song was _always_ cool.

Sighing, she slumped back in her seat and blew a puff of air. Oh well. If they got good music, they got good music.

A traffic cop eventually waved her on, and she got to work a half hour later, stopping for gas at Sheetz along the way. The yummy smells of breakfast foods scented the air and her stomach grumbled, but she steeled her resolve. I need to _lose_ weight, not gain it. At the hospital, she parked under an oak tree, grabbed her purse, and threw the door open. Alright, let's get in there and save lives. Go TEAM.

Yeah, that didn't really happen. Like any business, hospitals have their own ebb and flow. Friday and Satudays, especially the nights, are usually really busy, while Thursdays were slower than Tim getting to those home repairs (gotta remind me to clean those gutters again). Sundays were a crapshoot, it could either be ram-damn-slammed or tumbleweed city. Today, it was tumbleweed city. A smattering of people sat in the waiting room, reading magazines or staring up at the TV, where CNN covered grass growing because there was nothing else going on. Barbara, a pudgy woman with glasses and short, curly black hair, sat at the nurse's station reading a copy of _The Weekly World News_. **APE GIVES BIRTH TO HUMAN BABY!** blared the headline.

Yeah, sure it did.

She looked up when Alex approached, then closed the tabloid and sat it aside.

"Here I am," Alex said.

"Thank you for coming in," Barbara said, "I called three girls before you and none of them wanted to."

Alex almost faltered. Oh? I wasn't your first choice? Well then. "Let that be a lesson to you," she said, "call Alex first."

It wasn't until later, as she pushed a cart full of medical supplies toward the store room that she realized what she'd done: Offered herself up to the cruel and bloodthirsty god of being drafted on her days off. _Oh, no, it's fine if you take my Sundays away. In fact, I want you to. Call me._

Sigh. For all her playful banter, both internal and external, she was too responsible for her own good.

After dropping the supplies off, she spent the rest of the morning buried in paperwork, then, after noon, she transferred to the triage center. Her first patient of the day was a teenage boy in jeans and a black T-shirt. He sat on the foot of a bed in one of the rooms off the ward with a wad of paper towels pressed to his head and a dazed look in his eyes. She'd bet money the poor kid cracked his dome piece on something.

Sitting on a wheeled stool, she scooted over until she was in front of him. Standing, he probably wasn't much taller than her, but because the bed rested high off the floor, he towered over her like a wounded giant. _Brothers, Nobody has blinded me!_ "You're really high up there," she said and worked the lever to raise the seat. It maxed out while her eyes were level with his chest, and she frowned. "Whatever, I'll just stand." She got up, kicked the chair away, and looked at him. "So what happened?"

"I fell off my skateboard."

She chuckled wistfully as she slipped the buds of her stethoscope into her eas. "I dumped my board when I was your age." She slipped the chestpiece under his shirt and listened to his heartbeat. It was strong and regular, though a little more elevated than she would like. She switched to a blood pressure cuff, wrapped it around his arm, and squeezed the bulb until it was inflated like a little kid's pool floatie. "You ever hang onto the backs of cars for a free ride?"

A look of confusion flickered across the boy's face. "Uh, no."

Alex chuckled again, then fixed him with a sober glare. "Don't, it's very dangerous."

His blood pressure, like his heart, was elevated, but not alarmingly so. She ripped the cuff off with a crisp tear of Velcro, then sat it and the stethoscope aside. "Alright, let me see the wound."

He took the paper towel away (it was far bloodier than it looked from afar), and Alex leaned in to examine the cut.

"Ouch," she said. It wasn't very big, but it was deep, the skin around it a raised and angry pink. Blood seeped from it like water from the ground and oozed into his hair. "Yeah, you're probably going to need stitches."

He cringed. "Does that hurt?" he asked anxiously.

"Not much," she lied. Honestly, she didn't know first hand what they felt like - she'd hurt herself a lot in this life, but never enough that she broke anything or needed to be sewed up again. Working in a hospital emergency room, she'd been present for a lot of people getting them and they looked, uh, painful. Very, very painful. She couldn't tell him that, though, part of her job was allaying her patients worries, not stoking them.

Done, she went to the nurses' station and charted her findings for the doctor, then went off to check on a little old lady in a wheelchair. Her breathing was labored and she was kind of pale, so Alex made sure to flip the little red flag outside the door on her way out. There were three. Green, yellow, and red, the first meaning _low priority,_ the second _medium priority,_ and the third _high priority._ Basically - _eh, it can wait; we better go ahead and get to you next;_ and _holy moly, get this person quality medical care, stat!_

From there, she took the vitals of a middle aged black man who thought he was having a heart attack (it wound up being gas); helped wheel a morbidly obese woman on a gurny from the triage center to a room on the third floor; and traded working on a sick three-year-old for mopping, santiziing, and disinfecting the floor in one of the tirage rooms (someone had yucky explosion diarrhea poop...don't ask). Feces and vomit were waaaay down the list of things she liked dealing with, but a fever flushed toddler with miserable eyes curled up on a bed and staring into space like a sad dog in one of those ASPCA commercials was dead last.

Just past four, she dropped into a chair at the nurse's station with a weary sigh. Her feet hurt, her back hurt, everything hurt, even her shoe laces. Barbara sat behind a computer and pecked haltingly at the keys, her eyes squinted in bemusement. She was in her fifties, and if you're over the big 5-0, computers are the most baffling things in the world, even if you use them everyday the way Barbara did. She sighed, slouched back, and adjusted her glasses. "These things make my head hurt," she said. She looked up at the clock on the wall (forgetting there was one on the computer screen...if she ever knew at all), then away. "You can go home now if you want."

Pfft. If I want. "You sure?"

"Yeah, you can go. Thank you again for coming in."

"Alrighty then," Alex said. She pushed to her feet, went around the end of the counter, and punched out at the time clock outside the break room. Another day, another dollar, now what to make for dinner. It was kind of late, so Tim was probably already on it. If not, she could really go for some Chinese. Nothing fatty or deep fried, though. Rice and vegetables and _maybe_ chicken.

She pushed through a set of double doors leading to the waiting room, turned left, and passed the front desk, where a nurse sat and chatted over the counter with a security guard. The waiting area was deserted - CNN played to an empty house and the magazines on the end tables went unread. Outside, she waited on the breezeway for an ambulance to pass, then crossed the parking lot, digging for her keys as she went. She found them, unlocked the door, and climbed in.

Do we need anything from the store? She squinted one eye, scrunched her lips, and thought for a minute. Nope, though maybe -

That's when it hit her; she still had to stop by Mom and Dad's.

And she totally forgot to call them earlier.

Whoops.

After working all day, the last thing she felt like doing was making a pitstop - she just wanted to get home, change into some comfy clothes, and veg out on the couch. Even dinner wasn't all that important right now. She considered putting it off as she followed Route 29 south, but finally decided to put her big girl panties on and bite the bullet. That's what an adult does, you know, and she was as adult as they come.

Twenty-five minutes later, she turned onto Cleveland Street and slowed to 10 miles per hour, the posted speed limit; a man in a baseball cap pushed a lawnmower across a tiny front lawn, a group of little girls skipped rope and played hopscotch, and a boy on a bike zoomed down the middle of the lane, jerking hard right to avoid her as though she were going to cream him - she wasn't. There were, like, fifty feet separating them. She pulled into the driveway and parked behind Dad's Jeep. She killed the engine, leaned back, and drew a deep breath through her nose, the smell of fresh cut grass tantalizing her senses. For some reason, that aroma reminded her of childhood. You know what's funny? There was a place called Spenser's in the Royal Oaks Mall that sold incense sticks made to smell like pot. They had "fresh linen" scented this and "apple berry infused pine" smell that, but she'd never seen anything labeled "Fresh cut grass." She didn't know why, that was clinically proven to be one of the best smells ever.

Let's add that to the "I'll invent it myself later" list.

Leaving her purse, she got out, slammed the door, and went up the walkway. Somewhere, a boy shouted a whiny, Blake-like "Stop!" and the low roar of the lawnmower's motor ricocheted between the houses like an echo in a canyon. Wind chimes tinkled and potted plants hung from the porch ceiling like dangling testicles (c'mon, that's what they look like!). Those were new: Mom must have put them up this weekend during one of her can't-sit-still-even-on-the-weekend fits. Seriously, Mom was a junkie for activity. Alex realized she was something of a couch potato, but really, Mom couldn't sit still sometimes. She always had to have a project going, and if she didn't, she'd grab her hiking boots and a canteen full of water and go find one.

She started to knock, then tried the handle instead.

Locked.

Well, luckily, I still have a key.

Aaaand it's on my keyring...which is the car.

She knocked and waited, then knocked again. Muffled footfalls approached, and the knob rattled. Mom appeared, dressed in a pair of slacks and a sleeveless purple blouse, and a tired smile touched her lips. From her flushed cheeks, slick forehead, and messy hair, Alex inferred that she and Dad had been working in the backyard recently.

At least...she hoped that's where they were "working."

"Hey," Mom said, "you're late."

"Yeah, I got called into work."

Mom stepped aside and Alex went in. Dad sat on the couch and gazed at the TV, his face screwed up in a pained, gassy expression. He didn't look up, but went on staring as though consciously ignoring her presence, which struck her as odd. His hair had been thinning lately and he'd lost weight. He wasn't as bad as Mom, but he didn't like sitting around either, and since he sold Flip's last year, he'd been (probably) doing loads of housework.

Inside, since he was kind of pale.

Mom closed the door, turned the lock by force of habit, and went over to sit next to Dad. Alex plopped down next to her and rolled her neck. "I should have become a teacher like you and Jess," she said. "Less work."

"Being a teacher is a _lot_ of work," Mom pointed out. She took Dad's hand, slipped their fingers together, and squeezed, as if to reassure him. Something about the gesture struck Alex as strange even though it shouldn't have. Her parents might look kinda rough - Dad talking about _getting mah gun_ and Mom _no running in the halls!_ \- but they were very loving and affectionate with one another. They touched, kissed, and hugged the way drug addicts hit crack pipes (that is, a lot). Even so, there was a somber cast to that small gesticulation that seemed pregnant with meaning.

Or maybe she was just tired and overthinking.

"Not like being a nurse," Alex said. "When's the last time _you_ had to lift a five hundred pound man?"

Mom tilted her head back and made a show of thinking. "That time your Uncle Lynn fell on his butt and I helped him up."

Dad snorted and a sly, pleased grin spread across Mom's face. _Ha, made you laugh, lame-o._

"Okay," Alex said with a conceding nod, "well, that was a one time deal. It happens to me _at least_ twice a week."

On TV, a rerun of _That 70s Show_ started, its annoying theme music sending a shiver of revulsion down Alex's spine. That show was _nothing_ like the seventies and it ticked her off every time she saw it. Like, were any of your writers or crewmembers even around in the seventies? "You see Lynn a lot more than we do, then," Dad said, and he and Mom snickered like schoolkids at a vaguely suggestive joke.

See where she got her flippant attitude? She was seriously trying to share details about her career and they kept making Lynn-is-fat jokes. "Yeah, yeah, I see him all the time. So, uh, what's up? You said you have something tell me."

Dad's jaw clenched ever so slightly and Mom missed a beat before nodding deeply...too deeply. "Yes, we do," she said. She glanced at Dad, and the dour look on his face made Alex's heartbeat sped up.

Something was wrong. She could sense it like a cloud of smoke in the air. Mom and Dad both wore strained grimaces and their postures were rigid, as though they were bracing for oncoming impact. The atmosphere, light and airy before, was dark now, oppressive, pushing down on her chest like a perched night-demon.

It was crazy and made no sense at all, but the first word that flashed across her mind was _divorce_. They were splitting up and Dad was moving out. She knew in her heart that couldn't be - her parents loved each other far too much for that, rarely even argued - but it was all her could think of. It had to be _something_ bad, right?

"W-What's the matter?" she asked soberly. "Is everything okay?"

Mom took a deep breath and Dad flicked his eyes away from the TV, his lips sucking thoughtfully into his mouth. Mom looked at him, waiting for him to speak, and suspense coiled in Alex's stomach like an eel. Dad twisted around to face her, and the deep, seething _disquiet_ in his eyes hit her like a fist to the guts. "I, uh, I went to the doctor last month," he started, and all at once, Alex knew.

He was sick.

"I was tired and groggy and...and all that," he soldiered on, "and they took some blood, and I…" he faltered and Mom squeezed his hand again, as if by doing so she could transmit some of her own strength to him. "They found something."

"What?" Alex asked. She realized she was sitting forward in dread expectation like a woman watching a horror movie.

Dad hesitated a moment, then said, "Cancer."

Though Alex was anticipating something awful, that terrible word still managed to catch her off guard. "Cancer?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but Mom cut him off. "It's fine, honey, it's already being taken care of." She laid a comforting hand on Alex's knee, but Alex barely noticed. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her mind descended into turmoil like an Eastern European people's republic.

"How bad is it?" she managed.

"Uh...stage three," he said.

Alex would have fluttered her hand to her mouth if she hadn't been frozen. Stage three cancer was serious shit; that meant the cancer had spread beyond the immediate region of the tumor and had likely invaded surrounding cells and lymph nodes. Off the top of her head, the average survival rate for stage three cancer was about seventy-five percent, so it wasn't a death sentence but still.

"He's going to be fine," Mom said and rubbed a circle in Alex's knee.

"What kind is it?" Alex asked.

"Prostate," Mom said, "it's really nothing serious."

Alex was too disoriented to notice the glare her father shot her mother. He looked like he wanted to say something, but held his tongue. "She's right, it's nothing." He flashed a wan smile that did little to convince her. "I had worse in Vietnam."

"No," Alex sputtered, "no you didn't, cancer's serious."

"I know," Dad said. He leaned over Mom's lap and took Alex's hand. "But I'm not going anywhere."

Well...of course he wasn't, he was Dad. He might be sorta lame, but he was tall, strong, and immovable, like a mighty tree. Everyone gets old and dies eventually, but the idea of Dad dying any time soon was inconceivable.

"I'm doing chemo right now," he said, "and we'll go from there."

Mom nodded grimly. "Yes we will."

Before she left, she gave Dad a fierce hug and kissed his cheek. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too, honey," he replied and tightened his grip. There seemed to be a clingy desperation in his embrace, and Alex hugged even harder. He didn't show it (much), but he was probably scared. Who wouldn't be? Cancer, especially stage three, is a life-threatening illness, and even if the cancer itself was beatable, there were side effects, like a weakened immune system. If he got sick with a cold or the flu, his body wouldn't be able to fight it off like it would were he healthy.

He had to know this, and it frightened him.

Just like it frightened her.

"Don't worry about it," Mom said and rubbed her back. "He'll be okay."

On the way home, worry knotted her stomach, and her hands curled around the wheel. He'd be fine, she told herself. Yeah, death could theoretically happen, but to him? No. To another person, maybe, but not to her dad.

Not to him.

In the house on Cleveland, Lincoln sat on the edge of the sofa, his head hung and his eyes narrowed. He was mad. Mad at Ronnie Anne for lying and mad at himself for not having the courage to correct her. Instead of telling Alex the truth, he went with Ronnie Anne's lie like a drowning man with a life ring. He was mad that to her, it wasn't a lie...that she really believed he was going to make it despite everything Patel had told her. He was mad about the look of panic in Alex's eyes when he said _cancer,_ mad that the medical bills were already starting to pile up, mad that he was too chicken to off himself, mad that he was going to leave Ronnie Anne, and most of all...he was mad that he was going to die.

Ronnie Anne came in from the kitchen, and Lincoln looked up at her. "You shouldn't have lied like that," he said.

She stopped and turned to him, her head cocking to one side in puzzelement. "About what?"

Her dumb, baffled expression fanned the flames of his anger. Was she really in denial or was she just stupid?

He took a deep breath. That wasn't fair. She was trying to cope with this just like he was. "About me being okay," he said. He halted, then forged ahead. "I'm not going to be okay. I'm dying."

Ronnie Anne flinched a little, then looked away. "I really don't want to talk about this."

"You need to," Lincoln said firmly, "you act like I'm gonna make it and I'm not."

She blinked her eyes as if against tears and put her hand up to shield the side of her face. Part of him wanted to stop and let her go, it was easier that way; another wanted her to get it through her head that he wasn't going to survive this.

"I don't want to talk about this, okay?"

"I do," he said. "I'm dying and -"

She spun on her heels, face clenched and eyes blazing. Wet tracks marked her red cheeks and her lips pulled away from her teeth in the savage sneer of an animal warning away a hapless interloper. "I KNOW YOU'RE DYING!" she screamed. "I know! I know! I know! It's all I think about night and day! I don't want to talk about it!" Her mask of rage slowly fell apart and the water brimming in her eyes flowed over. "I know you're dying," she moaned. "I know."

Her agony broke his heart, and his anger drained rapidly away. He got to his feet, went to her, and took her into his arms. She went limp against him and gave voice to her torment, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. Lincoln held her close and rocked her gently from side to side because he had no words to spare, so other comfort to give. He stroked his fingers through her hair and fought back his own tears. There was no point in them anyway. They would change nothing, would serve no other purpose than to encourage her own suffering. It had been a month since he found out he was going to die, and it would be dishonest to say he wasn't scared shitless, but he didn't matter. In a year, tops, he'd be gone, but Ronnie Anne and Alex would still be here, left to deal with the grief of his passing. Alex would deal with it and go on with her life, just as he did when Dad died. But Ronnie Anne...he wasn't so sure about.

Their love, and their relationship, had always been strong, or so he thought, but now, he wondered if it wasn't born of weakness. He'd never been in love with another woman so he didn't know if his feelings for her were normal or not, but stepping back, it looked a lot more like codependency than simple love. He recalled the clawing horror he felt as he waited for her to deliver Alex, at the moment he decided he would rather die than live without her. Was that love? More, was it _healthy?_ They both came from good families, Ronnie Anne's a little poorer than his but no less loving, and aside from his time in Vietnam and Ronnie Anne being shot twenty years later, their lives, both apart and together, had been charmed. Neither one suffered major emotional trauma as a child, neither was a broken, empty person trying to fill the endless void in their soul with love, they were normal people.

But he knew damn well that if he lost her, he would never recover. He would go on for Alex, Jessy, and the kids, but up until the day he followed Ronnie Anne into the hereafter, he _would_ be a broken person - never fulfilled, never complete, never truly _happy_. Each joyous moment - Zoe's first day of school, Blake's graduation - would be tinged with sharp, gnashing sadness because she wasn't there to see it with him. Though he loved his kids and grandkids, his life would be dimmer and colder without her. And if it weren't for the family they made together, he wouldn't bother with it. He'd give his .45 a blowjob and that's all.

Is that healthy? Is it really?

No, he didn't think so, but maybe their love was stronger than it should be, maybe they weren't just husband and wife, best friends, and partners, maybe they were soulmates. He didn't believe in souls...at least he didn't _think_ he did...but there was something profound between him and Ronnie Anne, some connection that he doubted most couples enjoyed. Saying they were _one -_ one flesh, one being, one heart - was hopelessly cliche, but after a fashion, it was true, and losing her would kill him.

Just as losing him was going to kill her.

He heaved a sigh and kissed the side of her head. "I want you to be okay," he said. "With this."

"I'm not," she hitched through her tears.

"Not now," he said, "but one day."

"I'll never be okay with it, Lincoln," she said. Her voice was low, wrung out, and traumatized.

No, he didn't think she would be. "One day, I'll be gone," he said, a sudden lump of emotion blocking his throat, "and I want you to promise me you'll make it without me. I don't want you doing anything stupid or...or shutting down. Our girls need you."

A bead of liquid streaked down his face and he sucked a shivering breath in an attempt to keep control.

"Lincoln," she started.

"Promise me," he said. "Promise you'll be okay." A beat passed, then he added a trembling, needy, "please."

She was silent for a long time, and he was just about to ask again, nay, to _beg_. "I will," she said. Her tone was flat and dead, as though that vow, along with its implicit acknowledgement of the inevitable, had sapped the last bit of life she had left.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. What could he say? "Just be there for them, please," he said, "because I can't."

For a moment, she didn't reply...then she started to cry anew.

This time, he only held her.


	225. May 2001: Part 3

**Guest: Fred was playing cards at the VFW or something.**

 **Guest: It would have been the perfect place to put Nikki in and now that you mention it, I regret not doing it.**

You ever have one of those weeks where it seems everything is against you? Lynn Loud III had. In fact, she had them all the time. In fact in fact, she was in the midst of one right now. Monday, the computer crashed...again. She called IT, got a guy with a thick Indian accent, and spent three hours trying to understand what he was saying before finally getting the PC to work again...only to find out the hard drive was _wiped_. Three years of tax work, sales receipts, inventory, and payroll completely _gone_. Because Dad was so adamant about switching over to digital storage, there had no hard copy back ups. They _did_ have most of the stuff saved on floppy discs, but here's the catch: Dad took them home _for safekeeping_ and frickin' lost them. She went to his house Tuesday afternoon, and together, they upended the entire house, from basement to attic. The whole time, Dad was dressed in his PJs, boots, and a white Stetson...just why? _Sorry, hun,_ he said at the end of their hunt, _guess I'll find 'em later_.

Later came that night. He called her at home. _Yeah, I found 'em. They was under the seat of my car. They don't work, though._

DON'T WORK? Ahhh, don't me that!

The next morning, she stopped by his place on the way to work and picked them up, then took them to the dealership. Sure enough, she slipped one marked PAYROLL '98-'00 into the drive, and the darn stupid freaking computer wouldn't read it.

Oooh, this was _not_ good. If the IRS audited them, they were _scroooooowed_. She called Dad at home, meaning to patiently explain to him that all the floppy disks were fried, but wound up not being so polite. _Good job, you cooked them._

 _I did what now?_

 _You left them in your car for_ MONTHS _now they're baked from the heat and don't work._

 _Aw, hell._

 _Yeah, nice one, Big Lynn. If the IRS audits us, you're gonna be BIG Lynn in the BIG house, 'cause they're gonna send you to federal prison._

 _Oh, they won't do that, calm down._

Calm down? Calm down? Did he not realize how fucked they were?

You know, whatever, fine, great, if he didn't care, she wouldn't care. He's the one who owned this dump anyway. He'd go down, not her.

Only she couldn't do that. At the end of the day, she took the disks to a computer repair shop on Front Street. A tall, gangly man in glasses and a DIO band T stood behind the counter and paged through a magazine. Lynn stood there, waiting for him to acknowledge her, and when he didn't, she growled. I am not in the mood for this. _Excuse me?_

He closed the magazine with a flourish and looked up. She flashed a cold smile and sat the plastic case with the floppies down with a clank. _My old man left these in the sun now they don't work. Can you get the data off somehow? It's kind of important._

Taking the case, he opened it, took one of the discs out, and held it up. He adjusted his glasses, squinted, and hummed thoughtfully. Lynn shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other like a girl awaiting divine judgement. _Probably not,_ he said, and her shoulders sagged. _Circuit board's likely fried...meaning all your information is…_ here he shook his head and flicked his open palm back and forth like the swipe of the Reaper's scythe.

Great.

 _I can try,_ he offered.

 _Please do._

Outside, grumbling under her breath, she got into her car and pulled out into traffic. Stupid Dad. Didn't he know computer stuff was hypersensitive? You can't even look at it wrong without some terrible happening. She and Ritchie bought a couple movies on DVD because the sound and picture quality was supposed to be _soooo_ much better, but one of them made the grave mistake of not handling it like a Faberge egg, and now they skipped. Seriously? VHS tapes were much better, you could throw them around for twenty years and they'd still -

 _SCREEEECH._

 _CRASH._

The car slammed forward and Lynn's heart blasted into her throat. The seat belt locked across her chest, digging painfully into her collarbone, and she instinctively jerked the wheel to the left; the car left the road and hit a metal power pole, the front end caving with a shriek of twisting metal and breaking glass. White steam shot out from under the hood, and Lynn squeezed her eyes shut, certain that at any moment the car would explode. When it didn't, she creaked one eye open and darted it around. In the rearview mirror, a battered white pick-up truck sat angled across the highway, its grill crumpled. Traffic came to a halt behind it, then started to go around, drivers craning their necks as they passed.

The owner of the pick-up looked like something from _The Beverly Hillbillies_ : Toothless, no shirt, mullet, as soon as Lynn saw him, she knew.

He didn't have insurance.

She called Ritchie at work to come pick her up, and watched with a twinge of loss as a fat tow truck driver hooked her car to his wench and drove off. A cop took hers and the redneck's statements - the redneck at least owned up to it being his fault. _I was leanin' over to get a beer out the cooler and I guess I didn't see her._

That didn't change the fact that her car was totaled, though.

The next day, Dad picked her up in his Caddy and drove her to work, top down and wind blowing through her hair. He wore his hat and a pair of Aviator sunglasses that were two sizes too big for his face and made him look like a bug. Fuzzy pink dice dangled from the rearview mirror, swaying with the motion of the car, and the leopard print seat covers gave Lynn a headache if she looked at them for too long. The whole way, twangy country music blared from the speakers; until he became Big Lynn, Dad didn't even like country.

Oh, he did now, though. He tapped the wheel with an annoying drumming sound and nodded along.

 _We talk about your dreams and we talk about your schemes_

 _Your high school team and your moisturizer creme_

 _We talk about your nanna up in Muncie, Indiana_

 _We talk about your grandma down in Alabama_

At one point, she nearly snapped at him, but held herself in check; she'd been in a foul mood lately, and it wasn't his fault. It was the realization that she was getting older and her best years were behind her. She loved Maddie and Ritchie and wouldn't trade them for the world, but...ugh,sometimes she wanted to go back in time, not to stay, but to visit and remember what it was like to be carefree and young. These days, she had so much pressure bearing down on her it made her want to scream: The business, car payments, mortgage, taxes, oh, and Maddie was dating that Curtis boy now...she was _not_ ready for her little girl to have a boyfriend...and DAD WITH HIS DAMN COUNTRY MUSIC, AHHHHH. I'M GONNA GO POSTAL!

The day passed without major incident, though the computer ran slower than a fat kid for the bus. One of the salesman, a woman named Sondra, brought in donuts and coffee for everyone, and Lynn absently ate a Boston Creme as she painstakingly reinstalled all of the software lost when the system crashed. Just as she finished up...it fucking crashed again.

Her hand clamped angrily on the donut and the filling squirted across her knuckles. Her teeth bared, her eyes widened, and fat, throbbing veins stood out on the side of her neck. She started to shake like a kettle on a stove, and for a second, she thought she was going to literally explode.

Instead, she took a deep, calming breath, counted to ten, and got to her feet. I need a break, or bad things are going to happen.

She dropped the mangled remains of the donut into the trash, went to the bathroom, and washed her hands. Done, she dried her hands on a wad of paper towels and stared at herself in the mirror. There was a wild, frenzied look in her eyes, and if she didn't know any better, she'd say the woman in the looking glass was about to go on a shooting rampage. She drew a deep breath through flaring nostrils and forced herself to relax. It's not a big deal, Haveman. You're living a normal, grown woman's life, what, you can't handle it? Boo hoo, stress, boo hoo, bills, wah wah wah. Suck it up and power through. You're pathetic.

Right.

At noon, she took an '89 Honda Civic from the lot and drove the five blocks to the computer repair shop, hoping against hope for a miracle.

Shockingly, she got one.

 _I managed to get into the internal drives,_ the geek told her as he pushed the plastic case across the counter, _all your data is saved on three discs_.

Oh, thank God. Dad wanted each year on a single disc, so she'd have to manually separate them and save them onto different floppies, but that didn't matter, she had what she needed and Dad wouldn't lose his business and go to prison.

Score.

Her newfound good fortune had a slight relapse later that night. On her way home, she stopped at Albertsons and bought a frozen DiGiorno supreme pizza for dinner. At home, she stood at the counter and read the back of the box. The instructions _clearly_ said: Place directly on center rack. Okay. Great. She ripped the tab, slid the pizza out, and removed it from the inner wrapping. She turned the oven to four hundred degrees, sat the pizza on the center rack, and closed the door. She went off to do something else, and came back in ten minutes later. Maddie sat at the island and nibbled at an apple like a mouse. Lynn started to greet her, but stopped when she caught an acrid whiff of burning.

Oh, God, what now?

She warily turned to the oven like a woman in a horror movie turning to the source of a strange and threatening noise.

It was coming from there.

Do I even want to look?

No.

She opened the door anyway and -

 _Oh my God!_

Behind her, Maddie perked up. _What?_

The pizza.

Melted.

Through the rungs. Puddles of cheese, pepperoni, peppers, and onions stuck to the bottom of the oven, crisping and turning black, and Lynn let out a cry of alarm. She turned the oven off and seized up. What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO? _Quick, give me a wooden spoon!_

Maddie jumped up, rushed over to a drawer, and brought Lynn a wooden ladle. _Now the trash can_.

For nearly half an hour, Lynn knelt before the oven and scraped clumps of charred pizza from the oven, her fury growing and growing until she fumed. 6.99 for this damn pizza, only for it to go in the garbage.

Cussing under her breath, she cleaned the oven from top to bottom, and by the time she was done, her face, hands, and blouse were covered in soot. Ritchie came in just as she was finishing up and laid his briefcase on the counter. _What're you doing?_ he asked bemusedly.

 _Oh, nothing,_ she said and went to the sink, _just about to have a mental breakdown, that's all._

He chuckled. _You look like it._

Her face was black, her hair stuck out, and her eyes glinted with madness. Of course she looked like it. _The computer crashed again today, the car's fucked, dinner's ruined, I'm going crazy._

Coming over, Ritchie put his arms around her from behind and hugged her close. _You need to relax._

 _I wish I could,_ she said.

 _Maybe we'll do something special tomorrow,_ he said. _Celebrate Friday a little._

Today, Friday afternoon, Lynn sat behind the computer and navigated through the system, waiting with bated breath for it to crash again. Bright desert sunshine streamed through the big windows overlooking the lot and made shadows on the tiled floor. Despite the air conditioning, the air was hot, and Lynn had taken off her blazer and draped it on the back of the chair. Beneath, she wore a sleeveless white blouse that bared her toned arms, her skin baked a light shade of coppery brown. Three cars, all used 2000 and 2001 models, the newest and nicest Big Bill's had to offer, occupied a wide space to her right, and every once in awhile she broke from her work and glanced over to see if the salesmen were pushing them on anyone.

They were.

Good.

Those clunkers were the priciest in stock, and Lynn needed them sold. See, every time someone bought a car, she got a little bonus, usually no more than fifty or a hundred bucks. If all three of these bad boys went, she'd collect a nifty grand...which she would then promptly sink into her own car, even now abed in the sick bay of the AAA garage on Mason Avenue. Without those commissions, she'd probably have to dip into hers and Ritchie's savings to pay for the repairs, and taking from their savings account always made her feel like dirt. You're supposed to build on it, Haveman, not use it as your personal piggy bank. You only got thirty years until you and Ritchie hit retirement age. At this rate, the only thing you're gonna have to show for it is a bunch of IOUs and spider webs. How are you and Ritchie going to support yourselves in your golden years with _that?_

Sigh. We aren't.

That's right, you're going to have to move in with Maddie. How does that sound, huh? Relying on your grown daughter to take care of you. Shoe's on the other foot now, Haveman. She'll be the one making the rules.

Lynn chuckled at the vision of Maddie treating her and Ritchie as though they were children, but frowned at the very real possibility of losing her independence later in life. Old people often moved in with their children either because they couldn't afford to live on their own, or simply couldn't be trusted to be by themselves. She didn't want to do that to Maddie, she -

Wait. Why am I even thinking about this?

Get a grip, Haveman.

It was the stress, that's all. It was batting her mind around like a stormy sea tossing a sailboat.

Wrestling control of herself, she went back to work, and was just finishing up for the day when her cell phone rang in her blazer pocket. She turned, slid it out, and pressed it to her ear, a brand new Nokia Ritchie bought her for their twelfth anniversary. It might be corny, but it reminded her of him, so she cherished it that much more.

She pushed the green TALK button and brushed her bangs out of her face. "Hello?"

"Hey, hun," Dad said in that damn southern drawl, and Lynn winced.

"Please talk normal."

Sighing, Dad reverted to his usual tone. "You left the dealership yet?"

He'd been using the Big Lynn voice for so long that his natural one sounded strange, and she _almost_ told him to go switch back. "I'm about to, why?"

"Can you bring those floppy disks over on your way home?"

Lynn tensed. Oh no. She _just_ finished separating and categorizing all of the data. Everything from 1998 to now was saved in the system so she no longer needed the disks on hand, but Dad was the _last_ person she wanted taking them. "Uh, no, I can't."

He missed a beat, and his confusion was palpable, hissing from the earpiece like static. "Why not?"

"Because the last time, you let 'em cook in the sun."

Across the room, one of the salesmen patted the hood of a 2000 Toyota Camry and flashed a big, winning smile at a black couple. He said something she couldn't hear, but it probably included the word _folks_. "You're never gonna let me live that down, huh?" Dad asked, his voice wavering between Big Lynn and normal sized Lynn.

"I'm sure not gonna let you do it again," Lynn said. "These need to be stored in a safe, cool, dry place, not under the front seat of your Caddy."

Sighing, Dad said, "Just bring them over. I'll put them in my office."

Because a small business owner's work is never truly done, Dad kept an office at home. When she was growing up, it was a converted guest room, but after she moved out, he transferred it to her old room because he needed more space. It was a better place for the disks than the car, but not by much. All of the most important paperwork was neatly labeled and organized in one of the half dozen filing cabinets; everything else was a mess. Stacks of bills, sales slips, invoices, and less namable things covered the desk, the floor, and every other available surface. You could never find what you were looking for, and the moment you sat something down, the mess gobbled it up like a hungry ocean. She came over occasionally when she needed to access records - the last time, she needed to know what the business made in the calendar year 1978 - and there was barely any room to move. You had a little path to the desk, the chair, blocked in, and a tiny little work station on the desk, like a clearing in a forest.

"Don't lose them," she said sternly.

"I won't."

He hung up, and hitting the red END button, she shoved the phone into her pants pocket. She stared at the computer for a moment, then exited out of what she was doing and shut it down. Over the next fifteen minutes, the last of the customers drifted away, and she sent the three remaining salespeople home. At 5pm sharp, she turned out the lights, locked the doors, and crossed the parking lot to where the Civic was parked, the case with the disks tucked up under her arm. She shifted it to the other arm, unlocked the car and climbed in. She sat the case on the passenger seat and reached for her seatbelt just as her phone rang.

She dug it out of her pocket, held it up, and squinted at the screen.

Ritchie.

She hit the TALK button and wedged it between her ear and her shoulder. "Hey," she said and pulled the strap across her chest.

"Hey," Ritchie said, "you still at work?"

Lynn jammed the key into the ignition and started the car. "Yeah, I'm just leaving. I have to drop something off at Mom and Dad's first. What's up?"

"When you're done with that, meet me at the park."

Taking the wheel in her hands, Lynn backed up and swung right. "The park?" she asked incredulously.

"Yeah, the park."

At the exit, Lynn came to a rolling halt and waited for traffic. "Which park? And why?"

" _The_ park," Ritchie said, "the one we used to play baseball in every day."

"Why?" she asked again.

"I can't tell you, it's a surprise."

A surprise? At the park? Two wires in Lynn's brain failed to connect and her brow knitted in confusion. "Uh, okay." Something occurred to her. "Is Maddie with you?"

"Yeah," Ritchie said, his voice momentarily lower, and she pictured him turning to Maddie as if to confirm that she was in fact right there. "She's here."

Ahead, a car shot out of an In-N-Out Burger, and Lynn hit the brakes. "Dickhead!" she blurted and punched the horn.

On the other end of the line, Ritchie chuckled. "Focus on driving and I'll let you go."

"Alright. Love you."

"Love you too."

She hit the END button and dropped the phone into the cupholder.

Guess I'm going to the park for a surprise.

Her stomach rumbled.

Hopefully it involves food.

Turning left behind a city garbage truck, she followed Central Street past a glut of cheap motels, cheap fast food joints, corner stores, and strip malls with tall, swaying palms dotting their parking lots. Once a decent area of town, this part of Tucson had gone to hell over the past fifteen years. It wasn't dangerous...during the day, at least (she didn't know about night, but she sure as hell wouldn't be walking around), but a lot of businesses had closed down and a thin layer of grime seemed to coat everything, even the pavement. On one corner, a group of black guys - with one backwards baseball cap wearing white dude in the middle - talked and passed a bottle in a brown paper bag back and forth. Down a little, a fat Hispanic woman pushed a possibly-stolen grocery cart loaded with dirty clothes along the sidewalk, and a shitless white guy with a bushy white beard held a cardboard sign. Lynn squinted to read it as she passed, then chuckled at what it said. WHY LIE? I NEED A BEER.

Okay, that was funny, and if she was on foot, she'd give him a couple bucks just for making her laugh.

Mom and Dad's house was perched on the edge of the Catalina Foothills bordering in the fashionable Rillito River Side Acres neighborhood, a tiny district of high end shops, broad, tree lined avenues, and upscale eateries wedged between E. Kleindale Road and the dry, sandy Rillito River. Dad's Caddy and Mama's Intrepid were parked side-by-side in the driveway with hardly any room left to spare. Lynn pulled to the curb, killed the engine, and grabbed the case. She got out, crossed the thirsty yard, and went up the steps, her heels clicking on the wood planks. She hated these damn things, they pinched her toes and gave her corns, but she never once considered not wearing them to work. Smart, professional women such as herself _always_ wore heels. It was basically part of their uniform. She did, however, keep an old pair of sneakers in the car, and as soon as she was done dropping these floppies off, she was going to change into them.

At the door, she rang the bell and waited. The dessicated wind blew over her, bringing with it the ever present Sonoran grit. No matter where you were in Tucson, it followed, getting into your mouth, your eyes, your hair, and your home...even if you vacuumed three times a day. It was eternal, just like the tarantulas and scorpions that scuttled in from the wastelands. She wasn't bothered by the former - they were gross, though docile - but the latter was a scourge. You had to shake your shoes out every time you put them on just in case one was hiding inside...as she'd learned...a bunch. Hey, sometimes you're in a hurry and forget then OUCH, MY TOE! When she was a kid, she heard a whispered playground rumor about a guy who got stung by one on the tip of his penis...it rotted, turned black, and fell off.

She hoped that wasn't true; she didn't have a penis, but every time she thought about it, her crotch twinged in sympathy anyway. She imagined something happening to the head of your penis must be the most painful thing in the world. Her only experience with a real penis came from Ritchie, and his tip was so sensitive after he came sometimes that just brushing it would make him shake and cry out...and not in a good way.

The knob rattled and Dad filled the frame, dressed in a western style shirt tucked into blue jeans. His feet were bare save for socks, and his iron gray hair was beginning to thin just above his sideburns. His epic struggle with his weight was over, and he came out on top; his stomach no longer bulged over his waistband but his shirt did stretch tight across it. Lynn fully expected him to gain it all back the moment he stopped dieting and exercising, but for right now, he looked good for a man his age.

Then he opened his mouth.

"There you are," he drew.

"Yep," she said and held out the case, "do not lose this. Put it somewhere safe. Not the attic, not the basement, not the shed out back, okay?"

"I'll put it in my office."

Lynn hesitated, then brushed past him. "Come on."

Dad rolled his eyes and followed.

The kitchen was open to the living room. Water hissed in the sink and the smell of cooking meat infused the air. Lynn paused and stuck her head in; Mama stood at the stove, moving between three different pots like a woman playing a frenzied game of whack-a-mole. "Hey, Mama," she called.

Mama tossed a harried glance over her shoulder. "Hi, hun."

Dad's office was down the hall and on the right, diagonal from his and Mama's room. Lynn opened the door and turned on the light; even though she knew what she would find, she still somehow expected the room to be set the way it was when she was a kid: Bed against the wall, posters of Jim Kern and Bruce Sutter, a baseball bat propped in the corner with a catcher's mitt resting on top like an old, battered hat. None of those things were in evidence today, filing cabinets, a desk, and piles of paperwork had taken their place, another symbol of passing time, just like the gray hairs in her head.

Walking over to the desk, she sat the case down and turned. Dad stood by the door, his arms crossed and a long-suffering expression on his face. "Don't lose it," she said again.

"I won't," he said impatiently.

On her way out, Lynn stopped in the kitchen. Mama bustled around like a chicken with her head cut off. She was only fifty-seven, but in the harsh desert light falling through the window, she looked older, hair mostly gray, face deeply creased with age. At the right angle, Lynn could recognize a lot of herself in Mama, and looking at her was almost like a glimpse into the future.

That was years away, though, even decades, right now, she was hungry. She went to the breadbox, opened it, and took a slice out. Twice a week, Mama, like her mother before her, made a fresh loaf of homemade bread, AKA the best stuff ever. Lynn didn't like the store bought crap and only ate it in conjunction with meat, cheese, and mustard, but she could cram her pie hole with Mama's bread all day long.

"You wanna stay for dinner?" Mama asked.

"Nah," Lynn said around a mouthful, "I gotta go. I'm meeting Ritchie at the park." She reached into the breadbox and grabbed another slice to go. "Love you."

"Love you too, honey," Mama said.

Dad, sitting on the couch, glanced up as she walked past. "Love you."

"Love you too. Don't lose those -"

"Jesus H, girl, I won't."

Lynn smiled at the way his annoyance thickened his accent. Outside, kids biked up and down the street on an endless circuit and the scent of barbequing chicken drifted to her nose. Deja vu, so powerful she nearly staggered, came over her. Her lips turned down in a puzzled little frown and her step faltered. Then, all at once, it hit her: Scenes like this one - no, not like, _identical to_ \- played again and again in her childhood. Things were so different now, in the year 2001, than they were in 1977, but when you looked a little closer, you saw that no, they really weren't. The works of men may alter from one generation to the next - horse drawn carts giving way to automobiles, telegraph to cell phones - but people were the same no matter what year it was. Kids played with joyous abandon, the world just as bright, new, and fascinating as it was to their parents once, and adults always looked fondly back at their own good old days, even, she imagined, if they weren't objectively that good. Childhood is a time of zeal and magic, and as you grow, that magic fades gradually away and jadedness sets in. Everything's duller and flatter than it once was. She could achingly remember how vivid colors were, how sweet ice cream tasted, how summer afternoons stretched into forever.

Now the pallet was darker, ice cream hurt her cavities, and days, even the gruelling ones, were over before she realized they had started.

The desire - nay, _the need_ \- to feel the heady liberation of youth gripped her, and she came to a grinding halt, five feet from the car. She took a deep breath, forced it away, and got in. As great as childhood was, she was a grown woman with a family and responsibilities now. Her life may have been sweet and simple then, but now, even though it wasn't the same, it was still pretty great.

Starting the engine, she pulled away from the curb, executed a perfect three point turn, and set a course for Barnesfield Park. Crosstown traffic was heavy, the roads clogged with people on their way home from work. The fiery desert sun tracked rapidly west through the sky, and by the time she got there, the light was low and scarlet. Narrow roadways and walking paths wound past playgrounds, artificial ponds, and stands of acacia and Chinese elm. A concrete building with a slate roof stood in a grove of trees, a restroom on either end, and a skate park spread out on her left, its domain terminating at a cyclone fence lining Creosote Street. There were ramps, rails, half pikes, steps, and even deep, concrete walled depressions in the ground that looked like swimming pools without water.

The skatepark was new, erected in '89 or '90, but everything else was unchanged, from the rusting iron grills and decaying picnic tables in the clearing to her right to the baseball diamond up ahead, its parameter enclosed by a low chain link fence. The wooden shelter around the dugout, faded green paint peeling in long strips, stood like a beacon to the huddled masses. _Give me your tired and hungry yearning to PLAY BASEBALL!_ A fond smile played across her lips as she parked behind it. So many of her happiest memories were made right here, during long summer afternoons, quick after school pick-up games, and tepid winter evenings when the temperatures dipped waaaay down into the forties. Sitting there behind the wheel of the Civic, it all washed over her like a warm spring breeze, and she let out a wistful sigh.

She opened the door and got out, and her toes pinched. Oh, right, I'm still in these damn heels. She leaned back into the car, grabbed her tennis shoes from the back, and sat. Slipping the heels off, she pulled the sneakers onto her stockinged feet and tied the laces. The shoes were old and falling apart, but well broken in and fit comfortably.

There. Much better.

You know, she'd been wearing skirts and heels for so long now that it was easy to forget she wasn't a skirt and heels girl by nature. She was a tomboy, though she never liked that term and didn't think of herself as such. She was...hmmm...casual. Let's go with that. She preferred jeans to dresses and baseball to make-up. Other women her age ate salads and did yoga, she gnawed steak and watched sports. She didn't play very often anymore - she rarely had the time - but she and Ritchie taught Maddie how to throw and catch every kind of ball you could imagine.

Well, except for bowling balls. You can't really catch those.

Actually, now that she thought about it, that might make a fun and challenging game. First one to die loses. Heh.

Slamming the door behind her, she walked along the back of the dugout and rounded the corner. The sound of voices drifted to her ears, then a peal of laughter. She walked onto the field and stopped. Ahead, a group of middle aged men stood in a big circle, talking back and forth. Another leaned against the dugout and chatted with a black guy in a Barry Bonds jersey, a can of Coke in his hand. Lynn thought she recognized him, but couldn't place his name.

Okay, uh, guess someone's having a party. Where's my husband and daughter?

She started to turn, but stopped when someone called her name. Ritchie jogged over from the dugout, clad in jeans and a green T-shirt with white trim around the arms and a white O8 emblazoned across the chest. The men all turned to look at her, and a chorus of smiles and hearty greetings went up. She recognized Slater despite his beer belly, and there was Kaufman, as tall, scrawny, and hook-nosed as ever. There, next to a man whose name escaped her, was Francisco Lopez, who moved to Tucson in 1978 then away in 1980, never to be seen again. Flanking him on either side were Rick Monson and Tom Garrett; the latter moved to Flagstaff in 1979 and the former visited Tucson to visit his grandmother every summer from 1977 to 1981. Daryl Johns, who started playing with them in 1982 then left for college the next year, stood beside Vick Hardgrove, a pal of Ritchie's who joined their gang in 1980 then dropped off six months later.

There were others, a gallery of faces, boys, now men, who came and went over the years, many of whom existed in different and distinct eras, as dinosaurs staggered across many periods. Rick didn't know Vick, and Francisco had never met Daryl. There was a core group that never changed, but most were fleeting friendships forged through play, gone as quickly as they were made but no less authentic because of it.

Lynn darted her eyes from one ghost to another, her head beginning to spin. "What's all this?" she asked Ritchie, a note of genuine bewilderment coloring her voice.

Ritchie put his hands on his hips and tossed a glance over his shoulder. "I called the guys over for a game." He turned to her, and his hazel eyes danced with a prideful little light, one corner of his mouth turned up in a pleased, lopsided grin.

He said that, _got the guys together for a game,_ like it was the most normal thing in the world and required no more effort on their part than asking their moms if they could walk five blocks to the park. Some of them lived clear across the country, thousands of miles away, and some of them...Jesus, some of them she hadn't seen or even thought of in years.

The tension broke when Daryl called out to her. "Hey, Loud, get your ass over here."

Ritchie nodded toward their friends. "Come on, we've been waiting almost two hours."

For a moment Lynn just stood there, surprised into inertia, then she shook her head like a woman coming out of a dazed fever dream. She flicked her gaze from one old friend to another, hesitating. Not that long ago, she decided that sometimes the past is best left settled, that disturbing it will only muddy the waters of memories. Facing her, smiling jovially, was her past, and her fight or flight response tripped like an overloaded breaker. She had a choice.

"Nice skirt, Loud," Rick mocked, "you got your make-up on, too?"

She could fight.

"I like your hair," Vick said, "it's fabulous." He let his hand limply dangle.

She could flee.

"I thought this was baseball, not a fashion show," Slater said. He and Kaufman laughed and nudged each other's ribs.

Or she could play ball.

A sly smile touched her lips and she made up her mind. She pushed Ritchie out of the way and strode over, her shoulders, stooped beneath the stress and responsibility of adulthood, lifting, and her eyes narrowing determinedly. "Uh-oh," Glenn Morris cried in faux fear (at least she thought it was Glenn...looked like him). "She's gonna give us a makeover!"

Her face flushed and for the first time in years, she was a little embarrassed about being a girl.

Ah, just like old times.

When she reached Glenn, she balled her fist and smashed it into his arm, knocking him off balance. "With those noodle arms, you got no room to talk, Twiggy," she said, falling back into old patterns as easily as a puzzle piece clicking into place. His arms weren't noodly now, but they were then, and everyone called him Twiggy. As kids, that dreaded name made his jaw clench with rage, but today he chuckled fondly. Kaufman laughed, and she whipped her head around to face him. His eyes widened with alarm, and before he could react, she grabbed his pockets. He let out a cry and stumbled back.

"Ahhh, what are you doing?"

"Where are your cigarettes? I'm gonna crush 'em."

"I quit three years ago," he said and pulled away. "Honest."

Lynn's eyes narrowed even more. "I've heard that one before."

"Honest," he repeated, pleading his case like a downtrodden lawyer who really needed a win, "I don't do it anymore. Smell my shirt." He pinched the fabric of his T-shirt and pulled it out. She considered for a moment…

...then punched him in the arm. "Get outta here, homo."

He winced and rubbed the area.

"Who's up for a game?" Ritchie asked.

They formed two teams, and standing at home plate, in the gathering gloom, a splintered Louisville Slugger clutched in her hands, Lynn could almost imagine she was thirteen again, only instead of jeans she wore a black skirt, and in place of her T was a sleeveless white blouse. Normally, she'd take great pains to keep both clean and ready for work, but in the zeitgeist of the moment, she didn't care. She had more.

Troy White, who was actually black, crouched behind her, his mitt at the ready and a wire mask covering his face. _Gotta protect the goods,_ he said, and Lynn accepted that explanation without question. Well, duh, of course you do. It occurred to her just now that never once had any of them worn a mask, or even a helmet.

Jesus, what were they thinking! One of them could have been killed!

Kids are reckless, she reflected. Children bound where adults fear to tread, for every single boy and girl is bulletpoof and blind to danger. They weren't kids anymore and with age comes caution. Grown-ups learn the hard way and become more prudent for it. She couldn't imagine doing again some of the things she did when she was young. She was different now, and no matter how much she might want to go back to being thirteen or sixteen, she realized that she never really could.

Slater took up position on the pitcher's mound and rolled his neck. He spun one arm in a slow, clockwise motion, then the other. He flexed his knees and shrugged his shoulders. God, even after all these years he was a showoff. "Just throw the damn ball already!" She glanced at the dugout, where Maddie sat with Ritchie, and blushed. "I mean the 'darn' ball."

"Yeah," Kaufman yelled, "you take longer to get ready than my wife!"

"Screw you, champ," Slater said. He wound up, and Lynn's hold on the bat tightened. The world fell away until nothing remained but the ball, white with red stitches and raised writing. Her breathing slowed, her body tensed, and the only sound was the blood rushing through her veins.

Slater pitched, and Lynn swung the bat smoothly and evenly, as though it weren't an instrument at all but an extension of herself.

The ball thumped into Troy's mitt and Lynn exhaled sharply through her nose. "Steeee-rike one," Troy said and tossed the ball back to Slater.

"You hit like a 90-year-old woman," Slater taunted.

"That's not what your mom said last night," Lynn blurted, then blushed. Everyone erupted in rich, good-natured laughter, and after a moment, she joined them, because it _was_ funny. The best way to insult a boy was to question his masculinity or imply you did his mom, and while Lynn did plenty of the first, she only did the second when she slipped.

Slater made a show of warming up again, and Lynn took a deep breath. When was the last time she even hit a baseball? She thought hard, mentally sifting through her Rolodex of memories. She found out she was pregnant just before her birthday in 1989, and she stopped all potentially baby-threatening activities immediately. Not that she was playing very much beforehand.

Everyone was watching her, and though their expressions were those of old and dear friends, she couldn't help but going back to that day, long ago, when a different group of boys made fun of her and wouldn't let her play with them. She was, what, six? She loved baseball but, let's be real, she stank at it. She would have gotten under their feet and made a nuisance of herself. She could understand their point of view now, but if she focused on it too long, she began to feel the keen disappointment of a little girl all over again.

That, and the need to prove herself.

Slater pitched, and sneering, she swung the bat again.

"Steee-rike two!"

"Jeez, Loud," Ben said, "you're worse than me."

"Get bent, fat boy," she said. He wasn't fat, but like the mom thing, it slipped. Old habits, you know.

Troy tossed the ball to Slater, and Slater caught it with a flourish, spinning around like Michael Jackson and spitting onto the ground. Lynn took a deep, frustrated breath and curled her fingers around the bat. She glanced over at the dugout, and Maddie grinned. "You can do it," she said encouragingly, and something about that, her daughter offering her the same rallying incitement that she had offered her so many times made her snort.

It also may have, kinda, made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Maddie believed in her, and Lynn would be damned if she would let her down.

Rolling his neck, Slater wound up, and Lynn put all of her focus on the ball, closing everything else out and concentrating every atom in her body on that one, white goal. _Last time pays for all,_ Ritchie told her once, and that was true. The last time really does pay for all.

Slater pitched, and Lynn watched the ball come in slow motion, spinning like a bullet, getting closer, bigger, faster. She swung, and the bat connected with a loud whip-crack. A pleasant vibration shot up her arms, and the ball sailed high into the darkening heavens. Everyone turned their heads to follow it as it soared over the mound. Slater ran frantically backwards, and Lynn reacted on instinct alone; she threw the bat aside and ran for first. A cheer went up, and over the ragged huff of her own breathing, she could just make out Maddie's voice. "Go, Mom!" A hot stitch rent her side, but she did what she always did - sucked it up and powered through. She rounded first and darted to second. The ball disappeared over the fence, and throwing his head back in defeat, Slater gave up the chase.

She could slow down now and showboat, but in her thirty-two years, she had learned something: That's not how you get through life. Even when you win, you don't strut, you don't get cocky, you keep going because there's always another day after Victory Day, always more obstacles to overcome and challenges to surmount. You don't slacken your pace, you keep going, and in her own way, she had been trying to teach Maddie that for years. She went faster then, her feet flying over the ground and her sneakers kicking up dust. She hit third and started for home. Maddie and Ritchie stood by-by-side before the dugout, Ritchie clapping and Maddie jumping excitedly up and down. "Go, Mom!"

At the last minute, flush in her accomplishments and her daughter's praise, Lynn decided she could showboat a little. In one fluid motion, she pulled back, dropped to her butt, and crossed her legs in a 4-shape. Dirt and grit scraped her bare skin and tore at the material of her skirt as she slid in, but she didn't care, didn't even feel it. Everyone cheered, and for that one glowing second, she _was_ a kid again.

Grinning, she pushed to her feet, and everybody converged on her like well-wishers crowding the MVP. Hands slapped her back, Maddie hugged her, and Ritchie squeezed her shoulder. "Not bad, Loud," Slater huffed windedly.

"I'd say I still got it," she said, "but I never lost it to begin with."

Everyone laughed. "Let's see if you can still pitch," Daryl said.

Pain streaked up her legs and every breath set her lungs afire, but Lynn smirked anyway. "You're on."

And as twilight drew on, filling the land like black water, and as the streetlights winked on one-by-one, Lynn and her friends played one last game.

* * *

May 26, 2001, marked thirty-five years since Ronnie Anne gave Lincoln her hand in marriage, and when she woke that morning, her heart was heavy with the knowledge that this would most likely be their final anniversary together. In the shower, cloaked by the hiss of water, she pressed her forehead against the slick wall and softly sobbed, wanting so badly to lash out and punch the plaster but holding on, if just barely. The other day, Lincoln made her promise that she would get over this and go on, for the sake of their family, and not knowing whether or not she could actually keep it made her cry harder.

Swallowing her tears, she told herself that it wouldn't be the last, that some way, somehow, they would find a cure. They had to.

Yet, deep down, she knew that was unlikely, and had known it all along despite her assertions otherwise. Over the past month, she watched as the cancer began to take hold. So far, it wasn't much, but it was pronounced: The weight loss, the thinning hair, the sickly cast of his features that may have been real, or simply imagined. She knew he was sick, knew with gnawing dread that his tainted blood was eating him from the inside out, and when she looked at him, she could see nothing else.

Since the day she accompanied him to see Dr. Patel, and the Indian told her that Lincoln's condition was incurable, she'd been grappling with the horrible understanding that one day soon, she was going to lose the man she loved. Every night in dreams, she went back to 1967, when Lincoln was missing overseas and only a feeble spark of hope sustained her. Despite that hope, on some level, she didn't expect him to come home, never thought she'd see his face or kiss his lips.

But he came back. Against all odds, and just as her will to carry on was starting to crumble, he came back to her, as impossible as an answered prayer.

He couldn't leave again. Not after all that had happened over the years, not after their life together.

She held doggedly onto the desperate notion that at the last minute, fate would again intercede on her behalf, but there was a seed of doubt in her soul, and as the weeks passed, it began to spread like roots through fertile soil. She ignored it and told herself that Lincoln would make it...that he would pull another miracle and come back to her the way he did all those years ago.

After the other day, she stopped. That night, Lincoln held her in bed and she wept until she had nothing left. When she was spent, he kissed the back of her head. _I just want you to be ready,_ he told her, _and...and not lie to yourself._ His voice hitched with emotion, and tears filled her eyes once more. Just when she thought she was wrung out, there were always more. She wiped them away with the heel of her palm and sniffled. He needed her to be strong now more than he ever had, and she would do it. She would make any promise and bear any burden just to put his mind at peace. He had so many things to worry about right now...and she wouldn't be one of them.

Done with her shower, she got out and toweled off, then went out into the bedroom. Lincoln lay flat on his back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. She stopped and anxiously studied the blankets until she detected the slight rise and fall of his chest. She let out a pent up breath and moved to the closet. He had six to twelve months, but she kept anticipating him going at any moment. In the night, if he wasn't holding her, she would reach out and touch him just to make sure he was still alive. She would find his flesh warm, but one day, it would be cold and hard, like clay.

That thought never failed to send a shudder through her.

She shoved that away and dressed in a light, sleeveless pink dress with a white V-neck collar. Back in the bathroom, she stood before the mirror and brushed her hair, looking at the lines forming at the corners of her mouth so she wouldn't have to look into her own haunted eyes. She sat the brush aside, pulled her hair back in a ponytail, and tied it with a hairband. Lincoln was still asleep, so she quietly went into the hall and pulled the door closed behind her. In the kitchen, she turned the overhead light on, crossed to the fridge, and opened it. She took out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon, bumped the door shut with her hip, and carried them over to the stove.

One of hers and Lincoln's anniversary traditions, established ten or so years ago, was taking turns making breakfast in bed for the other. One year, he would do it for her, and the next she would do it for him. This was his year, but he was dying, the least she could do was make him fucking breakfast.

Anguish wrenched her chest and she willed it away before she could unravel again.

She made a promise to Lincoln, and she was going to do her best to keep it.

Swallowing, she set about making breakfast, and in five minutes, the sunny kitchen was filled with the good smells of frying eggs and sizzling bacon. Beyond the window over the sink, golden light fell through the leafy treetops and dappled the back yard in wavering shafts of brilliance. The weatherman said it was going to be eighty degrees today. Usually, Ronnie Anne looked forward to summer, but not now. Summer reminded her how quickly time was passing, because just on the other side of it, she wouldn't have Lincoln anymore.

Flashing, she balled her fist and slammed it hard against the countertop. Muted pain snaked up her arm and her lips curled over her teeth in a hateful sneer. A few strands of hair had already worked free from her ponytail and hung in her fevered eyes, lending her a wild, animalistic appearance. _Shut up,_ she commanded, _just shut up and stop thinking about it._

The bacon popped and grease burned her arm.

With a sigh, she used a fork to turn it, then shoved two pieces of bread into the toaster. When the food was done, she plated it, poured a glass of orange juice, then put it all on a tray. She scanned it to make sure it was perfect, then brought it to the bedroom. Lincoln was where she'd left him, and sitting the tray on the nightstand, she threw open the curtains to let in the light. Lincoln snorted and stirred and looking at his haggard face broke her heart. She leaned over the bed, braced one hand on the mattress, and stroked his forehead, a hazy smile tracing her lips. "Up and at 'em, lame-o."

Lincoln's lids fluttered open, and his brow crinkled suspiciously. "Wha' doin'?" he muttered.

"Your breakfast is ready," she said and lovingly brushed her fingers through his hair. He needed a cut - his cowlick was starting to come back.

He pushed himself up on shaky arms and sat against the headboard. The blanket fell down his cheat, and the outline of his ribs poking through his sallow skin disturbed Ronnie Anne so much she looked away. "It's my turn, though," he said, confused.

"I was up early," she said, "and figured I'd let you sleep."

That wasn't exactly the truth but it wasn't really a lie either. Neither one of them slept well last night; he tossed and turned, and she gazed up at the shadows, hands laced over her breasts. Nights were the worst; tempests of emotions, unchecked and uncounted, raged through her until she didn't know whether she wanted to cry, scream, or claw her own eyes out.

She sat the tray across his lap and snuggled up to him. He looked down at his plate with a flicker of apprehension, then it was gone. He didn't like eating because of the nausea and bad taste in his mouth, but he knew how much it meant to her, so he did it anyway. He cut a piece of bacon with his fork, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed. Next he carved off a hunk of egg and held the fork out to her. She took it between her teeth even though she wasn't hungry, and swallowed. Her stomach turned.

"What do you want to do?" he asked and took a bite of his toast.

Almost every year, they went out for an anniversary dinner. A few years ago, they decided to be adventurous and try going to a bar, even though neither one of them was a big drinker; the music was loud, the food was awful, and everyone was drunk. It was awful.

"Nowhere," she said and rested the side of her head on his shoulders.

"Nowhere?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded and clung tightly to him. "Nowhere."

So that's where they went. They lay together in bed, holding one another and talking, their conversation meandering through the years from then to now. He reminded her of the time she tried to race Clyde on her bike, and it fell apart. She laughed uproariously at the memory of the frame wobbling and the front tire coming off. "I was so terrified," she giggled, "I thought I was going to die."

"I was more worried about your bike," Lincoln joked, "it was nice."

"It was a hunk of junk," she said, and instantly regretted it. That bike, a pink, refurbished 1954 Schwinn with a white wicker basket, appeared under the tree on Christmas morning 1958 with a big red bow on it. She was twelve and didn't believe in Santa Claus. Presents come from your parents, just like babies...cut all that stork gas, I know the _truth_. The bike wasn't new and it wasn't the greatest, but she loved it, and she loved her mother for buying it. Used or not, it had to cost a lot of money, and Mom didn't have much of that to spare. She probably went without things for herself just to save up for it, Ronnie Anne thought. Years later, right before she died, Mom told her it actually came from Flip. _He did the work himself,_ she said with a deep, poignant nod.

Well...one, no wonder the damn thing fell apart on her, and two...that made it even more special than it already was. She made sure to thank Flip by coming up behind him one day at work as he sat by the register and giving him a big hug.

 _What the hell are you doing, Santiago?_

 _Thanking you for that bike you gave me when I was twelve._

He sputtered for a reply, then settled for shrugging away. _Get offa me and get back to work_.

She said as much, and Lincoln laughed. "When I found out about Luna," he said, "he hugged me and said _she's with God now_."

Soon, their talk came to Alex and Jessy; they skipped Vietnam entirely, for which Ronnie Anne was endlessly grateful. She neither needed nor wanted to relive the daily torment she endured while he was missing. She was doing that already.

"I honestly thought Alex would be in jail by now," Lincoln said, and Ronnie Anne laughed.

"You really thought that about our daughter?" she asked even though she knew he didn't. Alex was not a bad girl. Lazy sometimes, and a slacker, the kind who had so much potential lurking below the surface but not the energy to tap it, but never bad. Her heart was as big as her father's and her head as hard as her mother's, a combination that, so far, had served her surprisingly well. She didn't look it on the surface, but she was every bit as responsible as Jessy...where it mattered...and her sense of duty to her charges at the hospital made Ronnie Anne proud.

Lincoln lifted and lowered one shoulder. "Eh."

"I was a little worried Jessy would be a basket case," she confessed. Lincoln already knew. Jessy's anxiety troubled her for years, and she half expected her niece to never live a normal life because of it. She had, however, and Ronnie Anne was just as proud of her as she was of Alex.

Shifting his weight, Lincoln said, "I'm still waiting to hear if it's a boy or a girl."

Jessy was a month pregnant with her second child and was due in November.

It struck her that Lincoln might not be around to meet it, and her heart twanged. "I hope for a boy," she said, surprised by the even timbre of her voice. "Or any combo of triplets."

Lincoln laughed. "You're determined one of them have triplets."

She shrugged. "The more the merrier."

Without warning, tears filled her eyes and she couldn't hold herself together. The dam burst and she started to cry. The more the merrier…but he wouldn't be there so how could it be either one?

Frowning, Lincoln held her close and let her sob into his chest, his calming warmth and soothing scent surrounding her like a loving embrace. She wouldn't have this for very much longer...her rock would be shattered, her tether snapped, her heart ripped from her chest and buried under six feet of cold, hard earth. She moaned miserably and shook her head as if to deny the terrible fate that awaited him, and Lincoln ran his fingers through her hair. Why couldn't she do this? Why couldn't she fucking STOP? This was supposed to be their anniversary and she was ruining it.

"I'm sorry," she said when the storm passed.

"Don't be," Lincoln said.

"I just -"

He shushed her. "Don't," he said.

"I'm trying to be strong," she croaked wetly, "I really am."

Lincoln nodded. "I know," he said, "and I know it's hard."

"It is."

He opened his mouth, but words failed him. He nuzzled her with his nose, then kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry," she repeated more soberly.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too, Lincoln."

She buried her face in his chest and tried to block out the world, but she could never burrow quite deep enough to escape. No matter what she did or what she wanted, Lincoln was going to die, and she had a responsibility to their children and grandchildren to pull through.

Could she do it, though?

She didn't know, but she would try.

She _had_ to try.

As dusk drew on, she fell into a light sleep, and safe in Lincoln's arms, the only dreams that came were light, happy, and sepia toned.

For a little while, she was young and happy again.

Shortly before midnight, she came awake to the soft skim of Lincoln's lips over her own. She could not see him in the pitch black, but she didn't need to, for their hearts, and bodies, were as magnets, drawn to one another by natural instinct. She laid her palm on the side of his face and kissed him deeply, their tongues moving gently over each other at first, then more needily. Come what may, he was warm and living now, his heart pounding and his bod responding to her touch, and she reveled in his life and vitality. A memory stirred in the back of her mind, sucking him in his Impala the day JFK was shot. She was grief stricken and plagued by death, but the hot taste of him in her mouth, the sensation of his molten essence spurting against the back of her throat, sustained her. It meant they were alive, and what is sex but a celebration of being alive?

Lincoln ran his hand up her bare leg, beneath her dress, and found her dank center. She parted her thighs and gasped at the expert kiss of his fingertips. She unzipped his pants, her fingers nimble and sure, and reached in. He smoldered in her hand, and she slowly stroked its length with her thumb.

Soon, passion carried her onto him, her knees caging his hips and the front of her dress unbuttoned enough to expose her breasts. Lincoln kneaded her nipples between his fingers and sighed as she sank slowly onto him. His body filled hers, and once again, they were a single flesh, a single heartbeat, a single breath. She threw her head back and began to rock, his rod swirling her loins like a ladle folding batter. Cemetery thoughts fled away, for they had no place here. Their bed, their body, was a temple of life, and they were worshipping at its very altar, where things like pestilence and death could not cross.

Bending forward, she went faster. Lincoln took her face in his hands, brushed the ridgeline of her cheekbones, and kissed her.

Their end came swiftly, and Ronnie Anne cried unashamedly out, all of her worry, fear, and pain burning away in the white hot effervesce of her orgasm. Lincoln's seering, life giving seed flooded her womb, and together they came.

Panting, she stretched out beside him and he pulled her body flush with his.

"I love you," she said.

Lincoln smiled in the darkness. "I love you too."

The clock on the nightstand struck twelve and they kissed one final time, bringing to a close another anniversary.

This one their last.


	226. June 2001: Part 1

**Guest: I always had this ending in mind, but I didn't know if I would have the energy or desire to make it all the way to 2001. I had a few ideas in mind that I could have used if I wanted to end it sooner. I didn't write any of them, though, so they're just could-have-beens.**

* * *

 _ **How many days in the year**_

 _ **She woke up with hope, but she only found tears**_

 **Nine Days (Absolutely, Story of a Girl, 2000)**

It was getting harder.

Smiling, pretending she was okay, getting out of bed in the morning and forcing herself through the motions. It was getting harder to deal with the constant sadness that struck from nowhere, and with no reason; harder to shut her racing mind down enough to escape into sleep; harder to withstand the violent whirlwind of emotions that ebbed and flowed in her breast like a surging tide. Every small frustration sent her to the verge of rage, every insignificant annoyance ate at her until she was seething with unaccountable anger.

She could hardly sleep at night; her mind kept spinning and spinning like a merry-go-round and wouldn't stop. In the dark, one hour would pass, then two. She tossed, turned, huffed, and puffed, then finally, at her wits end, she would smash her fist against the side of her stupid head. _Stop it! Please stop it!_ She couldn't focus in school; she'd try so hard to concentrate but her mind wandered and getting back on track was impossible. Her grades were getting worse and she couldn't shake the feeling that even though they acted oh so understanding, everyone thought she was stupid.

There were times - and they were becoming more and closer in frequency - that her chest throbbed with the malignant and inexplicable urge to act out. She would thrum with it like a high tension wire, holding herself back from talking, yelling, and being bad, squirming and biting hard on the inside of her mouth. She didn't understand it and that enraged her. Why was she like this? Why did she lay in bed on the weekends and leak tears? Why did she stay awake for hours and hours until she felt like screaming and clawing at her face when no one else did? Why did some days feel spacey and weird, like she was dreaming? Why did she just sit there hugging a pillow sometimes and staring blankly into space?

Why was this happening to her?

Some days, she searched for clues in the bathroom mirror until her own face didn't make any sense, like a word repeated to gibberish. Her fair skin, her clear eyes, and her sandy blonde hair might as well have belonged to a stranger, because that's how she felt - like a stranger in her own body. She was tall and slim, blessed with her mother's feminine figure, but she didn't take pride in her appearance. She didn't think she was pretty, she didn't think she was ugly, she just didn't care. She brushed her hair only when she had to and mustered the ambition to shower every other day...or two...it was so much work, and half the time, she didn't even have the energy to stand.

She had friends and a family. She had a room full of nice things. Her dad was going to buy her a car when she was sixteen. Boys liked her. She was a princess in a castle nestled amongst the glitz and glamor of the Hollywood Hills. Everything should be peachy.

But it wasn't.

Because she was broken.

That answer was obvious, but it took her until now, the middle of June in her fifteenth year, to realize it. She was broken and she could never be fixed no matter how many pills they gave her. She hated the medication anyway. It made her groggy and detached like she was a passenger in her head and watching someone else live her life, so she secretly stopped taking them. What was the point? It would never stop. She would be like this for the rest of her days; up one minute, down the next; awake in bed as the hours ticked by; fine for a while, then struck with sadness so powerful she could only lay there beneath its crushing weight.

Sitting on her bed that early summer morning, dressed in a pair of plaid lounge pants and a white tank top, she hugged a pillow to her chest and darted her eyes restively around the room. Hot California sunshine poured through the window beside her and tinged the pink walls with dazzling luminosity. Posters, like snapshots frozen in time, looked down on her: The Backstreet Boys, N'Sync, Christina Aguilera, and TLC, a dozen faces that, all at once, seemed threatening. She imagined she could feel their eyes on her, watching, judging, hating. That was stupid...she knew that...but she felt it regardless, and no amount of chastising her stupid head would change it. Clothes and stuffed animals were strewn sloppily across the beige carpet, their presence depressing her even more...but picking them up took too much effort, effort she just didn't have.

She clutched the pillow tighter and heaved a heavy sigh. It shouldn't be this way, she thought bitterly, she shouldn't feel like this, so weak she couldn't even bend over and pick a shirt off the floor. She hated this, hated it with burning intensity, hated the endless nights, the tears that had no source, the eternal sadness that came back again and again. She recalled something she heard on the news the other day: A woman in Texas cooly and methodically drowned her five children in the bathtub.

Right now, she wished her mom did the same for her.

Stinging water filled her eyes, and she buried her face in the pillow. She wondered occasionally what it would be like to be dead, to be free of her stupid head and perpetual melancholy. She figured it would be like sleeping forever, and though sleep came hard, when it did, she relished it, because sleep was liberation. She didn't think in her sleep, she didn't cry, she didn't feel sad and drive herself crazy wondering why.

That sounded really nice.

Taking a deep breath, she flopped her head back and looked toward the closed door. Her face was red and puffy from crying, her eyes shimmered, and her messy hair, matted and stiff, stuck out in every direction like the purple mane of a vintage troll doll. She looked like a girl at the end of her rope, because she _was_ a girl at the end of her rope. This had been happening for as long as she could remember, the manic highs and lows, the unexplainable sadness, going from crackling with energy to having none at all. It had always been her affliction, and it always would be.

She blotted her eyes with the heel of her palm and sniffed. She was tired of crying, she was tired of chest constricting despair, tired of her hyperactive brain, tired of not sleeping, not wanting to eat, tired of the game, so weary from putting on a false mask of wellness and forcing every smile that the prospect of going on another day sapped what little vitality she had left.

A shadow of thought flickered through her eyes, and she anxiously worried her bottom lip. Her heartbeat elevated and her intestines tangled at the ideations forming in her overwrought brain. She sent her gaze to her lap and squeezed the pillow, as though it were a life preserver. She shouldn't be thinking this way, she didn't _want_ to think this way. She just wanted to be happy like everyone else. She wanted to laugh and mean it too, she wanted her smile to light up her eyes the way her mother's and father's did, she wanted…

...She wanted peace.

That's all.

Just peace.

Her throat bobbed reflexively and numbness spread through her, the edges of her vision tinging fuzzy gray. The fog in her brain lifted, and the light of reason penetrated the mist.

Suddenly, it was all clear to her.

Her muscles, rigid and coiled, came unlocked, and her arms threw the pillow aside; it landed on the bed with a soft _pfft_ , and the rumpled sheets rustled with a sound like encouraging whispers as she uncrossed her legs. She watched her legs hook over the side of the mattress and her French tipped toes plant in the carpet like a woman dispassionately watching television. They seemed too small and far away, as though she were a giant peering down a dizzying chasm. She stood and her feet carried her to the door. Her hand reached out, turned the knob, she did not try to stop it, did not struggle to regain control of herself as she had before. She was too tired for that. Far, far too tired.

The door opened of its own violation, and she floated down the shadowy hall. The only sound as she went into the bathroom was the roar of blood in her ears. She felt no fear, no doubt, she was past that now, the only emotion she knew was void. The door swung invitingly open and she crossed the threshold, her feet leaving the carpet and touching cold tile. Shapes loomed forth from the gloom like ghoulish spectators sitting giddily forward in their seats, waiting for the show to begin. She flipped the switch and cold, white illumination shimmered on white tiles. The tub stood ahead, the sink and toilet to her right, a wicker basket of potpourri on the latter, its piney fragrance lost on her deadened senses. The door fell closed behind her with a click of finality. In the mirror over the sink, her visage was blank, eyes dull, features flat. Ignoring it because it no longer mattered, she opened the medicine cabinet, rusted hinges squeaking as if in pain. Her gaze slowly scanned the shelf until she found what she was looking for, then her arm reached, impossibly long; a wave of vertigo broke over her and she wobbled, nearly falling, but caught herself.

She closed her fingers around her prize and pulled it out, a simple pink Venus razor with gel padding around the blade so you didn't cut yourself. Wasn't that thoughtful? She stared down at it, and for the first time since leaving her bed, she felt a pinprick of trepidation. Then she caught a flash of movement and looked into her own face, drawn and wan, eyes listless and murky. She had no reason to be this way but she was. She was broken and what do you do with broken things? You discard them, for their good and yours. What's sadder than a whistle that can't blow, a radio that doesn't play, a book with no pages? These things, the broken things, sit there, wounded and sad, until someone has the mercy to throw them out.

Isn't that what she was doing here? Throwing something in the trash? Something that wasn't right? Something pitiful and purposeless?

Her resolve hardened, and bending her head, she picked the padding away with her thumbnails, cracking one in the process. She worked the blade free, and as it slipped out, the sharp edge scraped her thumb. She stared dazedly down at the ripped flesh and welling blood, rich and red. She should feel this, shouldn't she? She should feel the sting of abrasion, the trickling of gore.

Maybe she should, but she did not, and in that instant, full revelation came to her. She was fully fractured now. She couldn't feel, couldn't love, couldn't hate, she could simply exist and take up space, like the broken thing she was.

Blade pinched between her thumb and forefinger, small as a chip of ice, she crossed to the tub. She got stiffly down on one knee, turned the cold water on, and put the stop in the drain. Drops of blood dripped from her thumb and into the water, where they swirled and eddied. She waited until the tub was half full, then turned it off. That would be enough.

She got to her feet and started to get in, then went and turned the light off instead. As she lived, so too would she die. Alone. In absolute darkness. With people close but too far to help. Always too far to help.

Holding tight to the razor, she returned to the tub, stepped over the lip, and got in, cold water plastering her pants to her ankles. She turned, faced front, and sank woodenly to her butt. The water lapped insistently at her waist like hungry tongues, and her determination waved. It was dark. Cold too. Is this what the grave was like?

For a moment, doubt filled her, then she remembered her face in the mirror, and it snuffed out. She was already dead. Her body just hadn't caught up yet.

Holding the blade to her left wrist, she dug deep and yanked. Flesh ripped, blood flowed. She couldn't see the damage for the pitch black, but she could feel thick warmth oozing out.

Transfering the steel to her other hand, she repeated the ritual, then released it like another broken thing, its purpose served. Now the pain was setting in, pulsing up her arms with every unsteady beat of her heart. Was she already woozy, or was that wishful thinking? How long did it take to bleed out? There are eight gallons of blood in the human body and...or was it pints? She tried to remember but couldn't. She _just_ learned this in school, but she couldn't focus, and if she wasn't focused, information entered one ear, rattled around her head, then found its way out the other.

Were all stupid people like this? She bet they were. They weren't dumb, at least in the traditional sense. Their brains just didn't work right, and they lived their entire lives trying so hard to be better and concentrate, but they never could. They lay awake at night and stared at the ceiling, their minds wandered in school, their thoughts flickered by at the speed of sound and though they might try, they could never capture one, never slow the dynamo in their skulls.

The edges of her consciousness tingled and warm cotton replaced her brain. Her eyelids drifted open, then drooped; her heart rate slackened; her body loosened and her breathing became shallow. A chill ran through her, from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head, and her lips quivered. Low, clicking chatter rose in the vacuum, and it took her a moment to figure out it was her teeth clacking together.

Death was coming. She could feel its icy breath on her face, could hear its approaching hoofbeats. She closed her eyes and surrendered herself to its embrace. It would be all over soon, the Reaper promised.

Faint light painted her lids, and her brow furrowed. She tried to turn away, but her head weighed a thousand pounds. She pried one gummy eye open and winced at the blinding glare. A silhouette crested over her, like the moon before the face of the sun, and her stomach lurched with sudden dread.

The Reaper was here.

In a flash, she knew she made a terrible mistake. She wasn't going to go to sleep...she was going to hell, where she would live her life over and over again with no succor and no respite from the gnawing anguish in her heart. She would seek salvation but never find it, beg forgiveness but never atone, kill herself over and over but never die.

A scream formed in her throat but came out as a potable exhalation.

The silhouette moved to one side, and light revealed its face. Jaw slack, eyes wide and horrified , Death looked a lot like her brother Val.

Somewhere far away, her heart blasted and she clawed frantically to stay awake, to drag herself back from the creature wearing her brother's face, but she was fading fast, darkness stealing across her vision and flooding her head like black water.

Just before she went into the night, she realized something.

She didn't want to die.

She just wanted to be happy.

Was that really so much to ask? To be like everyone else?

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and the sound of her brother's panicked voice followed her into the ages. "Mom! Dad!"

* * *

Lori Santiago started every day with a meandering walk around the neighborhood.

At sixty-one, Lori was thin and tall with gray hair, the last of the blonde having drained away the previous year. For a few years, she bordered on overweight but started eating healthier and exercising in a bid to get rid of it. Her blood pressure was normal for a woman her age, her cholesterol was low, and mind was as sharp as ever, thanks, she liked to believe, to the sudoku puzzle in the daily paper; sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee (her only true vice), she worked on them until she was done, no breaks and no procrastinating. She took a multivitamin every evening, and every other afternoon, spent an hour or two at the gym in Elk Park, mainly on the treadmill and stationary bike machine. She got her heart pumping, but not _too_ much, and stopped when she was tired. The point was to maintain her health, not recklessly push herself into a myocardial infarction.

Her concern with physical and mental well-being started last year, shortly before she turned sixty. To her, sixty represented old age like no two digit number before it. She felt largely the same at heart that she did at twenty, but she realized that she _wasn't_ twenty anymore. The summer of her life was drawing to a close, and autumn was beginning. The length of her fall, she concluded, rested entirely on how she treated her body. She was already mildly arthritic, and her mother suffered from Alzheimer's, which, she read, is most likely genetic; she was entering the twilight of life, in other words, and the cards were already stacked against her. Now was the time to decide: Would she sit in her rocking chair like an old woman and let infirmity consume her or would she work to ensure she aged gracefully?

She chose the latter. It wasn't easy at first, but she had no other option, so she stuck with it and now, fifteen months later, she was thankful she had. Her joints still pained her some, especially when it rained or snowed, but the ache was feeble and unobtrusive, a slight annoyance, like a troublesome pebble in her shoe. She had more energy and slept better at night, and Doc Faraday lavished her with praise, which pleased her to no end. If a doctor tells you that you're doing right, you must be doing right!

When she designed to relax - a luxury she only allowed herself after her morning walk and in the two or three hours leading up to bedtime - she did word searches, brainteasers, crossword puzzles, and read. She was presently making her way through _Dreamcatcher_ by Stephen King, one of her long time favorite writers. After that, she would start either _One Door Away From Heaven_ by Dean Koontz or _Shock_ by Robin Cook. Maybe she'd go with something else; she had a brown paper grocery bag filled with recent titles that she intended to work her way through.

To make a long story short, she was doing everything in her power to stay fit.

That, however, did not mean that she would. Death and illness have a way of striking from the blue. A friend of Bobby's from the warehouse was in shape his entire life, ate right, jogged, and dropped dead of a heart attack at forty-eight. A woman Lori volunteered at the regional library with was crossing a busy street in 1998 and digging distractedly through her purse when a city bus slammed into her and sucked her under its tires.

She was killed instantly.

Then...there was Lincoln.

Late last month, Ronnie Anne invited her and Bobby over for dinner, a not uncommon occurrence. Lori knew something wasn't right with Lincoln - he was too thin and losing his hair - but she was not expecting cancer, not in her baby brother. When he and Ronnie Anne sat her and Bobby down in the living room after dinner and told them, Lori's hand flew to her mouth and Bobby leaned forward, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. _Cancer?_ he asked. From the shocked tone of his voice, you might think that Lincoln developing cancer was biologically unthinkable.

Lincoln nodded grimly. _Yeah. It's..._ there was a brief hesitation as he glanced at Ronnie Anne in his periphery. _Prostate cancer_. _Stage three. But...it's under control and I should pull through._ She thought she detected a trace of equivocation, as though he weren't being entirely forthright. She dismissed that notion as quickly as it came, however; she wasn't in a frame of mind to make clear-headed judgments. She hugged him tightly, and a memory came back to her; cradling him much like she was now, him three and her ten. She was on her way downstairs to get a drink of water when she heard soft sobbing drifting from his room. He lay in bed, shaking underneath the covers from a nightmare. He was so small, so fragile, that she could do nothing but go to him and hold him until he was all better. She remembered the way he snuggled up to her, closed his eyes, and smiled dreamily. _I love you, 'Ori,_ he had said, and recollecting that in the wake of his revelation shoved her rudely over the edge; she cried and clung to him, a tempest of emotions storming through her.

 _I'll be fine,_ he said with a weak smile. It did not convince her, but she held onto that declaration like a woman to a piece of flotsam.

 _He'll pull through,_ Bobby said later in bed, and the surety in his tone pacified her. God, anything could happen, but the idea of Lincoln dying...she could no sooner process that than she could Chinese. He and Ronnie Anne said he would be okay, and she would just have to trust them.

Starting the very next day, she drove (or walked) over to their house and spent an hour or two chatting and drinking coffee. Sometimes, she stopped at the Dunkin Donuts on Park Place and picked up a dozen Boston Creme, Lincoln's favorite. Sweets aren't very good for you, but he needed to eat. When he began to lose his hair in earnest, she knitted him a simple black cap to cover his head. As spring bled into summer, his weight continued to dwindle, and Lori observed first with worry, then outright alarm. To her, every pound was the difference between life and death, and sitting helplessly by as he wilted was like being stabbed in the heart by a billion tiny knives.

Last Thursday, she dropped by in the afternoon following his chemo appointment and found him lying in bed, too weak and exhausted to move. She flashed back to that night long ago, holding him in the aftermath of his nightmare. He was small and vulnerable then...just as he was now. Standing over him, her lips started to tremble, and tears welled in her eyes. Her maternal instincts kicked in, and without a second thought, she sat on the edge of the mattress and brushed her hand over his clammy forehead. His eyes, hitherto closed, came open, and fixed on her. _Lori?_ he croaked.

 _Hey,_ she said and attempted a smile. _How are you feeling?_

 _Fine,_ he said guardedly, as though her tenderness possibly concealed hostile intent. His voice was barely above a whisper. _You?_

She caressed his cheek, and when she spoke, her voice broke. _Okay_.

 _You don't look like it,_ he said.

 _Neither do you._

He chuckled softly. _I'm just tired. It takes a lot out of you._

They talked for a long time before she left, and all the while, she stroked his cheek and did her best to give him strength. The next day, he was sitting up in his chair and watching _Judge Joe Brown_. His face was peaked and strained, but she was so grateful for the improvement that she beamed.

Yesterday, June 25, he was weak again but sitting in his chair when she arrived. He wore the cap she made him and a long sleeve plaid shirt that hung limp on his emaciated frame. It had been consistently in the mid to high eighties since the beginning of the month, but he was always cold. Ronnie Anne only ran the A/C when the heat became unbearable, and Lincoln piled underneath heavy blankets, which made him look even more frail. The air inside was sweltering and Ronnie Anne's face was wet and flush, her bangs stuck to her tacky forehead. Sitting on the couch with her head thrown back, she looked like a dying flower. _I told her to turn the A/C on_ , Lincoln explained in that new and grating voice of his, _just stack me up first_.

 _I'm fine, lame-o,_ she said. It was readily evident that she wasn't. She would rather be uncomfortable herself than to make Lincoln uncomfortable, and Lori's sisterly love for her strengthened even more. Ronnie Anne was a good woman and while Lori worried about her brother incessantly, she knew he was in good hands.

As a thank you, Lori made dinner and did what little housework Ronnie Anne hadn't got to yet: Vacuuming, laundry, and cleaning the master bath. By the time she was finished, her flesh was red and sweat trickled from every pore, but she didn't mind. Her little brother and sister-in-law needed her and she would be there for them every step of the way.

On the morning of June 26, she sent Bobby to work with a kiss and a brown bag lunch, then boiled an egg for herself. In her robe, she sat at the kitchen table and did part of the crossword while she waited. The front page, folded and set aside, blared: **BUSH SIGNS TAX CUTS INTO LAW.** Below that: _**Economic Growth and Tax Relief Reconciliation Act of 2001 will grow economy, officials claim.**_ She didn't read anything past that. A week ago, a woman drowned her five kids in the bathtub, and Lori was so mortified that just hearing about it left her shaken for hours afterward, so she had been avoiding the national section. Out of sight, out of mind.

When her egg was done, she put it on a plate then took a grapefruit from the fridge. She cut it down the middle, wrapped the leftovers in Saran Wrap, then put it back in the fridge for later. She sat the other half on the plate, took it to the table, and ate while finishing the crossword. Done, she washed the dishes, changed into a blue, short sleeve dress. She pulled on a pair of white tennis shoes and left the house for her daily walk. Outside, the day was hot and bright, and at this hour, the only sounds up and down the street were the rattle of window unit air conditioners and the distant drone of a lawn mower. Before long, the kids would finish up their cereal and morning cartoons and begin to emerge from their dens like small, timid mammals. She and Bobby had lived in this neighborhood since the mid-sixties, and she had seen several generations of children come and go. Sometimes there were a lot in the area, sometimes not many, but their play and laughter always rang through the summery days like music.

She'd been talking to Bobby Jr. about him possibly sending the kids out for a few weeks. He was busy shooting for _The Brash and the Bountiful_ and Lola was recording a new album, so they couldn't make it, but there was no reason they couldn't put Stephy and Val alone on a plane. Stephy was fifteen and Val was twelve. They'd be fine.

Even if Stephy wasn't as responsible as a girl here age ought to be.

Bobby Jr. wasn't sold on the idea, and she was beginning to consider flying out herself for a month or so. She didn't get to see the kids very often, and that always perturbed her, but as she entered the final phase of her life, it became next to intolerable.

She had Lincoln and Ronnie Anne to think about, though, and their need of her prevented a jaunt to California. She _would_ leave Bobby in charge of checking in and helping out, but he worked so much. _Gotta bulk up the savings, babe,_ he'd say. He was sixty-one and mandatory retirement age at the warehouse was sixty-five. They had a tidy nest egg that would, along with social security, see them through their golden years, but one never knows what might happen. Ronnie Anne confided in her once that Lincoln's medical bills were costing them nearly thirty thousand dollars a month. They were nowhere near destitute, but if kept up much longer, they would begin to feel the pinch.

That bothered Lori, but not much. Jessy and Alex both received quarterly payments from Luna's estate that totaled just under fifty thousand a year and neither one would hesitate to help Lincoln and Ronnie Anne. The only real problem was whether or not they would accept it. Lincoln was extremely and outspokenly proud. Ronnie Anne, while not as vocal, had her pride as well. Taking financial assistance from anyone would likely shame them. Lori hoped to God that if it came to it, they took it...although, she wasn't sure she'd do the same in their shoes.

At the end of the walkway, she turned left and started south toward the park. The humid air swaddled her like wet wool, and in minutes, sweat coursed down the back of her neck. At Oak Street, she took a right and followed it to the park's wooded southwest edge. Trees overhung the lane and tiny ranch homes presided over wide, shaded lawns carpeted with brown pine needles. The houses here were grimier than they were on her street, the yards strewn with auto parts and other detritus. A big golden retriever tracked her from behind a chain link fence, its tongue lolling and the sun shimmering on its thick, yellow coat. She stopped, bent, and clasped her hands to her knees. "Hi," she cooed, "you're so beautiful. What's your name?"

The dog emitted a sharp bark, and she laughed. "I'm Lori," she said, "it's nice to meet you."

After a few more pleasantries (she decided the dog was a boy and his name was Bob), she went on. The street dead ended at a stand of trees and a narrow trailhead wound between two stately elms. Light filtered through the treetops and made shadows on the path. The terrain turned hilly and the trail curved to the right before crossing a shallow river by way of a weathered wooden footbridge, its rickety rails covered in graffiti. The crudely drawn penises and curse words would have made her blush once, but after nearly thirty years of reading Stephen King, she was accustomed to sex and dirty words.

A mile later, the path let out on River Road. Tall grass swayed along the sides of the highway, and on the other side, the Royal River peeked through a thin screen of trees. She walked up the shoulder and looked back frequently to make sure no careening cars were bearing down on her. Two years ago, one slammed into Stephen King as he traversed a road much like this one and nearly killed him. If it could happen to him, it could happen to her too.

She got home before eleven, did a word search, and read a little bit of _Dreamcatcher_ before driving to the gym. In the women's locker room, she changed into a pair of stretch pants and a tank top that bared her scrawny arms. Some days she thought she was even thinner than Lincoln.

Mirrors lined the walls of the main room and a bank of treadmills faced it, allowing you to get a good, long look at your red, sweaty, bloated face. She often wondered if they weren't trying to discourage people from spending too much time on them by making their patrons gaze ashamedly at their imperfect countenances. _Don't wanna look at the whale you are for very long, huh?_ A wall-mounted television set played CNN, and Lori did her best to ignore it as she jogged in place. She normally used the lowest setting, but today she felt brave, so she tried the second lowest...then changed it back. Nope, that's a bit too fast for me, maybe next time.

She jogged in place until her heart thudded sweat lightly skeened her body. She turned the machine off, ran a towel over her arms, then changed back into her street clothes in the locker room. On her way home, she stopped at Food-Lion and picked up a pack of boneless chicken breast for dinner. At home, she stuck it in the fridge, then changed into a pair of loose fitting, waist high denim jeans and an old button up blouse. In the garage, she put on her sun hat and a heavy pair of gardening gloves, then went into the backyard. Kneeling in the soft grass, she pulled weeds from along the house's foundation. She was next to the back porch and locked in a high stakes game of tug-of-war when the phone rang inside, its shrill tone echoing through the empty house.

Giving up (for now), she pushed to her feet and lumbered up the steps, her knees stiff from being bent for so long. She opened the sliding glass door, went in, and closed it behind her. The phone cried out again, and she paused to dust off her knees. "Hold your horses," she said. She slipped out of her tennis shoes to avoid tracking mud on the floor, then crossed the kitchen. Picking up the handset, pressed it to her ear and tossed her sweat matted hair out of her eyes. "Hello?"

"Mom," Bobby Jr. said, and from the thickness in his voice, as though he had been crying, she instantly knew something was wrong.

"Bobby?" she asked. "Honey, what's the matter?"

He didn't immediately respond, and Lori's stomach grew heavy with foreboding. A billion terrible images raced through her mind like a gruesome flip book, and her grip tightened on the phone. "What's wrong?"

Bobby took a deep, shivery breath...such a small sound, but one that chilled her nevertheless. It was the noise a man makes while he battles to keep himself from falling apart. "I-It's Stephy."

Lori's heart dropped. "What happened?"

"She…she tried to kill herself, Mom."

His voice cracked pitifully, and _Mom_ came out as a tortured whisper. Of its own accord, Lori's hand fluttered to her mouth even as her brain went haywire trying to make sense of what she just heard. Stephy? Kill herself? She tried to speak, but her mouth issued no sound. "W-W-How is she?"

"She's gonna be okay," he said, and Lori let out a palliative breath. "W-We're at the hospital right now. She's awake but they won't let us see her."

"What happened?" Lori asked.

Taking a deep breath, Bobby told her. That morning, just before nine, he and Lola were jolted awake by Val screaming for them. Bobby jumped up and raced into the hallway, nearly colliding with Val. The boy was pale and shaking and his eyes, Bobby said, were brimming with horror. _It's Steph,_ he said, and Bobby's blood ran cold. He shoved his son out of the way and stumbled into the bathroom. Through his tears, he recounted what he saw: Stephy submerged in a tub full of red water, her head beneath the surface and her hair fanned out around her bloodless face like seaweed on the waves.

He broke down crying, and Lori joined him, the sound of his misery and the image of her granddaughter hurt too much to bear. She hadn't seen it herself, but it was burned into her consciousness anyway, and she felt like she was going to puke.

"I-I don't know why she did it, Mom," he said, and the helplessness in his voice made her want to reach through the phone and cradle him like she did when he was a baby. "S-She hasn't been depressed in a long time. W-We thought she was getting better."

For the first time in her life as a mother, she didn't know what to say. Years ago, Stephy was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which is characterized by sudden and often dramatic mood swings. She was on medication and had been emotionally stable for the past two years. She was as shocked by this as he was; the last time she spoke to her on the phone last week, Stephy was her normal, talkative self, laughing, joking, and talking about all the things she planned to do over the summer.

"Did something happen? An argument?"

"No," he said, "everything's been fine. I just...I-I don't know why she did it." His wounded inflection cut Lori deeply. Before she could offer maternal solace, however, he said, "The doctor's here. I gotta go. I'll call -"

"I'm coming out there," Lori declared.

She expected him to protest, but when he replied, she imagined it was with the relief of a small boy who wanted...nay, _needed_...his mother. "Okay."

As soon as he hung up, she dialed the airport and booked the next flight to Los Angeles, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne completely forgotten.

* * *

The Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture occupied a low, sleek, modern glass building on the edge of Seattle's University District three blocks north of the University of Washington School of Law. Dense green vegetation fringed it on the south and west sides, and Memorial Way Northeast, a wide avenue separated by neatly manicured mediums, bordered it to the north. Just up from the entrance, fanciful stone pillars stood on either side of the street, and every time Jessy saw them, she was put in mind of the Colossus of Rhodes, that grand ancient statue of Helios that once straddled the inlet to the Harbor of Rhodes.

An open breezeway ran the length of the building and massive blue banners advertising the dinosaur exhibit rippled in the warm summer wind. Two sets of stairs divided by a chest high stone wall lead up to the main doors from the horseshoe drive and a bubbling fountain sat in the middle.

Inside, natural light spilled through segmented sunbeam windows set in the vaulted ceiling, lending the lobby a warm, sentimental glow. The marble floors were a light, sandy brown and the walls a milky shade of white. Just beyond the front doors, glass display cases boasted an assortment of dinosaur bones, arrowheads, and shattered pieces of Native American pottery found in the region. From there, the lobby split into two corridors like a road at a fork. One side was dedicated to the prehistoric period when Seattle was a thick, humid rainforest and strange life lurked along the course of the Columbia River. The other was given over to the Suquamish Indians who settled in the area 4,000 years before the advent of white men. One display featured a painstaking replica of a typical Suquamish village, replete with teepee and mannequins clad in traditional garb.

Being a Tuesday afternoon, the museum was sparsely peopled; save for a group of smiling Japanese tourists and a black family, Jessy, Luan, and Allison were alone. A deep, tranquil hush lay over the lobby as they made their way past the dinosaur exhibit, and Jessy caught herself treading lightly so as not to break the spell. Allison, in a maroon colored overall dress on top of a white T-shirt, walked between Jessy and Luan, her hands at her sides and her pigtails swinging back and forth with every step. She was adamant that she was a _big girl_ and didn't need to hold her mother and grandmother's hands. Jessy didn't know whether to be proud of her little girl's independence or alarmed by it. She wasn't even three and she was already growing up. Allison's purposeful stride brought a smile to her lips but made her eyes misty as well; part of her wanted her baby to stay, well, a baby, and another looked forward to guiding her along as she grew.

Right now, though, she was looking forward to lunch. It was a quarter past noon and she hadn't eaten since right before they left the house at nine-thirty. Normally she was content to go half the day without food, but the child in her stomach was as voracious an eater as she was sparing. With Allison, she suffered persistent morning sickness. With this one, she suffered persistent hunger. She didn't have any crazy cravings, but her appetite was through the roof. Before becoming pregnant with number two, she had breakfast, a light lunch, and dinner, with dessert coming every once in a great while. She didn't snack, and if, for some reason, she did, it was something healthy, like an apple or trail mix. Now, she pigged out at every meal and munched chips, cookies, and cupcakes in-between. So far, she had gained ten pounds, and not much of that was baby. At this point, she was as bad as Alex.

To the right, a dinosaur skeleton loomed out of an ambient lit alcove, and Allison came to a shuffling halt, her tiny body going stiff with fright. Jessy smiled and laid her hand on the little girl's head. "It's okay, it's just a skeleton. It can't hurt you."

Allison regarded the bones warily, her body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Mom walked over to the metal railing behind which the dinosaur reposed, getting as close as she could. She favored Allison with a smile. "Oh, he's a nice dinosaur. He just wants to say hi. You say hi?"

The toddler shook her head slowly. She turned to Jessy and held her arms up, hands opening and closing. Pleading flooded her dark eyes, and Jessy let out an _awww_ of sympathy. She stooped down, picked Allison up, and hefted her off the floor with a grunt of exertion. "Don't hurt yourself," Mom fussed.

"I'm fine," Jessy said. Allison threw her arms around Jessy's neck and buried her face in her shoulder, making her laugh. "It's okay, honey, I promise. The scary old dinosaur _won't_ hurt you." She rubbed Allison's back and started walking again. Maybe they should go look at the Indians instead. They could learn about dinosaurs another day.

At the end of the corridor, a connecting hall provided access to the other side of the lobby. Chipped vases and bits of Indian cookware sat on pedestals, protected by cube-shaped glass cases. Jessy turned right and followed the promenade past mock ups of Suquamish settlements, hunting rites, and daily life.

"Have you talked to your uncle lately?" Mom asked.

Jessy sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I talked to him and auntie Ronnie Anne last night. He sounds really gravelly."

A few weeks ago Alex called and told her about Uncle Lincoln's diagnosis. She, Alex, asked auntie Ronnie Anne if she could be the one to break the news. _I figured you'd be better off getting it from me,_ she said, and she was right. Hearing it from her sister - and receiving her assurances that Uncle Lincoln would be okay - did soften the blow. Alex was a medical professional, after all, and recited a litany of statistics that supported her assertion of Uncle Lincoln's eventual triumph. Perhaps Jessy was a little too pragmatic, especially for a woman, but she found facts and figures far more comforting than pretty words.

She was planning on flying out at the beginning of next month. She was waiting to see if Mark could break away from work long enough to come with her. She wanted him to be there...mainly for moral support. She trusted Alex's assessment, but...deep down, she was scared anyway. Wouldn't you be if it was your father battling stage three cancer? It was a slick, slushy dread that weighed heavy in the pit of her stomach, always there even when she was preoccupied, never going, never leaving, always slithering along the edges of her vision like one of the giant eels that infested the prehistoric Columbia. She didn't let herself dwell - she was the new Jess, not the old - but it was perpetually in the back of her mind, and like her aunt Lori across the country, she worried. She worried after Uncle Lincoln's health, worried something might happen - even a simple cold can be disastrous when you're afflicted with cancer - worried that, despite everything, he would defy the odds and die.

"He does," Mom agreed heavily. "Lori says he's lost a lot of weight."

Alex said the same. _It's mostly chemo,_ she cautioned, _it makes you nauseous and leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Mom forces him to eat, though._ "Yeah, Alex told me," Jessy said. Her grip on Allison unconsciously tightened, as though cancer were a sentient being from which her daughter needed protection. "I know I shouldn't, but I worry sometimes."

"So do I," Mom admitted with a grave nod. "He's a fighter, though. If anyone can beat this, it's him."

That was true. Sometimes, however, even the most feeble of enemies manage to pull a surprise upset, like army of Grand Fenwick in _The Mouse That Roared_. She preferred not to think that way. It only made her nervous.

By unspoken consent, she and Mom pushed that topic aside, and tried to enjoy the rest of their day with Allison.


	227. June 2001: Part 2

**Scriptythelonely: I was going to have Lori and Bobby eventually divorce but I chickened out at the last minute, lol.**

Bobby Santiago Jr. thought he knew pain; he thought, like the dumbass he was and always had been, that he had tasted the bitter wine of hardship. When he was twenty, the girl he loved broke up with him, and when he was twenty-seven, he felt like a failure sponging off his rich wife. When he was thirty-one, a gang of black men pulled him out of his car at random and beat him unconscious. When people complained about pampered celebrities who were "out of touch" with regular folks, he never once thought they were talking about him - hey, he was a normal guy. He might be on TV and magazine covers, but that didn't mean anything. He grew up lower middle class, he worked a shit job, he had the same fears as everyone else. His status as daytime TV's top baddie didn't change that. His life wasn't charmed. He and his wife argued. He had days where the whole world seemed to be against him. He didn't think he was better than anyone just because someone stuck him in front of a camera. Almost anyone can act, and he was proof of it. On the rare occasions he watched himself on _The Brash and the Bountiful,_ he cringed because, Jesus, I'm a ham. They give me awards for this shit?

It helped that he married a woman like Lola. Oh, she had a big head in her younger days, but that had less to do with fame and more with the people who surrounded her. They wanted the next Madonna, a pretty blonde to dance around on MTV, sing simple pop songs, and sell records. Her upbringing didn't help. She clung to feelings of self-superiority as a coping mechanism because deep down, she felt like trash...literal trash. Her life before stardom was a tumultuous one and molded her into who she was now. A lot of people can forget their past, but for some, it makes such a huge indent in their psyche that they can never change who they fundamentally are. Lola was one of the latter. She was loving, playful, and unimpressed by material wealth. Glittery things and shiny objects intrigued her at first, but only because she grew up in a rundown trailer where the resident modern marvel was a 1960 Philco television set that picked up three channels in dull black and white.

They were normal people. They might have it easy in terms of money, but they knew pain just as intimately as the next guy.

Then he dragged his blue-lipped, blood-soaked daughter from the bathtub, and he realized he didn't know shit.

Even later, calm and collected, he could never begin to describe the gut-wrenching feeling of finding his little girl that way. Lola came close when compared to being shocked...not surprised or dumbfounded, but jolted by a crackling surge of nerve crisping electricity. It was like that...but it was also like being shot in the chest, stabbed in the stomach, thrown into cold water, and falling off the world's tallest building all at once. He had never felt anything even close, and now, hours later, he realized that he would always hold, in his heart, the terror of feeling it again. Sitting there with her head in his lap, weeping and frantically tapping her cheek with his open palm in a desperate attempt to revive her, Bobby changed. As he sat with Lola and Val in the waiting room on Cedars-Sini's third floor, he could sense the transformation like a black form beneath clear water. He wasn't the same man he was last night. How could he be? His daughter slashed her wrists open - that's not something you can know, _see_ , and walk away from without being dramatically altered. He loved his children with every ounce of his heart, like any parent, and seeing Stephy like that was…

It was like dying.

The old Bobby, the one who thought he knew trauma but didn't, passed away that morning, and the one who took his place wasn't as carefree. He could already discern that from the heaviness in his heart and limbs. Stephy was alive...she was even awake in her room (though they hadn't seen her yet)...but he felt like she died, like all the joy had been sucked from life with an obscene _slurp_. Maybe it would come back...it had only been a few hours...but the idea of ever laughing again, or smiling, or relaxing, with the image of his little girl dying fresh in his mind, seemed somehow _wrong_.

They were huddled together like the grief-stricken family they were, Lola on one side of him and Val on the other. His left arm was wound fiercely around Lola's shoulders and his right hand rested on Val's leg. Val stared down at his shoes with a tight, thoughtful expression on his face and Lola took deep, even breaths to, Bobby thought, prevent another crying fit. Tears leaked from her red-rimmed eyes and the glow of beauty that shone in her face even at forty had bled away, leaving her pallid and drawn. In the amber lamplight, she looked every bit her age, if not older. Bobby could hardly stand to look at her, for the pain and heartache he saw scratched into her features was too great, too raw...too close to his own.

It was somewhere past one and they'd been here since before 9:30, getting up only to use the bathroom. Cedars-Sinai Medical Center was one of several hospitals in the Hollywood area that catered primarily to celebrities, and as such, it was far more sumptuously appointed than the average facility. Here, the floors were paneled with light, glossy cherry wood and the walls were ivory with tasteful wainscotting and elaborately carved baseboards. The lighting was low and the ward filled with the reverent silence of a church. Foot traffic was sparse - a doctor here, a nurse there - and the PA system had only crackled with life once, to page a Dr. Wong. Normally, Bobby might find the sedate atmosphere calming, but now, with his little girl lost somewhere down a maze of corridors and hurting, it was oppressive, clawing at him like hooked talons, and if he didn't keep a tight grip on himself, he would start to chafe. He had to remain strong. For Val, Lola, and Stephy.

Why did she do it?

He'd been asking himself that question for nearly two hours, and he was no closer to an answer than he was when he started. Stephy hadn't been depressed in months. She laughed, she smiled, she...she acted _normal_. It didn't make any sense. Mom asked if something happened and he said no. That was the truth, but as he turned the conversation over in his head, wishing she were here to lean on and hating himself for it, he realized that he didn't know. He worked eight to fifteen hour days and only saw Stephy in the evening. She didn't mention anything - no break-ups, fights with her friends, nothing. As far as he knew, she was happy and as well-adjusted as a teenage girl with an emotional disorder can be.

For the second time that day, he realized he didn't know shit. _Something_ was wrong, and he should have caught it. He should have seen that she wasn't right, he should have fucking known his daughter was hurting inside.

But he didn't. He missed it like an idiot.

This was _his_ fault.

His stomach clutched and hot bile rose in the back of his throat. He didn't know what precipitated this, but he did know that when Stephy needed him most, he wasn't there; he was too busy with that fucking soap opera.

He drew a deep, shaky breath and released it through his teeth. In the corner of his eye, Val looked up and away, the light glinting on his wet cheeks. He was the one who found Stephy in the tub. Bobby was grateful he did, but he wished it had been him instead, wished to God the boy didn't have to see his sister like that.

Pulling away from Lola, who instantly wrapped her arms around herself as if to compensate for the loss of his warmth, Bobby nudged Val's arm. "How you doing?" he asked.

Still looking pointedly away, Val bobbed his head up and down. "I'm okay," he said weakly.

Bobby slipped his arm around his son's shoulder and drew him close. Val resisted at first, then let himself be pulled to his father's side. It wasn't very long ago that he used to sit in Bobby's lap. Same for Stephy. Up until now, he didn't realize how sorely he missed that. "You sure?" he pressed.

"Yeah," Val said. Bobby doubted that, but he didn't push him any further. He and Stephy had what he thought of as a typical sibling relationship - teasing and annoying one another interspersed with shows of genuine love and affection - and walking in on her like that would probably stay with him for a long, long time.

 _It should have been me,_ Bobby thought again.

"She'll be alright," he said in his best reassuring tone. It wasn't as convincing as he hoped. He sounded as lost and afraid as he felt.

Lola's phone rang, and moving with the mechanical lifelessness of a robot, she dug it out of her purse, hit TALK, and lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

She listened for a moment, then relaxed a little. From that alone, Bobby knew Lana was on the other end. "We still haven't seen her," Lola said. Tears over spilled her cheeks and streaked down the sides of her face like flecks of diamonds. "I'm going out of my mind," she half said, half moaned.

The urge to sweep her into his arms and shelter her from her agony came over him, but he held it in check. "I'm about to," she said bitterly.

Val's stomach rumbled, and Bobby mussed his hair. "You hungry?" he asked.

"Kinda," he said after a brief hesitation.

"We can go to the cafeteria if you want," Bobby offered.

Val shook his head. "Not right now."

He didn't say so, but Bobby could tell he didn't want to miss seeing Stephy.

Lola got to her feet and paced the waiting room as she vented to Lana, becoming more and more animated until she talked a mile a minute and gestured wildly with one hand. All the nervous energy she'd stored up over the course of the day was coming out, and Bobby didn't know whether that was a good thing or not.

After five minutes, a doctor with white hair and glasses came into the waiting room. Bobby sat up like a soldier snapping to attention, and Lola halted in her tracks. "Let me call you back," she said, and hit END.

His name was Paulson, if Bobby remembered correctly. They met briefly several hours ago when he came in to tell them that Stephy was conscious and _doing fine_.

"Can we see her now?" Lola asked without preamble.

Paulson nodded. "Yes, you can see her." He spoke a trace of an indefinite European accent - German, maybe, or Swiss, perhaps even Romanian. "First, I do want to talk about keeping her for observation on her mental state. She -"

Lola held up her hand, palm out. "We can talk about that later," she spat, "right now, I want to see my daughter."

The doctor wavered and dipped his head to one side in acquiescence. "Very well."

Stephy's room was through a set of double doors and past a U-shaped nurse's station. Bobby's stomach rolled as they approached, and his heartbeat inexplicably quickened. He didn't know what he would find in there...what frame of mind his little girl would be in...and a cold, steely band squeezed the breath out of his lungs. Lola must have felt the same, for she reached jerkily out for his hand. He threaded their fingers together and gave a heartening squeeze. _It'll be alright,_ it said, and though he didn't know how, it would be. He'd make damn sure of it.

At the door, which stood open, Paulson stepped aside and Bobby brushed past him.

One of the nicer suits on the unit, the room was wide and sunny, its single window opening on a scenic view of San Vicente Blvd. Stylish office buildings faced the busy street and tall, skinny palm trees lined the sidewalk. A padded chair upholstered in green leather sat beside a table, and a TV mounted to the wall played liquid reflections of the intersection three stories below. Stephy sat up in bed, her hands in her lap and her head down, messy blonde hair veiling her face. Her wrists were heavily bandaged and an oversized hospital johnny slipped down one of her shoulders. She looked up then quickly back down, and in the fleeting flash of her eyes, Bobby saw fear.

Lola yanked her hand away and flew over, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and throwing her arms around Stephy. She was already crying, her lithe body hitching spasmodically, and Stephy began to cry too. Tears welled in Bobby's eyes but he forced them back and went to the bed, Val trailing timidly behind like a boy approaching unstable nitroglycerin. Bobby sank onto the bed and took Stephy's hand, being extra careful not to hurt her. She trembled lightly under his touch, and the sorrow written on her face made his stomach clench like an angry fist. Val stood awkwardly in front of Bobby, not knowing what to do with himself and looking like he wanted to turn tail and run.

"I'm sorry," Stephy moaned between her sobs, "I'm so sorry."

Bobby flashed back to her lying at the bottom of the tub, air bubbles breaking the surface of blood clouded water, and his heart twinged. He opened his mouth to say _No,_ I'm _sorry,_ but his lips quivered, and he didn't trust himself to speak. Lola stroked her fingers through Stephy's hair and rocked her from side to side like a croupy baby, and Bobby skimmed his thumb over Stephy's knuckles.

That day, he reflected later, he changed a lot. Things that once meant the world to him now meant nothing, and by sunset, he decided something.

* * *

Every once in a great while, a salesman laden with crap turned up at the door with an _aw shucks_ smile and a spiel. Sometimes he was hawking encyclopedias, other times it was magazine subscriptions...and occasionally, it was Jesus. In 1977 or '8, two teenage boys with crewcuts and dressed in white shirts and black ties tried to sell Lincoln on The Book of Mormon. They wouldn't take no for an answer and he didn't have his gun on him, so he took the damn thing to get rid of them and shut the door in their faces. It sat on the living room bookcase for ten years before he stumbled across it again. What's this Mormon shit anyway? They have harems, don't they? I could use one of those. He sat in his chair and made it three pages in before losing interest. On second thought, one wife was enough.

Religion was a concept he understood but never subscribed to. As a kid, he believed in God passingly, the way an apolitical man might a distant king. He's there, He's good, blah blah blah, be good or go to hell. The best analogy he had was politics. On one end you had your zealots who structured their entire life - sometimes down to the way they dress, make love, and shit - around God, and on the other, you had the militant atheists. In the middle was everyone else, all the 9 to 5 schlubs to whom God was little more than a far flung relative, a spinster aunt you always intended to call but never did, a cousin you liked but just didn't have time for (until you needed to call on him for help).

When he was older, he seriously examined the subject and found that God, in all His glory, was pretty fucking illogical. The Bible has a nifty little answer for everything, just like every other world mythology. Where did rainbows come from? It was God's sign to Noah that he wouldn't flood the world again. Why are we here? Because a talking snake duped a woman into eating a piece of fruit. Why are there multiple languages? Because everyone was building a tower to reach God, and God retaliated by making them all speak different tongues so they couldn't cooperate.

Really? And people believe this crap? Look around at every religion, every backwoods superstition from the Romans to the American Indian. They all have these outrageous stories that all start to sound alike after a while. Christianity was not special, nor was Judaism, or any of the other belief systems. Once you come to the conclusion that they are all cut from the same cloth, how can you pluck one up, hold it to your chest, and say _this one...this one is_ real? How can you believe a 2,000 year old book when almost every shred of physical evidence contradicts it? The Bible tells us that God flooded the entire earth for its sins, that the water level was well above the tallest mountains, yet there were tribes in South America whose history and culture are well documented to have existed uninterrupted through the period when the world was supposedly drowned. The Bible tells us that we must have the faith of children, that we must accept something we have never seen, something that our own eyes, brains, and innate rationales tell us cannot be.

He didn't disbelieve God because life was cold and cruel, he didn't dismiss the presence of a loving creator because he was shot and spent eight months in a bamboo cage, he didn't believe in him because the notion was untenable. God, in whatever form he took, was a house of cards. One tiny puff of air, and he collapsed into nothingness.

After Luna died, Mom found solace in religion. She 'came closer to God' as the saying went and stayed there until she died twenty-three years later. She never proselytized, but she talked about God, and her Bible became one of her dearest possessions, always near to hand and visible, be in on the end table next to her chair or on the kitchen table as she brewed her morning pot of coffee. In her life, she lost two daughters and her husband, and derived comfort from the promise of one day seeing them again. Lincoln could not fault her for that, but he always wondered how a woman as intelligent as his mother - whom, he was still half-way convinced, knew everything - could read that ancient fairytale from cover to cover, close it, and go _This really happened_. Every so often, he would point out that there was no proof that God existed, and she would fix him with a patient and almost pitying expression. _It's in the Bible, dear_.

She referred back to that book as though it were the source of all wisdom, the font from which irrefutable truth and sacred knowledge abundantly flowed. To Lincoln, it was a collection of near prehistoric gibberish poorly translated and cobbled together by an English king in an age where people thought sickness came from ghosts haunting your blood. It proved the origins of Man and the works of Christ no more than eyewitness accounts proved Bigfoot and UFOs.

One of his major stumbling blocks was faith. God commanded you to have faith in him with no evidence that he was even there, otherwise you were a stubborn, headstrong heathen and going to hell. God, Mom said, created us in his image, not just without, but also within. God feels, she declared, the same emotions we do. Alright, well, if he really created us, then he imbued us with a natural and healthy skepticism and the ability to deductively reason, both of which are the Achilles Heel of religion. How could he give us these things, then punish us for using them? How could he strike us down because we rejected a 2,000 year old document that claimed a man walked on water and brought the dead back to life?

That brought him back to his guiding conclusion: God, Jesus, all of it was bullshit. Oh, to be sure, there were nuggets of wisdom in the Bible, but overall, it was a fantasy novel written by men whose primary purpose was to control the population. Be good, kids, and listen to your rabbi, or God might get you! After seeing the peace it brought his mother, he softened his views and asserted that one doesn't _have_ to be stupid to believe in God...but even so, there were many, many, _many_ people out there far smarter than he was who pushed religion.

The Bible calls for us to have the faith of children. Okay, no offense to children, but they are stupid, gullible, and easily duped. If your God commands ignorance, he isn't worth following even if he is real.

Back to salesmen, though. Purveyors of God journeyed to the house of Loud many times over the decades, typically on Saturdays, when they knew the people inside would be home - crafty little bastards. Lincoln was polite but firm. Thank you, but I'm not interested. He'd take their _Watchtower_ tracts and thank them for thinking of his everlasting soul, then shut the door and go back to whatever he was doing before. The Holy Spirit passed over his home and never dropped in for cookies and tea, and he was fine with that.

In '89, Ronnie Anne was shot by a psycho at school. It was a shoulder wound and comparatively harmless, but he still came close to losing her, and as she lay in the hospital, he began to wonder: _Was_ there something else? Did we really just close our eyes at death and nothing more? He tried to imagine her - beautiful, caring, sarcastic Ronnie Ann - simply winking out, like a candle, and was largely unsurprised to find that he couldn't. The concept of total non-existence boggled his mind in general, but especially when applied to her. She was so full of love and life, glowing with it well into her fifties, and he loved her more than, perhaps, was normal; he couldn't comprehend the thought of her being gone...completely and forever...everything that she was dispersed like dust in the wind.

He did not have a midnight ephiny...no angels came to him as they were reputed to have in the days of old...nor did he undergo a dramatic mid-life conversion. He stopped thinking about it, as he did with all things that bothered him...and that was the end of it. He was weak and rather than confront the nasty things in life, he hid from them. The only thing he ever stood up to was his PTSD, and even then it took him sixteen years and watching another vet turn into a raving lunatic. With everything else, he shrank away, like a slug.

Twelve years later, he was back to wondering. In less than a year, he was going to die. His body was weak, weary, and starting to ache. Perhaps he was being melodramatic, but he could feel death nesting in his bones. There was no shoving it away this time; his mortality was hurtling at him like an asteroid and he could only stand in its path, waiting for it to hit. In '89, he could measure the rest of his life in years, now he had only days. 90, 120, maybe 200, surely no more than that. He couldn't afford to put anything off, because he may not even have that. The cancer was moving through him like a creeping shadow, its pace unabated. The chemo and dialysis moderated the disease, but only as well as a bilge pump working full throttle can keep seawater from a rapidly flooding ship. Sooner or later, the cancer would overwhelm him. It could happen in two months or six. At this stage, they didn't know.

Enter the salesman.

Three times a week, he and Ronnie Anne drove to Detroit for his dialysis appointments at Mercer General Hospital. The hematology department was on the third floor, at the end of a long hall that ran the length of the building then bent in an L. It was nearly a quarter mile from the elevators to the hematology center, and some days making it back on foot, drained and frail from having all his blood sucked out and put back, was really hard. A few times, Ronnie Anne even had to push him in a wheelchair.

One of the many doors along that corridor opened onto the hospital chapel, a tiny, dimly lit space with pews and a simple altar with a plain cross at its head. The first few times he passed it, he took no special notice of it; it was a room in a hospital, one among many. No one ever went in, no one ever came out, it was a pit of perpetual emptiness. As he came to grips with his situation and began to ponder the hereafter, it called to him, enticing him to step inside and find what he was looking for. He ignored it, though, he was dying and a dying man grasps at straws, if not in the form of salvation, then in the form of Salvation. Perhaps he was ashamed of the terror blossoming in his heart, the sick dread in the pit of his stomach that swelled with every day he came closer to death, or maybe he was just stubborn. Either way, he resolved to stand fast and die as he lived, on his own. Let others have their inflated pool floaties called religion, he could swim on his own, and when he couldn't any longer, he would drown with the stoic resignation of a man.

At least he hoped.

Every other day, he passed that quiet little chappal, a placid island amidst a crashing sea of turmoil, and the allure increased. One afternoon in mid-June, as he lumbered by, sick and tired, he could have sworn unseen hands were pulling him toward the open doorway, and for some reason, that deeply unsettled him. He hurried past, the back of his neck tingling with the uncanny, and at home, his mind inevitably drifted back to it. His first instinct was to wave it off as the morbid fancy of an overwrought mind, then he recalled Mom telling him once that the first time she prayed after Luna's death, she could "feel" her spirit in the room with her.

Maybe some people might find that sort of thing comforting, but he found it chilling. In the shadow of death, the arcane and supernatural don't seem so foolish anymore; it makes man think, plagues his mind, puts him in a place where he can almost accept that phantoms, Gods, and demons are real. The veil was thin for him, and no one knew what lurked on the other side. What lies beyond the grave? No one can say, and he dwelled on that, because it would soon be his fate,

What if he was wrong? What if God _was_ on His Throne? What if all the stories - angels, possession, Christ healing the blind, ghosts - were true?

It was in this frame of mind that he met the salesman. A broad man of medium height with iron gray hair and a face crisscrossed by fissure-like wrinkles, he called himself Father Jack. He wore black slacks, a black T-shirt, and a white Roman collar beneath a dark gray tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. His squished, pug nose lent him the appearance of a former pugilist, and his rasping laugh betrayed him as a long time smoker.

Lincoln had glimpsed him walking the halls, and even considered going up to him. For what, though? _Hi, I'm dying, what's the deal with this God character? Is he or isn't he?_ The old man wasn't quite as shy; the third time they passed in the hall, he cracked a big smile and stopped. _You know,_ he said, _I see you more than I see my wife._

Wife?

His entire life, Lincoln thought priests weren't allowed to get married. Later, he learned that Father Jack wasn't really a priest but a Methodist minister (apparently they can and do wear Roman collars if they want). The hospital chapel was non-denominational, a general gathering place to meditate and pray that lacked the trappings of one sect over another; a Catholic could find just as much peace there as a Baptist. At the time, however, Lincoln didn't know that, he knew only that he was standing before a man of God, feeling strangely and inexplicably deficient.

 _Yeah, I'm here too damn much,_ he croaked. He realized he cursed in front of a goddamn priest and flushed.

Father Jack, however, didn't seem to register it. _So it goes. I'm Father Jack._ He thrust of his hand, and Lincoln's eyes went uneasily to it. Goddamn thing was as big as a baseball mitt. What did a preacher need with hands like that? Looked more like the hands of a bricklayer. He tentatively took it and was surprised by how gentle the old man's grip was.

 _Lincoln,_ Lincoln said and turned to Ronnie Anne. _This is my wife, Ronnie Anne._

The minister nodded. _It's nice to meet you. How's your treatment going?_

The sudden change of topic nearly gave Lincoln whiplash. That was an odd follow up question, especially to someone you don't even know. _Uh, it's going,_ Lincoln said guardedly.

 _Good, good, I'm glad to hear it_. _Keep your chin up and have faith_.

As the old man walked away, Lincoln stared after him, not quite sure what to make of him or their meeting. Have faith. Ha, what good would that do him? He was dying and all the faith in the world couldn't save him.

A few days later, Lincoln was sitting in the hematology department waiting room and staring at the sterile white wall ahead when the door opened and Father Jack entered, his hacking laugh preceding him like a herald's trumpet. A black man in a gray security guard uniform with patches on the shoulders came behind, a big smile on his face, as though Father Jack had just told the _funniest_ joke you ever did hear. Lincoln unconsciously slouched in his seat to make a smaller target of himself. He didn't know _why_ he wanted to avoid the old man, but he felt the same primal instinct the gazelle feels when it scents a lion in the bush. Later, he might say that it was a combination of that lingering annoyance he felt at the other peddlers of God and fear...the same dumb, blind fear that lead Jonah to flee when God called him. To Lincoln, Father Jack represented the End. He was, in a way, almost like the final boss in a video game. Looking at him, Lincoln was reminded of the coming night more than he was even when he gazed at his gaunt reflection.

In other words, he wasn't as ready to seek those answers as he thought he was.

Father Jack and his friend went to the reception window and chatted with the secretary. Ronnie Anne, legs crossed, absently paged through a magazine, never stopping long enough to read anything. She wore a light, summery pink dress that stopped at the knee. Her mother's rosary, liberated from the bottom of her jewelry box where it lay untouched for thirty-five years, hung around her throat. Occasionally, she vacantly ran the beads through her fingers. She said it comforted her, but Lincoln thought she was praying behind his back, sequestered somewhere (perhaps the bathroom). She was just as rational and agnostic as he was, and was probably ashamed of her lapse in reason.

After a few minutes, the guard left, and Father Jack continued talking to the secretary alone. Finally, he uttered a throaty laugh and turned. Lincoln hoped he'd pass by without a word, but he came right over with a solicitous smile. _Lincoln, back again?_

 _Yeah,_ Lincoln nodded. _Back again_.

The old man sat beside him with a grunt, and Lincoln pursed his lips. Why can't you leave me alone?

 _They keep you waiting much?_

 _A little,_ Lincoln said.

 _If you don't mind me asking, what brings you in?_

Lincoln hesitated, then answered honestly. _Hemotiliosis_. Father Jack's forehead creased in puzzlement. _I can't say I know what that is,_ he said at length. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. _Is it serious?_

Even though Lincoln didn't know the old pastor, even though he made him vaguely uncomfortable, he answered honestly anyway. _Yeah, it's...uh...it's terminal_.

Father Jack's brow softened. _Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. You're receiving dialysis, right?_

Lincoln nodded.

 _Takes a lot out of you._

Again, Lincoln nodded. _It does,_ he said. He chuckled humorlessly. _I walk out feeling like a truck hit me_.

 _Is it that bad?_ Father Jack asked curiously. _I know a lot of people struggle with it and I figure it has to be hard._

 _It's crap,_ Lincoln said.

Father Jack laughed. _How long does it take? Like, five or six hours, right?_ The interest in his tone was genuine, Lincoln noted, as though he wasn't making small talk but really wanted to know.

 _About that,_ Lincoln said after a moment's thought.

 _What do you do while you wait?_

 _Read, talk to my wife, wish I was somewhere else._

The old man laughed again. The door flanking the window opened and a nurse came out. _Lincoln?_

 _That's me,_ Lincoln said and got up.

Father Jack followed. _Look,_ he said before they parted, _if you ever want to talk about...anything...I'm always around_. The voice lifted knowingly on the word _anything_. By _anything_ , he meant _dying_. If Lincoln ever wanted to talk about him dying.

 _Thank you,_ Lincoln said, then added, noncommittally, _I might._

Hours later, he and Ronnie Anne sat up in bed, the room dark save for the lamp on her bedside table. Lincoln stared down at an issue of _Guns & Ammo_ but his mind wandered, and Ronnie Anne visibly struggled to lose herself in _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire._ Harry Potter books were big with kids, she said, and one day she took the first book out of the school library "to see what the big deal is." She was spellbound in five pages and couldn't put it down until she was done; it was almost as bad as her addiction to the AOL chat rooms. Neither had spoken for some time and the air between them was heavy as it always was now.

He didn't know he was going to speak until he heard the sound of his own voice. "I've been thinking a lot lately," he said. "About...what happens when we die." The final five words came hard, like kidney stones, and a strained expression clutched Ronnie Anne's face. She didn't like being reminded of what was coming and Lincoln rarely brought it up. Their unspoken agreement was to enjoy what little time they had left together, to live in the moment as best they could and not focus on the future.

Flicking her eyes to her lap, Ronnie Anne confessed, "Yeah, so have I."

"I just don't…" he trailed off as he collected his thoughts. He liked to think he was able to articulate himself, and for the most part, he guessed he was. The witch's brew of raw and conflicting emotions roiling in his heart, however, defied expression. "I don't think this is really it," he said and lifted one hand to indicate the room, and the world, around them. That admission was more difficult than it should have been, and his face burned with embarrassment. He felt like a dumbass saying that, but with those words out, he realized their truth. He _didn't_ think this was it. It couldn't be. There must be something beyond the veil, some kind of continued consciousness. That could be wishful thinking, but it didn't _feel_ like it. Belief in the hereafter was so entrenched in the human psyche that it couldn't have just _happened_ , there had to be something there, some kernel of truth. Was it God? Allah? Something no one had ever considered before and never would? He wasn't sure, couldn't even begin to imagine, but he was convinced that life went on in some fashion after death. That it didn't was inconceivable.

Haltingly, he said as much. When he was done, Ronnie Anne closed her book and set it on the nightstand. "It makes sense, right?" she asked, a hopeful hilt to her voice. "You can't just stop _being_. A-And look at us. At people. We're different from all the other animals. We have a conscious a-and higher reasoning. Nothing else has that." Her pitch was rising as she tried to convince herself of her own message. She caught herself and took a deep breath. When she continued, her voice was lower, more subdued. "We're the only ones, and then you have the world. One inch closer to the sun, and we'd all be dead. One inch farther away, we'd be dead. If it was a little hotter, or a little colder, we wouldn't be here. If we had a little more of this element or a little less of that one."

Lincoln hummed. He had noticed and considered that before. At the time, he rejected it as happenstance, but now, investigating it with fresh eyes, he realized that the odds of conditions on their planet being _just so_ were astronomical.

"It's almost like our world is _designed_ to support life," she said. "Do you really think all of this...everything so perfect...happened because of a giant explosion in space?"

He thought for a moment. Natural science was one subject that never interested him, and for that, he knew next to nothing about it...only enough to graduate high school. He recalled that the universe was said to be formed by a massive explosion somewhere in the void. He thought back to the beginning of Genesis, God saying _Let there be light_. "Everything's a little _too_ perfect for that," he mused. Then: "And what about space? Where did _that_ come from? Where did everything in it, all the rocks and dust and shit, come from?"

Ronnie Anne's brow crinkled as she attempted to wrap her head around the concept of space. "I don't know, but...everything has a beginning. That's not a law of nature, but it's something we see again and again. Humans, our mountains and oceans, our planet...so why not the universe itself?"

He meditated on that for a long time, willing his cancer addled brain to work harder. The cosmos, to hear the scientists tell it, was always there. Before the planets, before the stars, it simply _was_ , black, cold, alone, a literal black hole of emptiness. His exerted all of his mental faculties to contemplate infinity, but his mind balked. There was no way the universe just winked on one day like a light. The asteroids...they formed from space dust, but where did that dust begin? Where did anything begin? He said as much, and Ronnie Anne nodded solemnly. "Everything has a beginning," she repeated profoundly, stuck, perhaps, for a way to continue.

That thought stayed with him long after the lights went out and Ronnie Anne fell asleep in his arms. The human mind is not equipped to entertain certain concepts, and infinity was one of them. He tried again and again to envision the universe forever existing and could not. For everything he had ever said or thought about religion, God made a hell of a lot more sense than the Big Bang.

He was still grappling with it when he fell asleep, and all through the next day. He knew intimately that he wasn't a particularly smart man despite his outspoken opinionation, but for the first time he could remember, he actually _felt_ it. The world was so big, so full of mystery, and he was just a clodhopper from Bumfuck Michigan. He was small, lost, and clueless, and it only took him fifty-four years to realize it.

You don't just change your worldview overnight, though; he could no sooner throw open his arms and embrace God than he could the volatile collision of elements that supposedly produced life. He was knotted in doubt and indecision and had nowhere to turn, except to Ronnie Anne, and let's face it, she didn't know any more than he did.

Well...there _was_ somewhere else.

During dinner that night, as he and Ronnie Anne ate from TV trays in front of _Survivor_ \- one of Roinnie Anne's new favorite shows - Lincoln said, "I think we should talk to that priest." It was late, and though he hadn't done much that day, he was drained. His words came out in a mumble. He had barely eaten and already his stomach reeled, threatening to spill its contents. The bones in his arms hurt and a dull, throbbing headache burned above his right eye.

"The one at the hospital?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "Father Jack."

The next day, they left home an hour earlier for his dialysis appointment than usual. Unbroken cloud cover blanketed the sky and sporadic drops of rain pelted the windshield. Ronnie Anne drove, hands tight on the wheel, and the sharp angles of her profile giving testament to the toll his illness was having on her. She'd lost nearly fifteen pounds and dark, rumpled bags underhung her bloodshot eyes. She slept as poorly as he did, if not more so; he often woke to her thrashing and muttering in her sleep, or to her pulling away to get up. A few nights, he came awake to find her side of the bed empty and faint, yellow light spilling in from the living room. Sometimes she sat in front of infomercials where Billy Mays boisterously pitched OxiClean, other times she read, or, he figured, tried to read. One time he shuffled out to find her staring at the TV with tears streaking down her face.

This was harder on her than she let on, and every day he hated himself for putting her through it. Long ago, he vowed to kill himself before he hurt Ronnie Anne or his girls, and here he was right now, hurting them with everyday that he lingered. Alex was almost as bad as Lori, always _in the neighborhood_ and dropping in to see him; every time, he was a little thinner, a little more sickly, and every time, the disquiet in her eyes deepened just a bit. Jessy called every single evening, and the worry in her voice was as obvious as the sun in the sky. From here on, it would only get worse. He would fade and they would be powerless to do anything but watch from his bedside

He should eat a bullet and spare them.

Heh. Been there, thought that, already realized he wasn't brave enough. Not only was he cowardly, he was selfish. He wasn't ready to go yet, wasn't ready to leave his daughters, his wife, and his grandchildren.

Sighing, he forced his mind away before self-pity set in. If he picked at the scab too long, it would come off to expose the bloody, seeping wound beneath, and he didn't want that.

When the time came and he was withering away, he only hoped he had the strength and courage to let go rather than cling onto life and prolong his family's suffering. Holding on and refusing to let your loved ones get on with the grieving process was the most selfish thing he could imagine, and he vowed not to do it.

But didn't he once vow not to do _this?_

Mercer General, a gray, blocky building with an overhang jutting out over the doors to the emergency room, rose against the churning sky like a castle in a gothic novel. They parked and went inside, nerves twisting Lincoln's stomach. On the third floor, the door to the chapel stood open, the room beyond heavily curtained with shadows. The spicy smell of incense seasoned the air, and a preternatural pall abided.

Light from an unseen source set the cross upon the altar aflame, and Lincoln's eyes were drawn to it. He tried to feel the power and majesty of what it represented, but felt nothing. The cross was magic and spellbinding for some, but for him, it was two pieces of wood nailed together.

A wooden rack stuffed with pamphlets adorned the wall to Lincoln's left, and a wine-colored runner lead between the pews like a Hollywood red carpet. The sleepy atmosphere swaddled itself around Lincoln like a fuzzy blanket, and whether it was the presence of God or simple serenity, it put him somewhat at peace.

A tiny room adjoined the nave, rich golden light falling through a doorway. A series of clacks and dings drifted forth, and it took Lincoln a moment to figure out what was making them: A typewriter.

"Hello?" Ronnie Anne called, her voice like a bomb blast in the otherworldly hush.

The typing stopped, and a moment later, Father Jack leaned around the frame, revealed from the chest up. "One minute," he said and disappeared again. Ronnie Anne shifted her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and fiddled with her purse, and Lincoln crossed his arms, his gaze traveling around the room. He had the strangest sense of being watched, and the back of his neck prickled.

Father Jack came out of the office and strode over with a friendly smile. Lincoln had always put clergy on the same level as politicians, phony shysters hell-bent on swindling you or selling you a pipe dream, but from the warmth in his eyes and the congenial set of his features, Father Jack exuded sincerity. Maybe he wasn't right, but he was honest, and Lincoln couldn't help respecting that.

"It's good to see you," Father Jack said as they shook, "I was hoping you two would stop in." He gestured to one of the pews. "Sit down."

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both sat; Lincoln's back screamed and his knees locked, and he all but dropped the last few inches to his butt. Father Jack sat on the end, the bench creaking under his weight, and rolled his neck like a prizefighter taking the ring. "I was typing a letter," he explained, "and it turned into a novel." He chuckled and shook his head. "My greatest vice is being far more verbose than I have to be. I taught English at McLoughlin Community College for three years, so I guess it goes with the territory."

"I taught math for twenty years," Ronnie Anne said, "and sometimes when I have trouble sleeping, I do fractions in my head."

Father Jack laughed. "That'd put me to sleep too. Math makes me tired. I understand it and I can do it, but mentally exhausts me. On the other hand, I can write for eight hours walk away whistling."

"I hate math," Lincoln commented sourly. "It gives me a headache."

"We all have our strong suits and our not so strong suits," Father Jack said, "for me, it's cooking. I can't make myself a decent meal to save my life. If I wasn't married, I'd probably have starved to death by now."

"I like to cook," Lincoln said. The languid climate was starting to make him drowsy, and suddenly, sitting up took great effort. "I owned a restaurant."

Father Jack lifted his brows. "What kind?"

"Diner," Lincoln said. "Hamburgers, hotdogs."

"You're retired now?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, sold it last year. Wasn't making any money. People stopped coming in and...that was that."

The PA system kicked on, and Lincoln started.

"How long did you have it?"

That answer should have come easy, but Lincoln had to think about it for a moment. "Almost thirty years," he said.

Father Jack whistled. "That's a long time."

"It went by quick," Lincoln said truthfully.

"Time flies when you're having fun," Father Jack said, then: "How are you? The both of you?" He turned a little to face them, giving his full and undivided attention. His eyes shimmered with the moist sheen of earnest sympathy, and Lincoln squirmed uncomfortably.

Sighing, Ronnie Anne said, "We're doing the best we can. It's...not easy." Her voice wavered, and Lincoln took her hand, his self-loathing bubbling up once more.

"No," Father Jack said somberly, "unfortunately, it never is. If you don't mind me asking, how long do you have, Lincoln? Have they said?"

Lincoln thought. "Eight months, maybe a year."

"So you're both trying to hurry up and adjust."

Ronnie Anne nodded. "Yeah. Pretty much." She looked up at him, and the hurt in her face made Lincoln's stomach clutch. "It's happening so fast and...I-I'm not ready." A single tear slid down her face and she turned away to hide her shame.

"Death is something that most of us aren't ready for," Father Jack said, "and it takes a concerted effort to prepare ourselves. Even then, most go into it resigned, not because we want to. The good news is: Death is not the end. Do either one of you believe in God?"

The low, even quality of the old man's voice had lulled Lincoln almost to sleep. His head and his eyelids all weighed a thousand pounds each, and his body trembled with weakness. "That's actually why we're here," he said. "We don't know."

Haltingly, he explained his and Ronnie Anne's long-standing agnosticism and exactly why they held it, then their recent doubts. Father Jack listened intently, nodding and saying, "Right" here and there, and when Lincoln was done, he drew a deep breath like a man readying himself for a difficult and physically exerting task. "Your logic is sound, there _are_ things that don't mesh with the existence of God just like there are things that don't mesh with the idea of Him _not_ existing. The Christian record is not perfect. The Bible is full of allegories, parables, and symbolism. I'll be perfectly frank: I'm not a master theologian, and I have my own questions. Did Adam and Eve really exist, or were they a metaphor? Did God really flood the _entire_ earth, or did he merely lance the most malignant tumor? For those, I have no answers and I won't pretend that I do.

"There are things, I feel, that we just aren't meant to know. The universe, for example. We can both agree that it had to begin somewhere. Before earth, before the sun, before anything, there _must_ be a point at which it came into being. Did it happen as described in Genesis? Did God say 'Let there be light?' Did he wave his hand, and everything magically appeared? I, honestly, don't think so. The creation of heaven of and earth happened over millennia and followed a strict set of laws laid down by the Creator. God is more a scientist than a wizard, he works through people and through nature, and rarely deviates from law. The main difference between a creationist and a scientist is that one believes these laws formed themselves, and the other believes they were formed by someone, _something_. The Bible is infallible, but many Christians have adopted a literalist interpretation that leaves no room for the allegories and metaphors so abundant between its covers. Things didn't always necessarily happen as they were written but they _did_ happen."

Lincoln waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, he asked, "If the universe had a beginning...what about God? Where did _he_ come from?"

"Well," Father Jack said, "the Bible tells us that God _has_ no beginning. At least none that we can fathom. I know that's not satisfying and it raises more questions than it answers. It's one of those things we're not meant to know.

"You mentioned God asking us to have the faith of children. Yes, children _are_ gullible, but they're also simple, trusting, and innocent of the evils of this world. When God asked us to have the faith of a child, He was asking us to be like a child, who looks up to his parents and gives them unwavering faith and trust that they will take care of him and provide his Bible also says we need the faith of a grain of mustard seed; an object just slightly bigger than a speck of sand. That tiny amount of faith is all that's required to find the secrets of God."

Ronnie Anne stared down at her lap, her rosary in her hands and her fingers worrying the beads. Her expression was grave and strained, her skin wet with tears. Lincoln watched her for a moment as he processed the preacher's message. Father Jack was right, he _wasn't_ satisfied with the explanation that God had no beginning. How could everything have a start point except for God?

"It's a lot to take in," Father Jack said, "and a lot to think about. All God asks for is a chance. Mull it over for a few days or a week, then see how you feel. You won't get all the answers you're looking for, but if you have faith, you'll find peace."

Lincoln glanced at Ronnie Anne, then at his lap.

He was still filled with doubts, but every journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

"I'll do that," he promised.


	228. June 2001: Part 3

**Guest: I honestly don't know where we go when we die. Like Lincoln, I want to believe in some form of continued existence, but I'm just not sure.**

 **Guest: I made a ton of changes as the story progressed. I talked about some of them in past chapters. There were a lot, for example Luan was supposed to die in 1975, Bobby Jr. was supposed to be a scumbag, things like that.**

 **Thunderstrike16: Lincoln's views on religion and politics are basically my own with some slight deviations here and there.**

Bobby Jr. pulled to the main gate and waited behind an idling Porsche as the guard leaned out of the booth to check the driver's ID.

It was a bright late June morning and the sky above was clear and cobalt blue. The palms rising over the stucco walls enclosing the studio moved in the arid breeze, their fronds thirsty and brown, and the grass on either side of the entry road had turned largely to dust.

The crossbar lifted and the Porsche drove through. Bobby pulled forward and silently thrust his license out the window. The guard, a black man named Marcus, took it, scanned it, and handed it back. He pushed a lever and the gate lifted. Bobby pressed the gas and followed the road to Studio 13. Eleven years ago, he was awestruck by the big hanger-like buildings and celebrities he passed, but today he was blind to it all. Funny how people change, huh? He remembered the first time he crossed paths with a Major Star (other than Lola). It was 1984 and he'd just moved to California with Lola. They were having lunch at a sidewalk cafe in Beverly Hills, one of those overpriced places that cater to the rich and famous. He got up to take a leak, and as he pissed into the urinal, Richard Pryor came in, took the spot next to him, and drained his snake like nothing. Bobby was speechless. Holy shit, Richard Pyor! This morning, he stopped to get gas, and on his way out the door, he bumped into that woman from _Nurse Betty_ , the one with the squinty eyes. ' _Scue me,_ he muttered. Nothing more.

He'd been in Hollywood so long that the luster had worn off. It wasn't new or exciting anymore. Celebrities were a dime a dozen, nice things abounded, and being on television was just another day at the office. He didn't enjoy it like he once did, but he didn't hate it, either.

Until yesterday.

He pulled into his spot (ROBERTO SANTIAGO JR. stenciled on black pavement in blocky yellow letters), killed the engine, and got out into the dry Southern California heat. Sunshine consumed him, and sweat instantly burst from his pores, plastering his black button-up to his body. Techs and stagehands hurried back and forth, carrying things, wheeling carts, and running errands, and Tim Conway stood against the exterior wall of the studio, looking left and right like he was lost.

Bobby started for the stairs leading up to the side door, but stopped when Conway called out to him. "Hey, kid, do you know where Studio 5 is? I'm supposed to guest on a show and I don't know where they're even filming it."

"Over there," Bobby said and gestured vaguely toward the west, "it's got a big yellow five on it."

"Five?" Conway asked.

"Yeah, a five."

"Right, thanks."

Bobby went in, a blast of cool air socking him in the face, and strode determinedly down the hall, passing doors, some open, some closed. At the front of the building, he walked up to the reception desk where a redheaded secretary cradled a phone between her shoulder and the side of her head. Bobby waited for her to hang up, then asked, "Is Dean in?"

Dean Whitehead was the producer of _The Brash and the Bountiful_ , having taken over for the last guy in 2000.

"Yes, let me page him," the secretary said.

"Tell him it's important."

Leaning over, she pressed a button and spoke into an intercom. "Mr. Whitehead, Mr. Santiago is here to see you. He says it's urgent."

"Send him in," a staticky voice replied.

The secretary looked up, but Bobby was already making his way to the office. At the door, he paused and took a deep, fortifying breath. Dean had always been an amicable enough guy, but there was still a chance this could get ugly. He wanted to avoid screaming, yelling, and lawsuits, but his mind was made up, and if the motherfucker wanted to make a scene, he'd _make_ a scene.

 _Are you sure you want to do this?_ Lola asked him last night in bed. In the glow of the bedside lamp, she looked even older than she had at the hospital, as though she'd aged half a decade in the span of a few hours. Dr. Paulson admitted Stephy for psychiatric observation, and leaving her alone on Cedas-Sini's psych ward was like twisting a knife already embedded in their hearts. _You should take some time to think about it._

 _I already thought about it,_ he said firmly. His tone left no room for challenge.

Lola sighed and nodded. _I'm taking a break,_ she said, _the album can wait. Stephy's more important, and right now, she needs both of us._

Presently, Bobby opened the door and went in.

Dean Whitehead's office was like every other one Bobby had ever been to in his life. Desk. Carpet. Some windows. Potted plants to add an air of life that the stale air worked to counteract. Sunlight fell through the slats of the venetian blinds and a ceiling fan creaked round and round on the lowest setting, more for looks than anything else.

The producer, a slight man with black hair, sat at the desk with his lunch arrayed before him: Pastrami on rye sitting atop a sheet of grease stained wax paper, fun size bag of Lays (because nothing is more of a blast than not having enough of something), and a bottle of Diet Coke to wash it all down. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and Bobby went over. "Bobby," he greeted, pronouncing it as _Bob-EYY_ , "how's it going? I'd shake your hand but I got thousand island dressing on it."

"That's fine," Bobby said.

He made no move to sit, and Dean's heckles raised. "Everything okay?" he asked with a nervous hilt.

"I want off the show."

Dean's face froze. "W-What?" he asked through his smile.

"I want off," Bobby repeated. He started to cross his arms, but stopped himself. "Now. Today. No more Richard Parker, no more fucking around, none of it, I'm done."

For a second, Dean gaped, then threw his arms exasperatedly up. "Why?" he asked a demanding edge in his voice. "W-What, did something happen? Is -"

"Yeah, something happened," Bobby cut in, "my personal life. I can't do this show anymore."

His tone rose, and as he talked, his face flushed hotly. He was mad, scared about his future, and a little ashamed - both for walking on people who'd been good to him and for giving away his career. He didn't have to work, never did, but playing Richard Parker these past eleven seasons had given him a sense of purpose and fulfillment. Before this, he was a mooch: He mooched off Lola, he mooched off Uncle Lincoln - someone had always handed him a life, but doing _The Brash and the Bountiful,_ he _made_ his life. Years ago, Fred the cook (now Fred the uncle) had a PTSD flashback during a stressful shift and said: _Santiago, your problem is you're a lazy, snot-nosed little bum. Your uncle gives you a job and you think you can skate by on family ties. You do the bare minimum and go home. You suck. You could suck a golf ball through ten feet of garden hose_.

At the time, he waved the old guy off. Fuck him. He's a grouchy old bastard who hates everyone under fifty. But those words stayed with him, rolling through his head like BBs in a tin can, and when he was older, he realized Fred was right. He _was_ a shiftless bum skating by on family ties. He did it with Uncle Lincoln and he did it with Lola. It hit him all at once that he was a fucking loser. Claustrophobic dread gripped him in its steely claws, and he began to panic.

Then, he got into acting, and for the first time in his twenty-seven, twenty-eight years, he was actually doing something; he wasn't sitting there passively waiting, he was determining his own course. After so many years of being a lazy good-for-nothing, that felt damn good. He was terrified, then, of going back...but his daughter was more important than his ego.

Dean held his hands up in mollifying gesture. "Calm down and tell me what's wrong," he said. "If I can help you, I will. Whatever you need, you just gotta talk to me."

So far, no one outside of the family and select members of the Cedas-Sini medical staff knew about Stephy's suicide attempt, and Bobby wanted to keep it that way. Right now, the last thing he wanted was for those bastards at the tabloids to get ahold of it. Stephy didn't need that shit, and neither did he; the first paparazzi that tried was going to get his teeth knocked down his voyeuristic little throat. They couldn't keep it a secret forever, though. Eventually, it would probably get out.

"My daughter," he said, "yesterday, she tried to kill herself."

Dean winced. "Bobby," he said in his best consoling tone, "wow, I'm really sorry. Look, if you need some time off -"

"I'm done," Bobby said again, "no coming back. My family needs me right now, and I've been too busy with this fucking show. Sixteen, seventeen hour days, leave early, home late; my daughter was in distress, Dean, and _I_ didn't even notice because my head's been shoved up my own ass."

He was panting and starting to shake, all of his negative emotions building up and starting to boil over. His nails bit into the padding of his palms and his nostrils flared wildly. He took a deep breath and let it out in a trembling rush. "I want off the show and that's that."

Dean pressed his hand to his temple like a man bereaved. "Bobby, c'mon, be rational here. I'm sorry that happened, really, I am, but do you think leaving's really the best thing to do?"

"Yes," Bobby said.

Sitting back in his chair, Dean raked his fingers through his hair and blew a puff of air. "I think you're being rash," he said, "something majorly bad just happened and you're keyed up, I get it, but dropping out isn't going to solve anything."

"Yeah, it will," Bobby retorted, "and I'm not arguing about it. I'm done."

Dean hooked his thumb thoughtfully under his chin stared into space for a moment, as if working something out in his head. "Your contract is still in effect," he said. Gone was the tone of understanding, replaced by one of cold, mechanical efficiency. Bobby's contract expired on January 10, 2002, just under seven months from now.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crinkled sheet of paper, unfolded it, and dropped it onto the desk. Dean looked warily from it to Bobby then back again before picking it up. "That's a copy of my contract," Bobby said, "there's a buyout clause."

Dean sucked his lips into his mouth and tilted his head back. The expression on his face was that of a vicious junkyard dog whose chain stopped it just short of reaching its prey.

He had the buyout option added in '95 at Lola's insistence. He was still riding high as Richard Parker and she reasoned it was the perfect time for him to negotiate more favorable terms. Under the clause, he could buy out the remainder of his contract for however much he was set to make in whatever time he had left, plus a nominal interest fee. For instance, if he were to sign his contract in January then purchase it, he would have to pay the studio his salary for the duration. He made 750,000 dollars per year. With six months left, he would have to pay half that rate to the studio - 375,000 - and the fee, 100,000. That was a lot of money, but he and Lola weren't overly extravagant people and had well over three hundred million in the bank.

Muttering to himself, Dean tossed the contract onto the table; it floated back and forth like a feather before setting gently down. "We don't _have_ to see it to you," he pointed out.

Yeah, Bobby knew. He didn't want it to come to litigation, but if that's what they wanted, that's what they'd get. "Alright, see you in court."

He turned and started to leave, but Dean called out. "Hey! Come on, look, okay, fine, I'll talk to Mr. Rosenbalm. He's gotta make the final call on this. J-Just nix the lawsuit stuff for now, okay?"

Mr. Rosebnbaum was the head of the studio. A shrewd old man with beady black eyes and a bent nose that made him look like a carrion eating bird, Mr. Rosenberg was one of those old school Hollywood execs who thought he was God...and, truth be told, might very well actually be. In his younger days, he was reputed to have a nasty temper and to throw his weight around sets like a third world despot. He had mellowed somewhat with age, but he was still said to be a class A son of a bitch. Bobby met him once, when he took over from his predecessor in 1994; he was stooped, gaunt, and lurched along with the creeping deliberation of Nosferatu, but he still managed to be the most imposing...and downright scary...motherfucker Bobby had ever met.

"Alright," Bobby said, "talk to him and see what he says."

In the hall, he closed the door behind him and let out a pent-up breath. No matter what Mr. Rosenberg said, this was it, he was done.

 _The Brash and the Bountiful_ was his past.

This was the right thing to do...but why did it feel so wrong?

* * *

Three days. It had been three days since his and Ronnie Anne's talk with Father Jack, and Lincoln Loud felt no closer to God than he had before. Even worse, he felt no farther away either. He was a man stuck firmly in the middle, his feet buried so deep in the ground that he couldn't move. Was it strange to feel constipated? Because that's exactly how he felt, spiritually and mentally constipated, like there was something heavy and awkward in his chest struggling to come out but trapped at the working sphincter between his breasts. Father Jack's words had come back to him many times over these past seventy-two hours: _You won't get all the answers you're looking for, but if you have faith, you'll find peace._

God, he quickly came to understand, provided no more answers than nature. Both had a stopping point - the very beginning - and that perplexed him. If you followed the threads of either far enough back, you arrived at the same enigmatic black wall. God, in his estimation, was just as likely to exist as he wasn't, which lead him back to the same place he started from. Where did he go from here? On one hand, he felt there must be something more to life than meets the eye, but was that only wishful thinking? He was dying...his back was against the wall, of course he'd want to believe in eternal life, and his brain was likely to jump blindly through hoops to facilitate that belief.

Then again, he was scared...scared to let go and allow himself to accept universal truth, be it God or something else entirely. His whole life, he had lived in the middle, neither too hot nor too cold. He didn't believe God existed but he didn't _dis_ believe that he existed either.

Someone once said something to the effect of the center lane being the home of cowards, and as he searched his soul following his meeting with Father Jack, he realized that that is exactly where he spent his life - in the lane of pussies, unable to commit to one thing or the other. He mocked and laughed at people who could...at Democrats and Republicans, communists and Christians, those who took a stand for their principles, be they right or wrong. He ridiculed Kennedy, Reagan, Clinton, he sneered at hippies and Klansmen, but never did he think that _he_ was wrong. To be fair, he wasn't...but he wasn't right, either. The man to his left spoke up, the man to his right spoke up, but not him, never him, he kept silent. He looked down his nose at everyone else, but they, at least, had the courage of their convictions to be something, while he was proudly _nothing_.

He thought back to every group he'd ever clucked his tongue at, from Luan's friends running rampant through the streets of Chicago in '68 to the cheering crowds at George W. Bush's inauguration in January. He felt varying shades of derision for them, but there was one thing he felt across the board. Looking at them, he thought they were stupid. Fools, morons, sheep brainwashed by a pope or politician, too goddamn dumb to think for themselves. Why? He asked himself that a thousand times as he lay awake that first night, and toward dawn, he reached the conclusion that it was because they believed in something. They gave themselves wholeheartedly to a cause or an ideology. They set standards of themselves, even if they didn't always perfectly adhere to them. Christians abide by God's work and eschewed drinking, liberals strove to be tolerant of their fellow man even if he was an Archie Bunker.

In a way, it's almost like the army. The army is structure, the army is living by rules and regulations someone else established. There is no freedom, there is no individuality. Once you enter boot camp, they take you and make you over in their image. Recalling faces and names was getting harder as his mind ground sluggishly down, but when he tried to recollect the faces of the men he went through basic with, he saw one face in three different colors. Narrow. Hardened. Piercing eyes. Shaved head. They marched in time, chanted in time, and moved as one, a perfect unit.

He was a kid when Uncle Sam called him away, and though memories didn't come easy anymore, he could vividly remember the feelings of fear and intimidation. Sgt. Hellman grabbed him by the front of his shirt, slammed him into a man shaped indent, and cut away the excess so he would fit.

Two years later, he came home, and that's when it started, this conservative fence-sitting bullshit. Why?

Because he was afraid. Afraid to commit. Afraid to live by someone else's law, afraid of winding up back in that goddamn camp in Louisiana, his life planned and charted for him. Toe the line when you're told, Private Loud. Wake when we order you to, eat when we let you, shit when we say it's okay, go to church every Sunday, don't curse or take God's name in vain, don't eat meat, don't oppose abortion...don't be a indivudal.

For a boy coming out of the army, the concept of freedom was a strange and heady one, and like most boys in his position, Lincoln gorged himself on it. So much so that he grew into a man who subconsciously avoided impressment of all sorts, a man who was fundamentally selfish. He clung to his family, to Ronnie Anne and Alex and Jessy, because, as Father Jack said, a man needs to believe in _something_ larger than himself, but they were safe, they didn't require anything of him that he wasn't already willing to give. He was not a drinker, he didn't party or sleep around, he was ready to settle down with Ronnie Anne long before he was drafted, ready to be a father and husband and normal workaday schlub. Ronnie Anne, Alex, and Jessy fit neatly into his life plan. They weren't like religion. Religion would ask him to do things he was not 100 percent willing to do.

Just like the army.

Of his fifty-six years, Lincoln spent less than two in the service from boot camp to discharge. Such a small, inconsequential amount of time when measured against the hills and stars, but enough that its effect echoed down through his life in both positive _and_ negative ways. He assumed, foolishly, that the most negative one was his two decade long obsession with maggots, but that was superficial, topical; the worst impact the army had on him, he saw now, was that it scared him off regimentation forever. His mind, and his heart, rebelled at the prospect of serving a master that wasn't himself. Even his love for his wife and daughters was rooted in selfishness. _He_ wanted a family. _He_ wanted to marry. _He_ wanted a quiet All-American life, especially after the horrors he suffered in Vietnam. What if he didn't? What if he wanted to booze, gamble, and see other women?

But he already knew the answer to that. He would have done it, and he would have justified it to himself. Had he come home from Vietnam wanting something else than he did when he left, he would have gone out and gotten it. The day after talking to Father Jack, as he lay sick and woozy in bed for one of his two or three day time naps, he pictured himself as a rolling stone, drifting from town to town on a Greyhound bus, the smell on whiskey wafting from his pores and the taste of a one night stand on his lips. He saw himself not as he would have been in 1968, young and strong, but as he was now - old, tired, at the end of a long, hard, dissatisfying life, broken and full of regrets, wondering what could have been, aching with the dread realization that he could have had a wife to have and hold, a daughter to give piggyback rides and tell bedtime stories to. Instead, his selfishness led him to throw it all away.

That vision jolted him so badly that he sat bolt upright from a dead sleep.

He was afraid of structure, and was, therefore, afraid of committing to belief in God; he was afraid of embracing something...only to have it turn out to be false...afraid of that keen and peculiar shame that one feels when they allow someone or something to mislead them. He recognized his non-aligned philosophy as a flaw, but he couldn't change it overnight. He lay awake on the second night long after Ronnie Anne fell asleep and took stock of himself. He was nauseous, weak, exhausted, and riddled with aches and pains. On days like this, when every breath was a battle, he _felt_ like he was dying. There was no denying it; his time was short. Of all the things that scared him, entering the unknown was the worst.

All he needed, Father Jack said, was a tiny speck of faith no bigger than a mustard seed, and lying there in the darkness, he made a monumental decision.

He _wanted_ to have faith. He _wanted_ to believe in God and heaven and never ending life, because the alternative was believing in nothing at all...just as he always had. Only this time, that nothing would be total.

His thoughts turned to Stephy and his stomach knotted. She came _this_ close to crossing the threshold and learning the secrets of the grave.

Only she did it willingly.

First and foremost, why? What could drive a fifteen year old girl, in the bloom of youth, to attempt sucide? He understood she had bipolar disorder, but, Jesus, the raw, debilitating anguish she must feel that death is preferable to life...it brought tears to his eyes. Fifteen. She was still a child!

Second...wasn't she afraid? He tried to remember the emotions he felt on the day Alex was born, when he thought Ronnie Anne was going to die. He swore he'd shove his gun into his mouth if she did, but he never had to find out if he actually would have. Oh, it's all too easy to say something and mean it, but another to _do_ it. Sitting behind the wheel of his car, cold steel pressed to the roof of his mouth and the taste of gun oil slick on his tongue, could he have pulled the trigger?

Maybe...because without Ronnie Anne, he would have had no faith.

That word again. Ha. Faith. God asks us to have the faith of children, to trust and believe in him. Could he do that? Take away the logical fallacies, forget the doubts and unanswerable questions, pretend those don't matter...could he believe in something that he couldn't touch or see?

When he came groggily awake on the morning of June 28, that question weighed heavy in his mind. In his heart, however, he thought he knew.

Ronnie Anne was already awake and in the kitchen, the throaty rattle of the coffee pot drifting down the hall and through the open door. Scarlet light oozed through the blinds like blood and the clock on the nightstand blared 6:15 in dying red numerals. How long had it been there, proclaiming the hour? Twenty years? Soon they'd have to get another one.

Sighing, he sat up and planted his feet on the floor. Vertigo stole over him, and clasping his hands to his knees, he hung his head and waited for it to pass. He dreaded the appointment ahead. Sitting there for six hours, feeling his life slowly drain from his arm then being pumped back in, sick, lightheaded, so drowsy he could barely sit up was as close to hell as he hoped he ever came.

Heh. Hell. Heaven. God. Circular train of thought here.

Was that intentional?

He remembered feeling as though he were being pulled to the chapel by unseen hands, and how thoroughly it shook him. He imagined an outside entity, gray and formless like smoke, swirling around him, leading him, dragging him to God, and though he would have laughed at that image six months ago, now a shudder tore through him.

Standing, he shuffled into the bathroom on rubbery legs, used the toilet, then ponderously dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a white polo shirt. His arms, thin and twig-like, were peppered with angry red welts marking the points were steel needles met living flesh. The most recent one was covered with a gauze pad. Like several before it, the wound refused to stop bleeding. Never much, but he was under strict orders to go right to the emergency room if it increased. His clothes, once snug to the contours of his body, hung slack on his frame. He refused to buy new ones. At first, deep down, he thought he would get well again and gain back the weight; then, once it sank in that he was going to die...what was the point?

After putting on his shoes, he went into the kitchen, where Ronnie Anne stood with her back against the counter and a coffee mug clutched protectively in both hands. She flashed a wan smile and he kissed her on the cheek. She looked as tired as he felt.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked.

Sitting at the table, he pushed out a weary exhalation. "Fine," he said. "You?"

The slight hesitation before she shrugged and echoed his reply told him all he needed to know.

"You want coffee?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said.

She made him a cup, brought it over, and sat next to him. He took it and lifted it to his lips. The liquid was hot, burned, and bitter tasting, just how he liked it. _You're too used to drinking the coffee at Flip's,_ she told him once. No, actually, I picked up a yen for crap coffee in the army. Blame Sgt. Hellman.

"I was thinking," she started.

Lincoln nodded. "I was too."

"About seeing…?"

"Yeah," he said. Such a small word, but it was profound on his lips, the kind of bold declaration that would live on long after he was gone. _Don't fire til you see the whites of their eyes; Don't give up the ship; four score and seven years ago; you were lying then or you're lying now, and I don't like liars in my goddamn platoon._

Ronnie Anne nodded her understanding. "I'm going to shower before we go," she said. She spoke in low, meaningful tones like a woman on the cusp of history. She got up and went into the bedroom, leaving Lincoln alone.

He sighed and took a sip of his coffee. Setting the mug back down, he leaned back in his chair and flicked his eyes around the room. Maybe he was wrong, probably _was_ wrong, but there was a pall of expectation in the air, as though something monumental were about to happen...some great change enacted, some world-altering event carried permanently out. The sense of something being there with him heightened. He tried to tell himself he was hallucinating, but his protestations fell by the wayside. He wasn't alone, he realized, something _was_ there, filling the kitchen with crackling presence.

Crazily, he thought it was his mother.

That came from seemingly nowhere, but the moment it planted in his brain, it took root, spreading through his gray matter like creeping vines until he was certain of it, insane or not, logical or not. His heart, dormant so much these days, kicked into high gear, and he sucked a sharp, reflexive breath through his nose; he could almost smell her perfume, light and chemical. Nothing moved in the golden shaft of sunlight, but he knew, _knew_ , she was there. He could see her if only a thin layer of blindness were peeled from his eyes. That blindness, he hysterically thought, would fall away not with accepting God, but with death; he would strain to see, and finally, at the last moment, his vision would clear, and he would see _everything_.

The mug shook in his hand and his nostrils flared. Tight panic gripped his chest and he would have gotten to his feet if he weren't paralized with fear. A drought of warm air with no source and no reason, gently caressed his face like a loving hand, and by degrees, his terror began to abate until he was still as placid waters. He swallowed thickly and looked around, sure he would see his mother come to comfort him, but she wasn't there, and shorly, the kitchen dimmed, the atmosphere lightened, and everything returned to normal.

When Ronnie Anne came in, he jumped.

"You okay?" she asked, then furrowed her brows in worry when she got a look at him. "You're really pale."

His ears rang and blood crashed in his temples. All of a sudden, the world was too quiet, too empty, missing some crucial component.

And, God help him, there was only one thing it could be.

"Yeah," he said, "I-I'm okay. Just...deep thoughts."

She stared at him, as though searching for a lie, then nodded. "Alright," she said heavily, "let's go."

On the drive into Detroit, Lincoln gazed silently out the window, watching the suburbs flash by in the west. A low concrete retaining wall stood between them and the interstate, the land beyond sloping down to fenced in backyards where dogs longingly watched traffic and children played. Not that long ago, all of this was pasture land for as far as the eye could see. Light development began in the late fifties but didn't ramp up until the early seventies. So much had changed in so short a time, he reflected, and he regretted that he wouldn't be around to see how it further changed over the coming years.

At the hospital, Ronnie Anne parked beneath an oak tree and killed the engine. They got out and crossed the parking lot. Lincoln was winded by the time they reached the front doors, and stopped to rest, his breathing ragged and unsteady. Ronnie Anne lovingly rubbed his back and watched him with soft concern. Her dark eyes seethed with worry too painful to look upon, and Lincoln forced himself on before he was ready...for her sake.

The elevator creaked and rumbled up the shaft. The doors slid open and Lincoln went first, wincing at the fire in his legs and fighting not to hobble. Dizziness swept him and he had to stop again, leaning limply against the wooden handrail running the length of the hall. "Let me get a wheelchair," Ronnie Anne said firmly.

Lincoln shook his head. "I'm...fine…" he huffed, "I just…"

But she was already striding down the corridor, her heels clicking on the tiles. Now he felt two inches tall; even so, he could only wait until she came back pushing a wheelchair she must have found discarded somewhere. She parked it in front of him, bent, and locked the wheels. "Get in," she commanded.

A lot of things about the universe still didn't make sense, and, he suspected, never would. But you know what? He didn't make much sense either. How could a man so afraid of winding up metaphorically back in the army marry, and be happy with, a woman like Ronnie Anne? Sometimes, he honestly wondered if Sgt. Hellman didn't beat him home, murder the real Ronnie Anne, and assume her form so he could continue bossing him around. _Loud, get your ass in her and make love to your wife, that's an order!_

Some mysteries you just have to accept.

Turning around, he braced his hands on the arms and sank stiffly into the padded leather seat. Ronnie Anne unlocked the wheels, spun him around, and started toward the hematology department. They met several doctors and nurses on the way, and Lincoln pressed his hand to his temple to furtively hide his shame. He was like a baby in a carriage, and he _hated_ it.

At a T-shaped intersection, Ronnie Anne turned right then, instead of going to the hematology department, she veered into the chapel. Lincoln's nails unconsciously dug into the arms of the chair and he drew a deep breath.

It took his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, he spotted Father Jack on the altar. He stood on his tippy toes and reached out with a feather duster to dust one of the cross's wings. "I could...really use a boost...Lord," he grunted. He waited a minute, and when nothing happened, he slumped his shoulders. "I'll just get a chair."

He turned around, saw them, and started. "Oh," he laughed, "for a second there I thought you were angels come to help me dust. I was going to have a heart attack." He tossed the duster aside and came down the aisle. "Be careful what you wish for."

"You use this chair," Lincoln said and started to get up, "I'm done with it."

Father Jack held up his hands. "No, no, that's fine, I have a folding chair in my office. I just have to move all my books and papers off of it. Did you think about what I said?"

The knowing inflection in his voice was unmistakable.

Lincoln looked up at Ronnie Anne, then at the preacher. "Yes," he said.

"And?"

Lincoln's heart sped inexplicably up. "I-I think I...I believe."

While Father Jack sat on the end of a nearby pew and Ronnie Anne knelt next to the wheelchair, Lincoln explained his mental struggles over the past several days, then finished with the strange occurrence in the kitchen that morning. Ronnie Anne squeezed his hand as he recounted the presence he felt, and Father Jack nodded solemnly. "God rarely works directly, but rarely doesn't mean never. I think you've been led here. By God, by your guardian angel, by the spirit of your mother...who's to say? The point is, right here, right now, is where you're supposed to be."

Lincoln let out a shivery breath and nodded. He could feel it, a blossoming of peace and rightness that he could not account for, but knew nevertheless. "What now?" he asked.

By way of answering, Father Jack shifted off the pew and got down on his knees. "We pray," he said.

A hint of doubt rippled through Lincoln's chest, and the last bit of fear masquerading as rigid rationality screamed from the back of his brain for him to run. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet. "You can stay seated," Father Jack hastened to say, "you're -"

"Fine," Lincoln said. He still couldn't believe he was doing this, that he'd reached this point, but he was here, coming before his creator. He'd kneel the proper way just as he always stood for the anthem and put his hand over his heart for the pledge.

Holding fast to the chair, he bent his knees and winced, then knelt, falling the last couple inches. Ronnie Anne scooted beside him and laid her hand on his leg. In her, he saw reflected his own doubt and fear, but also his hope.

Father Jack walked over on his knees and faced them. The wheelchair partially blocked the view from the hall, but anyone passing in the hall could clearly see what was going on. Lincoln started to flush, then stopped himself. If they didn't like, they could fuck off.

"Bow your heads," Father Jack said gently.

Lincoln and Ronnie Anne both bowed their heads and clasped their hands in front of them. "Repeat after me: Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for Your forgiveness."

Licking his lips, Lincoln repeated the phrase, and the moment he began to speak, something stirred in his chest, like warm wind through falling leaves. His racing heart calmed and the dread in his stomach quieted like a sea commanded by a loving god. Next to him, Ronnie Anne did the same, the rosary dangling from her locked hands.

"I believe You died for my sins and rose from the dead. I turn from my sins and invite You to come into my heart and life."

Husband and wife recited in unison. The hairs on the back of Lincoln's neck stood up, and goosebumps raked his arms and chest. The feeling of something near, something live and benevolent, was back, stronger this time, and was certain that if he opened his eyes, the nave would be flooded with heavenly glow.

"I want to trust and follow You as my Lord and Savior."

Tears streamed down Ronnie Anne's cheeks as every happy memory she had ever made with Lincoln came back to her in a warm rush. The day he asked her to the dance, the day they first kissed, the day they made love and married, the day he came home from Vietnam and she found out she was pregnant. Soon, those were all she would have. She felt the passage of something eerie, something beyond her knowledge, and in that moment, she believed.

"In Your Name, amen,"

"Amen," Lincoln and Ronnie Anne said together.

They opened their eyes, and while there was no light, the world looked somehow different.

Somehow...brighter.


	229. July 2001: Part 1

If you were to sit down and write a list of the things that scared Lincoln Loud, you wouldn't be there very long: Aside from the prospect of losing his wife, daughters, or grandchildren, nothing really bothered him. Once upon a time, you could have put death on there, but since that day in the chapel where he asked Christ into his heart, even that didn't overly concern him. He still struggled with faith, a lot, but with every passing week, he became more and more convinced that there actually _was_ a light at the end of the tunnel. He and Ronnie Anne prayed together every evening before bed, and the sense of peace that came upon him during those nightly sessions was as unnamable as it was unexplainable. At first, he tried telling himself it was some kind of psychosomatic bullshit, his mind tricking him somehow, but he didn't think so. Lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and aching as the cancer slowly crept through his system, he could _feel_ the power and agency of something around him, and the more his mind strove to reject the notion of God, the more his heart embraced it.

With this newfound belief came a new kind of fear.

Fear of burning in hell.

When he couldn't sleep, he stuck one hand under his head, looked up into the darkness, and went back over every sin he had ever committed, tallying them up and growing just a little more ashamed of himself with each pass. Thankfully, he was a boring motherfucker and never did anything _too_ out of the way. No cheating on his wife, no murder (outside of Vietnam, but those gooks didn't count...how could they? They weren't even people). He did, however, commit blasphemy...so, so much blasphemy...and all that shit he said had a way of coming back to him at 4am, just as he was beginning to drop off.

 _Jesus lived with twelve men and wore a dress. Tell me he wasn't a fruit._

 _God watches you having sex, you know that? Probably pounds off to it too._

There were more, some even worse, and remembering them made Lincoln cringe. Hey, uh, sorry about all that shit I talked, big guy, I was just kidding around. Honest.

Two months ago, Lincoln didn't even believe in hell (or at least he thought he didn't), but now it was definitely on the list of things that scared him.

But it wasn't in the top spot.

Oh no.

Something else was.

In May, he and Ronnie Anne told Alex and Jessy that he was sick, but they didn't tell them that he was dying; RA balked at the last minute and lied, and while part of him was upset with her, an even larger part was relieved. Telling them the truth would be like shoving a knife in their guts and twisting. Every time he imagined having that conversation with Alex, that's exactly what he saw in his mind: Stabbing her and wrenching the blade from side to side like a demented chef whisking her insides. He understood even back then that they were only delaying the inevitable, but he was perfectly content to put it off. Soon, he thought, he'd have to face it, but not now.

Well, now was here. Despite the chemo and dialysis, his health was steadily deteriorating. He was weak, haggard, and emaciated. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes were sunken, and his skin was a sickly shade of gray. He'd lost most of the muscle mass in his arms and legs, and standing shirtless in front of the full lenght mirror on the back of the batrhoom door, he was put uncomfortably in mind of photos he'd seen of Holocaust survivors. He got winded easily, his stomach sloshed non-stop, and random dizzy spells struck without warning like slaps from the ether. Sometimes, just sitting up exhausted him, and since the beginning of July, he spent more time in bed than out of it.

Alex came over every day after work to _check on_ him, and he summoned every ounce of energy he had to keep from showing her how sick he really was. When she came through the door, he was always sitting in his chair like normal, and he made a point of getting up and doing things in front of her - opening pickle jars, bending over to pick imaginary bits of litter up off the carpet, carrying heavy boxes filled with books and other crap. _Look at me, honey, I might look like death warmed over, but I'm really fit as a fiddle. You gotta believe me_. He also made sure to wear long shirts to cover the many needle marks on his shriveled arms. She knew he was going through chemo, but she didn't know about the dialysis. If she did, she might realize his condition was more serious than he let on.

Hiding it was getting harder and harder, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. Patel said the cancer was progressing as expected, which gave him anywhere from two to six months of relative good health. The end was coming fast, hurtling toward him like an asteroid through the recesses of space, and soon, he would have to come clean.

On July 8, Jessy flew in from Seattle with Allison and Luan; Mark couldn't make it because Bill Gates was riding his ass non-stop...probably literally. The night before, he and Ronnie Anne sat up in bed by the light of the bedside lamp, the same thing on both their minds. Neither wanted to speak it out loud; she stared vacantly down at the Harry Potter book in her lap (it was taking her forever to finish the damn thing) and he pretended to read the latest issue of _Guns Galore_. Warm summer rain sluiced down the window pane, and the ancient A/C unit choughed and wheezed like an elderly smoker after climbing a flight of stairs. The silence between them was heavy and awkward, and Lincoln cast about for something to break it with, but kept quiet; if he didn't say anything, maybe this would pass and he wouldn't have to deal with it.

As a great philosopher once said: Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?

Sghing, Ronnie Anne snapped the book closed and lifted her head, but pointedly didn't turn to him. "We have to tell them."

There was no need to ask who _they_ were and what exactly they had to be told.

Lincoln drew a deep breath and let it out in a shaky plume. She was right...and he almost hated her for it. Telling her was hard enough, but telling his daughters? He could handle telling Luan, Lynn, and Lori, but not Alex and Jessy. The pain in their eyes would kill him. Not physically, but spiritually, and that's the worst kind of death there is.

"I know," he said to the magazine. "I was planning on it."

Ronnie Anne reached out and took his hand, and he brushed his thumb affectionately across her knuckles. He didn't ask for this, it was thrust upon him like a black, malignant present - here ya go, Linc, merry fuckyoumas - but the hardest things in life always were. He didn't ask to go to Vietnam, yet he wound up there anyway. Years ago, so many that he couldn't remember exactly when, he vowed to never hurt Ronnie Anne or their girls, and by the very nature of dying, he was doing just that. He couldn't control it, couldn't stop it, could barely even slow it; his time on this earth was drawing to a close, his story nearing its end. Even so, guilt weighed in his stomach like a load of stones, guilt because he was leaving them...and guilt because he would do it without saying goodbye. He would hem, haw, and scuff his feet until it was too late, and he would die grateful for successfully avoiding having to face his daughters' grief.

Wasn't that selfish? To turn your back, walk away, and let everyone you loved pick up the pieces behind you?

Of course, he was a fundamentally selfish person and always had been. He recognized that…it was a flaw inherent to who he was, as deeply embedded in his DNA as his white hair and brown eyes, and like every flaw, it required correction. A man such as him, one with an inborn problem, be it selfishness, addictive personality, or a nasty temper, is like a car with faulty steering: If he doesn't keep his hands firmly on the wheel, he will begin to drift and will fall into the track of his shortfall as a wheel fits into a rut.

Lincoln's self-centered nature was his deficiency, and while he didn't have many days left, he resolved to work on it for as long as he did have.

And that, therefore, meant telling Alex and Jessy that he was going to die. It would be unfair, cruel even, to keep it from them.

He didn't want to say goodbye, but he couldn't go in silence.

Ronnie Anne squeezed his hand. _I'm here for you,_ it said, and perhaps it was his weakened mental and emotional state, but that brought a tear to Lincoln's eye. She _was_ here for him and always had been, always would be, even if he got better and lived to be a thousand. There weren't many things in this would he could count on, but Ronnie Anne was one of them. Like a majestic mountain, she stood through rain and wind, snow and heat, never wavering, never faltering, loving him despite his worst qualities and supporting him in his hours of famine as wholly and unconditionally as in his moments of feast. The phrase _partner_ struck him as bland and generic - the kind of gender neutral designator you'd expect from a politically correct liberal - but that's exactly what Ronnie Anne was: His partner. His partner in life, his partner in love, his partner in everything.

Not everyone was lucky enough to have someone like her, and as he stroked his thumb along her index finger, it hit him just how blessed he really was. Could he have asked for a better life than the one God gave him? He took his for granted, even complained about it on occasion, but for all of its hiccups and blemishes, it was perfect, and that he was leaving it so soon sent a bolt of loss plunging into his heart.

There was no use in self-pitying, he knew that, but it was hard to part with such a wonderful life.

"I'm not looking forward to it," he said.

Ronnie Anne nodded to herself in agreement. "Neither am I," she confessed. "But we'll get through it."

Her voice lacked conviction, and later, as he fought to power down and sleep, those five words echoed through his skull like a mystic incantation. _But we'll get through it_. Would they? Would she and the girls? He obviously wouldn't. Heaven and eternal life aside, he wasn't making it through this - he was actively dying, and he wasn't going to reach the other side alive. That he had come to terms with, it was how well his loved ones would cope, Ronnie Anne especially, that troubled him.

If there was no wiggle room for self-pity, there was also none for dwelling on things he could not change. Ronnie Anne would take it hard, but her budding faith in God, and their daughters, would be enough to sustain her.

He hoped.

Father Jack, the jovial priest-not-priest who had presided over the conversion of the Louds, told him to let go of his fears, anxieties, and burdens, and turn them over to God. Letting go and relying on someone, or some _thing_ , else, was not something Lincoln could not readily do. He was a pragmatic man his entire life, and kept a firm grasp on the wheel...or as firm as he could. Giving it to God, letting Him take over, scared Lincoln almost as much as dying did. He couldn't be passive, couldn't depend on anyone but Ronnie Anne; he couldn't unclench his fist and trust that Jesus would take control, because what if He didn't? What if Lincoln's metaphorical car careened off the road and slammed into the support column of an overpass? What then? He'd be dead and Ronnie Anne would be figuratively up shit's creek without a paddle.

A Bible quote popped into his mind like a prophecy from the inky depths of an 8 ball, and he pursed his lips in doubt.

 _Be still and know that I am God._

Ha, that was easier said than done. He had been the master of his domain, the world balanced precariously on his shoulders, since he was twenty years old, and letting it fall without really knowing if someone would catch it or not made him shudder.

Wasn't that the whole point of God, though? To entrust him with your full and total faith the way a child does its parents? If you can't do that, can you really claim to believe? He had 100 percent faith in Ronnie Anne, he trusted her as far as you could possibly trust another human being...hell, he trusted her more than he did himself. If he _didn't_ have that confidence in her, he couldn't say he believed in her, right?

How could he do that with God?

Those thoughts and others plagued him until he fell into a thin and dream haunted sleep. He was alone on a rutted dirt road winding through a dense stand of jungle, sunlight filtering through the treetops and wet, muggy air wrapping itself around him like a sodden blanket. His green utility shirt, LOUD stitched across the left breast, stuck to his sweaty torso, and slimy perspiration plastered his hair to his skull. Crickets chirped a lazy symphony even though it was day, and far in the distance, gunfire sounded. He held an M-16 to his chest like a child clutching a teddy bear in the dark of a lonely night, and looked fearfully around. The woods teemed with unseen life, leaves and branches shaking as if at the passage of something big, and the back of Lincoln's neck tingled.

The road curved around a hillside and crossed a river by way of a decrepit wooden bridge that looked a lot like the one in Ridgewood Park back in Royal Woods. Lincoln had just set foot on it when five Cong stepped out of the bush and blocked the way. His heart sputtered, and he came to a crashing halt, the gun jerking up of its own violation. Something wasn't right here. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did, he also knew that even though he was only twenty, he'd been here before, and this time, it was different.

Somehow, the distance between him and the commies closed, as though the world had folded, bringing them closer. They stood shoulder to shoulder five feet away, staring at him, not moving, not speaking, just staring, like statues, their faces void of emotion.

There was something wrong with them, and after a moment, it hit him.

They were dead.

Pale skin sagged from their overlarge skulls, and their slanted eyes bugged from their dirty faces. Their blue lips hung in tatters from their ashen gums, and their sallow flesh drew tight against their boney frames. A ragged hole ringed by torn flesh looked out from one's forehead like a third eye, and another's right hip was a bloody crater festering with maggots, as though a large, man eating beast had risen from the deep and taken a bite out of him.

Lincoln's mind screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to move. Rooted in place, paralized as if by some demonic magic, he could only gape at their ghoulish countences, his heart throbbing and his body trembling. He didn't recognize them, but he knew them, or some; they were the men he killed when he escaped all those years ago.

Moving in perfect synchrony, they stepped aside, and like a vision shown an Old Testament prophet, the road beyond was revealed. Crumpled bodies littered its length, some still and others quivering like Jello. A hellish cacophony of moans, sobs, and pleas found his ears, and his horrified eyes darted from one form to the next.

He knew them.

Fip, Luna, Leni, Mom, Dad, their white faces screwed up in pain, lay in the dirt, Flip writhing, Mom on her back and staring sightlessly into the sky, Luna convulsing in the throes of overdose, and Leni facedown, unmoving. A figure stood among them, clad in olive green pants, boots, and nothing else, his naked torso gleaming in the sunlight and a pair of dog tags resting between his muscular pecs. He held a Colt .45 in one hand and moved between the dead and dying with the methodical and unhurried leisure of Death himself, pausing over Flip long enough to put a bullet in his head, the report loud as the voice of God.

The figure looked up, and when Lincoln saw who it was, his heart sank.

Him.

Tall and lean, no more than twenty, the Other's eyes glinted icily and his lips curled up in an evil smile that made Lincoln's blood run cold. Blood spilled from Flip's decimated cranium and soaked into the dirt, and the Other's grin widened. He did not visibly speak, but Lincoln heard his voice anyway.

"Sarge, mop up?"

No.

The Other turned and stood over Luna, who flopped like a fish out of water. He could have stopped it, he could have done something. He had those drugs in his hands, but instead of flushing them, he put them back and let his sister die.

He opened his mouth to shout NO, but only a breathless groan issued forth.

Lifting the gun, the Other aimed it at Luna's head.

NO!

Turning to look at him, the Other smirked triumphantly.

And pulled the trigger.

Luna jumped, then went limp.

A cold, needling wind sprang up, and turning to face him, the Other blew away on it like a pillar of salt until nothing remained but carnage and the lingering echo of gunshots.

One of the Cong raised his arm, and Lincoln flinched. Fixing him with dead, hollow eyes, it pointed one fleshless finger down the path. Ahead, it disappeared into the dark jungle, and Lincoln knew in his heart that it lead to hell. His heart leapt, and he came awake with a scream lodged in his throat. Early morning light filled the room and Ronnie Anne lay facing him on her side, eyes closed and lips slightly parted.

Just a dream.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Lincoln drew a deep, shivery breath and let it out in a rush. It was 8:43 by the alarm clock. Jessy and Luan were due in Detroit at noon, whereupon they would rent a car and drive up. They were staying a week.

That gave him seven days to put it off.

Seven days to stall.

Seven days of suspense, torment, and all but lying to Jessy's face the way he lied to Alex's.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

Why was dying so goddamn hard?

* * *

There aren't very many reasons for the phone to ring on a Sunday morning, and all of them are usually bad. Someone died, someone's in jail, hey, it's your pastor, why aren't you in church, motherfucker? Bobby Jr. didn't believe in God and no one he knew was likely to wind up in the slammer (except for Alex, but he doubted she'd call _him_ for bail), so when the cordless phone on the nightstand woke him, his first thought was that someone croaked.

Reaching groggily out, he snatched the handset from its stand and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?" he slurred.

It chimed.

For a moment he was baffled, then remembered that with these, you have to press the TALK button before it answers. Oh, right, heh, excuse me for thinking I could PICK UP THE PHONE AND SPEAK.

Technology's supposed to make life easier, but adding another step to the process of receiving a phone call struck him as just a _little_ counterproductive. But, hey, he was an idiot, what did he know?

He jabbed the button and tried again. "Hello?"

Beside him, Lola stirred in a rustle of blankets and rolled onto her side, eyes open to watery slits.

"Bobby?" a voice asked. It was low, shaky, and dry, like old parchment. Bobby _thought_ it was familiar, but he couldn't be sure, and getting calls from random people wasn't exactly uncommon when your number belongs to a daytime TV actor and a washed up pop singer.

Joking. Lola wasn't washed up.

Yet.

"Yes?" Bobby asked guardedly.

"It's Harvey Rosenbalm," the voice replied.

Oh.

 _Oh._

Harvey Rosenbalm was the head of the studio that produced _The Brash and the Bountiful_ , a veritable supercentenarian whose iron grip, quick temper, and obsessive penchant for micromanagement once drew comparisons to Mussolini.

Last month, after what happened with Stephy (it was always _what happened_ and never _she tried to kill herself_ ), Bobby quit the show and hadn't been back to the lot since. Like he told Dean, the producer, his daughter came first and that goddamn soap oprea could go fuck itself. Not working, however, left him feeling out of sorts, and even though he meant what he said about Stephy coming first, he did feel a little guilty just walking away. Since Sandy left, the show was built around him, and him leaving would probably be the final nail in its coffin. Everyone who worked on it, from the writers right on down to the guys who operate the boom and point the lights would be out of a job, and that's a lot to carry around with you.

Nervously switching the phone to his other hand, Bobby dug his elbows into the mattress and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Hello, Mr. Rosenbalm." His tone was one of reverential deference - like a soldier might use with his commanding officer, Mr. Rosenbalm, while no longer his boss per se, held the power to decide whether or not to let Bobby buy out his contract. He could either make this very easy, or very hard, for as guilty as he might feel, Bobby's mind was made up: He was done with the show, and if Mr. Rosenbalm wanted to play a game courts and lawyers, well, alright then.

Not that he wanted that. He just wanted to active his clause and leave. That's all.

"How are you, Bobby?" the old man asked.

Lola brushed her hair out of her face and rolled onto her other side, facing the wall.

"I'm good. You?"

"Fine, just fine. I wanted to talk to you about your contract."

"Sure," Bobby said.

Papers shuffled on the other end, and Bobby anxiously chewed his bottom lip. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Mr. Rosenbalm spoke. "I will let you buy the remainder -"

Relief washed over Bobby.

"- under one condition."

Then drained away.

Not waiting for him to reply, Rosenbalm continued. "I have talked to the staff and asked them to come up with something for your character."

In the current storyline, Richard Parker was working with elements of the mafia in order to fund a casino he planned to build. In the last episode Bobby filmed, he and the guy representing the mob's interests got into an argument over money that went missing from a bank account the mafia set up for Richard to use on development. Rosenbalm told him that originally, the next season would start with the mafia trying to kill Richard, who was completely innocent. Later on, it would be revealed that Amber, Richard's step sister turned wife, was responsible, and it was all a plot to frame him and get him killed. Now, the next season would open with Richard starting his car one morning, only to activate a bomb and get blown to kingdom come. The focus would then shift to Amber, and she would get the honor of being the next Big Bad.

"They need you to film one more installment for this plan to work," Mr. Rosenbalm explained. "It won't be much, just getting into the car, it shouldn't take more than an hour. If you do this for me, I will do that for you."

Bobby didn't have to think before responding. "Yeah, okay."

"Good, good," Mr. Rosenbalm said with evident delight. "I will have Dean phone you when they are ready."

After saying their goodbyes, Bobby hung up and blew a long puff of air. Whew. I dodged a bullet there.

Having this deal on the table made it real in a way that nothing else had, not even his own resolve. After eleven years, his time on _The Brash and the Bountiful_ was over; a full and satisfying chapter of his life was coming to a close and another was beginning. He was both excited and a little intimidated. Not knowing what lies ahead is nerve-wracking, but that's what makes things interesting. If your entire life was mapped out from start to finish with no deviation and no surprises, well...talk about boring.

He didn't have to worry about money, at least. He and Lola were set probably for life. The last time he was out of work, he felt like a leech; he sat around all day, went to parties with Lola, and added absolutely nothing tangible to their marriage.

This time would be different, though. He had a purpose.

Stephaine.

Since coming home from the hospital and starting a new regimen of medications, Stephy was back to her old bubbly self, and for the first time, Bobby realized just how downcast she was in the weeks leading up to what happened. She didn't laugh, tease Val, or ask to go out with her friends, she never went back for seconds at dinner (she was petite, but man, she could eat)...she barely even came out of her bedroom.

How could he have missed it?

She didn't look depressed, no crying or moping or staring into space, but she wasn't normal.

Of course, he knew how he overlooked it.

But that wouldn't happen again.

In fact...

Swinging his legs out from under the covers, he got up and went into the hall, dressed only in his boxers. The house was silent, the hall pooled with gloom. At Stephy's door, he turned the handle and poked his head in. She lay on her side, one arm jutting out over the precipice like a plank from a pirate ship and a spill of blonde hair covering her eyes. He slipped into the room and crossed to the bed for a better look. Her chest gently rose and fell, and her nose twitched as if at an offensive smell (do I stink?).

When Stephy came home, he and Lola coddled her and gave her lots of kisses...then crawled inside her ass and stayed there. Every fifteen to twenty minutes, if she was in her room, one of them would invent a reason to look in on her, and at night, they took turns checking on her. They probably annoyed the piss out of her, but they worried; that day, they came so close to losing her and no matter how long either one of them lived, they would never forget the terror of finding their little girl half dead in the bathtub.

Bobby sure knew he wouldn't. He dreamed of it almost every night, and in most of them, he was too late; Stephy was dead when he pulled her out of the water, and on waking, the gnashing, wailing, tearing _agony_ in his chest rendered him unable to think, cry, or even breathe.

Getting down one one knee, he examined her wrist. The wound had faded and was beginning to scar. She would carry it the rest of her life, and every time he saw it, he would remember that day...the worst of his life.

He lovingly stroked her forehead, and her brow furrowed in her sleep. Looking at her now, he had no guilt, no misgivings, and no qualms about leaving _The Brash and the Bountiful_. Family is more important than anything...especially your pride and ego.

Getting to his feet, he returned to the bedroom and climbed back into bed."Who was that?" Lola muttered tiredly.

"Mr. Rosenbalm."

She stiffened ever so slightly. "Yeah? What did he say?"

"That he'll let me buy out my contract if I do one more episode."

He told her everything Mr. Rosenbalm said, and by the end of it, she was sitting up with her hands folded in her lap. A ray of sunlight fell across her face and showed her age...and her beauty despite it.

"Good," she said. "I was not looking forward to a protracted court case."

Bobby snorted. "Neither was I."

In a way, however, he _was_ looking forward to going back on set.

One final time.

* * *

Knowing something and experiencing it first hand are two completely different things. You can watch all the war movies you want, but that does not prepare you for the real thing; understanding the plight of the homeless does not mean you truly understand what they endure. Jessy had known for a month that Uncle Lincoln was sick with cancer, and while she was familiar with the effects of the disease, she was nevertheless shocked by his appearance. He was never a very muscular man, but he his arms were toned and his shoulders broad, making him seem big and sturdy, but when Jessy walked through the door of her childhood home and saw him, he was weak and cadaverously thin. His arms were frail and boney and his face drawn, dark bags beneath his eyes. His smile, once boyish and cocky, was a ghost of its former self. Her step faltered and a fist of worry closed around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Mom had much the same reaction: She stiffened and missed a beat, but quickly recovered. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she and Uncle Lincoln hugged.

"Alright," Uncle Lincoln croaked. He didn't _look_ alright. He looked awful.

He turned to Allison, standing between her and Mom, and a tired smile touched his lips. Allison drew close to Jessy in fear, and Jessy rubbed a soothing circle in the top of her head. "Hi, you," Uncle Lincoln said, "how was your flight?"

Allison regarded him with the ware distrust of a small animal on meeting a big, scary fox. She was shy with strangers anyway, but Jessy was certain Uncle Lincoln's skeletal visage frightened her.

She clutched Jessy's pantleg in her hand and tried to burrow in. Uncle Lincoln made no sign that he noticed her trepidation, but he pointedly didn't try to force himself on her either. He turned to Jessy, and the sickly sheen in his eyes gave her pause. "Hey," he said, voice low and raspy.

"Hi," she said. They hugged, and he felt so fragile in her arms that she was afraid of breaking him, like a delicate vase. "How are you?"

"Good," he said, "a little tired, but they tell me that's normal."

Mom volunteered to bring the luggage in and unpack it, and Jessy took Allison into the kitchen with Auntie Ronnie Anne. Allison held Jessy's hand and darted her eyes around the room as though looking for hidden danger. The last time they came out was Christmas, and the little girl had most likely forgotten, making this a new and mystifying place.

In the living room, Uncle Lincoln sat in his chair and flipped through a magazine. Sitting at the table with Allison perched on her lap, Jessy studied his withered profile, her worry deepening. Over the phone, he and Auntie Ronnie Anne said he was doing well and getting better, but looking at him, Jessy could hardly believe this was _better_ than anything...except death.

A cold shiver raced down her spine.

"I love her outfit," Auntie Ronnie Anne said over her shoulder. She stood at the counter assembling ham and cheese sandwiches, Allison sitting forward and craning her neck left and right to see.

Before leaving Seattle, Jessy dressed her in a plaid skirt, white stockings, black shoes with buckles that made her resemble a little pilgrim, and a brown knit cardigan over a white button-up blouse. Her sandy hair hung to her shoulders and a white clip held it back from her broad forehead. It smelled like green apples because Jessy picked up the wrong shampoo on her last shopping excursion.

"Mark said she looks like someone's grandmother," Jessy said. In the corner of her eye, Uncle Lincoln fisted his hand to his mouth and let out a dry, grating cough that sounded really painful and made her wince.

Auntie Ronnie Anne cut one of the sandwiches in half and put it on a pink plastic plate. "He's a man, what does he know?" She brought the plate over to the table and sat it in front of Allison, who spun on Jessy's knees to face it. She picked one of the halves up and crammed it into her mouth.

"Someone's hungry," Auntie Ronnie Annne laughed.

"Don't let her fool you," Jessy said fondly, "we stopped at McDonald's on the way up and she ate a _whole_ Egg McMuffin."

Auntie Ronnie Anne returned to the counter and carried another two plates over. She put one next to Allison's and sat across from them. "How's the little one coming?"

"Slowly," Jessy said and took a bite. She was almost three months pregnant and was just beginning to show: Her stomach bulged ever so slightly, and even if you were to see it bare and uncovered, you might mistake it for chub. Aside from the occasional morning sickness, which had been lessening in intensity for several weeks, and infrequent bouts of indigestion - which she never had before - she didn't _feel_ pregnant. Of course, she couldn't remember what being this early on felt like; every time she recalled pregnancy, she only recollected being big, sweaty, and hormonal.

She said as much, and Auntie Ronnie Anne chuckled around a mouthful of sandwich. "They say a lot of heartburn means the baby will be born with hair."

Jessy's nose crinkled. The idea of a baby forming inside of her did not bother her - nails, teeth, even waste - but hair? Yuck. She had a thing about hair: If she found it in her food, she'd gag, throw it away, and not eat again for sometimes days. Well, it used to be days, back when she was Classic Jessy (nervous, self-concious, dumb), now it was only until she got hungry again. "I wonder if that's true," she mused.

Shrugging one shoulder, Auntie Ronnie Anne said, "I've heard it my whole life, so it must be."

That didn't mean anything, but Jessy was too tired and jet lagged for a philosophical discussion, so she ate her sandwich instead. Mom came out from the hall and dropped onto the couch. She said something to Uncle Lincoln, and he shook his head.

Swallowing, Jessy leaned over the table and lowered her voice. "He looks really bad. How's he doing?"

Uncle Lincoln was a great man and Jessy loved and respected him, but he had a _little_ problem with pride. He was the kind of man who'd suffer in silence and never say anything about it. He would make jokes about back pain or his knees cramping up, but if something was really bothering him, you would never know. Auntie Ronnie Anne was more open and practical, so Jessy trusted her to be honest.

"He's hanging in there," she said after a slight hesitation. Jessy didn't like her choice of words. _Hanging in there_. That suggested he wasn't getting better. "He's tired a lot and weak but other than that, he's doing well."

Jessy stole a glance over her shoulder. He and Mom chatted with the ease of siblings who knew each other in and out. "Do they know how long until it's gone?"

"A couple months," Auntie Ronnie Anne said vaguely. "He's improving and...and they think it won't be long."

That hitch in her voice stayed with Jessy for the rest of the afternoon. She didn't know how or why, but something felt _wrong_ ; she had no reason to believe that Auntie Ronnie Anne had lied to her, but she suspected she had anyway. That could have just been paranoia. He looked so bad and seeing him that way threw her off balance.

Shortly after three, Uncle Lincoln shuffled off to take a nap. Allison sat in the middle of the floor and played with one of Blake's GI Joe dolls she found under the couch and Mom and Auntie Ronnie Anne went into the kitchen to start dinner. On TV, Judge Judy shouted at a black man standing in the defense docket, and Jessy frowned. She didn't know why Uncle Lincoln liked her so much, she was a shrew.

Just after four, a key rattled in the lock, and Alex came in wearing pink scrubs and a laminate badge on a lanyard around her neck. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like a midnight waterfall and red touched her cheeks. Like Uncle Lincoln, she'd lost a few pounds since Christmas - not as much, but she was almost back at her old weight. She shut the door behind her and started across the living room, then came to a grinding halt when she saw Allison. "There's a kid on the floor," she said bemusedly. She looked at Jessy, and broke out in a sunny smile. "And a Jessy on the couch."

"I'll be here all week," Jessy grinned.

"Wow, all week, huh? Even I'm not that lazy."

She came over and sat next to her with a weary sigh. "Long day?" Jessy asked.

Alex rolled her eyes. "Yeah, very long. We had this big fat lady come in with chest pains. I don't mean to be mean, but I'm talking _really_ fat." She held her arms out to mime a massive stomach. "In a wheelchair fat. It took five of us to get her in a bed."

Jessy grimaced.

"Yeah," Alex said, "I agree. Anyway, I was kneeling next to the bed, jacking it up, like...eight inches away from her butt, and she lets out this _loud_ fart. Actually, more like a series of farts. Sounded like Donald Duck when he throws one of his fits."

The image of Alex choking on flatulence, gagging, eyes crossing, pounding her chest with her fist, made Jessy giggle. "Yeah, I'm glad _you_ think it's funny," Alex said, "you wouldn't be laughing if _you_ tasted it."

"But it wasn't me," Jessy said and gave Alex's knee a patronizing pat. "The only thing I ate today was a Salad Shaker from McDonald's and a ham and cheese sandwich."

Alex's lips pulled back from her teeth in a sneer of disgust. "A Salad Shaker? Those things are nasty."

"No they're not," Jessy said. A Salad Shaker was a salad that came in a plastic cup with a lid. You added your choice of dressing, then shook it up, hence the name. "What's nasty about them?"

"Eating out of a cup," Alex said, "dressing everywhere…ugh." A shudder went through her and she stuck out her tongue.

Okay, that didn't make sense. "It's a plastic container a-and you put dressing on it like you do a normal salad." She was honestly perplexed.

"I dunno, something about it's gross to me." She put her feet up on the coffee table and leaned slightly over to see Allison. "Ally," she called in a singsong voice. Allison whipped her head around and looked at her, forehead pinching. "You come say hi to your aunt Alex?"

Allison considered Alex's proposition a moment, then went back to playing.

"Oh, I see how it is. As soon as I get up, I'm gonna tickle your ribs, baby Ally." She leaned forward, then flopped back against the couch. "Later, though." She glanced at Jessy. "Where's Dad?"

Something clattered to the kitchen floor, and Auntie Ronnie Anne spat a frustrated, "Shit."

"Taking a nap," Jessy said, "he was tired."

"Yeah," Alex said with a grim nod, "he's always tired."

Jessy turned to face Alex, one leg folding beneath her, and said in a conspiratorial tone, "He looks really bad."

On the floor, Allison got to her knees and held the GI Joe over her head like he was flying. She spun him around in a slow circle, her eyes fixed on his face and her lips moving silently as if in encouragement. _You can do it, man dolly._ "I know," Alex sighed, "he's lost too much weight. Me and Mom try to make him eat, but he's never hungry. I have him drinking Ensure now, hopefully that helps."

Jessy scrunched her lips. "I'm really worried about him. I didn't realize it was this bad." Sudden tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back. Alex's features smoothed, and leaning over, she took Jessy's hand in her own. Jessy blotted her eyes with the heel of her palm and swallowed a lump of emotion.

"He'll be fine, Jess," Alex said softly, "he has cancer, so it's gonna look bad, but he's Dad. He's not going anywhere."

Jessy wished she could believe that.

But deep in her heart.

She didn't know if she could.

* * *

Early Sunday, Blake Underwood lay under the covers in a bar of warm, golden sunshine and drifted along the border dividing sleep from cognizance. His bladder twinged insistently, but nestled in a cocoon of blankets and pillows, he was _waaay_ too comfortable to get up. You just have to wait, pee.

The smells and sounds of morning drifted through the open door: Bacon sizzling, cartoons on TV, and the pitter-patter of Zoe's bare feet on the kitchen floor. Blake's stomach rumbled, but he ignored that too. It was warm and cozy under here and _nothing_ was going to make him get up. Not breakfast, not having to use the bathroom, not even a fire.

Nope, he was staying _right_ here, maybe for the whole day.

He closed his eyes, drew a deep, contented breath, and let it out through his nose.

Without warning, the mattress dipped and something hard rammed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He ached his back, let out a groan, and clenched to keep his bladder from releasing. WHY? He pried his eyes open and recoiled with a cry of alarm. A horrible face started down at him, so close he could only see the whites of its evil, accursed, blood-thirsty -

"Wake up, doofus."

Oh, it's just Jordan.

She sat on the edge of the bed with her knees drawn up and her heels on a ledge created by the box spring, a glint in her eye and an eager smile on her pink lips. She wore blue shorts, a yellow tank top, and her braided blonde hair slung over her shoulder like a tail. Her fanny pack, which she'd worn for, like, ever, was gone, because they were both going into the fifth grade in September and in fifth grade, fanny packs are considered gay. A sixth grade girl named Leslie who lived a couple streets over told Jordan that only homos wear fanny packs, and because Jordan thought Leslie was cool, she took it to heart.

The ironic thing was: Now she didn't have anywhere to put her stuff. She crammed it all into her pockets, then had to hold her shorts up when she walked because of the added weight.

Throwing the blanket over his head, Blake groaned again. "Go 'way."

Jordan lips spread in a sly simper, and she leaned over like a sleek cat stalking its prey. Grabbing the comforter, she ripped it off and flung it aside, baring Blake to the cold, cruel world. He was dressed only in his underwear, and after the toasty heat under the blanket, the air was worse than December. He doubled over and blindly swatted at Jordan, hitting her arm. "Stop!"

"Get up then," Jordan said. She pushed up on one knee, the other leg dangling over the side, and hovered her hands over Blake's flabby stomach. "Or I'm gonna _tickle_ ya."

She looked like she meant it, too. Blake regarded her thoughtfully and considered his options. His cover was gone and with it his coziness, so he had no choice to get up, but...to be honest, he kind of liked it when Jordan tickled him. It made him feel...funny, like, in his stomach. It didn't used to be like that, but one day they were wrestling on the ground, him on bottom, her on top, and in their tussle, he grabbed her butt. He'd done that a lot in the past, but it was different this time and reminded him of when he touched her bare chest once. He suddenly became aware of the fact that she was a girl: Her tiny breasts smooshed against his chest, her femmine shape molded to his body...it was really strange. Like...he knew she was a girl and he thought girls were a little cute (but still dumb and probably cootie infested), but Jordan was Jordan and he never looked at her that way.

That day, he sort of did, though, and she noticed, because she blushed and jumped off of him so quick she fell over and landed on her rear. He was so embarrassed afterward he could barely even look at her.

But he thought about her. A lot. It made him feel bad, like he was doing something wrong, so he forced himself to stop. Even so, he still liked wrestling with her, and getting tickled by her, and every once in a while stealing a fleeting, shameful touch where he shouldn't.

He didn't do that a lot; most times he avoided those situations because he didn't particularly enjoy feeling like a weirdo. "Fine," he huffed. He sat up and planted his feet on the carpet. Looking disappointed, Jordan leaned back and shifted onto her butt. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Like switching on a light, her smile returned. "I have something really cool I wanna show you."

"Okay," Blake said. "Let me see."

Jordan rolled her eyes long-sufferingly. "It's not _here_. You have to get dressed and come with me."

Ugh! It was too early and probably too hot for this. Also, he hadn't even had breakfast or peed yet. And _Little Bear_ would be on Nick Jr. soon. Zoe loved _Little Bear_ and he pretended to watch it with her just to be a good brother, but he secretly liked it too. It was one of those things that grow on you after a while.

Like mold.

And Jordan.

Probably. He couldn't remember when they first met - it was waaaay beyond the dawn of time - but he got the feeling he might not have liked her at first. He did now, even though she was really frickin' irritating sometimes. She was cool, and smart, and always had his back, and her eyes sparkled in the right light like a pair of diamonds, and the musical sound of her giggles -

Now he felt funny again, like there were a bunch of butterflies in his stomach all trying to get out at once.

Where were they?

Oh, right, she had something to show him. "Where is it?" he asked warily.

"It's a surprise," Jordan said and jumped up. "Come on."

Ugh.

He got reluctantly to his feet and slumped his shoulders in a passive show of just how much he didn't feel like doing this, but Jordan wasn't paying attention. She went to the door, turned around, and leaned against it, her arms crossing over her chest.

Well, it looked like he wasn't getting out of _this_ one.

Resigned to his fate, he went to the dresser and pulled one of the drawers open, taking out a pair of black cargo shorts. He opened another, grabbing a blue and white striped shirt at random, and slammed it closed again. Jordan watched intently as he dressed, her eyes flicking up and down his body and her face blushing. A wistful little smile played at the corners of her mouth and she sucked her lips into her mouth as if to swallow it. Blake blushed too and looked down at his feet, self-conscious in a way he'd never been with her. Changing and stuff in front of her was like changing in front of his mom, why would it be awkward?

Bent with one leg in his shorts, he paused. "Can you turn around?"

Jordan's brow wrinkled in confusion and she looked at him. "Why?" she asked, as though he'd just asked her to do something completely unreasonable.

"You're creeping me out."

Her face darkened. "How am I creeping you out? I'm standing here." There was a defensive edge in her voice, like maybe she _did_ know how.

Blake started to respond, but cut himself off. "You just are, okay? Turn around."

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Jordan spun on her heels and faced the door, her arms folding once more. 'There. Happy?"

"Yes," Blake said. He hurriedly pulled up his shorts and yanked the shirt over his head. Jordan shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, and her neck twitched like a junkie jonesing for a fix. She turned her head just enough to see him in her periphery. "Stop!"

"Hurry up! You take forever to get ready. You're worse than Veronica."

That was a lie. Veronica needed at _least_ an hour to fix her hair, put on her make up, and get dressed. It took him, like, one minute. "No I'm not," he said indignantly. He bent over, snatched his shoes from the floor, and sat on the bed.

Jordan threw her head back. "Can I turn around now?"

"Yes."

She turned and favored him with the sullen stare of a girl who had been unfairly deprived of something she really wanted. He tied his laces and stood. "Ready?" she asked challengingly.

Blake motioned her out of the room. "Go on."

While she waited by the front door, Blake made a quick pit stop in the bathroom. Was there any feeling better than that first morning pee? If there was, he hadn't found it yet. Except a good poop.

And wrestling with Jordan.

But a good pee was totally better.

Much better.

In fact, it was the best thing ever. Waaay better than what's-her-name. What's-her-face was nothing compared to it. Not her eyes, not her elfin smile, not her silky honey wheat hair.

Actually, he pitied her because she was kind of on the ugly side. Poor girl.

Done, he shook his wee-wee, tucked it back into his shorts, and zipped them back up. In the living room, Zoe lay on the floor with her feet propped on the entertainment center and stared up at the TV over the rim of her sippy cup. On screen, _Little Bear_ was just starting, and Blake sagged in defeat.

Eh, that show was for babies anyway.

Dad stood at the stove frying eggs, and Blake's stomach rumbled again. "Can we have breakfast first?" he asked Jordan.

"I have crackers," she said, "you can eat on the way."

Crackers? He didn't _want_ crackers, he wanted bacon and eggs. He started to say so, but Jordan shot him a warning look, and he closed his mouth. Fine, I guess I'll just eat crackers then. "Can I go outside?" he called.

"You want food first?" Dad asked.

Yes, I do, but Jordan's being a dictator again. That was a new word Blake learned in school right before summer vacation. It meant someone who bosses you around, and when he heard it, he instantly thought of Jordan. "No," he drew mournfully.

"Alright," Dad acquiesced. _Suit yourself, kid,_ his tone said.

He was suiting Jordan, but okay.

Outside, the morning sun sat low behind the trailers across the street, its amber light spreading through treetops and casting long shadows. The overgrown grass glistened with dew and tickled Blake's ankles as he followed Jordan between two single wides. At Andrews Street, they paused to let a white school bus with MT. ZION BAPTIST CHURCH stenciled on the sides pass. "Are we going to your house?" Blake asked.

"Nope," Jordan said.

They crossed Andrews and started down Jordan's street. Trailers lined the way like crypts and a preternatural hush lay over the park, broken only by the distant cawing of crows. Jordan walked with a spring in her step and hummed a light, off-key tune, and Blake shuffled wearily along with stooped shoulders. The sun was barely up and already it was hot; warm, slimy sweat coated his forehead and coursed down his back like runny butter on a dinner roll, making him shiver. He didn't like being sweaty. It felt _wrong_.

Jordan's house appeared on the left, and even though she said they weren't going there, he hoped against hope they would.

But they didn't.

The street continued ahead before bending sharply to the left. Beyond the curve, the land sloped down to another street that ended in a cul-de-sac. A dense pine forest backed against the trailers and rustled in a stray breeze, and as soon as Blake laid eyes on it, he knew that's where they were going. "The woods?" he asked worriedly.

"The woods," Jordan confirmed.

"Why, though?"

He, Jordan, and other neighborhood kids had played in the forest before, but Mom and Dad didn't like him going in there. Dad said he might get hurt and Mom told him a guy named Jason Voorhees might get him. Blake didn't know who that was, and something told him he didn't _want_ to. "Because," Jordan said, "that's where the super cool thing I wanna show you is."

Really? How cool could something in the woods be? Oh, wow, nice rock; cool tree, Jordan, it _does_ look exactly like all the other ones, you were totally right, this was sooo worth getting out of bed and missing _Little Bear_ for. "I bet it's dumb," he huffed.

"No it's not," Jordan said.

They reached the end of the street and started down the hill. It wasn't very steep, but steep enough that they had to walk sideways to keep their balance. At the bottom, they picked up the sidewalk and made their way toward the cul-de-sac. Jordan went back to humming, then broke out in song, repeating the same verse over and over again because she couldn't remember the rest. "I got sunshine...in a bag; I got sunshine...in a bag; sunshine...in my bag."

Her voice was annoying, but enchanting too; he wanted to hear it more at the same time he wanted her to shut up. Was that strange? Liking something but not liking it too? Yeah, that _was_ strange. Who does that?

Only someone who's really confused.

To be fair, Blake was confused a lot. His grades weren't the best, even though Jordan helped him with his homework, and other kids said he was dumb. _No I'm not!_ he'd cry, but if he was honest, he was starting to think maybe they were right. His friendship with Jordan was one of the few things he unequivocally understood, but now even _that_ didn't make sense anymore, and he felt kind of lost.

At the end of the street, they passed between two double wides with big front porches and ducked under a clothes line. A skirt of tall brown grass separated the yard from the woods. A narrow dirt path wound through it and disappeared into the foliage like a tongue into a monster's yawning maw. Jordan went ahead, and Blake followed, their feet kicking up dust that hung in the still air like smoke.

Past the tree line, the path topped a slight rise and evened out. Sunlight fell through the treetops in narrow shafts and dappled the ground. Pine needles, brown and brittle with age, carpeted the forest floor on either side of the trail, and on their left, a fallen tree trunk lay on its side like a bone from some prehistoric beast. An owl hooted somewhere, and Blake gulped. He thought those only came out at night.

"My mom's taking me to see _Shrek_ tomorrow," Jordan said by way of conversation.

Blake cocked his head. "What's _that?"_

"The movie. You know, with the big green guy?"

The path dipped down to a trickling stream dotted with rocks, and they stepped over. Blake came up a little short and the heel of his left shoe splashed in the water. "The Jolly Green Giant?"

Jordan looked at him like he was crazy. "No. Shrek. His name is Shrek."

"I don't know," Blake said, annoyed and self-conscious, "I never heard of it."

"It has commercials on TV," Jordan pointed out.

He was starting to get irritated. He hated it when she made him feel dumb. He should make something up and return the favor. "Yeah, well... _The Billy Bob Show_ has commercials too, have you heard of that?"

When Jordan replied, his smug smile dropped. "Yep."

"Nu-uh."

Jordan closed her eyes and stuck her chin out in that arrogant way of hers that never failed to make Blake's blood boil."Yes I have."

"It's not even real. I just made it up."

Her lids flew open and she missed a step, then pulled herself together. "No you didn't," she said.

"Yes I did."

"No," she said, "you didn't. I saw the commercial before I came over this morning. It had Billy Bob and his dog in it."

Blake opened his mouth to call her a liar, but hesitated. She sounded really sure of herself. _Did_ she see a commercial for _The Billy Bob Show?_ It _could_ be real, right? Like...he threw out a random string of words that just happened to be the name of an actual show. That wasn't impossible.

Was it?

"You're lying," he charged.

"No, I'm not, it looked really cool. It's on ABC at eight every Friday. You can come over next week and we'll watch it."

Okay, that was a bold offer one wouldn't make unless they were being honest.

Then again, Jordan was kind of crafty. If he called her bluff and got proven wrong, she'd tease him about it. If he did and _she_ got proven wrong, he could tease _her_. "Fine," he said, "I bet it won't be on."

"I promise it will."

The woods had been getting thicker all this time, and now the trees crowded the path, their boughs blocking out most of the sunlight. It was at least ten degrees cooler in here than it was in the trailer park, and the sweat on Blake's skin turned cold, raising goosebumps on his back and arms. A hot stitch flared in his right side, and he realized he was panting for air like a dog on a hot day. He looked around and realized something else: He didn't recognize anything. He tried to remember whether or not he'd ever been this far back but couldn't. He _thought_ he'd never gone much past the stream, but the last time he was out here period was so long ago it existed on the misty border of his brain, there but barely visible. "How much farther?"

Jordan rolled her eyes up to the sky in thought. They shimmered in the megear light like twin pools of crystal clear water, and an unexplainable lump formed in Blake's throat. "Not much," she finally said.

 _Not much_ could mean _twenty feet_ or _twenty miles_. Jordan was really bad about that. She'd call him, say she would be at his house in five minutes, then show up an hour later like nothing. You could never tell with her, and that's one of the things that made her annoying.

"How's your grandpa?" she asked a few minutes later. The path topped a gentle ridgeline and the trees began to thin out, five, six, or even eight feet between them. Straight ahead, tangled undergrowth crowded a marshy bog. Bugs and bullfrogs sang to the new day, and somewhere overhead, a crow cawed unseen.

Blake's lungs burst hotly for air and the stitch in his side burned like the world's biggest, nastiest paper cut. Jordan had seen him at his worst more than once, but today, he was embarrassed by how bad off he was. "He's okay," he said, taking great pains to keep from gasping for breath.

Grandpa was sick with cancer, which made him almost as weak and tired as Blake. He lost a bunch of weight, and even though it was mean, he reminded Blake of a scarecrow.

Only not as scary.

He didn't know much about cancer, but Mom said it messes you up real bad, but that Grandpa was going to get over it soon. He trusted Mom and Dad, so he accepted her prognosis without question. If she said Grandpa was going to get better, he was going to get better, and the possibility of him _not_ had never once crossed his mind.

"Does he still have cancer?" Jordan asked.

"Yes," Blake said.

"My great aunt Shirley had cancer," Jordan said. "She died."

The path veered away from the bog and continued on for five hundred feet before emptying out in a grassy meadow. "Grandpa won't die," Blake said, "my mom says he'll be okay."

"She doesn't _know_ that," Jordan said soberly. "He could get really sick and his body won't be able to fight off the infection. Or maybe the cancer will get worse."

Well...she was right, that _could_ happen, but it wouldn't, not to Grandpa. Death was something that only happened on TV and to other people. The prospect of it striking someone close to him was inconceivable. "It won't," he said assuredly.

Jordan started to reply, but came to a stop and looked off to Blake's right, her face brightening like a lamp. "There it is."

He followed her line of sight. He saw trees, tall grass wavering in the breeze, a big, jagged rock, and...that was it. "Where?"

"There," Jordan said and pointed. He squinted his eyes and held his hand to his forehead to reduce the glare.

All he saw was a tree.

Sigh.

He should have known it'd be something dumb. "Wow, a tree," he said sarcastically, "I never saw one of _those_ before."

Jordan pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, looking more cute than angry, "No the tree, dummy, what's _in_ the tree."

What was she talking about, 'in the tree'? He looked up, and that's when he saw it. "Whoa," he breathed.

She grinned proudly "Told you."

A box shaped tree house with a slanted roof, its weathered gray wood covered by patches of bright green moss, was tucked in a nook where a thick branch met the trunk, a single, crudely cut window staring down at them like a gaping, all seeing eye. A half dozen crooked wooden planks nailed to the bark provided access, and a frayed hand rope dangling from the doorway swayed back and forth.

Blake stared at it in wonderment, then turned questioningly to Jordan. "Whose is it?"

"I dunno," she shrugged, "I think it's been here a really long time, so...mine, I guess."

He couldn't help a twinge of jealousy. Her own tree house? Lucky! "How did you find it?" he asked.

"I was taking a walk," she said.

Blake's brow creased incredulously. "All the way out here?"

"Uh, yeah," Jordan replied testily, " _I_ don't sit inside on my butt all day like _some_ people I know."

"Who?" Blake asked.

She sighed. "You."

"I don't sit on my butt all day," he snapped. He really didn't. Nine times out of ten he and Jordan were playing, riding bikes, or just walking around. Sometimes Dad took them to the swimming pool next to the clubhouse, and other times he set up the Slip 'n Slide in the yard. Blake was _always_ outside, and her saying he wasn't made him mad.

And also hurt his feelings.

A mischievous light twinkled in Jordan's eye, and she leaned over. "Yes you do," She poked his stomach and let out a high pitched _hehe_ like the Pillsbury Doughboy. The corners of her mouth turned up in an evil smile, and Blake's chest clutched with a combination of hurt, anger, and shame. Flashing, he shoved her back and spun on his heels. "I'm going home!"

"Wait..."

He stalked down the path, his hands balled into fists and his face set in a hard glower. Tears blurred his vision, and he blinked them away, his anger faltering. Jordan messed with him all the time and it never cut him as deeply as this had,

"Wait!"

She jogged after and pulled alongside him. "Blake, I was just playing." There was an abject quality to her voice that gave him pause.

"I don't sit on my butt all day," he grumbled.

She grabbed him by the shoulder and he turned to face her. "I know you don't," she said, "I was just picking on you. I didn't mean to upset you. Please don't leave."

Searching her eyes for traces of deception, Blake felt that weird and unpleasant stirring in the pit of his stomach again. His face, already flushed with heat and exertion, grew warmer, and all at once, the perplexing and perturbing urge to kiss her crested over him like a wave.

Part of him wanted to run away, but a bigger part of him wanted to stay right here. "Fine," he sighed, feigning a reluctance he didn't truly feel.

"I won't do it again," Jordan vowed, "promise. Now come on, I wanna show you the treehouse." She turned in a swish of sweet smelling air and started for the tree. Blake hesitated, then followed. Thoughts raced through his mind so fast he couldn't keep up, and his head started to ache. Why did he want to _kiss_ her? And why did he get fluttery in his stomach when he thought about her?

Did he...like her?

He was eleven and had begun to notice girls, but he had never really like-liked one before. He thought Stella and Cookie were both kind of cute, and his math teacher Ms. DiMartino was pretty, and there was this eighth grader named Nikki who rode her skateboard by his house a lot, but that was it. He hadn't had any crushes or anything like that, so that was, like, uncharted territory. He didn't now if he liked her or not, but...Jordan? She was his best friend! Liking her was wrong. It'd be like if you had a crush on your mom or something.

Gag.

He was so lost in meditation that he didn't realize Jordan had stopped until he bumped into her. The treehouse loomed directly above them, the rope creaking as it moved back and forth. "Be careful," she said, "hold onto the rope if you have to. It looks old but it's really strong."

With that, she scurried up the planks like a monkey. Blake craned his neck to watch; from far away, it didn't look that high off the ground, but here, it might as well be the Empire State Building.

At the top, Jordan knelt and peered over the edge. "Come on," she called. "Don't be a bwok-bwok-bwok chicken."

Blake studied the planks: Gray, splintered, and cracked in places, they looked like they'd fall apart the second he touched them. "Are you sure it's safe?" he asked.

"Of course it's safe."

Alright, then.

Deep breath.

Lifting his right foot, he placed it on the bottom rung and pulled himself up. The planks groaned underneath his shoes, but held. At the top, Jordan stuck out her hand, and he took it, bracing the other on the treehouse's floor. Jordan heaved and he pushed, and for a moment his feet hung over the edge, then he crawled in, the ancient boards hard on his knees. Jordan let go, and he rolled onto his butt.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.

Blake ignored her question and looked around. The interior was just as plain as the exterior: A single room, low ceiling, walls...corners. Not much to look at. Dead, brown leaves drifted across the floor and a few crumpled cans lay on their sides like wounded animals. Jordan went over to one, knelt down, and picked it up. "Beer," she said, "my dad drinks this stuff."

Getting to his feet, Blake made a slow circle around the parameter, looking at the walls, where a patchwork of graffiti had been carved, painted, and drawn by generations of trailer park kids. KURT '74; BT + OC; AC/DC; a pentagram; cuss words that he wasn't comfortable repeating; penises; and all kinds of stuff. It was like...the treehouse was a book and everyone who came along and added their own chapter until it was a chronicle of life.

Jordan stood beside him and scanned the writings too. Blake was hyper aware of her closeness and frowned at himself. Stop being dumb.

"I bet it's been here for a hundred years," she said in a low, wonder filled tone.

"I don't know," Blake said, "I don't think it's been here _that_ long. Maybe, like, seventy-five years."

Jordan hummed thoughtfully.

After reading all the graffito, they sat side-by-side in the archway with their legs dangling over the side. The sun was high and bright and wet heat swaddled them like damp wool. Blake's stomach rumbled, and in response, Jordan slipped a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers out of her pocket. She ripped it open, took three out for herself, and handed the rest to Blake. "I like to come here and think sometimes," she said, her feet kicking jauntily back and forth.

"About what?" Blake asked and shoved one of the crackers into his mouth.

She opened her mouth, then bunched her lips, as though rethinking what she was going to say and deciding not to say it at all. "Nothing, really, just...stuff."

Blake swallowed and licked cracker mush from his teeth and gums. "What kind of stuff?"

Her swinging legs fell still and she stared down at her lap, where her hands were balled as if in prayer. "Nothing."

Down in the clearing, a gray rabbit with a bushy white tail slunk through the grass like a predator running down its prey. "You sure?"

Jordan nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure."

For a while they sat in silence, the only sound the munch of crackers and the croaking of frogs from the marsh. "So," Jordan said and favored Blake with a sidelong glance, "this place is pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah, it is," he admitted and met her eyes. They was no light for them to sparkle in, but they were breathtaking anyway, and Blake's chest constricted. Jordan blushed and looked at her lap again, her lips sucking in to hide her smitten little smile. Blake's heartbeat sped up and he, too, darted his gaze to his lap.

There were a lot of things he didn't understand in life, and the new feelings blossoming in his chest were among them.

Maybe…

Maybe he _did_ like her.


	230. July 2001: Part 2

**Catlikesebastian: Not exactly.**

Bobby Jr. pulled to the front gate for the final time on Tuesday, July 13.

It was one of those blaringly hot Southern California days that remind you you're living on the edge of a desert - clear sky, pounding sun, no breeze. It hadn't rained in three weeks and wildfires raged in the higher hills, their smoke visible from his front lawn. If the flames came much closer, they'd have to evacuate.

Again.

When he came to the entrance, Governor Davis was on KNX blasting the Bush administration for not allocating California enough federal disaster relief funds...or something, he was only half paying attention. Traffic on the 405 was heavier than usual, and the frustration of that conspired with the heat to give him a sickening headache.

Marcus leaned out of the booth and checked Bobby's ID with a brisk professionalism that always left him feeling cold. George, the old guy who held this post when Bobby first started back in 1990, gave it a real personal touch, you know? He'd smile, laugh, ask you how you were, that kind of thing. The new guy barely even looked at you. It was easy to believe he was just another machine, an automated bucket of bolts that did exactly what it was supposed to, but nothing more.

Not to sound like Uncle Lincoln, but the whole world was that way now. Technology was taking over and everything was becoming mechanized. Once upon a time, there was a switchman behind the lever, now the lever didn't need an operator; it worked alone.

Call him crazy, but he missed the way TV stations used to sign off at night. The techs, cameramen, and news anchors all went home at the end of the day, and it made things feel more human. Now, they stayed on 24/7, an endless loop of technobabble served up by computers that could do anything...except feel, live, laugh, and love.

The crossbeam lifted, and toing the gas, Bobby guided the Datsun through the lot. People moved back and forth along the lane and the big doors of the studios were thrown open to reveal the proceedings beyond - lights, camera, action.

Bobby let out a wistful sigh and parked in his spot before Studio 12. He was going to miss this a lot more than he thought. The sights, the sounds, the constant buzz and hum of activity, the sets, the zeitgeist…

Acting was something he got into by accident and stuck with because he needed a purpose, but over the years, he came to genuinely love it, something he hadn't realized until he decided to leave it. Some days it frustrated him to no end - diva costars, demanding shoots, 16 hour takes - but now, looking back, he enjoyed every minute of it.

Maybe a little _too_ much. He stared doing this because he wanted to do something; he was tired of being a loser riding his rich wife's coattails and maybe he had something to prove, both to the world and to himself. Before he landed his first gig, the only job he'd ever had was washing dishes in a diner...and he wasn't even very good at it. He wasn't very smart and he didn't have any natural talent, and around the time he met Lola, he came to the bitter conclusion that he was just a schmuck. Then he started getting parts and you know what? He was pretty good. He could smile, laugh, cry on cue, and look happy when he was actually sad, and sad when he was happy. He wasn't the best, but he finally found something that he could do, something real and respectable, something that was fully and uniquely _his_. Not Lola's, not Uncle Lincoln's, _his_.

He threw himself into it with the gusto of a dying man accepting Jesus, and it became the centerpiece of his life. He made time for his kids, yeah, but acting was his identity, the way a writer is a writer and an artist is an artist. Those aren't 9 to 5 professions you clock off from and go home. They're who you _are_ , as fundamental as your race or your gender. That, Bobby Jr. thought as he walked through the side door and down the hall, was not healthy in excess. You can't define yourself by what you do, you should define yourself by the contents of your heart.

And in his heart was his family.

His daughter, whom he loved more than anything (except for her brother...they were dead even) was hurting, and he didn't even notice. He was too busy playing big time TV star to see the signs of melancholy in her eyes, the downcast of depression in her face, and because of it, he almost lost her.

What happened shocked him back to reality like a cold draught of water, and acting lost all meaning. He would miss this place, but he his kids came first. They were who he really was, not this.

After meeting with Dean the producer and looking over the script, he stepped into his dressing room and put Richard Parker on one more time: Black slacks, a silky blue button up, and a black blazer. In the mirror, he looked older than he was, and he flashed his reflection a tired smile that did not touch his eyes. The magic was gone, his part played. If he wanted to prove something, he did it, if he wanted to contribute to his marriage, he had; he and Lola were not big spenders, and he put most of his money away. For every dollar he made he had ten pieces of fan mail to go with it, and those missives validated him in a way that not even his paycheck could. People liked him, or they hated him, but they felt something, and that was the point of acting, wasn't it? To make your audience feel? He once resolved to save every letter he got, but that went out the window less than a year in; there were so many, and they kept coming, coming, coming, like letters from Hogwarts, never stopping, barely slowing.

At one time, he was the most famous soap star on daytime television, and that, he imagined, would sustain him. Maybe one day, when the kids were grown and out of the house, he could get back into it, or maybe he'd settle back into being a couch potato. Only time would tell. Right now, though, Stephaine needed him, and he intended to be there for her.

Following hair and make-up, where he sat stock still for nearly an hour and allowed three women to work over him just for three minutes of screen time, he went on set. The soundstage sat in the middle of a darkened, hanger-like room with concrete floors crisscrossed by fat wires, lights on metal tripods pointed at a cutaway cross section of Richard Parker's living room. Technicians set about tasks like worker ants on a mound, and the director, a fat man named Sam Scott in a green vest over a puffy sweater despite the heat, held an animated discussion with Amber Paulson. Tall and thin with small breasts, shapeless hips, and blonde hair, she wore a red dress, earrings, bright red lipstick, and a hounded expression not unlike a deer frozen in onrushing headlights. The baton was passing to her now, and the weight of the world rested square on her shoulders. Not too long ago, it was him looking like a kid who wandered too far into the deep end, and the recollection of his trepidation brought a wistful smile to his lips.

She'd do fine. She was a good actress and a Grade A bitch on camera. Not as good as Sandy, but no one was.

Bobby walked over and stood with them, his hands going to his hips. "...just do that, and it should work out," the director was saying.

Amber nodded jerkily.

Turning, Scott clapped Bobby on the arm. "We're gonna start with your scene, you saw the script, right? I don't have to tell you what to do?"

Episodic series such as soap operas are directed by multiple people. Sam was a recent addition to the pool and had helmed five episodes since 1999. Bobby had been around so long and played his part so well that all Sam ever had to do was yell "Cut" and "action." It was the weirdest thing: The moment he got onstage, the spirit of Richard Parker possessed him, and he fell into the roll like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

"Yeah, I went over it with Dean."

"Good," Scott said, "we'll go in five."

He wandered off, and Amber let out a pent up breath. "Nervous?" Bobby asked.

"A little," she admitted. "It's just…"

"Pressure?" Bobby asked.

She nodded. "Yeah, lots and lots of pressure."

"I had the same thing when Sandy left," he told her. "I was scared shitless."

"So am I."

"Don't be," Bobby said, "it's nothing. Just be you."

She sighed. "That's easy for _you_ to say. You're _the_ Richard Parker."

That made him laugh. The _Richard Parker,_ as though he were someone special.

In a way, he was. Not artistically and not in terms of raw talent, but had there ever been a soap vlilian as alternately reviled and revered as Richard Parker? Had one ever captured the public's attention as thoroughly? He didn't think so, but he was no expert on the history of soaps. That wasn't all his doing; every great singer, actor, and writer who skyrockets to fame does so not based on their own ability alone, but because of a perfect celestial alignment _combined_ with their ability. You can play guitar like a motherfucker, but if you come along too early or too late, or don't get the right breaks, you won't go anywhere. The time has to be just right, and you have to do the right things, associate with the right people. Stardom like that which _he_ enjoyed is rarely the work of one man. Behind Richard Parker, there were directors, writers, make-up artists, costume designers, lighting techs who knew just the right angles and tricks to accentuate his features.

Amber wasn't him, but she had almost everything he did, and he was sure she'd do well for herself.

He said as much, and she pursed her lips in thought. "I guess," she allowed, "I'm just...kind of freaking out here." She laughed humorlessly, and Bobby patted her shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, really. You'll be a great villain."

"Thanks," she said, "I sure hope so."

Ten minutes later, Bobby stood on the soundstage in front of the hot lights, the living room laid out on three sides around him. He couldn't see past the dazzling brilliance, but he could feel a dozen sets of eyes watching. "Action," Scott called, his voice rolling through the darkness, and communing with Richard Parker as he had almost every day since he started, Bobby crossed the stage at a slow, haughty saunter, picked up a set of keys from an end table, and went out a door that lead to a dark space behind the set.

"Cut!"

They moved to the next soundstage over, this one an exterior of the Parker home complete with fake bushes and a driveway, a black Bently sitting with its nose pointed at a garage door opening on nothing. It was much larger than the first, and Bobby's step faltered when he saw it; since the last shoot, they expanded it, probably just for this scene alone.

When everyone was in place, Scott's voice rang out, and affecting the disinterested air of a man going about the mundanity of life, Bobby came off the step, crossed the astroturf lawn, and slipped in behind the Bently's wheel. He pulled the door closed, inserted the key into the ignition, and turned it.

"Cut!"

The camera would pan to the front of the house right before the explosion; firelight would flicker across the facade, flaming debris would shower the yard, and Amber would appear in the front window, a look of grim triumph on her face. He joked to Dean that one of the bits of wreckage that fell on the lawn should be his severed head. The producer _flatly_ turned him down.

Getting out of the car, he walked off the stage. Scott got up from his chair as Bobby came over, and Dean, standing with his arms crossed, nodded to himself in satisfaction. "That's it?" Bobby asked.

"That's it," Dean confirmed.

"You did good," Scott said, "you know, I'm gonna miss working with you. You make my job easier."

Bobby couldn't suppress a rush of pride. "Took me a while to get the hang of it," he said. When he first started, he was stiff, wooden, and shaky before going on, now it came as naturally as taking a breath.

Later, after the shoot broke for lunch, Bobby walked around the set one last time like a man preparing to leave his beloved childhood home forever. The air crackled with change, and with it came the revelation that this may have been home at one point, but wasn't anymore. Every man must strike out from home sooner or later, and right now, it was time he struck out too.

Before leaving, Dean brought him into one of the conference rooms off the main hall. As he partly suspected, everyone was there, and as soon as he walked through the door, they let out a thunderous " _SURPRISE!"_ He smiled bemusedly and fought back a demure blush. A large cake with white and blue frosting sat in the middle of the table and a banner hung from the wall in a giant upside down U. HAPPY RETIREMENT.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"We decided to throw you a little party," Dean said, "as a thank you for getting the hell out of our hair."

Bobby's eyes flicked to the pile of wrapped presents beside the cake and chuckled. "I shoulda done this years ago."

Later on, full of cake and good cheer from all the hugs, handshakes, and reminiscing, he carried an armload of goodbye gifts he could scarcely see over and shoved them into the car. Slamming the door, he looked up at Studio 12, committing every detail to memory...then got in and drove away.

Roberto Santiago Jr., and with him Richard Parker, had left the building.

* * *

The day had come.

He couldn't put it off any longer.

Like Christ in the Garden, he prayed for the burden to be taken from him, but also like Christ, God ignored him. He expected as much and didn't resent the Big Guy for not changing His plan. _Hold up, guys, Lincy-winky doesn't_ want _to die, let's give him a pass, huh?_ Everyone has to pass away at some point, it's just the way things are. You can be angry, you can rage against God, fate, and your own mortality, you can even cry until you're all out of tears, but none of those things worked. He knew...he had tried them all.

Part of dying was telling your loved ones you were dying. It was messy, painful, and he'd rather take another tour of 'Nam than have to do it, but like that kid on that sitcom said, them's the breaks. Several times during the past few days, he caught himself wishing he'd croak in his sleep and be spared, but that was selfish and only served to steel his resolve.

He had to man up and do this. Think of it as a rite of passage or a baptism by fire or what the hell ever you want. To him, going through with this was an act of transformation, atonement for his pride and self-serving nature. It was a threshold to cross, a means of advancement, the one and only way to progress. If he chickened out now, his selfishness and cowardice would cement like clay in a fire. The last time, the saying goes, pays for all, and this was _his_ last time.

Lying in bed on the evening of July 14, soft purple twilight ghosting across the window pane and low orange glow spilling in from the hall, Lincoln stared restlessly up at the ceiling and mentally readied himself for what was to come. Ronnie Anne told Luan that they wanted to talk to the girls alone, and even though Luan raised a questioning brow, she didn't protest; currently, she was having dinner at Lori and Bobby's, and Jessy and Ronnie Anne sat together in the living room, watching the nightly news, by the sound of it. Alex was on her way home from work with plans to stop in. Ronnie Anne told her it was important, so she'd be here, it was just a matter of when.

Hopefully never...and hopefully soon.

He wanted it over with, but he also didn't want it over with. Dark, slushy suspense pooled in the pit of his guts like black ice, and pangs of dread rippled through his stomach. How could someone be so conflicted? How can a house be so divided against itself and continue to stand?

One of life's great mysteries, he supposed. People are contradictory creatures but they always find a way to justify or compartmentalize it. We are the only beings on earth blessed with that peculiar spark of higher reasoning, and we constantly manage to misuse it. Lincoln himself wasn't innocent, no one is. The Bible tells the story of Adam and Eve, the first man and woman. They lived a life of blissful ignorance until Satan tempted Eve to eat fruit from a forbidden tree, and she in turn tempted Adam. On eating it, they realized they were naked and tried to hide themselves - gone was their simple nature, replaced by knowledge. Lincoln didn't know if that actually happened or not, but it served as a fine metaphor for human consciousness. It's a big responsibility to bear, one that simple beings such as us were not meant to shoulder. We set grand ideals, we know, in our heart, what is right and what is wrong, but we can't always meet them, and even though we recognize that which is wrong, we're still drawn inexorably to it like moths of a killing flame.

We like to think we are free, but we're not. The birds are free, the fox is free, the fish are free...man is enslaved to a standard he can never reach, saddled with a heart and mind and something else, something more, a little flicker of special logic called a soul. We are two beings in one: An animal driven by biological instincts on one hand, and a spirit governed by principles, values, and God's innate law on the other.

At our very core, we are a contradiction, an impossibility, a freak of nature spawned by being dragged into the revealing light of a knowledge we were never supposed to have.

Where was he again?

Oh, right. He was torn between wanting to tell Alex and Jessy and get it off his chest and not wanting to tell them. He was going to do it, his mind was made up, but...goddamn it, he really wished he didn't have to.

But like another old saying said: Wish in one hand and shit in the other, see which one fills up. That was more cynical than he wanted to be, but it was true. Father Jack told him not to expect a miracle, and he didn't; God could wiggle His little finger and save him, but He probably wouldn't. He could wish and pray all he wanted, but he was going to die. He didn't ask for this, didn't want it, but he had it.

Letting out a sigh of resignation, Lincoln sat ponderously up and steadied himself against a wave of lightheadedness. His leaden body weighed a thousand pounds and gravity pushed down on him like a pair of insistent hands ( _lay down, Linc, goddamn_ ) but he got to his feet instead. After using the bathroom, he shuffled out into the living room. Jess sat cross legged on the couch with Allison's head resting in her lap; the little girl stared rapt at the television, where Ed, Edd, and Eddy fled down a suburban street in terror from a trio of trailer park sluts. This was the show that had the kid who carried around a plank of wood with a face on it, right? That made him laugh because Mom told him once that when she was a kid, she played with anything she could get her hands on since toys were either nonexistent back then or too expensive for her folks to afford, he couldn't remember which. That lead him to believe wood boy was really goddamn porn and he almost felt bad for him until he remembered he was a cartoon character.

He didn't like that show anyway, he was partial to Spongebob;. He didn't think he was supposed to root for Squidward and Mr. Krabs, but he did anyway. He didn't know why, but they both reminded him of someone, and the Krusty Krab reminded him of some _where_.

Okay, he knew exactly what they reminded him of. Himself. Mr. Krabs was the sweaty, money-grubbing owner or a trash heap restaurant and Squidward was an old grump who hated everything, especially his annoying neighbor. Then you had the Krusty Krab, which was a goddamn dump with food so good it made you cum in your pants, an underwater version of Flip's if he ever saw one.

In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne stood at the stove and stirred the contents of a metal pot with a wooden spoon. Steam billowed into her face and the warm scent of Mexico permeated the house, spicy and good; surprisingly, his stomach growled. Hungry, asshole?

Limping over to the table, Lincoln sat heavily and winced at the grating of his bones. Owing to the cancer, the cartilage that cushioned them was rapidly wearing away. In three months, he'd probably be confined to a wheelchair. By January or February, bed ridden.

A shiver went down his spine, and he shoved those thoughts away. Contemplating death was bad enough, but thinking of what came before was even worse.

Ronnie Anne tapped the spoon on the rim of the pot, sat a lid on, and set the spoon aside. She turned, saw him, and sent her eyes to the floor, as though they were partners in a crime so horrible she could barely stand to look at him...or herself. "Hey."

"Hey."

"How you feel?"

"Better," he lied. Every evening, sometimes before dinner and sometimes after, he laid down for an hour or two. He usually dozed, but today he didn't; too much on his mind. "What's for dinner?"

Sitting across from him, Ronnie Anne brushed a limp strand of hair from her face. "Menudo rojo."

Made with beef tripe, onions, chili peppers, hominy, cilantro, and lime, red menudo is a light, mildly spicy soup that every old wife in Mexico could make in her sleep. Ronnie Anne made it once or twice a month, and Lincoln sucked it up the way a Democrat sucks up tax dollars. It played hell on his ass the next day, but it was worth it. "Sounds good," he said.

"Are you hungry?" she asked with a note of hope, as though he could eat his way out of his graveward trajectory.

"Actually, yes."

The last time he ate was that morning. He had crackers and chicken broth. His stomach had been upset since the previous afternoon and it was all he trusted himself to keep down. "Good," Ronnie Anne said, "I made a lot."

He probably wouldn't eat much, but there would be leftovers, and the only thing better than hot menudo was cold menudo.

The front door opened and closed, and Lincoln tensed.

Alex was here.

Ronnie Anne leaned over to see around him, and something akin to fear flickered in her eyes. He turned just as Alex came in from the living room. "I smell something yummy," she said.

Abruptly. Lincoln's appetite was gone.

For weeks he'd been waiting for this very moment the way a condemned man waits for his date with the gallows, and finally it was here.

"Menudo," Ronnie Anne said. "It's almost done, do you want some?"

Alex sank into the chair on Lincoln's right. "Nah, me and Tim are taking Blake and Zoe to Chuck E. Cheese's." She darted her gaze apprehensively from him to Ronnie Anne. "So...what's up?"

Just like Lincoln suspected, she knew that whatever they had to tell her, it was important and somehow related to his sickness. "Let's go in the living room," Ronnie Anne said and stood, "this chair's hurting my back."

Allison sat cross legged on the floor and stared up at the TV; Blossom, Buttercup, and Bubbles soared high above Townsville, leaving pink, blue, and green contrails in their wake. He and Ronnie Anne took up position on one side of the couch and Alex and Jessy on the other. Both of them looked edgy. Lincoln swallowed with an audible click, and Ronnie Anne laid a comforting hand on his knee. He was grateful for her touch, and returned it, their fingers threading together and squeezing.

He could always count on Ronnie Anne to be there for him. Through thick and thin, good times and bad. He stroked his thumb along her finger and drew as much strength from her as he could. How should he start? What should he say? Jessy and Alex looked at him expectantly, and he'd never felt as put on the spot as he did in that moment. He knew in an instant what it was like to rip your pants on stage in front of a million people - all those eyes boring into you, seeing you at your weakest and most vulnerable. A hot blush spread across his face and he took a deep, calming breath.

Ronnie Anne gave his hand another squeeze and looked at him, her eyes questioning. _Do you want me to do it?_ they seemed to ask.

Yes, he did, but that was his weakness and selfishness rearing its ugly head again.

That was the old Linc, the cynic who believed in nothing and took his life for granted.

He sighed and forced himself to meet Alex's eyes. She anxiously chewed the inside of her bottom lip. She looked so much like Ronnie Anne at thirty, but he could see himself in her plain as day, and perhaps it was his hurbis speaking, but that made her all the more beautiful. He loved Jessy just as much, but Alex was different...she was special. She stood as a testament to his love for Ronnie Anne, his commitment and devotion made flesh.

"I, uh...so I have something to tell you." He looked at Jessy; she was just as tense and drawn as her sister. She was not his daughter by blood, but he adored her the same way he did Alex, and he was so grateful that he got to be her father. Yes, he was selfish even now, because if given the chance, he wouldn't change a thing with her. He'd consign Luan to prison all over again as long as it meant having Jessy. She brought something to his life and family that would have been missing otherwise, and he couldn't imagine life without her. "I…"

He trailed off and tried to collect his thoughts. He and Ronnie Anne talked about how to do this, but neither one had reached a conclusion on what to say or do.

The best way, he thought, was quick and crisp, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

"I'm dying."

The air left the room in a rush, and the color drained from Jessy's face. For a split second, Alex stared at him uncomprehendingly, then his words sank in and her eyes widened in alarm. "W-What?"

Jessy's hand clutched the front of her blouse, lending her the appearance of a woman in the throes of a heart attack and the look of shock in her face cut Lincoln deeply.

"I'm dying," he repeated. "And...I have been this whole time."

Alex's mouth opened and closed strickenly, then she threw her hands up. "I-I thought you were fine."

"I'm not," he said, "I didn't want to tell you so I...I lied." He told them everything, starting with the fatigue of March. He gave them both an amended version, but this time he was honest. It wasn't cancer, it was hemoteliosis; he wasn't going to get better, there wasn't a cure.

Alex and Jessy listened in stunned silence, and when he was finished, they gazed brokenly into space, their expressions blank like two traumatized refugees. Alex opened her mouth, then closed it again and slowly shook her head in denial. Tears flooded her eyes and she pressed her quivering lips tightly together.

"Oh, honey," Ronnie Anne said softly. She let go of Lincoln's hand and took their daughter in her arms, whereupon Alex began to cry in earnest, the sound of her misery like broken glass in Lincoln's soul.

Jessy held her trembling hand to her mouth and rapidly blinked back her own tears. Lincoln haltingly held out his hand, and she came to him like she had when she was a little girl with a nightmare still lingering in her mind. He wrapped his arms around her and she broke down, shudders wracking her frame. Allison sat on her knees and watched them fixedly, her brow wrinkled in confusion. _What are you doing to my mom? Why is she crying?_ Lincoln stroked Jessy's hair and shushed her. Hot, stinging tears leaked down his cheeks, but he kept his composure.

Ronnie Anne pressed Alex's head to her bosom and brushed her fingers through her hair. She, too, was crying; in the past ten minutes, she had aged ten years, the lines of her face deeper, and more. Alex looked up at him, eyes watery, and he held out his other arm. She shifted and buried her face in the front of his shirt, no longer sobbing but not still either. He hugged both his girls to his chest and placed a tearful kiss on the side of each one's head. Ronnie Anne blotted her eyes with the heel of her palm and took a shivery breath.

When the storm had passed and everyone was as calm as they could be, Alex and Jessy both sat up straight, looking tired and washed out. "What did the doctor say?" Alex asked. "How l-long do you have?"

"At this rate, six months," Lincoln said, "maybe a little more."

"Did you get a second opinion?" she asked.

For some reason, that struck him as darkly funny and he snorted.

"I'm serious," she said, "you can go to other doctors a-a-and they might know more."

She was in denial just as her mother had been. Taking her hand, he looked her in the eyes. "There are no other doctors, Alex," he said, "this is a terminal disease. It's just how it is." His eyes strained to lower, to hide themselves from the raw, animal fear in her liquid browns like a sinner from the might of God, but he forced them to stay. "It's my time, and...I'm okay with that. I don't want to go, but we all do." He stopped himself before saying _It's God's will_. He had never spoken of God to her and doing so now would make him look -

Pride, how the hell are you, old friend?

"It's God's will," he forced.

He expected bewilderment ( _God? Since when do you believe in God?_ " but didn't get it. "You can find someone else," she insisted. "Go to the Mayo Clinic or something. They're the best in the country and -"

"They'll tell me the same thing," he said.

"They might not," Alex said, passion creeping into her voice, "it might be a misdiagnosis or they might have ways of better treating it." Fresh tears dribbled down her cheeks. "You can _try,_ " she said.

He could...and he'd wind up being told the same thing Patel told him. He started to say as much, but the pleading in her eyes stopped him. Allison sat in Jessy's lap now, lids heavy, head nodding. Jessy circled her arms around her and held tight, her eyes rapidly blinking. "It's worth a try," she offered and looked at him. "It couldn't hurt anything."

Lincoln sighed. He _hadn't_ sought a second opinion. Everyone around him, a bevy of doctors, nurses, and assorted medical professionals, were certain that he was dying, and so, now, was he. His body was fading, his mind turning to mush. Sometimes just sitting up and thinking clearly were hard. He'd never died before, but if this wasn't what it felt like, he'd hate to ever meet the actual thing.

Nodding, he took a deep breath through his nose. "Alright. I'll...I'll do that, okay. But chances are, I'm dying. I want you girls to be ready for that."

"I know you don't want to believe it, honey," Ronnie Anne said tenderly, "I didn't either, but…" her voice broke and she wiped her eyes.

Seeing her mother - so strong and sure her entire life, even after being shot - barely hanging on brought it home, for Alex sucked her lips into her mouth again and pressed her hand to her temple in a woebegone gesture. Lincoln wanted to offer her a glimmer of hope - _maybe another doctor really_ will _find out I'm not dying_ \- but he didn't. Intentionally giving her false hope to assuage his own suffering would be the cruelest and most self-centered thing he had ever done. The point of telling them was to prepare them. Otherwise, he might as well have kept his trap shut.

He compromised with himself. "We'll see," he said, "but I don't think it will change anything."

Before Alex left, Lincoln said, "Don't tell Blake, I wanna do it myself." He looked at Jessy next. "Don't tell your mother. I want to get everyone together at some point soon and do it."

She nodded.

At the door, Alex hugged him fiercely and clung to him for a long time. "I love you, Daddy," she said.

"I love you too, honey," he replied and kissed her cheek.

When she was gone, he sat on the couch next to Jessy, who held Allison in her arms; the little girl was asleep, head lolling to one side. They sat in silence for a while, the air heavy between them. She hugged Allison tightly, her chin resting on the toddler's head, looking so much like a little girl clutching her teddy bear for comfort that Lincoln's chest pinched. Tears stood in her pink rimmed eyes and streaked down her face like shooting stars, collecting on her jaw and falling as raindrops. In the kitchen, Ronnie Anne stirred the pot with the stiff and listless movements of a robot.

Lincoln struggled for something to say, something to dry his daughter's tears, but came up with nothing.

"You know I'm proud of you, right?" he asked.

Jessy swallowed. "Yes," she said uncertainly.

"I am," he said. "And even though you have both of your parents now and...and you're grown up, you're still my little girl."

She opened her mouth, but closed it again and squeezed her eyes shut, cutting off her tears.

Later on, in bed, Lincoln lay on his side and stared into the darkness, the scene playing over and over in his mind. It felt good to have it out of the way, but he'd have to do it again.

That would come later, though; right now, emotionally drained, sleep came instead.

And thankfully, Lincoln Loud did not dream.


	231. August 2001: Part 1

**Kameronscott33: You can count the number of remaining chapters on one hand.**

* * *

 **Lyrics to** _ **Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde**_ **by Travis Tritt (2000);** _ **Follow Me**_ **Uncle Kracker (2001)**

On October 10, 1964, a lean, powerfully built quarterback for the University of Arizona ran the ball seventy-five yards to score the winning touchdown in double overtime against the West Texas Rattlesnakes. 10,000 people crowded into the stands that day and an estimated 15,103 watched from afar, packed around black and white TVs in homes, bars, dance halls, and barber shops from El Paso to Phoenix. Right up to the very end, the game was a back-and-forth nail-biter that more closely resembled a Homeric battle than football. When the final play began, Lynn Loud Jr. was on the verge of defeat: Tired, sore, and slightly concussed (though he wouldn't know that until later), he held out no hope for victory. In the huddle beforehand, the team captain, Johnny Benson (who sold insurance over the phone now) ordered the ball thrown to Lynn. _You're our best hope, Loud,_ he said. Lynn begged to differ, he was barely standing up! He tried to protest, but Benson wouldn't hear it. Lynn was the third fastest man they had, first at that very moment, as the other two were injured in the hotly contested third and fourth quarters. It was either give it to him...or lay down and let the Rattlesnakes fuck them.

The weight of the entire world bore down on Lynn as he streaked toward the end zone, but digging deep, he found a reserve of energy he didn't even know he had; his feet flew over the turf, his free arm pumped furiously, and the back of his neck tingled. He knew they were back there, three guys, maybe four, and that if he let up even a little, they would steamroll him.

So he ran. Faster than he ever had before and ever would again; he shoveled everything he had into the fire and for a few glorious moments, it was like he was a bird soaring through the autumn sky.

The frenzied cheering of the crowd, rejuvenated by his tenacity, carried him into the end zone, and as soon as he was sure he won the game, he promptly collapsed. His team mates rushed over, hoisted him onto their shoulders, and held him aloft before the spectators like a prized trophy. He was bestowed the Most Valuable Player award, interviewed on TV, and for weeks afterwards, people he didn't even know would call out to him as he made his way across the commons or through Tucson. "Go get 'em, Lynn!" or a simple "Number 9!" after his jersey number. In the all too brief span of a month, he was a hero, and he basked in it like a cat in a warm bar of sunshine.

Then, just like that, it was over. People forgot about Lynn Loud Jr. Not too long after, he met Kathy and finished school. They married, had Lynn III, and fell into the monotony of daily life. He worked with Big Bill at the car lot until 1974, when Bill died and he took over. By '94, Lynn III was pretty much running the place herself, and though he wasn't comfortable giving it up entirely, he stepped back far enough that he couldn't even think of Big Bill's as his anymore.

All through his adult life, between work and his family, he never had much time for himself. He and Kathy took Lynn to Disneyland a few times, and they went to Vegas alone in '88, where they played the slots, took in shows (Wayne Newton, Andy Williams, and Sammy Davis Jr. among them), and ate at the buffets. Other than that, he was always between a rock and a hard place with no wiggle room, and sometimes, he'd look wistfully forward to retirement, when all his time would be his and he could do _anything_ he wanted.

Well, he got there alright, and he uncovered a dirty little secret.

Retirement sucks. He golfed, attended Elk Lodge meetings, bowled on Thursday nights, but even still, he had this nagging, restless cabin fever that he just couldn't shake.

Last year, Lynn roped him into doing a commercial for the business, and at first, he wanted to do it about as bad as he wanted to see his dentist. He relented, but he wasn't entirely happy about it. He put on the cowboy boots, blazer, and ten gallon hat, and felt like a goddamn fool.

Only something happened.

People _liked_ it.

Just like they had in '64, strangers called out to him in public. "Big Lynn! Got any Hondas?" and, "Hey, car guy! That's what I call a deal!" At the bank, barbershop, and grocery store, everyone addressed him as BIG LYNN without him even introducing himself - they knew from TV and that never failed to tickle him. He started wearing the get-up everyday so people recognized him, and he talked in that fake Southern accent because that's what they expected. He pushed for more commercials, and billboards too - the business didn't need them, but he wanted them anyway.

He was never under any delusions. He liked the attention. He wouldn't admit that out loud, but he did to himself, and he justified it too. Now, it might sound bad, but his life wasn't exactly fulfilling. Of his siblings, two were famous - Lincoln for his heroics in Vietnam, Luna for her music - and Luan...well, he didn't envy Luan, but the more he thought on it, the more he could respect her. What she did and what she believed were both wrong, but she stood up for something. Meanwhile, he was hawking used cars to little old ladies. He loved his wife and daughter and wouldn't trade them for anything, but he always felt a little empty, like he was missing something.

Accomplishment.

Outside of being a good husband and father - two things that happen in the natural course of things, just like aging - he never did anything. Someone gave him a successful business and he managed to keep it running. Boy howdy, what an achievement. He made good money, had a wonderful wife, a daughter he loved, and a granddaughter he adored, but a man needs to go out and grab triumph by the horns, it's in his nature.

Aside from that big game in '64, he never had.

Maybe that was it, or part of it, or maybe it wasn't, who the hell knew? What he _did_ know is that for the first time in his life, he felt like somebody.

On the morning of August 15, he pulled his Caddy into the parking lot behind the showroom and got out into the arid desert day. He wore gray slacks and a gray western jacket over a white button up that was already soaked with sweat. Aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and a white Stetson cast his face in shadows. He slammed the door, crossed the lot, and went inside, the cool air breaking over him like a blessed wave. He slipped the glasses off and looked around. Lynn sat at the desk, glaring at the computer screen, and a couple of the salesmen milled around talking and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups.

He walked over to the desk, boot heels clicking on the floor, and leaned against the edge. He waited for Lynn to acknowledge him, and when she didn't, he asked, "That Intrepid ready?"

Last week, someone traded in their red 2000 Dodge Intrepid. It had less than fifteen thousand miles, no body damage, and all the fixings - power windows, AC. CD player. Real top of the line model.

Only problem was: It didn't run right. The engine made a grinding sound and bogged out at random. They had the mechanic working on it for days and last Lynn knew, he couldn't find what was wrong...which irritated him to no end. You work with cars for a living, hoss, how come you don't know what's wrong here? Can you even tell a carburetor and an alternator? What the hell am I paying you for?

"I don't know," Lynn said without looking up. "The system's frozen again."

He sighed. That was starting to tick him off too. It'd run fine for a week or two at a time, then go belly up like a bass in bourbon.

That Intrepid was more important right now. "He in?" he asked.

"Yeah," Lynn said. The phone rang and she wedged the handset between her ear and her shoulder. "Big Bill's."

While she dealt with that, Lynn made his way into the attached garage, a wide, neat area with concrete floors, hydraulic lifts, tools, and a thousand other things he couldn't even begin to name. Mechanics in greasy coveralls worked over cars like surgeons, and twangy country music drifted from a radio perched on a battered mini fridge.

 _Yeah and it's a long way to Richmond_

 _Rollin' north on 95_

 _With a sheriff right beside me_

 _Pistol pointed at my side_

He found Ed, the new head mechanic, under the Intrepid on a wheeled backboard, his muddy boots jutting out from beneath. The hood and all four doors stood open and the front was jacked slightly up, hand tools littering the ground. Lynn put his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene as though he were a psychic who could determine the car's health from a single glance. "How's she comin'?" he asked.

Ed rolled out, his face smudged with oil and his graying hair dirty and matted. "She's not." He sighed and dropped a wrench to the floor in a gesture of defeat. "I can't figure it out. I got her runnin' but the engine's still knockin' and coughin'. I say we're gonna have to replace it."

Lynn hung his head. "Now, look," he said, "I got me an ad in the Tucson Times sayin' I got a red Dodge Intrepid rarin' to go."

The mechanic opened his mouth, but Lynn cut him off. "Do you see any other red Dodge Intrepids 'round here?"

"No," Ed started, "but -"

"If we have to put a new engine in her, it'll set me back a lot of money and a lot of time. That ad in the paper says it's out there waitin', and every minute it's not, I look like a liar. Fix it up as best you can and stick it out there next to the Tahoe, right in front so everyone passin' by can see it."

Ed prodded the inside of his bottom lip with his tongue and looked like he wanted to argue, but he thought better of it. "Alright," he said grudgingly. _It's your funeral._

"Good," Lynn said tightly, get it out there ASAP."

Shaking his head, the mechanic slid back under the car, and Lynn walked away. A flicker of movement in his periphery caught his attention, and he turned his head to look.

What he saw made his heart seize.

Big Bill, dead nearly thirty years, stared back at him, white and wan in death. The garage behind him was reversed, everything backwards, as though he were trapped in a bizarro world where things were the same...but indefinably different. Lynn's chest squeezed tightly and he stumbled back a step. Bill Big matched him, both bumping into the front end of a green Subaru Outback. Something clattered to the floor with a metallic sound, and Lynn jumped, a cry bursting from his lips. Big Bill did that same...and it was only then that Lynn realized he was looking into a mirror over a workbench, its surface streaked and splotched with oqpage marks.

That wasn't Big Bill at all.

It was him.

All at once, revelation hit him like a speeding bus, and his stomach clutched.

Shaken, he averted his eyes from the horrible image and rushed out, bumping into a mechanic. He hurried through the showroom, passing the desk without so much as looking at Lynn, and pushed out the door.

Lynn Loud Jr. wanted to become someone, and he had.

His father-in-law, a money-grubbing shyster in a cowboy hat and bolo tie.

In the car, he fumbled with the key, got it in the ignition, and started it. He sped home, trying to outrun that stark realization, but it followed.

And from that day on, he was never Big Lynn again.

* * *

Some days were easier than others, and some were harder. Saturday, August 15 was one of the latter.

It started just before breakfast. Lincoln was sitting at the kitchen table while Ronnie Anne plated their food when a dizzy spell came over him from seemingly nowhere. One minute he was fine the next he was holding onto the edge of the table for dear life as the room spun around him. His stomach, never fully settled, rolled, and what little appetite he had left him with an almost audible slurp.

He managed to recover before Ronnie came over, but his guts continued to angrily roil and he had to fight to keep his breathing regular.

Random bouts of vertigo were becoming more and more commonplace as the dog days of summer drew on. His stomach was always upset and sometimes even beef broth made him vomit. The weakness had been slowly getting worse as well; there were entire days he could stand to get out of bed only to use the bathroom. He could be up and about if he had to, but too much exertion exhausted him, and more than once, he fell asleep in the passenger seat of the car as Ronnie Anne drove him to or from appointments. He improved a little after Patel took him off chemo late last month. _It's hurting you more at this point than it's helping you,_ the Indian said, and Lincoln agreed.

Despite his best attempts, Ronnie Anne instantly noticed something was wrong. "Are you alright?" she asked worriedly.

"Just a little dizzy," he said, "it's fine now."

She regarded him with a slight frown. "You sure?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm fine, it's over."

He did not tell her about his stomach or about being suddenly drained. He mustered all of his energy and forced himself to eat as much scrambled eggs as he could, which wasn't very much at all. The taste of metal no longer coated his mouth...along with the taste of anything. Eggs, soup, and steak were all bland and mushy, and swallowing solid food was getting difficult. More often than not, his only source of nutrition throughout the day came from those Ensure things Alex made him drink. Fortunately, those didn't bother his stomach just so long as he didn't drink one when he was _too_ queasy.

Speaking of Alex, she was supposed to come over with the kids later. Lincoln was building himself up to telling Blake but faltered every time he made up his mind to do it. Explaining your impending mortality to an adult is hard enough, but a child?

Or maybe that was just an excuse. He was as full of them as a Republican was with shit. The last time he met with Father Jack, he said as much, and the preacher chuckled. _Don't push yourself, Linc. In fact, it would probably be best if he heard it from his mother first. He has a stronger connection with her and that usually muffles the blow._

He started to protest ( _I'm very close with my grandson, shaman, fuck you_ ), but stopped himself. Again, pride speaking. He was indeed close with Blake, but only as close as a grandfather can be with his grandson. A child _does_ share a stronger and more complete bond with their parents than with their parents' parents. It probably would be better if it came from Alex, but he didn't want to put that burden on her. _Hey, your grandpa's dying, stock up on hugs while you can, kid._ Zoe was too little to fully understand what was happening; that really was one best handled by Alex and Ronnie Anne after he was gone.

"What time will Alex be here?" he asked. He sat his fork down and pushed the plate away, self-conscious of just how little he'd eaten.

Ronnie Anne noticed, but pretended she didn't. "I think she said three."

Seeing the kids was the highlight of Lincoln's day. Alex was leery about sending them to spend the night for fear of putting too much strain on him, but he and Ronnie Anne talked her into it. Blake was entirely self-sufficient if lazy and Zoe was no longer wore pull-ups (except at night) so there wasn't much he and Ronnie Anne had to do. Zoe, almost five, was a ball of energy that never stopped moving, and while she _quickly_ tired him out, he loved having her around. It made him feel alive.

"Three it is," Lincoln said and got up. He grabbed his plate, shuffled over to the trash can, and scraped the remaining eggs into the bag. He took it over to the sink and turned the faucet on, but another dizzy spell blindsided him; his balance upset and, heart in throat, he caught himself on the edge of the countertop.

Ronnie Anne glanced over her shoulder, saw his distress, and jumped to her feet. "What's wrong?" she asked and helped steady him.

"Just dizzy," Lincoln said. The floor pitched and reeled beneath his feet like the deck of a ship in rough swells, and his stomach threatened to expel what little food he'd taken in. He closed his eyes, dug his nails into counter, and waited for it to pass. Ronnie Anne rubbed a soothing circle in his back, and he focused on the sensation, grabbing onto it like a man to a piece of flotsam.

Slowly, the motion sickness subsided and the floor fell still. He opened his eyes, and Ronnie Anne stared at him with soft concern. "I'm fine," he said, "I just need to lie down for a while."

Taking his hand, Ronnie Anne helped him to the room and into bed, pulling the covers to his chest. She sat on the edge and gently stroked his forehead, a glimmer of sadness in her eyes, and Lincoln was so reminded of his mother when he was sick as a kid that his head started to spin once more. "I'll come lay with you in a minute," she said, "I just want to wash the dishes first."

As Lincoln's illness progressed, his ability to do things around the house had gone down the shitter. He could do dishes (if he wasn't swaying and falling down like a drunk) and dust, but that was about it. A couple weeks ago, he figured he'd help Ronnie Anne out by moving the wash to the dryer, but wound up giving up: Jesus, were wet clothes _always_ this heavy? Thank God Tim came over to help with yardwork, otherwise the grass would be fifteen feet tall.

He hated leaving everything to Ronnie Anne and tried to help where he could. She always shooed him away or told him he was in her way. _Go sit down, lame-o, you're under my feet_. She never complained, she beared the burden in stoic silence, but he knew it was a lot on her; some days the exhaustion was clear in her eyes, and seeing it brought a rush of hot guilt to Lincoln's face.

Not only was he as useless as a sack of diapers, he was also costing them a lot of money. His medical bills were already in excess of one hundred thousand dollars, and though they weren't in danger of going broke, claustrophobic dread gripped him every time he gathered the courage to look at the bank statements.

Would Ronnie Anne go back to work after he was gone? That was something he pondered over many long, sleepless nights. Because of him, she left a good, fairly high paying job with benefits, and he was going to repay her by dying less than a year later. The high school had a new principal, or so she said, some callow upstart barely older than the kids under his dominion; there was thus, Lincoln imagined, no place for her any longer. What would she do? Bag groceries?

The only thing that kept him from fretting himself into a conniption fit was the knowledge that Alex and Jessy would take care of her. She was a proud, stubborn woman, but she wouldn't be alone. He didn't want to leave her, God, he didn't, but he could rest assured that she was in good hands.

Of course, that wasn't much. Her material needs would be met, but she would be heartbroken and alone, just as he would be if their roles were reversed. Every day, they got a little farther on their walk with God, and Lincoln dearly hoped that her faith would be enough to get her through.

Would it him?

He asked himself that again and again but hadn't arrived at an answer. He had the easy part, all he had to do was die. Ronnie Anne had to live, and if living without him was anything like he imagined living without her would be, there would always be a hole in her heart, and she would always ache for his presence like a body for a lost limb. She may be able to console herself with the knowledge that she would see him again in the hereafter, but that would be cold comfort in the twenty or so years it took them to be reunited.

"Leave them," he said. "I'll get to them when I can."

A wan smile touched her lips. "I'll do them. There're only a few."

"Please?" he asked, an imploring hint in his voice.

She considered for a moment, then acceded. "Alright, but if you pass out on me, I'm gonna kick your ass."

"I won't," he grinned.

He scooted over and Ronnie Anne stretched out next to him on her side. He took her in his arms and kissed the tip of her nose, making her wince. "That tickles," she said.

"It tastes like boogers, too."

"Oh, get bent, white boy."

That made him laugh, which turned into him coughing until fire filled his chest. A deep frown creased Ronnie Anne's face and she stroked his arm, giving him as much comfort as she could. When it was over, he kissed her nose again. "Stop making me laugh."

"Stop saying my nose tastes like boogers," she retorted, her tone flat and devoid of the playful hilt he was hoping for.

"Alright," he said, "deal."

For a long time, they cuddled in silence, and at some point, Lincoln drifted off. His dreams were wispy and indistinct, like morning ground fog through which you could see, but not very well. He was sitting in the living room of the Franklin Avenue house with Luna, everything as it had been thirty years ago - the clunky cabinet TV, Dad's radio in the corner. Some things were out of place, but he couldn't pick them out. His mind was doing its level best to replicate the living room of 1970, but that was a long time ago, and he'd forgotten finer details. Was that picture of Alex and Blake _always_ over the mantle, or was it somewhere else?

He sensed that at some point, he and Luna had been talking, but now they shared a companionable quiet. On some level, he realized that she was dead and had been a long time, but that she was here with him now seemed natural. It occurred to him that he was dead too and they were in heaven, and he croaked a sharp laugh in his sleep. He loved this house, but it sure as hell wasn't his idea of heaven.

Luna looked at him with a knowing, lopsided grin, and Lincoln shook his head in faux peturbment. She reached into her pocket, pulled something out, and sat it on her lap. He craned his neck to see, and his heart skipped.

A baggie filled with yellow powder. Cocaine is white, not yellow, but that's what it was. Luna dipped her pinkie in and swirled it around until it was coated, then brought it to her nose. He lunged at her, intent on grabbing it, and woke himself by nearly rolling out of bed.

The light was brighter now, early afternoon, and he was alone, Ronnie Anne having gotten up and slunk away. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and reigned in his crashing heart. Already, the dream was fading, and he could only recall snatches: Luna was there and...something about coke. Him letting her do coke and kill herself like he did in real life.

Sighing, he rolled onto his other side and closed his eyes again. He'd get up and do those dishes in a minute; first he needed to find the strength.

Darkness reached up and pulled him down, back into the world of sleep, then, all at once, scattered when his stomach heaved. His eyes flew open and his mouth screwed up in a quivering pucker. Hot bile rose in his chest, and he pushed up to a sitting position. He threw his legs over the side and tried to stand, but his midsection clinched, and it came whether he wanted it to or not. Leaning over to miss the bed, burning vomit spewed from his mouth and splattered the carpet with a wet _plop_. His chest muscles painfully contracted, his skull burst, and the edges of his vision went gray with strain. He clasped his hands to his knees and tried to stop himself, but it kept coming, seering his throat and the inside of his mouth, the bitter, acrid taste making him gag and moan. He was vaguely aware of Ronnie Anne sitting next to him, her hand on his back; his stomach lurched and even more came, chunks of cold, gelatinous eggs followed by thin liquid. His guts were empty, tapped out, but he continued to wretch, phantom knives plunging into his middle and twisting, tearing his intestines and hacking his bones.

With nothing left to give, his stomach settled, and he sucked great, rasping gulps of air. Ronnie Anne caressed his back and leaned to her right in order to see his profile. "You okay?" she asked. The mournful, verge-of-tears note in her voice stuck in his midsection almost as badly as the puking had.

"Yeah," he panted. Aside from lightheadedness, he was fine. The fire in his chest had extinguished and the queasiness was gone.

The carpet between his feet was saturated, a wide, silvery puddle dotted with hunks of eggs like yellow icebergs in a polluted sea. The reek of stomach wafted into his nose, and if he weren't spent, he would have thrown up again. "Let me get a rag," he said. He started to stand, but Ronnie Anne held him in place.

" _I'll_ get it," she said firmly.

"No, it's fine," he protested, "I'm...I'm better now. I can…"

"Lincoln, no," she said. Her tone closed the matter, and he could do nothing but sit helplessly by and watch as she knelt and scrubbed the mess from the floor with a washcloth, a bucket of soapy water standing by like a devoted butler. A strand of hair fell in her face as she worked and danced across her tired eyes. Lincoln shifted restlessly and sighed.

He felt useless.

Like a burden.

He went back to the day he almost drove into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer to spare his family the emotional and financial cost of a protracted illness. He lost his nerve and found a way to justify it, but now, looking on as his harried wife scrubbed his puke from the carpet, dark bags beneath her eyes, he realized his should have done it.

Sudden depression came over him, and his body grew so heavy he could no longer sit upright. He laid on his side and blew a puff of air through his nostrils. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," Ronnie Anne said absently, "it happens." She got to her feet with a weary grunt, dropped the rag into the bucket, and picked it up. She leaned over and pecked his forehead. "Do you really feel better?"

Yes and no. His stomach wasn't upset but his heart was. "Yeah," he said, "I'm just going to nap."

"Okay," she said, "I love you."

"Love you too."

When he was alone, he glanced at the nightstand. The ornamental .45 Bobby and Lori got him for Christmas years ago was tucked into the drawer, next to the bible Father Jack gave him. He leaned over, opened it, and took it out; it was warm and comfortably heavy in his hand. Its silver plating, which he polished once a month, glinted in the summer sun like a rare gem. His heartbeat picked up and his breathing slowed as he tilted his head back and wedged the barrel against the underside of his chin. The bullet would punch through his jaw, obliterate his tongue, and blow his brains out the top of his head. He would die instantly, and it would be over. The constant nausea, the weakness, the strain on Ronnie Anne…

An image flashed across his mind. His marriage bed splattered with deep red blood, bits of brain and skull stuck to the pillow.

Another mess for Ronnie Anne to clean up.

Better than sucking puke out of the carpet every time her overgrown baby of a husband couldn't make it to the bathroom. And the best part? It was all downhill from here. In a couple months, he'd be bedridden and probably losing his mind like Leni did in her last days. She'd have to bathe him, clean up his piss and shit, change his bedding, feed him. She'd do it with the love and patience of an angel, but it would kill her...physically, mentally, emotionally.

She didn't deserve that.

He swallowed against a sandpaper throat and his eyes fell closed, blotting out the world. She'd jump when she heard the shot, then rush in, knowing in her heart what he'd done, and she would see him dead, his shattered cranium leaking everything he was and had ever been onto the sheets, every quivering chunk of brain a memory or a feeling, an infected little piece of him that was going to die anyway. She'd sob, she'd hurt, but she'd be free. She wouldn't have to nurse him every single minute of every single day; she wouldn't have to sit at his bedside and watch the shadow of death creeping across his face.

Taking another deep breath, he curled his finger around the trigger.

Five pounds of pressure...five pounds and it would be over.

He saw her in his mind's eye, pale, shaking, and tearful, and his stomach rolled. For what seemed like an eternity, he lay there seeking the courage or the cowardice to jerk the trigger, but whatever it took, he did not have. Finally, he let out a trembling breath, leaned over, and returned the gun to the drawer.

Was he weak? Was he strong? Was he right or was he wrong? He didn't know. There is certainly black and white in life, but most of it is gray, and you had no idea whether you were doing good or doing wrong until it was too late.

That thought followed Lincoln into sleep, echoing down through the caverns of consciousness like a scream, and though his mind worked in slumber, he, mercifully, did not dream.

* * *

Late in the afternoon of August 15, Blake dressed in shorts, a white collared T-shirt with horizontal pinstripes, and tennis shoes. He sat a green Jansport backpack on his bed, unzipped it, and shoved in an armload of stuff he sneaked from the kitchen: Packs of fruit snacks, four cans of Diet Dr. Pepper (the only soda his mom would buy now, bleh), crackers, cupcakes, and his CD player. He took a quick inventory, nodded his satisfaction, and zipped the bag up again.

He _was_ going to go over to Grandma and Grandpa's house today, but Grandma called to tell Mom that Grandpa wasn't feeling well, so Mom canceled. Blake hadn't seen much of Grandpa over the summer, but every time he went over, the old man was a little less there, like a vision fading in gloom - thinner, wispier, his face shot through with wrinkles and his eyes bloodshot and bleary. Mom said he was _very sick_ but didn't elaborate. When he asked if he was still getting better, she lowered her gaze. _He'll be fine,_ she said, but even he could discern the lack of conviction in her voice.

Those thoughts were far from his mind as he slung the backpack over his shoulder and left the room. As soon as he found out he wasn't going to Grandma and Grandpa's, he called Jordan on the phone. _Wanna go to the clubhouse?_

 _Yes,_ she instantly replied.

Last month, Jordan found a cool treehouse in the woods and it had quickly become their secret clubhouse, a place for them and them alone. They went there almost every single day, and over the last couple weeks, they had each taken things from their trailers to decorate it with: Jordan stole a set of curtains from the washer and they hung them in the treehouse's sole window; he swiped a couple pillows from the living room, and they used them to sit on. Mom didn't realize they were gone for two days, then wandered aimlessly around the house looking for them. _Uhh...where are they? I could have sworn they were right here._ She also couldn't understand why cups kept going missing and how they were suddenly going through snacks so fast. She'd probably be mad if she found out, but what she didn't know wouldn't get him in trouble, so there.

Outside, the hot air was still and humid, the silence broken only by the distant whine of a lawn mower and children excitedly shouting to each other. The sun hovered low over the trailers lining Thomas Street, the sky a hazy Dremcicle orange, and long shadows crept across brittle grass. Blake tumbled down the stairs, cut through someone's yard, and came to Andrews Street. A giant group of kids rode bikes up and down the sidewalk and a shirtless Hispanic man worked over a green El Camino in his driveway.

Blake crossed and walked to Jordan's house, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach like it always did before he saw her.

She was standing outside on the sidewalk waiting for him, and his step faltered when he glimpsed her. Tall and graceful, her braided hair resting limply over her shoulder, she wore a yellow tank top, capris that stopped just below her knees, and pink sandles. Her toenails were a light, glossy shade of peach and her moist lips sparkled in the dying light. His heartbeat sped up and he took a deep breath that did little to relieve the pressure in his chest.

Up until last month, he never would have thought of her as beautiful, but she kind of was, and each time he saw her, she took his breath away.

Dumb, huh? And weird. He couldn't help it, though. Every day he noticed her a little more, and every day, he caught himself thinking about her with that strange fluttering in his stomach. He tried to ignore it but sometimes it plagued him to the point of him wanting to rip his hair out. Before, he never went out of his way to spend time with her, but now he took every chance he could get, and when he couldn't be with her, he called her on the phone just to say hi.

She looked around, spotted him, and broke out in a sunny smile that sent a pang rippling through his stomach. She waved, and he walked over, hyper aware of every move he made, every facial tic, every chubby pound weighing down his frame. Did he stink? Was his face flushed from the walk? Perspiration trickled down the back of his neck and he winced. Why did he have to be such a fat, sweaty pig?

"Hey," Jordan said happily. An errant shaft of sun caught and dappled her eyes, making them flash like starlight, and a tight, steely band closed around Blake's stomach; he shuffled to a stop and flicked his gaze to her knees to avoid losing himself in them.

"Hey," he said, "ready?"

"Yep," she said. She picked up a hitherto unseen backpack with Ariel from _The Little Mermaid_ on it and threaded her arms through the straps. "I got stuff," she declared.

They started down the sidewalk at an unhurried mosey. The air between them was tense and awkward, at least to Blake, and he inwardly squirmed. Why couldn't he just...not feel like this? That would be really awesome, thanks. "What kind of stuff?"

"All sorts of stuff," she said cryptically.

"What _kind?"_ he pressed.

She shrugged one shoulder. "Candles, flashlights, air freshener, you know, house stuff."

Oh, that made sense. Though they cleaned the inside of the structure as much as they could, the earthy scent of mildew lingered on the air, and after a while it really started to annoy him, like a pebble in his shoe. Last time they went out there, he took a can of bug spray from under the sink because spiders and ants kept getting in. He didn't care about ants, but spiders were the worst insect ever, all black and hairy with long legs...shiver.

"I got snacks and drinks," he said. The road curved ahead and the land graded down a grassy hill. The woods clustered at the end of the lane below, rays of scarlet brilliance shining through the treetops. "And an alarm clock that's also a radio."

Jordan hummed interestedly. "Did you get batteries?"

"Nah," he said, "we can just plug…"

He trailed off as understanding dawned over him.

The clubhouse didn't have electricity...what were they going to plug it into? Their butts?

His mouth snapped closed and he hanged his head in contrition, feeling two inches tall and really, really stupid.

Jordan giggled melodically at his distress. "I can bring batteries next time."

They went down the hill and walked down the middle of the street. On their right, an old woman stood over a flower bed with a garden hose in her hand and to the left, two toddlers, a boy and a girl, played in the dirt. The girl shoved a fistful into her mouth, then offered some to her friend. "I'll bring them," Blake said. He had to make up for looking like a boob.

"We can both bring some," she said, "we can put some away for later."

The forest was dim and cool. Crickets chirped around them and small animals slipped secretively through the underbrush, leaves rustling, twigs snapping. They came to the brook and Jordan stepped wide over it. "Be careful," she fretted over her shoulder. She did this every time since he slipped once and landed on his butt. It was embarrassing and made him feel like a baby. _Poor widdle Bake, don't fall down go boom._ He didn't want Jordan to think he was a baby. He wanted her to like him.

The same way he liked her.

Hooking his thumbs into the straps of his backpack, he stepped over. His foot slipped in the mud and he started to lose his balance, but Jordan shot out her hand and grabbed the front of his shirt, keeping him from falling. "Whoa," she said, "I almost lost you there."

"I woulda done it myself," he huffed.

"You woulda fallen on your head and gotten swept away in the current," Jordan shot back, then preened. "But I saved you."

The water was two inches high, maybe three, and barely eddied over the rocks. "I would have swum out," he said as they began to follow the trail again.

"You can't swim," she pointed out.

No, he couldn't. When they went to the beach or the pool, he kind of just...waded. "I can now," he lied, "my dad taught me a couple weeks ago."

Jordan fondly rolled her eyes. "That's what you said the last time we went to the pool. Remember what happened?"

Unfortunately, yes, he did remember what happened.

He was trying to show off and prove to Jordan he could swim, so he went in the deep end, where he promptly sank like a stone; the lifeguard had to jump in and pull him out.

It was humiliating.

Mom said _That's why you don't lie_ and he agreed, but it's not like there was any water around now. He could fib and get away with it. "I mean it now, I can swim. I'm really good, too. My dad said I'm almost as good as him."

"Plot twist," she said, "your dad can't swim."

"Yes he can."

She laughed. "No, he can't. He's so bad he has to wear floaties in the bathtub."

"That's a lie."

"No it's not," she grinned, "I saw him. He wears swim trunks, flippers, and a life jacket too. He said _Please don't tell anyone."_

Blake shoved her and she stumbled. Stopping, she shoved him back. "Knock it off, jerk," she cried.

"You knock it off, bimbo," he said, grasping for the first word that came to mind.

"Dumbo."

"Lame-o."

She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. "My name is Blake and I play with Barbie dolls. Hehehe."

"I'm Jordan and I'm a butt munch. Please pity me."

"I'm like Bobby Hill only not as cool."

That hit him like a punch to the guts. Bobby Hill was a fat doofus and the uncoolest person on _King of the Hill_ after Bill. "Wel, you're like…" he couldn't think of anything good, and Jordan flashed a smug smirk. "That dumb girl from _Scary Movie_."

She challengingly raised her brown and pursed her lips, and an elfin light twinkled in her eyes. Without warning, she jammed the heel of her palm into his shoulder and he staggered back. "Tag," she said, "you're it."

Before he could recover, she tossed her pack aside and darted down the path, her braid swishing like a tail. She looked over her shoulder and came to a stop when she saw he wasn't following. "Come on," she said, "chase me. I bet you can't."

"I bet I can."

"Nu-uh," she said, "you're too slow."

"Am not."

Jordan's grin widened. "Yes you are. You're a slowpoke and -"

So quick he surprised even himself, Blake threw his backpack off and ran after her. She let out a shocked squeal and sprinted down the path, ducking to avoid overhanging branches and giggling madly.

 _You don't know how you met me_

 _You don't know why_

 _You can't turn around_

 _And say goodbye_

Soft purple twilight filled the clearing and lightning bugs danced in the air like lanterns illuminating the way. Tall grass tickled their ankles and crickets composed a steadily building nocturn. The evening was still, as though the world were holding its breath in anticipation of something that had been long in coming finally materializing. Delighted giggles trailed behind Jordan and her braid waved from side to side, entreating Blake to run faster and catch up. Her pace slackened, then picked up again. Teasing surrender. Offering herself to him then pulling coyly away at the last minute. The pauses came closer together, lasted a heartbeat longer each time, as though she wanted to let him catch her, but wasn't quite ready.

 _All you know is when I'm with you_

 _I make you free_

 _And swim through your veins_

 _Like a fish in the sea_

She bounded through the tall grass and Blake followed, his stride slowing when hers did, then resuming to match her pace, a game of cat and mouse where neither participant wanted to lose but both were too afraid to win. She tossed a mischievous smile over her shoulder and slowed down just a little. In the light the fire bugs cast, her dark eyes pooled with mystery. He meant to let up, but his heart carried him on. Their gazes met and something profound passed between them. Understanding, implicit, she stopped running, and Blake caught her. Laughing, they tumbled to the pillowy grass in a spill of limbs.

 _I'm singin'_

 _Follow me_

 _Everything is all right_

 _I'll be the one to tuck you in at night_

 _And if you want to leave I can guarantee_

 _You won't find nobody else like me_

Jordan planted her hands into the ground, her braid skimming Blake's cheek like warm silk, and for a long moment, they gazed deeply into each other's eyes. Blake's heart crashed in his ears and his stomach roiled, but he'd never felt better than he did right now. They hesitated, both red faced and panting, both wanting to go further but not knowing if they should, then, as if drawn to each other by forces beyond their control, they tilted their heads, their eyes never breaking, and touched their lips fleetingly together. Blake had never felt anything softer or right, had never known any flavor as sweet as her ragged breathing. She smiled against his lips, then slow and tentative, a girl testing the waters, she flicked her tongue out. Blake's lungs squeezed, and for a second, he didn't know what to do. The look in her eyes and the feeling of her smile guided him, and he swirled his tongue haltingly around hers.

 _You're feelin' guilty_

 _And I'm well aware_

 _But you don't look ashamed_

 _And baby I'm not scared_

They lay next to each other in the grass, faces flushed, eyes wide, hearts pounding in the same unsteady tempo. The taste of Jordan's lips lingered in Blake's mouth and he rolled it over his tongue like a wine snob savoring a private vintage. Overhead, thin clouds bathed in crimson afterglow sailed across the sky, and birds ducked and wheeled as if in celebration of something new...yet old as time.

Jordan pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at him. He turned his head, and the crooked smile on her face made him somehow warm all over. "That was pretty cool," she said. Her grin faltered and uncertainty clouded her eyes like silt muddying clear waters. "D-Do you wanna do it again?"

Blake's lips spread out in a wide, giddy smile and he nodded.

As the shadows deepened and night drew on, Blake and Jordan, friends as long as either could remember, shared another kiss, fulfilling an unwritten prophecy and surprising absolutely no one.

Except for themselves.

* * *

Some days are bad...and some days are worse. Lincoln knew August 20th was going to be the latter when he woke in the thin half-light of dawn barely able to breathe. It felt like a five hundred pound used car salesman with a phony southern accent was sitting on his chest, and no matter how deeply he drew in, his lungs refused to fully expand. His head swam with psychosomatic oxygen deprivation, and he forced down the tide of panic rising in his soul. He regulated his breathing and drew shallow sips of air through his nose. After a while, his airways opened and the spinning in his head tapered off, leaving him still and steady.

 _Great,_ he thought, _happy Friday to me._

Sporadic shortness of breath for seemingly no reason at all happened from time to time, but up until this week, those random bouts came few and far between. On Wednesday, just walking to the kitchen from the bedroom left him gasping, and yesterday, it hit him as he drained his prick into the toilet, followed immediately by a dizzy spell. He stumbled and sprayed piss on the wall and floor. After it passed, he got down on his hands and knees to clean the mess, and when he got back to his feet, it hit came roaring back, stronger than before; he fell shoulder first into the wall and nearly went down, but caught himself. Ronnie Anne was outside pulling weeds and was none the wiser, thank God. She'd worry herself sick.

Hidden by shadows, she lay curled beneath the blankets and facing him, her eyes closed and her frame gently rising and falling. He watched her for a moment, then turned his head away.

The glowing red numerals on the bedside clock put it at 5:45 In fifteen minutes, the alarm would go off and Ronnie Anne would drive him to Detroit for another long, grueling day of dialysis.

He fucking _hated_ dialysis.

At first it wasn't so bad, but after three months, it wore on him: Sitting there for hours as they filtered his blood, so cold he shivered no matter how many blankets he piled on his lap and so weak at the end of it all that Ronnie Anne had to push him out in a wheelchair. It was the reason he was sick all the time and his hair was falling out. It also made him itchy all over and caused severe muscle cramps for hours afterwards. Sometimes, but not all, his feet would retain fluid and bloat up like balloons, which made walking nearly impossible. Jesus, it was worse than the cancer, and he did it three times a week. He looked forward to each appointment with clutching dread and met them for Ronnie Anne and the girls. If he didn't have them, he would have tapped out a long time ago.

Today, in addition to having his blood sucked out and cleaned, he was meeting with Dr. Patel to go over the results of his last CAT scan and blood work up, a thrice monthly routine meant to track the cancer's progress. It had been growing faster and faster over the past month and Patel was worried it was spreading faster than the dialysis could keep up. Lincoln might hate having his blood drained out, but he hated the idea of _not_ having his blood drained out even more. Without dialysis, he'd waste away inside of three months.

Of course, he understood from the beginning that eventually, the dialysis would end. Patel likened it to bailing out a flooding ship with a child's plastic pail: They could keep the water at bay for only so long before it overwhelmed and sank him.

He was drifting on the hazy borderland between sleep and wakefulness when the alarm sounded, the high pitched _beep-beep-beep_ making him wince. He leaned over and slapped the OFF button; beside him, Ronnie Anne stirred and rolled onto her back. "Gotta get ready," she muttered tiredly.

"You gotta wake up first," Lincoln pointed out.

Her forehead pinched but her eyes remained closed. "Am awake," she slurred. She lifted one cumbersome hand and scratched her head, then yawned. "When do we have to be there?" She spoke barely above a whisper.

"7:30."

"Okay. I'm gonna take a shower. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He punctuated his statement with a peck on her cheek. The corners of her mouth twitched into a ghostly smile and she let out a low hum.

While she showered, Lincoln got out of bed and dressed in a pair of tan slacks and a white polo shirt. His movements were slow and arthritic, his hands shaking, and vertigo threatened to seize him again. Sitting on the edge of the bed, wheezing and winded, he pulled his socks and shoes on, then stretched out, chest bursting and head throbbing. For the millionth time that week, he considering taking the gun back out and shooting himself, but he made no move to get it. Instead, he closed his eyes.

 _God, everyone important already knows I'm dying. Can you just...snap your fingers and get it over with? Please?_

He didn't know whether that was a heartfelt prayer or just frustration, but he came to it as he always did, meek and slightly ashamed. Father Jack said over and over again that God loved him with the unconditional abandon of a parent and wanted a relationship with him, but Lincoln never felt entirely comfortable coming before Him, and had never once had the audacity to seriously ask for anything for himself. He prayed for Him to give Ronnie Anne, Alex, and Jessy strength, but he hadn't asked to be spared. It was wrong, and a leftover symptom of his pride, but he was ashamed to request anything of God; it takes a lot of nerve to only talk to your old man when you want something, and Lincoln would be damned if he'd be that kind of son.

That wasn't how he should be, but old habits die hard. Despite accepting Christ into his heart and trying to overcome the pride and selfishness that characterized his worldview, there were a lot of things he was having trouble letting go of, like cursing. He'd been sprinkling his speech with expliatives almost his entire adult life, he couldn't just quit cold turkey. Another was his disdain for certain groups, like politicians, hypocritical celebrities, hippies, people who sagged their jeans, the terminally stupid, and the people who invented fast food. God calls on us to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. Lincoln was perfectly content to hate himself as much as he hated those aforementioned assholes, but he was pretty sure that's not how it's supposed to work. Loving people like Bush, Clinton, and Johnny Depp was hard as hell, and so far he'd only achieved neutrality. He didn't hate them, he didn't love them; if they left him alone, he'd leave _them_ alone.

Sooner or later, if he lived long enough, he would be compelled to commit all the way. God doesn't expect us to change overnight, but if we follow Him, we _are_ to change.

Sigh.

Ronnie Anne came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and went to the closet, her bare feet padding on the floor. Lincoln admired her long, toned legs as she searched for something to wear. His heart started to race the way it normally did when he looked at her, but his crotch remained still and silent. On top of everything else he had to deal with, his prick was limper than Tim's handshake. He supposed that didn't matter; Patel made very clear during their last appontment that he was not healthy enough for sex.

And speaking of health, his heart pounded painfully against his ribcage, and he grimaced. Oh, great, now he was having a heart attack. What's next, was he gonna turn into a Democrat?

Shudder. He'd rather die first.

Ronnie Anne draped a pale pink dress over her arm, closed the door, and turned to the dresser, her lithe form swishing and her ponytail rustling across her naked back. She took out a bra and a pair of panties, closed the drawer, and carried it all to the bed, where she dropped them into a heap. She peeled the towel off, her frame twisting and stretching and her small breasts lifting. Lincoln's heart slammed faster, its frenzied _ba-bump, ba-bump_ echoing through his skull, but it had nothing to do with her. Was he having a heart attack? He took a breath, and agony expanded in his chest, incinerating everything in its wake. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared, but he bore it in silence, not wanting to worry Ronnie Anne, willing it to pass. Instead, it got worse; a hot vise tightened around his heart and every shallow breath burned in his lungs like fire.

A sharp blade cut from one side of his midsection to the other, and an uncontrollable hiss of air escaped through his teeth. Ronnie Anne was sitting on the bed, fully dressed and facing away as she pulled on her shoes. He fought for breath, but the pain intensified, and now the edges of his vision were softening and going gray with strain. His hand fluttered to his chest and he tried to speak, but his voice came as a long, low groan. Ronnie Anne glanced over her shoulder, and the color left her face. She spun around and bent over him, fear in her eyes. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Pain radiated down his right arm and a hot band closed around his middle, squeezing hard. His face crinkled and he bared his teeth. "...fuckin'...heart…" he spat. His brain throbbed in his skull and he could hardly breathe. Panic coiled in his stomach and, suddenly, he felt loopy, as though his head was flooding with warm wool.

Jesus Christ, he was dying.

In the gathering mist of the coming night, he recalled asking God to snap his fingers and kill him off already. When he said that, he meant it, but he didn't think it would actually happen.

Terror clawed at his spasming heart, and the world rapidly began to blur. Ronnie Anne sobbed into the telephone, but he couldn't make out her words; his mind was numb, thinking hard, life fading, heart stopping, lungs deflating. Darkness stole across his vision and everything took on a watery, dream-like cast.

In the moment before he lost consciousness, Lincoln Loud finally humbled himself enough to ask God for a favor.

 _Please,_ he thought, _save me._

Whether he meant his life or his spirit, even he did not know.

And he never would.


	232. August 2001: Part 2

Alex Underwood flew into the emergency room of Royal Woods General Hospital at just past 8am, her hair matted and tangled with bed head and wearing yesterday's shirt, complete with spaghetti stains. In her panicked rush, she pulled on two different color socks before leaving the house, one pink and the other lime green, and put her shorts on backwards. She wouldn't have cared if she noticed, but she did not, she didn't register the sounds and activity - ringing phones, bustling CNAs - nor could she even remember the drive from Marsh Run; the moment she heard her mother's tearful voice, everything ceased to matter. Did she work today? She didn't know and she didn't give a rat's bee-hind. Her father was probably dying, her mother was beside herself with grief, and her entire world was upside down; work could take a hike.

The front desk was ahead and a waiting room on the right, rows of chairs and tables laden with magazines shoved into a wide alcove. August sunlight cascaded through tall windows overlooking the parking lot, drenching the tile floor like melted gold, and _CNN Daybreak_ played on a wall mounted TV, Paula Zahn occupying one side of the screen and HUD Secretary Clyde McBride the other. Alex came to a shuffling stop and looked around, spotting her mother sitting in the corner, hands balled into fists and her head bowed in silent prayer. Her back hitched slightly with misery, and somehow, she seemed so small, so fragile, which struck Alex as so immutably _wrong_ that she could hardly reconcile what she was seeing with the past thirty-two years of her life. Mom and Dad had always been strong, sure, and bigger-than-life, like two mountains, now…

Yeah. Totally upside down.

Shoving those thoughts away, she hurried over, a lump of emotion forming in her throat at the pitiful sight of her mother. Mom sensed her and looked up; tears stood in her dark eyes, and her face was bleached with anguish. Her lips quivered with abjection and she looked so lost, so afraid, like a little girl whose life was crashing down around her, that Alex started to cry. She had never seen true desolation before, but she did then, and that it was in her beloved mother made it all the worse. She bent over and swept Mom into her arms, and together they broke down, Alex struggling to keep _some_ semblance of control. Mom needed her, and now it was her turn to be strong and sure.

She shifted into the chair beside her mother and pulled away, her cheeks cool and wet. "How is he?" she asked and blotted her eyes with her hand.

Mom opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. "I-I don't k-know, I-I-I don't know." Her words cut off in a moan and she pressed her lips together in a visible effort to retain her composure. She sounded dazed, like a shocked survivor of a tornado that took everything she had ever known or loved. "I haven't h-heard, t-t-they haven't told me." She looked away as if to hide her dolor and the morning light glistened on her tears.

There was something deeply disturbing about seeing her this way. Mom was one of the toughest people she knew - she got shot and practically didn't even break a sweat! - and that she was struggling so hard to keep herself together, and hurting so bad, left Alex stricken.

Then there was Dad. _I think he had a heart attack,_ Mom said, and hearing that almost gave _her_ one. She had been trying really hard to come to terms with the fact that he might die, but she wasn't doing very well. Every time she thought about it, it was a vague and distant possibility, not an absolute certainty. He couldn't die, he was Dad, and though she was a grown woman with her own life and a (tenuous) grasp on this adulthood thing, she still needed her dad. Blake and Zoe needed him too. One day he'd die, but not any time soon. She knew what the doctors said, what Mom and Dad said, but she just couldn't accept it.

She hadn't cried since the day he told her and Jessy. She told herself she didn't need to, that even if he _was_ really dying, some perfect and cinematic miracle would save him at the last minute. Something would happen and he would be okay. He _had_ to.

In her heart, however, she knew it probably wouldn't happen. In movies, the protagonist always lives to fight another day, and just when things look their worst, fate intervenes to save them. That wouldn't happen here. This wasn't a Hollywood blockbuster, it was real life. Her father was special to her, but he was only a man, and this story called life wasn't his...he was just one of seven billion people. He was her protector, her teacher, and her dad...but to the universe, he was just another face, nondescript and unremarkable.

Isn't it awful how the people who are most important to us, who define our lives and dwell within our hearts, can mean nothing to the next guy over? What was Dad to the old man sitting across from her and paging uninterestedly through an issue of _Time?_ What was he to the nurse behind the reception desk?

Once, a long time ago, she thought of herself as a writer. She wasn't very good, she knew that, but she had fun and prided herself on being able to articulate her thoughts and emotions (communication, Dad taught her, is vital in human relationships). She had been trying in a roundabout way for the past month to put into words what her father meant to her, but she couldn't. No noun, no adverb, could ever fully convey her feelings. When he told her he was dying, it was like being kicked in the stomach, and even now, just thinking about it made her start to feel panicky.

So she didn't. She went about her life and labored under the delusion that he would come through this okay. Now…

Mom hugged herself tightly and inhaled through her nose in an attempt to calm herself. "He was so pale," she muttered, "and he looked so scared." She lost her grip and started crying again, and all Alex could do was put her arm around her shoulder and hold back her own tears. She imagined her father's expression - fear and confusion - but wouldn't let herself. She had to keep a hold on herself for Mom's sake. If Dad died today, Mom would be inconsolable; they'd been together since they were eleven and losing him would be like...Jesus, she didn't even _know_ what it would be like. Either way, she had to be ready just in case, though she really, really, really hoped she didn't have to.

How was she going to tell Blake? How was she going to tell _Jessy?_ Should she call her now? No, no, it was best to wait until she knew something. If Dad really suffered a heart attack, there was a very good chance he _would_ be okay, provided they got to him in time. Telling Jessy would only worry her. Best to hold off.

Slowly, Mom's weeping tapered off, and she sat upright, her lips sucked into her mouth and her eyes brimming but not overspilling. Hers and Dad's love was legendary, a profound mingling of spirits that Alex had always admired and found beautiful. Losing him, now or in six months, was going to kill her. Alex pictured her sitting there, dazed and lost the way she was now, missing him with every fiber of her being, and her heart shattered into a million pieces. She was not looking forward to her father dying, but in that moment, she came to the conclusion that she dreaded Mom's reaction to it even more.

"What exactly happened?" she asked haltingly, not wanting to force her to think about it but needing to know what symptoms he had. She was a nurse, after all, and she knew a heart attack when she saw one.

Or, in this case, heard it.

Taking a deep breath, Mom told her everything, starting with waking up that morning and ending with her frantic 911 call. Alex listened intently, brow scrunched, then sighed when Mom was finished. "It _sounds_ like a heart attack," she said. "Was he sweating?"

Mom swallowed thickly and nodded. "Yeah, h-he was sweating a lot."

"How was he yesterday?"

A little black girl about seven with braids in her hair skipped into the waiting room, followed by a man and woman Alex took to be her parents. They sat to her left, and it was only then that she noticed that the father's right hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth. "Uh...he was short of breath and dizzy a lot, but I-I didn't think anything of it. He's been like that a lot. It's part of the disalsys."

On TV, a correspondent in a black suit stood before the towers and turrets of a distant prison. " _...his death by lethal injection the first federal execution in thirty-eight years."_

"It sounds like a heart attack," Alex said again, more certain this time. "Has he had any problems with his heart?"

Mom shook her head. "No, his heart's fine," she said, a hint of bafflement in her voice, "I mean, as fine as anything else."

Dialysis is the process by which blood is removed from the body, run through a filtration system, and returned. The heart, of course, is the organ responsible for pumping blood. Dialysis does not often affect the cardiac muscle, but it stood to reason that it was putting some sort of strain on him.

She was still pondering when a doctor walked up. Tall, wispy, and as bald as a billiard ball, he wore blue scrubs and a white surgical mask around his neck. Alex and her mother both tensed. "Mrs. Loud?" he asked in an airy voice. "I'm Dr. Foster, I've been working with your husband."

Doctors and nurses are trained to be clear, direct, and inscrutable. When one came to you in a time like this, you could never tell if he was bringing bad news or good. Being a nurse herself, Alex liked to think of herself as an insider with special powers of deduction and who knew all the tricks of the trade, but right now, she was a scared daughter just like any other.

"Is he okay?" Mom faltered. She was braced for the worst, and Alex took her hand, her heart racing with suspense.

Dr. Foster nodded, and Alex let out a pent up breath. "He's awake and talking, but he's very weak and currently on oxygen."

Mom's body relaxed and a shivery puff of air left her in a rush.

"Was it a heart attack?" Alex asked.

"Yes," Dr. Foster said, "a relatively minor one. Would you like to see him?"

Ten minutes later, Alex and her mother entered a room off the ICU, their hands clasped as though each was the other's life ring in a stormy sea. The smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the air and the soft hiss and beeps of manifold machines found Alex's ears. Dad sat up in bed, the thin cover pulled half way up his bare chest. His skeletal arms rested on either side of him, a tangle of wires and tubes connecting him to a host of machines: IV drip, EKG, temperature probes, a pulse oximeter clipped to his middle finger, and a catheter draining into a bag pinned to the side of the bed. A translucent oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose, and his liquid brown eyes were open to slits and puddled with fatigue. A deathly pallor clung to his skin, and for an awful moment, Alex thought he was dead, then he looked at them, and a strangled whimper burst from Mom's throat. She yanked away from Alex's hand and rushed over to the bed.

Alex stayed where she was, rooted in place by the shock of seeing her father like this. His ribs were starting to poke through his sallow flesh, and his face was so thin that he barely looked like the man from her memories. Gone were his strong muscles, in which she felt so safe as a child; gone was the boyish glint in his eyes that twinkled like starlight well into his fifties; gone was the glow of life and the air of quiet strength, both outer and inner.

Gone was Dad.

Sharp loss pinched her chest and tears flooded her eyes. If she had any doubts before, gazing upon him frail in a hospital bed had erased them. Her father was dying. Soon, he would close his eyes and never open them again. She would never be able to talk to him, or tease him, or hug him, she would never feel his strong, comforting arms around her, or breathe in his soothing scent; he and Blake would never play in the backyard; he would never spin Zoe around the living room until she shrieked with laughter.

She would never hear him say, "I love you" again.

Mom took his hand and gave it a tender kiss, new tears streaking down her cheeks and falling onto the blanket like drops of rain. He lifted one tremoring hand to his face and pulled the mask ponderously down, as though it weighed a thousand pounds. Mom held his hand in both of hers and squeezed, her tears coming faster now. "Hi," he said simply, voice low, breaking.

Alex blinked away her own tears and forced herself to her mother's side even though a very large part of her wanted to turn around and run, run from this terrible place, from her father's bilous form, from the realization that her time with him was drawing to an end. Mom held her hand to her cheek and shook with barely concealed sorrow. When Dad's bleary eyes fell on her, Alex's heart missed a long beat, and for the briefest of seconds, she was almost scared of him.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

He seemed to think a moment, then tried to shrug one shoulder but couldn't. "Tired," he murmured, "very tired. Heart attacks take a lot out of you."

"You scared me," Mom trembled, "a lot."

"I scared myself just as bad, don't worry." His voice became weaker and weaker as he spoke, and on the last word, he pulled his mask back on. "I need to breathe," he explained muffledly.

Mom pulled up a chair, sat, and held Dad's hand, her thumb lovingly stroking his knuckles. She gazed at him with a hazy mixture of hurt, fear, and abiding love that was so raw in its intensity, Alex couldn't bear to look upon it. She went around to the other side of the bed and held his free hand, her eyes down and the urge to escape coming back to her, so powerful she twitched. Dad taught her to never run from her problems but to face them head on, but how could she meet _this?_ It was Auntie Leni and Grandma all over again, only worse because it was Dad. She loved her aunt and her grandmother, and she thought of them often, but they didn't loom as large in her heart as he did.

They weren't Dad.

Pulling his mask down again, Dad looked at her and offered a weak smile that was probably supposed to be encouraging, but came across as wounded instead. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"No," she said, "work doesn't matter right now."

"Yes it does," he said, "the world doesn't stop because I had a little chest pain."

Alex's lips pursed in a severe frown. "You had a heart attack, Dad."

"I barely felt it, I'm fine."

"I'm not going anywhere."

And she didn't...until later. She fetched a chair from an empty room and sat with him for hours, never letting go but rarely looking at him. At one, he was hungry, so she went to the cafeteria and got him a fruit cup, Jello, and a veggie wrap in a plastic container. She tracked down Dr. Foster just to confirm that he could have them; he went through a door to a locked unit just as she caught up to him, and it fell closed with a click, a black box on the wall blinking red. She reached for the keycard around her neck only to discover it wasn't there...not that it would work if it were. Different hospital, duh. She waited a few minutes, hoping he'd come back out, then gave up and grabbed the first doctor she came across. A short black man who greatly resembled Sammy Davis Jr. with glasses and a mustache, he listened patiently as she explained Dad's state in overly technical terms (nurse habit), then deliberated for a long, chin stroking moment. "If he were my patient, I'd let him have it. Lose the tortilla, though."

Back in the room, she dragged a wheeled table over, pulled out the folding arm, and sat the food on top. Mom and Dad held hands and talked lowly, they eyes locked and smiles on their faces, Dad's tired and Mom's woeful.

While Mom fed him spoonfuls of Jello and fruit, Alex went off in search of Dr. Foster again. She found him in another room talking to an old woman lying in bed, and waited impatiently by the door. When he came out, head bowed over a clipboard, she cleared her throat. He stopped, looked up, and offered a guarded smile. "Hi," she, "uh...I was just wondering about my father." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper - they played on the same team and were basically in a big brother/sisterhood. "H-How bad was it? Will there be any lasting effects? Will he be okay?"

Dr. Foster regarded her a second, visibly trying to decide how much to tell her, then tilted his head noncommittally to one side. "I doubt there will be any serious effects, but given his compromised state, I _do_ foresee…" he searched for a word. "Minor ones. The oxygen might become permanent, for instance, and I think his mobility _may_ be limited to some extent. Not to the point of using a wheelchair, but getting around will likely be harder."

That was much better than she expected, but still not exactly what she wanted to hear. "How long do you plan to keep him? Standard three to five?"

Heart attack patients are usually kept under close observation for three to five days. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours are when they are at their most unstable, and if they're going to have an aftershock, there's a 90% chance it will be in that timeframe. Of course, one's hospital stay depends on the severity of the attack. That Dad was up and able to eat and talk, even if he needed to stop for gulps of oxygen, was heartening.

No pun intended.

"Yeah," Dr. Foster said with a nod, "I think about that. We'll monitor him and see how he progresses. Is that everything?"

She thought for a moment. "Yeah, that's all."

He offered another tight smile, then strode off like a superhero patrolling for someone to help. Alex watched him go, then sighed. One step at a time, she told herself. Dad was okay for now, and looking ahead to the bleakness in his future wouldn't help anything.

With that in mind, and hoping to God she could keep herself focused on the here and now, she went off to call Jessy.

* * *

On his third day in the hospital, Lincoln Loud woke at sunrise from a dream he could not remember.

Too warm darkness wrapped itself around him like a shroud, broken only by a spill of harsh fluorescent light falling through the open door, and the room was silent save for the soft, steady chirping of the heart monitor. He ran his fingers through his sweat dampened hair and shifted his weight; the muscles in his lower back twinged and he grimaced. He'd slept in some uncomfortable places in his time, but this goddamn bed took the cake; it was thinner than a runway supermodel and almost as lumpy as Lori's mashed potatoes. Over the past seventy two hours, he'd only been out of it a handful of times, mainly to use the bathroom; the doctors didn't want him to exert himself, and honestly...he didn't want to either.

If he lived long enough, Dr. Foster implied, he would make a full recovery, and if he weren't riddled with cancer, the effects wouldn't be as bad as they were. His legs worked, but they were numb and tingly as if with pins and needles, his hands too. The first time he got out of bed, surrounded by nurses, Alex, Lori, Ronnie Anne, and that greaser loser brother of hers, he pulled himself up on a walker and nearly lost his footing. He grunted, strained, and shook, and by the end of it all, he was sweaty and breathless; he told the doctor boot camp was easier, and while he passed it off as a joke, he was being serious. His knees hurt, his feet hurt, his back hurt, and his head spun like a drunken tilt-a-whirl. Even a couple steps left him panting and gasping for air, and his mind was always muddled, as though it were caught in the twilit borderland between this world and the next, not quite alive but not fully dead.

At first, he required oxygen every couple minutes, but now he was breathing well enough that he only needed it when he moved around. On the bright side, not having his blood drained for a few days improved his appetite. Even that silver lining had a touch of gray, though; Foster put him on a strict low sodium, low fat, low sugar, and low fun diet. He couldn't have cake or chocolate or coffee or any of the crap he liked, instead he was eating fruit, vegetables, lean meat, and nuts. He'd been craving a cheeseburger with tomato, onion, and lettuce since yesterday afternoon, and when he brought it up to Foster, the bald man shook his head. _No, sir,_ he said in that effete voice of his, _you_ can _have a turkey burger though._

Ew.

No matter what he ate, he couldn't have very much of it before his stomach started to hurt and nausea crept in. He threw up last night's dinner - white meat chicken, green beans, and Jello - and the spasming of his overtaxed muscles hurt his chest and head so badly he almost cried. If Ronnie Anne hadn't been there, holding his hand and looking at him with those sad, hangdog eyes, there would have been no _almost_ about it.

Presently, he shifted onto his left side as best he could, wincing again at the choros of aches and pains his body sang. Ronnie Anne sat next to the bed in a leather padded armchair, her arms crossed and her head lolling to one side. Her face was half revealed in a backsplash of light, pale, haggard, and drawn. She refused to leave him but for quick trips home to shower and change. Dark bags hung under her eyes and she was sore and physically exhausted from sleeping in a chair for three days, but she wouldn't listen and go home. _I'm not leaving you,_ she said yesterday. She brushed her thumb tenderly over his knuckles and favored him with big, ernest brown eyes. _Not until you come home with me_.

Normally, he'd feel guilty for causing this, but this time around, he was too tired for that.

Even in her slumber, she must have sensed his gaze, for her eyelids fluttered sleepily open, her orbs cloudy and unfocused. He offered a smile that she was in no condition to return. She stirred, sat up straight, and stretched, her face rippling in pain. "What time is it?" she asked huskilly.

He looked at the clock on the far wall and squinted. "5:15."

Yesterday, Dr. Foster told him that Dr. Patel was going to come by before six and check in on him. Patel was his hematology doctor, and though Foster hadn't said so, he was sure that the heart attack would impact his cancer treatment. Alex said it was likely they'd want to decrease the frequency of his dialysis to once a week and may even discontinue it entirely. She was white faced and worried when she said that, because she knew just as well as he did what that meant.

He would die far more quickly, probably before the end of the year.

"My back hurts," Ronnie Anne muttered.

"You should really go home tonight," he said, "I'll be fine."

She didn't reply. She came close to losing him once, and while she didn't say so out loud, he knew she was afraid that the night she decided to go home would be the night he died. For what it was worth, he wouldn't leave either.

"I have to pee," she said. She got up, curled her hands around the metal rails, and bent to give him a gentle kiss. "I'll be right back."

Lincoln kissed her back and she caressed his cheek, their eyes meeting and matching smiles touching their lips.

While she was gone, Lincoln stared up at the ceiling and took stock of the many gripes and groans in his joints. Hopefully, whatever Patel's prognosis might be, he could go home soon. He missed his own bed...his chair, his TV, his magazines, he missed _home,_ and if he was going to die, he wanted it to be there and not here, in a place of sterile walls, cold tiles, and strangers.

A few minutes later, Ronnie Anne came back in and stood over him, taking one of his hands in both of hers. "How'd you sleep?" she asked.

"Eh," he replied. "Not bad, but this bed is killing me."

Starting late last year, when the cancer presumably first appeared in his body like malignant creatures crawling from primordial ooze, he had trouble sleeping, sometimes lying awake for hours on end and hating life. Since the heart attack, he dropped into sleep like a stone into the depths.

Ronnie Anne nodded in sympathy. "Yeah, this chair's getting old."

He opened his mouth and she cut him off. "But I'm not going anywhere, so don't even." She jabbed a faux admonishing finger at him, and he chuckled.

"Alright, fine, I won't ask," he said. Pulling away from her grasp, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His arms quivered, his heart raced, and a giant, unseen hand pressed against his chest. Done and panting, he grabbed the mask and put it over his mouth, the stale oxygen filling his hot lungs.

Ronnie Anne opened her mouth, but a familiar voice cut her off. "Knock, knock."

Dr. Patel, dressed in a light yellow button up accented by a blue tie and tucked into a pair of gray slacks poked his head in. "Can I turn on the light?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Ronnie Anne said.

He flipped a switch and icy illumination flooded the room, stinging Lincoln's eyes. He hated fluorescent bulbs. They were so cold and impersonal, but a lot of things in the modern world were. Technology was beginning to dominate human interaction, and if it kept up, one day, everything would be just as shiny and sterile as this goddamn hospital, autmomated this, digital that, no warmth, no intimacy, all things mass produced off an assembly line, one size fits all.

People were so concerned with convenience that they would sell their souls, and their fellow man, for something quick and cheap. McDonalds' replaced family owned restaurants and big box retailers full of poorly made crap from China were supplanting smaller mom and pop stores. How long until cars drove themselves and everyone dressed alike in silver suits? How long did the human race have before everything from food to reproduction became completely artificial? Twenty years? Forty?

Life was changing so rapidly and so fundamentally that Lincoln was almost glad he'd miss it.

Almost.

Patel came over and stood by the foot of the bed, calculated neutrality on his face. He held a clipboard in one hand and wore a stethoscope draped over the back of his neck. His tight curls rustled when he ducked his head, and for the first time in probably twenty years, Lincoln thought of Daggy, Bobby's friend and Luna's boyfriend who died in Vietnam. He had hair like that. A thinner face, though, and lighter eyes.

He thought.

Searching his mind, he was mildly irritated, but not surprised, to find that he couldn't remember exactly what Daggy looked like. He also couldn't remember what Blades looked like either, which worried him. He was friends with the guy right up until he died in 1991, he looked into his ugly greaser mug once or twice a week for twenty fucking years, he _should_ remember, but he didn't; all he saw was the swirling mist of years, like smoke from the end of the day's last cigarette.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Patel asked and looked up.

Lincoln took one more inventory just to be sure, then said, "Fine. Sore. Weak. Tired. Otherwise peachy."

The Indian chuckled politely. "That's to be expected. I was going over your charts and, all things considered, you're doing really well. That...uh...that heart attack was pretty serious in your state and could have done you in."

"I know," Lincoln said. He flashed back to lying there on his bed, chest throbbing, lungs dead, losing consciousness. It wasn't so bad, in hindsight, like going to sleep. He recalled what Alex told him about her conversation with Dr. Foster. "Is this going to be permanent?"

Patel missed a beat, and his aloof facade slipped just a little. "Well...most likely, yes it is."

Though Lincoln was expecting that answer, his heart sank anyway.

"Your body, as you know, can't fight off infection and heal the way it used to. If your system was at full power, you'd already be up and probably pacing. Your system is _not_ at full power. In fact, from your test results, from before the heart attack, it's...it's very weak."

Ronnie Anne squeezed his hand, to give comfort or to take it, he couldn't say. "How weak?" she asked.

"I was contemplating reducing the number of dialysis appointments per week, but now, after speaking with your cardiologist and looking at your overall state of health, I don't believe that you should undergo future treatments."

Lincoln's mouth went dry and Ronnie Ann crushed his hand. "No more?" she asked quickly.

"No," Patel said then looked at Lincoln, "you're not strong enough to continue. You could very well suffer another infraction during the next one...and die."

Lincoln fought to keep his breathing steady, but the implication of Patel's words were too great, too monumentous, and he pulled the mask over his mouth. No more dialysis. That meant he would die sooner...that what was left of his health would fade sooner.

Ronnie Anne's face went white and she blinked rapidly like a woman who'd just been slapped. "I-Is there anything else we can do?"

"No," Patel said flatly. "He can't safely undergo dialysis any longer, and that is the only proven method at prolonging the life of a hemotelosis patient. He -"

"Proven," she said, grasping at straws, "t-that means there's something else out there. S-something that's unproven." Her chest heaved and desperation flashed in her eyes. Lincoln gave her hand a weak, calming squeeze.

Conceding her point, Patel nodded. "There are experimental treatments, but, to be honest, none of them that I have heard of work. At all."

Before Ronnie Anne could push further, Lincoln pulled down his mask and asked, "How long? Do I have?"

Patel glanced down at the clipboard, and Lincoln took that as a sign of nerves...which suggested that he wasn't going to like whatever the doctor had to say. "I'd be surprised if you made it to Christmas," he said, the frankness in his voice sticking Lincoln like a knife. "Right now, you are as well off as you will ever be again."

So this was it.

The home stretch.

After Patel was gone, Ronnie Anne threaded her fingers through her hair in a stricken gesture and took a series of deep breaths. "I'm gonna look," she declared, "I-I'm gonna find out what else there is a-and we'll go from there."

Lincoln sighed. "He said it won't work."

"He doesn't know that," she spat. "Something _could_ work. He just doesn't want us trying anything else because of money. That's all they're about. If he can't get it, he doesn't care."

Normally, he would be inclined to agree with her, but not now. She was slipping back into denial and not thinking clearly. "Babe, he's not lying. Even Alex figured I wouldn't be able to do it anymore. If there was something else, he would have told us."

"No he wouldn't have, Lincoln," she said, her voice shaking and frenzied, "it's all about money. I'll look it up on the computer myself."

He opened his mouth, but didn't have the energy to argue.

She was prepared for him to die...just not right now, and he doubted she ever would be. "I don't think you'll find anything," he said simply, "but...go 'head and look."

"I will," she vowed.

And she did.

* * *

Just past midnight on the morning of August 24th, Alex sat in the middle of the living room couch with her legs crossed and a photo album in her lap, the only sound the deep, lazy chirup of summer crickets and the silent whoosh of air blowing from the vents. The lamp on the end table cast a feeble glow, and a circle of shadows surrounded her, waiting for her to leave so they could reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

As a teenager, Alex was a night owl and stayed up as late as she could to relish the peace and tranquility before dawn. As an adult, however, she got up early and worked long, butt breaking hours, so being awake past eleven wasn't something she did often, but she couldn't sleep. She laid in bed for nearly an hour before finally getting up and coming in here to watch TV. She wound up taking the photo album down from the shelf instead.

Thick with yellowed pages and crammed with snapshots from three decades of Loudstory, it reminded her of Lovecraft's Necronomicon: An ancient book full of wonder and awe. The contents of this one were just a _little_ happier than what you'd find in the Necronomicon. The cover, ripped and curling with age, was a washed out shade of blue with cursive gold leaf writing across the front.

FAMILY, it said.

She had been here for nearly fifteen minutes meditating on that single word and what it meant to her. Family. The people who love you, the people you love, a place where you're accepted unconditionally, no matter what dumb thing you do. Family is warmth, laughter, and dedication. This world we live in is a big, cold, scary place, but when you have your family, you're never alone, and that makes all the difference in life.

A lot of women her age weren't married and didn't have children, yet they claimed to be happy and fulfilled. Maybe they were. She had to wonder, though, how you could be happy without family. Tim and their children were the greatest things in her life, and every time she tried to picture not having them, she saw herself just...there. Existing. Taking up space (but looking cool as she did it). Maybe she'd see things differently if she was actually there, but she wasn't, she was right here living a perfectly imperfect life and loving every minute of it.

Or almost every minute of it.

She opened the book to the first page. A black and white picture of Dad, Auntie Luna, and Auntie Luan sitting on the couch at the Franklin Avenue house greeted her. Dad wore slacks and a white button up shirt, Auntie Luan wore a skirt, and Auntie Luna wore a sweater and pedal pushers. They were all young and smiling and happy, and a fond smile touched Alex's lips. Below that was one of Uncle Bobby and some guy with curly hair standing next to a hot rod and facing each other, both smoking cigarettes and Uncle Bobby looking like he _really_ wanted to be cool but couldn't quite pull it off. God, he looked just like John Travolta in _Grease,_ only lamer and more Hispanic.

On the next page, Mom, eleven or twelve, sat on a couch Alex had never seen in person next to her mother. Grandma Maria died in 1965, four years before Alex was born. She often wondered what she was like and occasionally regretted not getting to meet her. Beside that one was a picture of Flip's, the parking lot packed with big, boat-like cars. Underneath, Grandpa sat in his chair, wearing a wife beater, a can of beer wedged between his legs and a tired expression on his face. He'd been gone twelve years, can you believe that? Alex couldn't.

Soon, she got to the colored pictures. Auntie Leni is a dress and smiling cheesily for the camera, Grandma sitting at the kitchen table with a beehive hairdo and cat eye glasses, Dad in his military dress uniform, straight and rigged like he had something in his butt (he said once that Sergeant Hellman's dick snapped off in it and wouldn't come out, hahaha). That last one was dated August 1966, and, wow, he looked so much like a kid it was scary. Those are the guys they sent to fight in Vietnam? Really? Further on, she found Auntie Luan in a black sweater and a pair of maroon corduroys. There was a button pinned to right breast, and no matter how hard Alex squinted, she could never make out what it said. _Probably some anti war bullshit,_ Dad offered one time.

Finally, she hit her first baby Alex pic, her standing in a crib with her chubby little hands wrapped around the bars and her mouth wide open. An old TV sat on a dresser in the background. Then there was one of her in Mom's lap, one of her in Dad's, and one of her sitting in the middle of the floor and sucking her thumb. Maybe she was biased, but her favorite was the one of her and Dad; the happy little smirk on his face made her smile.

Oh, look, there's infant Jessy sleeping on Grandma's chest. She was itty bitty. Next came her and Jessy, her about four and Jessy three. In every successive picture, they grew just a little older. In one, Alex mugged for the camera and Jessy rolled her eyes, and in another, Jessy sat at the desk between their beds, hunched over her homework or something. Alex could just make out the Leif Garrett poster over Jessy's bed. Yuck. In another, taken around 1983, Alex lay in her bed with her legs propped up in an M and a can of Pepsi in her hand. A Stephen King paperback was tented on her chest. _The Dead Zone._ Huh, she didn't remember reading that one. The last one in that set was of Lola sitting on the edge of Jessy's bed and looking at her with a bemused smile, like Jessy had just said or done something really lame, which was par for the course with her, so yeah. Lola wore a denim miniskirt, stockings, and a leopard print top that bared her shoulders. Her hair was teased, permed, and all over the place, which made Alex laugh. She'd have to show this to her the next time they met up, she'd probably die of embarrassment.

Two pages later, she and Tim sat on the couch at Mom and Dad's, Alex all snuggled up to him and his arm over her shoulder. Below that one, Mark stood behind Jessy like a creeper, bent over so that his chin rested on the top of her head. A date was scrawled across the bottom: 5/15/89.

So many happy memories, but they were tinged with sadness, because those days and those people were gone. Tim and Alex and Jessy and Mark weren't kids anymore, they were adults with jobs and families; Auntie Luna, Auntie Leni, Grandma, and Grandpa were all dead, and some of these places - Flip's and the Franklin Avenue house - technically didn't even exist anymore.

Then there was Dad.

She gazed upon one of the last pictures in the album with a strained expression. Dad holding baby Zoe and grinning proudly like _he_ was the one who pushed her out. She studied his face, all the familiar and comforting lines and curves, his strong jaw, his twinkling eyes, her stomach churning at the prospect of him simply not being there one day.

Tears brimmed in her eyes and she blinked them back. In a couple months, maybe even less, she wouldn't have him to talk to anymore, she'd never hear his voice or hug him or anything else. He'd be dead, living as just another picture in a book, everything he ever was reduced to a smiling face and nothing more.

Letting out a shivery sigh, she wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. In the natural course of life, you lose your parents at some point, it's just how things go...that didn't mean it didn't hurt, though, it did, a lot. Both he and Mom buried their mother and father (well, no one knew about Mom's dad). It hurt them...but they made it.

Just like she would make it.

She hoped.

Something moved in the corner of her eye and her heart jolted. Tim sank onto the sofa next to her, clad in only his boxers, and let out a weary grunt. He started to speak, but noticed the tears in her eyes and missed a beat. "You alright?" he asked.

Alex swallowed her emotion and nodded. "Yeah," she said, "just...looking at pictures."

He glanced at the photo album then back to her face. "Your dad?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah."

Tim nodded understandingly and laid a solicitous hand on her knee. He didn't say anything because what could he say? That Dad wouldn't want her to cry and be upset? He'd said that already. Losing a parent isn't the end of the world, but it also isn't something you can just skip merrily through with no emotion...unless there's something wrong with you _or_ your parents were jerks. In novels, TV shows,and movies, the supporting character always seems to have sage words of advice and consolation, but in real life, words sometimes fail.

Words, after all, can only go so far.

Sometimes, all you can do is be there for someone. A picture is worth a thousand words, they say, but a caring touch and a sympathetic shoulder are priceless.

Closing the album, she dropped it onto the coffee table. She laid her head in his lap and he ran his fingers soothingly through her hair, his nails grazing her scalp. All of her worries suddenly didn't mean as much, and in minutes, she was asleep.

* * *

Lincoln leaned heavily on the cane and slowly lowered himself into his chair. His lungs pulsed, his skull throbbed, and his airways shrank until he could barely breathe. He reached for the oxygen tank between the chair and the couch, grabbed his mask, and held it to his mouth. Across the room, Ronnie Anne sat ramrod straight in front of the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard with the blazing speed of a typist with diarrhea. On TV, Judge Joe Brown scolded a fat white woman for chewing gum in his courtroom; was he a drill sergeant in the past? He sure as hell came across as one sometimes. He couldn't hold a candle to Judge Judy, though, she scared even _him_.

Reinvigorated, or what passed for it, Lincoln sat his mask aside and flopped his head back against the chair. It was August 28th and he'd been home for two days, not very long but long enough that he was starting to get frustrated with his physical impairment. He moved at the speed of government, got winded from even the slightest exertion, and constantly nodded off. He wouldn't live into his eighties, but after the week he'd had, he knew all too well what advanced age felt like.

At her station, Ronnie Anne brushed her hair out of her face and sighed. She'd been there for two hours looking into alternate treatments for hemotiliosis. Before that, she spent three hours calling hospitals, medical centers, and specialists around the country, a notepad at one hand and a cup of coffee at the other. She jotted down any relevant information, took a drink, and moved onto the next one like a woman shopping for insurance. So far, she had a dozen names listed. At the top was a doctor in Miami who was pioneering a form of blood cleaning using lasers or something - he didn't really listen He didn't have any hope for a cure or even prolongment at this point, he just went along with this for Ronnie Anne's sake. Calling, looking online, making plans...that was her way of coping and feeling in control. After all he'd put her through over the past few months, it was the least he could do.

Yesterday, Father Jack stopped by, and when Ronnie Anne was out of the room, he asked, _How's she taking it?_

 _She's in denial again,_ Lincoln said.

The old not-priest nodded somberly, as though he'd expected as much. _You should talk to her,_ he said, _make her see reason._

Lincoln laughed until he coughed, then coughed until he laughed. Father Jack smiled to himself. _I don't know her very well, but that_ does _seem silly._

 _It is,_ Lincoln told him. _She's stubborn as hell._

He tried anyway, but she cut him off to talk about a doctor in Boston. He was second on her list, don't you know, and came highly recommended. After that, Lincoln resigned himself to humoring her. She'd eventually come around, she just needed time.

The doorknob rattled, and both of them looked over. It opened, and Alex came in. "Hey," she greeted.

"Hey," Ronnie Anne muttered absently and went back to it.

Blake, Zoe, and Jordan filed in behind her, Blake in a collared shirt and shorts and Zoe in a blue and white sleeveless dress. Her black hair was held up in pigtails by white ribbons and she whipped her gaze left and right as though Grandma and Grandpa's house was a strange and mystic destination, and not a house she'd been to a million times before. She saw Lincoln and her face lit up. "Gammmmmpa!" She threw her arms out and ran at him in a headlong rush. Lincoln braced himself, and half-laughed, half-moaned when she crawled into his lap.

"Zoe," Alex said sharply, "be careful. I told you Grandpa's not feeling good."

"I'm fine," Lincoln said and laced his hands over Zoe's tummy. She twisted her head around to look up and him, and he kissed her cheek. "If I could handle the Cong, I can handle a four-year-old girl. Isn't that right, sweetie?"

She nodded happily and turned to the TV. "Yep."

Alex walked up, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head. "How you doing?"

"I've been better, I've been worse," he said honestly.

Blake was next. "Hey, Grandpa," he said.

"Hey," Lincoln said, "first day of school's coming up, huh?"

The boy sighed. "Yeah."

"Three days," Jordan said. " _I_ don't mind. I like school."

Blake, Lincoln, and Alex all looked at her like she was crazy, and she faltered. "W-What?"

"School's dumb," Blake said.

Alex nodded. "It really is."

"And so are the people who teach it," Lincoln added.

Ronnie Anne was too wrapped up to take the bait.

"I wanna go to school," Zoe stated.

"School's fun," Alex said, "we're just picking on Jordan."

Lincoln wasn't, but alright. The farther away he got in years, the more he realized that school was a scam. They packed you into a classroom and pumped your head full of useless shit you'd never use in real life. Oh, some things they taught were vital, but most wasn't. They needed to start offering classes on the things that _really_ mattered, like how to do your taxes, write a resume, cook, and change a tire...you know, things most people do every day. Instead, let's do advanced algebra and jack off over shapes and decibels.

Taking their leave, Blake and Jordan went to play in the backyard, and Alex sank onto the couch. "Can I watch cartoons?" Zoe asked.

"You sure can," Lincoln said "if your mom gets the remote."

Alex snatched the remote off the coffee table and cycled through the channels before settling on Cartoon Network, where the Powerpuff Girls did battle with that fruity devil / crab thing. "Powerpuff Girls!" Zoe cried and bounced in excitement. Pain shot through Lincoln's chest and he bit back a groan.

"I like this show too," Alex said, "it has kick butt females who serve as the perfect role models for little girls."

Lincoln snorted. "You sound like Luan."

"She really does," Ronnie Anne chimed in.

Alex looked between them, brow furrowed defensively. "What? There's nothing wrong with that."

"Zoe already has a positive female role model," Lincoln said, "your mother."

"And Jessy," Ronnie Anne said.

"And Lori."

"And Jordan."

Alex rolled her eyes. "Okay, yeah, everyone but me."

"You're on the list," Lincoln said, "just really far down. Right, Zo'?"

The little girl stared at the TV, transfixed by the bright, animated action.

After a while, Ronnie Anne logged off the computer and went into the kitchen, Alex following a few minutes later when Zoe said, "Mommy, I'm hungry." She came back a few minutes later with a ham and cheese sandwich cut in two and wrapped in paper towel. Zoe crammed one vacently into her mouth, never once looking away from _Samurai Jack_. "He's really good with that sword," Lincoln commented of the gook protagonist.

"He hits people real hard," Zoe said.

"I bet I can hit harder."

"Grandpa, you're too old to hit hard."

Lincoln laughed richly. That was true. The last time he hit someone was 1974 when some asshole cut in front of him in the gas line. He liked to think he was in top shape, but even before the cancer set in, he was old and flabby, his muscles slack. If he tried to fight someone, he'd probably get his ass kicked. Now? There was no question, he was as helpless as a baby.

When _Samurai Jack_ was over, Zoe got up to go see her mother, and Lincoln grabbed his cane and got up. He hobbled into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, lids heavy, head swimming. Leaning the cane against the nightstand, he stretched out and closed his eyes. So little time left to enjoy his grandkids, and he was sleeping it away. He sighed and considered getting back up, but he was already floating, already starting to feel warm and tingly and like he was drunk.

He didn't know how long he was out before something poked his cheek, but the light was different and shadows filled the room. He blinked, smacked his lips, and turned his head; Zoe stood in front of him, arms slack at her sides. She stared at him with big brown eyes and a chastised expression. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he replied. "What's up?"

She shrugged. "I wanted to see you and mommy said not to come in here so I came in here and now I'm gonna go play."

Lincoln chuckled. "Okay. Have fun."

"'Kay. Love you."

"Love you too."

She turned and marched out of the room, leaving Lincoln alone. Better get up. He grabbed the cane, swung his legs over the mattress, and caught his breath before pushing to his feet. Giggling drifted through the open window and the curtains danced on the breeze. He started past it, but stopped when he heard voices. "My mom's here," Jordan said, "I gotta go."

"Okay," Blake sighed.

Lincoln hobbled over to the window and brushed the curtain aside, intent on telling them to get off his lawn and stop touching his thermostat. They stood slightly to his left, facing one another and holding hands. Jordan leaned in and Blake met her lips with his; Lincoln couldn't be sure, but it looked like they were using their tongues. Jesus God, really? They're only...Lincoln did the math in his head. Eleven.

The same age he and Ronnie Anne were.

He pictured him and his wife at that age, sucking each other's faces off, and inwardly recoiled. They were practically babies at eleven, jeez. He couldn't say he was surprised it was happening, though. Only a matter of time.

Jordan let go of Blake's hands, favored him with hazy eyes, then hurried off. Lincoln let the curtain fall back into place and made his way into the kitchen. Ronnie Anne and Alex sat at the table, Ronnie Anne with the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, and Zoe stood next to her mother munching on a pile of chips. Lincoln switched the cane to his other hand, got a glass from the drying rack, and filled it with water from the sink. Through the window, Blake sat dejectedly on the top step with his face in his hands. He remembered feeling the same way when Ronnie Anne had to go home at the end of the day.

Sitting the glass in the sink, he ambled to the back door, opened it, and went out onto the porch. Amber light soaked into the ground and a warm wind blew over the yard, bringing with it the scent of grilling chicken.

Blake glanced at Lincoln as he sat down, then away. "You look lonely," Lincoln rasped. His chest clutched and he took a shallow breath through his nose.

"I guess," Blake said.

For a while, neither one of them spoke. Children laughed in the distance and leaves stirred in the breeze like whispering voices. Lincoln fumbled for a graceful way into the topic at hand, but botched like he always did. "So, you and Jordan, huh?"

"What about us?" Blake asked uncomprehendingly.

"She's your girlfriend now."

Blake's face crinkled in confusion. "No," he said, "we're just...friends who kiss and hold hands.'

That made Lincoln laugh. He clapped the boy's back and looked into the setting sun. "Just like me and your grandmother," he said.

"Just like me and your grandmother."


	233. September 11, 2001

_**My heart is like an open highway**_

 _ **Like Frankie said**_

 _ **I did it my way**_

 _ **I just want to live while I'm alive**_

 _ **It's my life**_

 **\- Bon Jovi (It's My Life, 2000)**

 _Tick-tick-tick._

Ronnie Anne Loud glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was too far away, and the noise too great, for her to hear it, but she imagined she did anyway, a steady, ominous sound like the clicking of old bones.

It was 7:30 and she sat in a hard, uncomfortable plastic chair that bit into her butt and exacerbated her back pain. Lincoln sat in a wheelchair across from her, his metal breathing tank clipped to one arm and the mask strapped to his face. He took slow, even breaths, and his hands trembled slightly in his lap. A plaid blanket covered his knees and Ronnie Anne stared dazedly at it, absently tracing the blue zigzag pattern so she wouldn't have to look at his withered face. Was this hell? She couldn't even gaze upon the man she loved! Every time she did, his wrinkles, sunken cheeks, and rheumy eyes sent icy daggers into her heart. Deep lines radiated from the corners of his mouth and brown splotches dotted his sallow skin, lending him the appearance of an overripe banana.

That image made her want to laugh and cry at the same time, and she was _really_ close to doing it. Keeping herself together got harder every day, and tight panic was beginning to claw at her chest. Each day, each minute, Lincoln went downhill just a little more, and everywhere they turned, the treatments didn't work...just like Patel predicted. They had been flying desperately around the country since the second, first to Miami, then to Chicago, then, finally, to Boston; they saw the best specialists in the country and none of them could help him...none could save her husband.

As Lincoln's life drained from his emaciated body, Ronnie Anne's desperation grew until she shook with it like a kettle on a hot stove. She begged God every night for just a few months more, just a few, that's all. She couldn't lose Lincoln, not yet, not when the sun was still shining and the weather warm, not when she still loved him with every fiber of her being, not when there was still so many hugs, kisses, and cuddles left undone. She promised God the moon and the stars and pleaded with every single doctor they saw, but he continued to deteriorate right before her eyes, slipping faster and faster, dying a little with every passing hour, getting farther and farther away from her. She tried to hold on tight, but she was losing her grip.

She took a deep breath and hugged herself against the chill, but could not get warm. When her mother died almost forty years ago, she implored her to never depend on a man the way she had with Dad...but she did. In fact, by the time she read that letter, it was too late; she'd given her heart and soul to Lincoln Loud and she couldn't go back even if she wanted to. She never did, though; she had his daughter, she made his home, she stood with him when he needed her, and together, they built a perfect life. She was as bound to him as one can be to another, their spirits entwined and infused, their hearts beating the same time. She sometimes wondered if her love for him was normal or if she was co-dependent. Maybe she was. She had no reason to be, she had as good a childhood as you can have as a poor spic in a small town in the fifites; perhaps she was wired wrong.

Did it matter, though? Did it really?

To her it didn't. Lincoln was the love of her life, the father of her daughter, and the center of her heart. He meant so much to her...and he was being gradually taken away, drawn into the grave by a fucking disease that should have been eradicated years ago. All this money our government has, and where do they put it? The military, that's where. The rich. The politicians. They tax and tax and tax, then piss it all away, leaving cancer and AIDS to kill thousands of people every year. It was 2001, cancer shouldn't even be a thing anymore!

Her chest constricted with anguish and she drew a deep breath through flaring nostrils. Warm, slimy tears welled in her eyes, and she brushed them away.

This was it, their last chance. A doctor in L.A. claimed to have made a breakthrough and Ronnie Anne's hopes, dreams, and everything else rested on his work. If he couldn't give Lincoln extra time, no one could.

Last night, while Lincoln slept, she called everyone in the family from Lana to Lynn Jr. and asked them to come out on the 21st. Whether the doctor in L.A. could prolong Lincoln's life or not, they were finally going to tell everyone that he was dying. They already told Lori - she knew something serious was going on after the heart attack and hounded them for days. Ronnie Anne finally confessed, and the older woman's face went completely white. With her nerves frayed the way they were, seeing her shock was too much and Ronnie Anne broke down in tears. She wasn't looking forward to seeing the same thing from fifteen other people, but it had to be done.

There wasn't much time.

 _Tick-tick-tick._

A rush of people passed the waiting room, some carrying suitcases and the others hefting carry-ons. A woman held a little girl's hand and even though they looked nothing like her and Alex, Ronnie Anne was reminded of them anyway. Across the corridor, a man stood at a bank of payphones and talked into one, and a screen mounted overhead listed arrival and departure times.

Lincoln lifted the mask, hand tremoring, and let out a hacking cough. "These goddamn things are always late."

"It's not late," Ronnie Anne replied, "it takes off at eight."

"What time is it now?"

She looked up at the clock. _Tick-tick-tick._ "7:40."

He nodded, looked like he wanted to say something more, then slipped the mas back over his mouth. A voice came over the loudspeaker and Ronnie Anne paused to listen, but it wasn't their flight. She would miss this most of all, just sitting with him. Not sex, not kissing, not even cuddling, just overall _having_ him. He wasn't even dead yet, but her chest already ached with loss, like a thousand knives twisting left and right, tearing her insides to shreds. How would it be when he was actually gone? How could she bear to look down at him in his casket? Cold, white, cheeks unnaturally red with mortician's rouge, empty. That bothered her most of all, everything she loved, his wit, compassion, all gone, nothing left behind but a husk. She had so much reason to stay behind, but God help her, she didn't know if she could go on without him.

Fresh tears blurred her vision and she wiped them away. The terminal was filling up quickly now, telling her a plane or two had just landed. A man in a business suit rushed by talking on his cellphone, and a morbidly obese woman in a motorized scooter buzzed to one of the vending machines flanking the far wall. Lincoln stared over her shoulder at the window overlooking the tarmac, and when their eyes met, Ronnie Anne's lips quivered. He pulled down the mask and offered a wan smile that was beautiful despite its pallor. "Cheer up," he said, "I hear L.A.'s nice this time of year."

A tear slid down her cheek and she nodded quickly. "I can't wait to hit the beach." Her voice cracked and another tear joined the first.

He leaned over and took her hand. His palm was dry and clammy, just as it would be when...she forced that thought away and brushed her thumb over his knuckles. What would her mother think of her? Would she be disappointed? Would she be understanding? You can't depend on some men, but some men you can. Would she accept that logic, or would she just sadly shake her head?

"We can ride the Ferris wheel," he said, "the one on that pier. I'm pretty sure they'll let me on."

She smiled bravely, and Lincoln's washed out eyes twinkled. "That's my girl," he grinned.

A half laugh, half sob burst from her throat and she kissed his hand. "I love you," she said earnestly.

"I love you too," he replied.

The PA came to life again, a clear voice calling from speakers in the ceiling. " _United Airlines Flight 175 to Los Angeles now boarding at Gate 19."_

"That's us," Ronnie Anne said. She got to her feet and slung her purse over her shoulder. They didn't have carry ons; handling Lincoln's wheelchair by herself was difficult enough without extra baggage. She got behind, grabbed the handholds, and spun him around. They fell in behind a black family and made their way toward their gate. A long window stretched along the wall to their right, and Lincoln stared out it as they passed, watching the planes land and take off.

The corridor opened up ahead, and a blonde stewardess stood next to the entrance to the jet bridge connecting the plane to the terminal, her red lips pulled back in a big, practiced smile. She nodded politely to everyone boarding and welcomed them to United Airlines. Ronnie Anne called ahead to let them know that Lincoln used a wheelchair and arranged to have someone fold and stow it in the back of the plane. She looked around and spotted a special asie sized wheelchair standing to one side. It was smaller and able to navigate the narrow corridors of an aircraft.

When they reached the jetbridge, Ronnie Anne moved to the side so as not to impede the flow of traffic, bent over, and locked the wheels. She grabbed the other one, wheeled it over, and stopped in front of Lincoln. "Would you like any help, ma'am?" the stewardess asked.

"No, thank you," Ronnie Anne said. She took the blanket from Lincoln's lap, draped it over her forearm, and held out her hand. He took it, planted his feet on the floor, and stood. He could walk, stand, sit, and lay on his own, he just couldn't go long distances without becoming weak, winded, and tight-chested.

Turning stiffly, he aligned his butt with the seat and sat. She got his oxygen tank, checked the air level, and, finding it satisfactory, clipped it to the side. People had been streaming by this entire time, none turning to look at them or even seeming to know they were there:. A couple with a little girl about two between and holding their hands, a Hispanic woman with white hair, an Arabic man in a blue dress shirt tucked into tan pants, a gym bag over his shoulder, a teenager with his pants sagging. Ronnie Anne unlocked the wheels and turned the chair to face the jetbridge. She nodded to theirs, sitting empty and forlorn. "Someone's going to put that on, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," the stewardess said with a deep nod, "I'll see to it myself."

"Thank you," Ronnie Anne said.

The stewardess nodded again, her smile too big, too creepy, like a cannibal clown. "Thank you for flying United Airlines."

Making sure Lincoln's oxygen tank was secure, Ronnie Anne pushed him onto the jetbridge, struggling a little to get the wheels over the gap. Dim, overhead lights lined the tunnel and tiny portholes gave a view of the runway, where men in orange vests and blue baseball caps loaded luggage onto the plane. Its big rear end rose high above the tarmac like the prow of a ship at sail and clouds dotted the crystal clear September sky. The weather had been beautiful in Boston and was sure to be even better in Los Angeles, but it only depressed her even more. How could she enjoy the sun when _her_ sun was going dark?

Their seats were C2 and C3 on the left side. They moved slowly down the aisle, stopping to wait for people to put their carry-ons in the overhead compartments, then sat, Lincoln by the window and Ronnie Anne by the aisle. A stewardess took the wheelchair, and Ronnie Anne nodded her thanks. Lincoln sat the tank between his knees and shifted to get comfortable. He yanked the mask down and looked at her. "We shoulda sprung for first class. The seats are better up there."

"They're the same size, lame-o," Ronnie Anne said listlessly. "It's the extra leg room that makes it first class."

Down the row and across, a little girl about six sat next to a bald man with a neck as thick as a pack of hotdogs. She kicked her legs jauntily back and forth and hummed an airy tune. A coloring book sat in her lap; Ronnie Anne could just make out Barbie's smiling face, her lips pink and everything else uncolored.

Lincoln _humphed_. "Excuse the hell out of _me_." Ronnie Anne shot him a look that tried to be playful but came off sullen, and grinning, he pulled his mask back on.

Everyone was settled in their seats now and a stewardess walked down the aisle glancing left and right to make sure people were putting their seatbelts on. As if on cue, the light above the curtain leading to first class winked on with a ding. PLEASE FASTEN SEATBELTS. Ronnie Anne helped Lincoln get his on, then pulled her own over her lap. Directly across from her, two Arbabic men sat together and talked lowly, one making firm and secret gestures with his hand. The one closest to her was about twenty with messy black hair. He stared straight ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing and disquiet seething in his eyes. He looked scared.

Must be a first time flyer.

The second man, older and more grizzled, put his hand on the first's shoulder and said something. The first nodded jerkily and took a deep breath.

Lincoln stared out the window at the ground crew below, and Ronnie Anne watched him, her eyes flicking up and down his skeletal arm. His shirt, which fit fine just a month ago, hung slack on his frame, and beneath it, he resembled an Etheopian; his ribs stuck prominently out and his stomach was beginning to fold in on itself. He looked like a skeleton.

Like he was already dead.

Ronnie Anne's throat tightened and her chest throbbed sickly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice spoke over the loudspeaker, bringing the low, idle murmur to a halt, "this is your captain speaking. On behalf of the crew, I'd like to welcome you to United Airlines Flight 175 to Los Angeles. We should touch down at 1pm western standard time, depending on the headwind. We are about to begin take off so if you could please buckle your safety harnesses and remain seated until further notice. Again, thank you for flying United and have a wonderful day."

Ahead, the little girl proudly held the coloring book up, and the bald man chuckled. The look of love on his face reminded her of Lincoln when Alex and Jessy were small, and a blade twisted in her heart.

Shortly, the stewardesses all disappeared and the plane drew away from the jetbridge, the whine of its big engines loud even here in the cabin. Ronnie Anne took Lincoln's hand in hers and he weaved their fingers together. Did she already say she would miss holding his hand? She would. Greatly. It was such a small, simple act, but it made her feel complete in a way that nothing else could, save for sex, for in that instant, she and Lincoln were totally and entirely one, one flesh, one sigh, one heart, and one soul. Without him, she was broken, divided, a body missing its other half.

And when a body is parted, it dies.

The plane taxied down the runway, gaining speed as it approached the end. It left the ground, soared over a cyclone fence, and rapidly gained altitude. Across the aisle, the younger of the two Arab men dug his nails into the arms of his seat and squeezed his eyes closed, his face turning the color of spoiled milk. The older one favored him with a disgusted sidelong glance and shook his head in disappointment.

Soon, the plane evened out, and the captain came back on. "We've just hit our cruising altitude of 11,000 feet. I've turned off the seat-belt light, which means you are now free to move about the cabin. However, for your own safety, please fasten your belts when you are seated, in case we encounter any unexpected turbulence."

Lincoln turned away from the window, leaned back against the headrest, and let his eyes fall closed. Travelling so much took a lot out of him, but he didn't complain, and though she hated what it did to him, she couldn't bring herself to admit defeat. Yeah, he was dying but...but what if there _was_ something out there? What if she gave up right before they made a breakthrough? So close...only to turn around.

They couldn't keep doing this forever, though. If L.A. didn't pan out, she would have no choice but to back down. He was fading quick and in a couple weeks, maybe even before the month was out, he wouldn't be in any condition to travel. Urgency smoldered in her chest, and she willed the plane to fly faster. Come on, come on, time's wasting, tick-tick-tick.

She glanced at Lincoln. The mask hung around his neck and his mouth hung open. His chest gently rose and fell, and he looked so _old_ , so sick…

A sob built up in Ronnie Anne's throat and she choked it back and turned away, moments from breaking down, seconds from surrendering and accepting the unacceptable. She propped her elbow on the arm of the seat, pressed her hand to the side of her head in a gesture of despair, and took a series of deep, evenly spaced breaths. Ahead, the little girl went on humming and kicking legs back and forth, back and forth. She held her coloring book up. "Look, Daddy, I colored Barbie's nose _purple_." Her father, talking into his cellphone, spared her a cursory glance. She shook the book to get his attention, and he held up his hand. "Wait a minute." She sagged in disappointment and sullenly slapped the book back onto her lap.

Next door, the younger man sucked deep gulps of air and nodded resolutely to himself. The older man leaned in and whispered into his ear like a shoulder-dwelling devil, nodding almost inevitably toward the front of the plane. A stewardess came down the aisle, and they both looked up at her, the older man with something like disdain and the younger with castigation, as though he were a boy who'd been caught doing something wrong. Ronnie Anne tangled her fingers in her hair and blinked back miserable tears. It would be alright, she told herself, they'd find what they were looking for in L.A. A few more weeks, maybe a month, strangling as much time from the throat of life as they could, scrounging for change like two broke stoners who just wanted to hit up the McDonald's drive-thru.

That made her want to laugh, but if she did, the dam would burst and she would start to cry.

With one last breath, the younger man pushed himself up and stepped into the aisle, his footing shaky and unsure. The older man got up and brushed past him, his movements deliberate and self-assured. Together, they disappeared through the curtain between the classes; it fluttered as it fell back into place, and Ronnie Anne caught a quick flash of the people in first, all packed into their seats just like the ones in business.

Another stewardess came by, a tall redhead in her late twenties or early thirties that was neither ugly or pretty, just...plain. Heh. No pun intended. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "No, thank you." She glanced at Lincoln to see if he wanted anything, but he was still out, soft snores drifting from his open mouth.

The stewardess went down the line and knelt next to the little girl. "Would you like a juice box, honey?"

"Yes, please," the little girl piped.

Was there even any point in trying? What awaited them in L.A.? Patel said none of the experimental treatments worked, and so far he was right. What made this time any different? They'd stay in a hotel, spend hours in a glinting-glass highrise masquerading as a doctor's office only to be told that _whoops, our miracle prosecure isn't working,_ and then slink away with no results save for astronomical medical bills. It happened in Miami, it happened in Chicago, it happened in Boston, and it was going to happen in Los Angeles too.

Maybe when they got there, they should just fly home. They had so little time left and they were wasting it.

 _She_ was wasting it.

A shout from the other side of the curtain brought her out of her reprieve. Suddenly, a multitude of low, chattering voices filled the cabin, and Ronnie Anne sat up, brow knitting in confusion. Two stewardesses came through, the redhead and a blonde. The redhead was bent slightly forward and pressing her hand to her stomach, and the other with her hand on the first's back. Her face was drawn, pale, and worried. The bald man fell silent and looked at them and an old woman three rows up gasped.

That's when she saw it.

Rich, red blood oozed through the first stewardess's fingers.

They hurried past, and everyone turned to look at them, suddenly talking over each other.

Was something wrong?

Ronnie Anne twisted around, but they were gone, vanished into a wide, crew-only area at the back of the plane where food was presumably prepared and drinks and bags of peanuts kept. Drops of blood trailed along the carpet, marking their path, and Ronnie Anne's stomach turned.

Several rows up, a black man got to his feet just as another stewardess came through the curtain. Like the previous two, her face was white and haggard. "What's going on?" someone asked.

Ignoring them, she held up her hands in placation. "Everyone, everyone...please remain calm."

The bald man said something into his phone, never taking his eye from the stewardess, and hung up. His daughter glanced anxiously between her and him, eyes filled with alarm. "What's happening?" he called.

Past the curtain, someone cried out, and the stewardess stiffened. She opened her mouth, but cut off when a man in a business suit stumbled through the curtain as if shoved.

Ronnie Anne whipped around and shook Lincoln. He came awake with a snort and a start, his eyes muddled with bewilderment. "Lincoln, something's happening." There was a fearful hitch in her voice that she barely noticed.

Blinking the sleep away, Lincoln pushed himself up to a sitting position and winced at the stiffness in his back. "What?" he asked.

More people from first class had come through the curtain; they stood in a group, some talking into cell phones and others looking stricken. The stewardess was gone and a din of talking choked the stale, pressurized air. People were getting cautiously up from their seats but making no move to go forward and investigate.

"I don't know," Ronnie Anne said. A thousand terrible images raced through her mind, but none of them made sense. There couldn't have been an explosion - if there was, they'd all be dead right now.

Lincoln craned his neck to see over the seat in front of him, and Ronnie Anne leaned out into the aisle. Without warning, an arm popped through the curtains like a jack-in-the-box, brown hand clutching something that glinted in the morning light, gesturing wildly. Ronnie Anne's heart stopped when she saw what it was.

A box cutter.

And it was slick with blood.

A stewardess, this one older with black hair, staggered through with a cry and nearly lost her footing. Lincoln tensed and his forehead furrowed deeply.

The stewardess stood up straight and took a deep, harangued breath. "E-Everyone," she said, voice breaking, "p-please remain calm, we're...w-we're being hijacked."

Someone gasped, someone else blurted, "Oh, my God," and Ronnie Anne's stomach knotted with dread. Hijacked?

Suddenly, as if to corroborate her claim, the plane banked hard to the left; overhead compartments popped open, spilling bags onto the floor and people's heads; Lincoln fell against the window; the belt pulled tight across Ronnie Anne's lap; and the people by the curtain were thrown rudely to the floor. A duffle bag hit Ronnie Anne's shoulder and bounced off, someone screamed, and the little girl let out a heart-piercing squeal. The plane evened out, and Lincoln rubbed his shoulder, a flash of pain rippling across his face. Moans, sobs, and excited babbling permeated the air.

Lincoln rolled his shoulder, and Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he panted. "What the fuck's going on up there?"

"She said we're being hijacked," she said in a rush.

Three men helped the stewardess to her feet and she hustled to the back of the plane, ignoring a barrage of questions. Ronnie Anne's heart slammed like a drum, so loud in her ears that it drowned everything else out, and her breathing changed, becoming ragged and shallow. Every news story about skyjackers came back to her like a ton of cement: PLO, D.B. Cooper, planes sitting on runways while terrorists killed everybody on board one-by-one, criminals desperate to get to Cuba.

The plane banked hard left again, and everyone screamed. Ronnie Anne clutched the arm of her seat for dear life, deaf to the pitiful whimpers emanating from her own throat. Slowly, ponderously, the plane turned off course; its engines whined with strain, the fuselage shook as though it were going to explode into a million pieces, and the little girl wailed like a small, frightened cat.

When it straightened out again, bags, overturned carts, paper, and other debris littered the floor. People wept, prayed, and whipped out their cellphones to call the police, the army, someone, anyone. "Son of a bitch," Lincoln hissed and rubbed his shoulder.

"What do we do?" Ronnie Anne asked. She realized she was clutching the front of her dress like a scandalized old woman and let her hand drop to her lap.

Lincoln thought for a moment, the cogs and wheels in his mind turning. It was clear from the hard light in his eyes that he wanted to do something. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and exhaled through his nose. "Whatever they say," he finally said. "Keep your head low and don't try anything stupid." He spoke with the pained reluctance of a dog on the end of a chain. A year ago, he might very well have attempted to fight back, but now, he was too weak. "Do we know who it is?"

She thought back to the two Arab men in the row across the aisle, neither of whom had returned, and then of the brown hand jutting through the curtain. "Arabs," she said at length.

"Arafat," Lincoln said, "probably him and his people. Fucking terrorists, all of them."

"What do they want?" She _knew_ who Yassair Arafat was and what he stood for, but in the heat of the moment, her mind blanked.

Lincoln shifted his weight and grimaced. Outside the window, blue sky above and white cloud cover below stretched into forever. "Probably for us to let a bunch of their people out of prison," he said, "or to stop supporting Israel. Who knows? They're lunatics."

That wasn't very comforting.

She took a deep breath, and turned when Lincoln took her hand. "We'll be fine," he said, little conviction in his voice, "just… here." He grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of him and pulled himself up. "Switch me seats."

"What?"

He jerked his chin at his seat. "Switch."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Though bleached with illness, his tone was firm, and that drove home the severity of their situation. Half-standing, she slid into his seat and he sat in hers. She didn't understand the significance of changing seats, then it hit her: He wanted to be on the outside so if one of the hijackers came looking for victims, they'd take him instead of her.

She started to protest, but the plane tilted to the left again, and her heart leapt into her throat. Someone screamed, and she was only vaguely aware that it was her. Lincoln took her hand and squeezed, and she squeezed back, crushing his in terror. The roar of the engines was deafening, filling the world like judgement day, and the frame jerked, sputtered, and trembled. She closed her eyes and bore down on her teeth, unclenching them only when the plane was straight ahead.

"What are they doing?" she cried, not caring that she sounded like a petrified child.

"I don't know," Lincoln said grimly. He stared directly ahead, where the people from first class huddled on the floor.

A few minutes later, they got their answer. A fat, middle aged woman in glasses jumped up from a middle row, cellphone pressed to her ear. "THEY'RE GONNA CRASH US!" she shrieked. "THEY'RE GONNA CRASH US!"

The plane jolted downward, losing altitude, and Ronnie Anne's heart dropped with it. An animated murmur ran through the cab, and Ronnie Anne's throat constricted. Crash us? What did that mean? She didn't sound like she was worried the hijackers might accidentally wreck them, she sounded like she knew. But that was impossible.

Again, the plane dropped, and a wave of screams went through the passengers. It banked to the left again, the world canting, standing impossible. The cloud cover broke, and Ronnie Anne glanced out the window. A city skyline resolved through the mist, becoming clearer like shapes emerging from dense fog. She squinted, and the final wisps of clouds evaporated. Far ahead and below, wedged between two rivers and a vast expanse of sun dappled blue, a great landmass tapered off, becoming narrower the further south it went. Bridges connected the shores and gray urban sprawl crowded the island.

After a moment, she recognized it.

New York City.

The hijackers had taken them at least a hundred miles off course.

Something caught her attention, and her chest crushed. On one side of Manhattan, two tall, majestic towers reached unto heaven, rising higher than anything else around them, even the other skyscrapers. Thick black smoke billowed from one of them, almost dead center, and curled over the roof before being blown away on the September wind.

Ronnie Anne opened her mouth to speak, but a wheeze came out instead. A few rows up, someone screamed, and everyone on the left side of the plane pressed against the windows. "Oh, my God!" someone yelled "Holy shit!" another spat.

Lincoln leaned over to see, and went rigid when he glimpsed the smoke. "Shit," he muttered.

The plane dropped again, jostling the passengers, and Ronnie Anne clutched the arms of the seat in a white knuckled death grip, chest heaving. They were dropping steadily now, the ground coming closer; the shadow of the plane flickered across fields, highways, bridges, and clusters of buildings. Ronnie Anne stared fixedly at the approaching towers, paralized, unable to move, think, or even breathe. The outskirts of the city proper lay ahead, Queens to the east, Brooklyn and Staten Island in the south. Smoke continued pouring from the wounded titan, and as they came closer, Ronnie Anne imagined she could see orangeish flashes of fire in the conflagration.

They weren't really going to hit the building...were they? Smashing metal, twisted steel, flames, impact...she began to hyperventilate, the edges of her vision going gray and white, spine tingling violently.

When Lincoln closed his hand on hers, she jumped. He stared at her with a strained expression, his face dark and blurred by her tears, his throat working and his nostrils flaring as he fought to keep his breathing under control. She looked out the window again; they soared above the northernmost reaches of Manhattan; brick housing projects clustered beneath raised overpasses and Central Park stood in the distance.

They were going to die.

They were really going to die.

"Thank you," Lincoln said soberly. His lips quivered and tears dribbled down his hollow cheeks. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "Thank you for marrying me."

In the south, the towers waited. Ronnie Anne looked away from them and at her husband's face, trying frantically to tune everything else out; the crying, the screaming, the rapidly increasing turbulence, the loud, hateful roar of the engines. She gazed deep into his eyes, just as beautiful now as they were forty years ago, and squeezed his hand. "I had no choice," she said through her tears, "I love you."

"You made my life perfect," he said, "I wouldn't change a single thing."

Was this it? Was this really the end? Visions of Alex, Jessy, Blake, Zoe, and Allison flashed before her eyes, and her heart pounded faster as if trying to escape its impending death.

Ahead, the little girl clung to her father, her face buried in the crook of his neck and his arms wrapped tightly around her, as though he could shield her from what was about to come. "Daddy, I'm scared."

"It's okay, baby," he trembled, "it's okay, I got you."

"I wouldn't either," Ronnie Anne said, "you _are_ my life."

The plane roared over the rooftops of Lower Manhattan, the howl of its engines echoing along the streets like the cry of an avenging angel. A gray, unbroken wall filled the world, slotted windows looking into offices, kitchens, and conference rooms. Ronnie Anne threw her arms around Lincoln and held him close, and he held her back. "I love you," she whispered, and no truer or more earnest words had ever been spoken.

"I love you too" he said.

"Goodbye."

"Only for a little while," he said."Only for a little while."

Ronnie Anne closed her eyes, and in the seconds before United Airlines 175 plunged into the South Tower of the World Trade Center, every memory she had ever made with Lincoln and the family they shared came over her like a gentle breath of spring wind.

Their life _was_ perfect, and she was endlessly grateful for -

* * *

Shaky footage shot from the POV of a helicopter rolled on CNN, the word LIVE crammed in the bottom right corner. Below that was a nifty, though hastily made graphic that would have made Lincoln Loud roll his eyes:

BREAKING NEWS

WORLD TRADE CENTER DISASTER.

The North Tower belched sooty smoke into the crystal blue sky above Manhattan. The South Tower stood in the background as if trying to get in on the shot (look at me, I'm here too!). A female anchor spoke to an FDNY fire chief by phone, the latter's voice garbled. " _...into the North Tower. There was a big explosion and...and just pandemonium."_

" _What's it look like on the ground?"_ a male anchor asked.

" _Uh, people are running and the streets around the towers are blocked."_

The camera panned back just as a second plane streaked toward the South Tower. It disappeared behind the North Tower, and a moment later, a ball of flames exploded outward.

Shocked silence.

" _W-Was that the second tower?"_ the woman asked haltingly.

"It looks like it," the man replied dazedly. "Uh...it seems that another plane has hit the South Tower."

And as twenty million Americans watched in horror that September morning, the world as we knew it came to an end.

* * *

Jessy pushed herself up from the armchair and pressed her hand to the small of her achy back. Six months along, she was already as big now as she was at full term with Allison. Everything was sore, her breasts leaked, and she cringed every time the baby kicked. Neither she nor Mark were very athletic people, but their son was going to be a soccer star, just watch.

She shuffled past the couch where Allison lay motionless on her stomach, face turned toward the TV, where _Spongebob_ played unwatched. Jessy watched the news for most of the day, transfixed by the drama unfolding in New York City, but turned it off after the fiftieth time they showed the towers collapsing. It was so awful and made her sick to her stomach. She was also afraid. Two more planes crashed that day, one in a field in Pennsylvania and one into the Pentagon, and God only knew how many more were out there just waiting to come down.

The last she heard, President Bush was in hiding and thousands were feared dead. The analysts on CNN said it was most likely the work of Osama Bin Laden, a Middle Eastern terrorist whom Jessy had heard of, but only in passing.

She lumbered into the kitchen, intent on making herself a sandwich, but changed course when the cordless phone on the counter rang. She went over, picked it up, and hit TALK.

"Hello?"

A sob filled the line, and Jessy's brow knitted. "Hello?"

"Jess."

That single word, full of sorrow and pain, spoken in her sister's voice knocked her off balance. "Alex? What's wrong?"

Alex didn't reply for a moment, and Jessy's little heart began to race. Something happened to one of the kids. Blake got hit by a car or Zoe was kidnapped by a pedophile.

Finally, Alex found her voice. "That plane that hit the World Trade Center," she said, and her voice caught. She paused, and when she went on, it was in a low, hollow whisper.

"...Mom and Dad were on it."

 **This is the ending I had planned from, iirc, the very beginning. Every other ending was a fall back just in case I didn't have the creative energy to make it all the way to 2001. I wrote a brief epilogue to close the story out, but I think this is the best place to end it. It might be abrupt, but so is death. We expect it to be this big, dramatic thing, its approach signified by ominous music, or a feeling in the air, something to let us know it's coming. In truth, it happens like** _ **that**_ **. Snap your fingers. That's death. RITY is a passion project and my first instinct was to wrap it up with a neat little bow, but I've been trying to mimic real life here, and in real life, things rarely end that cleanly.**

 **I won't entirely rule out the possibility of ever revisiting these characters, but it's unlikely.**

 **I want to thank everyone who read this story, whether they made it to the end or not. Those of you who did...you're real troopers, lol, and I really appreciate you sticking it out. I started the first chapter on October 15, 2017 - almost two years and nearly 1.5 million words ago. That's a lot of time and investment on your part, and, just, again, thank you.**

 **Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go finish crying.**


End file.
